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redflagshipwriter · 9 months ago

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The Proposal

This mini fic was inspired by the anon prompt to @faeriekit linked here and all the development that Faeriekit did for the idea. This fic is perilously regional. I half expect angry yelling from other areas of the Midwest.

Original post

Word count: 2718

Masterpost of my Archive Down Fics is here.

Jason came to with cream cheese stuck under his fingernails and in the creases of his fingers. He looked around the room wildly, trying to understand the situation he was in. The kitchen smelled fucking weird. He sniffed the air. Meat? Like, ham and also vinegar?

He washed his hands really well, grimacing at the greasy texture. Then he reconstructed what must have happened by the debris. This was not his first post-blackout rodeo, but usually he was reconstructing a literal crime scene.

There was an empty pickle jar on the countertop. There were packets of deli meat in the trash.

There was some kind of abomination on his nicest plate, which was obviously made of cream cheese wrapped around pickles, blanketed by the meat, and sliced thin like sushi rolls. It was lovingly protected by a perfect sheet of cling wrap.

“The fuck?” Jason said, a little scared and pissed off.

He paced the kitchen for a while and then went to pace on the balcony, because he needed a smoke to process this culinary abomination but something in his gut wailed at the tragedy of ruining it with cigarette smoke. Which was absurd, partly because the plate was in the refrigerator. He sensed in his bones that it needed to cool until the cream cheese was as hard as it would get, so that he could safely transport it. Transport it fucking where? Was this an assassination attempt against Batman? That sappy motherfucker was probably the only man in the world who would choke that down to make Jason happy.

He had a long drag on his cigarette and tried to ignore the way his fingers shook.

“Okay,” he said, squeezing his free hand shut and opening it. Maybe stimming would prompt his brain to go brr and explain this. “Did I have a stroke? Maybe I was possessed?”

It was hard to tell. He ground out his cigarette and tossed the butt in the tray before venturing back inside. He was calm. He was more centered. He flicked on the kitchen fan to clear out the pickle stink and then he went and put on his coat and grabbed the plate.

Why was he doing that?

The compulsion led him three blocks before he realized where he was going.

Not far away from the safehouse he was in, some college freshman had wasted the Joker when the clown tried to drag him into a van. He had called the police, crying the whole time in shock about being a murderer.

Jason had not been on the scene. He had only heard through comms. He had been out of town when the Joker got out. He had been rushing back on his bike, heart pounding and sick with nerves at the thought of his family out there without him.

And then the fucker had failed to secure the first victim for whatever sick play he’d had in mind, and the poor out of town kid who had apparently never heard of the Joker was breathing a sigh of relief that ‘oh, this wasn’t like, a birthday clown? Whew, that’s alright then,’ previous guilt over ending a life all gone.

Jason liked that. It was hugely undignified that the Joker had been got by someone who didn’t even know who he was. If he’d known, it would have killed his ego. As it was, Jason had laughed himself nearly sick before barricading himself inside to read the file Timmers put together on Danny Fenton.

Well. If his gut said that he should deliver this horrific dish to Fenton as thanks for the murder, well…

Jason grimaced. He just wouldn’t be seen doing it. If Fenton thought it was an assassination attempt and called the cops, Jason would never fess up.

He broke into Fenton’s apartment, very glad that the guy was in class at the moment. He mourned the loss of his plate but honestly, this was the least destructive black out he’d had, so it was whatever. He put the pickle rolls in the fridge, looked around, and then left. He was done. He’d thanked Fenton, or whatever (maybe he’d attacked him, honestly, Jason didn’t know how he would react to finding that trash in his fridge.)

It could end now.

The next morning, Jason scrubbed away a yawn and realized that he had just scraped a mess of chopped snickers bars into a bowl that already had clouds of something white and -

He took out a piece and bit into it to confirm that it was perfectly cubed green apple.

“I am possessed,” Jason said in horror, looking around the counter to see what the Pit Madness had cooked up this time. Why did the fucking Lazarus Pit know these recipes?

The white shit was a mix of cool whip and vanilla pudding, apparently. There was an untouched bottle of caramel sauce waiting innocently.

“...Does that go in?” Jason wondered, vaguely horrified.

Well, maybe an evil witch was doing this to him. Bottoms up. He poured caramel in until it felt right, guided by what had to be someone else’s goddamn ancestors, and then mixed it all up with a spoon.

This looked a lot better than the last thing. Jason scraped it into a bowl and then stole a spoonful of it to try.

“Holy shit. It’s like eating a caramel apple,” he said, muffled around the food. He swallowed and genuinely considered taking more.

Nope! His gut said nope. This was another offering for–

“Hold up, offering?” Jason put it in the fridge, clingwrap on top, and let his mind be blown. He put his face in his hands and just reeled. He was making offerings for this motherfucker now. He opened his phone, intending to search the things he’d been blackout making and froze.

His lock screen was Danny Fenton’s police intake photo, looking pretty relaxed after he'd been told the booking was a formality.

“I don’t remember doing that!” Jason frantically changed it back to his old lock screen, a grimy alleyway with a hilariously shaped filth puddle and one of his favorite rats.

He snuck this dessert thing into Fenton’s fridge, collected his clean plate with some relief, and left. He didn't know if Fenton had eaten that shit or if he'd thrown it away, but at least he'd washed the plate.

“That was the last time,” Jason told himself, pacing around his room. He wasn’t– that was two days in a row now that he had a normal day, went out on patrol, went to bed, and woke up in his kitchen. It wasn’t going to happen again.

He chainsmoked all day to such a degree that Stephanie Brown saw him, whined “Dude,” in disbelief, and jumped off a building while holding her nose to get away from him. It was a fair reaction. He had a shower before patrol so that no one could make a connection between Jason, stinkiest man in Gotham today, and the Red Hood, a guy who owned a shower.

Patrol went fine. He caught himself veering past Fenton’s shitty apartment building twice but no one was nearby enough to call him out for it.

He went to bed and got a jumpscare because at some point of his most recent fugue state he'd gone out and bought a bunch of wedding magazines and made them into a nest. He made a roar of frustration and pushed them off the bed with only a twinge of interest in what that swan centerpiece was made of.

Jason went the fuck to sleep, determined to walk this off.

He woke up the next morning in his kitchen. “Cream cheese, again,” Jason complained. He gave the bowl he was mixing a furious stir and then shoved it in the fridge.

Cream cheese, chopped meat, and chopped green onion. He searched the internet to identify the fucker. This was a cheeseball.

…He frowned, thinking of the fugly mess in the bowl.

It was the larval form of a cheeseball, he amended.

Why did he know this shitty recipe.

Stomach tight with dread, he looked up the other things. Day one was a pickle roll. Day two was snickers salad.

These were all real Midwestern potluck dishes. He hadn't made them up. Why did the pit know these recipes?

The Snickers salad offended him as a concept and he bitterly regretted finding it delicious.

“Salad,” Jason repeated in aggrieved disbelief. It was good but it was no goddamn salad. “I could just make him a real salad. Will this end if I bring Fenton good food?”

It wasn't the worst idea. He put a pin in it.

Grimly, as if he was going off to war, Jason researched how to shape the ball. If he was doing this, which apparently he was for no goddamn reason, he was going to do it to perfection. When he was done he wrapped it up tight, got an assortment of crackers, and left it at Danny Fenton’s apartment with a sort of tired resignation that this might as well be happening.

This time was different. This time, Fenton was home.

Jason barely avoided being seen by rushing out the window over the sink and hiding from the immediate line of sight. He was, however, close enough to hear–

“Holy shit, is that a cheeseball? Who loves me?” and then some truly ghastly, wet crunching as Fenton tore through the crackers and cheeseball like a wild beast. It felt like being in a horror film. Jason very badly wanted to leave. Jason very badly wanted to crawl back inside and present himself for a scrap of Fenton’s approval.

What the fuck? What the fuck!

He fled. And this time, he decided to take action. He was going get out of this sick mind trap and-

“Nothing wrong with you, it's not a curse,” Zatanna said, bored about it. “Whatever is going on is safe, sane, consensual, and none of my business.” She portalled away before Jason could argue that it did not feel sane. He was having an entirely new category of mental breakdown and when one of the Bats found out about it, he was going to be a case study.

Fine. He gritted his jaw. New plan. Maybe he could beat the curse by showing it up.

He called out of crime for the day and ignored the confused commentary in the background of his phone call– can he do that? Of course he can, he’s the friggin’ boss– and spent it furiously researching. He needed a crowning achievement. He needed to find out what was sacred in this culinary tradition, master it, and then tell the compulsion to suck on bricks.

Casserole. The answer was a casserole.

Jason scrolled through dozens of recipes, scowling fiercely. That was no good. That offended his senses. He just knew that would be bland. He-

“Do I want to make that?” Jason asked aloud, puzzled by his fixation on the old-fashioned goulash casserole recipe. Worcestershire sauce– he didn’t have that in this safe house for sure. Beef, pasta, tomatoes… yeah, okay. This was the one. For no fucking reason at all, this was the one.

He went out shopping like he usually went on life-or-death missions, full of grim purpose.

He got back and assembled his ingredients. It was not exactly a challenge to follow the recipe. Jason turned off the stove top and froze in place. “I don’t have an ancestral pan,” he said, horrified. Holy fuck. How could he dare to give it in a regular baking pan- he had to get one. Where the fuck does one acquire an ancestral casserole pan on short notice?

Panicked, he called the Manor, hands shaking as he packed the whole thing up and stuffed it in the fridge to keep it food safe until he could bake it.

Bruce answered, sounding a little choked up. “Hello, Jason, so glad-”

He hung up. He texted Tim. “I need you to steal something for me from the Manor.”

“You’re allowed in, you gigantic freak,” Tim wrote back.

Jason did some meditative breathing and resorted to outright pleading immediately. “What do you want? I will give you whatever you want. I just need an ancestral casserole pan.”

“I am NOT stealing from Alfred’s kitchen,” Tim wrote back. Which was fair. “Drake ancestral pan alright?”

Jason thought about it. It was still a family pan, sorta. By the transitive property, and that was a perfectly good property. He sent back a thumbs up, his GPS pin, and the word “Hurry.”

A while later, Tim dropped off a glass dish, loudly said “I don’t wanna know,” and slammed Jason’s door shut.

Fine. He was already moving his stuff from the now-cold frying pan into the casserole dish. It went into the oven from there. Jason spent the bake time trying to think of new coping mechanisms, because apparently smoking wasn’t up to this level of mental fuckery.

He waited out the bake time. He let it cool enough to be safe to travel with but hot enough to deliver warm. Jason grappled to Danny Fenton's apartment for the fourth time in four days, let himself in, and nearly jumped out of his boots when he realized that Fenton was in the kitchen watching him.

“Hey,” Fenton said. He was sitting on his counter in his pajamas, eating ice cream out of the bucket with a spoon. He was certifiable. Jason wanted to cross the room and kiss whatever Fenton would let him. Hands, face, feet, whatever.

Wow, weird.

“...Hey,” Jason said, way too late.

Fenton crunched down on his ice cream. “...That a casserole?” He said.

Jason nodded wordlessly, feeling very grateful that he had his hood on. He put the casserole down on the counter. He took a step backwards to flee.

Fenton pointed at Jason with the spoon, wholly unintimidated by the heavily armed man who'd broken into his house. “This is a proposal.”

Oh. Oh, motherfucking shitsocks. Jason felt weak through the knees. It was. Why was- why was he proposing??

Fenton took in his shock with a detached air. “Huh,” he said, like he'd learned something from this. “Um, it's nice of you and all. Have you been like, fixated on me for a while or- ohhh. I avenged you, didn't I?” He dropped the spoon in his ice cream carton and slapped both his palms down on the countertop. “He killed you? That sucks, man,” Fenton empathized. “I get it. I think if someone smashed the portal with a hammer I'd be down on one knee.”

Jason's brain was simply not running any program any longer. He gaped. He wasn't coherent enough to ask why Danny knew he'd been murdered by the Joker, but he had his shit together well enough to be fixated on the point.

“Um, it's not usually me being chased,” Fenton said. He made a face. “I… huh, I think I'm flattered.” He very obviously gave Jason a once-over. “I suppose this is your way of showing that you're a provider.” He heaved himself off the counter and went to investigate the casserole, sniffing and lifting the lid. “Oh, fuuuuuuck,” Danny groaned. He sniffed appreciatively. “Good demonstration of your husband material, t-b-h.”

Jason resisted the urge to tackle him to the ground.

“That's the good stuff.” Fenton closed it back up, but not before giving his ice cream spoon a considering look.

Oh, yuck. This guy was so grungly. Jason needed him badly. He shuddered.

Fenton looked at him.

Jason looked back.

“Do you wanna try moving in and see how we get on?” Fenton offered. “Take it slow, no wedding just yet.”

“Absolutely.” Jason full-body twitched with just how eager he was. “How do you feel about swans?”

“Neutral,” Danny said, after a brief moment of consideration. “I like stars, though.”

Okay, so that would be their wedding theme.

Jason only realized he'd said that aloud when Fenton's eyebrows shot up. Mortified and really wondering what was wrong with him, Jason offered a weak smile.

Fenton made a considering noise. He crossed his arms. He looked Jason up and down. “...Can you grill?” He asked. “Like, beer chicken?”

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dead on main

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heavysighing-dreamyeyes · 2 months ago

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Unsteady

You get hit on patrol. You go down hard. What happens after is a blur, but what you do know, is that you were never scared for a moment. ~ 2k words

A/N: I wanted to try a new format for my fics, so pictures! I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, tho, so I might change it again

Being a vigilante in Gotham has never been easy. Between the bullet wounds, secret societies, and their attempted brainwashing tactics, and the more than a little tricky partnerships you have to navigate, sometimes you wonder how you've managed to make it for so long.

Don't get it wrong, saving people, taking out criminals, making the streets a little bit safer, you thrive on it. You live for the moments where you feel invincible, shouting awful quips back and forth with whoever you're patrolling with. The seconds where a civilian grabs your hand, smiling and alive and relieved by how easily you've taken down their attackers.

You do good in Gotham, a city that always seems to lack it. And, even if there are dangers that come with it, you've never really minded the risk. At least, not since you've started patrolling with Red Hood.

You're not exactly sure how it started. One day, you spent your nights alone more often than not, and then one day, you didn't. You think it might have been the Falcone bust you worked on together, or maybe it was the trauma bonding over getting trapped and tangled in Ivy's latest strain of living, grabby plant traps together.

Whatever it was, more nights than not, Red Hood lingers at your side while you traverse rooftops, and you've found a routine in following him on his own patrols through Crime Alley and The Hill. What started as a tentative trust quickly built to a steady partnership.

You know which ankle he tends to roll if he lands on the pavement wrong. He knows which shoulder you tend to favor when Gotham gets cold. You know his favorite street food vendor and order by heart. He knows what safehouses you stash your preferred drinks and snacks in– and how often they need to be resupplied.

You both keep each other from being too reckless, and honestly, you don't think either of you have ever really had that. It's not either of you have stopped throwing yourself into fights where you're outnumbered (but never out matched), it's just that you're not alone doing it.

Red Hood– Jason– has your back the same way you have his. And it makes Gotham a little less terrifying. It makes patrol– the idea that one day a simple mistake could mean you don't come home– a little less burdensome.

You knew you relied on him, maybe a little too much if you thought too hard about it. You just didn't realize how much space you made for him until it was pointed out to you. Nightwing makes note of it first, teasing you for having an entire pouch on your utility belt dedicated to extra ammo magazines for Red Hood's gun. Robin notices it next, admonishing you for not checking your six during a fight, even if Jason was covering you.

You'd be embarrassed if Red Hood didn't have the same amount of faith in you as you did in him. He trusts you to take point on missions, believes you when you offer him tips and whispers of cases he's working on.

You try not to read too far into it, but how could you feel anything but special when he so willingly lets you wander Crime Alley at his side, and rarely anyone else? When he calls you his partner? Calls dibs on patrolling with you? How could you not revel in the fact that someone so big and capable and sure in himself relies on you?

But for all the trust and skill that exists between you and Red Hood, sometimes you get unlucky. Sometimes, all it takes is one misstep, one slow reaction, for it all to go wrong.

It was supposed to be easy, routine. Just a small group of thugs trying to break their way into the back alley entrance of a jewelry store. It was supposed to be simple– you were even having fun, holding back laughter at how quickly they seemed to fall to the ground with each well aimed kick and jab.

With Red Hood taking one end of the alley and you the other, you thought you had them surrounded, you didn't even consider that there were more people around the corner.

You didn't hear them come up behind you– more preoccupied with dodging a punch to your throat– when a loud crack sounds through the alley. You drop to your knees– ears ringing, bile rising in your throat, vision swimming.

The back of your head aches, and you know you're in danger, likely concussed. But you don't know what happened– was it a pipe? A bat? You know you need to move, but you can't get your body to listen, can't get yourself off of the ground as the world seems to tip and fade in and out as you heave.

You wait for the next hit, another burst of pain, but it never comes. There's shouting– gunshots maybe, you can't focus on it. You force your gaze up, and the colors and figures seem to blur into one nauseating sight.

You think you make out Red Hood, slamming one of the men into the ground. It's hard to process anything– to understand what you're seeing. Red Hood lurches towards you, or maybe he's just moving onto the next goon. Maybe he doesn't even know you're down.

You can't tell and maybe you should be scared. All it would take is one well aimed bullet to change everything. But you're not afraid. Even as black dots dance in your vision, even as your stomach churns and the noises that fill the alley seem pitched and garbled in your ears, you know that Red Hood will not let you die.

You think you see someone raising a bat to strike at you. You want to block, defend yourself, but your body feels too heavy to move. You squeeze your eyes shut instead, trying to quell the bile in your throat as you curl your fingers into fists, desperately trying to stop shaking, to ward off the cold sweats and pain that seem to be radiating on every inch of your skin.

You wait for the inevitable strike that will knock you clean into unconsciousness, but it still doesn't come. You lean forward, gasping for air as another wave of dizziness hits you, when gentle hands grab your shoulders, guiding you to straighten out again.

"Hey, hey," the familiar robotic voice washes over you, steady, if not a little anxious to the trained ear, "I've got you, open your eyes for me, sweet thing. Lemme see you."

You do, unable to do anything but listen. Bodies lay crumpled around you in the alley. You don't quite understand how he got to you so fast. He was on the other side of the alley, nearly a dozen men between the two of you, and it feels like he fought his way to your side within seconds. Maybe you had gone down longer– and harder– then you realized.

"There you are," He murmurs, carefully tilting your chin up to examine your face, he watches you for a moment, the way your breath doesn't quite seem to find a regular rhythm. He brushes his fingers over the back of your head next, feeling for any fractures in your skull.

He lets out a sigh of relief when he finds none, "Looks like it's just a concussion, some bruising. We'll get you back to the cave, make sure you're not bleeding, alright?"

You want to nod, but you think if you moved right now you think you'd throw up into his lap. Which would be mortifying. You also might be incredibly distracted by how close he is. It's not every day you get to admire the way his hair peeks out from under his hood, the set of his broad shoulders, the way the whites of his mask seem to glow in the shadows of the alley.

He's incredibly handsome in the Gotham moonlight.

And then he laughs, lowering his hand from the back of your head, "Thanks, doll. Think you can stand up on your own?"

Oh. Did you say that out loud? You didn't mean to. You furrow your eyebrows, trying to get the words you actually want to say off of your tongue, "M'fine," you mumble, narrowing your eyes in an attempt to get your world to stop spinning for a moment, to try and find your balance.

"You're slurring your words," he points out, hands finding your shoulders again as you pitch slightly to the side, "How's your head?"

"Hurts," You admit, giving up on your attempt to stand. You choose to admire him instead, the curve of his throat, the tilt of his jaw towards you.

"I bet," He mumbles, before falling silent, letting the moment linger just long enough for you to start to relax, lulled into a daze by your dizziness. "I'm going to carry you," he decides.

You don't get to protest, as if you're in the state to. He just maneuvers himself to your side, gently hooking one arm around your back, and the other under your knees to lift you to his chest.

A new wave of nausea runs down your spine, and you tuck your head into his shoulder, fingers curling against the red bat engraved into his armor, "Sorry" Jason mumbles, going still as he waits for your dizzy spell to pass, "Guess he got you good, huh?"

"Was my fault," you sigh out, closing your eyes as you nuzzle closer into the comfort of the crook of his neck, "Got complacent." It takes you longer than it should have to sound your syllables out, even longer to unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, but you think you manage to sound at least slightly coherent.

"Nah, sweetheart, it was mine," He lowers his voice even more as he talks, careful not to make your head ring anymore than it already is, to not jostle your injuries (and brain) and more than they already have, "I should have seen him. Should have warned you," he tells you, slowly and methodically carrying you out of the alley, away from the carnage he created.

If your eyes were open, you'd see exactly how driven he was to get to you– how he left bodies broken and mangled in his one purpose of protecting you. Instead, all you notice is the familiar smell of leather and gunpowder radiating from him.

You shake your head, "Red–" You cut off your own words with a wince, hiding your face deeper into his neck as your whole body seems to pound with pain. You really just want to tug his mask off, to listen to the way his voice dips to a soothing tenor without the modulator, to watch the way his eyes linger on your face, but you're quick to push the notion away, to blame it on your jumbled thoughts.

You suck in a breath as the nausea passes, "You're not responsible for my mistakes." You sound weaker than you mean to, words more slurred than you'd like, but you hope you get your point across.

His breathing seems to stutter in his chest for a moment, and his fingers dip a little tighter into divots of your amour, "Feels like it, though. I hate seeing you get hurt like this."

The confession should be heavy, but it just makes heat bloom straight from your heart, makes you lightheaded in all the best ways. You don't hide the smile that threatens to take over your face, "Yeah. Me too. About you, I mean." You hope that he understands, even if your words aren't as poetic or eloquent as you want them to be, you hope he knows what you're trying to say.

The tension seems to drain from his body at your words, and he lowers his head to press his mask to the top of your head, the mirror of a kiss. Both of you go quiet, basking in each other's touch– the rise and fall of your chest– alive– as your pain finally fades into a dull ache.

Later, you'll protest being taken off of patrol for two weeks. Later, you'll complain that Jason gets to take out the Two-Face shipment you've been planning for weeks. But for now, he's warm. He's holding you close. And there's nowhere safer for you than his arms.

#jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #jason todd #x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you

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moody-alcoholic · 2 months ago

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Cross My Heart

Part 1 - Self Preservation

Summary: eventual poly141 x reader. Enemies to lovers, mini fic.

CW: Mention/description of injuries, mention/description of weapons.

Part 2

Enjoy <3

A light flicks on waking you from your sleep.

Your eyes open looking round the room, it only takes a few seconds before your eyes land on a man holding a pistol at you. He’s sat on a chair, covered in what looks like military gear. There’s a bigger weapon slung over his back.

“Not a good idea to be sleepin’ when you’re alone.” He has an accent you can’t quite place. Not American though.

“I had lookouts.”

“Yeah, ‘bout that.” You swallow hard, your heart is pumping rapidly in your chest. They’re most likely dead. Innocent people dead.

“What do you want?” You ask, your eyes flick over to the pistol on your night stand. The man seems to see that, a change in your attitude.

You have to act now.

You reach out for the weapon. The man is on his feet in an instant, the pistol in his hand comes down hard on your wrist.

You yelp out in pain, your weapon falling to the floor. The door to the room fly's open, there’s another man now. He makes you jump, training an AR at your head.

There’s no point in fighting.

The man next to you picks the weapon up off the floor, unloading it and throwing it to the side. You swing your legs out the bed, throwing the covers back.

“Don’t fuckin’ move!” He shouts. You hear the safety click off his gun, your breath catches in your throat. You hold your hands up, you’re unarmed, there’s nothing you can do.

“What are you doing in a ULF safehouse?” The man in the doorway asks, you keep your eyes trained on the person holding the pistol to your head. British? You get a better look at the man in front of you, his badges. SAS, Union Jack, fuck.

“You’re injured?” There’s blood on his vest, it’s a long shot but better then nothing. “I’m a medic. I can help.” It’s a lie but all you can think about is getting out here alive.

The man looks to the doorway, you keep still. Even if you could tackle him to the ground his friend would finish you off.

“We’ve got one injured, think you could help?” The man in the doorways asks.

“What happened?” You ask, trying to hide your nerves. Your mum was a nurse, your dad a doctor before. Before the war.

“GSW.” That’s all you’re given, that could mean anything.

“You work with the ULF?” The man in front of you asks. You shake your head.

“Al Qatala?” You shake your head again.

“Who?” The man in the doorway asks again. This time you turn to him. The mask on his face is splattered with blood. He’s bigger, taller and wider than the guy in front of you. He has the same patches though, Union Jack, SAS.

“You said you had injured? You’re not going to find a hospital around here. It’s all Al Qatala controlled territory.” You say. Self preservation at its finest.

“Can you help then?” The man in front of you asks. You turn to look at him, your hands still in the air.

“The longer we wait the less chance I have. Gunshot wounds can be unpredictable.” You say swallowing the nerves. Confidence is key, that's what you learnt once. The man in front of you puts down his weapon grabbing your wrist and pulling you to your feet.

“Try anything and we fuckin’ kill ya.” He says through gritted teeth.

…

When you make it down to the ground floor as their hostage you can smell the blood in the air. The man with the mohawk is walking down first, the man with the mask is behind you, the barrel of his AR digging into your shoulder blades.

You can see two other people, they’re dressed in similar gear. At least one of them is, the other is laid out on the couch. The man standing turns, he brings a pistol up pointing it at you.

“Eazy Gaz. She’s a medic.”

“Doesn’t look like one.” The man-Gaz-says lowering his gun looking around at the people escorting you. You make it over to the person on the sofa. He doesn’t look good.

You don’t know what you’re doing, you didn’t think you could make it this far. They’ve taken his vest, belt and boots off. It’s just his shirt and trousers, his shirt is soaked through, pulled up to his chest. They’ve been trying to stop the bleeding. You’ve seen wounds like this before, you’ve seen people die from wounds like this.

“You said you could help him. What do you need?” The voice snaps you out of your head, you look over at him. The mohawk guy, he’s put his pistol away.

You have no idea what to do.

“Clean water, and bandages. Sterile if possible.” You say, you can’t tell if that sounds professional or not but they exchange glanses and the mohawk man leaves the room. You take another step over to the sofa. You need to know if the bullet has gone through or not.

“Not another step.” Gaz says. You hold your hands up again, holding your ground.

“I can’t help him if you don’t let me check him.” You say.

“Stand down Gaz.” You hear the voice behind you say. You don’t turn but you assume it’s the man with the mask. Gaz shifts gripping the weapon in his hands tighter.

“You won’t hurt him?” He asks, gritting his teeth.

“Cross my heart.” You say lowering your gaze, you keep your hands up until he moves out the way to join the man behind you. You look down at the man on the sofa. He’s unconscious, moans leaving his lips as shuffles on the sofa, his skin is clammy you can see the beads of sweat dripping down his face.

You lower your hands bending down by him. Your hand brushes over the bandages.

“I got water. Ghost, Gaz. Check your medkits for sterile bandages.” It’s the man with the accent.

Ghost. He must be the man with the mask. Gaz and Ghost.

A bowl of water is put down next to you. You look up at the mohawk man and nod at him. You’re still not sure what to do.

Clean the wound, asses the damage and get then fuck out of here.

…

There’s no exit wound. You’re not sure if that’s good or bad.

You replaced the bandages with gauze, homeostatic gaze, the good stuff you've only seen once or twice. The bleeding seems to be under control but that doesn’t help you if you don’t know how much he’s lost. His blood type is O+ that doesn’t help you either.

You try to remember things you’ve picked up from your parents. He’s breathing, responding to pain even though he's barely conscious. His pulse is as rapid as his breathing, again you don’t know if that's good or bad. You know it can’t be good but you’re not sure what to do.

You dip your hand back into the bowl of water and wring out the cloth before placing it on the man's forehead.

If he dies they’ll kill you. There is always someone behind you, you can hear them shuffle, move their weapon from hand to hand. If you tried to make a run for it they would kill you. Your best chance is to save this man. Save the enemy.

If he’s breathing, you’re safe.

You continue to make yourself look busy. Patting his forehead, keeping pressure on his wounds. He doesn’t seem to have any other injuries, just a gunshot to the abdomen.

“When were you going to tell us huh!?” The voice is loud and angry. You turn to see the man from earlier-Gaz storming towards you with a weapon in his hand. He only stops when the barrel is pressed to your head.

“What’s going on?” Ghost asks, his weapon is still trained on you from a distance.

“She’s Konni.” The man with the mohawk says. You look up at the man with the gun pressed to your head. You didn't even get a chance to get to your feet.

This is it. This is how you die.

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echo-of-the-eye · 5 months ago

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so since it's ace week i wanna talk about my very specific jon's ace ring headcanon. (btw the beginning of this is very inspired by a fic i read once, but i can't remember the name)

so jon has an ace ring. he got it from georgie in uni after she helped him figure out he was ace, and he wears it everyday.

but then, after jude perry burns his hand, he can't wear it for a while (i know if he wore it when shaking her hand it would have probably melted, so let's say he wasn't wearing it for some reason). he keeps the ring in his pocket and after he comes back to the archives martin notices he keeps fidgeting with it. (now this is the part that i read in a fic) martin asks about it and jon admits how upset he is that he can't wear it (this also ends up functioning as a coming out so martin can hear it from jon instead of office gossip!) and martin gives him a chain so he can wear it around his neck while his hand heals.

now this is the part that's all mine. i imagine right before they leave for the unknowing, jon and martin say goodbye (and they kiss cause it makes s4 hurt more and it's basically canon im my mind). jon takes of the ring necklace and gives it to martin, asking him to look after it until he comes back.

then the coma.

at first i imagined jon waking up with the ring next to him but no martin. but then i came up with something sadder (but also maybe sweeter?). martin keeps the ring. he knows he should give it back after jon wakes up and that he could probably find a way to do it without talking to him, but he just can't get himself to do it. jon notices but kinda forgets about it (he's got bigger things to worry about and assumes martin forgot).

then they go to the safehouse. and martin gives back the ring. he apologizes for not doing it before but jon is just touched that he still has it. it's all very emotional and then martin puts the ring on jon's finger and they are both VERY aware of how much it looks like a proposal

#i have spent a lot of time making myself sad thinking about this #so i figured i'd share it #if i were a writer i'd make this a fic #but i'm not #so feel free to run with this #(and please tag me if you do)#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jmart #jonmartin #tma headcanons #echoing thoughts #echoing thoughts tma

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athenagc94 · 2 months ago

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Dear Daddy Long Legs

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

A concept I've been toying with. Will probably post the complete fic to AO3 once I've got a few more chapters written, but though I would share some of the chapters here first to garner interest. This fic is inspired by the (musical mostly, but also novel) of Daddy Long Legs.

Warnings: Some angst and self-reflection, nothing too heavy yet.

First (You are Here) | Next

Prologue

Taking the subway had to be the most mundane thing a person could do, and after the night he just had, Jason needed mundane.

He traded his uniform and helmet for a well-worn hoodie and a Wonder Woman cap that hid the streak in his hair. He sat with his shoulders hunched to make himself smaller, less imposing, but no amount of hunching could hide the broad planes of his chest. The stench of blood and gunpowder clung to him despite ringing off before he left the Outlaw safehouse.

It would have been wiser to stay behind and regroup. Everything that could go wrong with their assignment did, but he didn’t want to sit and stew in all the ways they failed—in all the ways he failed. Bizzaro let him without much fuss. Artemis had more to say.

“You can’t run from your failures like a coward.”

Leave it to her to keep him humble.

Their latest job took them halfway across the globe, and after facing metahumans, myths come to life, and sorcerers, Jason missed the psychopaths of home. This wasn’t the first time he’d been away. A month was nothing compared to five years, but he yearned for the familiarity of Gotham.

Nostalgia was a bitch.

Being back brought a well of complicated emotions with it. Anger, regret, but there was something else, something that tightened his chest and left his stomach soupy. He tried to ignore it, knowing he wouldn’t like what he found if he sat with it too long.

So, subway.

Mundane.

Human—he just wanted to feel human.

His knee bounced as lights rushed past, casting harsh shadows across the rubber floor. It was quiet, save for the slow grind of steel on steel as the car raced down its track. It was empty save for him.

Well, him and you.

He might have missed you entirely if not for the bright yellow jacket thrown over your button up and slacks. Unless your name was Robin or Signal, yellow was a bold choice for Gotham—especially this late at night. You chewed on the plastic end of the drawstring as you pored over the book in your lap.

Jason, despite every instinct telling him not to, craned his neck to identify the book. It might have been an effective strategy if you weren’t halfway across the car and facing him. You seemed to sense the weight of his stare and looked up. The string fell from your mouth as it tightened with the guarded look in your eyes.

An embarrassed flush burned his ears as he looked away. It was easier to pretend he knew how to socialize when compared to people like Bizarro and Artemis, who were far from the paragons of conservation. Charm was learned, and his was a little rusty.

But now that he had your attention, he might as well ask. “What’re you reading?”

Your eyes narrowed a fraction as you gave him a once over. When you found whatever, you were trying to ascertain, you lifted the book to show him the cover. The edges were frayed and discolored; its spine well-worn, but the words ‘Wuthering Heights’ popped against the taupe cloth.

Jason sat a little straighter. “First time reading it?”

You rubbed the page between your thumb and forefinger as a thoughtful deliberation creasing your brow. “Second time. I read it in high school, but I didn’t fully appreciate it. Now that I’ve dipped my toes into a few more classics, I thought it was worth revisiting.”

“And what’s the verdict?”

You were two-thirds finished, which was more than enough time to form an opinion. Jason had thoughts, but he wanted to hear from you first.

You considered him again, almost conflicted. “I appreciate it more than I did back then. I understand why people consider it a cult classic. It’s complex, and I like complex. Heathcliff is deeply flawed, Catherine too, but that’s what makes them compelling characters.”

He smiled. “I’ve never read a more complex, mutually destructive love story like Wuthering Heights in years. I mean, like, full-body chills every time I read it. There’s something thrilling about it.”

“Right,” you exclaimed, a passion igniting in your eyes.

“Now, Darcy, that’s a real paragon of romance.”

The car slowed, coming to a stop at an empty platform. The doors opened with a soft hiss as the automated voice announced the stop. Your gaze flicked to the door, then back to him. He half-expected you to make a run for it, but you stayed planted in your seat. He blinked.

Or maybe you expected him to leave instead?

He settled back in his chair to make himself comfortable. The doors closed once more, and the subway continued down its track.

You relaxed a little. “Well, Mr. Darcy, if you know so much about the classics, what do you recommend I read next?”

He choked on his laugh.

Jason was no leading man despite how often he dreamed of being transported into a regency-era romance novel. Throw him in a silk waist coat with a messily knotted cravat and call him a rake because he’d make the fictional women swoon.

Reality, however, was much darker and hung over his head like a thick smog that threatened to suffocate him. He didn’t exist on this earth to sweep ladies off their feet or duel for their honor. That, and he wasn’t nearly as suave in action as he pretended to be.

“And for the record, I’ve already read Pride and Prejudice.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Oh, boy. How long do you have?”

A small smile curved your lips. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Discussing books came easily to him—probably because he had a lot of opinions and not a lot of people to share them with. Artemis didn't read, Bizarro preferred movies, and Roy—well, Jason was still reeling about their last book-related discussion where Roy tried to convince him that movie was always better than the book. For both their sakes, Jason made a conscious choice to not discuss books with him after that.

You listened as he rambled, going off about his favorite authors Austen and Dumas. He should have been embarrassed by how much he was talking, but the quiet intensity in your gaze spurred him to keep going.

His chest tightened with every stop, believing the next would be the point where you two parted ways for good. From the way your gaze kept darting to the door at each stop, he had an inkling that the feeling was mutual. He decided not to ask, lest it break whatever spell had fallen between you two.

All good things must come to an end. When the door slid open on the Park Row exit, Jason stood, albeit reluctantly. You did the same, slinging a plain canvas bag over your shoulder.

He curbed his surprise. “Park Row, eh?”

“The lifeblood of Gotham,” you said humorlessly.

Jason laughed. You did not. It died on a grunt as he tried to appear more sympathetic.

You exited the car with him, zipping the front of your hoodie as the unseasonably cool air pebbled his skin. He stuffed his hands in his jogger pockets and followed you up the stairs that led out onto the street. It was dark, darker than usual given the city had yet to replace the shattered streetlamp on the corner. It might have been his doing, errant bullets were a hazard of the job, but he was mildly irritated to find it was still broken.

Calm washed over him as he breathed. It was good to be home, even with all the complicated emotions that came with that sentiment.

“You live nearby?”

Your dubious look made him cringe. That sounded creepy coming from him, a random guy you barely knew. Sometimes it was difficult to separate Jason from Red Hood, not that he believed for a second that it would change your reaction. If you lived here, which he assumed you did because no Gothamite in their right mind would willingly follow him onto the street lovingly dubbed Crime Alley, the name Red Hood held weight. For all the good he did for the citizens, there was plenty of bad stack against him. He didn’t expect you to trust him with or without the helmet.

“Forget I asked,” he said.

You stared at him a second longer before walking away. “Stay safe, Mr. Darcy.”

Your tone carried an edge of finality, like you never expected to see him again. Despite the disappointment purling in his chest, he agreed that was probably for the best. A brief conversation with you was a warmer welcome than he anticipated, but he wasn’t about to push his luck by asking for more.

He lifted his hand to wave, though you had already disappeared around the corner. “You too.”

#writing #writeblr #fanfiction #batfam #jason todd #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #red hood #batman #dc comics #dear daddy long legs fic

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glow-worms-are-believers · 9 months ago

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Tim Drake: Ugly Duckling (dp x dc)

So this is the last day of pride month, and so also the last day of me trying to write as many LGBTQ+ canon dc characters. It’s been fun (and I got to read a whole bunch of comics which was actually much more fun than the first time I’d tried to read those!!)

Now even though this is the end of June, feel free to send an ask if you want me to write a blurb with any character. I make no promises, but I will very much try! (It might take a while especially if I’m in a Tumblr hibernation phase.)

Anyways, for the last day of pride month I wanted to do Tim Drake coz he’s dc’s “it girl” with the gays. I’ve been working on this Dead Tired fic for ages, based on the post about Tim getting turned into a swan and meeting Danny, who as a prince has to give him a kiss to change him back (I can’t find the prompt but it was hilarious so this was my take on it).

Here’s the beginning of the fic:

Red Robin was on patrol duty, while Batman and Robin were following a lead on possible joker safehouses. All in all, It was a pretty quiet night with only two muggings, both low-energy as both perpetrator ran away as soon as a bat-shaped shadow moved.

So Red Robin had spent most of the night chatting with Babs. He was grappling around town, as they started on the new date app they’d both found out Jason was using.

“I told him he can’t put only photos of his motorcycle but- wait I’m getting a call,” Oracle interrupted herself. Tim waited before the earpiece came to life again.

“Sorry to cut this short Red Robin, got a full-attention request from Canary. If you need anything, beep me, and Keep your coms open.”

“Bye, Oracle,” he said, and like that, Red Robin was alone once again.

He stopped on Grand Avenue Station and just let himself take in Gotham. The city was beautiful at night, and Tim was itching for a camera. He seen hundreds of pictures of the city’s skyline but they always managed to be unique. The night sky may always be covered by dark clouds above, but Gotham had its own stars in the lights shinning on top of the skyscrapers. So lost in his thoughts, Tim was, he almost missed the soft noise that sounded behind him. The voice that sounded behind him was harder to miss.

“Wither away so late, Little Red Bird?”

Red Robin turned to see a tall woman standing half in the shadows

“Sorry, can I help you?” Answered the vigilante despite the bad feeling creeping up to him.

“I’d like to know where I can find your guardian,” the woman said, still in the shadows.

“You mean Batman?” He chanced.

The woman nodded and Tim resisted the urge to sigh.If this was another one of Bruce’s ill-advised fling, Tim was going to hack every electronic device the man had to play sex-eds on loops for at least a week.

“He’s busy at the moment.” Then feeling like he shouldn’t assume what the woman wanted Bruce for, he continued. “But if you need any help, I’ll do my best.”

The woman stepped forward, and Tim could see her better. Her face was bare, but her distinctive outfit seemed to indicate she was some kind of vigilante-slash-criminal. The outfit did, in fact, ring a bell in the back of his mind, but it was dim. Tim didn’t tense up, but he did angle his body in a way to accommodate for a better escape through grappling. She continued walking until she was within arm’s reach of Tim, towering over him. She extended a hand to lightly caress his cheek, and Tim went still at the touch.

“Such a kind Little Bird you are,” she said gently. “You know, you remind me of my daughter.” She sighed. “Oh, what pretty children you both are.”

“Thank you,” said Tim as he sidestepped out of the way. “I’m sure she’s a lovely person.”

“Oh she was,” the woman said and through his growing wariness, Tim spared a thought for the girl. “She had dark hair and the fairest skin, just like you. The most beautiful girl in the land some would even say.”

That niggling feeling came back as a feeling of familiarity poked at him once again. “You must’ve been very proud.”

The woman let out an airy laugh before saying playfully/contemplating. “mustn’t I?”

A shiver ran down his back. Alright, there was something wrong with this woman, and Tim wasn’t waiting around to find out what. Not without any information or backup.

“Well, if there’s nothing I can do for you, I really have to get going,” Tim said as he took out his grapple gun. In a second, the gun was ripped from his hand , and he was slammed to the side of the staircase leading up to the roof. He let out a gasp at the impact and his features tensed in pain. The woman hadn’t even touched him.

“Not so fast, Little Bird. We don’t want you going back to the Batman just yet. I’m not ready to make him my Knight yet.”

“Your knight?” Tim managed to get out. He tried to move his arms, but some unseen force was pinning him in place. Shit, that meant he couldn’t reach the comm to send out a distress signal. Hopefully Babs would check in soon.

The woman smiled as she approached him once again. “What better for a Queen, than a Dark Knight?”

And just like that it clicked. “You’re the Queen of Fables.”

“Well look at this, you’ve got the brains and the beauty,” she teased, her voice as smooth as honey.

“What do you want with Batman?” Tim asked though he could guess from previous encounters she had had with the Justice League that the villainess wanted to turn Bruce into a fairytale character of some sort. She’d done the trick on Clark, and twice on Diana, so it was probably Batman’s turn now. So, yes, Tim could guess, But the longer he kept her talking the more time he had to figure out a way out of this.

“I told you, he’ll be a Knight of the Queen,” She extended a hand and tilted Tim’s face up. “Do you know what that would make you Little Bird?”

Most villains assumed the batclan worked like a crime family. So the family of a knight? “Nobility,” Tim guessed, unsure where this was going.

“Exactly.” She smiled, and then she moved. Tim braced for the hit.

Instead of a punch though, he only felt a tingling sensation. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, only for them to grow bigger as he took in his uniform. Or the lack thereof.

He was in something-century clothing, in some sort of frilly shirt and pants, all in white. This was worse than a punch. Then, as the thought hit him, Tim’s hands flew to his face only to come in contact with the silky fabric of a masquerade mask. He sighed in relief, and as he calmed down, he realized he was now free of the force pinning him down.

“The color is for my daughter,” the Queen said. Then, she let her head fall to the side before tracing a line across his forehead and Tim could feel something like a circlet setting down on it. “There you go. Now, it’s perfect. You could practically be siblings.”

“No thanks.,” Tim answered.

The Queen tsked him. “That’s no way to behave Little Bird, has nobody taught you to say thank you when you receive a gift.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Tim disagreed mildly as he took stock of his weapons. Everything was gone, including the earpiece, which meant Babs had to have been alerted and someone was en route.

The Queen frowned. “I was going to be merciful, for you guardian’s sake, but I no longer feel generous.” She raised her hand and Tim tried to roll away, but the magic beam swerved and hit him in a blinding flash of light.

When he managed to open his eyes once again, the world seemed quite a bit bigger than it had been moments before.

“What did you do to me?” He said. Or tried to say.

Instead a strange squawk echoed and Tim took a step back in surprise. However, he lost his balance and started to fall and as he tried to catch himself with his hand, two large white wings unfolded. He dropped down, which wasn’t as far as he would’ve estimated and laid stiff. He moved his left arm, and a white wing followed suit.

Oh, no. Oh no no no.

A grating laugh interrupted his freak out. “There you are my pretty Little Bird, all better. White really is your colour, don’t you th-“

With a loud hiss, Tim propelled himself towards the woman. Making use of his newfound beak, he pecked and bit everything he could, as he flapped his wings.

“Blasted creature- Get off! Stop it, you despicable, puny-“

Finally she managed to grab Tim and throw him away from her. He landed with a squawk, but managed to get himself back to his feet quickly. “You little/awful brat,” she snarled. “You’ll pay for this!”

But as the Queen threw out her hand, something rippled in the air between them and the magic beam seem to explode midway into a green vortex. Tim’s clumsy attempt at waddling away had him head straight towards it, and it was in vain that he tried to redirect the course. She and Tim made eye contact as the swan-boy tipped right into the swirling green vortex, both of their eyes wide-open in surprise.

Danny was exhausted. He was currently on week one of the full month of Royal Duties he’d promised Clockwork. Being Prince of the Infinite Realm was not all that it was cracked up to be, and that was saying a lot since he had already been expecting it to be awful.

When Clockwork had made the request, Danny had proceeded to freak out about his new status, and then tried to abdicate. It was only the master of time reminding him of all the terrible possible candidate for the throne per rites of combat (such as Vlad) that stopped him from washing his hands of this mess. And now Danny was forced to spend one whole month of his summer vacation in the Ghost Zone to fulfill his duty as a Prince.

He thought it would be some paperwork, maybe a battle or two, nothing too bad, but nooo. Because, of course nothing was easy, Danny had to show up at Events, and be Diplomatic. It was meeting, after meeting, after weird parties that were a mix between Medieval Banquets and Debutante balls.

And worse of all were the marriage proposals. Danny could sorta understand, marrying into royalty was a definite plus for a lot of more powerful ghosts but when they called him a half-breed behind his back, only to smile in his face with a marriage contract in one hand and flowers in the other, that was where he drew the line.

Plus there was also the fact that he was, like sixteen.

Suffice to say, Danny was exhausted and hiding out in Pariah Dark’s old castle as a last resort. It wasn’t his favorite place all in all, but the gardens were absolutely beautiful, which was where he was walking. He was currently headed to the hedge maze, since it was the best way to get rid of any tails he may or may not have.

The maze was nasty if it didn’t like you, and it didn’t like anybody but Danny, and even then, it still tried to take a bite every once in a while. Despite the snaking vines and roots trying to capture anything that moved, the flowers that wailed softly when disturbed or the sharp thorns of the hedge plants themselves, it was still a beautiful place. Uniquely, the closer you got to the centre, the more colorful (and dangerous) everything got, which was why he liked it best.

He reached the centre much quicker than the first time he tried, thanks to the maze actually helping him, and something pale caught his eye right in the middle of the open area, right next to the bench Danny loved to use. As he got closer, he realized it was a swan laying on the floor, seemingly unconscious.

“Oh no,” Danny said as he approached. “What happened to you?”

As if awakened by the sound of his voice, the swan started to shift, its wings twitching and it rose its head groggily. As soon as it clocked in Danny, it let out a surprised squawk, followed by a long hiss as it struggled to move away.

“Hey, hey, none of that, Duckie, you’re ok.” Danny raised his hands placatingly. “I don’t want to harm you, ok? I just want to make sure you’re ok.”

The hiss subsided by a bit, but that may have only be due to the swan managing to get further away.

“Sh, sh, it’s ok,” Danny repeated as he slowly inched forward. The swan stopped hissing but still observed him warily. “I don’t want to hurt you Duckie, but I do think we’d better get you out of this maze.”

Danny took another step, and this time the swan stayed still. “How about bringing you back to my rooms just for now.” The swan hissed louder at the statement. “Don’t worry Duckie, I’m not keeping you prisoner it’s just this maze has been known to eat people. And you’re too pretty to be eaten,” Danny flashed a smile at the swan which had it stare back with a gaze saying really?

“So what do you say, wanna crash at my place?” Danny asked. The swan didn’t move forward but he didn’t move away either.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t trust a guy who talks to birds either,” Danny allowed. “And the place where I’m staying is a little gloomy, so I don’t blame you, but I can’t leave you here. The maze is honestly really dangerous, especially for a nice bird is like you. “

The swan seemed to hesitate before it hesitantly made its way to Danny. Ghost animals were usually smart but the swan seemed to understand English, which made communicating that much easier. Danny smiled and opened his arms. “I can carry you.” The swan just looked at him, with what Danny would’ve thought was a deadpan stare. “It would go much faster.”

If the swan was human it probably would’ve sighed, but instead, its wings just fell a little before it waddled towards Danny and looked up as if to say ��get on with it’.

Danny smiled and gathered the animal in his arms. “Buckle up,” he said before flying off towards the maze exit, which was accompanied by a low hiss. Making sure there was nobody there to ambush him, Danny made it back to the castle in record time.

“Here we are Duckie.” Danny set the swan back down and it plopped down on the ground and just steadied themselves for a while.

Tim was a swan. He had wings and no fingers, and his feet were webbed.

He was handling it though. By which Tim meant he was shelving the impending panic attack for later when he wasn’t stuck in a swan body.

Ok, so he’d been turned by the Queen of Fables, so there had to be an answer in a fairytale,a way to make him normal again. He knew the ugly duckling story. That had a swan in it, right? He didnt know any other swan stories, except maybe as a dish during the wedding banquet of whichever princess. He vaguely remembered a Barbie movie that had passed on the TV when he was younger but the only thing that came to mind were a scary-looking Troll thing, and ballet. So with lack of better alternatives he was going to go with the ugly duckling. The ugly duckling’s happy ending was reuniting with family, so maybe all he needed was to make his way back to Gotham.

“Are you ok?”

And that was another thing. The guy. The one Tim had at first wanted to get away from. He seemed nice and all, but he also had neon green eyes, and fangs. Unfortunately, while they suited the boy very well, they also marked him as an unknown.

On the other hand, if the glowing portal wasn’t enough of an indication, the green tinge of everything around was clear indicator that Tim wasn’t in Kansas anymore. The guy seemed to want to help him, and having an ally wherever he was could only help.

Tim nodded as best as he could with his long weird neck, and he had to take a few steps to regain balance.

“That’s good,” the boy smiled with his white pointy canine. “How did you end up in the middle of that maze?”

Tim just looks back tiredly. He didn’t know how to even try and explain when he couldn’t say a word and had no opposable thumbs.

“Yeah, sorry.” The boy winced. “Maybe stick to yes or no questions.”

There was a sharp knock at the door that had the boy turning away.

“Prince Phantom!” A voice rung through the door.

Prince?

The newly-dubbed Prince Phantom got up to open the door, “yes, what can I do for you?”

“Your meeting with Queen Dora is approaching. Do you still prefer to forgo an escort guards?” a purple lady was saying.

“I’ll be fine without, Maj but thank you very much,” Phantom answered with a polite smile.

“I’ll pass it along, my Prince.” She bowed and closed the doors behind her.

Phantom walked back to lay on the bed with a sigh. “I really hate that they call me that.” He turned towards Tim to continue. “I bet swans don’t have royalty. You guys had the right idea.”

#Yep so this is the beginning beginning #Tim drake #danny fenton #dead tired #dc x dp #dp x dc #roxpox #roxpoxwrote #bisexual character

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altcvnningham · 5 months ago

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canis major

adler x bell!reader

summary: adler doesn’t go back to berlin to forget, but he isn’t so eager to remember, either. after leaving you for dead on that clifftop in the arctic, he knows best to leave the past well alone. too bad that past seems to be alive and walking right in front of him; though where he wants to forget, it seems you’ve already beaten him to the punch. or; bell survives solovetsky and only has a hole in her head and amnesia to show for it. read on ao3

tags/cw: bell!reader, amnesia, light angst, referenced adlerbell, somehow bell survives the ending of cw, adler can't let shit go, adler is not capable of remorse but mayyybe a lil guilt?? dog symbolism always, no pairing yet but hopefully i continue this as a spicy drabble series idk wc: 2.7k

a/n: sooo this is my first fic for the cod fandom and the first fic i've posted online in a long time so hopefully this lil ramble suffices!! i've had adlerbell brainrot and wanted to get at least something out before bo6 ruins all of my headcanons so here's a snippet of something i hopefully find the motivation to continue into a mini series. enjoy :')

Sometimes, he goes back to Berlin.

Stumbling out of the muggy bar into the dank alleyway out the back, Adler fishes out a pack of cigarettes from the front of his jacket; two firm knocks of it against his palm before he plucks one out with his mouth, pockets the box, and flips open his lighter. The clink of the metal echoes into the empty around him, the sudden quiet suffused with the sounds of passing cars on the street, muffled laughter from inside the bar, and the distant barking of dogs. Strays.

The cigarette ignites, glowing a cherry red, and he gasps around the filter greedily. Upon exhale, he sighs.

Adler isn’t a sentimental man by any means. What little he clings to, he does so with a loose grip, less than happy but stolid enough to allow whatever else he deems unnecessary slip through his fingers. Places, people. Things. Memories. Tucks the important things- logic, rationality, work, duty- into orderly compartments at the forefront of his mind, archived and marked off ‘til he needs it, while the rest, the mess, gets done away with, thrown into the great black gorge of oblivion. Anything else that stays- more often than not a thorn in his side, an unbidden, wriggling tumour he can’t find let alone cut out- is sequestered to a dark aperture in the back of his mind, anchored deep where it can’t come back up. Yet somehow, some nights, they always do. The smell of his ex-wife’s hair. The day he got his scar. Vietnam. The lab. Solovetsky—

The next word, the name, forks across his mind like lightning, and he bites his tongue before he can think it. It sits at the back of his mouth, nestled like an aching cavity in his molars. A tremulous breath that he forces down with another drag of his cigarette. Out with the rest. Out with the rest.

The barking doesn’t cease. Dogs, a pair of them, he can hear a couple streets over. He pictures them from the gravelly register of their snarling- maybe German Shepherds, a Bullmastiff or a Rottweiler. Their fight enunciated by the violent rattling of chain-link fences, segregated, the only threshold that keeps teeth from necks.

But no, not a sentimental man. He tells himself that the itch to revisit Berlin every Summer is for superficial reasons, and by no means is renting out a shithole hotel room opposite a sewer-laden river considered a vacation from anything other than the luxuries he gorges himself mindlessly on at home- maybe this is to keep him humble, more than anything. It doesn’t do well to remind himself of old times, not when he’s lived the life he has. Remembering seldom accompanies itself with the bittersweetness of reminiscence, and the taste it leaves in his mouth is always acrid. He doesn’t miss Berlin any more than he misses that dismal safehouse, or that sterile room he wheeled you into, questioned- tortured- no, interrogated- well, he doesn’t care to remind himself of the picture. Or the person he strapped to the gurney. But he catches himself thinking back to the city divided more than he likes to admit, and for whatever ostensible reason it is that drags him back here, he relents to it every time.

He tells himself it’s the weather, the cool rain a nice reprieve from the scorching California heat. Or that the food is better, not so much overprocessed shit and sugars. Can take his coffee as black as he likes without the waitress turning her nose up about it and double-triple-checking if he’s sure. And it’s the people, maybe, who leave him well enough alone. Or the drinks. The views, some places. The- air.

Not like Arctic air. Not like—

The one dog’s snarl rips bloodcurdling through the night, all froth and venom, and as the chain-link fence screeches and judders in its rusted welding the other mutt quiets a moment. Cowers under the meaner dog’s ferocity. Then, like it had been wounded, it lets out a low, anguished howl, beast reduced to a scared little pup. Adler holds the smoke in his chest around a stifled breath anticipating a release. But the first dog just grumbles, the fence clinks, and there isn’t much noise after that.

But the quiet doesn’t last long- just as Adler drops his cigarette and snuffs it with a wrench of his heel, another sound resonates, yowling through the alley.

The grinding of tires upon wet asphalt crunches from just beyond the alleyway entrance. The streetlamp overhanging the entryway glares bright yellow as it bounces off of the garishly coloured taxi cab, pulling up to a groaning halt outside the bar.

He thinks nothing of it, pulling at the collar of his leather jacket. It’s getting cold, and he’s left his drink inside. Wouldn’t want to waste good beer. Adler turns, and makes for the door.

And you step out of the car.

A half-finished cigarette bounces on the sidewalk before you exit, the softened heel of your boot following soon after in a splash upon the flooded curb. Your German is rusty- always has been- but it’s easy enough to utter a quick and easy danke as you pull yourself up out of the cab. The door shuts with a slam, and you tilt your head back to gaze up at the sign above the bar- Der Fluss Lethe glaring in faded lightbox red- and you let out a contented sigh, your breath suspended in the frigid air. Pink, bitten fingers pluck at your gloves, fingerless faded green knit, shovelling them into your jacket pocket.

Adler’s fist is already curled around the handle of the back door as he clocks your presence in his periphery, a stranger like any other- but your image resembles the one that coagulates in the borders of old memory, the dried blood of you he hasn’t been able to wash his hands of since ‘81. Enough that he does a double take, his eyes wide behind tinted glasses, and he stops, his heart following suit.

He’s seen enough bodies in his time to fill the morgue in his mind twice over, and plenty ghosts to wander coldly among the unmarked graves. Vietnam alone is an unwinding cemetery stretching endless, catacombs along the inside of his skull, lined with what his old shrink would call remorse. Guilt. As if the feeling mattered. As if self-reproach could turn self-flagellation into something so incandescent as redemption. As if the bile in the back of his throat could bring back the dead.

And it couldn’t, because it isn’t… that’s not—

Bell.

It’s in the way you stand, your back rigid, that slight slouch to your shoulders, always dragged down upon you like they bore the weight of the whole world (and they did, once, do you remember?). The pelting of rain smacks off of the lapels of your jacket and ricochets like stars, caught in the light of the streetlamp overhead, but for all he knows or cares it could be raining diamond and all he sees is you- the wrinkling of your nose as you accommodate to the cold, how your cheeks flush at the chill (as they had those nights he pulled you into the darkroom, evidence of your apprehension drowned in the red glow of safelights); your hair is longer, unkempt, but still that same colour (clumps he’d find in his clenched fist when you’d argue yourselves into a wrestling match, pinning each other by the throats to dented walls in Die Landebahn); that scar upon your brow; that wavering line of your lip, pursed and hiding behind your reticence as you always did, and your eyes- your eyes—

��you feel someone watching—

—your eyes turn, and fix upon him with the startled softness of a doe, hunter betrayed by the snapping of a branch underfoot. Adler’s heel crunches against broken glass, his hand lingering right in that threadbare threshold upon the doorhandle, and he can’t speak, can’t move, can’t think—

Open the door, Bell, open the door—

—and you stop outside the cab, your breath caught in your throat. You see a shadow in the alley, in the shape of a man.

The darkness of the alley gives enough cover that you don’t see much, but what you do make out of the man prickles at a part of your mind long dormant: the haughtily broad set of the shoulders; the halo of blond tinted red just beneath the flickering exit light above the door where he stands; the shadow of a strong, clenched jaw; and in the brief glinting of passing headlights as cars rush on behind you, you see a face half gorged by a thick, forked scar, a fissure struck down his furrowed expression. A pair of dark aviator glasses hide those eyes that you know are looking at you, reflecting back nothing but your own bewilderment.

There is something you know. Deep inside that half rotted head of yours, where an incomplete recollection of your existence before you awoke bleeding on that clifftop lies, you feel a twinge of recognition. Familiarity. Something. Something stirring deep in your marrow- a fear inherited, a conditioned surrender, a faded polaroid, a kiss? Your migraine, chronic, comes clawing back with a vengeance, as it does most nights, but this time with a savage fervour that wrenches your face into an involuntary grimace. Where the hole in your head had once been all those years ago it tickles and burns, burrowing into your brain and groping greedy fingers along remnants of memory. It claws at you, digging through your amygdala to find something fresh, something old, something palpable, real, something- anything. Searching what little remains visible to you in the thick fog of your own mind to pin a meaning to this feeling, an answer to your question, a name to that face.

You’ve seen him before. You swear. Somewhere. In a dream, reoccurring, behind a red door. You don’t know how, or why you’d think you recognise him- in those dreams, the door never even opens. Your hand ever stuck on the handle, jammed and impenetrable, what sits behind it forbidden to you. Like not even your own mind wants you to know. It confines you to your ignorance, almost blissful.

Adler’s heart kicks violently in his chest. He shot you. He killed you. He’d heard your death rattle on that clifftop in Solovetsky and the sound was almost like singing, your last word, your last breath. A miserere for your short and fractured life. And he’s looking at your ghost, standing there all owl-eyed and as beautiful as the day he found you bleeding out on that airstrip. Before he took you. Before he took you and collared you and made a damned mess of things.

The only thing separating you from the Bell he knows he killed- his Bell- is the star-shaped scar split across your left temple. The only wound he never had to sit and heal as he belligerently patched you up, poking and preening you like his prize dog. Yet in spite of never seeing it before, he recognises the wound all too well. He put it there himself.

And as you stand there for that brief moment- no more than twelve seconds stretched to an eternity- he thinks for a moment that you’ve put it together. You recognise him. You see him. As he is. You’ve figured him out, Bell, as you always do. You’re the only one to have gotten away with it, nearly. Or so he thought. And now he’s watching a corpse having dug itself out of the grave he put it in, standing there, staring at him. Suppose you’ve always been a dead man walking.

You could do it, he thinks. Turn. Fling your heel round and barrel towards him with all the enmity of a cornered animal. He thinks of the strays, barking. Can picture your mouth frothing at the sides as you sink your teeth down into him- gnarled canines, hooked to your chain-link fence- which he probably deserves. Not an unfamiliar feeling by any stretch, but one faraway enough to seem almost sweet now through the hazy lens of nostalgia. If there truly is a sentimental bone in his body after all, then maybe it’s just for that. Still, he holds his breath, awaiting the killing blow he’s surely due. But it never comes.

You release your held breath, finally, tearing your eyes away from the callous faced stranger. It’s a ridiculous notion. Just an uncanny instance of déjà vu. You don’t know that man any more than you know yourself. You settle on a more rational answer- just one of those faces. And with a disgruntled sigh you rub the scar upon your temple to soothe the ache, turn around, and enter the bar alone.

Adler sighs, his heart sinking from up high in his throat back down to his chest. His hand has latched onto the doorhandle for so long it’s gone numb from the cold, bruised knuckles bluer than they were before (bar fights- not here, but another, as there will always be). He wrestles his jaw pensively, knowing he ought to take it off, keep the door closed, turn away, and leave. Slink back, tail between his legs, to that shithole hotel room to drink himself into a stupor. Let you haunt him there, instead. As you always have.

But he doesn’t. He has no idea what idiocy compels him, what soft, dewy-eyed weak link in him snags on that chain, to willingly wander back into the viper den of reminiscence, but he wrenches his fist around the handle, pushes, and lets himself back into the bar, the thick, hot air hitting him like a drug that he breathes in, tart and sour with the cloy of sweat and alcohol but still faintly- just faintly- of you. Like rain carried along the wind.

And Russell Adler is not a sentimental man.

But from across the bar he hides behind his beer glass, watches as you move about, a phantom, weaving through the faceless mass of people celebrating a championship he cares nothing to follow. You take your order at the bar with a smile he’s never seen on you before, boots folded to tip-toes as you lean over the liquor-stickied top, your perfect mouth pink and sweet and laughing and alive. The world seems to move about you in a haze, an indistinct mist of blurred faces and bottled voices and beyond all the light and life and joy that seems to burn bright around you like a halo all he sees is you.

Maybe, then, he’s a fool.

But it isn’t lost on him, how your fingers skirt across your hair in an attempt to hide the scar upon your temple. Nor is it lost on him how you wince at the feeling, the stars in your eyes dimmed for just a split second as you shiver, like a touch imperceptible running fingers down your back. Nor even the way you fight the urge to look, to follow the feeling of his eyes fixed upon you, and surely not the way you lose that fight, surrendered to it, your sweet face turning and finding him in an instant. Without so much as trying, like instinct, like something as pathetic and saccharine as fate. Your heart called to it, a lighthouse in the fog. Port in the storm. Ships passing in the night but called crashing to the same shore.

(The pieces of you are scattered everywhere, Bell. He finds you in every split seam inside himself. Splintered shrapnel dug through his temporal lobe, severing synapses ‘til they go dark. Even stars die quicker than that. Quicker than you. Is that what it felt like for you, too? When the lights went out, was it him you last saw- or the sky, waxen, over the Arctic? A waning night, a distant moon. The inconsequence of death- brief celestial ephemera.)

The stranger across the bar looks at you, offering nary a smile, eyes indiscernible behind shadowed sunglasses. And where you ought to find his apparent coldness disconcerting, instead you wring out of your chest with a white-knuckled caress a feeling like… comfort.

Sometimes, Bell, you go back to Berlin. You don’t quite know why.

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margowritesthings · 3 months ago

Text

I'll Be Home for Christmas (If Only in My Dreams)

A Christmas gift for @cassidylynnj <3

Being shut away in a safehouse wasn't exactly how you wanted to spend this Christmas, but somehow Steve and Bucky manage to bring some festive cheer to you.

pairing: Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes word count: 5520 words warnings/tags: starts out a little sad, flirty Bucky, ever so slight suggestive language, brief mentions of passed loved ones/grief, lots and lots of festive fluff tbh authors note: Happy belated Christmas! I wrote this as a fic exchange with my wonderful friend @cassidylynnj. A lot of this was completely new to me, including writing Steve, but I loved creating it! I hope y'all have had a lovely, restful season and I wish you all the absolute best for 2025!

Christmas divider by @saradika-graphics

Endless white nothing.

It’s been 3 weeks since that day, when Bucky showed up at your work with a packed bag and a deep line between his brows, ushering you out and promising to explain when you got there. Where there is, you’re still not sure. James drove for hours, and once it got dark, it was difficult to decipher any road signs. He dodged every question, though you spotted that wince he couldn’t hide every time you asked how long you were going to be gone. Your heart sank a little, your Christmas shopping list still lying discarded on the kitchen island now.

The two of you drove deep into the woods, the headlights the only things leading the way around winding paths and douglas firs. Steve was already waiting for you at the cabin, so secluded you’re sure somebody threw a dart at a map to decide where to build the thing. Bucky always was harder to read, but the second you saw Steve’s face, you knew something was horribly wrong. The tension in his jaw, the way neither of them could properly look you in the eye in case they saw just how sad you were and caved. They told you everything, taking it in turns to divulge all the terrible, awful details, but you could hardly concentrate over the ringing in your ears. The short of it was this: Avenger’s loved ones were being targeted and people were getting hurt. Laura Barton had been attacked on her own farm, and somebody had shown up at Morgan’s school. The others were taking precautions and Steve and Bucky weren’t planning on being exceptions. You’d stay here, in hiding, while other family members of Avengers were scattered around the globe until they neutralised the threat. This little cabin in the woods was to be your home… for as long as it took.

The first week was almost peaceful. Steve and Bucky came and went between watch shifts and meetings, and even though you had to ditch your phone on the way here, it kind of felt like a detox. None of the noise of daily life, a forceful break from social media, not even the mad Christmas rush at work. The log cabin was small, but cozy. Draughty, but the boys made sure the fireplace was always stoked. Completely isolated, but a little bubble that Steve and Bucky visited to cuddle and eat with you and every so often stay over. Sometimes, it’d just be one, but occasionally you’d be lucky enough to get squished up between the two of them while they showed you just how grateful they were that you were safe. There was even a stunning view, picturesque trees dusted with snow, tiny flakes falling from the sky.

But as bubbles often do, it burst. One week turned to two which turned to three, the possibility of going home for Christmas becoming bleaker. Your boys got busier with the mission, the visits got fewer and farther between, and suddenly you found the days dragging, the worry getting so much more intense and harder to ignore. The snow fell heavier, until the vivid green leaves were swallowed up and the ground was so thick with it you could no longer see the deer tracks.

Which brings you here. With your forehead pressed against the window, your breath fogging up the cold glass. It’s all you can see. Endless white nothing. Your mind is churning, as it often does by this window. Worrying about damn near everything, missing your family, wondering just how long they can keep you cooped up in here. No, that isn’t fair. You’re here for your own safety, you know that. Steve and Bucky are doing everything they can to keep you alive, as are the rest of the team. You’re so grateful, of course you are, but it’s not all that easy. The lonely days can drag, the whistling wind sometimes the only reprieve from an unforgiving silence. At first, you tried to write, reframing this whole ordeal as some sort of retreat, but your muse quickly depleted around the same time your festive spirit and optimism did, making it oh so difficult to tell the difference between the empty page in front of you and the snowstorm outside.

Thoughts drift to home as you pull your knees up to your chest, hugging them in tightly. Wondering if your loved ones have finished their Christmas shopping, if your cousin has matched her ribbons to her wrapping paper again or if your nephew has gone to meet Santa yet. Thinking about the cookies you were so looking forward to making everyone, the new cutters you bought probably collecting dust in the drawer right now.

You’re debating if your neighbour has opened the packages you ordered when the wind breaks through the doorway, almost killing the quickly dwindling fire as Steve and Bucky both bundle inside. Though they bring a chill in with them, the warmth you feel at the sight of them seems to thaw a little of that wretched numbness growing in you. A small smile tugs at the corners of your lips as you stand to greet them, feeling the blood rush back into your toes now that you’re not scrunched in on yourself.

“Missed you, sweetheart,” Bucky mumbles first over the thick collar of his coat, “You doin’ alright?” He sets the logs he’s carrying down by the fireplace, coming back to wrap his arms around you and place a kiss on your forehead. You nod, though Bucky doesn’t look convinced as his eyes scan over your features.

Steve discards his portion of firewood in the same pile as Bucky’s, your body instinctively turning to his when he comes for his kiss. He blows into his hands for a moment, breath warming his palms just enough to take the edge off when he cups your cheeks to raise your face up to his. Your lips meet in a tender kiss, while Bucky’s hands fall to your hips. Somehow, even though they’re fresh from a snowstorm, they’re two pillars of warmth. Some of the heaviness clinging to you dissipates instantly.

“You’re freezing, angel,” Steve almost scolds, glancing over to the fireplace. “You been sitting here all morning?”

When he lets go of your cheeks to go and fix the fire, you nod again, needing to clear your stuck throat before you can speak actual words for the first time since they were last here. “There’s not much else to do,” You explain simply, trying not to sound so ungrateful for your safety. “I missed you both, though.”

“We missed you so much, doll,” Bucky whispers into your ear, his breath tickling the shell as he pulls you into him from behind. “You’ve gotta keep that fire going, though, baby. This storm ain’t a joke.”

You hold back a scoff. As if you didn’t know, as if that storm isn’t the only thing keeping you company lately. A shrug of your shoulders as you tilt your head to the side to let Bucky pepper kisses on your neck. Steve takes no time at all to revive the fire, expert hands working to warm the room back up.

Soon, the three of you are bundled on the sofa, blanket draped over all six legs and thirty toes. Bucky has his warmer arm around you, while Steve draws gentle circles and swirls in the thighs you’ve draped over his. Right now, you’re right where you belong, sandwiched between your boys. It’s enough to drive away all those lonely thoughts. Enough to be completely content for now.

You’re trying so hard not to think about the fact that, even though they’ve just got here, they’ll eventually have to leave again. So lost in trying to enjoy the here and now that you completely miss the worried glances Steve and Bucky are sending over your head, debating who’s going to be the one to ask without having to say a single word. A language built upon nearly a century of connection you often feel honoured to exist in the middle of.

The circles on your leg still, which pulls your attention to Steve. He shifts in his seat. Clears his throat.

“So how are you, sweetheart? Really, I mean… I know it’s not easy, but-”

“I’m fine. Really, I’m fine,” you answer too soon, suddenly not able to look either of them in the eye. You don’t want to complain, don’t want to be any more of a bother than you already feel when all of Earth’s Mightiest Heroes are working to protect you while you rattle around in here.

“Talk to us, doll…” Bucky implores, pulling you closer into him, “We’re worried about you. Can’t help if you shut us out”

“Don’t be,” you plead, finally dragging your eyes up to meet his, hating the concern you see written on both their faces, “I’m okay. I just…” feel lonely while you’re out risking your lives to protect me, miss the christmas tree while my life is in danger? Your throat tightens. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“It’s okay if you’re not,” Steve says softly, his palm now splayed across your thigh and squeezing gently, “You don’t have to carry this on your own.”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Bucky adds, pressing a kiss atop your head. His too kind words make you flinch away.

“You’re doing enough for me. For all of us. You don’t need to be worrying about me missing a stupid Christmas tree on top of all that.” You’re embarrassed that you’ve even said it aloud, even though you know the issue runs much deeper than that. Bucky and Steve’s eyes both flicker between you and each other, while you wish the ground would just swallow you up whole in punishment for your outburst.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just… not so easy, being alone like this all the time. I miss everyone, miss my friends, my family… my little flat with the Christmas lights I put up and that tree we decorated together… I know I must sound insane, thinking about all this trivial, meaningless stuff while people are in so much danger. I just can’t help it when I’m up here all on my own.”

You watch Steve deflate in real time, his shoulders sinking as he processes your words. He pulls his hand out from under the blanket, grabbing yours to bring it to his lips. The kiss is tender and warming on your skin and it makes your chest ache. Even amongst all this, they always find kindness.

“You’re not insane, baby. Not even close,” Bucky whispers into your hair, “and we’re so sorry you have to go through this.”

Tears well in your eyes at his apology. “No, no, please don’t apologise. I know you’re doing everything you can and I’m so so grateful and-”

“Hey, hey… it’s alright,” Steve soothes, his voice steady. “We know how grateful you are. But we’re also sorry. What you’re going through right now is tough, sweetheart, and it breaks my heart every time we have to leave. Trust me when I tell you we’re going as fast as we can so me and Buck can get you back home. With us. Where you belong.”

The picture forms so clearly in your mind. In your own bed, squished between two heated bodies, hard muscles and soft skin and long nights and slow kisses and all the time in the world. No stolen moments between missions, checking the clock and watching on alert every time a deer stalked past. You’d like that. Very much so.

“She’s right though, Steve,” Bucky starts, fingers absentmindedly running through a little section of hair fallen free from your ponytail, “it is depressing as shit in here. I’ve seen barracks more festive than this.”

Steve’s frown forms at Bucky’s choice of language, but it settles into the lines in his forehead as he looks around the palace you’ve tried so hard to call home these last weeks. It’s pretty bare, with each piece of furniture a different soulless shade of grey. A far cry from the festive sanctuary you’d left behind.

Fingers still entwined in yours, Steve straightens his spine and leans forward in his seat.

He pulls a genuine laugh from you for the first time in days when he says, “It is depressing as shit.”

They stayed for as long as they possibly could, talking through everything with you until that heaviness on your chest was replaced with a quiet hope. You kissed them both and saw them out, waving them off until they were tiny dots in the snow. Missing the plans that formed on their cold walk back to base.

You feel refreshed after talking so openly with Steve and Bucky, determined to approach the rest of your time here with optimism and kindness to yourself. Keep the fire stoked, get dressed every day, keep your daily gratitudes. Make the best of what you have, especially when your boys are here. Stay strong. If not for yourself, then to make this all worth it.

You’re folding paper you’d found in a cupboard into a makeshift journal when you first hear muffled voices. It startles you, expecting neither Steve nor Buck to be back with you so soon and deducing the origin must be something violent. You stand, survival instinct making you wield a nearby pen as some sort of magic wand as your defense from the intruder. As the voices get louder, panic sets in and numbs your tongue. The door swings open, revealing the very tip of a… tree?

“I really don’t think this is gonna go through the doorway, Buck.”

“It’ll fit. We’ll make it fit.”

“I’ve heard that before.” “Yeah, and haven’t I always made it fit?”

You can feel the glare Steve is throwing Bucky through the wall of the cabin, no x-ray vision required. You lower the pen to your side as your curiosity takes over, walking you to the doorway. Sure enough, your boys are back, standing on either end of a huge douglas fir, snow still clinging to its leaves that shake off onto the porch.

“Hey, doll.” Bucky stands up front, gripping the top of the tree with his vibranium hand while waving with the other. He grins like a kid at… well, Christmas. “Couldn’t stay away from ya’. Figured we’d bring you a little something to cheer you up.”

“A little something? That thing is huge.” You retort, the smile on your face betraying the accusation in your voice.

“Bigger’s better.” Bucky smirks, raising and lowering his eyebrows suggestively. You’re giggling, so hard you almost miss Steve grumble from the back end of the tree.

“Yeah, yeah, Buck, your dick is huge. We know. Can we get this thing inside before we let all the cold in?”

Somehow, in Bucky’s infinite wisdom, they do make it fit, and are pulling the very base of the tree through the doorway when you can finally get your hands on them. The cold clinging to both of them bites at your skin but you don’t care as you drag them both closer to you.

“I didn’t think I’d see either of you again today… Especially not with a big ass Christmas tree. What’s going on?”

“Couldn’t stand to see you so sad, sweetheart. There’s not much we can do about being stuck here, but you said you missed Christmas so we figured we’d bring a little Christmas to you.” Steve presses a kiss to the top of your head as you snuggle into them, only now noticing the backpacks they’re both carrying too.

“There’s not much to work with out here, so we had to go old school,” Bucky explains, pulling away from the hug briefly to shrug his bag off his shoulder and drop it next to the tree.

“It’s traditional,” Steve counters, almost scolding in his tone. “Christmas like when me and Buck were kids.”

“Same thing.” Bucky shrugs, while your gaze falls to the tree taking up nearly half the space of your cabin.

“Did… did you cut this down just now?”

“Ain’t no tree store in the middle of nowhere, doll.”

You roll your eyes at Bucky’s smart mouth, playfully pinching his bicep before breaking away from them to get a better look at the tree. It really is ridiculously large and you’re 90% sure it won’t even stand without bending at the ceiling, but your heart still aches at the thought of what Bucky and Steve have done for you. The thought of them bickering out there in the snow, wanting to find you the very best one to put a smile back on your face has your cheeks straining.

“And… What's in the bags? If I even dare ask.” The grin is unstoppable now as you watch Steve and Buck take off their coats and shake the snow from themselves..

“Supplies, of course.” Buck teases, kissing your cheek on his way to the kitchen, “200, right?”

“200,” Steve confirms to Bucky, picking up both bags before you get the chance of a sneak peek. “Patience, baby.” He winks, playful, boyish grin lighting his face up.

“200 what?” You follow them both into the kitchen, finding Bucky fiddling with the oven while Steve unpacks both bags out onto the island. So far, you can spot some twine, matches, and a tinfoil parcel that you think might be popcorn.

“Degrees,” Bucky says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You didn’t eat all those oranges, did you?”

He looks relieved when you slowly shake your head no, your mind whirring to catch up with your surroundings. Popcorn, oranges… old school, Bucky had said.

“We’re making Christmas decorations?” You guess, hope and excitement blending into a smile that makes it all worth it for Steve and Buck.

“Clever girl.” Bucky praises, as Steve starts pulling an assortment of candles and tealights from the second bag. There’s a whole pile of stuff now: pomegranates, candy canes, newspapers, even-

“Is that an iPod Nano??” The astonishment in your voice is clear as you pick the little purple device up, the screen lighting up in your palm. An old school Christmas, indeed.

Steve looks a strange mixture of proud and somewhat confused when he pulls out a portable speaker and adds, ”Bruce set it up for us. Says it’s completely untraceable, but he put all the Christmas songs on there. Every single one.”

He’s not wrong. You spin your thumb around the pressure pad, watching Earth’s entire festive discography flash before your eyes. Everyone from Mariah Carey to Nat King Cole. Emotion wells in your chest, forms tears that sit on your waterline. This is too much. Everything they’re already doing for you, and now this? Working so hard to keep you happy.

“You really didn’t have to go to all this trouble, you know you’re doing enough…” You mumble, watching both frowns develop simultaneously. Gods, you don’t want to sound so ungrateful again, but it’s hard sometimes not to feel like such a burden when two supersoldiers wait on you hand and foot.

“And miss Christmas with our favourite girl? I don’t think so.” Bucky weaves around the island to find his way to you and Steve. You feel the cold pinch of vibranium on flesh as he takes your hand to bring it up to his lips. He lowers his voice, “you know we’d go to the ends of the Earth for you, doll. Pulling down a tree or two is nothing.”

And you know he means it. They both do. They’d tear the multiverse apart for you, spend their Christmas swapping watch duties to keep you safe, even find you a freaking iPod Nano in the grand old age of 2024. You look between them, finding such honesty and love in their eyes your heart hurts.

That smile starts to warm you from the inside out again as you clutch the Nano tight to your chest. It might actually be your favourite Christmas present ever.

“You ready to bring a little Christmas cheer to this place, angel?” Steve asks, hand cupping the back of your head. You nod, unable to actually stop smiling now they’ve convinced you that you’re worth all this and more.

“So ready.” You dock the iPod, while Steve and Bucky both gently caress your back through your cable jumper. The moment is so tender and perfect and-

“YOU’RE HERE, WHERE YOU SHOULD BE-” Kelly Clarkson screeches, making all three of you jump an inch. Now shaking fingers quickly manage to shut the song off, leaving you with the residue of Bucky’s laughter ringing in the air. You can’t help but giggle too, watching two of the world’s bravest heroes startled by an American Idol.

“Sorry, sorry. Modern Christmas music is not the vibe, noted.” You hold your hands up in a mock surrender before turning back to the speaker dock. “Wait, hang on, I think it’s sorted by year…” you think aloud, scrolling all the way back to the top. To the likes of Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald.

Dulcet tones fill the space between your bodies when you press play, classic strings melting into the honeyed, mellow voice of Bing Crosby telling the three of you to have yourselves a merry little Christmas. The room feels warmer already, absolutely nothing to do with the roaring fire and everything to do with the love woven into this gesture the boys have done for you. You feel so seen, so known, so unbelievably loved it almost hurts.

“Thank you so much for this. Both of you.”

“Don’t thank us yet, doll. Not before we’ve actually managed to get that tree up and standing,” Bucky jokes, eyes now flickering between the fir and the space it should be filling.

First things first, though, the oranges.

“You’ve gotta have them in at the lowest heat for about 2 hours,” Steve explains, slicing the fruit on a board while you lay the pieces on a baking tray. You’ve never done anything like this, most of your ornaments back home hand-me-downs from family or bought at Bryant Park. There’s something really special about it, though, being taught how by men who lived in a world before tacky glittery Christmas abominations took over the world.

“And they have to be the same thickness, or else they’ll dry unevenly,” Steve adds. You look to Bucky just in time to catch his playful eye roll.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Bucky taunts, saluting the Captain (of orange slices) with a stupidly serious expression on his face. You hold your giggle best you can, batting Buck lightly on his metal arm.

“Hey! Leave him alone,” you scold, lacking any sort of conviction when you let him pull your back up against his chest.

As Steve finishes up slicing the last orange, you start to lay the slices on the tray. They both watch you fondly, Steve thinking aloud, “I used to do this with my Ma before the war. She taught me all the tricks.”

You can just see it now: a little Steve meticulously watching to make sure each piece of the garland was sliced evenly.

“We did it too,” Bucky adds, “but me and Becks just fought over who got to eat the leftover slices.”

There’s a moment where each heart in the room aches for those who aren’t, who can’t be. You wish you could have met their families, Steve’s mother, Bucky’s little sister, and thanked them for making your boys just the way they are. Steve and Bucky long for the same, think about how much they’d all truly love you. The moment passes slowly, softly, fondly. Sealed with a kiss Bucky presses to your temple from behind and one from Steve on your knuckle.

The smell of citrus still hangs in the air by the time Steve and Bucky are bickering over the tree, orange slices now drying out in the oven. You’ve been set on paper chain duty, watching them both from the couch as you cut bits of paper up into neat strips. It’s pretty much your own personal sitcom, Steve currently the only one holding the tree while Bucky looks on.

“Yeah, no. A little more to the left, actually. No, the other left. My left,” he sneers, earning a huff from Steve. He lifts the thing with ease, but by the eighth adjustment you’re not sure how long before the thing might be thrown across the room.

“I think it’s perfect right there,” you quickly add, your eyes following the branches upwards to see the tip of the tree bend at a right angle across the ceiling. “...Absolutely perfect.”

You mean it, too. It’s way too big for this room, shedding pine needles all over the place and has a definite tilt to its posture, but you’ve never seen a more beautiful tree in all your life… You just hope it stays upright till New Year.

Steve takes full credit for the tree, ‘since I did all the heavy lifting’, while Bucky tries to claim the title of project manager. One look at you, wrapped in masses of colourful, masterful paper chains, and they both know who’s really the boss here. Which is why they both follow your carefully thought out delegations in the kitchen.

“Why does Steve get the fun job?” Bucky whines, frowning at the pomegranate you’ve handed him as if it has personally offended him.

“Because I don’t trust you with the popcorn,” you answer, narrowing your eyes. “Or an open flame,” Steve adds, earning a swat from Bucky.

“It’s a precise science,” Steve explains to you, as if he’s creating a new supersoldier serum in a lab rather than cooking popcorn. One hand holds the handle of the pot, the other keeps the lid closed as he slowly shakes the kernels around the flame.

You don’t need to be looking at Bucky to know he just rolled his eyes. You’ve seen him throw a bag into the microwave and forget about it on more than one occasion, leaving your apartment to smell like burn for days to come. Really, you didn’t mind. Every time you came home, it made you think of him.

“Sure it is, Captain Kernel.” Buck mumbles, hitting the back of the pomegranate so hard he dents the rind and sends seeds shooting across the room. You pull one from your hair as you turn to him, soft laugh ringing through the room.

“I thought I was Captain Oranges? You can’t keep reusing the same jokes, pretty boy.”

“Sure I can. It’s Christmas,” Bucky argues with a ridiculous pout, reaching to pull another seed from your hair and popping it in his mouth before pulling you closer, a sticky mess of pomegranate juice waiting for you when you get there.

“Bucky!” You shriek, squirming in his arms as he laughs, utterly unrepentant.

“You all good over there, baby? Need me to stage a rescue?” Steve hasn’t stopped shaking the pan, never disrupting the rhythm, though he has leaned in closer to listen out for any pops over the squealing.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Bucky answers before you can, still pressing sticky, pomegranate kisses to whatever skin he can reach. “Just a little sticky.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute, Barnes,” you grumble, wiping some of the juice from your cheek with the back of your hand.

“You’re damn right I’m lucky,” he quips, with a cocky grin, loosening his grip just enough to let you squirm free, though not before stealing one last kiss.

When the corn is popped and the seeds are neatly in a bowl (your own doing), it’s time for the thread. This step does little more to capture Bucky’s attention than the fruit bashing did. He quickly gets distracted with trying to eat as much as he can and inappropriately touching you and Steve, both of which he manages quite a lot of. It’s a delicate task that takes enough time to bring the iPod through to the 50s and into the songs the boys aren’t so familiar with. Still classics, like Eartha Kitt and Chuck Berry, but past Steve and Bucky’s time. Vintage to you, but a strange shard of the unknown future they missed to them.

This decade of music brings a little more energy into the cabin, and by this time, the entire place smells like sweet citrus and pine. A truly festive attack on the senses. The orange slices have dried enough to thread, which you and Steve team up to tackle while Bucky lights the candles. Apparently, Steve would prefer Bucky be in charge of open flames rather than sharp needles. You’re so content in this bubble, so lost in each activity that you’ve hardly noticed the sun setting outside. The candlelight feels intimate and cozy as the three of you finally decorate the place. Hanging paper chains from the walls, wrapping your freshly made garlands around the tree.

“Aren’t they so perfectly seeded?” Bucky teases as he lifts you up onto his shoulders, allowing you to reach the tallest part of the tree to hang some of the oranges up there.

“Masterfully done, darling,” you respond, tongue pressed between your teeth as you reach for the farthest branch you can, “don’t think we could do Christmas without you.”

Steve helps you down, your frame landing right up against his as his hands fall to your hips. You feel every hard muscle against your supple body, every ridge and mound and-

“Are those candy canes in your pocket, Captain Rogers, or are you just happy to see me?”

“Both. Can’t it be both?” He teases, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“I’d honestly be kind of disappointed if it wasn’t.”

Bucky joins you at your back. “Alright, lovebirds. Break it up. I was told I had to behave at least until we finished the tree, Rodgers. No cheating.”

You’re reluctantly separated to focus on hanging candy canes by a suddenly all too dedicated to the cause Sargeant, giggling and teasing as he slips several into his own pocket for later.

The very last ornament fits right in the middle of the tree, which Steve lifts you a couple of inches off the ground to reach. The three of you stand back, admiring your handiwork. Leaning to one side, too big for the room. It’s messy and uneven and may fall down at any moment, but you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything so beautiful in your entire life.

“You think we did good, doll?” Bucky asks, the soft candlelight glowing against his skin.

“I think we did perfect.”

And the moment is just that: perfect. Peaceful and cozy and wonderful… until Elton John starts shouting about Christmas. It’s so jarring you snort, heading over to the speaker before you have to attempt to explain the concept of Elton John to men born in the 1910s. “Sorry, on it.”

You scroll back through the ages, eyes scanning over each song title until you stop near the top.

I’ll Be Home For Christmas - Bing Crosby.

A smile twitches onto your lips, heat blooming from your chest. That was what started this whole thing, wanting to go home for Christmas. Yet now, looking at your boys in front of the tree they cut down with their own two hands, the one you decorated together as a family, you realise you’ve never felt so at home in your life.

The mood instantly fixes itself as the song plays. You stand thoughtful for a moment, before you feel that familiar warmth at your back. Steve.

“Dance with me?” He whispers, fingers already running around your waist to spin you into him. He holds you in the traditional position, left hand holding yours, right on your waist as you both sway to the melody. Your eyes meet in a tender moment that feels like it lasts a lifetime, but Bing is only singing his second verse when you hear:

“Can I cut in?” Bucky’s voice interrupts, playful and hopeful and happy after watching you and Steve.

Somehow, you fit perfectly between them as the three of you dance together. It feels like a moment you could bottle in a snowglobe: the music, the warmth, the candlelight. A Christmas unlike any other, with more heart and love than you’ve ever known, not a single bit of glitter in sight.

Eventually, the song fades into another, leaving you all standing in this tangled embrace. In front of your perfect, messy tree.

“Merry Christmas, doll,” Bucky whispers, pressing a kiss on your cheek.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” Steve echoes, his head resting atop yours thanks to the considerable height difference.

“Merry Christmas, boys,” you whisper back, eyes glistening as you unravel just enough to look up at them. “I love you both so very much.”

And it doesn’t matter where you are geographically on the 25th of December. It never did. You were always going to be home for Christmas, as long as Steve and Bucky were by your side.

#stucky x reader #poly!stucky x reader #steve x reader x bucky #bucky barnes x reader #stucky fluff #bucky x reader x steve #steve rogers x reader #margowritesthings #stucky fanfic #stucky x you #steve rogers #Bucky Barnes

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pillowspace · 1 year ago

Text

The Magnus Archives Fic Rec List

Press the read more for recommended fanfiction of The Magnus Archives! Never heard The Magnus Archives and are interested?

Current number of fics: 85

last updated March 18th, 2024

These are all works that I have personally read at least a couple thousand words of and enjoyed myself, so this list will reflect my own reading habits

If you are the author of a fic, you can request your work be removed from the list. Everyone should be comfortable

Table of Contents - 1. England Jonmartin-centric, 2. Scottish Safehouse Period, 3. Gen or Background Pairings, 4. Time Travel, 5. Highly Alternate, 6. Gerrymichael, 7. Other, 8. Updates (note: some categories tend to overlap. Only one will be prioritized)

England Jonmartin-Centric

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Full, Riotous Bloom by BigTed

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“Statement of Martin Blackwood, regarding…” Jon looks at him. Looks at him. The look of a boss whose employee was late three times last week, the look of a man who was just busy doing something really important and now he’s here, doing this instead. “...why he stole a grieving family’s oven gloves.”

Martin has a run in with a deadly Leitner, leaving him choking on his unrequited love.

M | Words: 66,962 | Chapters: 13/13

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fell in your opinion when i fell in love with you by Athina_Blaine

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“This is the Magnus Institute, not a creative writing course at university. If that doesn’t agree with him, he can leave.” There was a thud and the sound of rifling tapes. “He can take his bloody tea with him.”

Martin’s fingers tightened on the saucer. Oh.

Martin knows better than to talk about it. It's fine. He's fine.

Part 1 of it's only when i hit the ground it causes all the grief

M | Words: 18,987 | Chapters: 2/2

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Just a Little Bit Pet-tea by arthureameslove

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Martin makes Jon tea for the first time about a week into his transfer. It’s horrible. Gag-reflex inducing. Somehow sporting all the wrong flavors.

For some reason, he does not have the heart to break this to Martin.

Little does Jon know that Martin actually makes wonderful tea. Just not for him.

G | Words: 13,335 | Chapters: 3/3

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Misshapes, Mistakes, Monsters by ZaliaChimera

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

The Archives are his and stepping away from them, even for a night… it’s strange. Like he’s pretending to be someone else.

Like he’s pretending to be human.

Jon and Martin attend Jon's Oxford University Reunion.

T | Words: 7,969 | Chapters: 1/1

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Say You Love Me (Learn to Lie) by iamcringebutiamfree

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker

It shouldn’t have been surprising to learn that Martin hated him. He had been, he knew, a truly terrible boss - he’d treated Martin horribly, caused him to lose his home, nearly gotten him killed. Really, it had been ridiculous to ever think that Martin wouldn’t hate him.

Still, Jon had been trying, in his own way, to make it up to him. There wasn’t exactly a card at the drugstore that said, “I’m sorry I berated you for six months and caused you to nearly be eaten by a swarm of worms of potentially supernatural origin,” but he’d been trying. He brought Martin breakfast every morning, made sure the breakroom cabinets were stocked with his favorite blends of tea, and had tried to work some genuine praise into his feedback of Martin’s work. None of it was the direct apology that his conscience told him he really ought to give, but Martin had appreciated it. Or seemed to, anyway.

Jon wasn’t certain what motivated the decision he made next - whether it was guilt or spite or something else. He could, he knew, be quite petty when the situation called for it. Either way, he made up his mind then and there to prove Martin wrong. He was going to be the best fake boyfriend he could be.

A Fake Dating AU!

T | Words: 37,889 | Chapters: 10/10

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a consideration of tropes by gruhukens

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“Do you know much about cataloguing?” Jon asks, a little out of breath from the stairs.

Martin, mid-trolley, rolls his eyes. The gesture he makes at the shelves around him is only emphasised by the book he’s holding.

“What exactly do you think I do here, other than sit around and wait for angry patrons to yell at me?”

“Think of what you’re going to yell back?” Jon says, and Martin’s mouth twitches into a smile.

Asking the very important question: what if Jon and Martin had a gentle archives/library romance, and kept running into tropes? What if there was mutual pining involved? Only one bed? Fake dating? Hurt/comfort? Or perhaps, a soft and happy ending?

T | Words: 40,966 | Chapters: 8/8

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It Serenely Disdains to Destroy Us by trill_gutterbug

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin gnaws his lower lip. “Do you think he’ll - I mean, do you think it’ll be…”

Melanie's smile becomes a little less of a grimace. She claps his shoulder. “Martin. It’ll be fine. It’s only temporary. He’s not moving in.”

Martin chuckles. “Yes. Of course.”

Jon's flat is being fumigated. He is not impressed. Martin offers his spare bedroom.

T | Words: 13,048 | Chapters: 1/1

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terror management theory by prismatical

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Melanie King & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Basira Hussain & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist (briefly)

“It’s a preexisting condition,” Jon explains, sipping more bitter tea. “I sort of got—hm. You know Spiderman?”

Tim raises an eyebrow.

“Heard of him, yeah.”

Jon nods, studying his tea.

“It’s sort of like that,” he says. “A spider killed and ate me when I was a child, and now I can’t stay dead.”

Resurrection isn't all it's cracked up to be.

T | Words: 36,587 | Chapters: 1/1

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Clutching Daffodils by Gemi

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin has always liked the idea of love at first sight.

It’s such a romantic idea, the whole thing of it. Seeing someone and instantly feeling that strange, twisting feeling deep inside that every single media likes to obsess over. Of knowing you are in love within the day, petals falling from your mouth and warmth filling your chest as love burrows deep, vines twisting through your lungs.

He always liked the idea of it.

And then Jonathan Sims starts working at the Magnus Institute.

NR | Words: 7,624 | Chapters: 1/1

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a little love, a little sympathy by Did

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

And then Jon is snarling into his face, demanding what are you hiding with a strange, bright-eyed intensity Martin has never seen from him before, and Martin thinks god, maybe he should just come clean about his CV, Jon thinking he's a fraud can't be any worse than Jon thinking he's a murderer-

Martin opens his mouth to speak. To his absolute horror, what actually comes out is: "I used to pretend to cry because I liked how nice you were to me when you thought I was upset!"

G | Words: 3,308 | Chapters: 1/1

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all resistance wearing thin by DivineProjectZero

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin Blackwood would do anything for Jonathan Sims. The Web made him that way, after all.

T | Words: 4,799 | Chapters: 1/1

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Sam nie pojmuję, jak w twe zajdę progi by Mad_Maudlin

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin's been acting odd since Jon came back. Well, odder than usual.

T | Words: 3,118 | Chapters: 1/1

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Mundanity by CirrusGrey

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Inspired by @ themlet's post on Tumblr: Jon has to deal with normal human interactions. Martin helps (sort of). Featuring high school reunions, knitted sweaters, and conversations on the bus ride home.

T | Words: 3,097 | Chapters: 1/1

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Musical Mechanism by Darblesify

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Martin has always used music to cope. One day he's playing music music out loud in the archive and Tim and Sasha realize the main singer's voice sounds familiar.

AKA Martin's favorite band might happen to be the one Jon was secretly a part of in college.

T | Words: 21,411 | Chapters: 8/8

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Misfiled and Misinformed by CirrusGrey

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker

Jon and Martin are married. Tim and Sasha know this. What they don't know is that it's to each other.

T | Words: 2,507 | Chapters: 1/1

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look no further by inkyindigo

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin just wants to keep Jon safe. Sometimes the easiest way to do that is to bodily remove him from harm's way.

or, a collection of times Martin picks Jon up.

T | Words: 15,145 | Chapters: 8/8

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Touch Me, Even if it Hurts by AuralQueer

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims & Alice "Daisy" Tonner

People don't really touch Jonathan Sims unless they want to hurt him. That's mostly fine. Jon has never been a tactile person, and he doesn't need anyone but himself.

Except the world is falling down around him, and loneliness aches, and sometimes he'll take anything - even cruelty - just to feel human again.

*A story set between s1 and s4, looking at Jon's relationship with touch, friendship, and his own humanity.

T | Words: 6,540 | Chapters: 1/1

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I'll bring the motion by callmearcturus

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

A long series of kidnappings and international flights leaves its own special mark on someone. Before the Unknowing, Jon is a mess.

Martin helps.

(based on this amazing art by linecrosser)

T | Words: 3,127 | Chapters: 1/1

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thanks for the company by lukeskqwalker

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin had been baffled by how easily he spilled his guts out to this odd stranger. Now, Martin is more baffled by the baggy My Chemical Romance t-shirt he's wearing, paired with tasteful plaid pajama bottoms.

Or, Martin gets a visitor in his dreams. Reliving the same 14 days of loneliness every night isn't as bad when you have company.

T | Words: 4,314 | Chapters: 1/1

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stranger, stranger by blueskiddoo

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

“Sure,” Georgie says, still laughing at him. At least someone is having fun. “Don’t you have assistants for that kind of thing?”

“Yes, but…” He huffs, scratching the back of his neck. “I wasn’t going to ask one of them to download an app called...Lover? Lov-rrr? I don’t know how you say it.” He flaps his hands dismissively. “There are--unions and such. It wouldn’t be appropriate.”

jon makes a fake account on a dating app to investigate a statement. tim sets martin up with fake account on a dating app to boost his self-confidence. it goes exactly how you might expect.

G | Words: 36,771 | Chapters: 11/11

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i wanna find a home (i wanna share it with you) by heartshapedguy

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“Have you got anywhere to stay?” Jon asks him, briskly. “Friends, acquaintances, maybe, who you could stay with…?”

Martin flushes, deeply. “I, I mean— n-no, not really,” he stammers, and then goes even redder. “Or, just, y’know not that I’d want to, to. Put in the middle of this. Put in danger of, of worms.”

“Ah,” Jon says, “No, of course, that makes sense.” Why drag anyone else into this mess? Seven people died during Prentiss’s initial hospitalization; the collateral damage of roping someone from outside the Institute into her orbit doesn’t bare thinking about. “In that case…” Jon feels like there’s some alternative solution, one he’s just not thinking of at the moment, but it evades him, and Martin needs somewhere safe to stay. “My couch is quite comfortable. You’re welcome to come and stay with me until you figure something else out.”

Martin is held hostage by Jane Prentiss for two weeks, and can't go back to his flat. Jon offers him a place to stay until Prentiss and her worms can be dealt with, and they can be sure he's safe.

T | Words: 65,951 | Chapters: 19/19

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true kinda love by Did

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

So. Martin isn't expecting anything to happen. But then, one day, something...does happen. It happens when Martin is passing Jon in the hall, and stops to ask how he’s doing, because Jon always looks a little bit like hell these days, and it makes Martin feel like he has to do something, and useless small talk is pretty much all he can do, so that’s what he does. And instead of grunting or shrugging or mumbling something dismissive, Jon replies, with perfect, involuntary clarity, "Every part of me aches, and I would just about kill to have someone rub my shoulders right now."

There's a positively deafening silence as they both come to grips with this unprecedented turn of events. Then they both start talking at once.

"Ah," says Jon.

"Wow," says Martin, at the same time.

G | Words: 5,053 | Chapters: 1/1

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hey stranger by ennuijpg

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker

It’s a late night Tesco run, how eventful could it be? It’s not like Martin is going to run into his boss who’s wearing something absurdly different from usual and get the most acute form of whiplash possible from seeing him, right?

(Based on this post about alt jon on tumblr because it's all I've been thinking about of late.)

T | Words: 2,701 | Chapters: 1/1

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Sun-kissed by Rauchendes_GNU

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Alice "Daisy" Tonner

Martin doesn’t have any freckles. Jon has watched him and the others for a while now, and he knows that everyone has freckles. Tim is absolutely covered in them, and he seems to get more and more every day as Sasha seems very determined to kiss every part of Tim that is not yet covered in tiny dark spots.

Everyone has been loved by someone at some point. Everyone has been kissed, no matter if a platonic peck on the cheek or a heated kiss on the mouth. Everyone but Martin, it seems.

Or: Jon realises Martin has never been kissed. He rectifies that right away.

T | Words: 3,407 | Chapters: 1/1

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skin deep by isthepartyover

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims

“Hello, Martin Blackwood speaking.”

“Oh thank god-” a woman’s voice answered, rushed and panicked, and Martin immediately closes the folder he was leafing through absent-mindedly and snaps his head towards the door. “Sorry, oh god, I’m Georgie, I’m Jon’s friend, I don’t know what to do-”

(au where georgie calls martin post burn)

M | Words: 3,125 | Chapters: 1/1

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Take Care of You (And I'll Take Care of Me) by Mad_Maudlin

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

When Martin Blackwood met the new research assistant, his heart skipped a beat. Too bad Jonathan Sims seems to hate him.

(A soulmates AU)

M | Words: 20,386 | Chapters: 6/6

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Somebody That I Used to Know by CirrusGrey

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James/Tim Stoker, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner (background), Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker

(Minor) SPOILERS FOR MAG 161!!!

Jon gets replaced by the Not!Them. Life goes on.

T | Words: 6,358 | Chapters: 1/1

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a six-step process by bluejayblueskies

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Martin stands next to him on the train. His hand rests just beneath Jon’s where it grips one of the metal poles, and Martin takes care not to brush against him despite how crowded the car is. Jon considered telling Martin, when they first got on the tube, that it was okay—that his touch would be… well, it wouldn’t be bad. Not like Nikola's. But he’d stayed silent, allowing Martin to cultivate a careful space between them. They’ve been silent for the past twenty minutes as they’ve passed by station after station on their way to Martin’s flat in Brixton.

Jon adds 24 hours onto his mental countdown of the time he has left until he’s allowed to break down and tells himself that he can manage. It’s… important to have goals, he thinks. He splits this one into steps.

Step one: get to Martin’s flat without crying.

Part 2 of touch prompts

T | Words: 2,138 | Chapters: 1/1

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who's there? by bubonickitten

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Jon has a panic attack after Elias shows him exactly what happened behind the door after Mr. Spider took its victim.

Martin helps him calm down, and Jon tells him the story of his first Leitner.

Part 2 of thresholds

T | Words: 6,139 | Chapters: 1/1

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Clothes Have No Gender by kristsune

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Jon wears a skirt to the Institute for the first time, and gets reactions he hadn't expected.

NR | Words: 1,846 | Chapters: 1/1

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northwest 6 to gale 8. rain. poor, occasionally good. by chewsdaychillin

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

A voicemail made up of a female robot and Jon’s professional work tone tells him to leave a message, but Martin hangs up before the beep. He’s not even sure he can speak, let alone put this into words.

‘Hi Jon, sorry to call at four fifty-two AM. My mum just died and I don’t know what to do or how to feel. Call me back when you can! Love you, bye!’

AUish where Jon is alive when Martin's mum passes away, helps him grieve and heal (and they maybe admit to being in love)

Part 1 of northwest 6 to gale 8

M | Words: 35,828 | Chapters: 9/9

Scottish Safehouse Period

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Resigned, Though Not to Fate by inkfingers_mcgee

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“You’re really suggesting this,” Martin says, voice pulled thin.

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“You would- actually do it?”

“I would.”

“With me.”

“Yes, Martin.”

“Why?” Because love is blind, says something cliché and cruel in the pit of his gut. Christ, he never was much of a poet, was he?

Or,

When Jon asks Martin to Quit the Archives with him, Martin says yes. Things don't go as planned. In the Scottish Highlands, they hurt, and they heal.

(Re-written as of 22-12-27; see chapter 9 for more info.)

T | Words: 145,748 | Chapters: 9/9

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nor any more youth or age than there is now by Ravenesta

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

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.

T | Words: 6,512 | Chapters: 1/1

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There's a 15th Fear, and it's Teenagers by captloverboy

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Georgie Barker & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Melanie King & Jonathan Sims, Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Basira Hussain, Basira Hussain & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Helen | The Distortion & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Helen | The Distortion & Basira Hussain, Helen | The Distortion & Martin Blackwood

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?

T | Words: 26,140 | Chapters: 14/14

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the Teacher from the Magnus Archives by Athina_Blaine

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“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?

T | Words: 5,993 | Chapters: 1/1

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Please Don't Tease Me Like You Did Before by bazemayonnaise

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin is grinning at his phone when Jon comes home. This is not an unusual occurrence, but Jon can sense that the particularly smug smile being levelled at him means that whatever is entertaining the man has something to do with Jon.

“Yes?” he asks once he has dumped the day at the door. “What have I done now?”

Part 1 of Jon and Martin teach at a Scottish Catholic School

G | Words: 5,380 | Chapters: 1/1

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beloved of jon by gruhukens

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

“Oh,” says Jon, numbly. “You don’t. Remember? Um. It’s complicated. What… what do you remember?”

Martin seems to shrink in on himself a little. It hurts to watch, especially after how Jon’s seen him so painstakingly grow back into his openness over the past few weeks.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t – I don’t.”

“But you remember me?” says Jon, and he tries to keep as much feeling out of that question as he can.

---

For no reason that Jon can tell, Martin forgets.

T | Words: 12,739 | Chapters: 1/1

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every good intention (is interpretation) by gruhukens

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

They’re standing entirely too close to each other in front of the hotel desk when the clerk asks them whether they’d like a double, twin, or two singles, and Martin absolutely bottles it.

‘Uh,’ he says, at exactly the same time as Jon says, ‘Oh.’

———

There’s a conversation that Martin and Jon need to have after the Lonely. Unfortunately, they are - historically - fairly terrible at putting stuff into words.

G | Words: 11,227 | Chapters: 1/1

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These words that make a home in my chest by arthureameslove

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

The moment Martin leaves the Lonely is the moment he realizes that it has taken something from him. He is left with the realization that the Lonely fog had been the only thing keeping him whole, keeping him from feeling the aching hollows of his own sorrow.

Speaking makes it worse, so he doesn't. He almost expects Jon to leave, to grow tired of him, incomplete as he is. But Jon doesn't.

Or, Martin is mute after leaving the Lonely, and he and Jon learn how to be people again, together, in the comfort of the Scottish Highlands.

T | Words: 16,060 | Chapters: 7/7

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hello my old heart by firebirdsuite

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Peter’s wrong, of course. When it’s all over, Martin does still want to tell Jon everything. It’s just—well, there’s a few things they need to work through first before they can get there.

Martin and Jon find each other again in Scotland.

T | Words: 15,864 | Chapters: 1/1

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i’m almost me again, you’re almost you by gruhukens

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

After a second Jon steps in towards him, close enough that Martin flinches, but all Jon does is put two fingers under his chin with his free hand and raise it until Martin can’t duck away. Jon has never touched him so casually before – at least, not until today, and it raises a lot of thoughts and feelings that Martin is trying very hard not to process.

Much like a lot of other things that have happened, he thinks. Not that it’s horrible or terrifying or numbing like everything else has been: it’s just another thing on the list of things he doesn’t have the capacity to deal with.

---

In the wake of the Lonely, there's a lot that Martin doesn't really want to think about.

G | Words: 12,928 | Chapters: 1/1

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Prenons-nous la main by luftballons99

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

They still haven't talked about it, any of it, not even to pass the time on the long train ride to Scotland. Instead, Martin fell asleep in the seat next to him, pressed into his side from shoulder to knee, and Jon thought about love confessions and verb tense and how the two fit together when you think you're dying.

or: Good cows, mediocre poetry, and other crucial topics of discussion.

T | Words: 6,027 | Chapters: 1/1

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Diary by luftballons99

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Not for the first time since they ran away together, a camera reel of all the things they don't know about one another whirs behind Martin's eyes, and he can't help but look at all the sprawling magnetic tape and wonder if they’re going to wind up a romance or a tragedy.

or: Office parties, garage bands, and the joy of being known.

Part 1 of showing your hand

T | Words: 5,178 | Chapters: 1/1

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the umbrella by Wildehack (tyleet)

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

"And to think—all of Jonah Magnus’ carefully laid plans, the centuries of scheming, the murders, the sacrifices, all of that work could have been completely undone if Martin Blackwood had gone back for an umbrella" - holdthosebees

M | Words: 4,662 | Chapters: 1/1

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ready to call this love by yewgrove

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

How is Martin supposed to tell Jon that he panicked, stupidly, when the lovely old lady down the village asked him what they were doing in this part of the world? Got the shopping! Oh, by the way, we're married now! Whole village thinks we're on our honeymoon, hope you don't mind!

Part 1 of it is what you have.

G | Words: 5,650 | Chapters: 1/1

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Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? by pantsoflobster

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

“Jon,” Martin said. “I have made a grave mistake.”

Jon whipped his head up, nearly tossing the elastic from his messy bun. “What? What’s wrong? What--what did you do?”

“I... might have invited guests for dinner.”

Jon stared blankly. “What, here?”

“Seeing as this is where we live at the moment, yes.”

---

In which a week in the safehouse turns into a fake-married sitcom, because they deserve to worry about social ineptitude instead of the apocalypse for a minute

Part 1 of this is not the house that pain built

T | Words: 5,391 | Chapters: 1/1

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Bergamot, Buckskin, and Lace by Qpenguin98

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Jon's never been a touchy person.

T | Words: 3,061 | Chapters: 1/1

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be kind, i beg you by gauras

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

“Fine,” Jon says, and he tries to ignore the sulky tone of his voice, “fine. What do you suggest?”

Martin pauses, like he’d not expected Jon to give in so easily. Jon’s never been particularly agreeable, but he still feels vaguely offended by the blatant surprise. “W-we,” Martin stammers, clears his throat, continues on much more confidently, “we go in together.”

Or: it takes close quarters and a full 24 hours to finally get them on the same page.

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T | Words: 14,946 | Chapters: 1/1

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tides turning by gauras

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

There's more than one way to say I love you.

T | Words: 20,858 | Chapters: 1/1

Other Scottish Safehouse Period fics: see unassigned supplementals by bibliocratic in Other

Gen or Background Pairings

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a deeply annoying child by ajkal2

No Archive Warnings Apply, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, blink-and-you-miss-it Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, BUT NO SLASH WHILE ANYONE IS A CHILD

Jon is hiding under the desk.

----

There's a child in the Archives, who shouldn't be there.

G | Words: 9,631 | Chapters: 1/1

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Head in the Lion's Mouth by renwhit

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Danny Stoker & Tim Stoker, Danny Stoker & Jonathan Sims, Basira Hussain & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Danny Stoker, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Past Tim Stoker/Sasha James, Danny Stoker & Helen Richardson, Danny Stoker & Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Danny Stoker & Melanie King, Basira Hussain & Tim Stoker, Basira Hussain & Danny Stoker

He fell into a deep bow, smiling the whole while. “I’m the ringmaster, of course.”

“Is that skin— Is it yours?” Old wood groaned as the Archivist shifted his weight. “Originally.”

“It is!” the ringmaster said as he swooped back upright. “Nikola decided I wore it well, so she let me keep it. Why do you ask?”

The Archivist gave him another once-over. “You just… you look familiar. Like someone I know.”

On relearning, reconnecting, and redefining.

Part 1 of Come What May

M | Words: 157,202 | Chapters: 17/17

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reach inside (to find your heart is beating) by ivelostmyspectacles

No Archive Warnings Apply, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker

This is Tim, opening the door enough for his tired, careworn face to peer through the crack; Jon sees the genuine horror on his face as he takes in his boss, bloody on his doorstep, and he thinks– maybe– he thinks he might be safe here.

“Christ.”

Chapter two added January 17th!

T | Words: 5,774 | Chapters: 2/2

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Fractals Upon Fractals by cedarbranch

No Archive Warnings Apply, Michael & Helen Richardson

“There was never meant to be two of us,” said Helen.

Or: Michael and Helen play a game of chess, and work out what it means exist in duplicate.

G | Words: 1,652 | Chapters: 1/1

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Other gen fics: see Time is Hard by Serazimei in Time Travel

Time Travel

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Yesterday is Here by CirrusGrey

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, x2!, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

"Who the hell are you?" Jon could feel his hands shaking.

The man laughed, taking a step forward and raising a hand to point at him.

"I'm you, from the future!" he said, then swayed, eyes going unfocused, and collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

--------

Post-season-four Jon and Martin time travel back to the season one Archives.

T | Words: 53,319 | Chapters: 12/12

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Déjà Vu by CirrusGrey

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker

Sasha remembers being unmade.

Tim remembers being Unknown.

Jon and Martin remember being unwound.

All of them think they're the only one.

--------

The S1 crew wakes up in the past with memories up till the moment they died.

T | Words: 37,652 | Chapters: 4/4

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Reflection by LazuliQuetzal

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Sasha James/Emma

Jonathan Sims, researcher at the Magnus Institute, is seeing a ghost. Of himself.

Of course, it’s not really him, no matter what secrets it knows, or how many arguments it brings up. So if it tells him to do something?

Obviously, he’ll be doing the exact opposite.

(AKA: Jon is an idiot, past and future, but somewhere along the way it all cancels out.)

(Expect general spoilers for S4 and specifically, MAG 158.)

T | Words: 51,527 | Chapters: 10/10

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Time is Hard by Serazimei

No Archive Warnings Apply, Michael | The Distortion & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael Shelley & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Michael "Mike" Crew & Michael Shelley

The Eye isn't happy with how the end of the world turned out. Neither are Jonah and Jon. There is no other option but to rewind time and go down a different path. But time is hard for The Spiral and The Web likes to meddle.

This is how Jon finds himself back in his eight year old body with all his memories, some of his powers intact and a strange bracelet around his right wrist. Saving the world, Jon realizes soon enough, is much harder when no one takes you seriously.

Part 1 of Diverging Times

M | Words: 170,443 | Chapters: 60/60

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The Cube Rule of Food Identification by bluejayblueskies

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Martin stands abruptly. His chair spins away from him, wheels squeaking on the cheap lino floor. The tension between him and Jon has reached never-before-seen levels. Tim could probably cut it with a knife. Or a particularly sharp spoon.

Then, Jon lurches forward and half-clambers atop the desk and kisses Martin, and Tim drops his sandwich.

Or, season one Jon and Martin receive memories from the future mid-argument, and Tim and Sasha receive emotional whiplash.

T | Words: 1,630 | Chapters: 1/1

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a map of what matters most by gruhukens

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“Is that a body,” Tim blurts before he can stop himself, rising to his feet. Martin looks, if possible, even more scared.

“He’s alive!” he hisses, almost defensively. “It’s not - it’s not Gertrude again, I didn’t kill him, he just – I don’t know what happened to him, I just found him in the stacks like this.”

“And you dragged him up here?” Tim says, and then registers several things at once – the build, the hair texture; the little round scars peppering a pair of thin hands and an awfully familiar face. “Wait, is that Jon?”

----

Jon stumbles back into an earlier Archive, looking for a way to fix the world. (Or, mom says it's my turn for the obligatory time travel au)

T | Words: 20,604 | Chapters: 6/6

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall) by OllieoftheBeholder

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker

“So...you’re from the future. In the past. Why?”

“You want the short answer or the long one?”

“Short,” Martin says after a moment’s deliberation. “Until I decide if I trust you.”

The other nods, as if he expected that answer—which, well, if he really is Martin from the future, he probably did. “To stop the world from ending.”

They have one last chance to fix this - one last chance to prevent the Eyepocalypse, to save the world - to save their world. It all hinges on which is the greater force: greed...or love.

Part 1 of leaves 'verse

T | Words: 299,536 | Chapters: 60/60

Highly Alternate

Alternate universes will remain in the other categories, but this category is for alterations that are especially notable in their severity. This will also include any fics where Jon has an important alignment with a different fear entity, whether that be instead of the Eye or in tandem

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The Witch's Cat by Champagne

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

“That’s the Witch’s cat,” Tim says, and grins at Martin. “Jonathan Sims, the town’s Witch, said that he’ll marry anyone that manages to get the key from the cat’s collar.”

G | Words: 12,584 | Chapters: 1/1

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What Belongs to the Sea by TwoDrunkenCelestials, WhyNotFly

No Archive Warnings Apply, Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

“My grandmother taught me about selkies,” said the tattooed man. “Said it’s good luck for them to grace your ship. To treat ‘em right, and they’ll guide you safe.”

It had seemed like a reasonable thing to believe.

M | Words: 126,367 | Chapters: 36/36

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school's out for the summer by kiaronna

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Various Background Relationships, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas

The thing is, Jonathan Sims is someone you’d call the police on if you saw him hanging around a school, those frazzled clothes and bags under his eyes, the frantic muttering and thousand-year stare.

Yet there he sits, headteacher of The Magnus Institute for Gifted Young Minds.

The name’s a bit misleading, it is. They’re in a bad part of town. The parents are either terrible or absent, and the kids—

“They’re monsters,” his new and handsome coworker grins, when Martin’s signature on his contract is barely dry. “Absolute monsters. Get too close and you’ll lose some fingers. Or maybe your mind.”

“They’re babies,” is all Martin can feebly manage, in reply, and Tim’s eyes narrow at the fondness in his voice.

“You’ll learn.”

T | Words: 26,088 | Chapters: 2/2

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See the Line where the Sky meets the Sea by The_Floating_World

No Archive Warnings Apply, Jonathan Sims & Simon Fairchild, Jonathan Sims & Michael "Mike" Crew, Jonathan Sims & Gerard Keay, Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims/Oliver Banks

When Jon is a child he looks into the infinite abyss of space. The Vast looks back into him.

T | Words: 59,336 | Chapters: 7/7

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rituals by doomcountry

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Martin is the first person to knock on the Archivist's door since it arrived, fully, into its little waiting temple. The Archivist saw him coming from down the hall, but decides to feign interest when the knob turns, and Martin—still a little bit smaller, a little more translucent than before—stands uncertainly just outside the room.

T | Words: 8,492 | Chapters: 1/1

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ships passing in the night by Zykaben

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Tim meets and befriends the new professor on the staff, Jonathan Sim. Tim has also been casual friends with Martin Blackwood for the past year.

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Tim to realize that the two of them are married to each other.

T | Words: 5,027 | Chapters: 1/1

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all the flowers of all the tomorrows by ivelostmyspectacles

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker & Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims

Martin owns a flower shop.

He starts crushing on the guy from the Magnus Institute, but why does Jon keep needing so many flowers for workplace deaths, anyway??

T | Words: 13,745 | Chapters: 1/1

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The Good Ol' Days by SingingInTheRaiin

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

When Jon moves in with his grandmother he becomes fast (if somewhat reluctant) friends with one of the neighborhood kids, a boy named Martin.

Years later, they find each other again at the Magnus Institute, and whatever mysteries they uncover there, they will solve them together.

T | Words: 107,489 | Chapters: 40/40

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How Particular, My Fondness of You by cedarbranch

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Jon risks a glance over to Georgie, expecting sympathy, or perhaps a grave expression of solidarity. Instead, he’s met with a fond smile. “Oh, Jon,” she says patiently, reaching over to rub his back. “You poor thing. You’re lovesick.”

Jon recoils. “I am not,” he says accusingly.

A college AU in which the whole gang works at the library, Jon is emotionally repressed, and the anonymous Facebook page knows all.

Part 2 of Magnolia Verse

T | Words: 29,263 | Chapters: 1/1

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because light reverses, because the dead return by 1248, Tiili97

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

"Very well then, officer, take me away. And Martin?"

"Yes, Elias?"

Elias opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed it again with a shake of his head.

"Actually, never mind. I will see how it plays out."

Martin let out an annoyed sigh as Elias left. Always so goddamn cryptic.

Hopefully Jon and the others would be back soon to make sense of things.

Here's a hypothetical question: What would happen if no one noticed that Jonathan Sims survived the Unknowing?

What if they looked at his stopped heart and still lungs and decided he was dead?

What happens when you bury an Archivist?

T | Words: 9,491 | Chapters: 5/5

Gerrymichael

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Echo Chamber by orphan_account

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley

“Look, if you’re another, uh, avatar of a horrible eldritch demon god come to assassinate me in a spooky manner, could you get it over with quickly? I haven’t eaten all morning and I’m starving.”

The thing that calls itself Michael stares.

“And this sandwich cost most of my weekly salary,” Gerry adds after a belated moment.

Part 1 of Spirals and Eyes

T | Words: 21,439 | Chapters: 1/1

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Break Me Like A Pattern by TheLibraryBat

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Gerard Keay & Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay & Gertrude Robinson, Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley

The year is 2011. Michael Shelley is living his life in circles, blissfully unaware of the betrayal that awaits him in the summer. Gertrude Robinson has plans to enact and plans to destroy. Emma Harvey is hiding a book in the dark place at the back of a cupboard.

When Gerard Keay walks into the Magnus Institute - two years sooner than he was meant to - everything changes.

This is an (eventual) Archivist Michael AU, exploring how certain events might have played out, had one key player been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Part 1 of Archivist Michael AU

M | Words: 215,290 | Chapters: 40/40

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Choke Chain by dramatispersonae

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/The Distortion

Things Gertrude Robinson possesses: decades of experience killing, containing, and otherwise thwarting supernatural beings, an uncompromising drive to destroy the Rituals and the people who would see them completed, Gerry's loyalty. Things Gertrude Robinson apparently also possesses: a monster on a magic leash.

NR | Words: 14,814 | Chapters: 1/1

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Make Me Feel Like I'm Lost by dramatispersonae

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Gerard Keay/MichaelGerard Keay/The Distortion

Gerry meets a door that is not a door. And a person that is not a person. Remarkably, he does not get eaten. He would probably like to keep it that way. (Or, in the process of trying to avoid death by nightmare hallway, Gerard Keay accidentally charms the nightmare hallway)

Part 1 of As One Door Closes

NR | Words: 11,963 | Chapters: 1/1

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Fill The Gap Between You And I by dramatispersonae

No Archive Warnings Apply, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion

Michael, like a cat, expresses affection with gifts of dead things. Gerry's trying not to be in the business of collecting strays.

Part 2 of As One Door Closes

NR | Words: 7,377 | Chapters: 1/1

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The Life Of Letting Go by dramatispersonae

No Archive Warnings Apply, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion

Gerry suffers a workplace injury. Michael has concerns.

Part 3 of As One Door Closes

NR | Words: 3,235 | Chapters: 1/1

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Fever Dreaming by dramatispersonae

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion

Gerry encounters a plot by a nascent avatar of the Corruption. It should be straightforward enough to deal with, especially considering his apparently ongoing... "alliance" with Michael. But when have things in his life actually been as simple as they appear?

Part 4 of As One Door Closes

NR | Words: 42,284 | Chapters: 5/5

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Please Don’t Eat the Flowers by Sloane

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion, Razor/Wendy, Minor or Background Relationship(s)

Instead of retiring to open a book shop, Gerry ends up working at a flower shop run by American lesbians in London. This leads to a brush with the Distortion, who just wants to buy some lilies, the Magnus Institute finding out he’s still alive, and... well, a normal life was never really in the cards for the likes of Gerard Keay, was it?

Oh, and those lesbians who run the flower shop? There’s more to them than meets the eye—bad Beholding pun intended.

(No knowledge of Maniac Mansion required; I take lots of liberties to slot it into TMA’s universe. UNDER MAJOR REVISIONS. Please see last chapter if you’re a new/returning reader for details..)

M | Words: 77,314 | Chapters: 33/?

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Ode to Joy: or, michael distortion's guide to naming yourself by fromthepinnacletothepit

No Archive Warnings Apply, Gerard Keay/Michael, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley

Michael Shelley is sacrificed to the Spiral before he has the chance to come out, even to himself. Now, as an avatar of the Spiral, his identity is even MORE painful and confusing. Alone and filled with pain he doesn't even know how to name, he searches for acceptance in the one person who ever really knew him-Gerry Keay.

***

“What do you want to be called then,” Gerry says and wraps his arms around Michael’s back.

This conversation hurts. This question hurts. Everything hurts, so long as no one knows about his gender, so long as he has to go on being someone he’s not, someone he just can’t be anymore. He doesn’t know how much longer he can stand it.

“I dunnooooo,” he says, grinning, but inside he knows his name isn’t Michael. It’s just not. He doesn’t have a name. He never has. And it’s absence is like a hole in his chest.

The creature that might as well be called Michael, it supposes, if you have to call it anything, thinks about this conversation while it sits on the ceiling of its hallway and slowly digs grooves into the plaster with its fingers.

Gerry, it thinks desperately. I have to find Gerry.

G | Words: 14,513 | Chapters: 1/1

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Save That Heart for Me by cedarbranch

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael

Gerry has just filled up his mug with coffee when it hits him. It’s a faint but sharp pain, zinging through his left wrist. He exhales a puff of laughter. That’s the third time this week. Whoever his soulmate is, they’re having a rough time.

T | Words: 5,577 | Chapters: 1/1

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call me your harbor by insertcleveracejoke

No Archive Warnings Apply, Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Gerard Keay/Michael

There was the matter of the owner. It could not be said that most people, when asked about their mental picture of what the owner of a bookstore should look like, would answer angry-looking goth covered in burn scars from the neck down.

He also had a terrible dye job.

Or: five times Michael went to Gerry's domain for help, and one time the opposite happened.

Part 1 of the bookstore AU

NR | Words: 4,488 | tChapters: 1/1

Other

Fic types I have not read enough of to lend it its own category. If I read more fics of its type, it'll be moved to a new category

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unassigned supplementals by bibliocratic

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Oneshot #54: home improvement: or: Jon and Martin vs. IKEA

Oneshot #55: united front: or: Martin helps Jon with his statement hunger . (Set 159/160)

Oneshot #56: evolution: or: There is an uneasy alliance at first, between Jon and the Archivist

(Short TMA JonMartin one-shots, individual warnings in chapter notes, now with a fully-functioning contents page)

G | Words: 73,687 | Chapters: 56/56

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onto a vast plain by yewgrove

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

The world ends. They get married.

Part 2 of it is what you have.

T | Words: 10,313 | Chapters: 1/1

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Out There, Somewhere by Artyphex

No Archive Warnings Apply, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

"I'm sorry, you were found alone."

Jon survived the apocalypse and now will go to the end of this new, unfamiliar world to find Martin again.

T | Words: 54,080 | Chapters: 8/8

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enemy of my enemy by beeclaws

Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker

Jon comes back from his time with the Circus a little worse for wear. Tim has some feelings about that.

M | Words: 6,263 | Chapters: 4/4

Updates

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a map of what matters most by gruhukens added to Time Travel - Mar. 8, 2024

leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall) by OllieoftheBeholder added to Time Travel - Mar. 8, 2024

How Particular, My Fondness of You by cedarbranch added to Highly Alternate - Mar. 18, 2024

call me your harbor by insertcleveracejoke added to Gerrymichael - Mar. 18, 2024

tides turning by gauras added to Scottish Safehouse Period - Mar. 18, 2024

a six-step process by bluejayblueskies added to England Jonmartin-centric - Mar. 18, 2024

who's there? by bubonickitten added to England Jonmartin-centic - Mar. 18, 2024

because light reverses, because the dead return by 1248, Tiili97 added to Highly Alternate - Mar. 18, 2024

Clothes Have No Gender by kristsune added to England Jonmartin-centric - Mar. 18, 2024

northwest 6 to gale 8. rain. poor, occasionally good. by chewsdaychillin added to England Jonmartin-centric - Mar. 18, 2024

#the magnus archives #tma #magpod #magnuspod #jonmartin #jmart #teaholding #gerrymichael #doorkeay #fanfiction #fic recs #fic rec #fic rec list #fanfic recs #mag pod #magnus pod #i need to read more time travel fics 😭

527 notes · View notes

curseofaphrodite · 5 months ago

Text

Midnight Chase

REGULUS BLACK X READER

one more marauders fic before I move onto Avengers :) Also, I keep writing Reggie as moody and silent so I wanted to explore the headcanon of him being more like his brother. Have some flirty and sarcastic Regulus for a change!

"Let's try to see this in a positive light," James said, in the middle of the pitch-dark forest which was possibly infested with dementors or worse. "We could think of this as camping!"

Your groan was in sync with Lily's.

"Right, Sirius? Didn't we always want to go camping—?"

"Oh I don't know, I'm not sure I find the death-eaters-made-us-dissapparate-to-an-unknown-forest-while-a-literal-war-is-going-on part all too pleasant!" Sirius replied, which was the closest to a disagreement he had with James. The latter feigned hurt.

"We're all tired," you sighed. "Let's just find a place to rest and we can go back to the headquarters in the morning."

"What if it's too late then?" Sirius said, almost nervous. His mood being depressive was very unlike his usual self, but you weren't too surprised either. The Order was the closest thing to a family Sirius had, and it seemed as if everyone's lives were hanging on by a thread.

"We'll be fine," James, ever the mother of the group, tried his cheerfulness again. "I'll pull up Hogly's tent charm and—"

"No!" Lily said quickly. "Are you stupid? Don't answer that. If we use magic, there's a good chance they'll trace us to where we are."

"But we're of age," Sirius said, outraged. "The Ministry wouldn't trace us — unless, yeah they're infiltrated. That makes sense."

"No magic?" James's mouth fell open. "At least we could use lumos?"

"No," you shook your head. "It's better not to take any chances."

"But then how would we see?"

Even in the darkness, you could feel Lily's gaze on the back of your head. Being two muggle-born witches of the group, you realized there was a lot you needed to do to survive the night.

"Bring me a couple of sticks. And dried leaves. Lots of them."

---------------------------------------------------------

THREE HOURS LATER

---------------------------------------------------------

Light snores came around you, but you were far from asleep. If your guess was right, it was over two in the morning, so the sun would be coming up soon anyway. It took everything in you to focus on the stars and not on the events that led you to apparate here.

Y/N! Get out of the way! Moody had yelled as the death eaters appeared. It was your first time seeing them in cloaks and lifeless masks. You felt exposed, but with the headquarters three feet away, you couldn't run in and let the death eaters follow you.

Moody's sound from the inside had already tipped them off, but they couldn't find the location of the safehouse as long as the charms held up.

Feet rooted to the spot, you felt ashamed to feel your hands shaking.

Can't even hold my wand right, you thought to yourself. And as if on point, your friends had gotten out of the house and placed themselves by your side. If you couldn't get in, they weren't going to let you get outnumbered on your own.

Sirius, Lily, and James were three of the bravest people you knew, but you couldn't let them get hurt on your behalf.

So you did what you should have done at the start. You held on to Lily's hand who grabbed James by instinct. Sirius was to your left, so you placed your other hand on his shoulder, and with every inch of your determination left, you disapparated on the spot.

Now with the same guilt washing over you, was it even a surprise that you couldn't sleep? You won't rest your eyes for five seconds before you let your friends get in the headquarters safely without any nasty surprises.

A soft rustle interrupted your dark thoughts. Being hyper-alert as you were, you snapped your neck towards the source. Another rustle rang out — this one sharper than the last. You stood up, cautiously walking to the root of the sound.

Bunny. Please let it be a soft, cute bunny.

You held your wand high, and someone — a human — let out a startled sound. More rustles followed, and before you could figure out what was happening, a person dashed off right in front of you.

"Hey, STOP!" Was it stupid to follow a stranger in the middle of nowhere simply because they appeared scared? Yes. Did you do it anyway? Also yes.

Both of you sprinted through the forest, the trees being a bare blur. They refused to slow down, so you kept up the chase. The adrenaline helped through most of it though the unknown silhouette was almost non-human in its speed. You pushed harder with your muscles burning, and finally, with a hopeless leap, you collided with the stranger.

They hit the ground hard, rolling over the damp earth. The impact knocked the wind from your lungs. Your fingers dug into the rough fabric and the stranger's hood fell back.

You gasped.

"Regulus?!"

He looked shocked to the core, either from your strength or from the fact you knew his name.

"How do you even know me?" he asked, his voice a whisper from all the gasping for air.

You pointed your wand at his throat.

"Well, you're a little unrecognizable without your mask."

His face drained what's remaining of the blood.

"I just wanted to — can you stop poking that thing inside my nose?"

"I'll poke it wherever I want, you traitorous little scrumbag!"

"I thought you were above that sort of thing."

"Why would you think I'm above name calling?"

"No, the poke it wherever you want part."

Your face reddened. "Shut up while I decide what to do with you."

He laughed. "I'm sorry, it's like you're not hearing yourself!"

Why the fuck is the usual depressed emo Regulus Black as happy as can be? Then again, it was the midnight in a deadly forest so he might have felt right at home.

"That's it, I'm charming your mouth shut." You pointed the wand even further, and he let out an ouch!

"I'm telling you again, get that thing out of my face before I sneeze all over it."

"Ewww," you stood up on instinct, and he used that moment to get his own wand and point at you.

A moment passed.

"You're so... crude," you said in distaste. "I thought you weren't supposed to be like your brother?"

"Something to do with genetics, I assume." He smiled warmly. "Now, I'm only going to say this once."

"Expelliarmus!" you shrieked.

Nothing happened.

He sighed. "I'm skilled in occulumency. I used a shielf charm the moment you said expel. Spells always have too many syllables, don't they?"

You lowered your wand in exasperation. He did the same.

"What do you want?"

"Didn't realize this land belonged to you."

"You could have disapparated the second you saw me. Why didn't you? Why are you here in the first place?"

"The Dark Lord sent me."

You tilted your head and thought for a second. "I highly doubt he'd send only one of his death eaters if he knew where we were, let alone the youngest and most inexperienced."

He gasped, just as dramatic as Sirius. "Are you saying I came here just to be pinned down by you?"

Yup, exactly like Sirius.

"Barty has pull in the Ministry," he went on under your shrewd glance. "I tracked down my brother."

"But we never did any magic here..."

"I've been tracking him since he left home."

You blinked in surprise. "You what?"

"Just to make sure he's alright. . . though I doubt you'd believe it."

A man in moonlight trying to explain his sins. You'd be a fool to believe his words. And even more stupid to ignore them altogether.

"What do you want?" you asked again.

"I was just checking in on my brother, as usual. And I saw someone stargazing. I recognized it was you."

"And?"

His gaze softened, then he immediately cleared his throat. "And I was wondering if you'd speak aloud like some damsels in distress do. I thought I could reply from the trees and surprise you like the skies have replied. But you didn't move, nor did you speak."

"Do you usually go to Elizabethan english when you lie, or is that a quirk?"

He laughed, though it appeared forced. "Trust me, I was just caught leaving."

"Why didn't you disapparate then?"

"Do you honestly think they'd only track the Order? I wasn't going to take any chances."

Regulus Black was... nice?

"Well, I'm not sure how much I trust your words," you said, face high. "Come back with me to see Sirius, and let him make something out of all of this."

"No." It's the first time he sounded serious through the entire conversation. "My brother hates me. He does. I don't want to talk to him."

"But—"

"Y/N." His voice was stern. "I have to go. Take care of my brother — just until I'm back, okay?"

"You'll be back?"

"I've to take care of something," he said, his hands unconsciously touching his locket. "But after that, I'd be back. The freest man in the continent, you'd say."

"I don't trust you."

"So you've said." He walked towards you, giving you a quick hug. It felt awkwardly sweet, as if he's giving a hug for the very first time. You froze, but before you could do anything, he already let go.

"Time's running short," he grinned. "Now, the real chase begins. Do start running."

"Wait, wha—"

But he had already gone, disappeared in the blink of an eye. How can he disapparate if he said he wasn't going to take any chances?

Oh shit.

You remembered how you broke the protection first when you tried to disarm him. How the expeliarmus might have made death eaters alert. Regulus Black had cleverly evaded the scene and you probably had seconds to warn others.

You disapparated on the spot to your makeshift tent, but not before looking at the spot Regulus Black had previously stood.

I'd be back.

You found yourself hoping that was a promise and not a possibility.

THE END

_________

commissions | kofi

#regulus black x reader #regulus black x you #regulus black x y/n #astoria writes #fluff #regulus black fluff #marauders fanfiction #timothee chalamet #reader insert

202 notes · View notes

sky-scribbles · 26 days ago

Text

I wrote a Rook!Blackwall fic, because I couldn't stop thinking about him having a bi awakening in his fifties. ~2000 words. Discussed Emmrook, background Dorian/Bull.

Small cw for discussions of societal and internalised queerphobia, and toxic masculinity.

—

‘I was wondering,’ says Thom Rainier, looking everywhere except at Dorian’s face, ‘if I could ask you for advice. About… something personal.’

Well, now, this is interesting. In all their time serving together in the Inquisition, Dorian can’t recall Rainier ever asking for his opinion on anything. Which is a pity. He could, for instance, have attempted, oh, Dorian, please advise me on how to stop smelling like the saddest stable in the South! Or, Dorian, you are so boundlessly charming – however can I become like you? And Dorian would say, alas, no one in Thedas could ever be me but me. And it would be a delightful little moment of friendship.

These touching scenes did not occur, however. And now, a decade later, Thom Rainier is in a Shadow Dragon safehouse, glowering at the ground, and belatedly realising how valuable Dorian’s opinions truly are.

So Dorian smiles and leans forward across the table. ‘Oh, do tell.’

Rainier doesn’t lift his head, but his eyes flick across to the door where his Qunari friend has disappeared to talk with Mae and Tarquin, as if checking it’s still closed. Then they snap over to where Ashur’s flicking through reports on Venatori movements. ‘It’s private,’ he says gruffly.

Ashur must hear this, because he gathers his papers and melts out of the room without comment. There's a pause as his footfalls vanish from earshot. Then Rainier glances up at Dorian across the table and says, ‘You know how your lot have been helping Taash figure out their… everything?’

‘Yes,’ Dorian says slowly. Does he disapprove? No – he’s not the type. Rainier’s worst crime is being a sloven, not a bigot. (Well, his worst crime was probably the murder, but, still.) No; far more likely that Rainier wants to know how to offer support. ‘If you’ve questions, ask away! Though it’s not my personal field of experience – you’d do better talking to Maevaris and Tarquin.’

(Actually, better not encourage him to talk to Tarquin. Two bearded ex-soldiers with crass tongues and a fondness for mocking the aristocracy might be a bit much.)

‘No. It needs to be you. I was wondering…’ Rainier swallows, and when he speaks again, it’s as if every word is being dragged up with a great, humiliated effort. ‘If you could talk about… something like that. With me.’

Dorian stares at him. He wants to… to talk about these matters. In regards to himself.

No. He can’t be. Thom Rainier?

‘How do you know if you –’ Rainier stops, flushed as red as a youngster taking their first peek at the Randy Dowager Quarterly. For a short period, he seems to struggle with concepts larger than his brain is used to containing, then manages, ‘If you like… men. How do you know?’

Oh. Oh, this is absolutely happening. Dorian leans against the table, a grin forming on his face. ‘Oh, my.’

Rainier holds up a hand. ‘Don’t start.’

Unfortunately for him, this is a glorious moment that Dorian will savour for the remainder of his living days on Thedas. He cannot wait to tell Bull. ‘Warden Rainier, I would never have guessed. Having naughty thoughts about some strapping lad, are we?’

‘Please,’ Rainier says, and there’s a note in his voice that makes Dorian stop short. Something pained and confused. His eyes finally meet Dorian's, and with a jolt Dorian is thirteen years old and at one of the Pavus family parties, watching an older boy laugh, eyes hungrily taking in the set of his shoulders, every last twitch of the muscles around his mouth – and thinking oh, yes and oh, no.

And Dorian looks back at the hairy, irritating man who spent a year in the Inquisition trading barbs with him. This is the man who strode unflinching to the gallows and declared that he had never been Blackwall. Looking at Dorian, so clearly scared.

Dorian’s grin fades.

‘Forgive me,’ he says. ‘That was... unhelpful.’ If the man is going through he kind of crisis that it looks increasingly apparent that he is, he needs aid, not belittlement or goading. He pulls up a chair and sits down, and Rainier, after a minute of continued awkward staring, does likewise.

Where to start? How does one know that they like men, Rainier asked, and – well, how is Dorian to answer that? Looking at men with admiration and, later, with lust, had been so obvious, so easy, sopowerful.

‘Well,’ Dorian says at last. ‘Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? What set your mind on this particular line of thought?’

Rainier picks at a flaw in the tabletop, his head still bowed. ‘There’s someone I met recently. And he’s…’

A long pause. That seems to be all that’s forthcoming. Kaffas, this is going to be like trying to get wine stains out of silk. ‘And he’s caught your eye, has he?’

‘He’s… he’s a gentleman. Graceful. Clever. Treats everyone around him with respect, and sees the good in them. Even when they don’t deserve it.’

Ah, the good old Rainier self-loathing. It’s almost nostalgic. ‘And you think you might be taken with him, hmm? And you’re trying to figure out if it’s just a respectful admiration, or something rather more disrespectful.’

Rainier’s head comes up sharply. ‘Do you have to make it sound like that?’

‘My apologies.’ Dorian makes a placating gesture. ‘Quite seriously, though: what is it you want from him?’

It’s the question he asked himself a dozen times, sweat-soaked and breathing hard, tangled in Bull’s limbs and sheets. Every time the kisses became that little bit softer. Every time Bull ran his hands down Dorian’s chest without any hunger, just with quiet tenderness. The question howling in the back of Dorian’s head: what do you want from him?

‘I want –’ Rainier begins, with another difficult forcing-up of words. ‘I want to… to treat him like he deserves to be treated. He doesn’t say it, but sometimes, the way he talks… he’s lonely. I see it. He’s spent too long in the dark, with his bones and his books, and he’s got all this – this feeling and no one to give it to. A man like that should be courted. Given flowers and a shield to stand behind and someone to make him feel like he’s…’

‘Cherished? Worshipped? Like he has a faithful knight ready to lay the world at his feet?’

‘Yes. All of that.’

‘And you like the idea that you might be the one to do that?’

A nod.

‘Then… forgive me, but what on earth would make you believe that you don’t have an interest in men? Have you never looked at a man that way before?’

Rainier blinks. His lips start to shape a no, then stop. Dorian watches something complicated happen on his face.

‘I won’t say I’ve never looked at a man to admire him,’ he says slowly. ‘Or had one I wanted to please, or pay me attention. But – don’t all men sometimes see each other that way? Everyone has to a little bit, unless they’re not interested in anyone like that –’

Dorian laughs; he can’t help it. And then he seems the bewildered look on Rainier’s face, and laughs harder.

‘Oh, big man, no,’ he says, when he’s finally got a hold of himself. ‘And I rather think men who are interested in women exclusively don’t tend to fantasize about being the courtly knight who gives the lonely gentleman the romance of his dreams.’

The longest silence yet. Then Rainier says, ‘Oh.’

‘Oh indeed.

Rainier sighs. The tension that’s been brimming in his entire frame starts to trickle away, and he looks… tired, now, more than anything else. He sits for a minute in silence, and Dorian, sensing that he needs the quiet, waits.

‘I’m getting toward sixty,’ Rainier says at last. ‘Shouldn’t I have figured this kind of thing out by now?’

‘Not necessarily. You’re from Markham, yes? I’ve heard that this kind of thing can be just as much of a scandal in the South as it is here, if not done discreetly. Not to mention…’ Dorian flicks his eyes over the man, taking in the hands calloused from years holding a sword and shield, the weather-beaten face, the old scars. ‘You were a soldier, weren’t you? Surrounded by all that manliness. I know the type – people for whom having a way with ladies is what makes them a man. Around such pitifully small minds, acknowledging interest in another direction tends to be unwelcome.’

Dorian has no experience of the culture of soldiers, of course. But Tarquin’s spoken a little of his time in the army: the judgement, the snide remarks, the disgust flung at anyone who dared to live beyond the narrow roles Tevinter prescribes for its people. Tarquin, even then, had the confidence to make an obscene gesture at his fellow soldiers and tell them to go and have sex with themselves. But Rainier… no, Dorian can’t see him as having that certainty. He’s always distrusted himself too much.

Rainier stares at the tabletop, perhaps recalling a time ten years ago where he mocked frilly Orlesian cakes and pink bloodstone weapons. At last he says, ‘You ever been around people who’ll jump on you if you like anything too…’

‘Soft? Oh, have I.’ Maker, is Dorian really having a moment of understanding the man? Are they relating? ‘And when all those good, masculine fellows don’t talk about what they feel… well, how were you to reach any conclusion about your own interests? You never saw anyone like yourself who would confess to such feelings. That was for dazzling fops like myself.’

Rainier laughs, but there are all kinds of realisations happening behind his eyes. Sympathy surges through Dorian, so powerful it’s startling.

‘You’ve never seen or heard anything that might suggest a man like you could have an interest in men,’ he says gently. ‘No suggestion at all that you could simply be allowed.’

And Rainier presses a hand to his forehead, covering his eyes. He says, quietly and with deep feeling, ‘Maker’s balls.’

‘Oh, don’t fret about it. If it’s any reassurance: I know for a fact that in some circles, large hairy men are considered very, very attractive indeed.’

To his delight, this is enough to make Rainier look both flustered and a little flattered. Dorian grins at him, and gets to his feet. ‘Do you know, I think it’s high time we both had some wine.’

He pats the big block of a man on the shoulder, feeling inexplicably fond of him, and heads to the storeroom. By the time he returns, bearing the essential comfort of a nice Vol Dorma vintage and two glasses, Rainier has propped his elbows on the table and is resting his chin in his folded hands. He looks... calmer. Close to smiling. Dorian pours him a sizeable glass and pushes it over to him.

Rainier takes it, considers it for a moment, and takes a sip. ‘Now what?’

‘Now? Well, first of all, why don’t you have a word with this gentleman of yours - what's his name?’

‘Emmrich,’ Rainier says, like it's a phrase from the Chant of Light.

‘Ah, Nevarran.’ A broader-minded people than either of their own. ‘Do you happen to know where his interests lie?’

‘He’s been with men,’ Rainier says slowly. ‘Women too. But I don’t… I don’t know if he…’

‘Might have an interest in you? Well, you have two options.’ Dorian sets his glass down and taps one finger. ‘One: you can take the route I always did, which is to get drunk well past the point of good sense, make sure you get him equally so, then wake up in his bed the next morning and go again. Then you proceed to not talk about it at all, and you wait until a few days later when you suddenly find yourself peeling off his clothes. Repeat, because you’re scared to say that you want him, not just his body, and you’re terrified it’ll end if you dare voice that aloud, and so sex is the closest you can get to the closeness you want with him.’ He gives Rainier a broad smile. ‘And then several months down the line, you haven’t slept in your own bed in weeks and he’s started to call you pet names, and you still haven’t told him you adore him, and now it’s awkward.’

There’s a pause.

‘Which all worked out splendidly for me, I might add,’ Dorian says, fingering the chain around his neck that bears a dragon-tooth pendant, hidden beneath his robes. ‘Though perhaps it wasn’t the most graceful way of falling into a relationship.’

Another pause, while Rainier stares, blinks, and finally says, ‘And option two would be?’

Dorian taps a second finger. ‘You roundly humiliate me by doing what I never could. Namely, you walk up to that man, tell him you’re rather taken with him and want something closer, and have the courage to face him saying no. Or, still more terrifying, saying yes.’

Rainier seems to consider this. Then he sweeps up his glass and tips the whole thing back in a way that’s both tasteless and – Dorian has to admit it, happily committed though he is – just a tiny bit hot.

With a decided motion, Rainier sets the empty glass down on the table. ‘Option two it is, then.’

#dragon age #datv #rookwall au #emmrook #blackwall #dorian pavus #dragon age the veilguard #dorian is just. so fun to write #sky's writing

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