#in my heart of hearts he is hiding down in the archive tunnels
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"Precautioned Recording"
Something I came up with while having some alone time at work. I thought about panic attacks, what happenes, what the person goes through and ways to help.
I recently became addicted to The Magnus Archives and Protocol and it gave me the idea to write it like a script ( also because I plan to do a comic or animate it some day )
( TMA is a Podcast distributed by Rusty Quill, a really good Horror Podcast written by Jonathan Sims and directed by Alexander J Newall, if you like horror and good story telling I can only recommend listening to it! )
So, this is taking place in S3 Ep7. The Batch and the others are in the tunnels to flee, and I thought, what if the encounter with the CX-1 trooper triggered something in Crosshair wich resulted in a panic attack later.
I'm gonna cut it into parts tho, and thx to my ori'vod for helping me naming this <3
So yeah, hold your tissiues ready and enjoy part one :D
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3
Hunter Tech Wrecker Crosshair Echo Omega Other
- in the tunnels -
[ slightly shaking, trying to hide it ]
[ Batcher whines quietly at Cross ]
[ notices too, moves to put a hand on his shoulder but is interrupted by Howzer stepping between them ]
Alright! [ shoves him back, ripping Crosshair's helmet off of his head ]
Hey!
[ drops rifle, backs of scared ]
Howzer! ( Rex )
What did he ment by asking you?! What are you not telling us?! [ Howzer pushes Crosshair against the wall ]
[ grunts by the impact with the wall ]
[ Batcher barks outraged ]
Spit it out!!! ( Howzer )
[ breathes heavily, pressing his eyes shut ]
Hey!! [ grabs Howzer by the collar of his back and picks him up ] Back. Off!! [ let's him down, shoves him away, put's himself infront of Cross ]
It's all his fault! He's feeding them information! ( Howzer )
No! No he's not! He changed! [ stepps up beside Wrecker ] He's on our side!
Oh yeah? Then how- (Howzer)
[ voices seem muffled like being underwater breathes heavily, pressed up against the wall, a hand on his chest, trying to calm himself. flashes of Tantiss come up, the torture, the pain, the cold... the lonely, whimperes ]
-Huh? Why that?! Enlighten me! ( Howzer )
He did nothing! It's not his fault!!
Back off Howzer! You have no idea what you are talking about! [ stepps up beside Omega ]
He's a traitor! [ points at Crosshair ]
[ lifts arm up to shield Cross more and hide him behind him ]
[ can't seem to calm down, begins to panic ]
[ looks at Crosshair worried ]
[ Batcher growles at Howzer ]
[ voices still muffled, hears blood rushing and his heart pounding in his ears, breathing becomes hoarse ]
Everyone stand down! ( Rex )
[ can't take it anymore, runs off, just wanting to get away ]
[ Batcher runs after ]
Crosshair? Crosshair! [ wants to go after too ]
[ holds her back ] Let him go.
Running off to feed them new informations huh?! ( Howzer )
[ shoves Howzer back ] Listen here! You don't know anything about him, nor what he's been through! So back the hell off, now!!
[ Howzer steps back intimidated ]
Now. [ steps up to Omega, opening her backpack, shuffles through it ] I'm going after him and bring him back so we can finally get out of here.
[ quietly ] What's with him?
[ sights ] He's having a panic attack. [ pulls out Tech's datapad ] Wait here. [ picks up Crosshair's helmet, runns off ]
[ put's a hand on Omega's shoulder ]
[ everyone looks after Hunter running after Crosshair ]
[ runs down the tunnel, stumbles and falls, groaning by the impact with the ground, gets up again and keeps running ]
[ Batcher trotting beside him, looking up at him ]
[ falls again, panting, crawls to the side, presses himself in a gap in the wall, head in his hands, balls up ]
[ Batcher whines ]
[ runs down the hall, falling into a jog after seeing Batcher in the distance ]
[ Batcher looks up at Hunter after he comes closer to them ]
[ calmly ] Crosshair?
[ whimperes ]
Crosshair it's okay [ kneeles down ]
[ still whimpering and gasping ]
[ types through datapad ] You're gonna be okay Crosshair...
[ sobbs slightly ]
[ finds wanted record ] Here, just listen, okay? [ presses play, hold's datapad up infront of him ]
#the bad batch#tbb crosshair#tbb hunter#tbb tech#tbb wrecker#tbb omega#tbb echo#clone force 99#tbb#my writing#fic writing#tma podcast
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episode 39 - infestation
- the first couple minutes of this are genuinely a terrifying experience not because of the content but bc of the insane audio inconsistencies. jons screaming and all the squelching worm noises literally gave me a heart attack it’s like my ears were being assaulted but i can’t turn the volume down bc then i can’t hear the actual conversations😭
- STOP MAKING MARTIN FEEL BAD ABOUT HIS PLAN IT WAS A GOOD PLAN
- statement of joe spooky :D
- martin hiding the co2 cans “so the worms wouldn’t know they were there”😭
- YEAHHH MARTIN CALL JON OUT ON HIS BULLSHIT!!!
- “we’re clearly doing a whole heart-to-heart thing🙄🙄” jonmartin is so canon in this episode
- “whatever WEB these statements have caught you in” oh!
- “a ghost? really?”
- tim is so funny he really knows how to make an entrance
- martins poetry!!
- no way this whole time i thought sasha died in the tunnels girlie is in artifact storage
- i turned the volume down for her death and it didn’t help
- jane is such a funny useless villain bc why is she just standing around and not doing anything. not even trying to like break down a door just chilling in the archives
- this episode has so many iconic moments i love it
#tma relisten#tma#the magnus archives#jonathan sims#martin blackwood#tim stoker#sasha james#jane prentiss#jonmartin
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Please. Please draw the lonely ship man. Please. I refuse to believe he is gone. He is here in hearts. Pretty please?
OH WHAT A MOOD. i miss that dumbass bastard already.
ive got a few comics from…back in season 3, i think? that i never got around to lining? but meanwhile have this
hes alone on his boat and having a great time. probably looking forward to brunch and yeeting some poor sailor into the lonely
#peter lukas#scraps#in my heart of hearts he is hiding down in the archive tunnels#helping nikola pick out a passive aggressive lush skincare gift basket for jon#ill stop there bc then ill start talking about the shounen au and thats nonsensical enough as it is#Anonymous#tma
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Things You Said When You Were Scared- Prompt Fill
Bit of an au after the worm attack. Jon is having a rough time.
CWs injury (canon typical worm related), paranoia, exhaustion. nausea, vomiting (it's not gross, I promise), pain, dizziness, fainting, medication mention, canon typical quarantine mention, food mention.
@janekfan @sukurarose92
Jon can’t remember the last time he felt this terrible. There probably had been other times. A few terrible flus over the years, and getting almost eaten by a spider once upon a time…. but time has a tendency to dull the particularly bad stuff, aside from say, flashbacks and nightmares. But it’s the brain protecting itself. You don’t remember the pain. You don’t remember the fear. You remember the memory of the pain, wrapped in spun-sugar-strands of time, growing dusty on a shelf. You remember the taste of fear, the gripping anxiety of it. You remember surges of it in the depths of the night and you panic… but you can’t remember it all the time. That just isn’t how the brain works.
Which is irrelevant. All irrelevant, because the pain medication he’s been given is wearing off. He thinks Sasha and Tim went off to do something….? Probably panic together about the fresh worm trauma. Martin? Jon hasn’t the foggiest clue.
Possibly because he’s hazy with pain and the last of the drugs that have been keeping him going this long. Staggering into the walls as he tries to exit the institute. Eyes closing involuntarily against the pain and the exhaustion. Limbs feeling so alien between the bandages and the aching, weeping holes they hide beneath them. Pounding dizziness down to his core.
He aches.
Phantom itching-crawling-squirming on his skin, through his muscles, down to the bone. The actual holes chewed into him.
He isn’t sure how he’s going to get to his flat. He can’t stay in the Archives, not with the police in the tunnels and the ECDC still doing whatever it is they are doing. But the thought of taking a cab or the tube make him want to tear his remaining skin off. Makes him want to just lie down on the sidewalk.
He even thinks making it to the front doors will end him.
He’s dizzy and sick and his limbs won’t carry him.
He has to sit down on the first step outside the door, sticking his head between his knees. He can’t do this. He can’t. He’s just going to sit here all night, or risk passing out or throwing up or risking any other horror of the late twilight consuming him before he can collapse into unconsciousness in the comfort of his own bed.
He waits for the world to stop spinning, and tries not to cry.
Because he can’t have more pain medication until he eats something. He can’t eat anything because it won’t stay in him, and even if it would, he can’t go anywhere. He’s stuck. Less than a five minute walk from his office where Gertrude DIED, from where he was attacked where he thought he’d be Safe, where he thought Martin would be safe. A few paces from where the dead worms were pulled out of him and he was scoured raw and sterile in a hastily assembled quarantine on the sidewalk.
He tries not to spiral into a panic attack right here.
Trying to pull his breathing under control, because it isn’t helping his tenuous grasp on the directions of up and down.
Where is the next danger going to come from?
Is this when Mr. Spider will strike? Letting him go until he’s weak and exposed and alone?
Or is this where some unknown (or known) hostile comes in with a grand betrayal and a gun. Leaving him to be another mystery, or a willfully ignored casualty of something he can’t begin to understand?
“Jon?”
Jon jumps. And very, very much regrets it. Heart racing, head spinning, a fresh hurt. A fresh reminder of every opening in his flesh that doesn’t belong there. “Ma… Martin?” He asks around gasping and shuddering breaths. “What …are you doing here?”
His voice is a little distant, a little hallow. “Don’t really have anywhere to do, do I? You packed up my flat. All in boxes at some storage unit. Now, my bedroom is tangentially part of a crime scene.”
“…Right.” It’s all his fault.
He needs to sleep. He needs some painkillers. He might need to throw up, but that is an issue he plans to avoid, if at all possible. Ditto to fainting. Although that seems a little more inevitable.
Martin makes no move to continue speaking. “So… your plan was to just camp out on this bench?”
Martin shrugs. “Dunno. Figured I might call Tim? At some point? Or try to sneak back into the Archives once the police leave? Can’t really afford a hotel. Maybe just sleep on this bench. Try to decompress or something. Jon. Why are you still here? Said you’d go home hours ago.”
Well he can’t exactly tell Martin he’d passed out in the break room for some indeterminate measure of time, then spent another eternity getting sick in the toilets. And then possibly passed out again. That’s not just something you tell Martin and expect him not to fuss over you. And Jon tries to tell himself that that would be suffocating and not kind of welcome right now. He tells himself that the thought of spending more time with Martin brings discomfort, and irritation, and fear. It’s not like he can prove that Martin won’t kill him. But he’s too tired to think about that. He just wants to sleep.
“....Um?”
Martin looks at him, probably for the first time. “Jesus, Jon. You look terrible.”
Jon hmmms in agreement. Not like he can argue. Martin’s too nice to comment on the bandages. A little too tactful. Right? Martin’s bumbling and stupid, but he’s tactful. He’s Nice. As irritating as he can be, he’s just so Nice.
But, it’s not like he can argue. He’s covered in bandages and a clammy sweat and he’s halfway into a panic attack and he can’t really walk and he just wants to lay down right here until the world stops moving. Both in the sense that he’s dizzy and in the sense that things beyond his comprehension are happening at a pace he can’t begin to catch up with.
“Can I... call you a cab? Or... or something?”
Jon shakes his head as much as he dares, which isn’t much. No cabs. He gets carsick. He doesn’t stand a chance.
“Well you can’t just sit there all night.”
“Right, like you plan to?”
Martin looks away.
And Jon goes back to trying not to pass out.
“Tim lives close by, doesn’t he, I walk you there? Or… um… carry you?” Martin’s trying to be tactful. Jon is pretty sure that is supposed to be a pointed look at his legs.
Jon scowls. (Not that Martin is wrong. There is something very wrong with his knee.)
“Can’t just …intrude like that. I’m sure he doesn’t want me around. Not professional…”
“Jon, you saw him in his pants today. You were put in quarantine together. I think you’re past all normal working relationship boundaries, even if he wasn’t your friend. I can’t just leave you here, and you clearly aren’t planning to get yourself home. Besides… maybe if he takes you in… maybe he’ll take me in, too.”
Jon stares down at the sidewalk, drifting in lazy, nauseous, out of focus movements before his eyes. “He doesn’t want me around. Not after taking Sasha’s job. Not after making him stay to get his statement.” Jon whispers at the pavement.
“Yeah like he’s still jealous for Sash, after that creepy worm lady went specifically for the “Archivist.” Whatever the fuck that means. And you know Tim was only pissed because he was in pain and tired, like you are now!”
“I should just go home…”
“Yeah, but you won’t.”
Christ Martin’s stubborn.
“Now. Can you walk, or do I need to cary you?”
Jon tries pull himself up to prove a point, but he comes to in Martin’s arms a few moments later, Martin loudly cursing at him. He’s in too much pain to really hear what Martin is trying to say to him. And he’s feeling even more sick. And he wonders where his prescriptions and paramedic provided cane have gotten to, but he really doesn’t really care, because Martin is solid and warm and he’s so tired.
He wakes up again on Tim’s couch. Sick to his stomach from the oppressive oder of takeout.
“Woah, boss. Not on the couch. I’ve got you.”
Throwing up nothing into the bin that’s been hastily shoved in front of him even though he’s got nothing in him anymore. He sobs around dry heaves until it’s just the silence juddering sobs. He Hurts.
He wants to hide. From Martin who is making tea, from Sasha running a bandaged hand through his hair. From Tim supporting the bin, and Jon himself.
He curls in on himself. Wills himself into unconsciousness, but the injuries pulse with each uneven breath, stomach still roiling painfully. He needs more medicine, but he can’t think about hoping to keep it down.
He sobs against Tim, as the bin is pried away.
“‘Hurts. Tim ‘m scared.”
Scooped up. Held, gently.
“Why didn’t you head home? Why not go right away so you could get toast and water into you, and sleep until you could take some more meds?” Tim holding him. Martin awkwardly sat by his side with ginger tea. Which Jon doesn’t care for, but Tim hasn’t kept mint tea since Jon stopped visiting. Still… it should help. Sasha clearing away the food smells, bless her. “Why did you have to take our statements? I would have invited you back here, if you didn’t?”
That last question doesn’t help.
He doesn’t know he’s tearing at the bandages until Tim’s tugging his hands away, and Martin is bemoaning the splotches of blood now decorating the bandages that are quickly becoming sweaty and grimy. Couldn’t even stay clean after he was scrubbed sterile. Martin and Sasha and Tim are spotless and scoured.
“I… I don’t want to disappear. I… do-don’t want to be found in the tunnels. I don’t want to vanish without a trace, I…“ He doesn’t even know. He can’t breathe. He’s lightheaded. He Hurts.
“Hey… hey hey. It’s.. it’s okay to be scared. Why don’t we get you cleaned up, okay? Then see if we can get some saltines and tea into you so you can get some meds, eh? Then we’re gonna all get some sleep.”
“I don’t want to lose you…” Jon’s voice swallowed by Tim scooping him up. Martin hovering with the bin and Jon’s bag of medical supplies.
Sasha’s back by then, brushing back Jon’s curls. “And you won’t. Sooner you leave, the sooner we can all get some sleep, alright?”
Jon closes his eyes, and nods, letting Tim carry him to the washroom.
#the magnus archives#tma#jonathan sims#martin blackwood#tim stoker#timothy stoker#sahsa james#magnus pod#tma fic#cw injury#cw nausea#cw vomit#cw fainting#cw dizziness#cw medication#cw quarantine#my fic#my words#my art
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DEBRIS AND MISERY
SAME OLD LOKI ; PART 6 / ?
PAIRING: Loki Laufeyson x Female!Reader WORD COUNT: 3.3k (oops) SUMMARY: You find yourself venturing deeper into finding the Loki variant on the loose with the help of Mobius and Loki while maintaining your temper around the God of mischief and fighting with your own demons. A/N: Downtime apparently lasted for more than a week. I had absolutely no motivation to write but I eventually came around. There’s alot going on in this. Please tell me what you think, what you love, hate and look forward to. Thank you so much for showing so much love to d&m. gif from this gifset by @sersi WARNINGS: Swearing. Imagery relating to death (i think?). You and Loki’s relationship fluctuating like the goddamn economy. support my writing through ko-fi💖 MASTERPOST ; MASTERLIST
Blue. Your flight suit is blue.
Your eyes sting with worry, ticking to a pair of hands buckling the straps that lay across your chest. A man secures it tightly, forcing your back against the cockpit chair. Your gaze drifts to the concentric steel rings of yellow, red, and white that stretch overhead and around you—being suspended within a 3-axis gimbal sends another churning sensation within your abdomen.
You hear a voice. It courses through the room and vibrates within your ears like fluttering echoes in a tunnel. It’s a man. He calls out your name from below.
“You ready?”
In your periphery, you see him, tall with slicked-back hair, standing with other men that adorn similar flight suits of blue. You nod, inhaling deeply as your hands reach for the controls. Suddenly, a metallic clang echoes through the room and the machine whirrs to life. The rings begin spinning in tandem, tossing your body in all directions. Your grip tightens around the controls, clicking with every push and pull as you struggle to analyze the spin. But, the machine spins faster.
Faster and faster and faster.
The machine continues to whirr. Your hands are still shifting the controls.
Faster and faster and faster.
Your eyes begin to droop, nausea taking hold of your body.
Faster and faster and faster.
You only hear your breaths; every inhale and exhale—they're loud.
Faster and faster and faster.
Too fast.
Stop.
...
Click. Click. Click.
Footsteps. Not the clicks of the controls. You hear them clicking against tile floors from afar. From darkness, your eyes meet the color brown, shiny and polished—it’s wooden. The sound of the vast building’s acoustics hum in tune with the occasional chatter and echoing thump. You recognize the ambiance and it comforts your hasty thoughts as your brain tries to wreck itself in comprehending your current surroundings.
It’s one of those dreams again. The ones that kept you awake at night since the Sakaar incident, as if reliving the memories of another life. It isn’t yours but the realism to it makes it so complex that your brain cannot even comprehend the experiences during these dreams that occur.
To see, touch, hear, smell, and taste. Do dreams exceed the limit of disconnection and logic? Are dreams to be so immersive that it feels more like a memory, an echo of the past?
Through the turmoil of parsing between what’s real and what’s not, a tap on your shoulder hauls you back to reality. You turn to see Mobius, looking ridiculously exhilarated. Behind him lingers an amused Loki, hands tugging into the pockets of his jacket. The analyst says your name with a tone of equal exuberance to his manner.
“I thought I’d find you here. Do you always sleep at the archives?”
You snort, seizing yourself up as you wipe your face with your palm in hopes of feeling slightly more awake and alive than you were before. “No. Sometimes, I sleep at my desk too.”
Exhausted and sarcastic. Typical you.
Mobius rounds the table to sit beside you, gesturing Loki to his previous spot before he got up and ran away from you without any explanation. He shoots you a smile, lips pressed together, almost hesitant to sit across from you. You watch him through narrowed eyes as you address him with folded arms. “And here you are, back here again.”
Loki cannot fight the growing grin upon his lips, knowing all too well that you're referring to how he led you into an unnecessary chase down the corridors of the TVA for the sake of his entertainment. Well, it was not unnecessary. Things were turning out to be a bore and with the sudden thought of a proposition to help with his case, it doesn’t mean he has to drag out the fun of irritating the hell out of everyone else.
And you are not a bore.
-
“Loki! Where the hell do you think you're going?!"
You’re outright screaming at him but his long legs only stride faster than yours could handle, slumber still clinging to your face like a thick, waxen mask. He’s so quick, weaving through tangerine hallways, skidding across the tiled floors.
He saunters down the hall with quick feet but doesn’t sprint, clever enough not to draw any attention.
He ought to answer you. Throwing a glance over his shoulder, he flashes you a cheeky smile. He swears he saw flames burning in your eyes for a moment.
As you wind another corner, you already see him making one last quick dart through the elevator doors that slide open as it dings unceremoniously. Through your wide-eyed gaze, you signal him with eyes that carry a warning.
“Don’t you dare close that fucking door.” you snarl, voice booming from down the hallway and so does the clicking of the heels of your Oxford shoes as you march towards him like you’re on the hunt for prey.
Loki jams his finger onto the button to close the doors, unable to wipe off his grin. “Don’t you trust me?” is all he says to you, sending you a wink through the closing gap of the elevator doors as he raises his palm to wave you farewell.
-
You decided Loki wasn’t worth the time he has already taken from your assigned paperwork. So, you returned to your desk with a trace of bitterness in your tongue while attempting to suppress the regret for actually feeling sorry for Loki. Only because you know how it is like to be alone.
That’s the thing about Loki. He gets inside your head, makes you think that for once, he may be worth not pruning. He makes you think he is capable of change, capable of compassion. He makes you think he cares from the way he looks at you with those eyes that flicker the spark of hope in you. This Loki is the same old Loki.
Well, maybe the one in Sakaar had a good chance of earning your trust. But that’s gone now.
You shift in your seat, elbows now leaning against the edge of the table. “And to answer your question, no. I do not trust you. And I never will.”
Famous last words of the variant turned analyst.
Nobody trusts you either.
Except for the grey-haired analyst with the obsession for jet skis and you never understood why. Maybe, it’s because you’re the only one who is willing to put up with his ramblings.
Mobius eyes you and Loki’s interaction as the two of you seem to fall into the rhythm of making things even more complex than it appears. It's all part of his grand plan. Mobius knows you well enough to know you are possibly enjoying Loki's company no matter how much he irritates you. And Loki, it's clear how he admires you and how you constantly surprise him every time he crosses paths with you.
“What would I ever do without your trust?” the God sneers, each articulation of every word wrapped in mockery paired with dramatically placing his hand to his heart. Your eye twitches, the spitfire of your personality ready to fire back with a probable nasty insult. Yet, Mobius places his hand on your shoulder, while the other outstretched towards Loki as if trying to keep the two of you apart.
“Okay, okay. No need to get all riled up now. We only just had a breakthrough in the case, and I’m not letting you kill each other just yet.”
Your anger seems to immediately wash away, replaced by curiosity. You blink at your colleague. “Breakthrough?”
“Yes, and it was surprisingly Loki’s theory. Now—”
“Why do I smell...sulfur?”
You cut his sentence short as a strong whiff of a reeked scent began to descend upon you, billowing in the air. You inhale deeply, brows furrowing in concentration and confusion. An overpowering scent of a decaying body, faint but strong enough to seem out of the ordinary. The archives never smell rotten, always floor polish. Mobius and Loki share a look. Mobius is the one to speak up, attempting to distract you from your sudden strong sense of smell. “Sulfur? What, like when there’s a demonic manifestation? I mean, we are in the presence of Loki—”
“You went to Pompeii, didn’t you?”
In all of the time he has spent with Mobius who had a constant laid-back and confident nature to him, he has never seen him so red in the face. As the situation unfolds, he wonders why Mobius has made it a point to hide that information with so much eagerness which now has proved to be useless. You’re not only intelligent but also quick—only in terms of the mind rather than your physical capabilities.
You can hardly run, but your brain outshines everyone else he has met in the TVA.
Mobius is now waiting for the imminent chaos and mayhem you’re about to bring. You’re going to call him insane like every other time he has suggested an out-of-the-ordinary idea. Causing a scene is one of your talents. He has his hand on your shoulder again.
“You hate Pompeii, Mobius. Why the hell would bring him—Wait.” Your eyes are wide and blinking. “You went to Pompeii. Alone. I know that from the look on your faces. Which means no reset charge...No Nexus event.” You pause, pursing your lips. Then, you avert your gaze to Loki who watches you curiously. “Are you suggesting the variant is hiding in apocalypses?”
Mobius’ laugh comes off like a puff of air. He pats you on the back like a proud uncle. “Back on the game, Agent!”
Loki is slightly impressed. Only slightly.
“Okay, you two stay here. I’ll go get the files. Great work, you two.” Mobius gestures to the both of you with an outstretched index finger, grin so wide as he scurries off. Mobius loves a good case, especially when there’s a breakthrough. And with you finally familiarizing yourself with working together with Loki, everything is finally starting to look up.
The two of you end up finding each other’s gaze and for the first time, you smile at him. It’s small but genuine.
“You know you could have told me.”
“I would have, but you don’t trust me, remember?”
You hum, raising a brow. “And running away was supposed to gain my trust?”
Loki chuckles, eyes flicking to the table. “I never said anything about gaining your trust.”
Your smile grows wider, and Loki decides how he prefers you like this—relaxed and amused.
He oddly sees his mother in you. It’s the way you look at him. Like you know him.
Right, you have met him. Once.
“What was I like? The one you met at Sakaar.”
You blink, slightly taken aback by his sudden question that hasn’t got to do with insinuating you.
“The same as you—barely tolerable,” you say tightly, heaving a sharp exhale. ”Just…a lot sadder.”
You hadn’t mentioned how he willingly helped escape your execution because a part of you still believes it all to be a lie. The TVA has your complete fidelity but ever since the Sakaar incident, your trust in the way the system works has been swayed. After years of being trapped in your mind, the question of whether your capabilities in logic have been damaged due to loneliness still begs. Judge Renslayer believes in your incompetence but you believe she hides a secret about the Time Keepers.
The three beings, creator of the TVA, personally convicted you as innocent, allowing you to maintain your job. Nothing of this makes sense.
Maybe Judge Renslayer lost all her faith in you, her second-best analyst because your Nexus event relates to Loki. The one variant that has been causing havoc to the Sacred Timeline. And this Loki, the one that seems to be very curious about your place in the TVA and the Time Keepers, is no different than the others.
You find yourself feeling an uncalled sense of sadness that dwells in your chest at the thought of leaving the only friendship you secretly wished to have maintained back at Sakaar. Before you let yourself fall into the abyss of melancholic wishful thinking, you swiftly direct the conversation elsewhere.
"I’m sorry Mobius referred to you as the devil,” you say coyly. “You really aren’t.”
Loki, who seems to catch on with the sarcastic tone of your voice, leans farther into his seat. “Really?”
A smirk returns to your face. “You're worse than the devil." He snorts, noticing the vague hint of crimson growing upon your cheeks and how your eyes seem to crinkle a little more than usual.
He finds himself swallowing under your stare, fiddling his fingers in an attempt to calm his sudden erratic heartbeat. A stutter under your now kind gaze—no one ever stares at him with a smile. "You are not the first to say that."
There’s another pause; Loki’s face is set with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You feel a pang of guilt in your chest in remembrance of how you’re not the first to have treated him the way you did. He’s dangerous but, there’s no reason for animosity. Yet, it all boils down to the lives he has willingly taken. It doesn’t differentiate him from the rest of the TVA.
Mysterious variant.
The devil is always in the details.
Strangely, the work of the devil may prove to be useful in times of cul-de-sacs as an idea comes to mind. “I think...I think I know where you’re at right now.” Your voice is light, distracted by your now running thoughts. You’re on your feet, chair squeaking as you push it back. Your pen is in your grasp and you wave it in the air, reflecting the gears that turn at high speed within your brain.
Frankly, you’re not making any sense. Loki furrows his brows, slowly standing. “What do you mean? I’m right here—"
“No. The other one. The variant. And it has to do with gum.”
You’re still not making sense and it’s clear that in your eyes, he is invisible. You’re the only one in that frenzied mind of yours.
“What?”
You don’t answer him, feet quickly bringing you down the passageway along the vast rows of shelves that stretch along with the floor’s pristine balcony of white and the two of you are back to playing chase and run. Only this time, the roles are reversed.
-
Mission Haven Hills: not successful.
Really not successful. Far from successful.
You witnessed the doom of bombing the Sacred Timeline, firsthand. Employees scramble at the controls as you watch the screen that looms over the control room. What was once a single line, running along with time has now grown like a tree with fruits of chaos, caused by Nexus events scattered across time and places.
You wished the dust would settle and this was all simply a dream but you realize this was his plan all along.
Bomb the timeline. Distract the TVA.
There is one thing you know about Loki. He is moved by revenge and resentment.
As if you possess some sort of telepsychic powers, a part of you feels that danger itself is within the vicinity of the TVA. The variant is here, you just know it.
You hope Mobius is okay.
Scurrying down the winding hallways, past the hurried time hunters, and past the time theaters, you find yourself heading towards the golden doors of the Time Keepers’ chambers. In a time of uncertainty, your gut is your only source of guidance.
At the end of the hallway, you see bodies on the ground, nearly lifeless—time hunters, either unarmed or batons missing. You plucked one of the sizzling batons from the ground as you cautiously stepped around the laying bodies. You clutch it tightly to calm the blood rushing to your head, pounding along with your heartbeat as you take on the venture into the foyer of the grand chambers with secrets not wanting to be unveiled.
You round the corner, following the wooden panels for walls laid along the entrance. The glowing end of the baton within your grasp reflects off the black porcelain tiles beneath your careful feet. You hear voices, grunts, and shouting as if in combat.
Then, you see them. Loki in his variant jacket and a woman with locks of blonde and streaks of black. She adorns a headpiece of golden horns—one broken off.
Isn't Loki supposed to be at Haven Hills?
Recognizing the presence of another, the two turn to you, daggers still held to each other's throats. Loki eyes you with wide eyes, a silent plea whether to help or stand down, you’re unsure. Your gaze shifts to the woman once more who watches you with an equal resemblance to the other.
Then, it hits you. You recognize the dark emerald cloak she wears. You know exactly who she is. You just never thought it would be a she.
“You!” Your exclamation is bitter, and it’s directed towards the woman who seems to be strangely expectant of your remark as if she already knows who you are. She is L1190, a Loki variant. The one who slashed you with the TVA’s baton, scaring your left cheek. The one who hauled you through the time door and left you stranded in Sakaar for thousands of years.
You know exactly what she has done. She knows what she has done.
“You did this to me!” you gesture to the scar on your left cheek, eyes fixated solely on her, nearing the two with caution. You’re angry. Very angry. All pent-up rage begging to be set free.
Before Loki could even perceive the current situation he landed in between two women who very much want him dead, you’re already swinging the baton to her face with full force but she blocks it with her sword but slightly staggers in her step. You glare at her. She seems a little surprised. In an instant, you take a step back and go for another strike to her rib, but she blocks you again, sliding away and dodging your hit by a mere second. You growl out of frustration, seething through your teeth, and without hesitation, you strike again. The fight goes on—strike, block, strike, dodge. And with every blow, your intensity escalates, each a little harder than the one before. Loki stands there, watching, speechless and frozen.
You strike again, the baton crackling less than an inch away from her face but she dodges just in time, swinging her sword across your face. It grazes your cheek, now a gash of crimson on top of your scar, and with the sudden blow of searing pain, you lose your balance.
The variant spins into a kick that sweeps your legs out from under, knocking you hard onto the ground. The baton rolls out from your grip. Your hand flies to the gash, trickling with blood.
“Hey!”
The brawl comes to a halt. You seize yourself up from the ground, back and head aching, turning to see Judge Renslayer accompanied by two hunters, batons held up in defense position. You were about to reach for your own that was a stretch away when suddenly, you felt a hand grip you by the collar, hauling you to your knees. Her sword held to your neck.
“Come any closer and I’ll kill her.”
“Go for it.”
Your eyes are wide in shock, all anger towards the variant now turning into this churning feeling of betrayal that resides within your abdomen. Judge Renslayer doesn’t look at you, focus fixated on the two variants—it’s like you’re not even there.
The three start to charge towards you and you involuntarily shut your eyes. Then, as quick as a rattlesnake, Loki grabs the tempad hung at her waist and sends the three of you falling through the ground.
That’s the thing about Loki. He gets inside your head, makes you think that for once, he may be worth not pruning. Now, with your back landing hard on top of him, all you could think about is wanting to strangle him to death.
TAGLIST:
@lareinedususpense
@poubxlle
@mystoragehatesme
@the-maroon-panda
@kashasenpai
#loki#loki x reader#loki laufeyson#loki laufeyson x reader#loki x you#loki laufeyson x you#loki laufeyson imagine#loki imagine#loki series#loki spoilers#sylvie#mobius#ravonna renslayer
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five times Deena and Sam met in secret (and one time they didn’t)
Chapters: 1/6 Fandom: Fear Street Trilogy (TV) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Samantha "Sam" Fraser/Deena Johnson Characters: Deena Johnson, Samantha "Sam" Fraser (Fear Street) Additional Tags: Pre-Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Post-Canon, High School, Cheerleaders, Band, Teenagers, Teen Romance, First Meetings, First Love, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Fluff, Happy Ending
Secrets.
Deena and Sam met by accident. They fell in love in secret.
But how long can they last together like that?
Chapter 1 - secret places
From one end of the football field, Deena stormed away from band practice. She had trouble accepting the fact that she was required to do an extracurricular activity to get through high school. She had chosen band as a result of pressure from her best friends. Kate was cheerleading captain and Simon was the school’s mascot. It was convenient to join band and at least have their company during the school’s games. Besides, she could get away with a lot because the guy in charge of the band had always had a crush on Kate, and he was aware Deena was her best friend. So, she could sneak away from practice, go sit down under the bleachers, and entertain herself thinking about how there’s hardly a good thing about living in Shadyside. Unbeknownst to Deena, a beacon of light and hope was heading her way at that exact moment.
From the opposite end of the field, cheerleading practice was going on a small break, which Sam was aggressively thankful for. Her mind was a jumbled mess, and the worst part? It was all her fault. In retrospect, she knows she went into cheerleading because she longed to be in those girls’ company. Maybe she should have expected that same thing would be the worst part about it. She was professional, respectful, not a creep, she repeated in her mind again and again. But just one fleeting touch, one particular twist in a girl’s skirt, represented a great distraction. It made her think about things she didn’t feel even close to prepared to think about. Her thoughts got carried away, she felt overwhelmed, she needed to run away. How could she have known she was running straight toward the greatest distraction, the biggest challenge, the momentarily worst but eventually best thing that would happen to her…
One girl resenting the world around her. One girl troubled by her own thoughts and feelings. Both of them holding their heads down, walking fast, searching for a hiding place, and running right into each other.
“Fuck!”
“What the hell?!”
“Hey, watch where you’re going you…”
“I’m sorry, I was just…”
After they looked into each other’s eyes, there was no turning back. Because Deena gazed into crystal clear blue eyes and she didn’t see fear, she saw the light of a blue sky at the end of a dark tunnel. Because at the same time, Sam saw her brown eyes and couldn’t care less about the anger in them, she only felt the warmth of a home she hadn’t even met yet.
Nothing had prepared Deena for the moment she saw Sam for the first time. At her age, she felt almost surprisingly confident about herself, her feelings for other girls, and what that would mean for her life. But one thing was knowing she was interested in girls and a very different thing was being interested in one girl. This immediate attraction, this feeling of shocking delight, and being rendered speechless, that was completely new.
Similarly, Sam felt at a loss. Movies, songs, books, other girls’ stories had prepared her for this moment. However, they all pointed at the fact that it should be a guy standing in front of her, she should bat her eyelashes at him, he should pick up her dropped books, and someday they would get married, simple as that. But instead, she got Deena, wild hair, delicate features, and her band’s hat fallen in the ground in between them. Someone should pick that up. Sam’s eyes quickly looked around. No boys to bat her eyelashes to. No one watching. Just her and this girl and the opportunity to follow her instincts. Be herself.
In a flash, Sam had kneeled down, picked up the ridiculous hat and stood back up to give it to Deena. Miraculously, Deena seemed to get back to herself by the time she was staring at Sam’s face again. Even if “herself” was experiencing contradicting feelings. Defense mechanisms of apathy and toughness threatened to flare up. Hopeless kindness and attraction insisted on peering through. In the end, she accepted her hat and mumbled, “Thanks.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam repeated, “I was, um…”
“Furiously running away from something?” Deena raised a curious eyebrow.
It made Sam laugh. She wasn’t sure if she laughed at the joke, or as a nervous result of hearing Deena’s voice. Either way, she softly shook her head and started smiling as she introduced herself. “I’m Sam.”
“Deena,” the brunette replied. “So, was something chasing you, Sam?”
“No…” Sam answered. Her hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. As if hearing Deena say her name wasn’t overwhelming enough, now she had to come up with a reasonable lie. “Cheerleading,” she blurted out, “can be, uh, overwhelming, sometimes.” Not completely a lie. But the other girl seemed to see straight through her.
“Right,” Deena said.
Her tone was enough to know she didn’t completely buy Sam’s words, but she wouldn’t dare pry for more information. Partially, out of politeness. Mostly because Deena didn’t really want to know more. She wasn’t known for being invested in many other people, her school, or her town. She had more than enough with her own problems. She really didn’t need anything else. But she couldn’t help it. Because on one side was Sam, nervous blue eyes, flushed cheeks, obviously anxious in her cheerleading uniform. Then across from her was Deena. Deena and her unexplainable instinct to offer a hand to this girl she just met and fight for her whatever kind of monster had made her feel like she needed to run and hide.
“Well, Sam. I hate to break it to you but,” Deena paused for dramatic effect and for the newfound pleasure of watching Sam’s eyes stare at her expectantly, “this is kind of my spot, you know?”
“Oh?” Sam stuttered, curious.
“Oh, yeah. Everyone needs a place to hide from Shadyside’s many horrors. And this place right here? It’s taken.”
“I see,” Sam nodded slowly, as a smile started to form on her pink lips. “I suppose you don’t want my company, do you?”
Deena studied her silently for a second, holding back her own smile. It was incredible the way that the more Sam seemed to relax and smile more, Deena did the entire opposite, her heart sped up considerably, feeling like it might burst out of her chest. She did everything she could to maintain her composure though, for the sake of the easy banter they had going on. Then she replied, “I’m not really the type that enjoys company.”
“So, I should go, right?”
Sam even took one step back and turned her body a little, as if she would willingly walk away from the most fascinating encounter of her life. This step she took also brought to both their attention the fact that somehow, during their conversation, they had moved even closer than necessary, closer than they had been at the beginning.
“No, you don’t,” Deena blurted out as soon as she saw Sam’s poor attempt at moving away. “You can stay,” she said, reaching out and just brushing her fingertips to the back of Sam’s hand. She didn’t mean for it to be a life-changing action, but the sparks of electricity that ran through both their bodies at once were undeniable.
“Are you sure?” Sam asked, a little breathlessly after that touch.
“Just don’t make it a habit,” Deena smiled at her. She had no way to foresee the months and months she would spend with Sam in that very spot. “And don’t tell anybody. I have a reputation, you know?” Then, she winked.
While she worked on recovering from that wink, Sam followed Deena to the best spot to hide from the world or, at least, the rest of their school. “Fine,” she replied finally, as the two of them smiled at each other, “It’ll be our secret.”
#this is how we're coping with the end of the trilogy ladies :)#fear street#deena x sam#sameena#fear street fanfiction#fear street trilogy#my fic
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!!! ARCHIVIST MARTIN HEADCANONS PLS !!!
OHOHOH FELLA YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH HCS I HAVE FOR THIS AU
Literally all of this is going under a read more because I have this entire au mapped out in detail but basically I find the idea of Archivist!Martin very interesting because it's just changing one detail of the entire podcast and it completely alters the story.
(Under the read more is basically my entire idea for this au from season one to season four)
What happens in this au is that Elias hires and appoints Martin as head archivist because of the fact he was already deeply alligned with the lonely and was a interests of the webs. He lacked any real connection outside of the archives and was already of interest of two entities, he's basically a perfect candidate to become archivist. Tim, Sasha, and especially Jon are hesitant to be working under someone who they don't know and hold a slight grudge against Martin at the start for being obviously unqualifed for his job. Tim and Sasha, of course, immediately become more understanding when finding out about Martin's cv and just assuming he got unlucky and winded up with the role as the head archivist. Jon, on the other hand, still doesn't know about Martin's cv and continues holding the grudge against Martin.
Which leads us to season 1
In season one, Jon's opinion on Martin is "Oh lord this man I don't know is obviously unqualifed for his job and the role of archivist should've gone to my friend Sasha. I don't like this man but he is my boss so I will keep my mouth shut." Jon though, is still very passive agressive to Martin but is less of an ass to him in this au. Martin is very open about his opinion on statements and believes alot of them but similar to jon, will only record the ones that he knows have to be real. I still think Martin get's trapped in his flat by prentiss in this au, wanting to get more info for the case but not wanting to inconvenience any of his co-workers. While trapped in his flat, Jon takes over for him and records statements for Martin (Not in a "I want to impress my boss" matter but more of an "I'll show this twerp how it's really done") and realizes how much of toll it takes on him and how difficult the job is. When Martin comes back from his little worm adventure, Jon is much more nicer and understanding of him. Martin records what happened with him and prentiss and Jon offers him to stay in the little room he made for when he overstays at work. (Martin of course, is not happy with the fact Jon stays past work hours finishing up stuff but that doesnt matter). Y'know how the rest of s1 goes with the prentiss attack (Jon and Martin still share the heart to heart, Jon loses him and Tim in the tunnels) Jon finds Gertrude's body and it sparks his paranoia finding out she was shot to death and then we get to
Season 2
Jon's immediate assumption is that Martin killed Gertrude to get his job because like, he still doesn't know Martin well and then finds out this dude's predecessor got murdered so of course mr jon sims is going to go "oh so Martin for SURE murdered this lady." For the first half of the season, Jon pretends to be buddy buddy with Martin to see if anything's off with him and somewhere along the line Jon finds the noted Martin was writing to his mom in the trash and immediately assumes its about the murder. He catches Martin in his office and immediately corners Martin like "HEY I KNOW YOU KILLED GERTRUDE AND I GOT THE PROOF" and Martin just sighs and tells him about his cv and mother and Jon's opinion of Martin goes from "incompetent murderer who killed his predecessor to get his job and might kill me." to "highschool drop out whos just trying to make a living might end up being murdered too". With the not-sasha stuff it's sorta the same but Martin let's Jon in on some details of his suspicions on her. Martin get's framed for Jurgen's death and NOW WE ARE AT
Season 3
So since Martin obviously doesn't have a place to hide it at the start of season 3 so Jon offers him to stay at his place. Jon knows that Martin didn't kill Jurgen and is willing to take the risk of giving Martin a place to stay. Martin, of course, is hesitant but takes the offer because he's been crushing on Jon for the past forever and definitely will take his chances in staying in hot guy's flat. You know the shenanigans of s3 (Martin get's burned by Jude, kidnapped by Daisy, kipdnapped by Nikola) and FINALLY get's back into the archives to apologize to Jon for being gone from the flat for so long and apologizes again cause he's about to go off to america. Martin get's kidnapped again, comes back to london, and now it's time to stop an apocalypse! ( Before the unknowing happens, Jon and Martin share a heart to heart and confess that they both share feelings for another and get together the day before 118 happens then shit goes DOWN ). Martin of course, goes off to the unknowing and Jon stays behind at the archives to distract Elias. Elias tries and fails to use Jon's feelings for Martin against him, then switches to what happened with Georgie and the dead women walking incidents against him, pinning it on him because of his connection with the web. Martin stops the unknowing, Jon comes home to the empty apartment and gets the news that Martin is in a coma. (He immediately blames it on himself) and now it's time for
Season 4
Jon losing Martin right after realizing that they both love each other absolutely tears him apart. He moves flats and he begins to separate himself from the rest of the archives and works with peter. Martin wakes up from his coma without anyone by his side and is told the news to him about his mom right the day after. S4 basically goes the same with Martin seeing Jon again finally after the coma and goes to hug him and tell him how much he missed him but Jon just stares at him like he saw a ghost and leaves without saying a word to him. Alot of their interactions are sparse, usually with Martin trying to spark a convo with Jon resulting in usually no response or just a head shake as he scutters off. Then Martin finally is able to actually talk to Jon and tells him that he misses him and that maybe they could catch up sometime but Jon just laughs and tells him that hes busy. Martin later on finds out about how to cut off the connection with the eye and goes to tell Jon that they could leave the archives but Jon tells him that he can't and tells Martin he doesn't want to see him anymore and kicks Martin out his office. You know what happens in 158 and 159, it's basically the same and Jon and Martin settle down at the safehouse.
I don't have much for season 5 but I really like the idea that Martin is still optimistic even after the change and that he reassures Jon that he's gonna find a way to fix it when it reality he has no clue and it terrified to think about what is going to happpen to them. They don't stay in the cabin that long soon after since Martin is very eager to go to the pannopticon and ya! Yknow how it goes.
Im so sorry I wrote a whole essay worth of shit but this au means alot to me and i get very excited when people ask me about it!!
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How the Web helped Magnus mark his Archive
Have you ever seen people talk about how the Web was involved with getting Jon marked, but didn’t feel like going through every episode to find every little reference to spindly spidery legs? Well, worry no more! Because in this list I’m going to do just that. With quotes, ‘cause I never half-ass theories on tma
In chronological(ish) order, ranging from: - Undeniably Spider-involved - Suspiciously Web-adjacent - (and Web!Tapes propaganda) Let’s go!
- 22, 123: Prentiss being in Carlos Vittery’s basement
Martin may be the one who lead Prentiss to the Institute, but only because Prentiss was hanging out in Vittery’s cobwebbed basement, for an unknown reason:
022 Colony Martin: “I turned on my torch and shone it around, but was disappointed to see that all those spider webs that I remembered seemed old and unremarkable. If there were spiders there, none were easily seen, and… for a second I thought that the only interesting part of my return trip was that it would land me in prison if I wasn’t careful. Then, I heard movement. From the other side of the basement.”
The same Vittery who had already told Annabelle about his experiences:
123 Web Development Jon: “I-It’s apparently a list of people whose names appeared in the various pieces of text Mr. Cox was pasting into the code. It’s unclear if they were meant to be users or victims, but I cannot help but note that there seem to be the names of several statement givers who found their way to the Institute, including noted arachnophobe Carlos Vittery.”
Which might mean nothing if it weren’t for:
- 38, 40: A spider lets Prentiss be found
Not only does a spider cause Jon to knock down the wall to where Prentiss was hiding in the tunnels...
038 Lost and Found Sasha: “A spider?” Jon: “Yeah. I tried to kill it…. the shelf collapsed.”
...But according to Tim’s speculation:
040 Human Remains Tim: “I think they were almost all in the Archives. I have a theory, actually. I think they weren’t ready to attack when you found the tunnels.”
Which, if true, means that if the wall hadn’t been broken, Prentiss might’ve attacked with bigger force and killed Jon outright, instead of neatly marking him.
- 35, all of s2: A Web table lets a Stranger into the Institute
Although it’s never said who or what ordered the table to be delivered, the addition of the Web lighter with it makes it easy to guess. As Jonah says in 160: the Not!Them mark turned out not to have been necessary because of the Unknowing, but this was certainly a nice back-up to have.
- 80: Jon steps out for a smoke
Giving Jonah the opportunity to brutal pipe murder Jurgen.
080 The Librarian Jon: “I’m going to have a cigarette. Don’t… Don’t.” [...] [SOUNDS OF BRUTAL PIPE MURDER] [...] Jon: “Sorry, I’ve been quit for five years now, but th -”
While nothing in the actual text of the episode points to Web involvement, addictions like smoking fall under their domain. Add to that the recent gift of that lighter, and Jon saying he didn’t smoke anymore, it’s certainly suspicious.
- (91: Daisy only went to the Institute when she got the tapes
Okay, this one is mostly web!tapes propaganda, but I think it’s compelling web!tapes propaganda. I’d link the post I made about this earlier, but it has simply vanished from this universe, as far as tumblr is concerned... In any case:
091 The Coming Storm Daisy: “You ask me to take a tape over to this murdering freak, and I’m all set to tear you a new one for it. But then I get the cassette in my hand, and suddenly all I want to do is deliver his tapes, and spill my guts.”
If it’s from Jon, not only would this be the furthest reaching compulsion by far, in only in season 2 no less, but it would also be the only one that is transmitted via the tapes/another person outside of the Institute(Basira) instead of just Jon speaking directly to the person. While, if it’s the Web’s doing, making someone want to do something they don’t realize is weird at the time, is totally in their wheelhouse! And it’d make them responsible for convincing Daisy that Jon’s a monster, ergo, his Hunt mark.)
- 121: Oliver was sent by the Web
121 Far Away Oliver Banks: “Honestly, I’m still not exactly sure why I’m here. But you know better than anyone how the spiders can get into your head. Easier to just do what she asks.”
Aka, the man who told Jon what he needed to hear to wake up, nice and alive and marked by both the Stranger and the End, when he hadn’t been able to for 6 months.
- (130: The Web leads Jon to Jared)
130 Meat Jon: “I found this tape tucked in a corner of my desk drawer, covered in cobwebs. I suppose subtlety has gone out the window a bit, and the question is now simply… how much I trust the Spider to have my best interests at heart.”
Not only did this one tape lead Jon to get his Flesh mark, which Jonah had conked up by getting Jared to the Institute too soon, but arguably it also made Jon confident enough to go into the Buried. Which the rib didn’t even help with! What did help though, was...
- (134: Tape recorders and Martin got Jon out of the Buried)
Even if you don’t believe that the tapes are from the Web, there’s still this conversation:
134 Time of Revelation Peter: “What does – puzzle me though, and I mean that genuinely, is – why you were piling tape recorders onto the coffin while Jon was in there.” - Martin: “I don’t know. And I just – felt like it might help. He’s always recording, and I thought it – it might help him… find his way out.” Peter: “Interesting. Were you compelled?” - Martin: “I don’t know. Maybe? I-I, I definitely wanted to do it. [But] I’m not sure where the idea came from. Peter: “You should watch out for that. Could be something dangerous.”
Implanting ideas in someone’s mind, specifically making them want to do something, without them knowing that the idea is coming from outside, is something the Web isn’t a stranger to (056, 059). It might also be the Eye, but wouldn’t Martin know what an Eye compulsion would feel like, by now? On a meta level, it’s a curious thing to point out. Would anyone have protested if Martin got the idea of the tapes on his own?
And there you have it! 8 instances of arachnid involvement. There are more small mentions of Web-like interference with Jon here and there in other episodes, and of course his first Fear mark in 081, but these are the ones that seem to very clearly point towards the Mother of Puppets, or some of her avatars, having helped Jonah in bringing about the end of the world. There’s still the question of why, what their ‘plan’ is now, but I’m sure we’ll find out about that soon enough - Dare I say, March 25th or earlier, even
#tma#the magnus archives#tma s4#magnuspod#the web#web!tapes#tma theory#tma meta#text post#if anyone somehow has a link to the post I mean with daisy and the tapes and 91 PLEASE send it my way#it is gone from my tumblrs pov#hopefully this helps anyone?#i mostly talk to the people in ea and they are just as deep into the theories as i am#but i sometimes see posts that remind me that thats a minority of people#magnus archives#now back to work. woe is me#also as always feel free to add or correct me if you feel so inclined
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please tell us more about co-archivists au 👉👈 i am very excited to hear your essay
BLESS UR HEART ANON I was NOT expecting anyone to actually read my tags <3
ANYWAY, thanks so much for asking and here are my vaguely comprehensive ideas for co-archivist AU here we go (it’s gonna get pretty long so I’m putting it under a cut lol)
Seasons 1+2 would probably go pretty much the same - Elias still chooses Jon alone as archivist and canon proceeds as is up until Infestation. Sasha still gets Not-Them’d but she doesn’t cease to exist, instead ending up trapped in some liminal space. She was already strongly tied to Beholding and so is able to be claimed by the Eye to escape the Stranger (think Mike Crew getting claimed by the Vast to escape the Spiral) which allows her to break out of the clutches of the Not-Them. Meanwhile, in the tunnels, Leitner tries to trap the Not-Them with the Buried book and instead the thing is psychically ripped apart from the inside out, the memories of Real Sasha are instantly airdropped back into everyone’s brains, Sasha wakes up in a pile of broken table fragments, and gets the hell out of there.
From there, the start of s3 is pretty much the same for Jon (he and Leitner decide that the book had some sort of unforeseen adverse affect on the Not-Them that exploded it somehow) - he flees the institute after finding Leitner’s body, hides out with Georgie, and so on. Everyone assumes Sasha’s dead, except for Elias, obviously, who Knows not only is she alive, but she’s well on her way to becoming an Archivist. (He’s not going to do anything about it - sure, it’s more moving parts than he was counting on, but a backup Archivist could prove useful if something were to happen to Jon. Plus he’s already got a bet going with Peter over which of them will make it to the end.)
Sasha, consumed by the beholding-typical hunger for information, seeks out The Distortion - Michael helped her that one time, after all. She gets hints of usefulness from him (though he insists on using 80-word-long names for all the entities) but mostly he speaks in riddles and is generally frustrating. I’m also gonna say they have a Jude Perry handshake moment except instead of boiling wax it’s knife hands because I love parallels.
She leaves the Spiral with a vague understanding that entities are a thing and starts basically throwing herself into situations fitting their various motifs and hoping for an encounter. One of them seems related to heights? Guess she’s going skydiving. (I stand by my headcanon that Sasha is at least as if not more impulsive than Jon. In s1 while he was like “well I guess I’ll keep an eye out for more statements about Prentiss and hopefully get more information” she went straight to “I personally am gonna hunt down this nightmare worm monster! How dangerous can she be she’s only killed like 5 people that we know of + I’m too curious to leave it alone!” I mean seriously.) While this is a great way to accumulate a lot of Marks for herself, it’s not a great way to find out anything useful. Plus she’s nearly gotten herself killed a bunch of times, so clearly she needs a new approach.
She goes to find Michael again but instead finds Helen, who’s much more inclined to be helpful. She fills Sasha in about how Jon’s also going Archivist, and gives her a door to find him. Sasha steps through the door and emerges in a clearing in the woods where Daisy’s just about to slit Jon’s throat.
Suffice it to say, when a yellow door appears from nothing in the middle of the woods and dead-for-a-year Sasha James steps out of it, Daisy is very surprised. The resulting altercation leaves Sasha marked by the Hunt but the situation calms down after the arrival of Basira who points out that, when facing Elias, surely two avatars are better than one.
Events of s3 from there on play out basically like they do in canon except this time the archivist’s not alone, which helps with the whole “turning into an avatar” identity crisis. Don’t get me wrong, they’re both still freaking out, but they’re freaking out TOGETHER so it’s not as bad. It’s nice to have someone to talk to about weird Beholding stuff, especially when they literally share your brainwaves. (I’d imagine there are a lot of moments when everyone’s just sitting around resolutely doing no work when both Sasha and Jon abruptly stand up, point to each other, and yell some random thing that means absolutely nothing to anyone else but them because Beholding just airdropped them some knowledge. Also since the archivist power is split between the two of them, when they go into Statement mode they end up speaking in unison, Sasha’s right eye and Jon’s left both glowing. It’s very creepy for anyone watching.)
Then comes the Unknowing, and Tim blows up, but instead of dying like in canon, he gets pulled back into the realm of the Stranger along with the rest of the Unknowing and trapped there. When Jon and Sasha wake up from their twin comas, Basira tells them he’s dead, but Sasha realizes that somehow she Knows he’s not. With Jon’s help she uses Beholding (all-seeing) to break into the realm of the Stranger (concealment) and pull him out, and later Jon does the same for Martin in the Lonely.
And in the end, yes, they both end up marked by all the entities, and the world still ends, and things are still pretty bad. But at least they have all four of them (the og archive team) to deal with it. And at least, when Jon needs to info dump about cursed beholding information, he can talk to Sasha. And at least, when Martin would really like some company that isn’t someone possessed by an omnipotent eyeball god, he can talk to Tim. Which I think would help with morale if nothing else.
(Thanks for sticking to the end of all that lol - I meant it when i said i had a lot of thoughts)
#tma#jonathan sims#sasha james#co-archivists au#cloudwithoutsilverlining.txt#answered asks#anonymous#thanks so much for your ask#also i actually got 2 asks about this! I'll answer the other one in just a bit#also this is ok to rb if anyone feels so inclined!
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Aftershock
Shocked voices erupt, a tumult, and, frozen, Anne stares at Aramis who has dropped beside the carriage, motionless, the side of his head glistening with blood. She feels the scarlet droplets that sprayed across her cheek when he was hit, warm, sticky - Aramis’ blood - and cannot release the scream of terror that is trapped inside her throat. Blue capes swirl as the Musketeers tackle the assassins and wrestle them to the ground. Her vision a narrowing tunnel, Anne sees Athos among the men, eyes wide, slashing an attacker’s throat while he makes his way to his fallen brother. The carriage rocks as bodies press against it.
“Down, your Majesty!” Treville barks, and Aramis’ still body disappears from sight as the Captain of the Musketeers throws himself across Anne to shield her from further danger.
“Move! Move!”
Horses whinny, the carriage jolts into motion, and Anne feels the wheels roll over an obstacle - a body? The smell of Treville’s leathers fills her nose, his chest looms above her, his arms are slung protectively around her back.
The scent of blood lingers. A trail of it has arced across her dress, and she wipes at it with a shaking hand. Aramis’ blood.
He’s dead.
There can be no question. When he threw himself into the line of fire to protect her, the ball hit him in the head. No one survives that. Not even a Musketeer. As Anne is rushed back to the palace, leaving the teeming crowd behind, loss cuts through her like a knife, and she gasps.
“Your majesty! Are you hurt?”
Treville sits back, his hands still supporting her arms, sharp blue eyes studying her with worry.
Anne wants to tell him that, yes, yes she is hurt. That shock is shaking her like an earthquake. That her heart, wrenched from her chest, is being trampled in a muddy road in Paris, next to the body of the man she loves - not the one wearing a crown, but the one wearing her crucifix around his neck. That the child in her womb is kicking wildly as if Aramis’ son, too, feels the loss of his father. That she feels entirely alone.
But she cannot say any of those things. Treason bans any of those admissions from her mouth, and without Aramis’ protection she needs to protect herself and keep her ... their son safe.
“I am unharmed,” she says instead, straightening her spine and lifting her head. “Thanks to the Musketeers.” She allows herself a small trembling of her voice, a tiny echo of the scream inside her, but she pulls herself out of Treville’s grip and cradles her belly instead. Her face feels cooler; the mask slips into place.
The captain studies her, worry giving way to respect and pride. He appreciates strength, and that is what she gives him.
Flanked by an escort of guards, they enter the Palace courtyard. The carriage has barely stopped when Louis hurries down the steps, eyes big, face flushed, arms flailing dramatically. A messenger must have beaten them to the Palace to deliver the news.
“My dear! How terrible! Are you well? Are you unharmed?”
Treville helps her descend from the carriage, and no one sees her legs tremble underneath the wide dress.
Louis embraces her, careful with her belly, and she feels honest relief emanating from him, and even affection. Her own emotions are an entirely different matter: Something has broken, and she is walking on shards, denying the pain further access. Louis’ arms around her have no weight, no warmth, no strength. They do not make her feel safe. A deep, Aramis-coloured ache courses through her that she bravely holds in check, at an arm’s length. She may never feel the way she did with him again: accepted, protected, seen.
“I am well,” she tells the king, her voice calm and controlled, like someone else’s. “I was well guarded.”
Louis takes a step back, appalled by the blood on her dress, scandalized by the events.
“Well guarded?! The Musketeers. They failed us, again! None of this should have happened! Treville! We need to discuss the consequences.” Petulantly, Louis raises his chin at the captain. “Now!”
He storms inside, expecting to be followed.
Treville’s brows knit together and anger, quickly hidden, flashes in in his eyes. He turns to Anne.
“You should rest, your majesty,” he says kindly. “Recover from the excitement.”
When he turns to go, Anne cannot help call after him.
“Captain?”
“Yes, majesty?”
She carefully composes her face. “My Musketeers. One of them- … Aramis...“ She catches her breath, forces tears back down. “Extend my condolences to his friends. His sacrifice will not be forgotten.”
Nothing about Aramis will be forgotten. Not his kindness, not his bravery. Not the flame he kindled within her. With God’s grace, she will see his dark eyes and his thick curls again when their son is born, and she will hear his voice in their child’s laughter. His echo. She will listen to it for the rest of her life.
“I will. Thank you, your majesty.”
The captain’s voice cracks on the final note, and, suddenly, it seems to be him who cannot hold the tears in check. The muscles in his tanned, lined face twitch. His eyes burn watery blue. He, too, is slain by loss today and is refusing to break in plain sight.
His jaw working, he casts his eyes down, nods and leaves.
He, too, has a mask to hold in place.
XXX
Aramis is alive.
Thank God it is Constance who brings her the overwhelming news hours later. Thank God, since the cloth merchant’s wife is the only person who knows about Anne’s affair with Aramis.
She falls into Constance’s arms and, finally, allows herself to cry.
He is alive.
In front of everyone else, it is almost as difficult to disguise her relief and her happiness as it was to hide her premature grief. Light returns to her world. The ground steadies. Her belly flutters as the child in her gives a comforting series of kicks.
Against her better judgement, she insists on visiting the garrison.
“It is a gesture of gratitude,” she explains to the King, her cheeks hot with anticipation. “They saved not only my life, but the dauphin’s as well.”
Stroking her belly, she cannot bring herself to say “your son”. He isn’t the father. His father is a Musketeer.
And he’s alive.
Louis indulges her with a dramatic eye roll and a derisive comment on the antics of pregnant women. It’s fine by Anne. Forever convinced that the world revolves around him, he wastes no further thought on the matter. He is so ignorant; he suspects nothing.
The carriage cannot take her to the garrison fast enough. Anne’s heart beats in her throat, joy triumphing over concern. Lemay had spoken of a head wound, of stitches and a severe concussion. But Aramis was awake and talking, and she needs to erase the image of his still body from her memory and replace it with a live one. She needs to look into those brown eyes, open and filled with light.
And there he is.
A bandage is wrapped around his head, his cheeks are pale and and pain shadows his face - but he is awake and, with Constance’s aid, he sits up and looks at her, at her only, the intensity of his gaze making her breath hitch.
“Your majesty…”
While Athos’ scrutinizes her with his cool gaze, while Constance fusses over d’Artagnan and Porthos looms by the door, Anne can barely hold on to her facade of royal aloofness. The truth lingers just below the surface, threatening to burst her wide open. And here, among these solid, trustworthy men, among Aramis’ brothers, she almost doesn’t care.
“I will be forever grateful for your sacrifice and protection, Aramis,” she tells him, as formally as possible, when her visit is cut short by Constance insisting their patient needs to rest.
And he does. Despite the bravado, his injury is taking its toll. He looks tired and ill, and Anne hates that she cannot be the one to stay by his side, to sit with him, to nurse him back to health. If she could at least hold his hand, at least touch him, feel the warmth of his skin and life pulsing through his veins…
“Always.”
His fingers gently wrap around hers as he lifts her hand to place a tender kiss on it. The touch of his lips sets her skin on fire. For a moment, they are connected until Athos breaks the spell.
“If you allow, I will have a Musketeer escort accompany you on your way back, your majesty.”
Reality. It sucks her back into the world of careful maneuvering and dangerous secrets that no one must know. She pulls herself together, away from Aramis‘ pained gaze to ward off Athos‘ offer.
When she leaves, she feels the weight of her world settle back onto her shoulders. But she won’t let herself get crushed by it. She can carry it, the way she carries this child: with defiant pride, with love and with the knowledge that she is not alone.
Aramis is alive.
(in case you prefer reading and commenting on AO3)
Also, This is a companion fic to my Whumptober Chapter 28 where you can read Aramis‘ side of the story, told through Athos‘ eyes.
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Hermione Granger's Hogwarts Crammer for Delinquents on the Run
waspabi @waspabi
Chapters: 8/8 Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood, Ginny Weasley, Neville Longbottom Additional Tags: Pining, Humor, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Friendship
Summary:
'You're a wizard, Harry' is easier to hear from a half-giant when you're eleven, rather than from some kids on a tube platform when you're seventeen and late for work.
Excerpt:
“You all right?”
“Brilliant,” Harry spat. His eyes burned and he turned away. He didn’t want Malfoy to see him crying.
“We can get rid of them,” Malfoy said quietly. “We can — not to sound murderous about it. I mean to say, we can just… Apparate away. Leave them here. We don’t have to get caught up in what they’re caught up in.”
“You think Hermione would go for that?”
“Probably not,” Draco admitted. “She likes the idea of a more organised resistance. Better resources. More money for those little pieces of Muggle parchment she likes with the sticky backs. But we can — we can strike out on our own, if we have to.”
“We wouldn’t last a week without her, remember?” Harry’s voice sounded hoarse. He wished his eyes would stop fucking leaking for five minutes. “We barely lasted a day at Jane and Cynthia’s.”
“I don’t know, Potter. We could figure something out. Sod this whole revolution business; it’s rubbish anyway. Crap food and no wages. Let’s leave this shit island to its self-destruction. We could go to Australia and live with Hermione’s parents and pretend to be Muggles. At this point I’d probably get an O on the Muggle Studies N.E.W.T, honestly, it’d be easy.”
Harry shut his eyes and had a brief, delirious fantasy of him and Malfoy on some Australian beach. Draco would be grousing about the heat, a thick line of sunblock on his nose. His bare shoulders would be red and peeling a little. Maybe he’d put on a really naff t-shirt with a stretched out collar to keep from getting more burnt. Harry would have a surfboard, and he’d somehow have got really good at surfing. They’d have boring jobs at a shop and no one would be trying to kill them.
“Funny,” Harry said, and his wet laugh was not very convincing.
“No?” Draco shuffled a bit closer. “Worth a shot, I suppose.”
“Sorry about your dad.” Harry scuffed his shoe on the ground, digging a little trench in the dirt. “Seemed like… I mean, I know he’s a right bastard, but I think he does love you.”
“He does. Fat lot of good that does me, obviously.” Draco edged yet closer. “It’s all right. I mean, it’s not all right, but it’s…” He shrugged expressively. “I think we’re handling your situation first.”
“I don’t have a fucking situation.” Harry looked at his feet. “Piss off.”
“In the immortal words of Harry Potter, ‘nah’.” Draco was very close to him now. He reached out and touched Harry’s hand — Harry flinched and stepped back.
“What are we even doing?” Harry demanded, wiping his eyes.
“Saving the country, and possibly the world?” Draco shrugged. “We may be doing a middling job of it at the minute, but it’s the thought that counts.”
“No, I meant…” Harry turned away. He didn’t want to look at Draco. “I meant, what are we doing.”
“Oh,” Draco said. Harry could practically hear him go rigid and pointy. “Oh, that.”
“Yes, that.” Harry turned back around so he could glower at him. “What �� what are you playing at? You buy me a coat, you fix my shitty trainers, you hold my hand…” Harry’s eyes stung. His heart hurt so badly. “What are you fucking me about for?”
“I’m not fucking you about.” Draco looked pained. He brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I’m not playing at anything. Or I don’t mean to be. I… Don’t make me say it.”
“Make you say what?”
“I… you know. You.” Draco looked down at his hands, which he had twisted together so tightly his fingers were white. “I feel… I have felt… For fuck’s sake, Harry! It’s so cringe. Don’t make me say it.”
“Oh,” Harry said. “You mean… You fancy me?”
“Fancy,” Draco echoed, looking up at the patches of sky through the trees. “Yes. Obviously, are you completely dim?” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Fancy. Merlin and Morgana both, Potter.”
“Oh.” Harry ground the toe of his repaired trainer into the dirt. “I’ve never had someone fancy me before.”
“That is patently impossible, Potter,” Draco informed him. “You’re unbelievably unobservant, that must be the problem. Really, it’s like you’ve got tunnel-vision. You can only pay attention to a vary small radius of information at a time.”
“No one who knew me,” Harry amended. “No one who really knew me.”
“Oh,” Draco said. He took a deep breath like he was bracing himself for something. “Merlin’s sake, Potter. Can you stop doing things to me, for once?”
Harry frowned. “I’m just stood here.”
Draco covered his face with both hands. “This is so horrible. I hate this so much. Could you come here, please?”
Harry took a few steps forward. This was so confusing. Everything was weird, and confusing, and he was a wizard, and those men knew his parents, and they wanted him to be part of some weird underground resistance group that was somehow different to Harry’s weird underground resistance group, and here he was about to, he was pretty sure, have his first boyfriend. He was about seventy-five percent certain. He didn’t want to be cocky. He wasn’t all that certain how these things worked for normal people, let alone for teenaged renegade wizards.
“Come here properly, arsehole.”
“I don’t know what I’m meant to…”
“For fuck’s sake, Potter. Have you never learnt elementary social cues? Here.” Draco dropped his hands from his face and put his arms around Harry. He clutched Harry’s new coat with both hands. Draco’s face pressed against Harry’s neck, long eyelashes brushing his skin.
Harry couldn’t move. Draco’s coat smelled of smoke. His breath was warm and his nose was cold. Harry’s chest went tight and painfully full, like a wardrobe packed so tight that it would shortly avalanche all over the unfortunate person who would next open the door.
“Hug me back, you dickhead,” Draco mumbled into Harry’s neck.
Harry did. He put his arms around Draco’s waist and leaned into the curve of his chest. His eyes went hot and wet again, which was embarrassing. He ducked his head to hide them on the shoulder of Draco’s fancy coat. His nose leaked too, so he wiped it on the wool. It even felt expensive on his nose, which was impressive really.
“I’m getting bogeys on your coat,” Harry told him.
“You’re such an absolute knob,” Draco said, but he didn’t let go. He touched Harry’s head with one hand, spreading his fingers beneath the tangle of hair to slip over his skull. His fingers moved slowly, carefully. “I have no idea why I like you.”
“You like me. You said it out loud.”
“You must be hearing things, Potter.” Draco’s grip tightened around his waist. His other hand slid to the back of Harry’s neck and stayed there, warm at his nape. “I’m concerned about your delusions and flights of fancy.”
“My flights of fancy,” Harry said. “You lot met me on a train platform to tell me I was a wizard.”
“You are a wizard.”
“It’s the principle of the thing.”
“Can I…” Draco pulled back, eyes flickering to Harry’s mouth.
Harry didn’t let him finish. He leaned forward and kissed him. Draco made a soft sound, or Harry did, or both of them. Harry had kissed two people in his life and neither of them had felt like this, like if Draco took his hands from Harry’s face he would crumple to the ground. Harry wanted to get closer, closer, but it wasn’t possible. Pansy’s robes were infuriatingly unassailable — Harry groaned in frustration and Draco laughed into his mouth, warm and wet. The delirious dizzy nearness of Draco, their mouths together and the heat fogging Harry’s glasses… Harry felt lit up. He felt like a lumos in the dark.
“Fuck,” Draco said, his forehead pressed against Harry’s. “We really ought to get back.”
“Probably,” Harry said, and kissed him again.
“You’re right,” Draco said, his mouth moving against Harry’s. “Fuck it.”
“They can fuck right off.” Harry laughed and kissed Draco’s cold cheek, the corner of his chapped mouth. In a few minutes, they would go back and find the others. Harry would face Sirius Black and Remus Lupin, and they’d figure out what to do about Pius Thicknesse, and they could change out of their ridiculous robes. Just not yet. Not quite yet.
(⁎⁍̴̛͂▿⁍̴̛͂⁎)*✲゚*。⋆♡ོ
#Hermione Granger's Hogwarts Crammer for Delinquents on the Run#Waspabi#drarry#Drarry Fic Rec#Fic Rec#Drarry fanfiction#Hp fanfiction#hp fic rec#Harry Potter#Draco Malfoy#Canon divergence#alternate universe#Drarry Classic#Classic fanfiction#HP Classic#Carey's Bookmark fic recs#Carey's personal Bookmarks
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Luz’s mother really doesn’t want to send Luz to camp. She knows once she leaves, there is no going back. But Luz has a knack for getting into trouble, and one day she stumbles into the same type of people her mother would have preferred she avoided. After helping Luz dissolve her high school bully into dust, Eda and Lilith know right away that this kid is just like them - a child of the gods. So Luz hops on a Pegasus and heads to Camp Half-blood, where she embarks on a dangerous quest that makes her both friends and enemies... and she might even save Olympus along the way.
Chapter Thirty-Two: Don’t Touch the Stygian Iron!
The plan was really stupid.
Amity told her as much. It was barely a plan at all. But Luz didn’t really see what other choice they had, especially since they were on a time crunch.
Once Amity had stepped out of line, Luz realized she had no idea where the portal was. She knew her father had said it was between the outskirts of the Underworld and the River Achaeon, but she had no idea where that was. So, they ducked away from the crowds of souls to hide inside a cave in one of the smoky black hills just outside the entrance of the Underworld and rested against a pile of blackened rocks until they figured it out. Luckily, Luz didn’t have to guess for long.
“The secret passageway is about half a mile from here, buried near Orpheus’ tunnel,” Amity mumbled quietly to her, and Luz was so startled by her breath so close to her ear (it wasn’t warm like when she was alive… it felt like an icy chill in her ear canal) she jumped about three feet in the air.
She smacked her head on the rock they were hiding under and recoiled. “Owwww!”
Amity’s eyes widened, leaning in. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”
It wasn’t a sharp rock, but when she pulled her hand away it was stained red. It was a stupid injury, even dumber than the blood on her knees that was still drying from earlier, but Luz was starting to figure out that she couldn’t be her usual klutzy self if they wanted to escape.
The Underworld was… almost worse for the living than the actual earth. Injuries here hurt twice as bad and drained twice the strength they were supposed to. She would have to be more careful.
“I’m fine. How do you know that?”
Amity flushed. Well, Luz assumed she did, it was hard to tell behind the mist.
“I’ve seen it in my dreams.”
Luz gawked. “Your dreams took you to the Underworld? Mine were just in the mountain!”
Amity rubbed her forearm uneasily. “I told you that my nightmares weren’t like yours. Before I started the quest, I wouldn’t get many flashes of the mountain. Most of my nightmares… well they took me here.”
“This whole time you’d been having those dreams and you didn’t tell me?”
Luz frowned, not wanting to think too hard about what that meant. That she’d known the whole time dying was something that would happen to her, and that Amity had been lying to Luz since they rescued her. It didn’t make her angry… she understood why she’d done it. Amity was the kind of person stubborn enough to shoulder her burdens away so her friends wouldn’t worry. But it certainly called into question everything that had happened right before she fell off the mountain…
Like the kiss in the tree… or the one right before she’d battled Belos. Had Amity only done that because she’d known she was going to die?
Amity flinched, and Luz’s frown deepened. She hadn’t wanted to hurt Amity’s feelings, or make her feel guilty for what had happened. It definitely wasn’t her fault.
She wasn’t sure what she was even going to say, and thank the gods she didn’t have to. The most horrific sound of metal clashing against rock cut off the rest of their conversation, and Amity’s eyes widened.
“Get back! Someone’s coming in!”
Luz slid under a boulder deeper in the cave just as she heard the harsh laughter from a pair of male voices. Very familiar male voices.
“Those little demigods really thought this would just be over like that? They have no idea. Though the one with the plant magic really got you good, eh Theo?”
“Holy Hades, do you ever shut your mouth? Maybe if you hadn’t underestimated the daughter of Aphrodite we wouldn’t be back here. Did you know she had the favor of Ares?”
Theseus and Achilles, and by the sound of it, a dead Theseus and Achilles. Amity was watching quietly from behind the rock, and Luz did everything she could to calm her racing heart, worried any noise at all would give them away.
What even happened to souls who died in the Underworld? She decided she didn’t want to test it by getting caught.
“Hmph. Of course, I didn’t. It doesn’t matter. As long as that portal is open we can avoid judgment and I don’t have to see Paris’ slimy face again. Why would they let him be a judge of the dead? He started a gods-forsaken war!”
“But for no power-hungry purpose. That makes him perfect .”
“Whatever. Let’s just hurry. If the Emperor finds out we didn’t join him right away…”
“We did our due diligence. The mines are clear, and I don’t see any of those silly little demigods following us. It would take them well over a day to get to California or New York. I don’t care what the prophecy says, they’re mortals. Even they abide by physics.”
“Unlike us! HA!”
I heard the sound of a smack, the kind of backhand her Mami would give for coming home late without texting her where she was. “Lower your voice! Do you want to be caught by the kindly ones again?”
“That was one time!”
Slowly, the voices began to fade, until Luz couldn’t hear a thing besides the beating of her heart. She looked up and watched as Amity peered over the rock, her murky golden eyes narrowed in concentration. Eventually, she moved, and the mist around her moved too. She gestured for Luz to stand.
“They’re gone. Let’s hurry.”
Luz was more than ready to agree until she caught sight of her reflection in the rock she’d been leaning against and her eyes widened.
“Wait. Holy Hermes, what is this stuff? Black glass?”
She finally took a moment to examine the cave they’d been hiding in and realized that it wasn’t a cave at all. There were dark iron pickaxes, and smoking set of carving tools leaning against the entry. Just to the left of the strange metal, deeper in the cave was a bright light. The closer Luz stepped to it the quicker she realized that it wasn’t light. It was blistering hot magma, half a mile down the cave. Above the tools, there was thick scarring on the wall, like someone carved into it. Initials.
NDA.
“This is the mine they were talking about,” Luz realized in awe, looking around at more of the strange black material that was as dark as a nightmare. “But… what’s getting mined?”
Amity swallowed hard, suddenly looking nervous. “Stygian Iron. This is a Stygian Iron mine, right next to the River Styx.”
“Let me guess. This is very bad?”
Luz was getting really tired of not knowing things. Thankfully, Amity seemed to catch on, those she still looked like she was going to bolt at any second.
“Stygian Iron is a metal from the Underworld. It’s… probably one of the scariest kinds of weapons a demigod can make. When you kill a monster with it, instead of its essence returning to Tartarus, it gets sucked into the blade and trapped forever.”
Luz thought that was pretty cool. Maybe she should have killed Lena the empousai with it, and she’d never have been bullied again. But Amity still didn’t look pleased. Then, it hit her.
“Wait… what does Stygian Iron do to mortals?”
“Like all godly weapons, it passes right through mortals. For demigods who are alive, a cut from the blade might slow you down and exhaust the limbs, making you easier to kill. But for the souls of dead demigods…”
A shiver ran up Luz’s spine at the silent implication. She stepped forward, ready to usher Amity out of the cave and away from the black metal.
“Ok, well don’t touch it. Let’s just go.”
“Wait! Not yet.”
Luz stepped back, shocked. It’s like something hit her all at once because instead of fear, Amity now had that look on her face that made her nervous. The gears were turning, and there was no stopping her now. Amity leaned in to examine the ore, and Luz’s heart sped out of her chest.
Luz was so worried about her accidentally touching it, she tried to pull her away, once again forgetting she couldn’t. Her hand passed right through her shoulder.
“Amity, you just said this stuff is really dangerous, so why do I think you’re going to try and mess with it?”
“Because this might be the key to stopping Belos,” she insisted.
Luz wasn’t convinced. She didn’t see how any rock that could suck Amity away would in any way be useful. Amity sighed, gesturing to it with one misty finger.
“Luz, just think about it. What if the only way to stop Belos is to trap him, just like he trapped Hestia?”
She stopped cold. Now that was something she hadn’t considered. Now the gears weren’t just turning in Amity’s head. She started making connection after connection, and before she could even think about what she was going to say it was out of her mouth.
“Hestia said the prophecy was supposed to be about me.”
Amity flinched like Luz slapped her. She might as well have. Amity had gone through hell and back literally thinking that she had to be the one to make the sacrifices, to be the good demigod girl Odalia always said she needed to be, and here Luz was blurting in her face that it was all for nothing.
“I… I didn’t mean it like that-” Luz tried, already regretting her impulsive decision.
“It doesn’t matter,” Amity said flatly, and Luz winced. She opened her mouth to try and protest, but with a misty shimmer, Amity’s hand was up and stopping her from saying anything else. “We’re on a mission and a time crunch. We need to stop Belos before that portal rips open again and we’re right back where we started. We don’t have time for this.”
Luz bit her lip, holding back another protest. She was right. There was no use arguing.
“Okay. So what do we do?”
Amity’s gold eyes glittered, and for the first time since Luz reunited with her, she actually looked alive.
“We make you a dagger.”
Despite Amity not being able to touch the Stygian Iron, she leads the charge when it came to crafting.
She instructed Luz on how to use the tools NDA left behind to pick up a chunk of iron. Then, she mimed how to hammer it down into a sheet. She helped Luz separate the Iron from the regular steel, and slowly shape a hilt out of it. (Thankfully, Luz didn’t have to help with that, Amity was able to touch the steel and do it herself from there). After that, they moved down into the sweltering heat of the Underworld magma and Luz repetitively carved out again and again until the tiny heap of metal looked something like a blade. Thankfully, NDA had left behind heat protection. An enchanted suit to keep Luz’s skin from melting off her body.
Funny. The suit was almost exactly her size. If she ever met NDA, she’d have to thank them.
After hitting the mallet against the glowing iron for what felt like the billionth time, Luz turned to Amity, exhausted. She hadn’t needed a suit, being dead and all. Apparently, the heat just felt like a sauna.
“How do you even know how to do all this?”
“One summer my parents wanted us to work with another cabin and master one of their skills. I picked Cabin 9 and basically lived in the forges that year. I didn’t just make my own xiphos, but one for Ed too, and then I was able to use the extra sheet for Em’s knife.”
“You made your sword?” Luz gawked, thoroughly impressed.
She shrugged her shoulders, mist moving up and down as she did. “The stones on our blades come from the ones Aphrodite gave us. I figured once I told you that you’d put two and two together.”
“How was I supposed to know that you made your own sword?” Luz exclaimed, waving the white-hot metal around as she did. “Who makes their own sword?? Is there anything you can’t do?”
Even when she was scolded for waving around molten iron, Luz couldn’t help but feel a little twinge of pride that even in the Underworld, she’d been able to make Amity laugh.
In no time at all, the iron was ready. With careful hands, Luz was instructed on how to push the hilt gently against the blade, and hammer it down while it was still hot. Then came the tricky part.
“Stygian Iron doesn’t become fully formed until it’s cooled, and the only way to do that is by dipping it in the Styx,” Amity explained, looking left and right down the black sandy beaches to see if anybody was coming. “Whatever you do, don’t touch the water.”
She remembered Chiron’s warning to Cooper and shivered. Luz approached carefully, swallowing. Very careful not to step anywhere near the slow lapping oil-colored waves, she gently lowered the metal into the water.
First mistake.
The second it went under it made the loudest, most heinous sound Luz had ever heard. Like the screams of a thousand souls dying all at once.
She shrieked, almost dropping the blade entirely as she pulled her hand back, bringing the newly cooled weapon with her. The sound of her scream echoed around the clearing, and there was a clammer of noise from the distance, the same direction Theseus and Achilles had left down.
Second mistake.
“Luz, go!” Amity hissed in her ear, and Luz took off running, glancing behind her once to make sure the daughter of Aphrodite was keeping up. She lost a little bit of speed as she did, and Amity glared daggers at her.
“I’m right behind you! Away from the cave! We have to blend in!”
The noise was getting louder, and Luz knew they were almost out of time. She had to trust Amity. The cave was compromised, it would be the first place they checked. But from what they’d overheard from the two newly re-dead demigods, there was a whole army waiting near the portal, and they had a new fancy weapon that just might save the day.
Luz kept running, keeping to the outskirts of the River along the sandy beaches, away from the mine and closer and closer to the distant River Acheron. If she could get there before anybody sounded the alarm, hopefully, nobody would think twice about her and Amity being there with them. If they didn’t buy it, they were dead. But if they stayed here, they were also dead.
It was their only chance.
Luz heard the gathering demigods before she saw them. And thankfully, the screams and shouts of outrage weren’t directed anywhere towards her.
It was chaos.
Demigods of all ages and from all time periods were throwing punches, kicks, and body-slamming other dead demigods to the ground. Left and right ghosts were dissolving away, but just as many seemed to take their place. There was cursing, screaming, shouting, as they brought up centuries-old baggage and Luz knew right away she wasn’t going to fit in.
Not because she was alive. Because she couldn’t get stuck running straight through this crowd. She’d stick out like a sore thumb just because nobody would recognize her.
In the time she spent standing there like a deer in headlights, Amity caught up to her and gestured for her to hide behind a boulder. She slinked in next to her, and Amity’s own wide eyes reflected the anxiety she was feeling.
“What are we going to do now?”
“I don’t know,” Luz said honestly, peering up over the rock. She clutched the new blade to her chest, unwilling to part from the thing that she’d just risked her life to make. It was just under a foot long, and was, if possible, an even darker shade of black than the ore or the River itself. It was shoddy crafting at best (Luz never wanted to touch a forge ever again) with faulty lines and a bumpy edge but it was sharp as anything and shimmered maliciously, and the raw hilt of the iron against Luz’s hand rubbed callouses into her palm. “Do you think we lost whoever was chasing us?”
“I think so,” Amity said, peeking. “Screaming in the Underworld is not that uncommon. I made sure nobody saw us. But I don’t know how you’re going to get through that crowd.”
Luz spared a glance, a silently agreed. She watched as one of the demigods knocked another’s helmet clean off their head, and it went spinning into the sand landing barely two feet from Luz and Amity’s rock. The spirit dissolved into thin air, and the victor roared in delight before charging back into battle.
“How are they dissolving?” Luz mumbled, shaking her head. “Aren’t they dead?”
“They’re between worlds,” Amity explained, “Guided by Belos’ portal to wait until they are fully reformed. They can carry weapons, wear armor, anything that might guide them until they can drink Pomegranate Nectar in the mortal world and become human again.”
Luz stared at Amity, who might have blushed again. “I dreamed about this clearing a lot, okay?”
“What is Pomegranate Nectar? The sounds like something they sell at Whole Foods.”
“It’s the liquid in Belos’ chalice,” she added, and Luz suddenly remembered the table next to the portal with the golden cup. “The first few batches were made from stolen Pomegranates from Persephone’s garden, but you can use any Underworld fruit to make it.”
Right. Underworld fruit. This day just got better and better.
“Why aren’t you a half soul like the other demigods here?”
Amity looked at her misty body, frowning. “I don’t know. Maybe I haven’t been dead long enough.”
The fighting in the clearing got more intense and Luz ducked as a body slammed into the rock they were hiding behind and dissolved, their chest plate hitting the dirt with it. There were more shouts and screams, and Amity ducked next to her in alarm.
“We need to move.”
“I have an idea,” Luz said to her, already shaking her head. “But it’s crazy.”
“Sounds like us. Let’s try it.”
So, Luz crept around the rock and swiped the helmet and chest plate off the beach, putting them on as quickly as she could. She tucked the Stygian Iron blade under her shirt in the back of her armor straps, careful not to reveal it. To finish the look, she opted to call for Aletheia, and the blade grew in her hand, a comfortingly familiarity that made her feel much better.
“So? How do I look?” She asked Amity, who shrugged.
“Like a vengeful demigod. It’s a good helmet, I can’t see your face at all.”
Luz peered over the rock one more time just to see another angry demigod get run through with a sword. She flinched, and Amity tucked her fist under her chin in worry.
“This is so not going to work.”
“It’s going to work,” Luz insisted, even though it wasn’t exactly an encouraging sight. “Demigods are still demigods, even if they’re a thousand years old. This would work at camp. It will work here.”
She turned to look at Amity, realizing for the first time this meant they’d be separated. Amity seemed to sense this, and she shot Luz a small smile.
“Hey, don’t worry about me. I’m the one who can’t die, you know that right?”
“What if I lose you in the crowd?” She fretted, the frown stretching across her mouth. “What if the portal opens, and I don’t have time to pull you through? What if somebody recognizes you and-”
“Luz!” Amity exclaimed, stepping forward and shaking her head. “Please, don’t worry about me. We have a plan. Just focus on getting to the portal without getting stabbed, and this time don’t look back. I’m right behind you.”
“You promise?” Luz hated how weak her voice sounded. Like a little kid worried she was going to lose her mom in the grocery store.
“I promise,” Amity said firmly, and Luz’s heart pounded against her chest as she tore her eyes away. She had to get a grip. She was on a mission, and she was going to bring Amity home. She just needed to focus. But the lingering fear was still there, and she wanted to kick herself for it.
“Luz, please,” Amity muttered, stepping so close to her that the cold rush of mist forced Luz to look back at her eyes. They were pleading, and Luz was smacked with the realization that Amity was just as worried as she was, but not for her, for Luz. Amity didn’t want her to run in their worried and get herself killed. “You have to trust me. I’m right behind you.”
That was enough for her. Amity was the most determined person she knew. If she said she was going to be right behind her, she would be right behind her.
“I do trust you,” Luz said, tightening her grip on her sword. “Stay close. I have a battlefield to avoid.”
The two of them stepped out from behind the rock, and Luz’s heart sank. Somehow, it seemed to have gotten even larger. In the distance, up the steepest Underworld hill Luz had seen yet, was a shocking replication of the swirling iron and obsidian portal back in the mountain. Luz had played enough Minecraft to know that it probably wasn’t a replication, but the real deal, something that appeared the same time the other one had been built.
She had hundreds, maybe even a thousand demigods she had to barrel through on the way to get to it. With all their slashing and hacking, she’d be lucky if she made it twenty feet in.
“Are you sure about this?” Amity hissed next to her, eyeing the crowd of ghostly demigods uneasily.
“Nope,” Luz said, taking a deep breath. “But when am I sure of anything?”
“Please, don’t get yourself killed,” Amity said, “I haven’t even gotten the chance to kick your butt at capture the flag back at camp.”
“Like that will ever happen,” Luz snorted, adjusting the helmet as she got ready to charge. “I’ve been getting lots of practice. You wouldn’t get ten feet near my flag.”
“Is that a challenge, Noceda?”
“It’s not a challenge, Blight. It’s a promise. See you at the top.”
She lowered her head, and with the loudest, most demigod-y scream she could muster, she charged full force towards the crowds of demigods, barreling in a straight line towards the portal.
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post-160, spoilers ahoy, Martin/Jon - Martin tries to rescue Jon from Elias
(This is an obligatory fix-it sequel to one of my earlier angst fics but you don’t need to read that first)
[CLICK]
JONAH MAGNUS [mid-conversation] …. rather find they show up by themselves. A curious if harmless side effect, I wouldn't pay them much mind. Unless you'd rather this little interruption was kept from him...?
MARTIN [shortly] I don't really care.
JONAH MAGNUS How boorish. Peter didn't do much in the way of teaching you any manners.
MARTIN He didn't teach anything worth listening to.
JONAH MAGNUS Oh, you were already an adept student of the Lonely before Peter decided to make you part of our wager. [as though noticing something] Forgive me. Would you like to sit down? Plenty of room at the table as you can see. I was just finished eating.
MARTIN No.
JONAH MAGNUS Pity. I do relish the opportunity of a good conversationalist. My present company... as you can see, he's not exactly been up for chatting recently.
MARTIN [ignoring him, the steady tread of footsteps closer]
JONAH MAGNUS If you aren't going to be a hospitable guest, I think that's close enough. I'm sure you understand.
MARTIN [stops walking] You're not surprised I take it?
JONAH MAGNUS To see you here? Not especially. I knew you'd end up here eventually. All brash, full of foolish righteous anger masquerading as justice, bolstered up on thoughts of my murder.
MARTIN Read my mind, did you?
JONAH MAGNUS Oh, I didn't think I needed to for that one. You can be very possessive about what you consider yours.
MARTIN Jon's not mine. He's not yours, he's not anybody's.
JONAH MAGNUS Jon hasn't been his own man for such a long time.
MARTIN You're wrong.
[a lull in the conversation, an impasse both are too proud to cross]
JONAH MAGNUS [deliberately, aiming to hurt] …. You can look at him, you know. See him alive, whole. But you won't, will you, or can't. Too many eyes in his head and none of them the ones you hoped you'd see.
[proud] I've moulded him. Shaped his becoming. And I watch my ruined world thanks to the words I pull from his dutiful throat.
MARTIN You stole him.
JONAH MAGNUS It was a fair trade. I took nothing that wasn't offered. And he pleaded ever so movingly for your life.
MARTIN [biting] And you're such the bleeding heart.
JONAH MAGNUS It was a business transaction. A life for a life.
MARTIN This?! T-this is no life!
JONAH MAGNUS Not as you would understand it. Oh, but, look. Look at him, Martin. Isn't he magnificent?
[a roiling rumbling background sound of static]
MARTIN [whispered, almost fearful] Yes.
JONAH MAGNUS My Archives.
MARTIN [rallying, shaken] I – Jon – Is.... is he gone?
JONAH MAGNUS By which you mean, have I killed him?
MARTIN You know what I'm asking.
JONAH MAGNUS And yet I rather think you've not quite considered how much of a question it is.
MARTIN [sarcastic] Why don't you enlighten me if you're in sharing mood?
JONAH MAGNUS The Archivist has been dead before, has he not? You held his hand and said your little prayers over him as machines kept his body breathing, but I'm sure we can both agree that's not really a life. Jon was offered a choice, and he chose to embrace what he was becoming over death.
But the Jon who woke up is not the one who signed the contract to become my head archivist. Nor was that Jon the one who dragged himself and Ms Tonner out of the Buried. Nor, indeed, did any of those bear resemblance to the Jon who tore Peter Lukas apart to retrieve you from the Lonely. So many Jons, and maybe none of them still alive, none of them the man you want to find. Does that bother you?
MARTIN I don't.... I'm not here to discuss the bloody specifics of being a person. I want to know if he's still in there. His... I don't know, his choice, his emotions, his feelings.
JONAH MAGNUS Are you hoping to appeal to his better nature? How quaint. But to set your mind at ease, let me clarify that the role of Archivist would be poorly served by an unfeeling watcher. Jon's always had to, how did he put it, 'sit in his feelings'.
No, Martin, he feels everything. My Archive is a repository of knowledge. A catalogue of horrors I can collect and sample and observe and store, and they are kept perfectly preserved for me.
[a lip-curling smile obvious in his voice] Shall I have him tell you a story?
[the sound rises to audible, as though it's been playing the entire time but the volume has been turned down to a murmur. An inflectionless rote recitation, tinged with someone else's voice overlapping like twisted signals interjecting over a radio broadcast]
THE ARCHIVES … and I was sure I'd told her to leave, and I turned around, ready to shout at her, to say anything if it got her to run, but the doorway grew toothed and grinning before my eyes and there was something broken-backed and crooked in that space where nothing should have been...
MARTIN [interrupting] Don't make him do that.
[there's the harsh horrifying sound of a jaw clacking shut, and it mimics the snap of a pause button]
JONAH MAGNUS You always liked listening to his voice. When it was the two of you in the Archives, all those late nights, you could hear him through his office door, and it would make you feel like you weren't so alone. We'll listen in on another one, shall we?
[a faint choking jerk, like a leash being pulled too tight, another snap of a play button, the dialogue restarting]
THE ARCHIVES [reciting flatly] … I had the oddest thought then and even as I backed away towards the stairs, I started to get my phone out. The daft thing was...
MARTIN [recognising, voice gone sharp] Stop it.
THE ARCHIVES … I wasn't even going to call anyone for help, I just wanted to take a picture of the thing. To prove to you that it happened – you're always so quick to dismiss these statements and I wanted proof for you....
MARTIN You've made your point.
JONAH MAGNUS Hm, I think so. And, remind me, what was my point?
[silence except for Jon's now-muttered static. Careful listening and it's not static at all, but an unceasing recital of horror, statement after statement pouring from his mouth]
JONAH MAGNUS You come into my home clutching that knife with such intentions of bravado. I imagine you wanted to swoop in, rescue him. But I possess him in all the ways that matter. And you know, surely, that you aren't going to be enough to save him.
[Martin's breathing is harder]
I wasn't lying before. I have truly enjoyed your visit, you can be quite distracting company. That's been the whole point of this, hasn't it?
MARTIN Wh – ?
JONAH MAGNUS [interrupting] Who is in the house, Jon?
THE ARCHIVES Martin Blackwood is in the dining room.
JONAH MAGNUS [indulgently, playing for effect] Who else is in the house, Jon?
THE ARCHIVES [a whirring, like the tape's stuck, the first sounds garbled, before a return to normal] Basira Hussain and Melanie King are approaching the east wing. Alice Tonner is patrolling the grounds of the estate.
JONAH MAGNUS You see? All the fear in this world and he can see all of it, every trembling terrified beat of a heart. You think they could approach unseen, hide when he can sense every firing neuron of their fear, the pulse and jump of their nerves? No one is fearless, not in my brave new world, and so he sees them all.
I underestimated you once, Martin. I don't make a habit of repeating my mistakes.
MARTIN I disagree.
JONAH MAGNUS [dismissive] Oh do tell why.
MARTIN Why do you think I came here? Huh? Flimsy knife in hand, having to listen to your gloating.
JONAH MAGNUS Likely a poor attempt at trying to draw my attention.
MARTIN And why do you think Basira, Melanie and Daisy came here?
JONAH MAGNUS To kill me, I should imagine.
MARTIN No.
JONAH MAGNUS No?
MARTIN All those eyes of yours, and they're always too busy focusing on what they shouldn't.
JONAH MAGNUS Tell. Me.
MARTIN No.
JONAH MAGNUS I had thought to spare you further indignities...
MARTIN [almost scoffing] Yeah, this sounds familiar.
JONAH MAGNUS Mart –
MARTIN How about no. H-how about not this time, how about you shut up for a moment?
[huffing sound, almost a disbelieving laugh] It's just so – so easy to distract you.
JONAH MAGNUS Not much of a distraction if I know you're coming.
MARTIN Who said I was the only distraction?
JONAH MAGNUS I –
[a small patter of careful footsteps across marble flooring, and then a grunt, a wet slicing noise that sickeningly sounds like metal through meat]
[Magnus howls in agony. His voice echoing like a wind tunnel, a guttural gusty howling of static, the scrape of a chair shoved back, cutlery and tableware disturbed and smashing]
[another grunt of exertion and someone hitting the table, silverware clattering, before a heavier slump of a body hitting the floor]
MARTIN You have to...!
GEORGIE I know! Just –
[sounds of a tussle for a few seconds, then a deep stabbing puncture, the noise like a punch. Magnus stops screaming]
GEORGIE Now. Now it's done.
MARTIN That is... eurgh, that's so nasty.
GEORGIE Let me have this triumphant moment, huh?
MARTIN Yeah. Sorry. When you said what you were planning, I thought.... it was a bit more like popping a tomato than expected.
[pause, adrenaline fast breathing, the Archives' static]
He's... he's gone. Elias is really gone.
GEORGIE Finally.
Now, where's...? Holy f – Christ, Jon. Jon? Martin, is – that's not....?
MARTIN What Elias left of him.
GEORGIE What's – What's he doing?
MARTIN [darkly] What he was made for. There's so many more statements to archive now. He's being kept busy.
GEORGIE [hand over mouth] God, that's... Christ. [despairingly angry] I thought – I thought that would do it. That was the whole point of this, to get him back.
MARTIN The point was to kill Elias. He's.... Jon's not tied to Elias, he's tied to the Eye.
[creak of a door hinge, footsteps]
BASIRA [getting closer, echoing slightly in the space] He fell for it then?
GEORGIE [pulling herself back to the moment at hand] Yeah. Too busy monologuing at Martin.
BASIRA [creeping closer, sucking air through her teeth] Aim was perfect.
MELANIE She got him? Right across his eyes?
[Georgie makes a 'squish' noise as an affirmative]
Good. Fucker got what was coming.
BASIRA There's still the matter of Jon to deal with.
... Martin, you sure about this?
MARTIN [deep breath] As sure as I can be.
GEORGIE Can he... can Jon hear us?
BASIRA The rest of us, more than likely.
MARTIN [an agreeing 'hm'] He knew you were coming.
BASIRA I'd accounted for that. But being to all intents and purposes 'fearless'? Your invisibility cloak worked on Magnus. As to Jon, no idea.
MELANIE Look, we should hurry. Go, bring him back, Martin.
BASIRA And if you can't...
MARTIN [sharper] That's my call to make, not yours. We agreed.
BASIRA [a heavy pause] Just don't stay in there too long.
MARTIN Right. I'd... I'd stand back.
[there is a creaking static, like muted sound, a whip of rising wind. Martin makes a grunt of effort. Fading in to mix with the static is the rhythmic slosh of tide, the empty drone of wind over empty landscape.]
[a release of held breath]
MARTIN [almost wistful] Back again.
[footsteps digging into sand]
Jon? J-jon, we've... you're ok, Elias, he's.... I know this won't, it won't disconnect you from the Eye or anything, but you told me, you told me it was muted here.
Give you some space, s-so you can come back. I know – I know you're in there
[a crunching chewing sound like a tape spool caught]
[a manic and aggressive fast-forward]
MARTIN Come on, that's it. T-Try and talk to me.
THE ARCHIVES … she had shattered the glass of the horrid thing, its spindling legs made into a constellation of shards on the kitchen floor, but I couldn't move, I couldn't believe that it was over, not until there was a knock at the door. The police, finally. And even then she had to coax me to move, saying that it was finished, it was dead.... [cut off]
MARTIN He – he's gone, Jon. Really gone, he can't... you don't have to fight him any more. [a hopeful gasping exhale] Yeah, that's... that's it... yeah I know it's hard. [ harsh buzz of tape] Look at me, come on, yeah, good, you're doing it. You're out, you're... you're free.
THE ARCHIVES [a crunching whirr, then intoning, tainted with the over-lay of Magnus' intonation, smug and congratulatory] You do not administer and preserve the records of fear, Jon, you are a record of fear... [a sickening buzzing, the sound of a tape recorder being forwarded] ... could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom. Don't you see where I'm going...?
MARTIN I – Jon, I don't understand.
[garbling rewind]
THE ARCHIVES ...A conduit for the coming of this nightmare kingdom.
MARTIN [softer, sounding closer] He did that to you. He forced you to say those words. That wasn't... that wasn't you, that's not your fault.
Look, we – that's why we need you back. We can, Jon, we can stop this – we've... well, Basira's got a plan, and it's a small chance, but we could, with you and Georgie, we could change something. But we need you.
[empty static]
MARTIN [quieter] And I need you. I need you to come back.
THE ARCHIVES [wrenching, cracking, choked] Mar –
[buzz, like a fucked up tape that goes on for several seconds] … I tried to explain, but all I could manage to say to get through the shaking sobs was 'I love you'.
MARTIN [throat tight] Jon, fight this, you can, come on...
THE ARCHIVES [a different recording tugged from his throat, a replication of Martin's own voice, shatter-hearted and Lonely, the faint echo of a hospital monitor] … but we need you, Jon. Please – just. Please.
MARTIN That's – Don't, Jon. Don't use my voice like that.
I'm here. We weren't just going to leave you to him. So how can I... How can I stop this, how can I help you?
THE ARCHIVES [rewind] Please.
MARTIN I don't understand– I'm trying but... no, no, no, come on Jon, eyes on me, yeah, look back up, not....
[ripped and ripe with comprehension] Oh.
THE ARCHIVES Please [rewind]. Please [rewind]. Please.
MARTIN I can't. Jon, I –
THE ARCHIVES [more insistent] Please [rewind]. Please.
MARTIN [forcefully] I won't be your murderer, Jon!
I won't. I'm sorry, but – [makes a deprecating noise] It's not even sharp. It was for show, all part of the act.
[moves in closer, tread of feet in sand] Listen to me, Jon. I know. Sweetheart, I know. I know you're tired. I know everything, everything's wrong, it's been all wrong for so long, and there's only so much hope we can all bear.
[quieter, almost ashamed] And we could stay here. It would be so so easy. Sit down together on the shoreline, let the fog take us.
I've been thinking, you know. [huff] Yeah, dangerous habit. I've had a lot of... I've had a lot of time to think, about Magnus and his 'grand plan' or whatever. He chose you, and let every horrible thing out there have their own pound of flesh from you. And the statements, they feed on you too, don't they? You live this sick repetition of other people's horrors, and that feeds the Eye, but it's too much for you to bear. And Elias, or bloody, Jonah or whoever, even he wasn't sure you'd survive, even before all this mess happened. He wanted you hurt, and scared but he couldn't be sure it wouldn't kill you outright.
[static, unbroken]
I read the statements too. Elias was very keen on giving me [dark laugh] well, professional development while you were away. And if that wasn't... wasn't enough –
[pause]
Jane Prentiss trapped and terrorised me in my home, and after that, Christ, all that time ago, it all just kept happening. The whatever-it-was that called itself Michael, I was in those corridors with Tim for weeks, and I've been, huh – if being pinballed between working for some – some evil eyeball and Peter Lukas doesn't count, I don't know what does.
[a low breath, gearing up. The static continues, an intent and intense sedateness]
I've got all of them now, isn't that right, Jon? Whether it's the statements, or workplace collateral, or even just living in this horrifying hellscape of a world. That's all of them, leaving their mark. And Elias, I think you knew, [wry chuff] or Knew probably, that he would have made me Archivist. If you didn't make it. 's why he agreed to let me stay behind, while you all went to stop the Circus.
S-so my point is. I – I know. I know you're tired, I know you want this to stop. But we could end this, together. It's too much for you to take alone, s-so why don't you share it?
[gentler] You don't – You've never had to do this on your own. An Archivist always had Assistants, remember.
THE ARCHIVES [a break in the static, like signal breaking in and out, a furious dip and rise of disparate statements] – And I told her no – […] He knew he could never ask that of – […] Please, please – [….] Martin – […] – through the shaking sobs was 'I love you' – […...]
MARTIN You're not alone. Not now, not before. If we're to have any chance at all, you have to let me help.
[a staticky buzzing, low breathing, the distant call of gulls]
Look at me, Jon. Yeah, all those eyes of yours.
What do you See?
[the static rises like a wind swell]
[Martin gives an airless grunt]
MARTIN That's it.... [gasp] Come on, Jon, let me in.
[Martin lets out a gasp that chokes into a clenched cry. He gags and swallows the sound, and it is dry and painful and crunching. The static over-washes the sound of the shore, and Martin starts making bitten-off hurt sounds, that soon devolve into screaming. This goes on for a long time.]
[He stops. The static stops]
[The loud sound of something heavy hitting the floor, Jon's breathing suddenly audible, mixed with Martin's panting. The scrape of sand, someone moving]
JONATHAN SIMS, THE ARCHIVIST [slurring and mumbled, his tongue numb and awkward] Martin... Martin... are you...?
MARTIN BLACKWOOD, THE ARCHIVIST [sucking in a harsh breath] Jon. [muffled, like he's embracing someone, or being embraced] Christ, thank god, Jon, you're ok, you're here, you're back.
[even more muffled] God, I thought I was too late.
ARCHIVIST Are you – Martin, tell me please, are you...?
ARCHIVIST I'm fine, I'm just... [wincing groan] It's just a lot.
ARCHIVIST R-right. Breathe through it. Look... look at me, that's it. The rest of it, a-all the noise, it's background. That's all. It doesn't have to drown you.
[For several long moments, they breathe in tandem as Martin calms]
ARCHIVIST I could hear you. B-back with Jonah. It was all so loud but I could hear you.
Thank you. F-for coming to get me.
ARCHIVIST Well, Basira gave me two options so it was that or murder [clearly responding to some visual expression] I'm – I'm kidding. Of course I wasn't going to just leave you.
[a surprised noise] Jon. Your eye.
ARCHIVIST What...?
ARCHIVIST The left one, it's not... It's different, it's not like – it's blue, it's blue, did something go wrong, is it...
ARCHIVIST [ever so softly, clearly a page ahead] Yours has changed too. Brown suits you.
ARCHIVIST I – Oh. Right.
So we've both.... Yours and mine....
ARCHIVIST I think so.
ARCHIVIST That's.... that's crazy.
ARCHIVIST Hmm.
[…]
[thoughtful] I forgot how quiet it was, here.
You really think we can stop this?
ARCHIVIST Basira seems to have a plan. You and Georgie, your abilities. And well, me to some extent now, I guess. It could change everything back to the way it was, now Elias has gone.
ARCHIVIST What do you think?
ARCHIVIST I think we can stop this.
ARCHIVIST Then I believe you.
Martin, what you did –
ARCHIVIST Let's – We'll talk about it later. I promise. Once we're out of here. I'm... Today's been a lot.
ARCHIVIST OK. That's – OK. You should rest, when we get out of here. It's – it'll take a lot out of you, in the beginning.
ARCHIVIST I'm sure Elias wouldn't mind lending us his rooms. Not like he can complain.
ARCHIVIST We're in Jonah's house?
ARCHIVIST Well. More mansion. It's so ostentatiously gaudy, you'd hate it. Bet he has four poster beds and framed paintings of himself all over the place.
ARCHIVIST How charming.
ARCHIVIST Hmm. Melanie's probably started on slashing up the fixtures.
[quieter] Come on, then. Let's get out of here. I know the way back.
ARCHIVIST [ever so softly] I've never doubted it.
[CLICK]
#the magnus archives#tma#fic#martin blackwood#elias bouchard#jonathan sims#cw violence#cw mind-control#tw suicidal intention
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No. 12 - IT’LL BE FUN, THEY SAID
torture | made to watch | begging
No. 25 - HIDE & SEEK
escape | flight | hiding
Title: i will break into your thoughts with what’s written on my heart
Fandom: Naruto
Character(s): Sakura, Sasuke
Rating: T
Warning(s): torture via genjutsu
Wordcount: 581
Summary: Sasuke won’t leave the village. Sakura will make sure of it. [part three of why you don’t mess with genjutsu types] [part one | part two | part three (you are here)]
@whumptober-archive
“Sakura.” Sasuke’s voice somehow managed to contain the barest emotion possible and yet still convey his surprise. “Why are you out here?”
Sakura tipped her head, tucking her hands behind her back while keeping her stance as loose as possible. Sasuke was formidable but not invincible with his sharingan, and she had the advantage that he would possibly always underestimate her, even after seeing her in spars and in combat. Sasuke could only see down his narrow tunnel of revenge. Sakura could even understand that, in a way. But she would make him see something else, even if it was only for a moment. “Because…” she didn’t need to make hand signs with genjutsu anymore, but she still caught herself using the snake for a focus sometimes. Her pause was only to begin layering techniques before Sasuke activated his sharingan. “Because this is the way out of the village from the Uchiha compound.” She felt his chakra hitch as the Magen: Nijū Kokoni Arazu no jutsu took effect. According to their sensei, even the sharingan was weak to the double false surroundings technique.
Sasuke flash-stepped behind where he thought she was standing. From her spot nearby, hidden under a simple chameleon technique, Sakura considered her options. Sasuke was headstrong, stubborn, and powerful for his age. She couldn't fight him outright, and though she could try to bind him, her chakra wouldn’t hold him long. She’d try, for his sake- for Naruto’s sake too- but if she had to break him to keep him, so be it.
Sasuke struck at her mirage’s neck, probably aiming for the pressure point there. Sakura cast the Kokuangyo no Jutsu rather than directing her mirage to move. As Sasuke’s hand passed through the illusion he scowled. “Damn you, Sakura.” His sharingan whirled to life and she felt him tear through the bringer of darkness technique. Her chakra flow tore from the technique like wet paper and she swallowed. It felt different, somehow, when a sharingan broke her technique.
Sakura moved her mirage self to encircle Sasuke in her arms, like she’d done in the Forest of Death what felt like ages ago. As the mirage embraced him, she cast a simple binding genjutsu. “Sasuke-kun, please,” her mirage pleaded. “Don’t abandon Konoha. Don’t abandon Team Seven. You can get strong here, with us. We can help you get strong enough to face Itachi.”
In her arms, Sasuke stiffened. “You think you can help? You don't understand anything.” He broke through the binding technique as well, but her false surroundings held. “I will avenge my family, and I won’t be held back by some weakling like you.”
In that moment, Sakura saw red. Maybe Naruto was right, and Sasuke would only ever truly understand them through pain. She closed her eyes briefly. She had known pain. She could show him pain. Her hands settled easily again into the snake sign. So be it. Her eyes opened, and she let the false surroundings fall away to pour chakra into her own technique. “Magen: Narakumi Sakura no jutsu.”
Sasuke’s back arced. His eyes were wide, strained like they might burst from his face, sightlessly staring into the sky. His mouth opened in a soundless scream. His body went rigid, falling to the ground without any control. Helpless. Hopeless. Sakura still couldn’t see what the victims of her jutsu could, but the results proved themselves. With any luck, they could put the pieces of Sasuke back together when she let him go.
#whumptober2021#no.12#no.25#torture#flight#naruto#fic#prince fic#mutli-parter#will link other parts as they post
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Acceptance
https://archiveofourown.org/works/26163367
“Jon’s hiding something.”
“Tim.” Martin was tired. And sad. And worried. Because he had the very same thought every time he caught a glimpse of the Archivist slipping between shadows in the stacks; furtive, haunted, hunted.
“You know I’m right.” He didn’t look up from the worn surface of his desk, tracing a stray mark with the pad of his finger, not even expending energy enough to pretend he had any interest in working. “He’s. He’s a monster, Martin.”
“Tim!”
“You know it, well as I do. This is all his fault.” His voice was made of raw edges, filled with grief and pain and sorrow. “Stay. Martin, promise me.” Eyes hollow in his scarred, handsome face, he looked up at Martin through dark lashes. “Promise me you’ll stay away from him.”
“You know I can’t do that.” Martin had to look away, the weight of Tim’s gaze smothering and awful and full of hurt and anger and barely simmering rage. “He’s our friend. Even if he’s. Forgotten it a little.” Tim went back to his aimless pattern making.
“You’re making a mistake.”
Martin made sure to knock and knock gently. The few times he’d gotten even a partially clear look at his face it had been lined in pain, lips pressed into a thin, controlled line. It was clear he was purposely avoiding his eyes.
“Tea, Jon?” He heard him shift, a weary scraping of his soles sliding on the dusty floor, the light from the tiny desk lamp barely illuminating the space around it, let alone the rest of the office.
“Ah, y’yes. Pl’please.” Shaking hands materialized out of the dim, gripping the mug and holding it like a lifeline, flinching when the hot liquid sloshed over his fingers. “Thank you, Martin.” Thin and thready, Jon sounded exhausted and knowing he slept poorly at even the best of times, must have been getting even less sleep since the Prentiss incident.
“Jon?” Martin smiled a bit when he heard the sounds of him sipping the tea, a sigh of some unidentifiable emotion but he wanted to believe there was warmth in it. “When’s the last time you went home?”
Jon had taken his mandatory time off.
He had.
Thirty days of leave.
But it did not stop him from exploring the tunnels beneath the archives, even though exploring was a generous term for it. Wandering was more apt a description, and he’d paid something of a price, as fate would have it, because his hip ached badly where the worms had burrowed so deep and no amount of stretching or physical therapy or pain medication seemed able to touch it. He winced inwardly at Martin’s open worry and trepidation. He’s not been kind to any of his assistants, certainly didn’t deserve this attention or care when he was barely able to look after himself. At the Institute he’s kept how much the pain is affecting him as hidden as possible, mostly by avoiding everyone which he knew made him look more suspicious. Tim already made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with him or his histrionics and no good would come from trying to gain sympathy for something that was his fault to begin with. He was already a nuisance forced upon them, been so from day one. But if he could pretend to be normal, just. Go back to that normal because right now the tightening in his chest, the embarrassment, the urge to hide away, was only making things worse.
He was making things worse.
He didn’t mention the aching loneliness or the fear. How he jumped at every shadow and woke from the screams of his coworkers he failed over and over again to protect in his nightmares. Or how he kept a CO2 canister by the bed just in case. Even if they were gone. Just in case. Jon didn’t talk about his nightly excursions in that twisting, winding, changing place because he would have to admit that despite how it hurt, he had to push himself to the point of breaking to get his overactive mind to quiet even the smallest amount. Grant him even the smallest respite.
So, no. He didn’t want Martin’s concern except that he very much did, felt like he was starving for someone to notice him, how much he hurt, how much he was struggling to keep his unraveling threads together.
“Jon?” Worry. And the sense of shame he felt at hiding how much he’s healed wrong or scarred too deep or how the phantom sensation of the worms kept him awake. And how could he tell him that he feared to sleep alone? That his flat was both too familiar and horribly alien all at once, full of shadows coiling, branching, twining, crawling, spiraling.
The safest thing to do for all of them was to push him away.
“I was home for nearly a month, Martin.” Dry. Sardonic. It was easy to act irritated and tired and bothered even when his heart was pounding a too-fast tattoo against his breastbone, surely leaving bruises behind. If Martin came any closer he would hear it.
Martin saw straight through his poor attempt at deflection, saw the same pain echoed just behind his eyes that he saw in Tim. This would either go well or he would never be able to show his face again but he needed to try, Jon deserved that much.
“How can I help?” As soft as he could make it, sitting down on a box crammed full of statements so Jon didn’t have to crane his neck, so he didn’t seem so intimidating. “I want to help.” He smiled, hands relaxed on his knees and watched as Jon turned his face up to meet him like a withered plant kept too long in the dark when it reencountered the sun, hungry and reaching. Undone by a few kind words, before his expression closed off. As if he remembered this was something he wasn’t supposed to have.
Point of no return.
“Would you. Would you consider coming home with me?” Jon inhaled a sharp, short breath. Held it. “Just for a night! Just so. I’d like to help if I can, somehow.” He chuckled, trying to ease the tension practically thrumming through the man’s bones like an audible hum of electricity. “I’m a decent cook?” Jon exhaled slowly. Want, exhausting and desperate, in the way his eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Yes.” Bare more than a ragged fragment of a whisper and before he could rescind that delicate consent, Martin was rambling about how lovely it would be to have company. Just nonsense, in the hope that Jon wouldn’t realize what he’d done and change his mind. It was already far beyond quitting time and Martin said he’d return to collect him once he’d gotten his coat, allowing him a little space to gather his thoughts, securing a nod of assent before heading quickly off.
Jon was standing when he returned, thin jacket hardly enough to protect him from the damp chill outside, and Martin wrapped his own scarf around his neck, heart melting when his lashes fluttered in contentment as he buried his nose into the well worn yarn. Swaying and unsteady on his feet, his stiff posture would be night imperceptible if you weren’t watching for it. But Martin was always watching. Knew his injuries were bothering him and that, at this point, whatever pain he had was most likely permanent.
He wondered if he had a cane. It would certainly help.
Jon stopped short before he left his office and Martin worried he was changing his mind, watching him tilt his head like a bird, listening, breath even and slow and quiet.
“Has.” He wet his lips as the word caught in his throat. “Tim?” Ah, that was the hangup, then.
“Gone home long before us.” He felt for him, for that fear and worry of facing down his past mistakes. He’d made himself a convenient target with his suspicions of them and the anxiety blooming in him cut deep.
He stood as close to Martin without touching him as he could, blaming the number of other patrons riding the train at this hour though truthfully they were nowhere near them. He had no choice, that’s all. He could stand even if he wanted desperately to sit down and rest his aching leg, refusing to even glance at the empty priority seating so close to him and instead burying his face in Martin’s scarf, closing his eyes and breathing through the hot flash that often accompanied these spells, the almost feverish chills. When the train lurched to a stop he stumbled into Martin, who caught him with an inquiring look.
“Just tired.” He offered up what he hoped was a reassuring smile before leading the way through the doors, holding himself stiff in an attempt to keep the pain at bay.
Martin was a good cook.
“Since I was mainly existing on take away and cup noodles, it’s been nice to make my own meals again.” He said by way of explanation, dishing up a healthy portion for Jon who tried not to worry about finishing it, not having had much of an appetite lately. But it’s good, and warm, and Martin doesn’t say anything about what he had to leave behind, passing him a cup of tea prepared just the way he liked it.
It warmed him up from the inside out.
It made him want to cook for Martin sometime.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” Jon was on the couch with numerous blankets and pillows, dressed in Martin’s spare sleepwear, an oversized and soft tee that hung off his shoulder and drawstring pajama pants.
“This is perfect, Martin. Thank you.” He wished he could convey the true depth of it with just that, and as always, found himself sorely lacking but Martin just smiled bright, instructing him to wake him if he needed anything before bidding him good night. Surprisingly, Jon was already having trouble staying awake once he was settled into the cushions despite the overall ache. If he breathed slow and focused on the breath cycling through his body, into his blood, traveling along roadways mapped with veins and arteries and--
Agony.
Oh god, where was he? And why did it hurt?
All up his back and down his leg, his leg. Burning, blazing, blistering. Incandescent and stealing. Stealing.
Stealing.
Dark. Pitch black. Like the tunnels.
Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet or they'll hear you, see you, get you, take you and make you Not.
Winding, weaving, wandering. Lost, lost, lost.
The worms. Thoughts clicking into place when he managed to claw his way back to the surface of this roiling ocean of misery. Arm flailing to the side where he kept the canister but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t there and somebody must have taken it.
And his hip. Pulsing, throbbing, pounding through the whole of him and he had to be dying. Trapped in the tunnels and being eaten by worms.
He very nearly screams when something touches his arm, eyes flying open to realize that he can see. See. Shapes. Colors. Coalescing into Martin’s familiar face, worry splashed over it like his perfect freckles.
“Jon?” His voice is trembling, hand on his shoulder, gentle, a touchstone. “Jon, what’s wrong?” And stupid, stupid, stupid him clenches his teeth and grinds out a denial.
“N’nothing.” The fingers against his skin, his skin, Martin is touching his skin and he can’t focus. They tremble. Because he’s lying. Because Jon has always been and always will be a liar and all he wants to be is normal.
“Jon, is it.” His wide eyed stare flicks down and back to his. “Is it your leg?” How does he know. Of course he knows. Sometimes he thinks Martin knows him better than he’s ever known himself. That he might be the only person who ever has and he realizes he has a white knuckle grip on his thigh, trying to claw his way inside and rip out the hurting, as if it could ever be that simple. It’s spasming, twisted, he can’t stretch out the muscle and it’s so very painful and instinctively he knows it’s from the train and the walk, all longer than he was used to. And why does he keep doing this to himself?
He can’t slow his breathing, almost hyperventilating, chest heaving, eyes limned in tears and he thought he could pretend it didn’t hurt as much as it really did. That he was being dramatic and he didn’t want Martin to see how much of a wreck he is and regret inviting him into his home, sharing it with a nuisance, a burden, a bother.
“Jon.” There’s sorrow there. Pity. He’s pitying him and that’s the final straw that makes the tears fall hard and fast and Martin offers his hand and he grabs it like it’s his last connection to this physical realm because it hurts so badly he can’t barely breathe. “Can I help?” But there is no help. He’s beyond all and any and to let someone help him is to be vulnerable and Jon doesn’t like to be vulnerable, he can’t be.
But he hurts so badly and he wants to trust Martin, believe that he can make this awful reality even the tiniest bit better. And he wants him to know it.
So he nods. Almost hysterically because it feels like losing his mind and Martin’s hand in his is the only thing keeping him here.
“P’please.” A gasping whisper, begging. And Martin, beautiful, kind, patient Martin, cups his face and thumbs away his tears, palm so cool against his feverish skin.
“Okay, you are okay. I’m going to help.” Jon closes his eyes against a promise too good to be true. And when Martin removes his hands, his connection, he sobs and Martin soothes, digging his strong fingers into the rigid block of agony. “Hush, shh, I’ve got you, this will help, I promise.” Jon latches onto his words, tries to lose himself in them, clasping his own hands over his mouth to stifle his whining. When Martin straightens his leg it’s like a hot poker is jammed into his hip socket and he can’t help the low groan at the back of his throat. He’s never hurt like this, he’s sure. He’d have remembered. “Good, good. You’re doing so well, Jon. Breathe, shh, just like that.” Jon soaks up the praise like parched earth, and winds his fingers into the blankets at his side, as everything begins to relax, as Martin smooths warmth along the worst of the ache. Just an ache. Bearable now. Bearable. Just an ache and he sobs in relief. Martin disappears and reappears in the same moment, a bottle of paracetamol in his hand and a half glass of water. To appease, Jon takes a double dose even though they pale in comparison to the complete prescription of muscle relaxers minus one he had in his medicine cabinet at home and watched Martin keep his worry to himself.
“M’sorry. Martin.” He’s out of breath. Panting like he’d run a marathon and every part of him resonating with the aftermath of pushing himself too far. He studied Martin’s face. Waiting for derision or contempt or more pity to show itself. For him to say he needs to quit the job even though he’s quite sure he actually can’t.
“Nothing to be sorry for, Jon.” Calm and quiet and he passes him a cool flannel so he can wash his face and it is blissful. “I promise, nothing at all.” That can’t possibly be true. “I’m sorry I didn’t think about the walk.”
“It wasn’t that far.” Martin didn’t argue and Jon was grateful, refolding the cloth so he could press it against his eyes and let it absorb his tears of frustration and shame.
“I’ve got some dry clothes you can change into.” He heard Martin get up, calling from the other room. “The bed is big enough for two, if you don’t mind, I don’t.” Jon sat up, shaky, lightheaded, keeping his bad leg purposefully straight because he was afraid of what would happen if he bent it again. And Martin handed him another set of soft things, gathering up the spare bedclothes and spiriting them away while he changed. God he was dizzy. “Bed?” He blinked slowly, tired, certain he couldn’t stand on his own, and swallowed around the clot of emotion in his throat.
“Would y’you.” He looked down at his trembling hands, clasped them together in an attempt to stop them. “I don’t. C’can’t. Stand.” He could barely hear himself. Humiliation, hot and coursing through his blood. This was foolish. Couldn’t even--
“Of course.” Easy as that. As though it was that simple. And he supposed it was. When he let himself think about it. Martin took most of his weight, could’ve probably carried him outright, but as it was, just supported him as he hobbled forward, going so far as to lift his leg into the bed before flopping onto his side of the mattress and turning over to face him.
“I had. A. It was a nightmare.”
“The worms?”
“How did you know?” Martin shrugged.
“I have them too.” Jon chuffed a laugh in commiseration and saw Martin return it in a grin before letting himself fall back into the dark.
Martin watched as Jon slept deeply, breath even and slow and so peaceful in the early morning sunlight streaming in through the window. Lips slightly parted and fingers curled loosely against his throat, the lines of pain usually carving their jagged way down his face had smoothed out and his cheek was so humanly smushed into Martin’s extra pillow.
“Mmmorning.” The way he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the heel of an uncoordinated hand made his heart beat faster. And when his tired brown eyes rolled back beneath those dark fluttering lashes, black as ink, Martin remembered just how smitten he truly was. Deciding to let Jon get a few more moments of hardwon rest, he eased out of bed to go start breakfast, tucking the quilt over narrow shoulders.
Just when Martin was wondering if Jon might need some help maneuvering out of bed, quiet, uneven steps and the squeak of a chair moving across the floor drew his attention. A low, drawn out groan drifted from where his head was pillowed on folded arms and it seemed that one Jonathan Sims, was not a morning person. Still dressed in Martin’s oversized clothes, he could see the smooth skin of a shoulder blade when he placed his tea next to him, interpreting the grumbling as a garbled thank you. Two slices of toast with marmalade later and halfway through a second cup of strong tea, Jon seemed at least aware, sitting up and sipping on his mug.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Good. Pretty good.” He glanced shyly over the rim and back down again. “Thank you, Martin.” So soft, and Martin felt himself blush.
“You’re welcome, Jon.” Anytime. Always.
Jon was adjusting his collar and examining the purple bruises under his eyes in the hall mirror when Marin cleared his throat behind him.
“It was. Uh, my mum’s.” He held it out, worried he was overstepping in offering up a cane, not to mention one decorated in muted autumnal flowers. They were nearly the same height, in that Jon was a head shorter than Martin. For a full count he was stunned and Martin feared he’d made a grave miscalculation, pushed too hard, too soon. But Jon reached back, curling his fingers around the handle and taking a deep breath.
“Lovely pattern.” Martin grinned and Jon took an experimental step forward, steadier than he’d been since before Prentiss. “Shall we?”
#TMAHCWeek#TMAHC#Jonmartin#pining#ableism#internalized ableism#self worth issues#Hurt/comfort#exhaustion#chronic pain#cane user jon sims#the magnus archives#tma#jon sims#martin blackwood
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Work summary: For so long, Din fought the reality of giving the child up, giving him to the jetii and moving on. He had prepared for it, packed a bag and left it all behind, so his son could have the life he deserved. All until he didn't have to.
Or the one where Luke rescues Grogu on Tython, and Din rescues Luke in return.
Chapter summary: Luke and Grogu hide in the tunnels to escape the battle outside Fett's palace.
"Time to go, Grogu," The baby gurgled in his arms, his fingers playing with the sparse fair whiskers that had grown on his face. Luke smiled, looking down at the child with fondness. "Do you mind if I take your crystal? It'd be safe in my pocket,"
Grogu projected his affirmative and let the kyber slip out of his grasp into Luke's palm. He tucked the crystal into his trouser pocket, sealing the entrance, patting it for Grogu's reassurance. "There, it'll be safe until we find a way to make your lightsaber,"
Jetii'kad, Luke
Luke laughed. "Yes, jetii'kad, sorry, Grogu,"
Grogu grinned toothily, letting their bond open further and a single word slip through.
Buir
Luke's heart stopped; he wasn't; he couldn't. He must have imagined it because he wasn't a parent; he wasn't Grogu's buir .
"No, Grogu," Luke said, his voice tight and desperate. " Buir is outside; buir is fighting the bad ones,"
Grogu shifted in his arms, his intent clear and pure. Luke's eyes narrowed and then widened as his expression shifted quickly from one thought to another. He knew that Grogu was strong with the force, stronger still knowing what he wanted and when he wanted it. His thoughts were clear, intentional. He meant what he had said and was confused and upset at Luke's balk to accept it.
"I'm just Luke, Grogu," Luke said quietly, his heart bleeding with the title, with the assumption. Did Grogu think of him as a parent, as his buir? Luke had nothing on Din; he had only known the child for less than two weeks, standard. He was a stranger, an outsider. He wasn't…. he couldn't —
Buir
"Okay, Grogu," Luke said shakily, not quite aware of the tears in his eyes and the openness of his heart. "Okay, buir, if you want. But we need to leave now. More later,"
Yes, later.
"Okay," Luke said, sniffing and wiping his tears away with the cuff of his sleeve. "More running, I'm afraid. Are you ready?"
Careful, buir.
"Yes, I'll be careful, ad—ad'ika,"
Grogu hummed happily, and Luke hefted their supplies over his shoulder before making the return trip through the tunnels.
continued
#dinluke#din djarin/luke skywalker#family bonding#force sensitive din djarin#my fic#strangers to friends to lovers#found family#IJADIHIM-xXxVioletSkyxXx
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