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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 2 years ago

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I Prefer My Heart To Be Broken, Chapter Two: Chaos-Bringer

A bad mood. An even scarier visitor. Some dangerous realizations.

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CHAPTER TWO: CHAOS-BRINGER

Martin is angry.

He tries to hide it from Jon—to acknowledge the guilt that Jon wears like skin—because it’s obvious Jon is already blaming himself for everything, and Martin doesn’t want to add to it.

But Martin is pissed, and he decides to take it out on firewood.

Jon should have woken him. Chop.

And no, it probably wouldn’t have done any good, and it had been the logical choice, but damn it, Jon needs to stop defaulting to doing this on his own. Chop.

And how dare some fucking monster show up here, now, when they’ve minded their own business, and haven’t called anything, or tempted anything, or done anything to deserve this interruption of hope and future and peace? Chop.

How dare it ask them to damn the whole world?

The axe goes through the firewood into the stump and gets stuck.

Fortunately, no one seems to have noticed his mood. It’s market day in West Village, and everyone is busy setting up their stands, exchanging stories, laughing lightly, focused on their own things.

Martin mutters at the axe as he wrenches it loose, then stands still, studying its edge.

Could the tentacle-god-thing be chopped? Maybe.

Would he survive the encounter? Really, no.

Damn it, Jon, Martin thinks, because Jon can’t help somehow luring these things like he’s fresh bait, but Jon also makes a convenient outlet for frustration.

“Martin!” Julia arrives with a basket of herbs and a smile. She kisses his cheek. “Peter and Mark are looking for you.”

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out,” he says cheerfully, smiling the way they all do here—bright but vague, never quite making eye-contact, chin up and shameless and sweet.

Too direct, and they grow afraid. Less direct, and they worry about you.

He’d mastered their non-verbal cues in less than a day. And if someone had asked him to explain how, he would not have been able.

“You do not have winter clothes,” Julia suggests in the way they do here without asking questions.

Questions send people toward panic, and neither Jon nor Martin know why.

“Well, I mean—not yet,” Martin says. “But we’ve been saving up, and we have a few more weeks until it gets uncomfortable.”

She smiles. “When it’s time, we’ll help you choose what’s best for our weather. Don’t forget to stop by later so we can trade for bread.” And she goes, swinging her basket, face turned toward the sun, not a care in the world.

For some reason, Julia, Peter, and Mark worry about him, anyway, no matter how he plays the game. He’s not sure why, but he’s grateful. They’ve helped so much.

Those three were Martin’s favorite “family” here—a proper polycule, though they didn't know that word. An open, multi-gender threesome in the middle of this quaint village, wearing homespun, and offering aid when Martin first arrived. Incredible.

Peter and Mark even discreetly helped out when Martin realized he’d need personal lubricant, and had no idea how to go about getting it here.

Vegetable oil, it turned out. Who knew?

There were some ways that Martin loved this place, and this was one of them: no one could be outed. You loved whom you loved.

Not that this helps Jon.

Jon’s problem is not whom he loves.

Jon is eldritch. Jon strikes people as weird, and they don’t know why.

Jon is not human, and he can’t lie worth shit.

So Martin works the people of this village with every ounce of charm he has—for Jon. Martin can lie for him. Martin has made it clear to everyone that he adores Jon, and Jon makes him very happy.

That bit is all true, and easy to communicate.

Thus: the people who like Martin tolerate Jon.

Martin tolerates Jon some days, too. Especially when he encounters a god on the front step and doesn't wake his partner. “Normally, it’s adorable, being him,” he mutters to his axe, setting up the next log. “Fumbling around. Getting excited over bugs, or whatever. But not like this, Jon. Not like this.”

“Mm, love is so confusing, isn’t it? Really makes you wonder if it’s worth the time,” drawls a voice that Martin has never heard before.

What the hell kind of statement was that?

Martin turns, smile plastered on, remembering to lower the axe so he doesn’t seem aggressive (a million little lessons embedded since his final, wild growth spurt in his teens). “Hello! I’m sorry, I didn’t think the market was open yet. I don’t think you’re quite allowed back here, yet? Maybe?” he suggests.

The man laughs. He doesn't look like… anything. Just a guy. Moderately attractive, brown hair, tanned skin, unremarkable clothes.

But that laugh felt weird.

Not quite like the Distortion’s laugh, but it shakes Martin the same way, unnerves him, unbalances him.

It makes him want to peel his own skin off, and that is very not good.

Martin’s grip tightens on the axe. His smile, however, does not waver.

“You’re really good at that!” the guy says, and there is nothing about his grin that should make it the worst thing Martin’s seen since the worms and corkscrew days, but it is, it is, it is. “No wonder how you ended up in such a complicated relationship. Just wormed your way in there, didn’t you? Would he even know you were doing it? Oh, oh—maybe he does know, but he just doesn’t care because he’s so desperate for love, which makes you lucky, doesn’t it, cupcake?” And the man laughs again.

Right, so none of that was good.

Martin doesn’t want to just assume this guy read his mind, but it sure did seem like he did.

Like he knows Martin’s quiet, deep fear that he manipulated his way into Jon’s heart, that Jon absolutely loves him but Martin made it happen, that Annabelle’s comment about getting what you wanted through smiles and shrugs and stammerings had embedded itself in him.

Martin pushes that aside. The more important issue is this guy asked questions.

Nobody asks questions. Nobody talks in such a sharp, present manner here.

This is already brushing up against Martin’s spook-limit, but he keeps it together.

He wants a reaction, Martin thinks, and decides not to provide one. “Sorry?” he says, his eyes wide and worried. “I’m not quite sure I follow. You know, you seem lost. I can always help you go wherever you need to get to. I’m Martin, by the way. Nice to meet you!” And though he’s so afraid he can barely breathe, Martin offers his hand.

It’s not even shaking.

“Oh, now, that’s just talent, isn’t it?” says the man, showing too many teeth. He grabs Martin’s hand in both of his (and they are hot, startlingly hot) and shakes it with wild enthusiasm, grinning the whole time. “Call me Kayne. Nice to meet you, too… plus-one.”

Okay, this had gone too far.

He considers using the axe.

He considers trying to run.

Kayne tsks at him. “Now, after I actually bothered to get your attention, you’re going to run away? Come on, now, Kartin, there’s no need for that. If I was gonna hurt you—” The axe in Martin’s hand breaks, snaps, just pops like a piece of straw, and Martin drops it with a gasp—”I would have.”

Martin’s hand is riddled with splinters, and it throbs with his heartbeat, and he takes two critical seconds to evaluate, recalibrate, shift tactics.

Because (and this is important) if the spooky guy is bothering him, he isn’t bothering Jon. “I’m going to have to replace that handle, you know,” he says, trying for just prickly enough to irritate, and braces himself for the worst.

Kayne tsks again. “Relax, muffin. No consequences for you today. Look around, my darling—it’s all waiting, just for you.”

It is waiting. It’s stopped.

No birds chirping. No movement.

A dog is frozen mid-trot, literally off the ground.

Please be safe, Martin thinks at Jon, though he knows Jon won’t hear because Jon is too far away and at least theoretically respects his mental space. “That’s, uh. That’s… pretty scary?”

“It sure is, my little baklava. Come on, now. Come on! Walk with me. Talk with me! We have some things to discuss. Oh, and a word of advice? The other guy can be chopped (though not to great effect), but I can’t. Won’t work. Wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”

His patter reminds Martin of some sort of cinema carnie, fast and cheerful and aggressively friendly, but Martin still feels the weird, frighteningly literal urge to peel off his own skin.

Hold his attention, he thinks again, and walks where Kayne leads. Which seems to be nowhere, just wandering through the stalls.

Everyone is frozen, mid-prep. Market day is important, and goods are on display, left and right—produce and clothing and tools, spices (mostly salt), and bundles of late summer flowers to brighten homes.

Martin hopes no one’s being harmed by this.

He won’t lead this conversation. If this Kayne actually has something to say, he can say it. Silence is hardly an issue.

“No, it wouldn’t be for you, would it?” says Kayne, reading his mind without so much as a please, and a wave of cold, familiar isolation washes through Martin.

It is just a second’s worth, and already too much.

The Lonely. That was the Lonely, splashed in his face like a glass of water.

Martin keeps it together, somehow, and huffs as if that didn’t absolutely terrify him. “Rude. Can we get this over with? Sorry, just, I’m kind of over the apocalypse, you know? So maybe just say whatever it is you want to get off your chest, and I can go back to work.”

“Oh, you’ve got even more potential than I thought,” Kayne says in a low, pleased tone, hands in his jacket pockets, striding along and watching the sky as if he hasn’t a care in the world. “Creative. So focused. Positively tricksy. Sorry it’s not going to work out that way. Your BFF got visited by the King in Yellow last night, my friend. Things are afoot!”

“That’s... nice?” Martin finally knows who this voice reminds him of—that guy from Tangled. Flynn Rider. Only from hell.

“Ooh, so close! But no. Outer Infinity. Same concept, better amenities. So!” Kayne stops abruptly and claps his hands. “Can you guess why I’m visiting your AnimalCrossing island? Hm? Go on, go on, no wrong answers. Do your best.”

“For Jon,” says Martin without hesitation.

“Mmm, nope, nope, not my taste, I do not want him. Ew. Try again.”

But the thing last night had said… “The Entities,” says Martin softly. “You all want the Fears brought here.”

“Half a point for effort, cupcake. I don’t want that, either.”

What was with the weird pet names? “So… so what are you saying? Then what do you want?”

“Well, not to vaguepost, but some people,” Kayne says, using air quotes, “love a bit of chaos in their stew (excellent flavoring), and some people,” again with the air quotes, “really, really, really, really hate it. Let’s just say I prefer things savory—and the raw potential for chaos your snuggle-muffin brings to the table is causing quite the stir.”

“Chaos,” repeats Martin.

“C-h-a-o-s,” spells Kayne.

The god in yellow’s trigger word. “You,” says Martin, unable to keep his voice steady.

“In person and at your service, sir!” barks Kayne, and bows. He’s produced a full-on feathered cavalier’s hat, which he doffs with a flourish. It vanishes the moment he puts it back on.

Martin’s hand is sticky with blood. The splinters throb. “All right. Well. Jon won’t do it. I mean, I know that. And if you’re so good at reading minds, you know it, too.”

“Well, he won’t yet, sweetums,” says Kayne, “but it’s only a matter of time. You know that, right? I mean, it’s going to happen. It’s just a question of when, and I want it delayed.”

“It’s not a question of when. It’s not going to happen.” Martin feels sick, has to fight the urge to bend over, head down, pushing back nausea, dizziness. “It’s not. You don’t know Jon.”

“But I do. Didn’t like it at all.” Kayne sniffs imperiously. “He just shows everything in his dreamy brown eyes, doesn’t he? Can’t lie for shit, spends half his time in his own head, stabbing himself. Useless. You, on the other hand… there are all kinds of secrets in you, aren’t there?”

“I… I don’t…”

“I mean, you successfully fooled people who could read your mind. That takes some doing, sweet cheeks, and I am here for it.”

Martin has no idea how to feel about that statement. He swallows. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, because, because your affianced is not human. The King can’t just break him or control him (like either of us could do to you) without also breaking whatever it is that can invite all his friends to the party, you get me? And that’s not fair—so we made a bet!”

Martin’s heart is racing. “What bet?”

“Oh, whether he can get the Archivist to do it, of course. I’m going to lose,” says Kayne cheerfully. “But along the way? Drama! Romance! Tears! And since there’s no one who could influence our messy messiah, our herald of the end, our angel of music, better than you—you’re only all the little antichrist thinks about all the time—” Kayne cackles—”I took you.”

Martin takes a step back. “You what?”

Kayne flaps his hand. “Relax, cinnamon bun, I’m not here to kidnap you like an antisemitic goblin. My point, cupcake, is he’ll do what you want. You, the rudder for a nascent and deeply depressed god. That’s quite a lot of power for such a fluffy little pastry, isn’t it?”

This couldn’t be happening.

A bet.

A bet, again, with him and Jon as the game pieces. Anger makes his mouth sour. “You… you made a bet?”

Kayne studies his fingernails. “I just said that, Martin. I don’t like to repeat things. If you’re not going to listen better, I’m not going to come back.”

That is a threat, though Martin can’t fathom what might be worse than his attention. “Jon won’t choose to end the world. Why are you so sure you’ll lose?”

Kayne smiles slowly, like searing flesh, like Martin asked a question that pleases him, then suddenly flings one arm around Martin’s shoulders.

It’s like being encased in hot iron. It hurts, and Martin cries out.

“We are going to have so much fun, you and I!” Kayne says, squeezing tighter in response to Martin’s struggle. “Of course, we have to finish all this folderol first. You’ll do anything for him, he’ll do anything for you, blah, blah, blah, it's all so… so…” Kayne apes sobbing, mimics wiping tears, then switches it off and finally releases him.

Martin stumbles back, shoulders aching. Terror has finally blinded him to what to do next. It’s risen in his throat, lumpy and wet like clay.

“There, there, dumpling,” says Kayne. “Go on back to your crucial, ever-so-important work. You get to tell him all about this when he gets home.”

This can’t wait, Martin thinks.

“Oh, it can. It will. Because your little buddy with a bullseye is learning things right now that he’s going to need, and you don’t want to interrupt that, do you?”

“Then why did you come now?” says Martin.

“Stir the proverbial pot. Plant some seeds. Test your soul’s pH. You know, the usual.” He reaches for Martin’s cheek.

Martin dodges back.

Kayne smiles with poison, with such deep and dire eagerness that Martin almost starts to cry. “Ciao!”

And Kayne is gone.

Except for his cavalier’s hat, which is inexplicably in Martin’s good hand for two seconds, then vanishes.

Everyone is moving again. Time has resumed like nothing happened.

Martin’s bleeding hand aches.

He feels like a monster just put him in its mouth, chewed lightly to test for doneness, then spat him out again.

“Hey, Martin!” calls James, who seems to think Martin’s opinions on the price of cheese matter more than anyone else’s.

“Oh, hey!” Martin calls back, cheerful, smiling, because he is very good at this, very good at not scaring anyone, very good at hiding tears and making sure he’s liked.

And his hand is bleeding, and he holds it behind him while James talks, and only goes to pull out (cut out) the splinters after James has walked away.

“So, in summary: in mid-January, year 63, Emperor Turdot died, leaving behind a deeply unstable situation. He’d refused counsel, refused to allow anyone to know what he was doing or why, and the resulting power vacuum and destabilization gave the Church of the Thousand Young what they needed to take over, transforming the last unshepherded empire into an Esoteric theocracy.”

Jon stops, tracking which students are still paying attention (most), which students are making the connections he’s tried to lead them towards (none), and which students are so distracted by matriculation that they can’t fully focus (all).

He’s not sure yet if he likes teaching. It’s deeply intimate, more than a little uncomfortable. And given what he has to work with, it’s also like trying to plow in fresh mud. “Questions?” he prompts, expecting none. “Ah! Yes—William.”

“Mentor, tell us more of the Esoterics.”

Jon listens for the answer and finds everyone around him seems to know the same broad, unhelpful things. “Ancient beings, origins shrouded in eternity, who guide the world through their carefully-formed Churches.” Dear lord. “They control every government to some level, dependent on the individual nation’s history and relationship with their Esoteric One.”

The visitor in yellow had to be one of these things.

His students watch him, rapt. Jon doesn’t know why; he’s too busy gathering his answer to look into that just yet.

“Some nations are, as Gaul now is, theocracies, which means the deity and its underlings are physically present, openly and aggressively. These nations are considered less free by those outside of them, and unpleasant places to live, leading to—” Oh, that’s new—”the tradition that, when refugees appear, they are treated well. It is considered a mark of a good person and a civilized society to show compassion toward those who’ve torn their lives up by the roots to escape their god. It is doomed to be a cursed life—eventually, so goes the rhetoric, the gods catch up to you.”

Well, that explained why being “refugees” had put them in such a position of aid.

The students stare at him, and Jon takes a moment to try to know why.

Ah. They want to know which nation he escaped from, and how. It seems he evinces none of the things they look for as clues to his origin.

(What things? That’s hard to say, but it seems at least one of those nations would have left him with w-shaped pupils, like a cuttlefish. Yikes.)

“Any further questions?” says Jon, trying to keep that image from messing with his head.

Of course there aren’t. Nobody has questions in this place. They’re all staring at him in awe, though, because they think he will be hunted down by an Esoteric, and they’d like to see it happen.

Lovely. “All right—your final test of the season is tomorrow. No excuses—your families have known you’d need the ink all year, so I expect you to arrive fully stocked.”

“And then matriculation!” shouts Donovan from the back, and his whole class—aged fifteen to sixty-four, all genders—cheers.

He still doesn’t know what students who matriculate actually do. None of them seem to have any plans.

Still, Jon smiles with them. “Yes, yes. Go on, now. Be safe, and may the wind hide you.”

Why do they say that? He doesn’t know because they don’t know.

And no one asks.

He just doesn’t understand why nobody asks.

Jon gathers the books permitted for these classes and—per standard—locks them away. (Why did the books have to be locked up? No clue! Nobody knew! Nobody asked!)

He takes his time cleaning up—dusting, straightening, adjusting the chairs and desks so they’re all even.

He’s lingering. He doesn’t quite know what mood Martin will be in when he gets home.

Martin was not happy with last night’s adventure. Oh, he would probably be fine by tonight, but…

Making Martin upset for any reason was something Jon couldn’t really handle. It echoed things neither of them talk about, things Jon would take back if he could.

Things they maybe would never talk about.

Well. At least he had new information, finally.

Year 63 was the end of Gaul’s human rulers. This was year 376.

What was everyone counting up from? Something so significant happened 376 years ago that it changed how human beings reckon time, but no one knew what it was.

Jon sighs. School had always been a place of comfort for him—where what you knew mattered more than who you knew, or what you wore, or any other thing—but here, they all knew so little.

Though Jon doesn’t want to admit it, it’s beginning to physically hurt.

He feels starved. No, dehydrated. No… something.

It’s not a need for statements, he tells himself—which is good, as he has taken none since arrival. It has to be something else.

Sure.

Jon rubs his chest and tries to focus on this new knowledge.

The Esoterics. So strange, so undefined; just other, powerful, out there somewhere. Not that theocracies hadn’t existed in his own world (three concurrent popes all calling each other heretics like in that Spiderman meme remained one of his favorite weird historical moments), but this was different.

Actual deific embodiments. No wonder nobody he’d met here was an atheist.

They just all knew, believed, accepted, did not question. And they did not like his questions, felt terrified when asked, and he did not know why.

It was like pulling teeth to get his students to even comment on lessons.

There was little doubt that an Esoteric had come to visit last night.

Why would any of them want the Fears closer? Surely a god couldn’t get so bored that it wanted competition.

“Knock, knock,” says the Paragon.

“Come in, Mason,” says Jon, packing away the remains of his lunch.

Jon does not like the Paragon.

The Paragon makes him think far too much of Jonah. His eyes are gray. His smile is banal. His mind is heavily shrouded. While Mason is far from the only one whose mind Jon cannot see, it’s worrying.

The Paragon also provides Jon’s guilders, so Jon tries to not to let any of that show.

“So, you’ve done it,” says Mason, smiling and leaning on the door frame, like they’re old friends. “Made it through your first season. It looks like you enjoyed most of it.”

That’s another thing Jon doesn’t like: the man states his guesses as though they are fact, and often, is right.

Jon tried to hint he’d taught before.

Mason hadn’t believed it for a second.

Jon tried to hint they hadn’t traveled far.

Mason laughed like he’d made a joke.

Worrisome. “I did, thank you,” says Jon, taking up his satchel and double-checking the clasp.

“Well,” says Mason, a little gleam in his eyes (Not his fault they’re gray, Jon tells himself every time they talk), “the position is open for next season, if you’re interested.”

Three weeks between seasons, Jon has learned, is normal. A three-year program for those few who qualify, four seasons a year—eight weeks on, during which students are expected to do nothing but learn, and three weeks off, during which they must produce one new fact they learned on their own.

(But still without asking questions, and Jon is bothered.)

“That sounds lovely, assuming I’m not taking someone else’s job,” he says.

“For someone with your vast knowledge, I would make a spot, even if I had to dig for one,” says Mason affably. “Someday, you’ll have to let me know why you didn’t matriculate.”

Jon doesn’t understand what that means, or how Mason knows he didn’t, or why it matters. He focuses on his bag because he knows his face is not neutral. “Someday. Sure.”

Mason doesn’t look like Jonah. He’s younger. Slightly rougher, living in a world without spa days, or whatever Jonah did to Elias Bouchard’s body. But those eyes….

Stop it, Jon tells himself.

“There is one more thing.”

Jon tries not to tense, then decides Mason probably saw it, anyway. He smiles weakly. “Those words usually aren’t followed by anything good.”

Mason smiles back. “They are this time. I would like to invite you and your partner to a mentor’s gathering tonight. We’ll be hosting mentors from the three closest Groves, as well. It’s a good chance to meet your own kind—since I know you’re unfamiliar with our area.”

See, there it was again. That phrasing; it could be read in all different ways. Maybe Mason was trying to figure out where Jon had run from, too. “I’ll ask and see if he’s interested. Neither of us feels overly social just yet.”

“Really.” Mason’s eyes widen. “It seems your beau is quite social, from what I hear.”

“Professionally, of course he is,” says Jon, trying so very hard not to feed his suspicion of this man.

“Fair enough, fair enough. Well, I hope he says yes. I’m heading to London after, so I won’t see you again until next season. Have a good night, Jonathan.”

Jon doesn’t correct his name. He just leaves.

Worth it, he reminds himself, because it is, and he isn’t tied down, and they can leave at any time (quitting was an option here, and he had damn well made sure).

Cresting the hill before their cottage, he pauses, looks; it’s market day, and Martin will be late.

Jon’s going to bake something. Welcome him home with good smells and love.

He checks the dough that’s been proofing overnight, liberally mixed with fresh rosemary; it already smells divine, and he has high hopes for it as he sticks it in the oven.

Happily, he doesn’t have to light a fire. Electricity works here between the hours of five AM and seven PM—even though there are neither wires nor outlets.

It’s wireless power in a place that doesn’t even have radios. Yet another mystery.

What was the world like before that event of 376 years past?

Jonathan was a Hebrew name, and Jon had it because of religious and cultural integration. Others here had names like Mark, which was originally Greek, and—back home—common for the same reason.

There was no Church of Rome, couldn’t be in a world with floating gods, and without the common foundation of that Greco-Latin influence, the language should not be the same. The word theocracy had Greek roots, for crying out loud.

He had to wonder if they were actually speaking English—if the Eye was doing something to ease communication.

But if it was, how would that work for Martin?

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” Jon mutters, bringing leftovers up from the narrow, deep cellar.

Maybe the Fears hadn’t been able to come through because this world was so different.

There didn’t seem to be much suffering, at least. Nobody talked about anything frightening, ever; and when he skimmed minds, he never saw the concerns that should, by reason, be there.

No one worried for their future or their health or war or money.

No one worried for their children or their parents or their crops or their cows.

It’s like they were all caricatures of people, two dimensional—kind, hard-working, but unable to think deeply about anything.

How could they be like this in a universe run by terrifying beings like last night’s god?

There is no way to know, of course, (You could know, tempts the Eye, and Jon ignores it), but he highly doubts the yellow-cloaked being is going to be patient with him for long.

Would distance make a damn bit of difference?

Esoterics rule various nations, but the fact that refugees get chased down means fleeing probably won’t help.

Escape might be possible, but it might not—and if it isn’t, running would just piss off the thing that was after them.

There is a London, but Jon’s not found a map. Is there an Oxford? Probably not. The likelihood of there being an exit, another Hill Top Road, is slim to none—and whatever hole they’d fallen through originally was definitely no longer available.

He didn’t want to risk returning to their original world, anyway. What if the Fears continued to follow him, tethered? What if they weren’t as stuck as he hoped?

Jon sighs. “Focus, Sims,” he mutters, because wherever he and Martin land, here or elsewhere, he is determined to make a home for them. No matter what it takes.

Even if that means figuring out a way around a god.

“Hopefully, with no more stabbing,” Jon mutters, chopping everything for a makeshift fry-up.

And suddenly, he knows whose territory he is in.

His hand slips, and he cuts his finger.

Cursing, he runs it under the sink; while it heals, he tries to stay calm.

He hadn’t reached for this new knowledge. Hadn’t asked. Why had it been given to him? Why had—

“Jon?” says Martin from the door. He is very pale, and his hand is bandaged.

Jon drops everything and runs to him.

They sit together on their old, broken-down couch, ignoring the springs that press into their backs and bottoms. “What are we going to do?” Martin says, very small.

“I don’t know.” Jon cradles Martin’s bandaged hand. He doesn't mention his own cut, already healed.

“We have to do something. Maybe go somewhere. We—we have enough saved. If we had to buy passage overseas or something, maybe we could.”

“I don’t know, Martin. I don’t think it would help.”

“We can’t just sit here!”

Jon sighs. “I think our visitors are truly in charge here. That whole Esoteric thing… I mean, what kind of a name is the Church of a Thousand Young, anyway? It has something to do with what they call the Black Goat of the Woods. Can’t you feel how terrible that is?”

Martin cannot, but he can see how it affects Jon—disgust and fear, equally rancid—so he nods.

“And do you want to know which Esoteric rules here? I found out while I was… before you got back. Alba belongs to the Church of the Pallid Mask. Do you know what that means?”

“No,” whispers Martin, breathing faster, because something about the way Jon said that was too familiar, tipped him off that Jon got this information illicitly, and if he’s listening that hard, actively searching, then he’s stretching his powers, and he hasn’t needed statements yet, but what if he starts needing them, and—

“A white mask, Martin. Like the King in Yellow was wearing.”

“We’re in his territory? Then we should leave!”

“Even if we got away from him, I don’t think we could from your chaos god.”

“He’s not my chaos god,” Martin snaps, and doesn’t know why he does.

Jon flinches. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh, Jon.” Martin pulls him close, sighs against his hair. “No, I’m sorry. I’m on edge.” He sighs. “And my hand hurts, and I had to pretend it didn’t all day because if I get so much as a scrape, everybody’s all over me to help.”

Jon smiles against his shoulder; then laughs. He can’t help it. “Of course they are. My man, the Village stud.”

“Stop.” But Martin’s smiling.

“The mysterious thoroughbred from far away, the most eligible gentleman—”

Martin’s laughing now, too, and he’s red behind his freckles. “Jon, you’re being ridiculous.”

“What, just because I happen to be sleeping with the most strapped, the most—”

“All right, all right.”

“Even Salesa was into you, you know.”

“What?”

“’I like this one,’” Jon mimics in a poor attempt at Salesa’s accent.

Martin gives up and kisses him quiet, laughing against his mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“Yes, I am,” Jon smirks, but then the moment has passed, and his smile fades. “This bet of theirs is insane. I won’t bring the Fears into the world, Martin. I’ll die before I do that to this place.”

Martin is silent for a long moment. “You’re assuming you can die.”

“I assume it because it’s reasonable. I don’t have the power I did back home, even before Jonah’s ritual. Yes, I can gather thoughts, but I don’t need them. And I can’t force people to tell me things—there’s no compelling at all.”

“You’ve tried?” says Martin, softly.

Jon blinks at him. “Well, yes.”

“Jon, when did this happen?”

“I… not long after I started looking for a job. I….”

“You didn’t tell me.”

Jon looks so surprised. “I didn’t want to worry you! Besides, what’s there to tell? You know I’m not the Archivist here. Whatever lingering effects there are, I’m not that. I don’t have the powers, and I don’t have the protections.”

Not all of them, anyway.

“Who did you try to compel?”

Jon sighs slowly. “Just a shopkeeper. I haven’t gone back. I… I just needed to know if I could do it.”

Martin is silent.

Jon feels suddenly ashamed, though he hadn’t a moment before. “Martin, I had to figure out what remained inside me. I doubt I can look anyone to death, either.”

“No, I’d assume you couldn’t do that. But Jon, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was important.” Which is the truth (because Martin was right and Kayne was right and Jon can’t lie for shit). “I just did a few tests, realized I can’t compel, can’t just know everything—but I also don’t need statements. I don’t have to feed the Eye, Martin.”

“I know you don’t, but….”

“I’m sorry we haven’t talked about it,” says Jon, softly, looking up (and Martin wants to melt into those eyes, wants to kiss away the pain he sees there, the lingering sorrow and shame). “You’ve been so focused on just keeping us afloat here. So have I. We just… haven’t talked about not needing statements.”

They haven’t talked about a lot more than that.

Martin sighs. “I felt like if I did, I’d be pushing our luck. Jinxing it.”

Jon’s smile is not a good one. “If you don’t want to be jinxed, you’ll need to stay far away from me.”

“No. No,” says Martin, firmly, uncomfortably reminded of Kayne’s comment about Jon mentally, repeatedly stabbing himself. “None of that. You know better.”

Jon neither confirms nor denies.

Martin cups his face. “I am with you because I love you. I choose you,” he says. “I didn’t know it would be this way, but that’s how all love is. That’s how life is! I mean, if I’d known it would be like this, I would have stabbed Jonah in the back of the head or something, but I’d still be with you. And we’d be in Honduras.”

“Honduras?” says Jon with a little smile. “Why?”

“Non-extradition treaty,” says Martin. “I looked it up.”

Jon manages a small laugh. His smile fades, changes into something intense, eldritch, too much to bear, and Martin has to fight not to drop his own gaze. “I don’t deserve you,” says Jon.

“Stop that,” says Martin. “Also, I think I smell bread.”

“Damn, the bread!” Jon says, and leaps away to get it out of the oven.

Damn Jonah is what Martin thinks, because he sees the wounds, he sees the scars, sees how brilliantly Jonah destroyed whatever confidence Jon had once had.

Of course Jonah had. He hadn’t wanted the god he’d created to come after him.

And Martin doesn’t know how to heal him.

It angers Martin that his love isn’t enough to reach the bottom of the wounds Jonah left.

I’m just jealous of everybody, aren’t I? thinks Martin, considering his reaction to Oliver Banks, and has to laugh at himself. “What a pair we make,” he mutters.

“Safe,” says Jon. “Rosemary bread tonight. It’s going to be lovely.”

Not nearly as lovely as Jon’s expression, Martin thinks, studying the way his eyes crinkle, studying the way he actually shows his teeth with a smile this real.

Why can’t we have this? Martin thinks at the universe. Just let us have this.

The universe does not reply.

(part three)

NOTES:

It's ALMOST AS IF they really need to talk about some stuff. Hmmmm!

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navree · 2 years ago

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elias apparently telling back in season 1 jon to destroy the web table when it arrived when he KNEW that would release the not-them, you shady bitch god absolutely bless you

#personal #the magnus archives #mag relisten #he's so marvelous out here playing the concerned boss #'oh jon this table is dangerous made you should destroy it' when he knows that would release an eldritch monster #i love him #(also cuz i'm on that ep in my relisten when martin asks if he can go and jon gives him a lil 'go on' and it's soft and almost affectionate)#(feeling some feelings beyond elias appreciation in the club tonight)

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tawneybel · 3 years ago

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Note: Ten favorite monsters, part four. Part three. Once a month sounds good for a top ten list, yeah? Only it’s hard for me to actually rank cool monsters. Cuphead has an absurd amount of great character designs. I’ve decided to limit one Disney entry per monster list. Oh, and it was hard to get a good photo of the Time Dragon. This one doesn’t show his horns, multi-story theatre, or the mob of Munchkinlanders.

1. Aylmer from Brain Damage

Vaguely phallic… brain eating parasite drug metaphor.

2. Two-Mouthed Wall from Cuphead

Architectural monsters are a fave of mine in their own right. (See Baba Yaga’s house.) Bonus points for being part of a funhouse and letting his friends drive through him.

3. nuts from Face Like a Frog

This is one of my favorite cartoon shorts. It came out before Rugrats, but its music and deranged animation reminds me of my childhood fave, only more surreal. And Face Like a Frog’s surreality is easily explained: the house is occupied by nuts.

4. Planet Remina from Hellstar Remina

Look, I’m headcanoning this planet as a lady. Because there needs to be more female eldritch abomination representation. Also, she has a pretty name. Like, yeah, she was named after the daughter of the male astronomer who discovered her. Anyway, like Junji Ito manga in general, it’s better just to see for yourself how horrifying the antagonist is.

5. siren from Martin Mystery

They opted to make her whole body more avian, so there’s a mass of feathers covering her mammaries. (If she even has those in her true form.) The addition of a beak is another feature I like. Also, the reptilian tail is a nice “ancient” touch.

6-8. werewolves

Ginger Snaps trilogy: If you want interesting female-led horror, watch the first two films. Unleashed is one of the best horror films ever just for the characters’ multilayered moralities.

Hemlock Grove: The dialogue is so odd. But it contains one of the best gruesome transformations. And male nudity.

Teen Wolf: You’d think I wouldn’t like a series where most werewolves can’t fully transform into a wolf. Or the fact they’re vaguely cat-like, with roaring and retractable claws. The Alpha-Beta-Omega hierarchy is clearly (wolf)man-made, but still fun. A supernatural drama that doesn’t take itself too seriously is a beautiful thing. Maybe I should add the Chimeras to another list, because I love “mix-and-match” monstrous humans.

9. Clock of the Time Dragon from the Wicked Years

Clockpunk meets puppet theatre and dark fantasy.

10. Heffalumps from Winnie the Pooh

The spooky ones from “Heffalumps and Woozles” as well as Lumpy and co. The Hundred Acre Woods has cute living stuffed animals.

Note: I didn’t realize Remina’s eye was so yonic. XD Clawdeen Wolf is a runner-up for werewolves because she’s a hairy-legged fashionista. Expect more wereanimals on future lists.

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venfx · 4 years ago

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magnus fic roundup

as tma comes to a close, i thought i'd post some of my favorite fics to come out of this fandom. most of these are classics, listed in no particular order.

A Weather In The Flesh by @cuttoothed | 3K | S1-S4 | Jon/Martin | Complete

"There is a span of years where Jon doesn’t touch anyone other than the occasional hand shake. It’s not so bad. He’s never been someone who’s needed physical affection."

Jon has never been any good at making people want to stick around.

↳ this is such a well-done exploration of jon’s character and his relationship with touch, and i’ve re-read it at least five times. sweet and sad and phenomenally well-written.

in the chillest land and on the strangest sea by imperfectcircle, singlecrow | 20K | Safehouse, S1-S4 | Jon & Daisy, Jon/Martin | Complete

Jon remembers a statement he read years ago given by a Jesuit priest, who said that the shortest prayer he knew was, just, fuck it, as in fuck it; it's in God's hands. He takes Daisy's hand and trails on after her.

or; hope is a thing with feathers.

↳ hey, you wanna fuckin..... feel things? read this.

The Magnus Institute hires a Data Protection Officer. He sets about diligently booking in meetings, writing policy documents, and training all the staff in the importance of confidentiality. Now if only he could get hold of the Head Archivist, who seems to have vanished again...

(Jon is only trying to save the world, but apparently some people think he should still be doing his day job.)

↳ i’d be surprised to find people who haven’t read this series, but it’s the definition of “the magnus archives is a workplace comedy”. also, alasdair stuart has actually read some clips of this on Twitch, so that’s a fun bonus.

In accordance with the Ride or Die Pact of 2009, Jonathan Sims can call upon Georgie Barker at any time for aid with no strings attached. Despite their rocky history, their childhood friendship, and Jon’s barely recovered alcoholism, this pact is sacred and must be upheld.

Georgie Barker may regret this. She may regret it when she discovers that the world is full of monsters and eldritch gods and dickhead managers. She may regret it when a punk rocker who should be dead collapses on their doorstep, a teenager again who needs their help. She may regret it when her stupid ex-boyfriend starts selling his soul for knowledge and the ability to keep his new family safe.

But she probably won’t. Georgie isn’t scared of anything - not a Clown’s apocalypse, not the apocalypse that Jon is destined to begin, and not Jon’s own loss of humanity.

Maybe she should be.

↳ if you’re looking for an everyone-lives-no-one-dies-happy-ending fic that also happens to be massively chaotic, look no further.

The Reverb in These Holy Halls by @wolftraps | 98K | AU, S1-S4 | Jon/Martin | Complete

Undoing the apocalypse would have been enough for Jon, if all his people survived. Without them, Jon's only recourse is making it so it never happened in the first place. He's going to do better this time.

↳ quintessential time travel AUs. plot-wise, i feel like these can be difficult to write, but op does a fantastic job of tying things together in a way that makes sense. plus, it’s just fun to read.

jon sims v the nhs by @thoughtsbubble | 12K | Series | S3 | Complete

Joan Bright has a new patient. He's carrying an old tape recorder and is covered head to toe in scars. Jonathan Sims looks dangerous, but Dr Bright has dealt with all sorts of atypical individuals. She has no reason to be nervous.

Right?

↳ if you’ve ever thought “hey, jon should probably go to therapy”, then 1) you’re absolutely right and 2) this is... probably what would’ve happened. prior knowledge of The Bright Sessions is not required. also, apparently, this fic is written by the showrunner of The Underwood Collection? wild.

Family, Found by Dribbledscribbles | 9K | S4 | Complete

It’s Basira who catches onto it.

The collective shift that seems to come over them when heading in or out of the Institute. Not just the oppressive sensation of being observed, their every move catalogued for the voyeuristic cravings of some unseen Eye(s). That feeling remained with them even when they left the Institute these days, but it was always stronger inside its walls. That wasn’t the change. Nor was it the point.

The point was: making life worse for Jonathan Sims.

↳ i think being part of the avengers fandom circa 2012 has given me permanent found-family-trope brainrot, but you know what. jonathan sims can have a little happiness, as a treat.

n. an important moment of insight, typically one that leads to a dramatic transformation of attitude or belief

Or, in which Tim becomes an avatar for the end of all things.

↳ tim dies and then he doesn’t. there is catharsis and world building. just....read it.

Come, Change Your Ring With Me by @backofthebookshelf | 29K | S3 | Peter/Jon, Jon/Martin, Peter/Elias | Complete

The Lukases demand the Archivist marry into the family, and the Institute relies on them too much to say no. Peter is smug. Elias is fuming. Martin is suffering. Jon thinks this might be tolerable if only Peter would hurry up and leave him alone already.

OR, the soap opera we call an Archives revolves around Peter Lukas this time.

↳ superb evil-bastards-in-love content, feat. martin pining, tim being obnoxious, and jon being... well, tired, mostly. i will literally never get tired of how op writes peter.

creatures that i briefly move along by @dotsayers | 16K | Series | AU, Post-S4 | background Jon/Martin

Mr Sims was so weird, was the thing. Miss Grant always said calling people weird was rude, and Anna sort of agreed, but she didn’t know what other word to use to describe Mr Sims.

He’d only been in with the class for a few days, really, and half of that he just sat at the back listening, but that didn’t stop her from making a swift judgement. 5BG had had student teachers before, back when they were 3ST, and they’d been uniformly normal.

Mr Sims was… actually, Anna had a better adjective. He was interesting.

↳ i just.... love teacher!jon fics. this series delivers.

Once Bitten by @apatheticbutterflies | 1K | S4 | Jon & Daisy | Complete

Jon Sims has always been a jumpy kind of guy. Nervous. Twitchy. Daisy used to think it meant he was guilty. Turns out he was. Just not of what she’d thought.

Daisy learns how to peel an orange.

↳ daisy and jon’s relationship is an example of an instance where i’m happy to say “fuck what you wrote mr. jonny ‘chocolate torte of tragedy’ sims, i want them to be friends”.

pins and needles by mutterandmumble | 13K | S1-S4 | Complete

He’s got a reputation to uphold anyways; an uptight, rigid reputation that dictates the way that he interacts and functions and is such an integral part of him that he can’t let go of it anytime soon. He likes his safety nets. He likes his contingencies. He likes his privacy, and everything around this place right down to the walls seems to have ears, so he’ll stay tight-lipped up to and beyond the threat of death.

He’s good at that.

In which Jon takes up embroidery and bumbles through life the best that he can.

↳ out of all the introspective jon pieces i’ve read (and there are many), this one stands out. maybe it’s the symbolism or the characterisation, or maybe it’s the fact that i have an embroidery kit lurking in the back of my closet along with a hundred other half-pursued hyperfixations. whatever. this is excellent.

sleeping in by @ivelostmyspectacles | 5K | S2 | Jon/Tim | Complete

“Who are you trying to convince?”

Jon gives up, letting his head sag against Tim’s shoulder. “I don’t know.”

aka Elias gets tired of Jon and Tim's bickering, sends them away for a "team-building" weekend trip, and is sure to book them a room with only one bed

↳ this has everything you’d need from a “oh no there’s only one bed” fic. someone please get these men therapy.

if you try, sometimes (you get what you knead) by @ajcrawly | 3.5K | S1-S4 | Jon/Martin, Tim/Sasha | Complete

It starts with an abundance of boeuf bourguignon and ends up as a team tradition.

Food and love in uncertain times.

↳ more found family fic, this time with a diverse og!archival staff and food as a metaphor for love. hurt in all the right ways. made me hungry in the process.

#tried to keep this shortish but i might just make a part 2 #people in this fandom are crazy talented #tma #the magnus archives #tma fic recs #fic recs #long post #txt #mine

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bare1ythere · 5 years ago

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A Teacher!Jon Fic rec list

A few nights ago I got Seriously into Teacher!Jon (the idea is really wonderful) and read all the fics I could find for it, so I thought I might as well share my favourites!!

the Teacher from the Magnus Archives by Athina_Blaine Is a cute oneshot fic from the perspective of 13 year old Maggie Abernathy on her investigations into the new English teacher: Mr. Sims. Maggie’s character is really fun and cute to read, and the first part of the fic is from the perspective of the youtube series she’s making on her investigation. It’s really cute and fun and I Really recommend it! Description:

“Hey, everyone, welcome back to my channel. My name is Maggie Abernathy and today we will be continuing our investigation of the, uh, eldritch monster slash English teacher who calls itself Jonathan Sims.”

Maggie is determined to catch Mr. Sims via her channel, and then everyone would see how cool and smart she was, right?

There's a 15th Fear, and it's Teenagers by benevolentmonolithicc is an 11 part ongoing (all snippets and not necessarily connected, though should probably be read in order) teacher jon fic centering on Jon as a year 11 English teacher with his students but ALSO his relationships with other teachers and even some out-of-school shenanigans. This fic is REALLY good y’all. Almost entirely fluff and fairly funny, as well as having reoccurring student characters. I love this fic So Much. Description:

What if Jonah didn't ruin everything? Didn't send the end of everything statement? What do Jon and Martin do now? Get a job, I guess. A teaching job, for Jon, though it was hardly his first pick. But sometimes your boyfriend looks *really* excited when he suggests it, and I mean, you know literally everything. It can't be that bad, right? Right?

nor any more youth or age than there is now by Ravenesta is a collection of connected snippets of Jon as a Primary 2 (which is as far as I can tell 2nd or 1st grade) teacher that are Extremely wholesome and adorable. I don’t really know how else to describe it that would do it justice. It’s SO cute. PLEASE READ THIS FIC. Description:

The local Primary school has a new teacher. He is, to say the very least, odd.

A series of statements regarding the interactions of the townsfolk with one Jonathan Sims, never formally given.

This one isn’t a fic but a Series of (currently) 4 fics: creatures that i briefly move along by couldaughter. This one’s especially interesting because you get to see Jon in a few different roles as a teacher, as well as that the author themself is a teacher which gives this fic a lot of fun specific details about his Training that are genuinely cool to read about! It’s really great. Since I can’t put all four descriptions here, Ill pick the description from one of my favourites:

Jon, as it turned out, was totally fine. He had George patched up with a Pudsey-style bandage adorned with a very poorly drawn Batman symbol and was listening intently as George explained the mechanics of Roblox.

“I see,” he said, as George’s rambling sentence came to an end. “So you can play all sorts of games with it?”

George nodded emphatically. “‘S the coolest game ever.”

teach me someting, Archivist. by PeriPeriwinkle is a slightly angsty fic where Jon and one of his students have an encounter with Helen. I love fics that show Jon protecting his students from the fears, and this is a really good one! Description:

“N-no, mister Sims, it’s just–” Jon looks up, worried. Kenzie certainly sounds spooked, but she’s not looking at him, and rather somewhere behind him. “That door was definitely not there ten minutes ago.”

Helen drops by for a visit.

#the magnus archives #tma #magpod #jonathan sims #teacher!jon #fic recs #fic rec list #shut up me #I LOVE TEACHER!JON

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eturni · 4 years ago

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So, we’re all just piling on the pain first before we leap into Jon’s coffee shop AU fantasies with abandon, right?

The world is static and pain and terror and Jon cannot lose control, will not lose control because he has lost so much to take his place here. Will lose so much more in mere minutes when the others discover what he has done. But Jon is determined to be the line in the sand. This far you have come, and no further. No more passing the suffering on. No more onlookers caught up in terrors they do not understand. No more childish bullies ripped into darkened doors to save someone who should have disappeared long ago.

No more strangers’ stories burning at his throat and in his conscience to maintain his life and the eye.

He has just enough control and maintains it with a trembling in his entire being because he knows what he must do. So used to the feeling of Knowing he pushes it to the side even as he passively drinks in the whole of the broken world; twisted up by it but not consumed. Not yet.

Martin’s rage, when he arrives, is pure and incandescent. It burns with a familiar shame, and every accusation he levels at Jon tear open exactly the wounds they need to. It is not nearly enough to blind Jon to the Sight of the terror that lies beneath it. Martin is so very scared. For him. Of him. Of what this means.

Jon is a monster, is the eye of the pupil, and yet all of the unspeakable horror in the world beyond filters into the back of his mind to leave room for the creeping, dawning terror that grips Martin the moment that he sees Elias and realises all that has happened. His small control of what he Sees grants him only enough freedom to be all but consumed by the terror-grief that he has caused to one of the only good things in his life.

The feedback static of his own fear as he realises what Martin has also already done gluts the eye to a near euphoria; its own pupil locked up with momentary terror.

Jon could not bear to be the one who passed his monstrous position onto even one more person. Could not bear to doom worlds purely because they weren’t his. In the end he doesn’t have to. He just has to have enough love to stay still as the static claws desperately at his brain to try and claim him.

In the end Martin’s kiss and the kiss of the blade do not feel so very different. Each is a promise and a goodbye. Each is laced with more grief than either of them should have had to bear.

And in the end there is a moment, a single one, in which the static and the pinprics of fear have finally, painfully disconnected from him. It is the first time he sees a Martin he truly loves without the terrible lense of an eldritch fear god. It is more beautiful than all the horror combined could be grotesque. He does not know, when the tower beneath them begins to crumble and the edges of his sight go dark, if Martin will survive this or follow him. But in the end the world is all that it should have been for the briefest of seconds and Jon wishes that the price could have been worth it.

#tma #tma spoilers #my writing #I'm honestly just sat here trying to make myself sad at this point

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ashdumpsterpile · 4 years ago

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ASH’S TOP 10 TMA FIC RECS

For @damcrows who is Suffering. (I’ll make a second rec list with only fluff fics I promise <3)

immortal with a kiss by yellow_ caballero

But she probably won’t. Georgie isn’t scared of anything - not a Clown’s apocalypse, not the apocalypse that Jon is destined to begin, and not Jon’s own loss of humanity.

Maybe she should be.

1000/10 the best fanfic in this fandom. It’s got everything: QP Jon/Georgie, Teen!Gerald, Beholding lore, and everyone bullies Jon. (Head trigger warnings)

daisy time travels and jon suffers au by paper_dream

In which Daisy time travels back from the apocalypse, saves Jon from herself, and just kinda forgets he has no idea what's going on.

Daisy timetravels to pre-Buried. Jon suffers.

The Magnus Institute vs the 21st Century: a series of emails and IMs by shinyopals

I'm sure given your position you already know about the advent of the General Data Protection Regulation next year, wrote Peter Lukas, to Elias Bouchard. However, the Lukas family wishes to be crystal clear that our continued investment is contingent upon the Institute taking its responsibilities with regards to privacy and confidentiality seriously.

(Jon is only trying to save the world, but apparently some people think he should still be doing his day job.)

10/10. Fun take on the texting/email trope. Jon pines and destroys laptops. IT suffers.

ceylon, assam, and darjeeling by sciosa

People do not bring Jonathon Sims tea. Martin Blackwood, newly-minted archival assistant, has apparently not received this memo.

It’s about the pining.

ways to save the world by Wildehack

“I left you,” Martin says softly.

Really REALLY good pining, Jon in the Lonely and brief amnesia.

from the highways to the hills, our love has never had a leg to stand on by blackwood (transjon)

She always forgets how observant he is because digging anything meaningful out of him can be a chore. He looks at things. He observes. He catalogues. Georgie is like a library patron trying to check out a book labeled REFERENCE ONLY with a bright red piece of tape wrapped around the spine.

Pre-canon canon compliant character study of Jon/Georgie.

same as it ever was by ajkal2

It’s a nice dress. Classy, if also a little risqué. Set off against dark skin, it looks very good. It would probably work on Jon, actually. He wonders where she got it. Then he remembers he’s at work, and abruptly derails that train of thought.

The women of the Magnus Institute are holding a protest against the sexist dress code of their place of work. Jon is conflicted, and also has a gender for some reason. What's up with that?

THEE they/them fic. Nonbinary Jon? Check. Trans Martin? Check. The Anti-Elias Agenda? Check. Tim in a cocktail dress? Check check check. This fic has everything.

remind me how to smile bytamerofdarkstars

Jon is probably fine, just hiding out somewhere while the whole murder thing blows over and that's... fine. Martin is fine with that explanation. Really. He's got plenty to distract himself - like listening through the entire What the Ghost episode library, for example. Or watching Georgie Barker's Instagram livestreams.

A oneshot during Jon’s stay with Georgie. Tons of fluff.

Milk After Spiders by chewsdaychillin

Warm milk is all he gets.

After that door closes and the world is eerily slammed back to normal, Jon’s legs unfreeze and he stumbles back off the step. Makes the journey home alone and wobbly, no desire left for exploring (it won’t return for a long time).

basically sad jon childhood and adulthood hurt/comfort but the comfort is mad delayed :/

Jon suffers. That’s the fic.

Family, Found by Dribbledscribbles

It’s Basira who catches onto it.

The point was: making life worse for Jonathan Sims.

JON SUFFERS. THAT’S THE FIC.

#tma #tma fic recs #tma rec list #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #jon sims #martin blackwood #jmart #jmartin #fanfic #ash recs

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equalseleventhirds · 4 years ago

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i said i wouldn't write it but i did

vaguely a sequel to this, but far in the future and focused on jon (annabelle features briefly tho. she's fine. annabelle will always be fine in my fics.) with ofc the presupposition that they've failed in one world but kept trying, bcos i think that would be fun*!

*(by which i mean heartbreaking, i'm so sorry)

There are rules, to the traveling, or at least there seem to be. There are certainly questions to be asked and points to be made, about how many instances count as a definitive rule rather than simply a pattern. But Jon likes to think of them as rules. He's always preferred concrete answers, even if it turns out they're less the truth and more just a convenient way of conceptualizing things.

So he has rules.

First: the Fears always come through on the same day. October 18, 2018. Or, given the impact history has on calendars, the equivalent of it; he'd once spent months trying to correlate the forty-third moon of cycle 1852 with his calendar just to prove his point, but the math had all worked out.

(Which does indicate, at least to Jon, that yes, the Fears probably did originate in his home world, Georgie. He'll take his petty wins where he can get them. For as long as he can remember the discussion, and the people, he's proving wrong.)

Second, it is still his tapes that the Fears follow. For every apocalypse there has been a new catalyst, but none of these new rituals supersede his. Maybe it's a testament to the strength of the Web's original plan, or maybe it's just something about Jon himself. He knows what he thinks, but... well, there isn't enough proof just yet.

Third, in spite of endless attempts to trap them and stop them, Jon is always able to travel with the Fears. Perhaps they simply can't stop him, as the original antichrist he apparently is; dozens of apocalypses in dozens of different universes, and Jon can always feel his rightful place as ruler of that terrible fearscape calling to him. He hasn't taken it yet, but it's there, and the Eye cannot abandon its true pupil without his permission.

Or perhaps they simply don't care. Every attempt so far has led to the exact same result, after all: another world left behind, another death by starvation averted, another new feast for the Fears to sink their teeth into.

Fourth, he always passes out upon entering a new world.

It's kind of annoying.

---

It is slightly unusual for him to wake up warm, comfortable, and covered in a blanket, but Jon's not about to complain. It's nice. He doesn't get a lot of comfort, and he likes sleeping in a bed, especially since he's always eldritch-nightmare-free in a new world. For a limited time only, of course.

He's fairly certain he's inside; aside from the softness underneath and around him, the air is still and temperate, the light through his eyelids is artificial, and all he can hear is the faint whirring of appliances and the whispers of two muted voices.

"—complete stranger, definitely dangerous, looks like he's from hell—"

"Okay, fine, but I wasn't going to leave him, and anyway haven't you noticed he's a bit—"

"A bit what? Scarred? Bloodstained? Glowing eyes, because I don't think I need to remind you, Martin, his eyes were absolutely glowing when you found him—"

Martin. Now there's a name. Not an uncommon one, but... he thinks he knows that voice.

Or. Well. He might know both of those voices, actually, which is even more interesting than waking up in a bed.

Jon opens his eyes.

He's met himself before, is the thing. Not in every world, and not always particularly recognizable, but he's met himself. He's met versions of Martin, too, and eventually stopped going completely useless with heartbreak every time. The merest handful of times, he's found both of them in the same world, sometimes something almost like friends, but usually not.

The fact that they have their arms around each other, casual, comfortable, close, is both entirely unexpected and perfectly, wonderfully, terribly familiar. Jon briefly considers crying about it, but there are more important things to be doing. For example.

"The glowing eyes aren't actually that sinister. I mean, they are, but not for the reasons you're probably thinking."

Jon—the other Jon—jumps at the sound of his voice, then leans forward. Curiosity, of course; that hardly ever seems to change. "You—the glowing—who are you?"

"Jon," this new version of Martin scolds, and for just a moment he's back home, with his Martin, with that exasperated tone—but no, this isn't his Martin, and he's also leaning forward now, his voice turning gentle. Concerned. Coaxing, like he's a spooked animal, and Jon doesn't think his Martin has ever talked to him that way. "How are you feeling? We found you unconscious in the street."

He can feel Martin's curiosity too, pushing forward under his concern, just as questioning as Jon but too polite to outright say it yet. He has to cut this off, or he really will cry.

"Mm... no," he says. "Well, yes. But also." Good lord, he's confusing them. Par for the course, but he should probably try to be somewhat comprehensible.

He holds up a hand, extending one finger. "I am... fine. More or less. Trust me, I'm used to this, and this isn't even the worst way it's happened." Another finger joins the first. "My name, as I believe Martin has guessed but then dismissed, is Jonathan Sims. I am not you from the future, nor am I lying, nor am I crazy, because—" a third finger "—interdimensional travel is not only possible, it has happened, is happening, because of and along with terrible monstrosities I am determined to stop, and I have explained this too many times to too many people to have much patience for anyone being shocked and disbelieving, much less a version of myself doing so, so you can either get over it and move on or I can go elsewhere and do something useful."

"Excuse—"

"And," he continues, pushing himself up so he can sit and lean forward even more intensely than his counterpart, "I would actually rather not do that just yet, because I have an extremely pressing question for the two of you."

"Um," Martin says, and "What," says the other Jon.

"How," Jon asks, deepening his voice to exude solemn, ominous, and eldritchly important, "did you two start dating?"

---

It was so... normal. Apparently. Two people, mutual friends, a chance encounter. A prickly exterior ("He hated me," both of them had claimed), but without the insecurity of being Head Archivist and the fear of dread powers beyond his comprehension, their friends had helped him open up and—eventually—apologise. A budding friendship, and then a romance, and then...

It isn't a version of them Jon has seen anywhere else, in any of the worlds he's traveled to. Normal as it is, it's a highly improbably scenario, and certainly not the same as his relationship with his Martin had been. But it was, in an infinite number of worlds, still a possibility.

Jon isn't quite sure how he feels about that, knowing that some version of them could have fallen in love without the trauma, but that they hadn't managed it.

His hands aren't shaking, as he lights his cigarette. At least there's that.

"I quit, you know," his counterpart says from behind him. "Years ago. I'd forgotten about those until you asked."

"Well then, thank you for indulging me." He gestures, meaning the cigarette, meaning the bed, meaning his claims about reality, meaning his intrusive, gossipy questioning. Meaning everything. He's not sure it gets across.

The other Jon laughs, quietly, and moves to stand next to him. "I am my worst enabler."

"Oh, that's hardly true."

"Mm." They're silent together for a while, but Jon is restless (both of him), and eventually this reality's version opens his mouth to ask. "Do you—do you know why I—I don't want to say believed you, I'm still not sure I do, b-but, didn't throw you out immediately?"

"My myriad charms?" They both laugh at that.

"Jonathan Sims," he says, as if that explains anything.

Jon takes a drag of his cigarette, considering. He could probably Know, but... indulging himself. "What about me?"

"No, not you, or. You know. You. But your name. Jonathan Sims. I decided you weren't, weren't a deliberate lie to trick me, or a future version of myself, or a mind-reading monster—"

"Well—"

"—when you said your name, because none of those things would have said that." He smiles then and holds up a hand, and—oh—his ring glints. "I've been Jonathan Blackwood for a while now."

They'd told him married eventually, but he hadn't even thought about his name. He's certainly thinking about it now. "Jonathan Blackwood," he says, soft, to himself. And to himself. "That... that sounds good."

"It does, doesn't it."

Whatever they might have said next is lost as an incredibly loud engine roars nearby and a sleek black motorcycle pulls up in front of them. Jon sighs and takes one last drag of his cigarette as the rider removes her helmet.

"Been off finding yourself, then, Jon?" Annabelle asks.

"Oh, extremely funny, yes. Did you steal that?"

"It was a gift."

"Of course it was."

The other Jon is staring at them both, his eyes repeatedly drifting back to the web-covered hole in Annabelle's head. "Who—what is—is that a—"

"She's a spider monster," Jon supplies helpfully. "She came with me, although apparently she did not pass out in the street this time."

"Two streets over, I think. Pity, I would've loved a nice nap in a proper bed, but I did get this motorcycle out of it. Come on, Jon, you can mope on the way."

"I have not been moping—"

"Haven't you? You're not the one who deals with how maudlin you get every time you meet yourself—"

"Yes, fine, thank you, we can go." He stubs out the cigarette and pauses, looking at himself. "Uh. Tell Martin—well, goodbye, I guess. I'd say I hope we meet again, but if you're lucky we won't need to?"

"...sure."

"And I'm—I hope you—that is, I'll do my best—well." He sighs. "Things are about to get... dicey, for the world in general. But just, look out for each other, and we'll try to handle the rest."

"Jon, we should be going."

"Yes, all right, all right." He gives himself one last, probably not very reassuring smile, and climbs on behind Annabelle.

They do have work to do, after all.

#fanfiction #algie writes things #many thoughts head full...........#i am so many theorizing. u kno how it is.#uhhhh so the TINIEST spoilers for the most recent episode? idk #tma spoilers #once again just TINY ones not actually plot ones #at least not that we didn't already get from annabelle's big explanation episode #jm #but also it's complicated #u kno #jon has bittersweet conversations & thoughts and annabelle gets a motorcycle #it's what each of them needs i think

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captaincravatthecapricious · 4 years ago

Text

You Don’t Understand- Prompt Fill

Jon has a rough time after being absent for 6 months.

Write as a prompt fill gotten through A03

CW fainting, victim blaming, withdrawal/starvation symptoms (from statements) (I am a bit vague about which it is more like because I couldn't choose, so a bit of both), trust issues, very brief Peter Lukas mention, brief mention of someone being touched while unconscious (nonsexual and very brief mention), and cw for some very mixed feelings about Georgie. I understand her, and I don't hate her, but I don't really like her either so please don't get mad at me for how she is written I am trying to do her justice and I get why she does the things she does, but I don't have to like her for it.

Thanks for reading hope you enjoy! I have a few more bingo prompts to post, but only one more to write! Feel free to stick it in my inbox and if no one does, well you will just have to put up with whatever whim strikes me this weekend when I will write it for a backlog! Card by the wonderful @celosiaa

It’s been six months. How has it been six months?

Jon isn’t sure how he is supposed to think about that time. Is it all supposed to feel like a dream, that one moment he’s blowing up, the next he’s awake?

It doesn’t feel like that.

But he also wasn’t really there for six months, was he?

He sighs deeply to himself. It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter.

He’s alive.

He’s fine.

Martin and Tim are sharing a flat, apparently. And that’s good. He thinks? Maybe?

They keep telling him there is room for him, but he isn’t sure he can believe that…. Not after everything with Tim. He wants to believe it… But… what if Martin doesn’t want him there. He thought maybe they had a moment before the Unknowing, but did they?

Jon’s not good with…. Feelings. With people.

Not to mention he’s been Gone. With a capital G and a flatline of a heartrate.

Even if he and Martin could possibly have… Could possibly have had something. Of some unknowable sort. That he couldn’t have hoped to put a word to for fear that it would crumble around him. But he’s been gone and Tim hasn’t been and they seem close now.

And maybe Tim is trying again with him? But how can he be sure? When everything is confusing and out of sync with what he thought of time.

Not to mention the deep hunger that is more than hunger. Deeper in his gut, and harder to ignore. Followed by a fog of confusion and the sense that his skin is too tight, that the world is the wrong temperature, and that everything is tilted ever so slightly, making it impossible to keep his balance.

Reading statements helps, but… Basira… but Georgie. The disappointed glares they send his way when he skulks off to read one in hopes of feeling like his limbs are his again…. That he isn’t being slowly set on fire or slowly frozen. The world skirting by him with a vengeful glee leaving him to rot in his own misery on the shelf in the stacks he’s been calling home recently.

Martin wasn’t there when he woke up…. Working for the ever elusive Peter Lukas. Tim wasn’t there… Martin later telling him he’d been afraid of scaring him. Which Jon couldn’t escape the worry that, in actuality, it was Martin worrying that Tim would scare Jon… or hurt him. Which Jon could tell was the more valid of the worries. Or he thinks it is? How is he supposed to be certain. How can he trust anyone? How is he supposed to trust anyone when Basira gives him such calculating stares, when Melanie glares metaphorical and literal daggers at him, when Georgie has been ignoring his texts (and her harsh words upon his waking). When Martin is working for a literal monster. When Daisy is gone… and Jon doesn’t know how to feel. He wants Basira to be happy, but he feels safer without her. And he doesn’t know how to feel about anything but he is sick and hungry and cold and hollow.

There is no one.

Georgie doesn’t understand.

He runs into her once, picking Melanie up for therapy. After…. An unwise abrupt and shady surgery.

He is in the breakroom. Baffled that Martin is still making him tea when he hardly sees him around. Even more baffled when Tim makes him another cup.

What does it all mean?

(Not to mention his confusion at the green hair… that had been a shock.

When he texted Martin about it, he said to ask Tim, and included an emoji that Jon couldn’t parse out. Weren’t emojis supposed to be easier to read than actual faces? It was maybe resigned? Or maybe regretful?

Regretful of what? Is he ashamed of something? Is he regretful that he opened a text from Jon, that Jon turned down the request to move in? It isn’t that Jon wanted to turn it down.

But it sounds too good to be true? When everyone avoids him at work… Well Tim doesn’t, but Jon is scared of being alone with Tim. He is scared of this kindness and how long it might last.)

So he’s in the breakroom.

Trying to steady himself the less monstrous and terrifying way.

And Georgie is there.

Jon shrinks back on himself. Still hoping the mug of tea will make his hands steadier, make him less cold, less shaky, less miserable. But he’s having difficulty holding it with one shaky hand, white knuckling his cane with the other. Trying not to let it tremble as much as the rest of him, propping himself up when black spots start eating at his vision. Not in the POTS sort of way… but in the same way that has been since America. Since that first hint of fear that maybe… maybe he’s not human, that he is reliant on some horrifying eldritch god of knowledge.

This is the price of him waking up.

And it chews him up from the inside when, in his panic, he tries to limit his consumption hoping that it will turn him back. Hoping that he still has a chance to win back the people he cares about, but fighting the fear that this is the only way to save them all.

He doesn’t know what to do. Being undead doesn’t come with a manual.

And there is no chance that Georgie will take this any better than she did when she kept telling him to quit… to just stop.

He’s trying!

It’s been a few days since his last statement, and the world swims before his eyes whenever he stands. Worse than it ever has. He’s woken up on the floor more times in the few weeks he’s been alive again than in the long and confusing months leading up to his diagnosis.

Which was after Georgie… which… means she hasn’t seen him like this. Not when he was living with her because he has been managing, or so he thought, but hell maybe the Eye had a hand in that.

And oh Shit, she is looking at him now.

What does he do if she wants to talk? She hasn’t responded to any of his texts, or late night calls when he’s been too afraid to call anyone else and she always felt safe. Even when they were fighting. But she hasn’t been there for him. No one has, of late. Except the people who are trying and Jon is too confused to know what to do so he does nothing and an all-consuming guilt joins in with that Hunger. That sickness eating him from the inside with every word he doesn’t consume.

“Hi Jon.”

He can’t say anything. He’s been standing too long, but seeing her there, he is frozen. Fight or Flight breaking down to freeze. Has he always been such a coward?

Yes.

Yes he has. A miserable coward since he was a child. Getting into trouble trying to try to prove to himself that he isn’t.

Christ he’s dizzy. But she’s still talking.

“Jon, you really oughtn’t be here. You don’t look well. Shouldn’t you still be resting? That long in hospital should have you in need of some physical therapy. Are you pushing yourself too hard?”

Jon bites down on the urge to snap at her. Or start crying. Or simply pass out and not have to deal with this conversation at all. “I need to be here,” he says quietly. Afraid that expelling too much air will knock him over.

“And why is that? Really Jon, I swear… Melanie says you haven’t been eating , or sleeping, but she sees you here at all hours. Why? What is this all for? It’s just a job, I don’t care if there are Monsters or whatever. You see this? This is why I can’t deal with you right now! Not to mention what you did to Melanie. What the hell, Jon? You say you’re trying to save the world, but maybe you can’t? Maybe you need to save yourself before you can do anything else.”

Jon just wants to get away before he goes down, and by this point he knows that is inevitable. Maybe get to his office, and open a statement first. Maybe that will help, or maybe it will make him feel better once he comes around. He should put down his tea. He doesn’t want the mug to break if he can’t make it. He’ll set it on the table on the way out, or wait until he’s in the bullpen and put it down and take a seat and hope that helps. He tries to edge around her, staring at the floor. Careful not to say anything that could compel. Just wanting to get out. “Have work to do… sorry.”

“No you don’t! Look at yourself, Jon! Work can wait!”

Jon just wants to leave. He wishes it could! He does. He wants nothing more than to take a vacation. To move in with Martin and Tim and have a life. A home. Safety. Normalcy. And Argument over who finished the milk and who has to do the shopping and not about how best to not die at the hands of Fear Gods, and how best to not serve them. “Please, Georgie you don’t understand…”

He backs away. Fuck he’s dizzy.

“No, Jon I don’t. Explain. What am I missing. Why do you have to do this? Why do you insist on working yourself into your grave? It’s already basically killed you. Maybe some of us don’t want to see you do that again?”

“I… I… I need a Statement….” Well so much for getting away. He’s not even going to make it to a chair or the floor on his own. “Hold this, I’m… I think I’m going to faint now.” He holds his cane out to her.

She takes it confused.

Jon doesn’t remember hitting the floor.

When he comes around, his head is pounding.

Georgie is touching him. He is on his side, and he is being yelled at. He can’t make out the words yet… all just in a haze of pain and confusion and feeling like utter shit. He tries to bat her hands away but he can’t and so he just lays there. Hoping some feeling comes back to his limbs soon. Or that Georgie will just get bored and leave him there.

But then Martin is there. And Tim.

And Martin is shooing Georgie out of his personal space. “He doesn’t like being touched while he’s out.”

Well… correct.

“What the hell just happened?” Georgie.

“Well… it happens sometimes. Did he say anything?” Martin again.

“Something about needing Statement?”

“Tim, could you grab him a Statement?”

“Sure thing, back in a mo.” Tim. More earnest than Jon has heard him in a long time. Tim helping him? If he wasn’t already on the floor, he might have fainted again at that.

“What, you’re just going to go along with it? Let him work himself to death? Look at him! He isn’t well! …I don’t know why I am arguing this. He’s an adult and if he is going to do that, I don’t need to be a part of this. It isn’t my job to baby sit him.” Georgie shoves his cane at Martin, who doesn’t freeze. In fact, as far as Jon can tell through half lidded eyes, Martin looks angry.

“Look. I know we don’t know each other well. But do you really think so poorly of Jon… of me? I don’t know what he’s told you… but he needs those Statements to live. I don’t know if it’s ….a food… or… or an addiction. But … he doesn’t do well without them. And… And Elias was feeding them to him when he wasn’t here. And Jon told me how you didn’t want them in the flat, but he got sick in America. Really really sick, and … and Elias found him there and fed him another one. He didn’t know until then. But… you have to know we can’t quit. And we aren’t sure if Jon can live without these. And it is a far from ideal situation… but we are working on it. You don’t have to like it. Or talk to Jon, although you should. You aren’t enabling him, he needs a support system. And he’s just too thick to see that Tim and I are here from him, and everyone else is giving him the cold shoulder… so I don’t blame him for being too thick to notice! Not to mention, my new position has made interacting with him during work hours… difficult, but I can’t blame him for not wanting to move in yet, although I hope he will. And you! The only person not in this mess who he trusts, ignores him. Blames him! Maybe you should try listening? I get it… you can’t deal with him right now. Fine. I get it. Do what you have to. You don’t have to look after him at your own expense. But don’t be cruel. …Oh good. Tim, thanks. When he comes around, a Statement and some tea will set him right.” Martin smiles at Tim (a smile that makes Jon jealous) and gives Georgie a cool look.

“Marto, I think he’s been awake for most of that.” Tim is crouched by him.

“Haven’t been eavesdropping, promise. Just… just getting my bearings. I’m fine. I’ll be up soon.” Jon’s voice is rough. Misery, unshed tears, exhaustion. Take your pick.

“It’s okay, buddy. We’ll get you fixed up and then you can have a proper rest. Offer of the flat share is still open, okay?” Tim hovers, ready to help him sit when he’s ready.

Jon… doesn’t know what to say. After hearing Martin defend him… Maybe… Maybe he can start working on trusting Tim again. Tim… is, after all, working on trusting him too.

Georgie looks down at him. He can’t read her expression. She looks at him for a long moment.

The gaze isn’t uncomfortable by itself. But Jon feels exposed on the floor. Small and helpless and weak as well as supernaturally hungry, that not at all helped by his “surprise nap.”

He tries to avoid meeting her eyes.

“I’m… sorry I didn’t listen. I… still can’t do this with you right now. But… I’m sorry. I can’t be your friend now, but… let me know if you want some pictures of the Admiral ever, okay?” And she leaves. Off to bring Melanie to her appointment.

Leaving Jon with Martin and Tim.

Who bring him to his sad excuse for a bed, tuck him in with a statement and a cup of tea and tell him to call if he needs anything. And Jon thinks, maybe he will reconsider their offer.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #georgie barker #tim stoker #martin blackwood #timothy stoker #cw fainting #cw victim blaming #cw statement hunger #tma fic #my words #my fic #my writing #my art

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