#instead Magnus comes along and rips him from his life

[hallucinatinghalos]

Lestat talking about his time in the monastery:

"When I was corrected, which wasn’t often, I knew an intense happiness because someone for the first time in my life was trying to make me into a good person, one who could learn things."

Ugh, this is the Lestat I fell for when I first read TVL. This earnest, open-hearted guy who only wants to be good and do good, who wants to learn, grasping at any little bit of kindness he can find. Trying so damn hard to be seen and loved. Who continuously has it all ripped away just as he gets within reach. It's so tragic. What was endearing becomes twisted and toxic until much later and after those in his circle have suffered so much. You just want him to be able to hold on to that bit of himself, to do better, but he can't entirely and survive as what he's become. And he's a survivor for better or worse.

[joleneghoul]

This is going to be less of an essay and more of a disorganized infodump where I just ramble about my favorite character Rip has a relationship with and that's Jeff Smith.

I actually find Jeff to be more important to Rip's entire story and character background than Booster. There will also be some mentions of Bonnie because the Rip, Jeff & Bonnie dynamic is pretty important.

Though partially that is because the erasure of Jeff is what has made Rip such a boring character to read within post 90s Booster Gold stuff.

Jeff Smith is probably one of my favorite characters nobody really knows about and comics forgot about (until recently, but I'll get to that).

To sum it up quickly, Jeff is Rip Hunter's partner in the broad sense of the term. He was Rip's mechanic, his best friend, his scientific other half, and even once a cowboy (howdy).

More under the cut because this info-dump got long!

Jeff was Rip's partner from Rip's first ever appearance in showcase #20 and stuck with him onward to the 90s. While the stories had Rip's name on them, Rip and Jeff were postured as more of a duo than otherwise.

Bonnie and her brother Corky were along for the story but not as front and center as Jeff and Rip, hell even the story starts with Rip telling them to stay home while him and Jeff test their time machine by going on a jaunt to the prehistoric together.

The time sphere was first and foremost a creation of Jeff and Rip's scientific and mechanical prowess put together. I find it more interesting this way than if Rip were some sort of solo genius.

Later within the Rip Hunter series from the 60s-70s Jeff Still plays the role of Rip's partner, even saving Rip's life multiple times over. A characteristic that is strengthened as time goes on with Jeff is that he is the more calculated and thoughtful one of the pair. This remains the case in the Time Masters 1991 series.

Jeff, much like everyone gets a redesign for this series and a bit more heft to his character motives/personality. This is a series (while not good) that follows a linear story line instead of a collection of adventures so it was needed. I honestly only reread issues of this series for Jeff because I like the way him and Rip's relationship is handled here, as it strengthens the fact that pushing others away can only hurt everyone involved and being alone can be worse than your fears.

He is introduced not only as Rip's partner but his best friend. According to Rip, Jeff is one of his only close friends on account of his obsessive personality. A lot of Rip's own characterization in my opinion mirrors someone who has OCD. His obsession becoming stopping what he saw the future became while in Booster Gold vol 1. Hell...Will Magnus tells him he's paranoid.

Specifically I think the relationship Rip has to his paranoia and fears vs the relationships he has with others is really interesting. This, while comes up with Rip's relationship to Bonnie, is shown mostly with his connection to Jeff.

Jeff throughout the series is the one to break through to Rip even as he pushes others away at everyone's expense. This is shown in the start when Jeff breaks Rip out of spiraling overthinking, bringing him back with his logical thinking. Then all the way to the end when Jeff comes up with the idea of how to fix the time sphere, while Rip was caught up in his own paranoia and had at that point pushed everyone else away or caused them to leave him.

ALSO Jeff has to tell Rip to trust BOOSTER, who in retrospect is Rip's father. I just find that interesting.

Now, I'm going to be talking about subtext which is just how I interpreted things not saying they were intentional but it's just what I picked up on. Also I have a lot to say about how Bonnie is treated I really hate it because she's so disrespected when shes supposed to be equals to Rip but- a rant for another time ig.

The relationship between Jeff, Bonnie, and Rip (and Cave but not really tbh) are at the forefront of the interpersonal drama. It's worth mentioning that every scene Bonnie has romantically with a man (like Jeff or Cave) is mirrored immediately with Jeff and Rip. Specifically usually when Bonnie struggling with her own relationships vs when Jeff and Rip are coming together.

There is when Jeff shows up to Rip's office in a green trench coat (not pictured in this panel bc he took it off) and sits on Rip's desk to tell him he'll be his partner. Then within the same issue Bonnie in her green trench coat trying to seduce Cave (who is HER scientific partner) by getting on his desk- but then getting rejected.

Then again when Jeff chooses to leave Bonnie (in bed) to go be with Rip VS the end of that issue when Rip solemnly makes the choice to leave Jeff (in bed) to go chase his own hubris. (later we see Bonnie make the choice to steal the time sphere and go live in the future and make her own life teaching people post nuclear war, thank god she didn't end up with any of these men after all that)

Also side note- When Jeff and Rip go to ancient Atlantis together that's practically the first time in issues we see either of them really happy since like, issue 2. The only thing that tips Rip off is once again when someone brings up his paranoia. Also they get these gay earrings.

Anyways at the end because Rip ends up alone, without Jeff who was his only close friend, Rip realizes that time changes everything and to not be so worried about the literal end of the world- and that hopefully in time even he can change and be a better person to others.

....WHICH I feel is totally ignored and thrown away later on when Rip returns as Boosters son and Jeff was erased from the picture entirely (Bonnie still managed some appearances in other media but Jeff did not- not even in lot so I've heard..which is odd because that was inspired BY time masters). Rip became characterized as the lone mysterious savant who always has a plan (or can easily figure one out).

Despite the reader knowing his secret that he is Booster's son, we do not tend to get to see much of their family relationship since Rip is more shown as a mentor than anything else. Otherwise Rip is used as a narrative device for stories to bring in a little time travel spice if Booster or that one treadmill isn't available.

I actually find the more interesting Booster and Rip interactions being the ones where Rip is shown to be overwhelmed, in the wrong, or confused instead of the "guy who knows everything". Sadly we don't get to see this often.

Jeff after over 30 years has come back to comics but not in a way I really like, he just doesn't feel like himself at all but neither does any of the time masters. We haven't seen him much yet but I'm just not excited because the reason we have this "loner" characterization of Rip still is because of the same writer who's bringing them back- and yet again its a case of "Rip is running around alone" "ah that's just Rip". Like I thought we went over why that's bad for him LOL.

Anyways I guess the moral of this infodump/rant is this:

FUN FACT TIME:

Jeff and Rip met at MIT where they were both top of their classes!

He is as smart as Rip who is classified officially as a super-genius.

Jeff according to the DC ttrpg books is as wealthy as Ted Kord was when he was still apart of Kord industries.

He also apparently has connections to the Metal Men and Magnus still while Rip does not.

[envihellbender]

Teen Hezekiah killing his monster in the final boy support group AU

Rating: Mature

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Hezekiah Wakeley, Nathaniel Beale

Content: Murder, serial killer, sexual assault mention, addiction, abuse, age difference, gore, buried alive

Summary: A letter Hezekiah wrote to Nathaniel about his experience with a serial killer.

—

Found within patient Hezekiah Wakeley’s belongings: a letter, never sent.

Dearest Nathaniel,

I have wanted to discuss this in person but it seems you have been reluctant to come visit me in the hospital. I suppose it would make things difficult for you if the lecherous journalists and photographers gathering outside were to spot you. I have decided you are owed an explanation, despite the fact I think it must be rather obvious given recent events. Since no individual from our St Columba’s Church has been to visit me, despite me attending since I was a babe, I assume their rhetoric on the subject differs from my account. I think it is only fair I give you both sides of the tale and I leave the matter of your own morality and allegiance to you.

You are aware of the story up until we left the aptly named “St Columba’s Rehabilitation for Wayward Teens” I am sure, or rather the story you prefer to tell yourself. I do not intend to list the ways in which you and the others failed us. As you also know, it turned out that the forest retreat was nothing but a well crafted lie, in reality the Monsignor took us to a house instead of a camp site, we were kept in a cellar with several mattresses. The cold stone did not have the same heart and life to it that I craved from the ground, we were allowed books to read I suppose, the others did have mobile devices that did not have any ‘signal’ or enough ‘battery life’. Junia was taken first, she was the loudest, she screamed when the Monsignor would check on us and fornicated with Zion when she thought we were asleep. Zion was next. The both of them were just like us in a way, following the rules of the rehabilitation centre only to have someone visit to rip the sacraments to shreds. Junia had a friend who brought in water bottles filled with vodka, Zion had a boyfriend who injected him with varying substances, and I had you slipping me red wine in a flask. I think that was why it was so difficult for us three, the cellar quickly became filled with the stench of vomit, it was not cleaned up as much as it should have been.

I cannot tell you what they went through. I can tell you Bridget’s abduction hurt the most. Back at the chapel we were almost perhaps friends. We would swap books, I would never be able to return her copy of Turning of the Screw. I still have it. I cannot bare to be rid of the thing. She used to help run the garden with me. I do hope someone is still taking care of the plants there. Whilst I am glad I am alive, seeing all of them be taken past me was quite horrific. I would not trade it for anything. Whilst Junia and Zion were loud in their removal, Bridget went quietly, she simply nodded and got to her feet. All I could think about were if you took my warnings seriously, we would have been safe - but I suppose there is little to be done now. Judah, Naomi, and Claudia. They were next. Would hearing of the descriptions of those you helped doom to the earth truly help? I know not.

When it was simply I left in the cellar, that is when I can regale to you the entire truth. I am unsure how long I was there for. I slept, vomited, and hallucinated much of the time I was there up until I was brought up to his small cabin, he had me bathed by some nurses who were too thorough, he had me an intravenous drip, and made me a rather delicious meal with a glass of rich expensive red. Of course I was suspicious of the entire display but I was too starved and desperate not to play along with the charade. From this entire story, I expect this next part will be the elements you dispute and argue against, as if being a pederast is anything compared to serial murder. After I finished eating the old man came up behind me, pulled me up by the hair, slammed my face into the table, and decided to use my weak body however he saw fit. It was not long, but it was not quick, it was painful and repulsive. He would use me in various ways six more times from either my behind or mouth depending on his fancy. I did tell you he had wandering hands, did I not, Nathaniel? I told you of his fingers brushing my thigh, of him slipping his hand into my trousers during confession, and you had told me I misunderstood. Will the church look upon his deeds in the same way?

It is most odd, for when he brought me to my feet I had no strength to fight back. He began to beat me, he punched, kicked and slapped me. He pulled my hair and forced my face into the table again and again. He had a cane he used to whip my thighs and between my legs. Eventually I was a whimpering, crying dog on the floor, curled up and desperate for mercy. He picked me up into his arms, he carried me into the forest like a babe, he kissed my forehead and after a few minutes in the cold and dark he dropped me. The fall was quick yet slow, numb yet overwhelming. My head was particularly loud upon hitting the earth, my cranium bled internally as it felt as if it had split in two. My body felt so angry, weak, and sore that I was pleased to be against the earth. I felt the mud around me and my eyes closed. I felt a smile spread across my face. Can you believe it Nathaniel? A smile! A smile for heaven’s sake! I felt as if I was returning to the earth, and I was at peace. That was until I felt the dirt be shovelled onto my body, a strength I did not know I had filled my body. I may be one with the earth, a peace I will never part from, but I knew I shall not return to it by the hands of this evil, sinful, rotten man.

I waited for the shovelling to pause before I made my escape. The Monsignor had not been wise enough to pack the soil in tightly. The loose dirt was easy to displace in a way, the hard part was pulling myself out. I was buried around four feet downwards, a pathetic attempt I agree. I was able to aid myself and this is when God I am certain must have been with me. For he sat on a lawn chair facing away from me looking upon a bare patch of ground between the trees. I noticed that there were six rocks in the ground two feet apart from each other and realised this is where they had been buried. I picked up the shovel that had been leaning on a nearby tree, and without a moment’s hesitation I began to beat the devil’s cranium. I hit him again, and again, and again. I did so until his head was concave into his body. It feels so small now I write it down, perhaps that is why it was so easy for you to dismiss my fears.

When I called the police, I anticipated an arrest, not a mug of tea. Not a safe house with a comfortable bed and a garden. I did not anticipate the kindness, the understanding. To be admitted into a secular hospital with a secular rehabilitation facility and psychiatric ward. I know I am one of the lucky ones, but I cannot say I was lucky when the only person I had to aid me was you.

I will forever be yours. I do love you. But I must beg of you: Please do not contact me again.

Hezekiah Wakeley

[misterghostfrog]

[IMAGE ID; a digital drawing of Martin Blackwood carrying Jonathan Sims from The Magnus Archives. Martin is a fat freckled white man with curly ginger hair that is shaved close at the sides. He has a pair of round framed glasses in a bright red, under the glasses he is wearing eyeliner, and a navy eyeshadow. He has black lipstick, two black snakebite piercings under his lip, and a small black nostril piercing. His ear has a large black piercing that cuffs a chain to a small black piercing higher up his ear, and one final black piercing in the middle. He has a black choker, and then a looser chain necklace with an eye ornament on it. He has a studded lather jacket on that is covered in multiple patches and pins, mostly hidden by Jon: of the visible pins there is a trans flag patch on his chest, and on his shoulder is a large dark colored patch that has A-C-A-B on it in white. Under the Jacket is a black shirt that he has partly tucked into his pants, the shirt has a large anarchy symbol drawn on it in red. Under that he is wearing jeans that are significantly ripped as far as we can see. On his right hand he has several black rings, and his nails are painted black. Jon is a skinny Jordanian man with brown eyes and shoulder-length grey-streaked dark brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail at the base of his neck. He has a beard beginning to grow that appears to be the product of forgetting to shave. He is covered in a series of small round scars that vary in exact size. He is wearing a pair of rectangle-framed glasses, a plain t-shirt, a pair of jeans that are ripped at the knee, and converse. Martin is carrying Jon bridal style in his arms, and is looking away, he is blushing, though his expression is concerned and appears to be speaking. Jon has his arms wrapped around Martins neck, his cheeks are darkened and he is staring at hte ground with an expression somewhere between fear and the face one makes when they’re having to retrace every step they’ve taken to get here. END ID]

Punk Martin but make it Jonmartin.

Also I wrote a lil thing to go along with this under the cut, its only barely edited because it was mostly for fun so be warned its a big ol mess! But its s2 jonmartin nonsense with Martin being very cool and attractive and Jon being seven layers deep in denial (Also I may have written Jon as a touch autistic because its projection hours tonight i’m too sleepy to mask and that goes for writing too babey)

(Mentions of worms, past injuries, and Jon dealing with some internalised ableism and general foolishness)

Jon forgot his cane.

It’s a relatively regular occurrence, for a multitude of reasons. For one thing it’s something of a recent addition to the list of things he needs to keep track of when he leaves the house. Another lovely parting gift from Prentiss, a worm in his left leg that went just quick enough to start burrowing into the bone before it was removed. 

For another, he really has other things to worry about. And if it doesn’t hurt, it shouldn’t matter. Most days he can get by just fine without it- it hurts of course. But not so much he can’t support himself, and really, does he need it otherwise?

Martin and Tim don’t seem to agree, though Sasha has kept respectfully to herself on the whole business. Martin, of course, he trusts. Albeit only recently. But that doesn’t make him right, his priorities are warped. Naturally. He doesn’t see the bigger picture.

(or at least that’s what Jon tells himself)

Which is what leads to this moment, sitting on a bench outside the shop, single grocery bag by his feet. He’d only run out to get a few things, but somewhere between the his flat the the shop his barely visible limp had become more pronounced as his hip began to throb, then he was halfway through the frozens when he realized he wasn’t going to be able to finish the trip. After that he’d barely made it through checkout to the nearest seat before all but collapsing into it.

And now he’s sitting, stuck. An insurmountable walk from home, without his stupid cane. Which, he notes, he wouldn’t need if he’d brought in the first place. Funny how that works.

“Jon?” A familiar voice jolts him out of his thoughts. Jon jolts upright. Martin. 

He knows Martin lives in the area, a side effect of his... investigations. Though he was unaware he used the same shop. He looks up, a greeting or perhaps a question on his lips that dies as soon as he actually lays eyes on Martin.

Martin is wearing a leather jacket. Not just a leather jacket of course, but that’s the first thing Jon can process. He’s wearing a studded leather jacket covered in various patches that advertise various opinions and identities that Jon doesn’t have time to think about. His  jeans are about as much rip as they are Jean, and he’s got piercings- and eyeliner. he’s dressed like he should be riding a motorcycle, not the beat-up red bike he’s got beside him.

“Are you alright?” Martin says, and Jon realizes he’s been staring.

“Are you going to a costume party?” Jon blurts instead of answering. A costume party would make sense, of course. Martin doesn’t dress like this, he dresses like- like-

It occurs to him dimly that he’s never encountered Martin outside of work, at least never in a scenario that would allow him to change out of his work clothes. And some part of him has always assumed that sweaters and khakis were simply how he dressed. It suited him, really. Or Jon had assumed, but then again he assumed anything familiar is suiting.

“Wh- A- no?” Martin answers, looking vaguely offended. Jon flushes.

“I- sorry, I just- I’ve... I didn’t think you seemed the type to dress... like that...?” Jon fumbles, pathetically trying to salvage the conversation. Judging by Martins expression, he’s failing.

Martin opens his mouth to say something, and Jon realizes there’s likely no coming back from this particular mortification. He snatches the bag by his feet and moves to stand. Some excuse already tumbling out when the reason for his sit-down, which had dulled to a shockingly forgettable throb, decides to remind him of his place in the world.

He lets out a cry of pain, and crumples. Only stopped from hitting the ground by a pair of arms that wrap around his chest and under his shoulder. 

“Oh my god, Jon. Are you alright- what- is it your leg? Where’s your cane-” Martin babbles, Gently replacing Jon on his bench as Jon breathes through gritted teeth.

“It’s fine- i’m fine Martin I-” he sighs, studiously avoiding Martins gaze. “My cane is at home.” He tries not to sound chastised as he says the last part- he shouldn’t have to after all. He’s still Martins boss. He shouldn’t be looking away like he’s been caught at something.

“Jon” Martin sounds exasperated, and Jon crosses his arms. Once again, nothing like someone being scolded. He’s not being scolded. He’s an adult. “How long have you been sitting here like this?”

“I...” Jon begins before trailing off, he’s not actually sure. The period between sitting on the bench and the pain dulling enough for him to think through the fog is something is a blur. He is pretty sure someone asked if he was alright at some point. His lack of answer seems to be enough for Martin though.

“Just give me a moment.” He says, stepping away from Jon over to his bike- which has fallen over onto the ground -pulling it upright and over to Jon on the bench. He pushes down the rusted kickstand with a hearty kick- and Jon briefly notes he’s wearing steel-toed boots -and sets the bike gently upright.

“Okay, so! If you sit on the bike I can push it, and you can get home and rest that leg without jostling it too much by trying to walk without your cane.” He says pointedly. Jon makes a face,

“This... this really isn’t necessary Martin- I’m perfectly capable-” He grumbles, waving a hand dismissively. But a glance at Martins expression shuts him up quick. 

“Do you think you can stand?” He asks. Jon pauses, the memory of the white-hot flash of pain still fresh in his mind. He grimaces, shaking his head. Martin hums thoughtfully. “Alright, would you be alright if I picked you up? Just for a moment to get you on the bike” He asks carefully.

Jon hesitates, looking between Martin and the bike. And weighs his options. After several seconds he nods. Martin smiles, and Jon feels something in his chest flutter. Anxiety at his decision most likely. Or perhaps nerves in relation to sitting on a bike, he’s never ridden one- of course Martin will be doing all the work but surely there’s some sort of balance required isn’t there? Really he shouldn’t be riding a bike like this-

Those thoughts are all swept away at the feeling of large warm hands gently scooping him off the bench. He instinctively throws his arms around Martins neck for support as he’s lifted into the air. 

He can feel Martins chest warm against his side as Martin holds him close, one hand on his shoulder and the other supporting his legs. He’s being cradled by his subordinate, carefully as so not to jostle his leg. And all he can think about is how warm Martin is. He’s large and soft despite all the sharper accessories and he smells a bit like leather and tea on top of whatever soap he uses. Probably something that Jon wouldn’t be able to name with a gun to his head. And Jon can see the freckles on Martins cheeks and neck close enough to count if he wanted to even as he looks away, saying something Jon can’t quite parse because he’s too busy reeling from the realization he’d be happy to sit in Martins arms like this for the rest of his life.

His face goes hot and he forces himself to look down at the ground. The pain is clearly messing with his head, or perhaps the sleep deprivation. Or perhaps he’s still riding the high from that moment of realization that Martin isn’t trying to kill him, that he can trust him. 

Either way he’s not thinking straight, which is why he’s dissapointed instead of relieved when Martin gently places him on the bike with the exact amount of care he took in picking him up. Which shouldn’t make him feel so oddly jittery but it does.

The ride is quiet, aside from awkward instructions from Jon on where to turn as Martin guides them carefully along the sidewalk. They miss a turn once because Jons too preoccupied with the feeling of Martins arm bumping against his shoulder as he guides the bike.

And then they’re at Jons flat, and Jon once again feels that misplaced disappointment. He wonders if perhaps Martin will carry him up to his flat, and his face burns again as the silliness of the thought hits him.

Martin does very, very briefly lift him to help him off the bike when he stumbles. But his leg has recovered enough that he can make it up to his flat without assistance, or so he tells Martin. Who looks unconvinced.

“Let me at least walk with you, yea? That way I know for sure you got home safe.” He insists, and Jon forced himself to be displeased with the situation.

It ends up being a good thing Martin came along though, a partway up the steps the railing is no longer enough to support Jon, and he ends up half-carried the rest of the way. Martins arm under his shoulder, his own loops around Martins back, gripping the jacket for support. He can feel his head drifting at the contact- Martin is just so damned warm and safe and Martin it’s impossible not to get distacted.

He forces himself to think about something else, anything else. The jacket- he can feel the leather under his fingertips and it’s as good distraction as any.

It’s a nice jacket, really. Clearly well-worn. And it does suit Martin, in an odd sort-of way.

Jon winces internally, remembering the conversation from earlier. He hadn’t meant to come off so... well. It doesn’t matter. Except that it does, even though it doesn’t, but it does.

Once they reach Jons door, he pushes off of Martin to lean on the wall while he fumbles for his keys. Martin lingers as he does so, twiddling his thumbs awkwardly in the silence.

Jon finds his keys and sighs in relief as the door swings open.

He nearly wanders inside and shuts the door before remembering basic human etiquette. He pauses in the doorway, turning to Martin. Who smiles awkwardly.

“Thank you.” He says stiffly, still leaning heavily on the doorframe. “That was... very kind. Of you.” Martin shakes his head.

“It’s nothing, really. Couldn’t exactly just leave you there, could I?” 

Jon shifts awkwardly, wincing at the brief weight on his leg. He’s right of course, morally at least. If not logically.

“I... I suppose not.” He says, hesitating before adding “I’m sorry.”

“Look, Jon. I already said it’s fine-”

“No-” Jon grimaces “not for that. I- I meant... for what I said. About your clothes. They don’t... I just- I didn’t expect it, and I may have come off as... rude.” He mutters

“Oh.” Martin says flatly, Jons sure he’d forgotten about that until just now, and he wishes he could have kept it that way.

“they do suit you, though.” He says, after an awkward pause. “Your clothes, I mean. It looks- you look nice.” he finishes as genuinely as he can- he does mean it. Of course, he just doesn’t know how to make it sound like he does.

“Oh” Martin says again, brightening slightly, his cheeks going blotchy red in a blush. “I- er- thank you...? I suppose?”

“Yes. Well. Your welcome, I suppose.” There’s another awkward pause, Martin isn’t quite smiling at Jon, but there’s something soft in his expression Jon can’t quite parse. “ Have a good day, Martin.” He says finally, after a long pause. Martins cheeks redden again.

“Oh- yeah, er. You too Jon- and take care of yourself. Alright?”

Jon nods, and Martin smiles. And Jon thinks he’d like to see Martin smile a bit more.

He waves as Martin heads down the stairs, he can hear Martin humming as he goes.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By the king’s hand 🐍 VIII

Warnings: warnings to be added as we progress but this series may contain non-consent, violence, death, and other triggers (this chapter, noncon, trauma)

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are overwhelmed by your imprisonment.

Note: I wasn’t expecting to get this done today but I did!

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, if you can, please leave some feedback, like and reblog <3

You left as you came; in the servants’ cart wearing clothes that weren’t yours. You had a cap over your hair and apron across your front as you huddled down beside the chests with the rest of the royal staff. Your guardian was ever present as he marched in borrowed armor which served as a poor disguise.

You rocked with the roll of the wheels and as the night came, Magnus tore you away from the others and secreted you to the king’s tent. He was silent, perturbed, but as demanding as ever. You woke early to resume your place among the servants and carry on the final leg of the journey back to the capital. To you, it was no homecoming, rather the closing of the prison gates behind you.

It was night when you neared the palace, the walls rose up around you, a looming sentinel of your fate. The cart jolted to a halt behind the train and you waited for the others to hop off before you slunked out the end. As your feet met the ground, you were seized and dragged away from the storm of bodies suddenly looking for tasks.

Magnus’ heavy boots stomped through the dirt and his armor jostled loudly as he led you from the procession. He directed you towards the south end of the palace as he kept his chin down, his hand squeezing painfully on your arm.

“No chances this time,” he growled, “King’s given permission that I break your leg myself if you run again.”

“How kind a master he is.” You sneered.

“I could do it now and say you did try, bitch,” he wrenched open a door and forced you through ahead of him. “What I could do to you…” He shoved you so that you stumbled against the opposite wall and the door slammed behind him. Only the flicker of the torch hung feet away lit the space. “I wonder what intrigues the king so.” He caught you as you turned around, his hand on your skirts. “I wouldn’t mind a taste of the royal delight.”

“Get off of me,” you pushed against his mailed chest. “The king would do more than slap your snout, you dog.”

“Or perhaps he would tire of a used toy,” Magnus cupped your ass through your skirts, “If there was anything left to play with.”

You grabbed at his belt and your hand settled on the pommel of his sword. His gauntlet closed over your hand and his other shot up to your neck. 

“I’d like you to try,” he dared you, “I doubt you could even lift the blade.”

He pushed your hand away and parted from you gruffly. He cleared his throat and pushed his shoulders back. He nodded down the corridor and waited. Slowly, you stepped away from the wall and began down the stone floor.

“I’ll take enough pleasure in hearing your pathetic mewls as he takes you again,” he chortled, “And imagine how you should weep if it were me.”

You were silent. You were afraid, truly, and revolted. You didn’t dare to look at the beastly guard and instead watched his shadow ahead of you as you neared the winding staircase. You ascended ahead of him and his hand strayed to your skirts but just as swiftly retracted. When you reached the top he ushered you on to the king’s chambers.

“He wants you ready for him. He must greet his people.” Magnus declared. “Perhaps I might help loosen you up.”

“You’re repulsive,” you shuddered as his hand settled on the door handle. “You truly think he would not castrate you for the act.”

“You are no wife, no queen,” he opened the door and let it open, “Only a whore.” He grabbed your shoulder and forced you inside, quickly following and slamming the door. He crossed his arms over his mailed chest. “I must take your garb so you do not stray again.”

“You’ve been ordered to or you--”

“I’ll rip it off myself,” he stepped forward and you shied away. “What I should do after the trouble you’ve caused.”

You edge away from him and gulped. You averted your eyes as you removed your cap and untied your apron. You threw them at his feet and kicked away your slippers, your stocks slid down your legs and added to the heap. 

As you strained to unlace the dress, he huffed and pulled you to him. He spun you and tore the laces loose and forced the fabric down your arms. He continued to undress you gruffly, your shift shredded by his touch and his hand lingered before he finally collected the rest. You covered yourself and stumbled away from him.

You turned as he snickered and hugged the bundle of clothing. His grey eyes glimmered with malice.

“How brave you are until you are naked,” he taunted, “If you... require me, I will be without, wench. Waiting, watching.”

Your nostrils flared as you quickly retreated to the sofa and shielded yourself with a pillow. “You will remain without, sir.” You hissed. “Keep watch, doggy.”

His grin fell and he scowled before he turned away. He left you but the fear didn’t. You quaked as you sat and waited. For the guard to lose his restraint or the king to retire for the night. Neither was welcome.

🐍

When the door opened, you were still unprepared for the king, but it wasn’t him. Two servants streamed in without acknowledging you and went through to the bath chamber with pails of steaming water. You watched them silently as they filled the tub over several trips, the slosh of water and their footfalls the only noise. When they finished, they were gone just as soon. 

Moments later, Loki appeared. Hal accompanied him and kept his eyes to the floor as your nudity shamed him. You sat, stony and dazed, as the king was undressed by his attendant. He said nothing as he drank from the bottle of wine directly and ordered the boy away. The door closed and ended your trance.

You looked over as Loki wore only his undershorts and grabbed the bottle by the neck. His skin still bore the marks of competition and his face the lines of his agitation. He didn’t look at you as he neared the bedchamber.

“Mouse,” he beckoned you with a finger.

He strode through the door and you stood cautiously. You listened to his lithe steps and took your own wary ones across the room. As you entered the bed chamber, you heard the clunk of glass on stone, and followed it to the bath chamber. The bottle of wine sat on the flat brim of the tub as Loki rolled his shorts down and stepped into the steaming pool of water. He lowered himself with a sigh and stretched his arms around the lip.

“Come. You smell of the road.” He bid as he closed his eyes.

You took a breath and neared the other end of the tub. You lifted your leg over the side and dipped into the water carefully. The basin was large enough for at least four body’s, a round crater carved in marble. He took another swig and the bottle made another thick thump off the stone.

“Closer,” he demanded as he stirred his fingers in the water.

You stared at him, hesitant. His silence was disconcerting. The man loved his own voice and his monologues were much preferable to nothing. He was mad still; he would be for some time. You knew, by his relationship with his brother, that he would hold a grudge.

You pushed yourself away from the side of the tub and waded through the water on your knees. His eyes opened and focused on you. As you neared him, you were suddenly plunged beneath as his hand snaked around the back of your neck. Your mouth and nose filled with water as you struggled against him and he turned to hold you under. He pulled you back up only as you were certain you would drown.

You coughed and sputtered as the water erupted from your lungs. He kept hold of you as he angled you against the wall of the tub and pinned you there. You blinked in terror as his green eyes stabbed you like daggers.

“You realise I hold your life in my hand?” he slithered, “That I would have you killed for your disobedience if you were any other. That I will if your use does expire.”

You nodded frantically as he leaned in, his nose close to yours as you smelled the wine on his breath. “I do, your majesty,” you croaked.

“You will not have another chance, mouse,” his hand slid around to your throat, “You are not the only woman with a cunt.”

You pressed your hands to the bottom of the tub as you stared back at him. He moved his knee between yours and slowly parted your legs. His hand went to your chin and he held you against the tub as he lowered his head. His lips tickled your neck and you shivered as the water swirled around you. You cried out as he sank his teeth into your skin and began to suck. You squirmed as the pressure built to unbearable. He pulled away with a pop and admired his mark.

“Remember who you belong to. Who has given you your life.” He snarled as his thighs pushed against yours as he slid against you. His member pressed to your folds as your legs hung over his. “I have given you purpose.”

He reached between your bodies and rubbed his tip along your cunt. You trembled as he found your entrance and poked, teasing you as he drew away several times, marveling at your reaction as you bit your quivering lip. Finally, he prodded you more firmly and slipped in an inch at a time. Your legs tensed around him and he crushed you against the tub as he impaled you. He kept himself at his limit as he shuddered.

“Do you still ache, mouse?” He squeezed your chin as his other hand fondled your chest. “You do fit me well.”

You let out a whimpered as your defiance threatened to break. You clenched your jaw as he thrust and your entire body jerked. You reached up and grasped the brim of the tub as you body slid against the marble. He rocked into you slowly as his breath mounted. He tweaked your nipple as his grip threatened to crush your jaw.

He sped up as he folded your body against the tub, your legs splayed around him as he rutted into you. He grunted loudly as his eyes never left yours. He watched the play of pleasure and pain across your face as he fucked you harder each time you murmured. 

You slapped your hand against his shoulder as you felt the singular pang. That rise which would send you over the edge of sanity. Your fingers curled against him and you hugged him with your thighs as your lips parted in ecstasy. Your eyes rolled back as you came and he slapped you harshly before clasping your chin again.

“Look at me,” he growled. “Don’t look away.”

You whined through bared teeth as the waves flowed through you. You twitched wildly as he was egged on by your reluctant orgasm. He grabbed the tub behind you and clung to it as he moved even closer. You were trapped between him and the marble, painfully so. He poked his thumb into your mouth and his hot breath washed over you as he pressed his forehead to yours.

He spasmed but did not slow. You felt him spill inside of you as he let out angry snarls. He only stopped as his body recoiled at the overstimulation and he buried himself to his hilt. He exhaled slowly and wrapped an arm around you as he turned to sit against the tub. He held you in his lap as his heart raced and he framed your chin in his hands as he made you sit up.

“Show me why I should keep you, mouse,” he tilted his hips and you whined. He trailed a hand down your arm and grasped your hip. “Go on and fuck me, whore.”

Your lashes fluttered and you bit back your anger. The wine, his wrath, his pride; it was a dangerous mix and you knew it was not the time to test it. You moaned as you rocked and he gasped at the friction. He began to harden again and you felt him grow inside of you.

“Mmmm,” he purred as kneaded your ass, “Faster…” you sped up as his other hand tickled your back, “That’s it, pet. Obey your master.”

🐍

Your night wore on by the king’s hand. When you thought he would sleep, he riled again and by the morning, you were tender and worn. You were tired, drained of all strength, all resistance as you body overrode your mind. As Loki used it against you.

You didn’t move as he finally parted and dressed in the early dawn. He uttered some cloying words about his inevitable return but you could only lay paralysed across the sheets. You feared he had broken you entirely. It was enough to use your body but you felt your wits scattered beside you. There was safety in his desire; not only from his own cruelty but the man on the other side of the doors. Loki was evil, but the lesser of many.

He left and you did not move. You were plummeted into a black sleep, so deep and void that it felt as death. You did not wake as the sun reached its peak or even as it began its descent. You woke only when you were disturbed by the touch of your tormentor. As Loki moved between your legs, uncaring of your fatigue, and again made his will your own.

Time blurred as glimpses of the morning were shrouded by the deepest dusks. Your hours were marked by hollow sleep, pierced only by the unrelenting hand of the king, and the mindless sustenance of your body. You were a puppet and you had no choice by to let him dangle you from his string.

It wasn’t until you felt a different touch and saw a different face that life seemed to call to you. That you recalled where you were and who you were. Birger, the silver-haired man with the face of a crow, sat on the edge of the bed as he moved your head and felt along your chest. You looked at him dopily and took his hand. You squeezed.

“She is senseless, your majesty. She has no physical malady but her mind…” He untangled his hand from your and pulled the covers up to your chin. “I would never question your deeds but she must rest. She must be nurtured unless you prefer a husk.”

You giggled. You couldn’t quite grasp his words but as another voice rose, you choked and lashed out. The blanket fell away as you cried out.

“Nurtured?” The king echoed. “And what would you recommend particularly?”

Your arm was caught and folded over your chest. Birger replaced the cover over you and hushed you as he rubbed your cheek. “Be calm, girl.” He drew away and you listened to a subtle rustle. “I will treat her today with a sedative and you will leave her be.”

“And tomorrow?” The king asked as the clink of glass sounded beside you and you felt a slender rim against your lips.

“Just a little, dear,” Birger tipped the vial and the glossy tincture coated your tongue. “Well, your majesty,” the man stood straight and you closed your eyes. The bitter taste turned sweet as your sight began to darken again. “You might offer her more than your own company. You might do more than play with her like some toy.”

The voices mingled as you sank down again, floating on a breeze that carried leaves and the smell of pollen. The void was gone and you were free, running in the fields toward the sunlight.

🐍

You felt a soft stroke along the back of your head. The song of birds filled your ears and your lashes slowly lifted as your vision cleared. You were clothed in a crisp nightgown, the blankets rolled beneath your arms as your chest rose and fell. You finger twitched and you groaned. A hand closed around yours.

“You’re awake,” the familiar voice sang, “Hey, it’s me.”

You turned your head back and forth as you grumbled and blinked away the fog. You focused on the figure beside you. Gilla wore a yellow dress as she sat on a stool and cradled your hand. She smiled back at you.

“Gilla?” You rasped. “What’s--”

You coughed and she let go of you. She reached for a crystal glass and held it out. “You should drink something.”

“How did--” You looked around. You were still in the king’s chambers though they were markedly brighter as the curtains had been drawn and the windows were open to let in the air. You tried to push yourself up and fell back heavily.

“Shhh,” she grabbed your arm as she balanced the cup in her other hand and helped you sit up. 

She handed you the water and pulled another pillow behind you to prop you up. You took the glass and drank deeply, more thirsty with each gulp. You handed it back shakily and glanced around furtively. “Where is he?”

“Who?” She asked, “Oh, the king?”

“I…” you twined your fingers together, “Yes. Where is he?”

“He is at council.” She said. “He said he would return to check on you after he finished.”

You were confused. You couldn’t recall how you’d woken thus. “I don’t understand. What’s happening? Why are you here?”

“The king said you missed me and you were sick.” She pouted. “I missed you. I thought… I thought you were dead. And because of me.”

You sighed and a sudden surge of anger went through you. You grimaced and pulled your hands apart.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to-- I never--” She reached for your hand, “I was foolish. Selfish. And you saved me.”

You looked at her. You wanted to smile but couldn’t. You shrugged. “It cannot be undone.”

“You… seem well off now. If not a little weakened.” She looked around the chamber. “A king’s favour--”

“Favour?” You recoiled. “Are you that shallow? This is no favour. This is prison!”

“But… he has clothed you, fed you, and kept you from the dungeons--”

“Is that what he says? He may have plucked me from a cell but he did throw me down there first.” You hissed. “Gilla, you don’t know. You can’t.”

“I don’t know. You’re right. How could I? It was a king’s man who came to me to tell me you were alive. Barely. And that you needed me. Your own uncle still thinks you dead, if not imprisoned and fated to be so.”

“What do you think this is? Do you think I am the king’s amour? Hmm?” You spat and the effort made you dizzy. “I am nothing but a whore. He made me that! I did not want it.”

She hung her head and shook it. “He did say you might be delirious.”

“You--” you gathered your strength and threw the blankets aside. You turned your leg over the edge and she gasped. You faced her and scowled. “You think he would ever tell the truth!? To you? A peasant?”

“You are still a peasant too,” she countered. “Please, I did only come here to see you well and the king, he has made sure to keep you well.”

“No, he has put me in such a state. Do you not understand? I live a nightmare every day.” You stood and stumbled as she rose in a fright. You nudged her aside and unsteadily made your way to the window. “I will never run through the city square again or play in the tall wheat before the harvest. I will only ever be his and when he disposes of me, I doubt I will be alive.”

She was silent as you leaned heavily on the sill. You did not look at her, you could not. You gazed out at the palace wall and beyond. Why had the king bothered at all? You were better to him as you were; weak and oblivious. Better for you that you had remained such.

You flinched as you heard the doors through the next chamber and Gilla moved behind you. “Your majesty,” she said meekly as you heard the footsteps pass over the threshold of the bedchamber.

“Is she...well?” The king asked.

“I am awake so you might ask me,” you sneered as you did not move. “I am not.”

He exhaled deeply. Your eyes clouded with tears as you watched the clouds. There was a new bite in the air. Summer was ending.

“Gilla, might you excuse us for a moment?” Loki asked. You scoffed, he was not one to ask of anyone.

“Your majesty,” she allowed and you listened to her slippers on the stone before the door closed between the receiving chamber and the bedchamber.

“You are angry.” He said.

“What does it matter to you?” You spun sharply and stumbled. He caught you as before your knees met the floor.

“You are weak,” he led you to the bed and sat you down. You shoved him away. “You should not be up.”

“You did this to me,” you huffed. “Why did you not leave me as I was?”

He looked down his nose and crossed his arms. “You were close to madness. I kept you from that.”

“You would drive me to it.” You snapped. “Why bring her here? Why have your physician feed me sour oils? As you said, I am not the only woman with a cunt.”

He sniffed and his brows drew together as a line formed between them. He stared at you and slowly his lips curled. “I brought her so that you might realise what I could do to her if you continue to behave thus.” He warned. “And I did see to you so that I might have a toy worth playing with.”

You scoffed and grasped your knees to keep from slumping over. Despite your anger, you couldn’t help the disuse of your body which had you so drained.

“I see. A torture more cruel has never been known,” you mulled. “Well, you can send her away. She is no friend of mine. Not anymore.”

“You would toss her away for your self-pity?” He wondered. “You would spurn all courtesy I allow you and for what?”

“Courtesy?” You snickered darkly, “I have nothing. You have allowed me nothing and I will not allow you to wave bait before me and snatch it away.” You clutched the nightgown in your fists, “Have you not done enough?”

He considered you. His cheek twitched and his jaw clenched. Slowly, he approached you and bent to look you in your eyes. “Your majesty,” he corrected, “You do forget yourself.”

You squinted at him and repeated those venomous words; “your majesty.”

Loki smirked and touched your cheek. His green eyes fell down your body and he shoved you so that you fell onto your back. You closed your eyes and braced for him. He laughed and retreated. You opened your eyes and watched him back away.

“You will gird yourself or I will have that girl lashed.” He warned, “Or perhaps I shall give her to my guard. He does like the innocent ones.” You lifted your head and struggled to sit up. You watched him as he neared the door. “You care for her still. It is obvious. Let us keep that in mind going forward.”

His grabbed the door handle and twisted. You seethed as he peered over his shoulder at you.

“You’re awful.” You uttered.

“Oh, I know,” he said and pushed open the door, “You might keep watch on her,” he called to Gilla, “She is still very sickened and your company would do her well.”

You listened to him go and Gilla appeared in his stead. You laid back on the bed and turned your back to her. 

“Do be quiet and let me rest.” You muttered.

[qupshalfempty]

Written as a not yet established relationship but mutual pining. It got so lovey dovey my heart hurt while writing this. It's very rough around the edges due to not writing for so long, but I hope y'all like it!

108. “Shh… You need to be quiet.” W/ Ultra Magnus and a Cybertronian! SO

Walking out of my berth room I was immediately met with the distant voices of both Optimus and Magnus. Following the voices in curiosity, I entered the main room of the base standing behind both of them as they mentioned a mission, an energon mine and.. My name? Before I could greet them their attention's on me. Never being the subject of their gazes so intensely, I gave them a lopsided tilt of my dermas.

“What’s going on?”

...

The glowing light from the portal fades behind Magnus and I as our pedes stepped off of the concrete floor of the base and onto the stick littered forest floor set in front of us. The forest was dense, light from the Earth’s star struggling to shine through the canopy above. Many of the planet’s smaller life forms were skittering away disappearing deeper into the woods, most certainly running from our sudden appearance.

Magnus paid them no mind, instead signaling me to follow him in I assume to be the direction of the abandoned energon mine we were to scout out. I trail silently behind him, already preparing for the long trek ahead of us..

Other than the occasional hand signals and “yes sir” from myself the travel had been near silent, the only other sounds coming from the crunching of tree limbs and brier under our pedes and the occasional animals nearby. I could do nothing but let my processor wander, distracted from the mission at hand.

The gleams of light cast from the sun painted what parts of the forest floor it could touch with golden strokes. At times his plating would catch the light and reflect against the leaves and other flora he’d push past in reds and blues… This would be romantic if we'd actually said more than a couple phrases to each other. I could only hope for that to change and for him to acknowledge me with more than just small smiles and hidden softness from the rest of the team.

I silently thanked scouting missions like these, allowing me more time around 'Magnus than usually allotted for his position. It gave me the chance to enjoy his presence and what soft smiles he'd offer when we were alone, which has been the only sign of any feelings returned on his part. I’d only hoped it wasn’t out of politeness and rather returned feelings anyway, just the thought is what’s stopped me from confessing much earlier.. While it’s been pointed out plenty of times how different he acts around me and how much more gentle he is towards me... It’s hard to believe he’d return any feelings, or would want to pursue a bond when one of us could be offlined any klick while fighting this war. Although I’d take whatever time I had left to be with him… By the All Spark I’m in deep.

Next thing I know, my left pede hits a displaced root and I'm sent tumbling forward into a familiar blur of red and blue. Just barely catching myself with my servos on… Magnus’ back plating… I jolted backward, ripping my servos from his back like they'd touched rust, and shakily righted myself. He jumped in surprise, snapping his helm back in my direction with widened optics before his optic ridges down turned in his signature stern look. I withered under his stare with an awkward chuckle before he finally gave what I assume to be a sigh and an attempt at a softer look that was really just one of neutrality for him. 

"Be more careful."

Turning away without waiting for an answer, he continues. I hesitantly follow albeit much farther behind so I don’t embarrass myself again. After an estimated half an hour of awkward silence, he pushes a tree limb out of his way and stops in his tracks. 

"We're here." 

Magnus was already crouched behind some thickened shrubbery, giant enough to hide his stature, and was looking towards an opening in the lower brier's branches he had held back. Peering over his shoulder was a cave's entrance a little ways away, hidden near perfectly from sight with the dense woods surrounding it. Peaking out of the tall grass thoroughly covering the vicinity of the entrance was mining equipment and empty carts overgrown with vines. They were most definitely left behind. Thankfully we had coordinates or we would have never found this. Not that I would've minded being around Magnus longer anyway… I quickly shook my helm, ridding my thoughts away.

"We should comm the others." I whispered, focused completely on the cave and not on the inexistent distance of our shoulder plates. My fans whirred.

He nodded, already a step ahead of me with his servos to his audials.

"Ratchet, the coordinates were correct. It appears abandoned, we'll be on lookout."

"Affirmative." I hear Ratchet grumble.

Magnus then turned his helm to me and raised an optic ridge, realizing how close we were, I shove myself back as calm as possible for someone’s who’s fan’s volume turned to that of a garbage disposal. He either didn’t notice or mercifully said nothing and instead continued in his usual stern tone.

"We’ll be scouting the area for any decepticon activity."

"So.. we'll be here a while?"

"Yes."

…

After the equivalent of 3.5 earth hours and a detailed dirt drawing followed by a reprimand from Magnus about "leaving behind tracks"… I got bored. Being on a recon mission with my spark lighter, without any plot going on, was uninteresting to say the least... He didn't make an effort to talk, his steady focus solely on the cave and the wind blowing the shrubbery. The only sounds that could be heard was the chirping of birds and someone's fans kicking on.. that wasn't mine for once.

Looking up from my plating was Magnus' helm darting away from my direction and back towards the mine. Was he looking at me? 

Luckily, my fans had no time to react as Magnus held his left servo up, a silent command to stay still and quiet. He glared down at the entrance before giving the signal to follow.

He pushed his way past the shrubbery and slid down the cliff side we'd been securely perched on. I followed close behind, letting him lead a path through the straw like grass.

Now usually I don't question his orders, but this was meant as a simple scout mission, a "stake out" as the humans vids would say, and we comm base to come pick up the energon once it's deemed safe. But this seems to be quite risky for someone who's so.. well the complete opposite. 

I ran every scenario through my processor as we continued deeper. Maybe he heard something? I'd thought he'd comm back to base and let them know. But our job is to see if it's abandoned right? So we’d have to confirm if it is, although just the two of us and no backup? Whatever it was, I'm sure Magnus has a good reason. 

By now we were in deep, the only light we had to shine our way was our optics and from what little energon there was left behind in the walls. I was barely able to stop my chassis from touching his back when he suddenly stopped and motioned me to look into the wide open room ahead. My optics brightened at the sight.

Inside was a huge cavern with the walls and ceiling filled to the brim with energon, full of huge deposits that were barely touched. Carts full of even more glowing energy cubes were ready to be rolled out. For sure able to power our small team for a long while. Oddly enough the machines were trapped in vines and aimed at a wall full of energon, two more were aimed at another, covered in the same vines.. 

It's unbelievable that something drove the Decepticons out, especially with all of this energon ready to leave… But from the looks of it, it seems all of the abandoned machinery hasn’t been touched in a while...

"We should comm base-"

One of the drills far ahead cuts Magnus' whisper off, it turns on and attempts to cut into the rock around an energon deposit before groaning as it struggles against the vines holding it captive. Suddenly a Decepticon enters from one of the nearby halls and expects it, grumbling something along the lines of "fast growing.." and "damned flora.." while tearing the vines off...

We both duck behind the rock wall at the bot's appearance, Magnus’ throwing his arm back to push me behind him. Luckily the decepticon took no notice, ripping what little vines were left off before the drill’s shrill sounds started up again. Magnus looked over towards me and started to signal before he was stopped short by the sudden sounds of pede steps coming from behind us. Our only exit. 

My optics widen, I look to him for orders only to see the same surprise in his. He turns to me fully looking around the dark tunnel before his optics catch something behind me and pushes me backward into it. With no time to react my back plating hits a hard rock wall, reflexively letting out a muffled 'humph!' into someone's servos.

"Shh… you need to be quiet." 

Turning on my optics at the voice I was met with Magnus' chassis, and slowly trailing up his clavicular plate, his neck cabling, and finally his face were his optics gazing down at me inches away from my own helm. One of his servos covering my dermas while the other was pressed firmly against my side with what little space there was. I didn't dare speak, not with the pedes slowly getting closer or the intense stare of Magnus'. Looking at my surroundings before my fans kicked on, we were in near complete darkness if not for our optics. From what else I could make out we were in a small enough crevice for the both of us and surrounded by rock on all sides other than the tight opening I’d been pushed through. Magnus' form towered over me, keeping me from peeking out of the crevice he'd somehow shoved us both in. Daring to peer at his face I can make out his optics slowly dimming.

"Shut off your optics."

A shudder went down my spinal frame at the demand but I obeyed, hoping he wouldn't notice. Knowing how close our frames were and how intertwined our limbs were, he most definitely did.

We both stood stock still as the sounds grew closer, the voices complaining about the flora destroying nearly all of their equipment and setting them back by 7 Earth days. The panic built up pressure in my chassis, knowing they’d soon be passing us. The only thing grounding me was Magnus’ rough digits pressed into my coxal plating and dangerously close to grazing the side of my pelvic plate. I’d forced my fans to shut off despite the heat emerging from both of our frames.

A rock being kicked from a pede step just outside our makeshift cover made me flinch, something I dare not risk illuminating my optics to see pressed into my forehelm. I stood stock still, reaching out and clenching something to ease my jitters as we listened in the dark.

After the longest klick of my life, the sounds of pedes slowly fade away further into the cave. I only allowed my shoulders to relax when the cave around us was fully silent, I slowly turned on my optics before widening them in surprise from the helm inches away from mine for yet the third time this Earth cycle….

Magnus' forehelm was pressed against mine, his helm cast down and his features being the most peaceful I've ever seen them. Not a hint of his signature crease of irritation between his optic ridges, you'd nearly think he were recharging if not for the heat I felt on my own helm emanating from his.

I could do nothing, not able to move away even if I wanted to due to the rock keeping me trapped from behind. Instead, I stayed still. His optics slowly turned on, meeting mine before looking downwards. I followed his gaze to find the object I'd grabbed in the dark, my servos were tightly clenched around his digits. Before I could instinctively pull back and apologize, his digits wrapped firmly around my servos, three of his digits able to cover my entire servos fully. He’d made no move to push away, instead keeping our frames pressed together. My sensors were off the charts, at times sensing his thumb run over my outer plating along my hip.

I didn't know what to do, so I followed his lead instead. Not able to keep his gaze for long I tucked my forehelm into his chassis and we stayed that way for what felt like megacycles until we heard loud pede steps and the shooting of blasters coming close. Soon enough we recognized Optimus' and Ratchet's voices from close by. By then I knew we definitely took too long to comm back and I'm not planning on explaining what happened.

[erricdraven]

lost and found

A fantasy au wherein alec is a guardian angel, magnus is a demon who makes deals, and maybe they’re not as different as they think.

written as a gift for @ladymatt for the malec secret santa 2020

As the flames at Magnus’ feet die out, he takes in his surroundings inquisitively. Beneath his boots are tentative chalk lines, thin and light in places, that connect into a pentagram drawn on a cracked cement floor. The room he is in is vast and all but empty, with high ceilings and exposed metal beams. A warehouse, most likely; the kind of place a human might deem a safe, neutral location for a demon summoning. As he turned to his left, a woman, young in years but with a heaviness weighing on her that belied her age, was staring at him from a few feet away with a tattered hardback journal clutched in one hand.

“You called me,” he stated, standing a few steps away from the barrier line. “I assume that because you did the summoning correctly and seem…prepared, that you know what it is that I do.”

She looked almost startled at being addressed, but the expression lasted only a moment before she held it back with a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. “I know what I’m doing,” she asserted, though her voice wavered slightly.

After analyzing the detailing of the pentagram, Magnus touched the tip of his boot to a symbol that had been incorrectly drawn. “It’s an impressive work, but I would suggest you study a bit more next time. This right here…leaves an opening.”

Now the woman looked terrified, frozen in place with her arms encircling her middle protectively.

With a slightly sardonic chuckle, he shook his head. “If I was going to hurt you, I wouldn’t have pointed out your error.” He stepped closer to the edge line, closer to her. “After all, you wish to make a deal, yes? Which means you have something I would be happy to take. I don’t want to ruin that opportunity for myself just yet.”

read on ao3

For a moment, he just looked at her, observing. She had very short hair, so blonde it was practically white, and deep brown, almost black, eyes. Her pupils were almost swallowed up by the darkness of the iris. There was a small smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and dusting the tops of her cheeks, looking oddly childlike in the midst of her worn features. He was well-versed in reading humans after all these centuries, and he could see in her an authenticity that caught his attention. “What’s your name?”

“Alana. Alana Clarke. And I want to make a deal.”

“Well then,” Magnus began, steepling his fingers thoughtfully, “tell me, to what do I owe this summons?”

“I…have something I want to forget.” Her voice wavered slightly on the last word.

“Someone,” Magnus stated in realization. “A deal with me requires specificity, Ms. Clarke.”

It took a moment before she hesitantly elaborated further. “My husband. He was…cold. And unable to love, in the end. I never felt like I could leave him. One day, he snapped and I…I didn’t have a choice. I can’t let the memory of him control my life anymore. I can’t bear to let him change me the way I’m afraid he might.”

Rubbing his fingers together contemplatively, he replied, “That is a very serious choice to make. And one that cannot be undone. As luck would have it, it would be quite easy for me to give you what you’re asking for, but it has a steep price. And not just your soul. Are you certain this is what you want?”

Her silence was only too telling.

With a firm shake of his head, Magnus took a step back. “You must be sure. I am neither judge nor jury; I will only carry out what our deal entails. I urge you strongly to consider this. Memory cannot just be given and taken on a whim. Once I remove it, it will be permanent.”

Alana shook her head with a tired sigh. “I just… I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, I can’t think… I don’t know how to go on without doing something. I—” Abruptly cutting herself off, she stood up a little straighter and schooled her expression into a carefully curated stoicism. “I have to take the responsibility, and I will.”

It had been a long while since someone with such conviction had come to Magnus like this. Often, those who summoned him didn’t understand the gravity of the situation they were making for themselves, but it was their mistake to make. This time, somehow, he couldn’t bear the thought of allowing her to follow them down that path of regret lurking in the future.

“For your benefit, I will not yet make the deal,” he began. “I require certainty, and I do not see that in you. I’m going to give you another opportunity to think very carefully about just what is worth the price of your soul before you sign it over to me.”

**

The next time Magnus found himself standing in the ash and last embers of unholy flame in the middle of the old warehouse, the person standing opposite him was not Alana Clarke.

Instead, it was a tall, dark haired man with a stern look on his face, standing stock-still with his hands behind his back. He was not entirely mortal, nor human, Magnus realized upon observing the presence of spiritual matter along the lines of his shoulders and down his spine. It also wasn’t lost on him that the man had a blade made of adamas tucked away inside the folds of his jacket. It was an ancient kind of weapon, not only priceless but rare.  

The pentagram Magnus was standing on was far more detailed than the one that Alana had used to summon him, rooted in much stronger magic. The kind of magic that could only be infused by a summoner of great power. “I’m impressed,” he mused, turning in place to observe the rest of the finer detail.

“You made a deal with Alana Clarke,” the man stated coolly, as if he hadn’t heard a thing. “For her soul. And you’re going to have to rescind.”

Magnus couldn’t help but be amused by the situation. “Demon-client confidentiality prevents me from discussing any of this with you, I’m afraid.” But his curiosity was piqued. Especially when he realized that the faint smell of angel blood had permeated the air around them.

Angel blood.

“Of course, I should have realized immediately.” He stepped up to the edge line of the pentagram to look closer. “Which one of Raziel’s guardians are you?”

A soft sigh of exasperation preceded one word: “Alexander.”

“‘Defender of man’, yes? Seems fitting.” If he didn’t know better, Magnus would have said that Alexander preened almost imperceptibly at his words. “And Alana is in your care. Interesting, given the fact that she sought me out.”

The shadows of tenderness that had lingered on Alexander’s face for mere seconds at the mention of her name disappeared altogether as his expression clouded over. “She never should have summoned you. Her grief has blinded her, so I have to be the one to protect her.”

“You almost believed that when you said it.” Magnus of all people knew what lying to oneself looked like. “The truth is, it kills you that you can’t save her from this grief. Your purpose is to protect her, but there are limits to what you can control, and now you have to face them.”

“You can’t undo the past,” Alexander countered, eyebrows drawn low over his eyes in consternation. “And that’s what she truly wants. Whatever you offer her, it won’t be enough.”

“You know what she went through. You know how greatly she mourns—both for what she lost and what was never hers to begin with. There’s no price too steep for peace that can heal that kind of devastation.”

The angel visibly gritted his teeth, the muscle in his jaw jumping as it flexed. “Rip up the deal and give her soul back.” The slow cadence he spoke with betrayed the anger that he was sealing away inside.

“It might interest you to know that no official contract exists yet. Ms. Clarke hasn’t made her choice, so if you have concerns, you should take them to your charge herself.”

The anger stoked by Magnus’ words became increasingly apparent in Alexander, and he rolled his neck to the side slightly as if trying to shake free of something. “I won’t ask again.” When Magnus offered no reply, he took a few steps back from the pentagram. “Well, you’re welcome to rot here until you change your mind, then.”

If he were a different person, if circumstances were trivial, he would enjoy an indulgent show of his own strength. As it were, Magnus only gloated a little as he stepped over the brusque chalk line meant to confine him. “I have no plans to do any such thing.”

Alexander was speechless, his mouth slightly agape as Magnus moved towards him. “That isn’t possible. No lesser demon can—”

Reaching out with a dark red tendril of magic, Magnus held him still. “Pleased to meet you, Alexander. My name is Magnus Bane, reigning Prince of Edom and son of one of the First Hierarchy—a Knight of Hell.” When their faces were mere inches apart, he offered the faintest of smiles. “Ms. Clarke has sought my protection now, so I suggest you don’t try to interfere again.”    

**

The air in the Hunter’s Moon was thick with the scent of stale alcohol and sweat-slicked bodies, and Magnus relished it. Perhaps it was the hedonistically human part of him, but there was something magnetic about the raw electricity of bodies pressed flush against one another beneath the hot lights.

His attention was diverted, however, when he noticed the man who had just walked in and was making his way to the bar. Alexander stood out in a crowd even when he was dressed down, wearing a grey Henley and jeans.

With a subtle gesture, Magnus caught the eye of a bartender gathering empty glasses abandoned on a nearby table. “The man who just walked in—make him a Vieux Carre.” A neatly folded hundred-dollar bill materialized between his thumb and middle finger, and he offered it to her.

The woman’s bracelets made a delicate jingling sound as she plucked it from his grasp. “He looks intense. Ex of yours?”

With a chuckle, he brushed his thumb tenderly against her chin for a fleeting moment. “Discretion, Maia.”

She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. “Courtesy of?”

“An associate.”

Despite looking thoroughly unconvinced, Maia pocketed the money and Magnus raised his drink to her in gratitude.

“An olive branch?” Alexander guessed a few minutes later, setting his glass down on Magnus’ table.

“Actually, it’s a black cherry garnish.” Magnus plucks the fruit from his glass and takes a bite of the tender flesh. “I figured a drink would be a good icebreaker.”

Alexander dropped down into the chair opposite him. “You don’t look surprised to see me here.”

“You’ve been following me on and off all day, angel. What am I meant to be surprised about?”

His expression darkens, his eyebrows drawn tightly together in consternation. “We haven’t struck an accord yet.”

Shaking his head faintly, Magnus downed the last of his Negroni. “There is nothing to negotiate. You have no claim on the contract between me and my client.”

“She is going to do this if I do not put a stop to it.” Rather than the burn of anger or the cold of hatred, Alexander looked pained to be saying those words. “I want to make a deal.”

Whatever he had been expecting Alexander to say, that certainly wasn’t it. Magnus sat in stunned silence for a beat. “Just to be clear… You want to give me your eternal soul to release Alana Clarke from a contract that she implored me to honor?”

“Yes.” He couldn’t know what he was agreeing to, and yet there was a fierce determination on his face that almost made Magnus wish that it were possible. “Let’s do it.”

“It is not possible, Alexander,” Magnus said somberly. His tone had gone soft despite himself. The desperation in the guardian’s eyes made something in his chest begin to ache. “Even if you did have a soul as the mortals do.”

It almost looked as though the faintest hint of vulnerable desperation was beginning to shine through the cracks of his façade. Instead, with a grunt of frustration, Alexander pushed back from the table and crossed his arms. “She is under my protection, Magnus.”

“In a manner of speaking, she’s under mine too.”

“If you control Edom, why even spend your time making deals for souls? Isn’t that beneath you?” he retorted heatedly.

“It’s not about the souls. It never has been,” Magnus found himself saying. It had never been in his nature to be transparent, and frankly he had never had a reason to try. The way that Alexander wore his feelings so genuinely compelled him to reciprocate. “The lesser demons who skulk around crossroads and manipulate the avaricious and covetous do so by nature. I choose the worthy summoners, the ones who want nothing more or less than resolution, and offer them peace.”

Staring down into his glass, Alexander heaved a sigh of frustration. “Indulging their emotions is not the same as protecting them.”

“That depends on who you are protecting them from, hmm?”

Something in those words seemed to reach Alexander in a way that nothing else between them had. His shoulders hunched wearily, as though a great burden had been dropped and left foregone. “I don’t know,” he surrendered.

**

Thunder rattled the window panes of the penthouse as the storm outside grew stronger, and Magnus could feel the glass shivering beneath his fingers where they were pressed on either side of Alexander’s body. They were both mostly clothed, but where their bare skin touched, it felt like fire. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the otherwise darkened living room, so Magnus used the cacophony of harsh exhales and soft moans to guide his movements.

It had to be the most profane act, because it felt like salvation.

“Nnnnh,” Alexander moaned, reaching up for Magnus’ hands blindly and intertwining their fingers.

More or less restrained, Magnus put more power into the movement of his hips. It was an inexplicable desperation that had led them to this, and now it was boiling in his blood and driving him forward.

The pleasure crested, and for one perfect moment, everything felt simple—they were just two people who found relief in wanting one another. That was how they had ended up here, after all; a categorically innocuous moment had somehow set Magnus’ skin on fire with how greatly he yearned to touch him, and everything between them had unraveled before he could do anything but follow in its wake.

For weeks the tenacious guardian had been nothing but a thorn in his side, but then all at once, something changed and Magnus could no longer remember how to simply dislike him. Perhaps he put too much stock in his heart—or whatever the son of a Greater Demon was capable of containing—to ever stay free of falling prey to the way of the mortal world. All he knew now, though, was that he felt dread like an ache in his chest at the unavoidable truth that Alexander would leave.  

“Don’t leave,” Magnus whispered breathlessly in Alexander’s ear. “You can stay the night. I want you to.”

In reply, Alexander nodded and pressed an almost reticent kiss to his lips. “I’ve already crossed the line, what’s another step?” Even pressed together in such an achingly intimate embrace, there was a hesitance in him. Perhaps he was telling himself this was a big mistake, and he would hate Magnus in the morning.

It wouldn’t be the first time, at least, so he would drink away the pain in the evening and be remade again in the morning.

Already in a sloppy state of undress, they both peeled off their remaining layers of clothing and let them fall in a heap on the bedroom floor before crawling beneath the sheets. Magnus had slept alone for so long that his heart twisted in his chest at the feeling of a warm body beside him.

Once Magnus had settled into the mattress and was lying still, Alexander slid his foot between Magnus’ calves and pressed their bodies closer. His hands were more diffident in their movements, slowly tracing a path down Magnus’ forearm and over the bone of his wrist before loosely intertwining their fingers.

He closed his eyes for a moment, just to savor this fragile piece of time, but when he opened them again, it was morning. The deep orange and red of the sunrise bathed the bedroom in a warm glow, and illuminated Alexander where he was perched on the edge of the bed. “Are you going somewhere?”

The muscles in Alexander’s upper back rippled beneath his alabaster skin as he tensed. “I didn’t want to wake you,” was all he said, but for just a moment, his eyes lingered on Magnus as if he were hoping for a rebuttal.

“We don’t have to keep doing this to each other, acting as though we’re so unalike.”

That made him look away, and he stood with his back to Magnus as he adjusted the cuff of his shirt sleeve absently. “Yes, we do. We have to be.”

“God himself created even the avenging angels in his image,” Magnus replied with the hint of a smirk on his lips.

With a wry, all but humorless laugh, Alexander shook his head. “That’s not the point, Magnus! What kind of guardian allows the ones he looks after to pawn their souls for resolutions?” He turned back to face him with hard resolve.

Magnus couldn’t help but be reminded of the volatile, at times impetuous, young man he was. He had been quick to anger, holding himself in contempt for all the things that were out of his control. “Alexander—this is her life. Do you truly prefer that she suffer through this mortal existence when that is all she gets?”

“I have failed spectacularly in the past to do the one thing I’m meant to do, and I won’t let that happen again.” Grabbing his jacket from the floor, he shrugged it on and stalked off.

**

“I’m ready,” Alana declared without preamble.

A smattering of Edom’s red dirt shook loose from the tread of Magnus’ boots as he strode over to her. “I told you that the next time you summoned me you would need to be certain. If this is your decision, then all that is left is your contract.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “Let’s do this.”

Magnus held up his hand and angled it above her chest. “All this requires is a mark left on your soul, like an earmark. It binds you to me.” With a languid flutter of his fingers, a deep blue energy emitted from them and seeped beneath her skin. The pulsing of her heartbeat was thrummed against his magic and he could feel it as if her heart itself were in the palm of his hand. With a final push, the energy ensnared her soul, wrapping around it like ivy on a vine and pressing in to leave behind an intricate lace of markings.

She shivered faintly and let out a short, sharp exhale. “It feels like ice.”

“It should not last long,” he assured her as he pulled his hand back. “Now, taking your memories will be painless; simply stand very still.”

As soon as he began to probe her memories, her eyes clouded over into a haze of milky white. In brief flashes, he could see through her eyes flashes of the past that she had hidden away. He could feel a tangled web of emotions, each vying for pride of place. He could hear a cacophony of her name echoing in millions of different tones and inflections. Each piece pulled at her, nearly tearing her apart from the tension about to snap. Extracting them was like sucking the poison from a wound, leaving a bitter residue behind. It had been left to fester for so long that in places the memories were like rot, but in time, they all came away. “You’re purely your own now,” Magnus whispered in Alana’s ear, and with that, he vanished from her side.

For a moment, he just stood in the alleyway behind the warehouse, breathing in the damp, cold air of the rain’s end. A few droplets dotted his face and neck, and he closed his eyes to savor it. In Edom, there was no such relief like a storm.

Suddenly, he felt a presence in the shadows, familiar and passive.

“Come to spy, angel?”

Emerging soundlessly, Alexander stood with his arms folded behind him like a soldier poised in wait.

Quirking an eyebrow, Magnus turned to face him directly. “Are you going to start a street brawl for what she willingly gave me?”

The guardian almost smiled at that, and it put Magnus more at ease. “What kind of idiot do you think I am? Actually, don’t answer that. I have a feeling I would not like the answer.” Shaking his head, Alexander continued. “I was here when Alana summoned you. But I… I decided you were right, Magnus.”

“Sorry?”

Despite himself, Alexander chuckled wryly. “I could be cast out for what I have done, but protecting the mortals entrusted to me is worth any price.”

Magnus looked at him skeptically. “Forgive me if I am hesitant to accept your truce, Alexander.”

“Who said anything about a truce?” Though his words were antagonistic, his tone was peaceable. “But I suppose I should thank you for what you taught me.”

Holding up a hand to stop him, Magnus shook his head. “Please, angel. We are not obliged to such extreme shows of good faith. Besides, Edom would freeze over, and then where would I be?”

Alexander awkwardly shifted closer. “Here’s hoping we remain acquaintances from afar.”

“As if,” Magnus waved off, pressing in closer until their chests were flush. “You like me too much.”

“I never said that,” Alexander managed breathlessly before leaning in to join their lips in a kiss that could grow a whole garden from Edom’s barren desert sand.

**

For all of its flaws, Magnus decided that he liked Brooklyn. Edom was his domain, but perhaps this could be his home.

Penthouse One had become more or less a safe haven, oddly enough. The balcony provided the perfect place for his morning meditations, the living room could host a great many guests, and the apothecary was quaint and studious. And perhaps he was indulging in feeling like a mortal at times, but what else was he to do when he was topside so frequently?

The soft click of the door opening made Magnus set down his martini and move towards the entryway curiously. In the hall, he saw a figure cloaked in a long black coat with a hood concealing their face. Boots stained with dirt and dried blood left a faint trail on the wood floor, and the bow over their shoulder was battered with scratches and dings.

“Alexander, you’re home early.”

Shaking his head free from the hood, Alexander revealed his bloodied face. “I gave myself the rest of the night off.”

With a disapproving tsk, Magnus guided his chin away from him to get a better look at the trails of crimson oozing down from his temple and cheekbone. “No rest for the wicked, hmm?”

Alexander rolled his eyes as he allowed Magnus to steer him to the couch. “I think I may have broken a rib,” grunted as he lowered himself onto a cushion.

“Take your jacket and shirt off so I can see.” Magnus gingerly sat beside him and helped to maneuver his arms from the sleeves. His knuckles faintly brushed Alexander’s upper back and his whole body tensed in reflex. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, carefully working around the cloth that covered two deep, distinct scars where Alexander’s wings had been ripped from his back some time ago. They looked much like his father’s. As soon as they worked together to peel Alexander’s t-shirt off, Magnus couldn’t help but lean over and brush his lips, faint as a whisper, against the point between his shoulder blades between the dark V-shaped scarring. “Now, let me take a look.”

“Here.” With some difficulty, Alexander rolled slightly to his left side, revealing a blossoming bruise against the side of his rib cage. After just a gentle probing of Magnus’ finger tips against the tender skin, he jerked away. “Fuck.”

“Was it worth the fight, Night Arrow?” Magnus asked with a faint smile, unearthing a package of alcohol swabs from the first aid kit they kept hidden beneath the couch for just such an occasion.

“Always. I have to do something, right?” The bitter edge in voice would likely always be there at the mention of his being cast down. The scars on his back were a reminder he would never need, because Magnus knew he could never forget.

Magnus himself would likely always be haunted by the events of the night Alexander fell from Heaven. The sight of him when he stumbled to Magnus’ door, drenched in sweat and pale as death as he bled through the scraps of fabric he had wrapped himself in still felt too unbearable to recall. Even as a mortal, he still found a way to dedicate himself to the protection of the innocent, and Magnus could never begrudge him that.

“There’s something else that might help,” he murmured, wincing as he scratched absently at the drying blood on his forehead.

Setting down the swabs, Magnus straightened up to look at him.

“A kiss.”

“A kiss,” Magnus echoed, a grin spreading across his lips. “What will you give me for it? Your everlasting soul?”

Alexander dropped his chin and his lips parted just enough to tenderly take Magnus’ finger into his mouth. His tongue was warm and soft, and Magnus felt that all too human feeling of butterflies in his stomach. Releasing him with a quiet pop, Alexander smiled. “That’s not mine to give anymore. It’s already yours.”

[thetypedwriter]

Chain of Iron Book Review

Chain of Iron Book Review by Cassandra Clare 

You know, I was actually really irritated when this book came out because once again, the Dark Artifices seems to be shafted for this new series (that nobody asked for) to shine, but fortunately I wasn’t as bothered by it as I predicted I would be. 

In case you are in the small minority of people who haven’t heard of Cassandra Clare and her millions of Shadowhunter books, Chain of Iron is the next nephilim installment in Clare’s never-ending series. 

Chain of Iron is the sequel to Chain of Gold, and the series as a whole is a sequel to the Infernal Devices series, but a prequel to the original Mortal Instruments as well as the Dark Artifices which is the sequel series to the Mortal Instruments. 

I would be surprised if you weren’t baffled right now. 

I’ve said this before for other Shadowhunter installments, but these books are not user friendly for new folk. You genuinely need to have read the other series to get full enjoyment and understanding of these books.

 If you do read them without having read the others, I'm sure it would still be enjoyable to a certain extent, but a large case of ensemble character and relationships will be lost to you and a big portion of these novels are the relationships within them. 

To delve right in, Chain of Iron has our main cast of friendly teenagers nicknamed the Merry Thieves (which I just abhor, sorry, not sorry) return from Chain of Gold after fighting one of the princes of Hell, Belial, and now with Cordelia and James being married as to avoid a scandal of Cordelia’s reputation and James’ criminal record. 

In addition, there is a new serial killer on the loose murdering shadowhunters at dawn and stealing their runes. Most of the book is dealt with trying to catch the culprit, the Consul and Inquisitor along with the whole of adult shadowhunter authority being inconsequential and inept as usual (how these people became parents are beyond me as they never have any sort of clue what their children get up to) along with side plots including raising Jesse Blackthorn from the dead and romance galore in typical Clare fashion that makes you want to rip your hair out because if everyone just communicated and was honest there would be no issues. 

The beginning of the novel is molasses slow.

I’ve come to expect this with Clare’s books. Actually, I think I’ve figured out the formula entirely. Here is is:

Mostly nothing of consequence happens for nearly 400 pages except for character building and small instances of plot 

Intersperse some random demon attacks for flavor 

Everyone is beautiful, everyone is in love, and love is the most groundbreaking, earth shattering thing in existence 

Get into the last 200ish pages and shit hits the fan with action, misunderstandings, and confessions 

Nobody is honest with anybody and lying is commonplace

End the behemoth on a cliffhanger so that the audience is kept in suspenseful anxiety until the next installment 

You can’t see me, but I am bowing right now. 

Genuinely, that is how 90% of Clare’s novels pan out. Obviously, as she has a very successful and long-running book series, the formula works. 

That being said, there are some vices and virtues to it. 

For this book, the beginning was slow. Almost nothing of significance happens for most of it and it's a dredge to get through. 

However, it’s mundane to get through in the same way that reading fanfiction of your favorite characters is mundane. What Clare does for 400 pieces of paper is build up her characters and their relationships. Normally, you would do this interspersed with plot, but not in this case. 

It’s not very conventional, but it kinda works?

I definitely struggled connecting with the characters from this series more than any other of Clare’s novels. The Mortal Instruments, as the original, were beloved if a little cheesy. Then came the Infernal Devices with witty Will, soulful Jem, and intelligent Tessa. Then we got the Dark Artifices, which to me, is still the best as Julian, Emma, Mark, Christina and the others are the most flawed in any of the series and I enjoy that. 

I enjoy that they’re not perfect, I enjoy that they’re devious and conniving. It makes them more interesting and more worthwhile to read about. 

Instead, the main characters in Chain of Iron and the subsequent series are mainly James, Cordelia, Matthew, and sometimes Lucie. I would argue that no one else matters in the book and are just added in for some sugar, spice, and everything nice. 

Some of you might be outraged at this statement. What about Grace? You might say. Or Jesse? Or Thomas, Christopher, Alistair, Ariadne or Anna?

They don’t matter. 

They matter in a very small, plot convenience, fluff ensues kind of way, but not really in any way of substance. Or, at the very least, that’s how I feel. 

Anna is just there to be cool, Thomas is a gay gentle giant with literally no personality, Christopher is so basic and is essentially the Trader Joe’s version of Henry who was better and more interesting as the first, Alistair is a redeemed bully, and Ariadne is an orphan who loves Anna. 

The end. 

Once again, sometimes Clare bites off more than she can chew and I wonder if she just throws these characters in there just because it makes her happy. 

As for our main protagonists, they’re mediocre. Matthew is definitely the most interesting in the bunch and I was jubilant to see him get more screen time this time around. The increasing realization of his alcohol abuse, his feelings for Cordelia, his nonplussed attitude. 

All of it is intriguing. I still don’t like him as much as other protagonists from other installments, but he is by far the winner of this triad. 

James is too perfect, too beautiful, and a worse version of his father. If I wanted more Will I would have turned to fanfiction of the Infernal Devices instead of imagining up his son. The only interesting thing about James is his demon connection which is not even something he does, but rather something that is done to him. 

Cordelia is banal. Once again, she’s too perfect, too brave, and too kind. Literally nothing is wrong with her. She’s level headed, intelligent, forgiving, and fierce. 

Basically, she’s boring to the brim. 

I do think Clare did a better job this time around to include more of Cordelia’s Persian heritage, but it still mainly fell to the backburner of her lackluster and blank personality. In fact, I think James made more of an effort for Persian food and culture than Cordelia did, but I digress. 

Also, a small note, but still with weight, why does Cordelia have eight names??

It bugs the living daylights out of me that in a single sentence she will be called Cordelia, Layla and Daisy. 

Clare. Give the girl one name. My god. 

Actually, as a side note to this side note, Clare is talented at many things, but nicknames are not one of them. EVERY SINGLE CHARACTER IN THIS NOVEL has a nickname and all of them are horrible. I have never in my entire life known a Matthew that has gone by the nickname Math. 

What. In. The. World. 

Anyways, the only other character of note is Lucie. I like and dislike Lucie. Lucie is also boring and her novelist passion is aggravating to me. However, I did like her turn with necromancy and her increasing desperation to save Jesse that drives her to work with Grace and lie to her friends and family was a much-needed note of interest. 

Overall, this book did make me like the characters more than I did in Chain of Gold, but it took a lot of blood, sweat, and tears to get there, more than what I think should have been afforded. If you need to kill 400 trees in order to make me like your main characters, that’s a problem. 

Whatever the method, I do care about them more than I did previously so I suppose mission accomplished. I do think some of the strongest relationships in the book are the romances, but then also the parabatai bond between Matthew and James. 

Matthew and James have one of the best relationships in the book and I’m equally frustrated and intrigued how things will play out with Matthew now having confessed his feelings for Cordelia. 

I do feel like female parabatai get shafted in a lot of Clare’s novels compared to the boys. The coed pairs often do well like Clary and Simon or Emma and Julian. Otherwise, the boys far outrank the girls in terms of bond and friendship. 

Even in this novel, the “friendship” between Lucie and Cordelia is laughable. They barely talk to each other or spend time together and when they do is shallow.  Whereas Matthew and James seem much more involved in each other’s lives. 

That being said, if you noticed I didn’t speak much of the plot it’s because for me plot comes very much second in a Shadowhudenter novel. It’s there of course, and it’s entertaining, but I do enjoy the characters and their relationships more than anything else which makes Chain of Iron  better than its predecessor but still worse in my view than any other of Clare’s novels. 

Plot just doesn’t compare to the soul crushing love and friendships shown between the pages, for better or for worse. 

Recommendation: The Dark Artifices > Infernal Devices > The Mortal Instruments ...and  The Last Hours fall somewhere after the Mortal Instruments and the trillions of side novels that Clare has co-written with other authors and all seem to be about Magnus Bane.

Score: 7/10 

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, ladymatt

For @ladymatt, wishing you a lovely, safe, and happy holiday with this little malec one shot! x

Fantasy au wherein Alec is a guardian angel, Magnus is a demon who makes deals, and maybe they’re not as different as they think.

Read On AO3

*****

Lost and Found

As the flames at Magnus’ feet die out, he takes in his surroundings inquisitively. Beneath his boots are tentative chalk lines, thin and light in places, that connect into a pentagram drawn on a cracked cement floor. The room he is in is vast and all but empty, with high ceilings and exposed metal beams. A warehouse, most likely; the kind of place a human might deem a safe, neutral location for a demon summoning. As he turned to his left, a woman, young in years but with a heaviness weighing on her that belied her age, was staring at him from a few feet away with a tattered hardback journal clutched in one hand.

“You called me,” he stated, standing a few steps away from the barrier line. “I assume that because you did the summoning correctly and seem…prepared, that you know what it is that I do.”

She looked almost startled at being addressed, but the expression lasted only a moment before she held it back with a clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. “I know what I’m doing,” she asserted, though her voice wavered slightly.

After analyzing the detailing of the pentagram, Magnus touched the tip of his boot to a symbol that had been incorrectly drawn. “It’s an impressive work, but I would suggest you study a bit more next time. This right here…leaves an opening.”

Now the woman looked terrified, frozen in place with her arms encircling her middle protectively.

With a slightly sardonic chuckle, he shook his head. “If I was going to hurt you, I wouldn’t have pointed out your error.” He stepped closer to the edge line, closer to her. “After all, you wish to make a deal, yes? Which means you have something I would be happy to take. I don’t want to ruin that opportunity for myself just yet.”

For a moment, he just looked at her, observing. She had very short hair, so blonde it was practically white, and deep brown, almost black, eyes. Her pupils were almost swallowed up by the darkness of the iris. There was a small smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and dusting the tops of her cheeks, looking oddly childlike in the midst of her worn features. He was well-versed in reading humans after all these centuries, and he could see in her an authenticity that caught his attention. “What’s your name?”

“Alana. Alana Clarke. And I want to make a deal.”

“Well then,” Magnus began, steepling his fingers thoughtfully, “tell me, to what do I owe this summons?”

“I…have something I want to forget.” Her voice wavered slightly on the last word.

“Someone,” Magnus stated in realization. “A deal with me requires specificity, Ms. Clarke.”

It took a moment before she hesitantly elaborated further. “My husband. He was…cold. And unable to love, in the end. I never felt like I could leave him. One day, he snapped and I…I didn’t have a choice. I can’t let the memory of him control my life anymore. I can’t bear to let him change me the way I’m afraid he might.”

Rubbing his fingers together contemplatively, he replied, “That is a very serious choice to make. And one that cannot be undone. As luck would have it, it would be quite easy for me to give you what you’re asking for, but it has a steep price. And not just your soul. Are you certain this is what you want?”

Her silence was only too telling.

With a firm shake of his head, Magnus took a step back. “You must be sure. I am neither judge nor jury; I will only carry out what our deal entails. I urge you strongly to consider this. Memory cannot just be given and taken on a whim. Once I remove it, it will be permanent.”

Alana shook her head with a tired sigh. “I just… I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, I can’t think… I don’t know how to go on without doing something. I—” Abruptly cutting herself off, she stood up a little straighter and schooled her expression into a carefully curated stoicism. “I have to take the responsibility, and I will.”

It had been a long while since someone with such conviction had come to Magnus like this. Often, those who summoned him didn’t understand the gravity of the situation they were making for themselves, but it was their mistake to make. This time, somehow, he couldn’t bear the thought of allowing her to follow them down that path of regret lurking in the future.

“For your benefit, I will not yet make the deal,” he began. “I require certainty, and I do not see that in you. I’m going to give you another opportunity to think very carefully about just what is worth the price of your soul before you sign it over to me.”

**

The next time Magnus found himself standing in the ash and last embers of unholy flame in the middle of the old warehouse, the person standing opposite him was not Alana Clarke.

Instead, it was a tall, dark haired man with a stern look on his face, standing stock-still with his hands behind his back. He was not entirely mortal, nor human, Magnus realized upon observing the presence of spiritual matter along the lines of his shoulders and down his spine. It also wasn’t lost on him that the man had a blade made of adamas tucked away inside the folds of his jacket. It was an ancient kind of weapon, not only priceless but rare.  

The pentagram Magnus was standing on was far more detailed than the one that Alana had used to summon him, rooted in much stronger magic. The kind of magic that could only be infused by a summoner of great power. “I’m impressed,” he mused, turning in place to observe the rest of the finer detail.

“You made a deal with Alana Clarke,” the man stated coolly, as if he hadn’t heard a thing. “For her soul. And you’re going to have to rescind.”

Magnus couldn’t help but be amused by the situation. “Demon-client confidentiality prevents me from discussing any of this with you, I’m afraid.” But his curiosity was piqued. Especially when he realized that the faint smell of angel blood had permeated the air around them.

Angel blood.

“Of course, I should have realized immediately.” He stepped up to the edge line of the pentagram to look closer. “Which one of Raziel’s guardians are you?”

A soft sigh of exasperation preceded one word: “Alexander.”

“‘Defender of man’, yes? Seems fitting.” If he didn’t know better, Magnus would have said that Alexander preened almost imperceptibly at his words. “And Alana is in your care. Interesting, given the fact that she sought me out.”

The shadows of tenderness that had lingered on Alexander’s face for mere seconds at the mention of her name disappeared altogether as his expression clouded over. “She never should have summoned you. Her grief has blinded her, so I have to be the one to protect her.”

“You almost believed that when you said it.” Magnus of all people knew what lying to oneself looked like. “The truth is, it kills you that you can’t save her from this grief. Your purpose is to protect her, but there are limits to what you can control, and now you have to face them.”

“You can’t undo the past,” Alexander countered, eyebrows drawn low over his eyes in consternation. “And that’s what she truly wants. Whatever you offer her, it won’t be enough.”

“You know what she went through. You know how greatly she mourns—both for what she lost and what was never hers to begin with. There’s no price too steep for peace that can heal that kind of devastation.”

The angel visibly gritted his teeth, the muscle in his jaw jumping as it flexed. “Rip up the deal and give her soul back.” The slow cadence he spoke with betrayed the anger that he was sealing away inside.

“It might interest you to know that no official contract exists yet. Ms. Clarke hasn’t made her choice, so if you have concerns, you should take them to your charge herself.”

The anger stoked by Magnus’ words became increasingly apparent in Alexander, and he rolled his neck to the side slightly as if trying to shake free of something. “I won’t ask again.” When Magnus offered no reply, he took a few steps back from the pentagram. “Well, you’re welcome to rot here until you change your mind, then.”

If he were a different person, if circumstances were trivial, he would enjoy an indulgent show of his own strength. As it were, Magnus only gloated a little as he stepped over the brusque chalk line meant to confine him. “I have no plans to do any such thing.”

Alexander was speechless, his mouth slightly agape as Magnus moved towards him. “That isn’t possible. No lesser demon can—”

Reaching out with a dark red tendril of magic, Magnus held him still. “Pleased to meet you, Alexander. My name is Magnus Bane, reigning Prince of Edom and son of one of the First Hierarchy—a Knight of Hell.” When their faces were mere inches apart, he offered the faintest of smiles. “Ms. Clarke has sought my protection now, so I suggest you don’t try to interfere again.”    

**

The air in the Hunter’s Moon was thick with the scent of stale alcohol and sweat-slicked bodies, and Magnus relished it. Perhaps it was the hedonistically human part of him, but there was something magnetic about the raw electricity of bodies pressed flush against one another beneath the hot lights.

His attention was diverted, however, when he noticed the man who had just walked in and was making his way to the bar. Alexander stood out in a crowd even when he was dressed down, wearing a grey Henley and jeans.

With a subtle gesture, Magnus caught the eye of a bartender gathering empty glasses abandoned on a nearby table. “The man who just walked in—make him a Vieux Carre.” A neatly folded hundred-dollar bill materialized between his thumb and middle finger, and he offered it to her.

The woman’s bracelets made a delicate jingling sound as she plucked it from his grasp. “He looks intense. Ex of yours?”

With a chuckle, he brushed his thumb tenderly against her chin for a fleeting moment. “Discretion, Maia.”

She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly. “Courtesy of?”

“An associate.”

Despite looking thoroughly unconvinced, Maia pocketed the money and Magnus raised his drink to her in gratitude.

“An olive branch?” Alexander guessed a few minutes later, setting his glass down on Magnus’ table.

“Actually, it’s a black cherry garnish.” Magnus plucks the fruit from his glass and takes a bite of the tender flesh. “I figured a drink would be a good icebreaker.”

Alexander dropped down into the chair opposite him. “You don’t look surprised to see me here.”

“You’ve been following me on and off all day, angel. What am I meant to be surprised about?”

His expression darkens, his eyebrows drawn tightly together in consternation. “We haven’t struck an accord yet.”

Shaking his head faintly, Magnus downed the last of his Negroni. “There is nothing to negotiate. You have no claim on the contract between me and my client.”

“She is going to do this if I do not put a stop to it.” Rather than the burn of anger or the cold of hatred, Alexander looked pained to be saying those words. “I want to make a deal.”

Whatever he had been expecting Alexander to say, that certainly wasn’t it. Magnus sat in stunned silence for a beat. “Just to be clear… You want to give me your eternal soul to release Alana Clarke from a contract that she implored me to honor?”

“Yes.” He couldn’t know what he was agreeing to, and yet there was a fierce determination on his face that almost made Magnus wish that it were possible. “Let’s do it.”

“It is not possible, Alexander,” Magnus said somberly. His tone had gone soft despite himself. The desperation in the guardian’s eyes made something in his chest begin to ache. “Even if you did have a soul as the mortals do.”

It almost looked as though the faintest hint of vulnerable desperation was beginning to shine through the cracks of his façade. Instead, with a grunt of frustration, Alexander pushed back from the table and crossed his arms. “She is under my protection, Magnus.”

“In a manner of speaking, she’s under mine too.”

“If you control Edom, why even spend your time making deals for souls? Isn’t that beneath you?” he retorted heatedly.

“It’s not about the souls. It never has been,” Magnus found himself saying. It had never been in his nature to be transparent, and frankly he had never had a reason to try. The way that Alexander wore his feelings so genuinely compelled him to reciprocate. “The lesser demons who skulk around crossroads and manipulate the avaricious and covetous do so by nature. I choose the worthy summoners, the ones who want nothing more or less than resolution, and offer them peace.”

Staring down into his glass, Alexander heaved a sigh of frustration. “Indulging their emotions is not the same as protecting them.”

“That depends on who you are protecting them from, hmm?”

Something in those words seemed to reach Alexander in a way that nothing else between them had. His shoulders hunched wearily, as though a great burden had been dropped and left foregone. “I don’t know,” he surrendered.

**

Thunder rattled the window panes of the penthouse as the storm outside grew stronger, and Magnus could feel the glass shivering beneath his fingers where they were pressed on either side of Alexander’s body. They were both mostly clothed, but where their bare skin touched, it felt like fire. Occasional flashes of lightning illuminated the otherwise darkened living room, so Magnus used the cacophony of harsh exhales and soft moans to guide his movements.

It had to be the most profane act, because it felt like salvation.

“Nnnnh,” Alexander moaned, reaching up for Magnus’ hands blindly and intertwining their fingers.

More or less restrained, Magnus put more power into the movement of his hips. It was an inexplicable desperation that had led them to this, and now it was boiling in his blood and driving him forward.

The pleasure crested, and for one perfect moment, everything felt simple—they were just two people who found relief in wanting one another. That was how they had ended up here, after all; a categorically innocuous moment had somehow set Magnus’ skin on fire with how greatly he yearned to touch him, and everything between them had unraveled before he could do anything but follow in its wake.

For weeks the tenacious guardian had been nothing but a thorn in his side, but then all at once, something changed and Magnus could no longer remember how to simply dislike him. Perhaps he put too much stock in his heart—or whatever the son of a Greater Demon was capable of containing—to ever stay free of falling prey to the way of the mortal world. All he knew now, though, was that he felt dread like an ache in his chest at the unavoidable truth that Alexander would leave.  

“Don’t leave,” Magnus whispered breathlessly in Alexander’s ear. “You can stay the night. I want you to.”

In reply, Alexander nodded and pressed an almost reticent kiss to his lips. “I’ve already crossed the line, what’s another step?” Even pressed together in such an achingly intimate embrace, there was a hesitance in him. Perhaps he was telling himself this was a big mistake, and he would hate Magnus in the morning.

It wouldn’t be the first time, at least, so he would drink away the pain in the evening and be remade again in the morning.

Already in a sloppy state of undress, they both peeled off their remaining layers of clothing and let them fall in a heap on the bedroom floor before crawling beneath the sheets. Magnus had slept alone for so long that his heart twisted in his chest at the feeling of a warm body beside him.

Once Magnus had settled into the mattress and was lying still, Alexander slid his foot between Magnus’ calves and pressed their bodies closer. His hands were more diffident in their movements, slowly tracing a path down Magnus’ forearm and over the bone of his wrist before loosely intertwining their fingers.

He closed his eyes for a moment, just to savor this fragile piece of time, but when he opened them again, it was morning. The deep orange and red of the sunrise bathed the bedroom in a warm glow, and illuminated Alexander where he was perched on the edge of the bed. “Are you going somewhere?”

The muscles in Alexander’s upper back rippled beneath his alabaster skin as he tensed. “I didn’t want to wake you,” was all he said, but for just a moment, his eyes lingered on Magnus as if he were hoping for a rebuttal.

“We don’t have to keep doing this to each other, acting as though we’re so unalike.”

That made him look away, and he stood with his back to Magnus as he adjusted the cuff of his shirt sleeve absently. “Yes, we do. We have to be.”

“God himself created even the avenging angels in his image,” Magnus replied with the hint of a smirk on his lips.

With a wry, all but humorless laugh, Alexander shook his head. “That’s not the point, Magnus! What kind of guardian allows the ones he looks after to pawn their souls for resolutions?” He turned back to face him with hard resolve.

Magnus couldn’t help but be reminded of the volatile, at times impetuous, young man he was. He had been quick to anger, holding himself in contempt for all the things that were out of his control. “Alexander—this is her life. Do you truly prefer that she suffer through this mortal existence when that is all she gets?”

“I have failed spectacularly in the past to do the one thing I’m meant to do, and I won’t let that happen again.” Grabbing his jacket from the floor, he shrugged it on and stalked off.

**

“I’m ready,” Alana declared without preamble.

A smattering of Edom’s red dirt shook loose from the tread of Magnus’ boots as he strode over to her. “I told you that the next time you summoned me you would need to be certain. If this is your decision, then all that is left is your contract.”

“Okay,” she nodded. “Let’s do this.”

Magnus held up his hand and angled it above her chest. “All this requires is a mark left on your soul, like an earmark. It binds you to me.” With a languid flutter of his fingers, a deep blue energy emitted from them and seeped beneath her skin. The pulsing of her heartbeat was thrummed against his magic and he could feel it as if her heart itself were in the palm of his hand. With a final push, the energy ensnared her soul, wrapping around it like ivy on a vine and pressing in to leave behind an intricate lace of markings.

She shivered faintly and let out a short, sharp exhale. “It feels like ice.”

“It should not last long,” he assured her as he pulled his hand back. “Now, taking your memories will be painless; simply stand very still.”

As soon as he began to probe her memories, her eyes clouded over into a haze of milky white. In brief flashes, he could see through her eyes flashes of the past that she had hidden away. He could feel a tangled web of emotions, each vying for pride of place. He could hear a cacophony of her name echoing in millions of different tones and inflections. Each piece pulled at her, nearly tearing her apart from the tension about to snap. Extracting them was like sucking the poison from a wound, leaving a bitter residue behind. It had been left to fester for so long that in places the memories were like rot, but in time, they all came away. “You’re purely your own now,” Magnus whispered in Alana’s ear, and with that, he vanished from her side.

For a moment, he just stood in the alleyway behind the warehouse, breathing in the damp, cold air of the rain’s end. A few droplets dotted his face and neck, and he closed his eyes to savor it. In Edom, there was no such relief like a storm.

Suddenly, he felt a presence in the shadows, familiar and passive.

“Come to spy, angel?”

Emerging soundlessly, Alexander stood with his arms folded behind him like a soldier poised in wait.

Quirking an eyebrow, Magnus turned to face him directly. “Are you going to start a street brawl for what she willingly gave me?”

The guardian almost smiled at that, and it put Magnus more at ease. “What kind of idiot do you think I am? Actually, don’t answer that. I have a feeling I would not like the answer.” Shaking his head, Alexander continued. “I was here when Alana summoned you. But I… I decided you were right, Magnus.”

“Sorry?”

Despite himself, Alexander chuckled wryly. “I could be cast out for what I have done, but protecting the mortals entrusted to me is worth any price.”

Magnus looked at him skeptically. “Forgive me if I am hesitant to accept your truce, Alexander.”

“Who said anything about a truce?” Though his words were antagonistic, his tone was peaceable. “But I suppose I should thank you for what you taught me.”

Holding up a hand to stop him, Magnus shook his head. “Please, angel. We are not obliged to such extreme shows of good faith. Besides, Edom would freeze over, and then where would I be?”

Alexander awkwardly shifted closer. “Here’s hoping we remain acquaintances from afar.”

“As if,” Magnus waved off, pressing in closer until their chests were flush. “You like me too much.”

“I never said that,” Alexander managed breathlessly before leaning in to join their lips in a kiss that could grow a whole garden from Edom’s barren desert sand.

**

For all of its flaws, Magnus decided that he liked Brooklyn. Edom was his domain, but perhaps this could be his home.

Penthouse One had become more or less a safe haven, oddly enough. The balcony provided the perfect place for his morning meditations, the living room could host a great many guests, and the apothecary was quaint and studious. And perhaps he was indulging in feeling like a mortal at times, but what else was he to do when he was topside so frequently?

The soft click of the door opening made Magnus set down his martini and move towards the entryway curiously. In the hall, he saw a figure cloaked in a long black coat with a hood concealing their face. Boots stained with dirt and dried blood left a faint trail on the wood floor, and the bow over their shoulder was battered with scratches and dings.

“Alexander, you’re home early.”

Shaking his head free from the hood, Alexander revealed his bloodied face. “I gave myself the rest of the night off.”

With a disapproving tsk, Magnus guided his chin away from him to get a better look at the trails of crimson oozing down from his temple and cheekbone. “No rest for the wicked, hmm?”

Alexander rolled his eyes as he allowed Magnus to steer him to the couch. “I think I may have broken a rib,” grunted as he lowered himself onto a cushion.

“Take your jacket and shirt off so I can see.” Magnus gingerly sat beside him and helped to maneuver his arms from the sleeves. His knuckles faintly brushed Alexander’s upper back and his whole body tensed in reflex. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, carefully working around the cloth that covered two deep, distinct scars where Alexander’s wings had been ripped from his back some time ago. They looked much like his father’s. As soon as they worked together to peel Alexander’s t-shirt off, Magnus couldn’t help but lean over and brush his lips, faint as a whisper, against the point between his shoulder blades between the dark V-shaped scarring. “Now, let me take a look.”

“Here.” With some difficulty, Alexander rolled slightly to his left side, revealing a blossoming bruise against the side of his rib cage. After just a gentle probing of Magnus’ finger tips against the tender skin, he jerked away. “Fuck.”

“Was it worth the fight, Night Arrow?” Magnus asked with a faint smile, unearthing a package of alcohol swabs from the first aid kit they kept hidden beneath the couch for just such an occasion.

“Always. I have to do something, right?” The bitter edge in voice would likely always be there at the mention of his being cast down. The scars on his back were a reminder he would never need, because Magnus knew he could never forget.

Magnus himself would likely always be haunted by the events of the night Alexander fell from Heaven. The sight of him when he stumbled to Magnus’ door, drenched in sweat and pale as death as he bled through the scraps of fabric he had wrapped himself in still felt too unbearable to recall. Even as a mortal, he still found a way to dedicate himself to the protection of the innocent, and Magnus could never begrudge him that.

“There’s something else that might help,” he murmured, wincing as he scratched absently at the drying blood on his forehead.

Setting down the swabs, Magnus straightened up to look at him.

“A kiss.”

“A kiss,” Magnus echoed, a grin spreading across his lips. “What will you give me for it? Your everlasting soul?”

Alexander dropped his chin and his lips parted just enough to tenderly take Magnus’ finger into his mouth. His tongue was warm and soft, and Magnus felt that all too human feeling of butterflies in his stomach. Releasing him with a quiet pop, Alexander smiled. “That’s not mine to give anymore. It’s already yours.”

[naerysthelonesome]

Hoax

The Malec breakup from the books. Sorry! But I just had to get this idea out of my head. It’s been bothering me since the first time I listened to Hoax last year.

My only one

My smoking gun

My eclipsed sun

This has broken me down

My twisted knife

My sleepless night

My win-less fight

This has frozen my ground

Magnus had never felt like this about anyone before. He’d been so sure Alec was the one he’d been searching so long for. It hurt to even think that he might have been wrong.

The first time he’d seen him, the cool shadow to his Parabatai’s fire, he’d known he had to get to know him somehow. And then he had, and Alec had grown to mean more to him than anything he’d anticipated.

At first Magnus had thought he was simply a pretty boy often eclipsed and underappreciated. Then he’d noticed the way he could still draw people in like the pull of the moon draws in the ocean, a power seemingly gone unnoticed by the Shadowhunter. It had intrigued him enough for him to ask around about him.

Magnus rarely fell for Shadowhunters. They were often much more trouble than they were worth. But there had been so many over the years he had cared about; been friends with. Perhaps he had assumed that was what Alec would mean to him too, when he’d made his move. Perhaps not.

And this Shadowhunter had been trouble. Being parabatai with Valentine’s son sure didn’t help his case. But Magnus had found that that was a price he was willing to pay to be near him. Besides, he’d also never shied away from drama. But being that close in proximity to it hadn’t been easy. Especially now that he was emotionally invested in all of it. (Or had been, anyway).

He’d worry about Alec so much it scared him. He hadn’t wanted to lose him in the way Shadowhunters were often lost. Killed in action. On patrol. Ripped apart. Eaten by a demon. So many gruesome ways to die. Or maybe Downworlder politics, or the Clave’s interference would tear them apart as it had so many relationships. Despite the long life he’d lived, he’d still assumed that would be the way he would lose his Alexander.

He’d never anticipated it being because of something the man himself had done. Tried to do.

Alexander had gone to Camille, of all people, for help. Magnus knew just how manipulative she could be, but Alexander wouldn’t have had to go to her at all, if he hadn’t been having real doubts about their relationship.

Stood on the cliffside

Screaming, "Give me a reason"

Your faithless love's the only hoax

I believe in

Don't want no other shade of blue

But you

No other sadness in the world would do

Alexander hadn’t spoken to him about that much; but even if he had, Magnus wasn’t sure he’d have known how to comfort him. He was immortal. Alexander would die before him. Maybe the last, but he would still be one in a long line of lovers. Magnus wasn’t okay with that. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

Apparently he’d been wrong. Camille had offered to shorten his immortality, something Alexander had actually considered an appropriate offer. The fact that he’d eventually decided it was immoral and chose not to go through with it, hardly mattered in the face of what a decision like that might have cost Magnus. Did he hate his being immortal so much he’d actually shorten his life to make it otherwise?

He’d ended things with him for it, of course. The Shadowhunter was too new to this- too insecure to have his first relationship with a damned Warlock. He was still coming to terms with his sexuality, for God’s sake! How Magnus had thought they would work out together at all was a mystery even to him.

The worst part of any of this was the fact that he stayed up every single night, thinking of Alexander. He even had dark circles around his eyes, and that hadn’t been a thing since Camille. How fitting.

All he wanted to do now was look into those blue eyes again. He’d thought of Will the first time he’d seen Alexander’s blue eyes and dark hair. There were many people around that bore the same combination, but most had reminded him of Jace’s better looking ancestor.

Then he’d started to get lost in Alexander’s eyes, and began to see him everywhere instead. It really wasn’t ideal. He’s started to miss his faded, ratty sweaters, and tousled hair, and watching his fingers delicately run along his beloved bow.

The dozens of unread texts, their many weeks worth of conversation all in blue, didn’t help either. Almost every second of every day was spent convincing himself not to check them, not to respond. Loving Alexander was messy, and harder than he’d expected, but it really had been worth it.

He knew as soon as Jace walked in the door that he’d be giving the Shadowhunter another chance.

[corinthbayrpg]

NAME. Zehra Sandalci AGE & BIRTH DATE. 487 & April 9th, 1534 GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/Her SPECIES. Succubus OCCUPATION. Owner of Acanthus Mollis FACE CLAIM. Burcu Özberk

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: infanticide, murder, suicide, miscarriage ) In the height of the Ottoman Empire, a girl was born. One of five, Zehra found herself constantly striving to have her voice heard amongst the rabble. She was a pretty child— it was often remarked upon as she walked behind her mother’s skirts in the market, or clung onto her brother’s sleeve, and while she seemed to have little talent for anything else; that in itself would get her far. Her other sisters, comely but clever, they likely would never see the same promise that Zehra Sandalci held in her tiny, unmarked hand. Her mother favoured her, and it earned the ire of her siblings, leaving them to mark her with wicked purple pinch marks when she wasn’t looking— Zehra was always crying, her family remarked, watching her heavy lashes fringe with tears, commenting on her lack of resolve. It would be alright, as things often were, because she was beautiful and that was currency more than strength.

She grew into a charming young woman, with a lightness to her soul of a creature who had never known any burdens: the spoon in her mouth was not silver, but it was honey coated and for as long as she was under the care of her family, her life was sweet. Constantinople was at the time, a center of the universe and the rule over the Mediterranean basin drew in several visitors from near and far, all with their own intentions. Zehra found them fascinating, walking along to the harbour to spy on new ships and unfamiliar faces. It was there that she had met Magnus, a sailor from Rome. He promised her a thousand pretty things, telling her of the place that he had been born, of his family and his life. Zehra was young and easily enamoured, taking his hand easily despite her own family’s protest, smiling as he promised to wed her in Rome. She would have a new life there, rich with his love and promises and as she stepped onto one of the ships she had watched come into the harbour, she bid Constantinople goodbye.

Rome had not been everything that Magnus had described, but the newness of it all was enough for his curious young bride, and Zehra was delighted to learn the language and customs. She flourished under the weight of compliments about her beauty, and the warmth of her new husband’s large family. It was in Rome that she outgrew her childhood, stretching long limbs and racing into being a woman. Cracks began to show in her marriage and foolish love after only half a year; when Magnus’ anger slipped out after she broke a dish and failed to prepare a foreign meal correctly. He was more animal than man, she realized, horrified as his normally dark eyes flashed a shade of what she could only describe as amber. His words had been snarled, he had bared his teeth, and Zehra had shrunk away, murmuring a thousand apologies. It began to happen more often, and she started to notice the howls around the house; the carelessness in her husband as he left the windows open despite the beasts that roamed beneath them. She was frightened, she confessed to him once, and he laughed with teeth that seemed to end at sharp points. She didn’t know what she should be afraid of, he had returned, leaving her shaking.

It was under the weight of a full moon that she followed her husband out of their home in the dead of night, trailing behind him quietly in the woods to see where it was that he was going. Zehra was alone in a country that she did not know, if he was no longer to be trusted, she would find herself without anything at all. Later, she realized, he must have known that she was there and yet he let her lay witness to the horrific sight: a man became beast under the moon, after a cacophony of breaking bones and shredding flesh, where the Roman had once stood, instead was a wolf bigger than any she had ever seen in her life, with hot breath and claws that gouged cruelly into the earth. Zehra screamed, and it chased her through the woods, cruel at her heels, leaving her crying out and her skin ripped apart by vines and brambles before she finally made her way home, locking a door to a sound that was distinctly like laughter.

He had come home in the early morning, slipping into their bed and whispering fondly by her ear that she now knew his secret, what he was entirely. Magnus spoke as though he carried the strength of a god, but as she shook under the covers, she saw him as nothing more than a monster. It was to the gods that she turned to, finding her way to the ancient temples of Rome, seeking out their infinite wisdom. Zehra had never intended to become devout, for her restless feet to carry her so often to praise, but it was there that she found comfort from a life that had become a nightmare.

It was only a few months after he had told her that he was a werewolf that he decided that he wanted a family of his own. Zehra, purposeless and alone most days, welcomed the idea– a child to raise as her own, and selfishly she saw it as an opportunity to have a companion, something to do besides stitch together Magnus’ ruined clothing. Pregnancy followed soon after, and it was in those months that she was almost convinced that she had imagined her husband’s rage– he became something domesticated and docile, laying his cheek against the swell of her stomach, fondly drawing his hand over her tired face. They were in love again and she was foolish enough to convince herself of such, darting into his arms and ignoring blood that stained the hems of his clothing. Such illusions are made to be shattered and when the child came, Zehra was filled with joy and love as she greeted her son, his name was to be Selim, after her favourite brother– but these moments of warmth were shadowed by Magnus’ inevitable rage.

He had wished for a child that would carry his genetics, another werewolf that would continue his legacy, but instead she had borne a human boy, perfect in his own right, but inadequate to his standards. She slept blissfully, with his small body tucked in beside hers and in the night Magnus stole him away to the woods where his end was met, cold and alone with his tiny cries left unheard by his mother. When she awoke, devastation overtook Zehra, whose rose coloured glasses had shattered and left gouges in flesh grown soft. It was her new gods that she sought comfort in, spending more and more time tucked in the temples praying to gods of old for freedom from a life that had brought her only sadness, and only suffering.

It was Bona Dea that heard her cries and the ancient goddess reached towards her, offering a bargain that she could not so easily refuse: anything in the world that she could ever want, and in return: the goddess would own her soul. Zehra, still raw with grief, made the bargain readily. She would never have children again, and the goddess assured her of it before they parted ways. To be spoken to by a deity made her feel chosen, it brought warmth back to her days and the promise of new horizons, the fact that a goddess had heard her felt like something: until Magnus undoubtedly shattered what joy she had scraped together meagerly from her life.

The goddess had been true to her word and she was never to bear a child again– her next pregnancy never made full term and the child, Zehra had noted as she sobbed, had been human: another insult to her husband and his desire for a pure blood line. It was shortly after that he decided that the only way to ensure that the gene carried on was for her to become a werewolf as well, something he began to plan with the pack: something ceremonious and grand, to make his imported wife into something even more valuable. Night terrors gripped Zehra as she imagined what it would be like to become one of the monsters in the woods, to shed her human skin in favour of something beast-like and terrible, and to taste blood on her teeth. Bona Dea had told her one thing for certain, and she would not easily forget it: their bargain could only be struck while she was human, mortal as she had been born.

It was in the woods where her Selim had passed that she too tossed away her life, plunging a blade into her heart as she saw Magnus thundering in her direction: Zehra smiled before he could reach her. It was the goddess that reached for her hand when her spirit faded from the earth, and it was she who had tucked her soul into her possession, taking it before she gestured for the newly born succubus to return to the earth. Magnus was shocked to see his wife walking into their family home after watching her crumple into the golden leaves of fall. He was further shocked to see the warmth that she regarded him with, and the charm that she radiated: all things of which had faded from their relationship long ago.

Zehra stole the first portion of his soul that night, and more of it the next, until what remained of it was just a miserable scraping around his hollow chest– her husband took his own life not long after. The life of a cubi began this way, with her first whispers of freedom. It was a large world, brave and new and all of it sat in her capable hands. Roaming and travelling became a priority, and she saw the dawn of new ports and lands, and briefly returned to her own home in Turkey. She had outlived her own family and much of the great empire had changed, leaving nothing for her to cling onto: there were no ties binding her to such a place and the succubus took her leave.

Europe became her playground and where she was one hesitant and docile, a wicked streak brewed darkly in her. It was a curse to be what she was, but as she roamed the cobbled streets of new cities, she felt goddess-blessed, stealing adoration from willing lips, tearing homes and families apart with the promise of swift death. She felt like an angel at times, one who brought the promise of neither life nor blessing. It was, at times, a lonely existence: reminiscent of the years that she had spent married, but instead of sorrow, Zehra indulged in her own games, finding amusement in them and basking in love from her victims. Genuine adoration came in the hands of other supernaturals that passed her by– she built connections and paths to those who passed through her life like scars over warred skin, and as the years inched by, she flourished.

It was a new-found ability that brought her to Greece, a tear in the veil that drew her like a moth to a flame. Memories, she could pluck them from a mind with ease, holding them in her chest until she saw fit to return them– if she saw fit to return them. The source of such power sat in the city and it has been since then that she has revelled in it, continuing her games with a wide smile and dark, wicked eyes. To feed off of a soul is to feed off of adoration, to revel in pure lust, in what she could almost close her eyes and see to be something akin to love. Memories from those who are unwilling to give her all of their devotion are her prize, stolen from their minds as she takes parts of their soul; peeling away family, lovers, friends, until there is nothing that remains but her– Zehra, infinite and unstoppable. It is like this that she roams Corinth, seeking out her next victim and her next game to win.

PERSONALITY

+ adaptable, wily, charming - sycophantic, jealous, loquacious

PLAYED BY SAM. EST. She/Her.

[visander]

A Losing Game (3/6).

Magnus remembers when his life started to go wrong.

You can read this chapter on ao3 here. The wonderful art featured below was done by @thelightofthebane and by beta for this event was @bamf-alec​.

Chapter Three:

The next time Camille brought Magnus along with her to do something, they found themselves in an empty warehouse. Upon reflection, Magnus thought it was very cliché.. There was a man there, older than the last one. He was tied to a chair when Magnus and Camille walked in. Whoever had tied him was gone already and now it was just the three of them alone in that dark, drafty building. 

Magnus hesitated when he walked in and saw exactly what was going on, but Camille snapped at him to come in and he listened without a word. The man bound to chair was big and full of muscle. Magnus remembered being thankful that he was tied down because he was sure this man could beat the shit out of him if he wanted to.

He tried to ask why they were there, but Camille ignored him. She acted like she hadn’t even heard him speak. Instead, she focused on asking the man questions about who’d tipped him off, who’d told him this or that, who had betrayed her, acting as if Magnus wasn’t standing right there, watching in bewilderment. 

The man insisted that he didn’t know what she was talking about. Camille clearly didn’t believe him and Magnus himself hadn’t known what to think. Later, he’d be convinced that the hostage was innocent after all but back then, he hadn’t been so sure. He’d still been convinced that Camille wouldn’t do this to someone who was innocent. The last man she’d killed had to have done something deserving of his fate. This one too. There was no way this could all be happening to them for nothing. Magnus still thought that Camille wouldn’t do that. Even if they didn’t deserve death, they’d done something to get themselves here. 

Camille got sick of it all quickly: sick of trying to dig for answers and having the man insist he didn’t have any when she was so clearly convinced that he did. First, she slapped him across the face. Then, she punched him, and kept punching him until blood was dripping from his face down his chest and cascading across his body.  It was only his nose that was bleeding, Magnus recalled, but it was bleeding so much that the entire scene looked so much worse than it was. He hadn’t thought Camille’s delicate-looking hands could inflict so much damage. He’d been taken back that her nails still looked perfect. She tried for a while longer to get the man to give her answers that he truly didn’t seem to have, while Magnus stood and did nothing the entire time. 

He stared dumbfounded, not assisting her, but also not doing anything to help the man. He just stood there frozen with wide eyes and, when Camille finally turned to him and snapped ‘shoot him’, Magnus still didn’t move. His face twisted when he finally processed her words. His stomach flipped suddenly, making him anxious he’d throw up right then and there. He hadn’t signed up to shoot people. He’d never wanted to hurt anyone. He’d thrown up alone in the bathroom of his apartment the night he saw Camille shoot someone for the first time. Afterward, he’d promised himself that he’d never do what she did, no matter what Camille said. Magnus wasn’t a killer. 

He did try to refuse, at least.

“I can’t,” he had said to her. He’d thought Camille would be annoyed with him at first, but then she’d do it herself. She did have a gun, after all, same as the one she insisted Magnus be holding as they walked inside. Now, it was cold in his hands. The safety was off. It was loaded. It had been loaded the entire time he’d carried it on him, but it suddenly felt much less like a toy and more like a real thing, capable of ending someone’s life. How had he held this before and thought it was so cool?

Camille glared at him. Then, she moved towards the man in a flash of anger. She was ripping off the binds tying the man to the chair and then backing up with a look of calm contemplation and strange excitement. 

The man scrambled to his feet. Magnus expected Camille to shoot him right then. She had to be letting him get up so that she could shoot him. Yet, she didn’t raise her gun even when the man was standing. Magnus didn’t understand what she was doing until the man's eyes locked on the gun in Magnus’ hands. 

Camille would shoot the man if he dove towards her, but Magnus was the weakest link here and all three of them could see that plainly. The man Camille had brutalized could probably see it more than anyone. Magnus might be his chance at getting away alive. The man didn’t waste a moment before he was lunging towards Magnus, grappling to try and get the gun from his hands.

Magnus yelled for Camille, but she did nothing except stand and watch, blinking impassively as the scene unfolded around her.

Magnus raised the gun and pointed it at the man at last, yelling at him to back up. The man didn’t. Instead, he dove for Magnus again and, without even deciding to do so, Magnus found himself pulling the trigger. The man dropped to the ground before he could even process what he’d done. His ears were ringing with the sound of the gunshot. His hands were trembling as he lowered the gun. 

The man laid dying on the floor, choking and jerking as he made horrendous noises Magnus wished he couldn’t hear. It wasn’t like in the movies. He had shot him in the chest, but he didn’t die instantly. He stared wide awake with a panicked, far too human expression on his face as he struggled to breathe. 

Magnus only looked away when Camille reached out to tip Magnus’ jaw up towards her. “When I tell you to shoot,” she said, after a long moment. “You do.” Her words were sweet like velvet, discordant with the threat that lay plainly behind them, where the man lay dying on the floor, Magnus’ shaking hands still holding a gun he’d just fired.

Camille dipped forward and pressed her red lips against Magnus’. The kiss was not sweet. Her lips were cold and left dark lipstick smeared across Magnus’ face, marking him. Her sharp nails dug into the skin under his chin, leaving a shallow scratch mark as she finally pulled away and turned to leave him standing there, as if nothing at all had just happened between them, as if Magnus’ lips weren’t stained red like the blood that was trailing far too close to his shoes.

Just like before, he didn’t tell anyone about that night. He certainly didn’t tell Alec about the kiss. Somehow, it was the kiss that stuck in Magnus’ mind, lingering just as heavy as the memory of watching someone he’d killed slowly realize they were dying. It hadn’t felt like something romantic. 

It had been her showing him exactly how fucked he was. When Magnus kissed Alec later that night, he tried not to cringe at the feeling. If Alec noticed, he didn’t say anything about it. Magnus was thankful for it at the time.

Now, though, Magnus wished that Alec had noticed. He wished he’d asked what was wrong and refused to let Magnus push him away. He wished Alec had pushed him until he’d broken down and admitted it all.

Maybe, Magnus would have ended up in prison. He had killed someone, but maybe the police would have been able to help him, too. Either way, he was sure things would have ended up better than they did. Ragnor would have come to visit him. Alec too. Magnus never would have thought of being in prison as nice but it would have been. 

Magnus envied that version of him, locked up and ignorant to just how bad things might have gotten if he hadn’t been. 

.

The day passed in a weird amalgamation of fake normalcy. Magnus uncuffed Alec and let him go to the bathroom. After, he’d intended to cuff him back to the couch, but Alec had asked if he could have some coffee instead. Magnus nodded. When Alec sat at the counter with his mug, Magnus didn’t tell him not to. He could have cuffed him to the barstool if he really wanted but, thus far, Alec hadn’t moved to attack him or run outside, so Magnus let him sit, occasionally using his free hands to lift the mug to his lips. 

Alec eyed him, as if daring Magnus to break whatever moment they were having and restrain him again. When he didn’t, Alec’s first instance of  being unrestrained in Magnus’ house passed in silence. It was probably incredibly stupid for Magnus to loosen his control on Alec so easily, but he was hopeful that Alec understood the situation they were in now. If Alec wanted to leave, he’d have to hurt Magnus to do so. If he tried to leave, Magnus would have to hurt him in return to stop him. 

Magnus wasn’t sure of much between him and Alec but he did know that neither of them wanted that. Yet, Alec wanted to leave and Magnus couldn’t let him. He wasn’t quite sure how that would possibly pan out, but coffee at the counter as they made small talk wasn’t that awful a start. 

Alec, somewhat awkwardly, asked what Magnus had been doing recently. He struggled to answer and, after a long moment, Alec coughed and started telling him about how Izzy was dating this cute nerdy guy who Alec would never have thought she’d be into. He rambled on about it, clearly just trying to fill the silence with something.

Magnus and Izzy had always gotten along. They’d been friends towards the end, in a way that was more than just Magnus being nice to his boyfriend’s sister. He’d missed her for a while after everything happened. He’d lost more than just his boyfriend that day. He’d lost Ragnor. He’d lost Isabelle, who’d quickly become one of his best friends. The only one left had been Raphael and… well, it was a dark time for both of them. Magnus didn’t think he or Raphael had been a good influence on each other. 

Without Ragnor, their anger ricocheted off each other and amplified itself. Maybe, that anger had never really gone away. It had just stewed and become something more essential. Magnus was still angry. How could be not be? Ragnor was gone and he had nothing else to do but sit and blame the person who’d taken him away, along with Alec and anything else good that Magnus had ever had. 

“I missed you,” Magnus said aloud eventually. He hadn’t even been sure what Alec was saying before he cut him off. He was probably being rude, but he hadn’t exactly chosen to speak, either. The words had simply bubbled out and besides, they were something much more aligned with the truth than whatever odd conversation he and Alec had been having about siblings and partners. 

“I missed you too,” Alec murmured after a long, quiet moment. He seemed reluctant to admit it. Magnus wondered why. He wondered if it was a lie. He wondered if it mattered even a little bit if it wasn’t the truth. 

He and Alec were soulmates. Magnus knew without a doubt that their story was supposed to end with them together, and yet, that wasn’t what happened. Did it matter that they’d missed each other, when considering everything else? No, it didn’t. If anything, it made everything even more tragic and the last thing Magnus needed was another tragic fucking story. 

Magnus got up, moving to do the dishes. Alec sat behind him. Neither of them spoke, until Magnus finally turned and led Alec back into the living room, where he cuffed him to the couch yet again. 

When he glanced down at his phone for the first time that morning, he had a message from Raphael. It read simply: ‘She’s pissed.’

Magnus shoved his phone into his pocket without answering. They’d known she would be. That was the point. 

.

Magnus tried not to think about the night that everything changed. He and Raphael didn’t speak about it, even after all these years. They had never spoken about it. They probably never would. 

Magnus was fine with that. He tried not to think about it. He tried not to think about what he could have done differently. He tried not to think about the countless mistakes he’d made. He tried not to think about the fact that it was all his fault, but at night, even after all these years, he still had nightmares about it. 

He didn’t think he’d had a single nightmare since that didn’t involve Ragnor, Camille, Raphael and Alec. Every nightmare he had involved one of them; Ragnor most often, Alec coming in just behind and on the tail end were Camille and Raphael. Sometimes, he dreamt about what actually happened. He relived it night after night, though sometimes his head was much more creative. 

He dreamed about things going differently. He dreamed about him and Alec making it work somehow. He dreamed that they’d stayed together. He dreamed of Ragnor at their wedding, giving a speech. Everything was always perfect and then, in the end, Camille always showed up again. Magnus dreamed that she shot Alec, Ragnor, and then, she shot him. Sometimes, Raphael was there. Sometimes not. Ragnor always died and Magnus’ dream always ended just as Camille raised a gun and shot him, too.

They say if you don’t wake up when you die in a dream, you die in real life. Magnus never had the pleasure of seeing if that was true or not. He always woke up just then, covered in sweat and gasping for air like he’d been holding his breath all night. 

That night, with Alec cuffed on the couch for the second evening in a row, Magnus had that same dream. This time, though, he got to get up and stared at Alec from the doorway, watching his chest rise and fall in time. This time, Magnus got to get up and see that Alec was fine. He was alive. Camille had not come to kill him in the middle of the night. 

That night, Magnus didn’t stay awake worrying until sunrise. He didn’t work himself up in circles, worried that something had actually happened to Alec and having to convince himself that Alec was probably fine and it was just a dream, having to remind himself that Alec didn’t want to hear from him, even if something was wrong. 

But even watching Alec, there was something about the dream that lingered in Magnus’ head. There was something about Camille, something about the way she’d looked that Magnus couldn’t quite shake. He convinced himself that it was anxiety left over from the dream, that it was something about being the only one awake late at night, something about seeing Alec on his couch, something about the situation they were still trapped in. 

He brushed it off, but staring at Alec, he felt a slow cold dread spreading in his stomach. For just a second, something occurred to him that hadn’t before, something that he shrugged off in the warm, comforting morning light. 

What were the odds that Alec just happened to be there, guarding a shipment that was intended for Camille? One she’d have to know they’d want to sabotage, one she might have suspected they were looking into? What were the odds of that being an accident? 

Magnus got himself a glass of water then went back to bed, where he struggled to sleep for a few more hours before he finally drifted off. He didn’t think about it again after that. Alec worked for a small, specialized company. There were only so many of them and, if you wanted the best security in New York, you’d call them. It made sense why Alec had been there. It wasn’t very coincidental at all, when Magnus really thought about it. The odds were rather high.

That was another mistake Magnus made. He should have thought about it a little more. He shouldn't have brushed off what occurred to him that night.

The next morning, he woke up and uncuffed Alec like he had the day before. They made breakfast together and sat silently, eating as if everything was normal. Magnus didn’t think about Camille once. 

.

“So, you’re just going to keep me?” Alec asked evenly the next afternoon. 

Magnus was sitting with a book propped open on his knees. He’d been pretending to read it and trying not to glance over to Alec, wondering what he was thinking about, when Alec finally spoke.

Magnus pressed his lips together and pointedly didn’t look up. He turned a page and found even more words that didn't seem to mean anything to him. “What else would you like me to do with you?” he asked. 

Alec stared at him, his uncaring facade cracking. “You can’t just keep me. I’m not a pet you picked up.” Alec’s voice rose in anger. He hadn’t gotten angry with him since the day Magnus had first taken him. “I have a life, Magnus. I have a life outside of you and whatever criminal mess you’re constantly wrapped up in.”

Slowly, Magnus closed his book. He looked up to Alec, scanning his angry face. Alec looked like he expected him to be angry at his outburst in return, but Magnus wasn’t. Part of him wanted to breathe a sigh of relief. Being around Alec didn’t make any sense. Having breakfast with him, making small talk like nothing was wrong — none of it made any sense but this, this finally did. 

“My other option is to kill you,” Magnus said softly. It could have been a threat. To anyone else being held hostage, it probably would have been, but Magnus didn’t mean it as one. He wasn’t trying to scare him. It was just the truth. 

He couldn’t let him go. He was willing to do so much for Alec, but letting a witness who’d seen what Alec had seen go like nothing had happened was out of the question. Magnus couldn’t do that, not even for him.

Alec blinked as his words sunk in. The anger disappeared on his face. They stared at each other for a long moment before Alec, in an equally as soft tone, said, “So, what? I just stay here, tied to your couch every night? I never see my family again? No one knows where I am or what happened to me? I just disappear and stay trapped in your loft for the rest of my life?”

Magnus moved to put his book down on the coffee table. “That—” he said as he rose to his feet, “—or I could have someone shoot you.”

He stared at Alec, gauging his reaction. He was past the point of pretending he’d be able to do it himself. If Alec would rather that, Magnus could call Raphael and have him do it. Then, he would take a very long vacation and contemplate throwing himself off a bridge, like he had years before.

This time, Magnus might just go through with it. He wasn’t sure.

When Alec said nothing, Magnus went to go make them both a drink. For the first time since he’d gotten there, Alec accepted the whiskey that he was handed. He grimaced as he took the first sip and then downed the whole glass in one gulp and made a face after like it was the most disgusting thing he’d ever tasted. 

“Another?” Magnus asked, half joking.

Alec handed his glass back with his uncuffed hand and nodded. 

.

“How could you keep doing it?” Alec asked after a while, his words forced out like he couldn’t bear to hold them in any longer. He’d had more than a few drinks and Magnus had as well. Apparently, they were past the point of avoiding questions and holding back their words. At least, Alec was. 

“What do you mean?” Magnus asked, pretending not to immediately understand the question. 

“After what happened, how could you just keep doing it?” Alec looked up at Magnus, his eyes desperate for an answer, desperate to understand. Magnus wondered how long he’d wanted to ask Magnus that. He wondered if Alec would be disappointed at the truth.

Magnus shrugged one shoulder. He looked away. He was sick of looking at him. He was sick of the way his heart ached when he did. He could ignore it normally, but the alcohol made everything worse. Whiskey was his heartbreak drink and it was the only thing he’d drank for years after he and Alec stopped talking. Perhaps, choosing it again tonight hadn’t been a wise choice.

“Why would I stop?” he asked eventually. He dared a glance over. “I didn’t have you anymore. I didn’t have Ragnor.” Magnus knew his words were bitter. That wasn’t fair. It hadn’t been Alec’s fault they’d stopped talking. Neither of them had a choice, but that was the moment that Magnus’ life had irreparably changed. Burying Ragnor, losing Alec — what else did Magnus have to do besides get revenge? He had no one else to fight for, no one to change for, no better life to long for with anyone who mattered. Ragnor had been Magnus’ best friend, Alec his life. Without them, Magnus hadn’t cared anymore. 

“I stopped caring. Nothing mattered anymore,” he summarized finally. He took a sip of his drink and then choked out a soft, bitter laugh. “I was dead, Alec. What else could I do?”

“You could have come back to me,” Alec murmured quietly. Magnus thought he was kidding but, when he looked up, Alec was staring back seriously, his eyes soft and hurt. “We could have run away together. You could have stopped. Everyone thought you were dead. You could’ve been anyone. I could have become anyone.” Alec fell silent as if he’d suddenly realized just how unrealistic that all would have been. 

Not impossible, no. Some people did that. Some people left and managed to find a new life so disconnected from their old one that they never had to look back, but the odds of that having worked out for them were so slim. Alec’s family would have done anything to find him. They’d have followed him to the ends of the earth, even if he didn’t want them to.

They’d have gotten caught or recognized somewhere. Something would have gone wrong. It was a nice thought anyway, a nice thought now gone sour with age. 

“I loved you so much,” Alec said finally.

“I loved you too,” Magnus responded. 

Neither of them said anything else. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. What was the point in thinking about how things could have been different? There wasn’t one, but Magnus understood anyway. It seemed so impossible that they’d ended up here and not in one of the millions of universes Magnus was sure existed where he and Alec were together and happy and where Ragnor wasn’t dead. 

He didn’t think there was anyone who had ever loved someone as much as he loved Alec. It was truly astonishing that that hadn’t been enough. 

.

Everything with Alec came to a head far before the night it actually happened. Perhaps, they had been doomed from the start and it hadn’t been Camille who’d ruined them at all. Magnus wasn’t sure and he wasn’t going to dedicate his time to rehashing it. What he did know was that they fought. They’d been together for about a year at that point, the happiest year of Magnus’ entire life still and up until that point, they’d never really fought before.

The only time they’d come close, they had been disagreeing about Magnus’ work with Camille. That’s what they fought about that day too and yet, the day had started so nicely. Ragnor was gone, leaving Alec and Magnus in their apartment all alone. They’d made out on the couch and done nothing but enjoy the presence of each other all morning. Those days were Magnus’ favorite. Even now, he’d look back and remember those mornings with Alec pressed against him as something sacred and blissful. He’d go there in his head when he needed an escape and he was weak enough to allow himself to. 

Eventually, the kissing had come to an end and Magnus had told Alec that he was meeting Camille later. It was supposed to be Magnus’ day off, but he didn’t officially have days off and even when he tried to ask Camille not to call him on specific days, she only seemed more inclined to call him then, so he’d stopped asking.

Looking back on it, Camille had been jealous of Alec. She’d been jealous of Magnus’ devotion to him. Magnus was stupid and blinded when it came to her but he still loved Alec more than anything else and Camille hadn’t liked that one bit. 

Alec had gotten mad at him. He’d told him that he didn’t like Camille or that Magnus was working for her, but Magnus had heard all of that before. He knew Alec didn’t like her. Then, Alec had said something Magnus hadn’t heard before.

“I found blood, you know,” Alec had snapped. “On your shirt after you came home last week.” 

Magnus was sure he looked horrified when Alec’s words sunk in. He wasn’t that good at hiding his emotions back then. Alec had liked that, how open he was. Now, he could hide everything without even trying. He supposed he and Alec had that in common now.

“Whose blood was it?” Alec asked when Magnus failed to speak.

Magnus didn’t answer him. What was he supposed to say? That he’d shot someone? That he didn’t even know the guy's name? Instead, he turned and stormed out. He was angry but, truthfully, he wasn’t angry with Alec, even then. He was angry with himself and, for the first time, he was angry with Camille for making him do all of the things she had. 

Magnus knew then that he was going to lose Alec. He’d thought for a while that Alec would realize Camille wasn’t all that bad and it would be fine, but that wasn’t the case. Camille wasn’t fine. What Magnus was doing with her wasn’t fine and if he didn’t do something about it, he was going to lose Alec. 

Outside, Magnus just happened to run into Ragnor.

Magnus wondered a lot what would have happened if Ragnor hadn’t come home right then. Magnus would have left. Maybe, he’d have gone to confront Camille by himself. Camille might have shot him instead. Or maybe Magnus would have sat outside and calmed down enough to realize that was a horrible idea. Maybe, he’d have gone inside and told Alec everything instead and Alec would have convinced him to go to the police for help.

 Magnus wasn’t sure, but either way, he was sure that Ragnor would still be alive. Magnus might have died in his place, but maybe he wouldn’t have. Maybe, he and Alec would have figured it all out and he would never have lost his best friend. Maybe, he and Alec would have been happy together for the rest of their lives, like they were supposed to be.

None of that was what happened. 

Instead, Magnus sat in Ragnor’s car and broke down crying. Magnus didn’t tell Ragnor everything that had happened, but he managed to tell him about the first man he’d seen Camille shoot and that had seemed to be enough for him to understand. He didn’t tell him about the man Camille had forced him to shoot. He didn’t tell him about all the people who’d come after.

He’d been so scared Ragnor would hate him if he knew everything. He loved Ragnor so much. He looked up to him and admired everything he did and, for some reason, he looked at Magnus and saw something worth admiring back. He couldn’t deal with Ragnor hating him. 

Ragnor paled at what little Magnus had managed to say, but he also didn’t look surprised. He didn’t look scared either and that calmed Magnus so much. Ragnor always knew what to do. He always took care of everything. 

“We’re going to go to her and you’re going to give her the gun back and you’re going to tell her you’re done,” Ragnor said calmly. 

Magnus had brushed his tears away and then nodded. If Ragnor said that’s what they’d do, then of course that’s what they’d do. 

Looking back on it, Magnus wasn’t sure what Ragnor had been thinking. Magnus was pretty sure Ragnor had thought Camille wouldn’t hurt them. They, unlike the man she’d shot, had people who’d miss them. They had phones with location services on. They were even connected to Camille. Magnus had a photo of him, Camille, Alec and Ragnor in his room, taken back when Magnus had still thought Camille was everything she wasn’t.

They would be too messy to hurt. That’s probably what Ragnor had thought. She wouldn’t be that bold. They were safe. If Magnus went and told her he was done, that would be the end of it. 

Magnus should have told Ragnor everything. He should have made sure he understood the scope of what was happening here, but he hadn’t. He was ashamed of how far he’d let it go and he didn’t want to tell Ragnor about what he’d done. So, he didn’t and even though he knew better, he started his car and he drove them to Camille’s, so Magnus could tell her he wasn’t working for her anymore and pretend that he thought that would go over well.

Magnus had understood the situation so much more than Ragnor did. He knew how unhinged Camille was. He knew how untouchable she’d made herself. He should have insisted that it was a bad idea. Ragnor would have trusted him if he had said it, but Magnus just wanted so desperately for someone else to tell him how to make this right.

He had never regretted being so selfish in his entire life. That moment where he decided to listen to Ragnor when he knew he shouldn’t, when he knew Ragnor didn’t understand how bad it was, haunted him like the rest of that day would.

Last Chapter | Master Post | Next Chapter.

[roseherondale]

In the Hands of the Enemy

Summary: Whumptober Day 2. Jace has a decision to make.

Word Count: 1151

Warnings: Major character death, violence, blood, kidnapping

Read it on AO3 here

It was one of the worst situations he had ever been in, and Kit had been raised by a neglectful father, had watched said father be ripped to pieces by demons, had fought ancient faerie warriors and won, and had been kidnapped by other faeries defending them.

This time, they had found themselves a warlock who considered himself a psychologist camping out in a quiet neighbourhood in Brooklyn, and it being a routine search, Jace thought he would take Kit along for some experience.

At the time, he had been ecstatic. Now, Kit just wished he was back home with Tessa, Jem and Mina, cuddled on the sofa and watching movies with hot chocolate. Though, he guessed this is what he deserved for choosing to go to New York for his study year.

Now, he was stood with Jace and Alec in a small room, back against the wall, as Jace decided whether he wanted to kill his parabatai or honorary little brother more. The sword in his hand had a jagged edge, and Kit couldn't help but wince at the thought of how painful it would be in his chest.

"I'm not choosing." Jace said, crossing his arms.

"You have to." Alec said. "You heard what the warlock said." He had been very clear with his instructions; Jace had to kill one of them. If he killed nobody or himself, they would both die. Kit had been disappointed that he turned out to be evil; he had looked like Gandalf, and Kit had been half-expecting to be whisked away on a magical journey. He supposed it was kind of like that, just with the loom of death more personal and terrifying.

"What if I just wait here until someone comes to rescue us?" Jace asked.

Alec glanced at the clock, showing the one remaining hour that Jace had to decide. "Magnus is in a Downworld council meeting for another three hours and we've not been gone long enough to cause any worry. I don't see a way out, Jace." His voice became gentle towards the end.

"I won't choose between you."

"You have to choose me." Kit said. "If you choose Alec, a piece of you dies too, and he has kids."

Jace looked pained. "Kit, don't. Your life is worth something. Tessa, Jem and Mina love you, we all love you. I can't kill you."

"You're going to have to." Kit repeated, faking nonchalance, though he was touched that Jace cared about him. It would be easier for all of them if he didn't.

"I'm not letting some random warlock tell me what I have to do." Jace set his jaw.

"Jace, just get it over with." Kit said.

"No, don't. Kit's still just a kid, kill me instead." Alec moved so that he was stood in front of Jace.

"Alec." Jace sounded appalled, and he turned away from him, as if he couldn't bear looking at him anymore. He began to pace the small room. It was bright white and clean, with a window set into one wall, which Jace had already tried to smash, and a door in one side. Jace had also tried kicking it down.

"What about your..." Alec asked Kit, referring to his magic but not saying it in case the warlock didn't know.

"I tried; I can't control it enough yet." Kit sighed. He had tried, but the familiar feeling of it hadn't come, as if the room was draining him of his energy.

He let himself wonder what death would be like. At least he would be back with his mother, Rosemary. But now, he saw Tessa as his mother and Jem as his father, he didn't need to go back to his birth parents. It was cruel that he finally had the family he needed, and now he was going to be ripped from them.

The clock had ticked down further. They had half an hour left.

"Jace, please." Kit begged. "We're running out of time; you two need to get out of here."

"No." Alec said, shaking his head. "Jace you cannot kill a child."

"I'm not a child." Kit protested. "And you can't kill your parabatai. There has to be some sort of rule against that, right?"

They ignored him.

More time passed, each minute making Kit realise that he was the one who needed to die. Alec had a husband and children; it would be cruel for him to be ripped away. And Kit, well Kit had a family, but they would move on from his death. Tessa had survived the deaths of her actual children before, and she would do the same when she learnt about Kit's death.

Jace had sunk down the wall, under the window, and put his head in his hands. He sobbed silently, but Kit couldn't bring himself to comfort him. Alec sighed, then sat beside him and placed his arm around him, a true brotherly gesture, nothing like Kit cowering in the corner because he didn't know how to deal with it.

The knife lay on the ground, a metre from where Jace was. Kit moved forwards, and before he or Alec knew what was happening, the knife was in his hand.

"Kit." Jace said, looking up. Kit had never seen Jace look so broken, with tear tracks down his red cheeks. "Kid, please don't."

"I have to. If I don't, then you're going to lose Alec and part of yourself." Kit felt tears spring to his eyes as he spoke, and Jace rose to his feet. In a fluid motion, Kit angled the knife towards his stomach.

"I lose part of myself if you die too." Kit sobbed, but he held the knife steady, and tears fell freely down his cheeks. "Hey, don't cry. Just put down the knife, okay?" He stepped forward, but Kit's arm was shaking. Before he could push it in, Jace was there, wrestling the knife from Kit's hand, and sliding it behind them on the floor.

He wrapped his arms around Kit, and he buried his face in the leather jacket. Jace shushed him gently, whispering that it would be alright. He turned them around, so that he could face Alec, but Kit didn't notice. Jace drew soothing circles in between his shoulder blades and shifted slightly. He heard footsteps behind him, and Alec was there, placing a gentle hand on the back of his head.

For a moment, everything was peaceful, and Kit felt comforted by his family. Then, Jace pulled back and stared at him, crying, as he pushed the knife into his stomach.

The pain felt like fire, and he staggered backwards, but Jace was adept at killing, and it wasn't long before everything began to fade. He stumbled to the ground, and Jace caught him, pulling him into his lap.

"I'm sorry, little brother. I love you, Kit." Then, everything became dark.

I’m sorry. Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed it (but if you did...) If I had to suffer through writing this, you had to suffer through reading it :’) Maybe I’ll write something nice at some point to make it up to you all. Sorry!

[cucumberkale]

Us Against the World

"And that bleeding wound where Danny had been ripped from Tim’s chest had begun to heal."

Tim had come to The Magnus Institute with one goal in mind: finding out information about the thing that had destroyed his family. What he hadn't planned for was finding a new family in Jonathan Sims and Sasha James. But after their little family is relocated to The Archives, it all seems to start to fall apart.

And Tim isn't willing to let what he's found go without a fight.

Written for @do-not-feed-the-archivist as part of the @tma-valentines-exchange

https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438268 

Out of everyone working in the Archives, Tim had known Jon the longest. When Tim had first joined The Magnus Institute as a new researcher, with his heart still bleeding from Danny’s death, he hadn’t planned on making friends. His only goal had been to find answers and to get revenge for his brother’s death. But on his first day, Tim had seen Jonathan Sims slip into the breakroom, his eyes down and head held low, as he tried to avoid attention. Tim had heard the whispers and gossip from the other employees. He knew what they said about Jonathan Sims. He knew what they thought about Jonathan Sims. Jon was The Institute’s biggest skeptic and Tim had come looking for answers to the supernatural that Jon didn’t even believe in.

But Tim couldn’t help but want to be friends.

He soon found himself working hard to get in Jon’s good graces. Hard work and dedication seemed to be Jon’s love language and, after five years in a publishing house, Tim was used to hard work and long hours. He stayed late and came in early, when he could, to help with the graduate students’ papers and researchers’ pet projects. He lent a helping hand whenever he could. He stood up for Jon in the breakroom to the other employees when Jon wasn’t there to defend himself.

The progress was slow and almost unnoticeable. Tim thought it was like trying to lure a stray cat into a house. Every time Tim thought he had a breakthrough, Jon put up more walls and pulled away. He seemed just as determined as Tim had been originally to not make friends.

Eventually, though, the stray cat that was Jonathan Sims came inside. Tim had earned a genuine compliment from Jon on one of his reports. After that, it was easier between the two. Jon had laughed at all of Tim’s poor “Dad Jokes.” Jon had agreed to eat lunch with him. Tim had earned Jon’s hard-won trust, and Jon’s hard exterior had broken down.

Then Tim met Sasha James.

The two hit it off together instantly. Sasha loved to joke and laugh, and Tim loved the feeling of making others smile. And Sasha was just as dedicated to her work as Jon was to his. It didn’t take long after meeting her for Tim to realize that Jon and Sasha would get along well. It took even less time for Jon to grow fond of Sasha.

After that, it was the three of them spending early Monday mornings at work and late nights at the pub on Friday night and lazy Sunday afternoons at Tim’s flat together.

And that bleeding wound where Danny had been ripped from Tim’s chest had begun to heal.

Jon was quick-tempered and sharp with his tongue but cared deeply for his friends. Sasha was knowledgeable and curious but loved to pull practical jokes. And Tim had his own little family again.

All of that changed when Jon had been offered the promotion to the Head Archivist position. Jon had given them the news over pints at the pub that Friday night, asking Tim and Sasha to join him as his assistants. Sasha had smiled and congratulated Jon on the offer. Tim had bought the next round and made a toast to Jon’s new job. But in private, Sasha had complained and ranted and yelled to Tim how it hadn’t been fair, how could Jonathan Sims have been given the position when Sasha had worked at The Institute longer. “He doesn’t even believe in this shit!” Sasha had yelled.

Their little family had changed: Jon wasn’t an equal anymore, he was their boss. Everything in Tim’s life had changed again.

And without telling any of them, Elias had given Martin Blackwood the third assistant position. Martin had been thrown into the mix and, after “The Dog Incident,” Jon made his displeasure for this stranger known.

It had been only a month and things between the four of them seemed to only be getting worse. The statements, the Real Statements, left them all feeling drained and anxious. Even though they had evidence, Jon still refused to accept that any of the encounters in the statements could be real. He went as far as to create ridiculous scenarios to try to explain them away.

And Jon had been getting worse.

Tim had seen Jon at his lowest. More than once, Tim had to calm Jon after waking up in the middle of the night, screaming from a nightmare and disoriented from waking up in Tim’s flat. Back in Research, Tim had seen his own dark, tired eyes reflected at him from Jon. But it had gotten worse. Jon had started working long hours, even longer hours than his time in Research. The dark circles under his eyes had only grown larger and dark. He had started to lose weight, his cheeks growing gaunt and his eyes sunken. And when alone, Jon held himself smaller, hunching his shoulders in as if trying to shield himself. It seemed like Jon was at the beginning of a spiral that Tim had already been down, and he didn’t know how to help.

Now, Jonathan Sims was running late.

And Jonathan Sims never ran late.

Tim had been blankly staring at the same page of the statement he had been working on all morning, unable to understand what he had just read. Instead, he found himself anxiously glancing at his phone screen every few minutes to check the time. As the morning dragged on, and Jon still hadn’t arrived to work, Tim found it harder and harder to focus on anything else. He was trying to be discrete about it. Tim had caught a concerned glance from Sasha more than once that morning. Every time, Tim had flashed her a reflexive grin before trying to look occupied with his work.

There wasn’t anything to worry about.

Jon was fine.

In all the time that Tim had known Jon, Jon had not been late for work without giving an advance notice. Jon had a daily routine that he liked to follow. He arrived early to gather the assistants’ assignments for the day and to deliver them to their desks. On most days, by the time Tim arrived at a punctual nine o’clock, Jon was already in the middle of a project of his own.

Tim knew he shouldn’t worry. He tried to remind himself that Jon was a grown, competent, adult man.

But Jon had broken his daily routine of the past month.

And Jon had been slipping lately.

It was now half-past eleven and Jon still hadn’t arrived to work.

Martin walked back into the assistants’ bullpen, balancing three cups of tea. Sasha took hers, giving Martin a quick “thank you” and a small smile as she turned back to her own work. Martin handed Tim his cup slowly, a look of concern spreading across his face as he looked to the old clock hanging on the wall.

“Is Jon in yet? I haven’t seen him all morning,” Martin asked.

“Not yet,” Tim said, taking a sip of tea. “I guess that means you haven’t heard from him yet either, then?”

Martin shook his head. “I doubt he would call me first, anyway,” he said, rubbing his thumb in circles around the cup. Martin glanced over to Sasha, “Have you heard from him? Did he say anything to you?”

Sasha sighed, looking up from her work. “Nope. I’d have let you both know, anyway, Martin.”

“I know you would, but…” Martin paused for a minute, looking between the two of them. “This is weird, right? Jon not being in. I thought he had a reputation about not missing work. Did Rosie leave a message that he called off?”

Tim shook his head. “I ran up to ask her earlier on my break and she said she hadn’t heard from him. Elias hadn’t said anything either. It’s nothing to worry about, he probably got caught on the Underground or something and doesn’t have any service.”

Sasha let out a quiet laugh. “Honestly, if something bad had happened, letting Elias know would probably be the first thing Jon did. At the very least, just so we’d all know he wouldn’t be at work.”

Martin didn’t look convinced though. He frowned, his round face pulled into worried lines, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck nervously. “I…I guess I’m just on edge. Those statements, the ones that don’t record properly, they make my skin crawl. I had to start doing research for the Vittery case this morning and, ya know,” Martin made a face, like he had just tasted something sour.

Sasha glanced at Tim, meeting his eyes for only a moment before she turned back to Martin. “Yeah, we know,” she said. “But Jon hasn’t gotten himself into anything spooky, I’m sure.”

“Yeah,” Tim said, trying to make his voice light. “He’d probably give a lecture to any monsters about how they don’t exist. He’d logic his way out of any trouble.”

“Do you think we shou-” Martin started to ask, when the heavy oak door of the Archives slammed into the wall, the sound of hurried footsteps echoing around the quiet Archives. A few moments later, Jon had rounded the corner, looking haggard and worn. He was wet, scowling as he peeled off his sodden jacket and hung it up to dry on the coat rack near the entrance to the Archives. Strands of dark, wet hair, usually neatly combed, were plastered to the sides of his face, with a few curly wisps sticking up at odd angles. His glasses were smudged with raindrops and his cheeks flushed. He was breathing heavily from running.

“Jon!” Martin said, his voice high and tight. Jon shot him a glare, opening his mouth for a retort.

Before he could say anything, Tim cut in. “We’ve been worried. You alright, Boss?”

“Martin’s just made tea,” Sasha added, holding up her cup to demonstrate. “It’s really good today, you look like you could use a cup.” Sasha gave Martin a pointed look. He jumped up nodding, slipping past Jon to the breakroom.

Jon let out a huff of air at watching Martin go and started for his office. Before he could get there, Tim stretched out an arm to stop him. Not touching him, Tim never touched him; Jon did not like to be touched. “Seriously, Jon. Take a seat and have a cup of tea. You look like you need it, it seems like you’ve had a morning.”

Jon glared at Tim, his whole body tensing as Jon’s chest puffed up. Shit, wrong words, Stoker. Before Tim could try to put the fire out, Jon sighed, pulling his glasses off and running a hand down his face. “Yes, alright,” he said, sounding tired. “That sounds nice.”

Tim smiled, grabbing a chair from the empty desk, and pushing it over to Jon. Jon had begun to run his fingers through his hair, trying to bring it back to some semblance of tidiness and professionalism. “Lay your earthly woes upon us, Boss.”

Martin came back, handing Jon a steaming cup of tea. Jon took a small sip and let out a long sigh. “I’m sorry about being late this morning. I…I was in Bournemouth this weekend. I had planned to be back in London last night, but there was a delay with my train, and it was delayed until this morning. Th-there weren’t any buses leaving last night, either so I had to take a train this morning, and with morning commuters, it had taken longer than I had planned. I was taking the Underground back from the station, and of course, you know how that can be, and I didn’t have any service.” Jon took a quick breath before taking a long drink from his cup, his glasses fogging from the heat of the tea. “I hope I didn’t cause any delays in your schedules.”

Sasha shook her head, “We all were just working on the projects you gave us on Friday. But what were you doing in Bournemouth this weekend? It’s a little too early in the season to be going to the beach.”

“Oh,” Jon said, adjusting his glasses. “I…I was raised in Bournemouth.”

“Have a fun family weekend, then?” Tim asked, elbowing Jon’s side.

“Uh, act-actually,” Jon stammered, his face flushing ever darker than before, “I was in Bournemouth for a church service.” He swallowed, looking down at his shoes. “It…the anniversary of my parents’ passing was this weekend. My grandmother always liked to attend their memorial mass. And, well, now that she’s gone too, it didn’t feel right to…to not go.”

The Archives fell silent. “Oh,” Tim said flatly. “Oh, Jon, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Jon shook his head, taking another sip of his tea. “It’s alright. I don’t really tell anyone. I don’t really tell anyone because I know how they all act. I was too young when they died to really remember either of them. How can you miss something you don’t remember, right? But I know it always meant a lot to my grandmother, so I still try to make it to their service every year. And hers as well, of course. I’m the only one left, so someone has to do it.”

“You,” Sasha started, looking at Jon with an unreadable expression on her face, “You don’t have any other family?”

Jon looked over at her, his shoulders stiffening. “No, it’s just me now.” Martin made a choked noise, reaching a hand up to cover his mouth as he turned away. “It’s fine,” Jon said, his voice growing harder as he looked to Martin, sitting up straighter, his shoulders curving in slightly. “I’ve been on my own for a while now. And I’m certainly not looking to be pitied.”

“I wasn’t-” Martin began, but Jon cut him off as he got to his feet.

“That’s enough. I have work to finish, as do the rest of you. Martin, I want the research for case #0150409 on my desk by the end of the day. Sasha, I want you to try and get into contact with Mrs. Rosswood from case #0110711. And Tim, I want you to keep working on the statement I gave you last week.” Before any of them could stop him, Jon had placed his half-drank cup of tea on Tim’s desk and had hurried into his office, the door slamming shut behind him.

After their conversation that morning, Jon hadn’t come out of his office for the rest of the day. Tim had offered to stay late, to make sure that Jon went home. When seven o’clock had come and gone, and Jon was still in his office, Tim gently knocked on the door. “Jon,” he called, hoping for an answer. The office was quiet; Jon wasn’t recording a statement. “Hey, it’s getting late. You want to walk out together?”

There was a moment of silence before Tim heard the scrape of Jon’s chair against the stone floor. In a moment, the door to the office pulled open, Jon peeking his head around the corner. Tim didn’t know what he expected Jon to look like after an entire day in his office, but Jon looked fine. Normal. Like nothing had happened at all that day. “I’m sorry, Tim,” Jon said. “I need to finish looking over these reports for Elias before I go home. You should get going.”

“Are you sure?” Tim asked, keeping his voice quiet. It was just the two of them in The Archives. Tim could hear the clock in the assistants’ bullpen ticking loudly. “I don’t mind waiting, or if you need any help, I could lend a hand?”

Jon shook his head, talking a half-step backward as he began to push the door close. “No, it’s alright Tim. There’s nothing about it that you can help me with. I just need some time to finish it. I had planned to finish them this morning, but well, you see how that went. Good night, Tim.” Jon closed the door.

“Night, Jon,” Tim said. He got ready to leave slowly in case Jon had changed his mind. Tim dragged his feet as much as he could but, eventually, he had to give in that Jon wasn’t going to be leaving anytime soon. “Night!” Tim called loudly, with his foot on the first step out of The Archives. He hoped Jon would shout back for Tim to wait, that he was coming, and the two could walk to the Underground together, like they had done back in research. But the office was quiet. Tim let out a sigh, turning and walking up the stairs alone, his footsteps echoing in the quiet. Life in The Institute wasn’t as simple as it used to be.

Tim arrived at The Archives early the next morning, cursing under his breath as he pushed open the heavy, wooden door to the basement. He was balancing a carrier tray full of Styrofoam cups of tea and a brown paper bag filled with muffins and bagels from the cafe on the corner that Sasha enjoys, and praying that he wouldn’t spill anything.

Tim headed straight for the breakroom, gently placing the carrier tray on the sticky plastic table. Tim debated for a moment before grabbing a muffin from the bag and heading back to the bullpen. He hadn’t planned on arriving so early, but he thought he would have to wait in line at the cafe for breakfast and planned to leave his flat early.

He wanted to talk to Jon about yesterday. Tim wanted to talk to Jon to make sure he was alright, that he wasn’t slipping, and that he knew that he had friends. That even if Sasha was upset that she hadn’t been given the Head Archivist position that she still liked Jon. That Tim was there to support him. And even Martin wanted to help.

Jon had been pulling away more and more and Tim was afraid that soon it’d be too late to get him back. Had they been back in Research, if Jon had told either him or Sasha about his parents and grandmother, Jon would have been invited back to Tim’s to spend the night, just so he didn’t have to sit with his thoughts alone. Tim knew what that was like, to grieve alone. And Jon was grieving; he had snapped back at all of them so quickly, Tim knew him well enough to know he was deflecting. And Tim decided that having a treat for breakfast when everyone arrived to work might help to soften Jon up.

Tim sat at the breakroom table, absentmindedly scrolling through his phone as he waited for the others to arrive. Martin came first, looking surprised at Tim’s earlier arrival, and then Sasha. Tim asked each of them to stay in the breakroom with him instead of sitting at their desks and explained his plan. They were going to show Jon just how much they cared. Tim wanted this conversation sooner rather than later.

As nine o’clock approached, and Jon still hadn’t arrived, Tim started to get nervous. He was thinking about trying to call Jon, when Jon walked into the breakroom, two files in his hands. He looked surprised, his dark eyes growing large at seeing the three assistants in the breakroom and not at their desks. Tim hadn’t seen Jon arrive and hadn’t heard him all morning. Tim didn’t think Jon was stealthy enough to make it past all three of them without being noticed, but then Tim realized that Jon was still wearing the same outfit from the day before. “Jon,” Tim said, seriously. “Did you sleep here last night?”

Jon fidgeted for a moment before leveling his glare at Tim. “Good morning to you as well, Tim. Yes, I did. There is a cot in document storage that I used. It was too late last night after finishing my work for me to justify going home, so I simply stayed. Now, if you’re all finished with your breakfast-”

“We’re not,” Tim said, firmly. “And this breakfast is yours too. Take a seat, let’s chat.”

“Tim,” Jon said, his voice flat. A warning. Jon expected a fight.

“We’re friends, Jon,” Tim pleaded. He wanted Jon to remember the late nights they had spent together in research and the too-early mornings with a hangover after a late night at the bar. Tim’s little family had been falling apart at the seams and he needed Jon to remember what they had been. “You can talk to us.”

Jon shook his head. “Tim, there really isn’t anything to talk about. I don’t understand why you’re so insistent about this?”

“Because obviously you’re hurting,” Martin said softly. “Even if you don’t want to admit it to yourself. Especially about your parents and grandmother. You hid in your office all day yesterday. That means something is wrong.” Jon bristled, pulling himself up to bite back, but Martin continued. “It isn’t healthy to just keep feelings bottled up. And you don’t have to talk to me, or well any of us, but if you want to, all of us are here to listen.” Sasha nodded, giving Jon a smile.

Jon looked between the three of them. Tim had made sure that their little intervention was in the breakroom so that Jon didn’t feel cornered. It was even ground and Jon could run if he wanted. But Jon didn’t run. He shifted his weight back and forth, looking uncomfortable. “This,” he started, raising his head to look between the three assistants, “this isn’t a big deal. There are plenty of individuals who have lost their parents or don’t have family left. There are plenty who have it worse than me.”

Sasha nodded, “That might be true. But that doesn’t lessen your pain; that doesn’t stop you from being upset. And you deserve to feel happy, just like they do.”

Jon didn’t take his eyes off Sasha, but he wrapped his arms around his stomach, curling his shoulders in slightly. He looked so small, Tim thought. His glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose, a few wispy strands of gray hair hung loose by his ears. The four stood in silence for a few moments before Jon started to speak again. “I…I was a deeply annoying child.” Martin made a noise of protest, but Jon raised a hand to stop him from talking. “I was, I know I was a…handful, especially for my grandmother. She was my father’s mother and she raised me after my own mother passed. I was so young; I really can’t remember my own parents very well. Just from photos my grandmother showed me and some memories that I genuinely can’t tell whether they were just dreams.

“I missed them, of course. And as long as I can remember, once a year, my grandmother would take me to a church service that was celebrated in their memory and then to visit their graves. It, when I was younger, it all upset me so much. I…I cried through almost every service. And there were other people from town who came to the services. But, well, my memories of my parents started fading and I grew up.

“When we went to the church service, I didn’t cry. I was there more for my grandmother’s sake than anything for myself. And there weren’t as many of our neighbors from town, anymore. It was just me and my grandmother and a few people who attended regularly, they didn’t know my family. It wasn’t even a proper mass, just a small service.

“I…I think I’m…I’m an awful person for feeling like this, but the service never really meant as much to me as it did my grandmother. I’m not very religious; praying never helped me, it never made me feel anything other than foolish. But my grandmother found peace with it. After I moved away, I tried to make it back for the service, but if it didn’t work, I didn’t feel badly about it. But then, my grandmother died and it…it didn’t feel right to not. Like, I was letting all those years of care my grandmother put in go to waste and,” Jon paused, taking in a shaky breath. He had wrapped his arms around his middle and had curled into himself. “It hurts,” Jon said, his voice high-pitched, “that she would put so much care into remembering my parents and not as much into caring about me.” His breath hitched, and Jon doubled over, trying to keep himself from crying. Tim didn’t move. Martin reached out a hand to try and comfort Jon, but Tim brushed him away. Jon didn’t like to be touched, not without his consent.

“And I still went to the service, even though it doesn’t mean anything to me, not like it did for her. And what did I get for it? A writeup from Elias for being late and now the three of you…the three of you, standing here, and…and watching me…”

“The three of us standing here and caring,” Sasha said. “Jon, you aren’t alone. You’ve got the three of us. You’re going to keep having the three of us.”

“Yeah, Boss” Tim said, trying to keep his voice light. “You’re stuck with us. ‘Till death do us part.”

Jon glanced up to Tim, then to Sasha, and finally to Martin. Martin smiled, looking away from Jon’s gaze. “My mum, well, she isn’t always the most…caring person either. I think I know how you feel. But you’re still doing it, I’m sure your grandmother would be proud.”

“And you’re no less of a person for having your own desires from your grandmother,” Sasha said. “You’re okay.”

Jon sniffled, though he still didn’t look convinced. Tim took a hesitant step forward, “Do you want a hug?”

Jon didn’t hesitate before nodding. Tim moved forward, wrapping Jon in his arms, and pulling him against his chest and laying his chin on top of Jon’s head. “More?”

Jon nodded again, pushing himself closer into Tim. Tim laughed, reaching out an arm to invite Sasha and Martin. Sasha swooped in, wrapping herself around Jon’s right side. Martin hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether he was invited or not. Jon shifted against Tim, turning his head to look at Martin. Martin took that as his invitation and moved forward, surrounding Jon on his other side. Martin was large, taller than the other three, and his hug enveloped all of them. Jon’s whole body shuddered, and he began to cry. Tim could feel his shoulders shaking as he let go.

“You’re not alone in this,” Tim said, shifting to rub between Jon’s shoulder blades. “Not in The Archives, not outside of The Archives. You’ve got us. Nothing you do is going to chase us away.”

“Our little family of four,” Sasha joked. “Us against the world.”

“Us against the world,” Martin repeated.

The four of them stood there for a while, holding each other, and being held. There were still problems they had to solve, and Tim knew there were still monsters outside, but for a few minutes everything was alright.

[bluejayblueskies]

marionette

Part 5 of Whumptober 2020

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Basira Hussain, Annabelle Cane, Georgie Barker, Melanie King Tags: Whump, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Gun Violence, Manipulation, Spiders

Read on Ao3

“For the record, I hate this plan.”

“Yeah, well, if you can think of anything better, I’m all ears.”

Martin waits. When Basira doesn’t respond, he sighs and says, “Yeah. This is it, then. So, are we good? Because I really don’t want to wait any longer.” Something twists, deep in his stomach. “I… I’m afraid we might already be too late.”

Basira’s hand travels, briefly, to the gun strapped to her hip. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good.”

Martin feels a bit nauseous. “Good.” He steels himself, then turns to face the house that had once been Hilltop Road. “Then let’s go.”

.

Jon thinks he sees an opportunity, when Annabelle Cane leaves the house. “Be back in a flash,” she says with a Cheshire cat smile, and then she’s gone.

The webs are sticky and tightly wound around Jon’s wrists and ankles, pinning him neatly in place against the wall like a mounted butterfly. But he twists, and struggles, and screams, and manages to rip an arm free. Then a leg. And then he’s collapsing onto the floor, his muscles screaming from disuse, his chest heaving in equal parts exhaustion and agony.

It takes him too long to get to his feet and stagger toward the door. That was his mistake, he thinks distantly, as he’s woven back into place in the webs that crisscross the house. He was too slow. He’d only been able to take a single, euphoric step over the threshold, a single breath of tantalizingly fresh air, before a pair of spindly black legs wrapped around him quick as lighting and pulled him back, his scream cut off by the slam of the door. The Spider was quick, and he should have been quicker.

He’s caught, a fly in a web, and it won’t be long before he’s consumed.

.

The door won’t open.

“Banner start, Martin,” Basira whispers. “It’s not like we go in through the front door was ever a good plan to begin with.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the Web—trying to outsmart it is kind of off the table,” Martin hisses, pulling his attention away from the door for a moment.

When he looks back, the door is ajar.

They stare at it for a few seconds. “Great,” Basira says finally. “Because that’s not suspicious as hell. Martin, don’t—”

Martin pushes the door open and steps through.

“Welcome,” Annabelle says, and the plastic smile on her face reminds Martin unsettlingly of a ventriloquist’s doll. “We’ve been expecting you.”

There’s a moment of unsettling silence. Then, quietly, Basira says, “We?”

.

There are spiders in his throat.

There are spiders in his veins.

There are spiders in his eyes.

All of his eyes.

But Jon can still see. He can see segmented legs, and hairy abdomens, and fangs that puncture skin and sclera. He can see the threads that wrap in and around him, knitting themselves in line with his muscles and pulling him taught. He can see the web, knotted around him in a pattern far too intricate to be anything other than the product of years of subtle stiches.

He can see the Spider, and the Spider can see him.

The Spider lays its final thread, and pulls it tight.

.

It’s Jon, but it’s not. Martin tells himself that, as a hundred threads pull and twist and walk Jon’s body across the floor in a series of not-quite-human motions, too angular in their design to be natural. The not is apparent in the way that Martin sobs at the sight, or in the way that Basira instinctively draws her gun, snapping a quick, “What the hell are you playing at?” at Annabelle where she smiles benignly from the corner of the kitchen. It’s apparent in the way that the thing that’s not Jon sits at the table and says, in a voice so horribly familiar yet so gratingly wrong, “Why don’t you sit, Martin? We have much to discuss.” It’s apparent in the way that Martin unthinkingly takes a seat at the table, without willing his body to move.

The Jon is apparent in the desperate, pleading look Martin can see when he looks into Jon’s eyes. And that’s all Martin needs to have hope.

“Fine, then,” Martin says tightly. He won’t look at Annabelle, but he can feel her eyes like weights on the back of his neck. “I’ll listen. But not until you give Jon back.”

Annabelle laughs lightly, and Jon mirrors the motion perfectly. “I’m afraid that’s not my decision to make. But you will listen, Martin Blackwood. Of that, I am certain.”

And Jon begins to speak. And Martin begins to listen.

.

Jon’s screaming, but no one can hear him. He’s crying, but no tears spill down his cheeks. He wants to wrap his arms around Martin, and hold him tight, and press kisses to his forehead and nose and lips, but instead he sits at a table and smiles and tells Martin that everything’s going to be okay. That the Mother of Puppets has a plan, and it’s ultimately to the benefit of the world, so Martin need not worry about the Spider as he does the Eye. That once the Spider is done with Jon, it will give him back.

At this, he wants to laugh, to scream, to cry, because the lie is hot and sticky on his tongue, and it tastes of poison. But instead, he places a hand on Martin’s cheek and says, so sweetly, “I do keep my promises, don’t I, Martin?”

The threads that wrap around Martin’s body guide him into a nod, and Jon wants nothing more than to be able to cut them. But his are thicker, more consuming, and much, much older, so much so that he thinks that, were they removed, he may cease to exist entirely.

“Lovely,” Jon says with a smile. “I trust you know where the door is.”

.

“Fuck this,” Basira says, and pulls the trigger.

.

Moment One:

Annabelle Cane smiles, unharmed. “You forget,” she says, glassy-eyed, calm, “that this place does not answer to you.”

Moment Two:

Blood begins to blossom, scarlet and thick, against a dark coat.

Moment Three:

“Oh,” Jon says, in a voice all his own.

Moment Four:

“Oh,” Annabelle Cane says, in a voice that has perhaps never been her own.

Moment Five:

The strings are cut, and Jon collapses.

.

dark; cold; blind.

“—Christ, what were you thinking, Basira? God, look at him, he—Jon? Jon! Jon, can you hear—?”

dark; cold; blind

“—think we’re losing him. Jon, you have to wake up.”

“Why isn’t he healing? He- he should be healing. Why isn’t he—?”

dark; cold; blind

Silence, but for the sound of quiet, shaking sobs.

Jon tries, desperately, to hold on.

.

Jon wakes up to a splitting pain in his chest, an even more splitting pain in his head, and a cat sitting on his feet.

The groan Jon lets out when he tries to sit up must have been loud enough to hear from the other room, because it’s less than five seconds before the door’s flung open and Martin rushes in, startling the Admiral so badly that he leaps off the bed and runs through the door into the other room.

“You scared the Admiral,” Jon croaks, and god, his throat hurts. What had he been—?

Oh.

Jon remembers the legs, scurrying along the sides of his bones, and is immediately sick, managing to lean over the side of the bed before regurgitating the meagre contents of his stomach. In less than a second, there’s a warm hand on his back and a voice saying, “Jon! Are- are you okay? God, no, of course not, you were shot, but I meant- Christ, you know what I meant.”

Jon coughs and immediately regrets it as it sends a fresh wave of pain throughout his abdomen. It’s a moment before he has enough breath to say, shakily, “Oh, god. The- the house, Annabelle, I- what happened?”

Martin helps Jon lean back in bed, and he continues to rub soothing circles into Jon’s shoulder as he says, “I don’t know about Hilltop Road, or- or Annabelle. We- um, Basira, she- I don’t know how much you remember, but she, uh, shot you, and that seemed to break through whatever the Web was doing to you. But only because, um. You died for a bit? Which I, hah, didn’t think could happen anymore, but then you stopped breathing, and I- I just kept seeing you lying in that hospital bed.”

Jon reaches, despite the pain, and lays a careful hand on Martin’s cheek. It’s wet with tears. “Oh, Martin. I’m sorry.”

Martin smiles and reaches up to cup Jon’s hand with his own. “It- it’s fine. You’re back. I suppose it- it was like back then, in a way.”

Quietly, Jon says, “They Eye didn’t want to let me go.”

“Yeah, well, for once I agree with it on something.”

Jon smiles softly. “You know there’s really no it to agree with, Martin. The Eye is—”

“Yes, yes, it’s unfathomable, closer to a thought than a person or an object, like a color comprised of fear, I know. But it’s also staring at us right now from the sky, so I think I’m entitled to refer to it as an it.”

“I… I suppose.”

“Back from the dead again, then?” Georgie says, coming in through the door and leaning against the wall. Melanie and Basira are close behind; Melanie has the Admiral cradled in her arms, and her fingers are slowly carding through his fur.

Jon gives her a weak, tentative smile. “It appears so.”

Melanie sighs. “Well, that’s one ‘will-this-fix-the-world?’ option taken off the list, I guess. What’s that, number 20 out of, uh, infinity?”

“We’ll get there,” Basira says curtly. “For now, we should regroup—figure out our next move. We’re not safe here, but it’s better than where we were before, so we have some time, but not much.”

Jon shifts, and he can’t quite suppress a wince. “Enough time for a nap?” he says with a wry smile. “I still feel a bit like I’ve been- well, like I’ve been shot.”

“Technically, I saved your life,” Basira says, but she pushes off the wall and heads toward the door. “Like I said, we don’t have much time. Just… just come out when you’re ready.”

Georgie and Melanie follow her out, and then it’s just Jon and Martin again. They’d shifted after Georgie had come in to slot their hands together, fingers interlocking, and now, Martin rubs small circles with his thumb on the back of Jon’s hand.

“Do you think it’s still possible?” Martin asks quietly, staring at the door like it’ll somehow give him all the answers. “To fix the world? The Web, Annabelle, Hilltop Road… that had been our biggest lead, after the Panopticon, and it almost got you killed.”

Jon squeezes Martin’s hand gently. “I don’t know.” It’s true, and it feels good to have genuine ignorance. “But what else is there to hope for?”

“Yeah.” Martin lifts Jon’s hand, presses a soft kiss to the back of it. “Yeah.”

In the corner, a spider scuttles through a crack in the wall, disappearing from sight.

[fictionalrambles]

Shadowhunters Fandom Story - Part Seventeen

Submitted by @archeryandeyeliner​

Five Fave Fics

Lightwood-Bane Family Series by Fanatic_weirdo

Why I love this series: This was one of those fics for me that had me up until 4am on a work night, but I just couldn’t stop reading. Every single story in this series hits the reader in a different way. It deals with immortality in a way I have yet to see another fic handle. It works in Max and Rafael to a point where I was almost more invested in their stories than Malec’s, which is incredibly hard to do. The reader gets Malec as immortal husbands and father’s to two children who the reader can’t help but fall in love with. 

Favorite work in the series: This is Me (Fighting for you) follows the love story between Max Lightwood-Bane and Chris, Shadowhunter and Parabatai to his brother, Rafael. 

Favorite quote: “He’s getting married,” Max whispered. Every word harder to say than the last as he tried to breathe against the feeling in his chest that made it feel like his throat was closing. “And not to me.” That broke the dam and now the sobs were back. Heaving and ripping out of his throat as he gripped one of their shirts as tightly as he could, desperate to keep from drowning.

Magnus and Alec had tears of their own trickling down their faces at their child’s pain. They knew it wasn’t just a teenage heartbreak. What Max and Chris had was as real as what Magnus and Alec had.

“Please fix it, Daddy,” Max begged, his face contorted in agony. A sob came from Alec’s throat as every instinct in him told him to do what was ingrained in parents to do and ‘fix it’.

“I want you to kiss me,” Max whispered. Chris moved forward but another hand on his chest stopped him, “But I won’t be able to bear it when you stop.”

Support System by @bytheangell​

Why I love this fic: Elle has always been one of my favorite authors in the fandom and someone I’m lucky enough to call a friend. This was one of the first chaptered fics I ever read for the fandom and it pulled me in like no other. The dynamic between Magnus and Alec was so perfectly written and the storyline truly helped me with accepting the inevitable end of the tv series. Throughout the entire fic, you just want them to get their act together. The missed opportunities are plenty and when they do finally meet, it’s just as beautiful as the reader could hope for. 

Favorite quotes: “Why don’t you just tell him?” It’s a question Alec asks himself every day, and the answer he gives himself is the same one he hears come from behind the rim of a martini glass.

“Because if he doesn’t, and I ruin this friendship now, I’ll never forgive myself.”

Alec picks up the thought without missing a beat. He doesn’t know what this guy’s situation is, but he can certainly relate to the general concept.  “And even if he does, and it doesn’t work out… It’s safer to keep what you have than risk losing everything.”

“...but then I wonder what if he’s sitting there, thinking the same thing? What if we’re both just waiting for the other to make the first move? Hell, what if it’s worth the risk?”

Magnus’ eyes aren’t on the billboard; they’re on the man standing next to him.  Alec is conveniently unaware with his attention dutifully turned upward. He knows he should be looking up as well since the billboard is what they came here to see, but honestly, he’s enjoying this particular view much more... Especially now that the edges of Alec’s lips are curling up in a soft look of appreciation he probably isn’t even aware he’s making - the pure joy of his expression is enchanting. So while everyone else’s gaze is focused upward Magnus’ eyes linger on Alec. He doesn’t know what everyone else is looking at - Magnus can’t imagine a more captivating sight than the one he’s currently taking in.

Angel's Treasure by @msalexiscriss​

Why I love this fic: I read this fic during a slow day at work. I sat in line at Dunkin Donuts, opened it on my phone in full, and drove to work with it ready to skim during the day. I was captured by it. I am not usually a fan of these kinds of AU’s, but this fic had me neglecting all of my adult responsibilities. The adventures that they go through together and the love they have for each other was everything I needed at that moment and it will forever hold a special place in my heart. 

Favorite quotes: “No, what are you doing!?” He berated himself in the back of his mind. “You’re caring about the boy and you can’t! You can’t!” He told to himself, trying to close his eyes and go back to sleep.

But his mind kept taking him back to the first time he had seen Alec in the square in Alicante, to the day the boy had helped him out of prison, to the day when, in an attempt to protect his father’s honor, he had tried to kill him; to their time in the Spiral, to their little stroll in Cadiz, to their perfect adventure in Cartagena. There was a memory of Alec in every day since they had met and Magnus hated that.

He hated it because he was starting to feel guilty, something that had not happened before. Every time he recalled one of those moments all he could see in Alec’s eyes was trust, and Magnus knew he was not worthy of such thing. Alec didn’t do it on purpose, of course, it was in his nature. Alec was one of those men who had a blind faith in humanity—and that was either a blessing or a curse.

“The fact that you’re a pirate doesn't make you a bad person.”

“What?” Magnus asked just to make sure he had heard correctly.

“Not all pirates are bad.” Alec said. “You’re not bad...I mean, you’ve committed crimes and all, but you’re not a bad person. I know you’re a good man.”

Magnus tried to laugh at the sudden compliment, like Raphael and Ragnor seemed to be doing, but he couldn't. What Alec had just said had touched him deeply. And even though he was not sure if he deserved the praise, he was grateful that his skin had the right tone to hide those uncontrollable accumulations of blood, because after more than 108 years, give or take, Magnus Bane, immortal pirate and once captain of the world's fastest ship, had blushed.

Appassionato by @chonideno​

Why I love this fic: There’s something so soft and wonderful about Malec falling in love with only their mutual love of music. Throughout the entire story, I didn’t mind that they hadn’t met. They fall in love with each other through every piece of music that Magnus requests and Alec seduces him with every brush of his fingers over the keys. I wanted Alec to keep fulfilling his love for his gift and Magnus’ little notes made it even better, for both the reader and Alec. This fic is nothing less than poetic in nature and every single piece Alec played for his tiny audience had me captured without actually hearing the music. 

Favorite quotes: There’s a note on the doorstep.

Alec bends over, picks it up and closes the door. It’s a thin piece of paper coming from some kind of notepad. Something is handwritten on it; the ink is a deep purple (really? who writes in purple ink?) and the words flow with grace despite having obviously been written in a rush. The letters are inclined, in cursive, elegant. Even more pleasing to the eyes, instead of a complaint, Alec reads a love letter.

“A humble request to the pianist: Liebesträume no 3 in A flat.”

A request. Someone heard him and when they could have ignored him or asked him to stop, they want more. They want more. A wild shiver runs down Alec’s back. He has an audience.

On Tuesday, his neighbor sounds tired, so Magnus requests a simple Goldberg Variation.

On Wednesday, his neighbor plays for a full hour without stopping so Magnus requests the short and jumpy Maple Leaf Rag, hoping to tire him out and allow him to sleep.

On Thursday, Magnus finds a large plate full of muffins of all sorts on his neighbor’s doormat; chocolate, caramel, blueberry, vanilla – only good stuff. They all look homemade too, all soft and perfectly baked. Still warm for some, they smell absolutely delicious. Magnus can’t believe it. It’s for him. His neighbor made all of this for him. He leaves his note and carefully takes the plate as if he had just found a pirate’s treasure. Of all things he owns, of all the silks and cashmeres he’s touched, nothing is quite as precious as a plate of baked goods prepared with love. Later this night, biting into the muffin version of an apple crumble as Alec delights him with Saint-Saëns’ Swan, Magnus wonders what he did to deserve this seat in heaven.

“I have one last humble request, if you let me,” Magnus smiles, visibly proud of having used the perfect phrasing. He steps even closer, his hands joined together under his chest as he rubs his own palms gently. “Please, teach me,” he almost whispers.

Alec raises an eyebrow. This doesn’t make sense, Magnus always seemed to be such an expert. “Teach you? What do you mean, you don’t play it?”

Magnus’ eyes dart to the left. “I know a lot about music but I’ve never really…” he moves his hands around, looking for a word. “Taken the time to learn myself.” He locks his gaze back into Alec’s eyes. “So let’s make a deal. Keep the piano and give me lessons in return.”

Wild Life by crazyellephant

Why I love this fic: There’s something about two strangers who meet in the craziest of ways that just gives a reader hope for their own future. Magnus is so entirely lovable and Alec was a goner the second he decided to ask Magnus along for the ride. With every new character who sees them falling in love, the reader learns a little more about both Magnus and Alec and it makes the reader fall in love with them separately before they even want them together. These two were insufferable the entire fic and I just wanted them to have their happily ever after. 

Favorite quotes: In this life, Alec is just the guy who was nice enough to have picked up this hitchhiker. And tomorrow, quite possibly, they’re going to go their separate ways.

"Hey, Alec." Magnus said, his voice echoing in the room. Alec grunted to acknowledge he was still awake. "Thank you for coming back to pick me up and staying with me tonight."

Alec turned and lay on his back, his hands resting on his stomach. He looked at Magnus and smiled. "No problem. My conscience wouldn’t have let me live it down if I heard you died there or something."

"Magnus?" Alec asked, voice catching in his throat.

"Hm?" Magnus responded.

"I really like you." Alec all but whispered his confession, aware of how very close they were. He held his breath, waiting for Magnus to say something.

Magnus smiled wider. "I really like you, too." He confessed.

Attached to her message is a screenshot of Magnus' Instagram page. Trust his sister to already be following probably all of Magnus' social media accounts. It was a picture of the two of them. Magnus had jumped on Alec for a piggyback, his arms around Alec, hands resting on Alec's chest, Alec's hands circled back around Magnus' thighs to keep him steady. Magnus' had his chin on Alec's shoulder and both of them were smiling. It was taken by a friendly tourist when they were at Lipan point earlier that day, with the view of the Grand Canyon right behind them.

On the caption Magnus had written:

Most handsome mule at the #GrandCanyon. ;) #OrIsItStubbornAss #besttimeever #adventure #mine

~

Author Story

I had always been terrified of posting my writing. I’ve written for years, upwards of 15 at this point in time. I have notebooks filled with stories dating back to my freshman year in high school, none of which have ever (or will ever) see the light of day. There was something so… satisfying, about posting my first story for this fandom. It wasn’t anything amazing now that I look back on it, but it spurred my creativity and had me yearning to write. It had been years before I posted my first fic that I had actually sat down and written a story. Now, a few days go by without writing and I feel lost. 

I have this fandom to thank for that. I’ve met the most brilliant, talented, kind people that I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing through Shadowhunters. Every author mentioned and so many more inspire my own writing every single day. Writing is… hard. It’s impossible to always feel good about what you put on a page, but to have fans of the show tell you that your writing made them feel something is unimaginable. I’ve had people tell me that my writing makes them cry because of angst, have to take a cold shower because of smut, makes them curl up in a ball and squeal because of fluff; it honestly means everything.