#my man Martin knife Blackwood

[lo-andbehold]

Jon, distressed: If I kill a killer, the number of killers in the world stays the same-

Martin, pretending he doesn’t find it kinda hot: Kill two

[that-agender-from-pluto]

Jon: The next few minutes are going to be very uncomfortable for one of us, and by one of us, I mean you who is about to be held at knife point

[sydneighsays]

I don't remember what episode but that time in TMA season 5 where they're in the buried section and somebody's muffled fucking screams just come out of the dirt and Martin is just like "felt."

I think about it a lot, Martin is so fucking relatable.

[lostonehero]

Hidden in plain sight

A short drabble on assassin Martin :)

"The clover has fallen." The dirty blonde hair woman crosses her arms seemingly readying herself for a monster.

A redheaded man in a stripped sweater with soft features stops and turns to face her. His face was soft splattered with freckles. His thick, framed glasses were pushed back on his face. His blue gray eyes narrowed as he frowned, raising a brow. "Lena sent you." He sighs, and the softness seems to drain out of his features. "I don't enjoy being interrupted on a job."

The woman tilts her head. "You're Blackwood?"

"I am." The man hums softly. "Have my orders changed?"

The dirty blonde haired woman hands over a letter. "I was told to deliver this to you in person."

Blackwood takes the letter and reads it slowly and shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath. "Things have changed." He pauses. "Did she ever explain why?"

The woman shakes her head. "She said I would be your handler."

"I am able to read." Blackwood smiles sharp and sinister. "I shall inform you when I have to show my true colors to my now marks under my protection." He folds the letter back to, and he softens, becoming a stranger. "I already know who you are, Gwendolyn."

Gwen watches the large man disappear in a crowd stunned.

.....

Tim sighs, leaning against the doorframe. "Are you sure you're ok here? I've got a nice couch back at my apartment."

Martin smiles as he sits on the cot. "Im fine, Tim. Besides, what if I lead these worms to your place? That would be horrid, and you don't deserve that."

"Tim, don't even try. He already refused mine and Jon's offers. I even think Rosie offered, too." Sasha shakes her head. "I'm still going to get you a better blanket."

Martin smiles softly. "You're too kind."

"Goodnight, Martin." Tim frowns. "Seriously though, if you change your mind, my door is always open."

Sasha dragged Tim with her. "Stay safe Martin the weekend isn't forever."

Martin smiles until he hears the door shut, and he knows they left. Jon is in his office and won't bother him until he leaves at about 9 pm. Jonah won't watch him down here unless he causes damage. He reaches down and takes out a box, and opens it to reveal needles. He can use these worms as target practice until he hears Jon visit him, and then when Jon leaves, he can really start to train again. The tunnels are excellent to actually hone his skills.

.......

Gwen heard the creak of the yellow door too late because there was a distorted scream behind her and blood with colors that didn't make sense spilled on the table in front of her as Blackwood leaned back in his seat and sipped his tea.

A distorted voice growls, and the long hand with too many sharp angles tried to pull his impaled hand from the table. "What are you?"

Blackwood narrowed his gaze and sipped his tea. "I don't appreciate you going after my assigned to protect. You're a weak avatar of the distortion is still so focused on old wrongs done to you. Your little vendetta against a dead woman will lead to your undoing." He places his mug down. "You would have made a good ally if you weren't so wrapped up in your little plot."

Gwen knew better to look behind her at the monster. "Why protect me?"

"You are my handler, Gwen, and I do prefer you to Lena. I could make you hate me if I so desired, but you're still so new to this world. It would be unwise to ruin this relationship for my own amusement." Blackwood flicks his gaze to Micheal. "Learn to control yourself and not just feed if you truly want to go up against me. Just because I am young doesn't mean much when I know how to kill you."

Micheal seems to glitch as Blackwood removes the knife. "You're not human."

"I'm not an avatar either." Blackwood tilts his head. "Remember, Micheal, you either can join me, or I will be forced to kill you if you lay another hand on the ones I've been assigned to protect."

The yellow door creaks shut without another word.

Gwen crosses her arms. "Why ask me to come here?"

"A few reasons. One you might as well ask me questions, you deserve some answers that Lena won't give you. Two, I must warn you that your brother isn't entirely dead as Jonah uses his body. However, I do not know the full extent of how it works. Third again I rather like you as a handler, so I wish to keep you around." Blackwood picks up his mug. "This is also a lovely cafe. I enjoy the excuse to visit."

"I do have questions." Gwen pauses and sighs. "Will you answer truthfully?"

"I don't have a reason to lie to you." Blackwood takes another sip from his mug. "I understand the hesitation, but I can assure you, I've learned it's not optimal to lie to handlers."

Gwen nods and begins her questions.

[shizucheese]

Hey y'all, new chapter of A Lovely Pair of Eyes is finally out! Sorry it took so long, I ended up being a big of a perfectionist with it and it gave me some troubles. But it's here now so read on! :D You can find the new chapter on AO3 here: Chapter 1

If you're new to the story and want to start from the beginning, you can check it out here: Prolog

Fic description: John and Martin survived the events of Mag 200 and ended up Somewhere Else, but now Martin has become an Avatar of the Eye. Now the two of them must navigate all of the complications of their still-new relationship now that they don't have a fear apocalypse distracting them, AND being in a relationship where both people involved are Eye Avatars, AND Martin's struggles as a baby Eye Avatar.

This story isn't going to have a cohesive plot so much as this is where I'm posting all of my stories set in a post-Mag200 continuity where John and Martin are Eye Avatar boyfriends together. Chapter description: Martin Wakes up. Full chapter can also be found under the cut.

Chapter 1

It took Martin a moment to realize where he was when he came to. But as his senses came back to him, he recognized the antiseptic smell and beeping sounds of a hospital room. He had spent enough time by John’s side when he was in his coma, how could he not?

At the thought of John, his memories flooded back to him. The Panopticon. The plan to kill Elias…Jonah…whatever…and release the Fears into other worlds. And John going ahead and killing him himself and becoming the new Pupil of the Eye, and then the horrifying realization that he couldn’t control it.

The knife.

The promise. The kiss. John. Oh God John.

Fear and worry spiked through him and he was distantly aware of the sound of the heart monitor in the room beeping faster. He tried to sit up, but found that he was too weak to do so, and the most he could manage was a weak moan and a flex of his fingers.

It was then he became aware of the hand that was holding one of his; long, cool, familiar fingers intertwined with his own. He rolled his head to the side and sure enough he saw a familiar head of black hair, streaked with grey. He seemed to be asleep, slumped over the bed with his head pillowed on one arm, but he was here, and he was safe.

“John…?” His voice came out weak and raspy and he coughed from the effort of it. He wiggled his fingers in a weak attempt at grasping at John’s hand.

John jolted awake, and Martin watched as one emotion after another flashed across his face as he blinked rapidly. Confusion, recognition, realization….

“Martin.” He said it as a complete sentence. This was Martin. He was Martin. Martin was here.

“John” Martin answered back.

“Oh God Martin!” John stood up and leaned over, cupping Martin’s face with both hands and examining him, as if searching for something, before stepping away. “I’m uh…I need to go tell the doctor you’re awake…” John backed away, his gaze never leaving Martin’s face, until finally he had no choice but to turn around and leave the room.

-

“Well, Mr. Blackwood, I’m happy to say that, all things considered, you’re in remarkably good shape. We’d like to keep you here for a few more days for observation but if all seems well, I see no reason why we would need to keep you longer than that,” the doctor said as he finished his examination. Somehow John had convinced the man to let him stay in the room during the whole thing and now he stood fretting in the corner.

“Now, I just need to ask you a few questions as part of the evaluation. Tell me, what’s the last thing you remember?”

Well, he most certainly couldn’t tell the truth about that, now, could he? He doubted the doctor would believe him; it was more likely he’d think he was completely crazy and would try to have him committed.

“J-John.” Martin’s voice was still raspy from months of disuse, although the longer he was awake, the stronger he felt. “I was with John. Th-there was an accident….” he trailed off, not sure what else to say. The doctor nodded and wrote something down on his clipboard.

“I don’t expect you to know the exact date, of course, but could you tell me what year it is?”

“2010.” The doctor nodded again and continued to write on his clipboard.

“And could you tell me who the current monarch of England is?” “Queen Elizabeth.” The doctor added a few more notes on his clipboard, and then stood up from where he had been sitting by the side of the bed.

“Well, that should be all for now. When you’re feeling a bit more recovered, we’ll go over your treatment and rehabilitation plan. Let a nurse know if you have any questions or if anything about your condition changes.” And with that, the doctor left the room, giving John a nod of acknowledgement as he passed him.

As soon as the door clicked shut, John was across the room and by the side of the bed.

“How are you feeling?” Martin could practically physically feel John’s eyes roaming over his face again. He took a moment to take John in himself, now that they were alone and had a moment. John was pale even in the best of times, and Martin would have thought, after four months of living in a world not in the middle of a fear apocalypse, that’s how John would look, but instead he was the same haggard kind of pale that Martin had grown used to seeing over the past few years, with the same bruise-like circles under his eyes. Martin wondered how well John had been taking care of himself while he had been in his coma. “Fine? You were there while the doctor was looking me over and asking me all those questions…”

“Yes, but you and I both know there are things that we can talk about between us that we can’t talk about to or around other people.” “Fair enough.” Martin closed his eyes and took a moment before answering. “I’m still a bit thirsty.” At that, John reached over for the cup of ice water a nurse had brought him earlier and held the straw up to Martin’s lips, and he drank from it gratefully. “I’m still tired, too. You would think after four months in a coma I wouldn’t be. Is that normal? And my head hurts…” “You should get some rest then.” “Tell me what happened first.” “We can talk about that later. You need to rest.” “John, I’m not going to be able to rest properly until I know what’s going on. Just…please, tell me.” “Right then…” John closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “When we released the Fears into the other worlds, it seems they took us with them, and we ended up here. The land where the Institute and the Panopticon were is a construction site in this world. That’s where we wound up…” John’s mouth quirked into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I told the paramedics and the police officers that you and I had wanted to take advantage of the construction do some urban exploration in the old Millbank Prison tunnels. There was an accident and we both fell. You wouldn’t wake up….” The smile fell. His voice cracked. “I’m sorry.” “No, it’s not your fault. You were…” John trailed off and stared into the middle distance, his sentence left incomplete.

“So what are we going to do about like…our identities? We’re not from here so…wait, is there, like, another us here? Like the us from this world…? We aren’t using their IDs, are we?” John laughed ruefully at that.

“No, we’re not using their IDs. Let’s just say we weren’t the only ones who made it here.” “Who…?” It took a moment before Martin caught on. “Annabelle.” “Precisely. It seems the Web doesn’t like being indebted, particularly not to agents of one of the other fears. Her helping us is supposed to ‘balance the ledger,’ or so she says.”

“Right…and what are the chances that she’s going to balance it a little too much and we’ll end up being the ones indebted to her?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Getting someone to owe you can be a form of manipulation…” They were both quiet for a moment as they considered the implications of the situation they found themselves in. “What else?” Martin asked, finally breaking the silence. John looked up at him in surprise. “What else is there? What aren’t you telling me?” “I don’t…”

“John, please. I can tell when you’re hiding something from me. Please, just tell me.” The pain that had been pulsing behind his eyes since he woke up grew stronger. John closed his eyes, and his posture, which Martin had only ever seen him lose at the worst of times, slumped.

“You haven’t noticed yet, have you?” “Noticed what?”

“Martin…when the doctor asked you what year it was, you told him 2010. I never told you what year it was in this world.” “What…? Of course you did. You…” “No, Martin, I didn’t.” John’s face was full of…sorrow? Guilt? “Then I…I must have seen it on the—” Martin trailed off as he realized there was no calendar in sight. “Without your glasses? Although it appears you no longer need them...” Martin unconsciously reached a hand up to the side of his face, as if to adjust the glasses that, yes, he realized now, were not there. And yet…

“John, what’s going on?” And there was that pain again, flaring up as he tried to wrap his head around what was happening to him. “When you were in your coma, you didn’t have a heartbeat.”  John paused, and swallowed. “I thought you were dead. I thought I had lost you…” His voice cracked. “The only reason you weren’t pronounced dead is because Annabelle did…something and the doctors realized you still had brain activity. You were like that for four months…”

John looked at him straight in the eye, then, and…yes, there was sorrow and guilt and grief and pity in those eyes. “I’m so sorry, Martin. You’re like me now. You’ve become an Avatar of the Eye.”

[werewolfwriter323]

So I finally have finished my drawings for Martin K(nife) Blackwood. I have been working on these on and off for the past few weeks usually after I get outta work. I decided to start with a fullbody Martin,  cause he's my fave <3. I am planning on drawing fullbody pictures of the S1 Archival Assistants next, and of Jon, because I want references to look at when drawing comics and shit. 

I also have so many AMV/PMVs planned for TMA, I've got a whole ass google doc, lolz. 

I just know that they'll be easier to do once I've got references for most of the characters.  

So yeah! I hope you guys enjoy! 

Feel free to comment. 

*Written notes about design

S1 Martin

-Hair is short & somewhat curly/poofy. Is a dark copper tone

-Has a silver earring on each ear(cartagilage piercings)

-Collared shirt that I actually own

-Big soft arms, soft everything,  big boy man. 

-Skin is medium brown

-My Beloved 

-Don't @ Me

S2 Martin 

-Hair gets longer & poofier

-Adds another piercing

-Jumper + overalls

-Glasses are slightly cracked 

S3 Martin 

-Hair continues to get longer

-Adds nose piercing

-Eyes start to blacken from reading statements?

-Has tea cup & cow lobe earrings

-Has pocket knife

S4

-Body is waterlogged & frostbitten in certain areas

-Hair is pale copper, with white tips

-No piercings 

-Hair is longer, damp, and limpish

-Bangs in eyes to hide face somewhat 

-Blacksuit to be professional 

-Looses a lot of weight 

-Skin is pale, almost white. Ashy?

S5

-Hair has patches of white 

-Hair got it's poof back

-Hair is back to normal copper color

-Wears hair in ponytail 

-Cut bangs shorter

-Is still thinner than S1, but has gained a little weight since the end of S4. 

-Got a lip piercing, put all other piercings back in

-Wears whatever he wants

-Has patches of white and some black on skin

-Skin is mostly back to it's normal brown

-Link to dress: https://rebelrestyle.com/collections/new-arrivals/products/versace-v2-strappy-90s-dress

*When I was looking for an outfit for S5 Martin's outfit I specifically looked for a few retail stores in Edinburgh, and picked out actual clothes from there. Don't get me wrong, I love all the art of them wearing comfy clothes during the apocalypse, but for my Martin I wanted him to rock a dress.

To add to this I like to headcannon that Martin wears jumpers, dresses,skirts, and overalls through out the seasons. I am a firm believer in Martin wearing whatever the fuck he wants.

[hurtmionedanger]

Hey bestie don't be shy

top 5 favorite podcast characters and why

YOU EXPECT ME TO PICK???? PICK BETWEEN MY BELOVED GUYS???????

I am going to try to diversify beyond the magnus archives, mostly because dbd has had me in a death choke recently

With that being said, in no particular order

1. The Obituary writer from Death by Dying

Hes such an icon, normal guy and yet so so so very weird, his best friend is the angel of death, his other best friend is in his freezer and her still beating heart is on his desk, everyone thinks he’s going to kill someone one of these days based on looks alone, he has a questionable taste in fashion, hes bisexual, he has three man eating cats, he solves murders just like as a hobby, he is the most sopping wet pathetic wet cat of a man you could ever hope to meet, he is silly, what more could you possibly want from a man?

2. Jonathan Jarchivist, see prior post about this man he is so ridiculous, mf ACCIDENTALLY STARTED THE APOCALYPSE, He has been kidnapped more then princess peach, he is the eyes special little boy, hes ASEXUAL LIKE ME FRFR, he has a boyfriend who loves him very much, he likes good cows, hot singles in his area want to hunt him for sport, hes the saddest little meow meow there could possibly be.

3. Timothy stoker, managed to convey he was wearing a hawaiian shirt by voice alone, also THIS MAN IS THE ARCHIVES BRAINCELL, THE SLUTTY BISEXUAL IS THE BRAINCELL HERE WHAT DOES THAT SAY ABOUT THE ARCHIVES, BECAUSE SASHA VERY MUCH IS NOT THE BRAINCELL SHE FOLLOWED A DEFINITELY NOT HUMAN GUY TO A RANDOM GRAVEYARD WITH VERY LITTLE FOLLOW UP AS TO WHY SHE NEEDED TO GO, AND JON DOESNT HAVE IT FOR PREVIOUSLY STATED REASONS, AND MARTIN IS MARTIN, MEANING TIM IS THE ONLY BRAINCELL HERE. Also as my boyfriend can attest, i have a thing for angry men in hawaiian shirts, i think theyre hot

4. Not technically a Guy persay, but the beloved michael distortion for having a sick ass voice and an even sicker statement, shows up and just stabs the archivist just because he can, he is literally the embodiment of gaslighting gatekeeping and girlbossing and his design is very cool really regardless of how people draw him but ESPECIALLY WHEN THEY DRAW HIM WITH LIKE SUPER DISTORTED JOINTS AND MULTIPLE FACES AND SHIT LIKE MMMMMMMMM, he gets bonus points for having excellent hair and not being a who but a what

Number five hhhh how do i pick between all of my beloved podcast guys, leaving out martin because i already screamed about Why i love Martin Knife Blackwood Already

5. Georgie Barker I think has to go here, maybe alongside helen and Melanie, i love them all for very different reasons but they are just such girlbosses, georgie just doesn’t feel fear, had an existential crisis so hard her brain stopped processing it, she is the girl ever, also shes jons ex, automatically getting her more points, she had a skin clown break into her apartment and fuck with her lights and the only reason she was upset was because it meant she had to replace all her lightbulbs, Also georgie has a podcast where she talks about ghosts, which is really funny to me, and i would absolutely listen to her podcast

Honorable mentions:

Helen for season 5 shenanigans of showing up whenever JMart were fighting because she wanted the Tea

Gerry Keay for his defining trait mentioned by every single statement giver who saw him being “Really shittily dyed hair” like imagine that being your legacy

[go-to-the-mirror]

Seasons in the Archives thing for @cypresskey

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Ghost Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, They/Them Pronouns for Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, POV Martin Blackwood, Some Humor, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Villain Character Death, Past Character Death, Implied/Referenced Suicide, (lightly implied), No beta we kayak like Tim, this was so fun to write, Happy Valentines Day!!, Well - Freeform, happy 3 days after valentine's day!!, Title from Poetry

Summary:

After his mother moves into a care home, Martin starts looking after Elias Bouchard's semi-abandoned house until he can find a place to live. Unbeknownst to him there is something else that also resides there.

Martin reaches for the ghost’s hand. It’s cold as ice, and clammy. “Martin,” he says. “My name’s Martin.” “Jon.”

Content Warnings & Notes:

Content Warnings: - homelessness - knife violence - murder - implied suicide

oh also fair warning! i'm like a teenager! i don't live in the UK! i don't know what i'm talking about!

༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ༼ つ ╹ ╹ ༽つ

The situation Martin found himself in, outside of Elias Bouchard’s townhouse is easy enough to understand. It’s nearing winter, he’s more terrified of other people than the cold, and he’s T minus 5 days till he’s homeless, with no solution in sight.

The advert had been rotting on a traffic light near his usual bus stop for years, and he’s desperate for a place to live, even if it’s seriously shady and disrepair, it’s a roof over his head, and he can’t afford to keep renting the flat he lived in with his mum now that she’s moving to a care home.

It's a stupid decision, even in the moment he knows that, but if there’s any chance that Elias was still looking for someone to live in and take care of his old family manor on the outskirts of London – coincidentally quite close to where he worked – then Martin was going to grab onto that chance like a starving dog with a bit of meat and never let go.

He calls the number and is answered by a voice with a Manx accent, asking him why he’s calling.

“I’m wondering if Mr. Bouchard still wanted someone to live in his house.” Martin responds, trying to keep his teeth from chattering. The rain is chilling him to his bones, but his voice is steady, his voice is always steady.

“Oh! I’ll call Elias and ask him to come to the phone. Do you mind holding for a moment?”

Martin responds the affirmative, and stands on the side of the road, shivering from the cold, listening to their footsteps fade away.

Please, he thinks – prays. Please, let this be a lifeline.

He’s wearing the best clothes he had washed, including an umbrella this time. He doesn’t want to look like he’s been standing alone outside in the rain. He’s hesitating, he’ll admit it, it’s just… this is his chance, his lifeline, his one shot, and if he blows it he’ll have to find somewhere to live in barely any time.

He rings the doorbell, a bright sound that echoes through the house. It’s dry, but his fingers are wet, and that is what they make all they touch.

“Ah, Martin, was it?” the man Martin now knows as Peter Lukas says.

“Yes,”

“Elias is waiting for you. He’s in his study just down the hall.”

Martin nods. “Thank you, Peter.”

“It’s really my pleasure, Martin. That old house is driving him up the walls. I’d be glad to have it become somebody else’s problem.”

Martin nods and smiles, then heads towards Elias’ office. It’s awkward, but Peter hardly seems better than him in that regard.

He knocks twice against the door, then lets himself in at Elias’ word.

“Martin,” Elias smiles. “Come, take a seat.”

Martin obliges.

“Hello, Mr. Bouchard. Thank you-“ He lets out a puff of air. “-For even considering me for this.”

“Elias is fine, please. Now, shall we begin?”

Martin swallows, his mouth suddenly dry, then nods.

It’s raining again, when Martin gets to the house. The clouds are so thick and dark that Martin can’t tell what the time is, or even if it’s day or night.

He has a few suitcases packed with all the objects that held sentimental value that he deigned to keep. Family pictures, with just the two of them. His first scrapbook, filled with drawings on serviettes, tickets, receipts, photographs, memories. Novelty mugs that he used to love collecting. The only soft toy he’d kept – a ratty old bear that he’d had since he was 3.

Keepsakes. The rest is sold or put in storage. He’ll pay for a mover once he finds somewhere to actually live. Not a temporary thing like this.

See, he doesn’t want to live in the house forever. It’s old, hundreds of years old, and it’s falling apart already. This is just the place he needs to stay for the time being, while he gets his bearings.  If he doesn’t need to spend money on rent, he can afford to put some in savings, and spend the rest on food and the bills for his mum’s care home. And with less time being spent caring for his mum, he can get another job. Hell, he might even be able to take night courses, finish high school, so that lying on his CV becomes a little less of a necessity.

He's not going to stay. And if it is dangerous, if the walls start crumbling around him, then he’ll leave. He’ll find another place to stay, he’ll call Tim and Sasha, or even Melanie and he’ll couch surf until he can find a cheap place to live. Never mind that he hasn’t talked to them in months. Never mind that his finger can’t hover over their contacts without him wanting to throw up.

He grits his teeth and pushes open the door.

It’s dark inside. And empty. There’s some furniture, covered in dusty white sheets, and the moth eaten remains of a carpet. There’s a fireplace filled only with ash, but he’s seen some wood outside, so once it dries out, he’ll be able to use it.

For what seems like the first time in a month, he breathes out.

The house is cold when Martin wakes up, not the icy lashing of harsh rain, but the coldness of a morning. Of fog seeping inside you. Mist that you only realise was there when you come inside and realise you’re soaked.

A coldness that feels more heavy than icy.

Martin takes out his battery powered kettle from his bag, and pours the bottle of water into it. It’s the kind of morning for sugary rooibos tea, and one look at his phone confirms that he has enough time. Martin shrugs on his favourite hoodie – a baggy, even for him, blue-grey one – and starts rifling through his bag for the mugs. He finds the one he bought for his mum first. It has a picture of two bears on the front of it, just like his favourite childhood picture book. Before mum got sick, he’d badger her to read it for him all the time. And then when she started getting bad, and his life became a blur of hospital waiting rooms and the broken glass of picture frames on the wall.

He puts the mug back in the bag and pulls out a different one.

Moving is difficult, when he and his mum moved to London it was especially so, she wasn’t happy at all about the move, and he was so stressed, that even though he felt like he could collapse when his head hit the pillow, he couldn’t go to sleep for all the worrying. So, it isn’t too odd that he’s dwelling on things from years ago. His emotions are frazzled, and he could do with a little more sleep.

The kettle goes off with a click, startling Martin out of his thought spiral. He carefully pours the boiling water into his mug and adds a few teaspoons of sugar. He doesn’t have milk, but Martin doesn’t mind too much. Rooibos isn’t that strong of a tea, and Martin could do with the extra warmth.

The heat of the tea does nothing to heat up Martin’s hands, as he waits a few minutes for it to cool, but he doesn’t pay it much mind, instead distracting himself with the news. It’s going to be a cold winter, and someone is dead.

The news isn’t a good distraction. He takes a sip of his tea to find it cold, not even lukewarm, not icy, just cold, as if he’s left it for too long, and it’s just cooled down on its own, and for all he knows, it might have. He tends to get too distracted by his distractions, and zone out. The tea still tastes good, so he drinks the rest of the mug, and places it in the Tupperware housing the dirty dishes. It’s a Sunday, so he has time to look around the rest of the house, check things out, make sure nothing falls apart on him and he doesn’t get chucked out of the only place he can live for breaking the two-hundred-year-old balustrades or something.

The house is cold. In temperature, but also just in how it feels. Nothing is bright – not that Martin would be expecting brightness from a house over 200 years old. It’s soft, and quiet, and subdued. The furniture is broken, and moth eaten, and no effort seems to have ever been made to clean it up.

Abandoned. Like a shadow of what it once was. Upstairs is more of the same, though there are a few unbroken items lying on the ground that Martin takes special care to avoid. Not for the first time, he wonders why Elias let him move in. He’s not a… historian, or someone who’s actually capable of looking after this ancient building that clearly has items of historical value in it. Though, Elias isn’t paying, so Martin supposes he just went with the first person who wouldn’t be too put off by that.

Someone desperate. Someone desperately alone.

He shivers. There’s a broken window in one of the bedrooms, a bare one, with only a penknife that looks like it’s covered in dried blood on the floor.

Martin pulls his jumper sleeve over his arm, and reaches down to pick it up, but as his fingers brush the handle, he’s struck with a sudden and intense panic. He tries to pull away, but something in him insists that he need to grab it. Something’s there, something just outside the door, and if he doesn’t have the knife, he’s going to go back there – wherever “back there” is.

Martin forces himself to take a deep breath in. There’s no-one there. He would have heard them enter, and walk up the creaky staircase, he would have seen them, for Christ’s sake, the door is open. But that doesn’t stop his mind from screaming at him the opposite. He sits down on the floor, and slowly unclenches his hand from the knife.

As soon as it drops back onto the floor all the fear is gone. The room gets colder, and Martin gets to his feet.

He’s not going to touch anything. That seems the wisest course of action.

He closes the door of the room behind him as he leaves.

Martin decides not to continue exploring the house. If they didn’t want the creepy old stuff upstairs to break, they should have gotten someone who actually knew what they were doing to live there. It’s not his responsibility to actively try to preserve stuff in this creepy mansion. It’s survived for over two hundred years without his help, it can last a couple weeks with him breathing the same bloody air as it.

He needs to leave. As soon as he finds a cheap flat, he’s going to leave.

T minus who fucking knows days until something in this creepy house kills him.

Monday morning comes, and Martin is exhausted. Living in a creepy manor with knives that give him panic attacks, is terrible for one’s sleeping. Especially if they already have sleeping problems, and can’t rely on warm , black tea to keep them awake.

He’s almost surprised at how easily he believes it. That something in this house is causing his tea to grow cold, and that knife to give him a feeling of such utter dread . But he’s heard weirder stuff, back when he and Melanie were still friends, and she’d ramble for hours about the weirdest stuff she’d found on ghost hunts. Turns out, being friends with a ghost hunter is a pretty good way to either start believing in the supernatural or become a sceptic.

He's come up with a plan to last at least a month in this house. He’ll stay downstairs, and only go upstairs or into the basement if it’s an emergency. With enough luck it’ll all be completely normal happenstance, or at the very least not affect him too much.

The second full day of living at the house is normal, or as normal as it can be with that gnawing worry in the back of his mind, about what’s going to happen to him while he’s living in that house. He’s always been anxious at work, pretty much always been anxious in general, so it really isn’t that big of a change.

Still, when he gets home, he collapses into bed immediately, though he doesn’t fall asleep for quite some time.

The third day is worse. His anxiety is back with a vengeance, but in that way where it constantly feels like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. He’s dizzy, and shaky and on his break he goes to the backroom and lies down on the ground, and stares at the ceiling for the whole 20 minutes.

There’s a simple solution, he knows this. He had friends, he could text them, ask them for a place to stay. Then at least his anxiety would be over if his friends’ hated him or not, rather than if he was going to get murdered by a ghost.

But… it’s not actually hurting him. Not having a place to stay would hurt him. His friends’ letting him stay for a while but then kicking him out would hurt him. Being homeless in the winter could kill him.

He hadn’t really thought it was a possibility when he was younger. They were struggling, sure, but they could make ends meet. They’d always be able to make ends meet. But that illusion had shattered a long time ago.

The fourth day is agony. He’s sweaty, his brain is fuzzy, he’s making a conscious effort to keep his eyes open.

He’s been sleeping normally; he doesn’t understand why he feels this bad. Sure, his normal isn’t good, but it sure as hell isn’t this.

When he gets home, mentally adding “book a doctor’s appointment” to the list of things he can do when he has time, there’s someone inside.

Their back is turned to him.

The sensible thing would be to turn and run. The sensible thing would have been to turn and run days ago, when he touched the bloody penknife.

It’s snowing.

It’s so cold outside.

“Hello,” Martin calls. The figure turns around, movement almost blurry, like bad greenscreen. Martin almost takes a step back.

“You.” They’re glaring at him. Martin nods, swallows.

“Me.”

They tilt their head, wincing involuntarily. They have a fresh looking wound on their neck, in contrast to the few faded scars visible on their face.

“Why are you still here?” their voice is low, dangerous. Every instinct in Martin tells him to leave, or at least back away.

“I-“ Martin clenches his fists. “I needed a place to stay.”

“There are plenty of other places to stay.”

“Why are you here?” Martin shoots back, tilting his chin up. “I live here.”

“I died here.”

That makes Martin startle. He takes a step back. They- it- the ghost smiles.

“Now, are you going to leave,” the ghost leans in, drops into a stage whisper. “Or do I have to make you?”

For some ungodly reason, Martin bristles at his words instead of doing the sensible thing of running for the hills. “Why?”

The ghost looks taken aback for a second, opening and closing his mouth, looking for words. “Why? I- Because I could kill you, because I told you to, and if you don’t-“

“Would you, though?”

He’s going to get himself killed. This is how he’s going to die, having an argument with a bloody ghost because he can’t phone his friends and ask for a place to stay.

“Yes!”

“You know what would also kill me,” Martin crosses his arms, somehow putting on an air of confidence he does not feel in the slightest. “The cold. The cold would kill me.”

“Have you been enjoying the last couple days?”

“What?”

“I said, have you been enjoying the last couple of days. Headaches, sweating, dizzy spells, exhaustion. It hasn’t been pleasant, has it?” The ghost smiles. Martin knows that smile. It’s like a shark’s. Like Elias’.

Martin swallows, his throat is dry. “How did you-“

“How do you think?” The ghost steps closer towards him.

His fear isn’t gone, but it’s funnelled towards this ever-growing pit of anger inside of him. “I don’t fucking care what you can do to me,” he says, he’s lying through his teeth, and the ghost can tell, with how it lets out a short laugh. “Get off your high horse and let me stay in your enormous bloody mansion, you arsehole.”

“Or what.”

Martin’s eyes flick to the wound in their neck. He keeps a Swiss army knife in his coat pocket, one of the only things he still has left from his dad – and one of the only things he kept in the move. It’s practical, and it’s small. Something easily overlooked by his mum when she was throwing all his things out.

“Or I carve another hole in your neck.” Martin pulls out the knife.

The ghost looks at the knife, then at him, and then promptly vanishes.

The fifth day is better. It’s warmer inside the house. His tea is warm. He feels… lighter, the exhaustion is gone, so’s the fuzziness and dizziness. Then the regular anxiety is lessened as well. All he needs to do is keep threatening a literal ghost with a knife.

If he thinks about it too hard it feels ridiculous. It is ridiculous. He can’t seriously believe that this’ll work.

It’s only for the winter. It’s only until he can afford a flat.

It’s only until the ghost gets over their fear and kills him like it threatened.

It’s a full week since he’s gotten to the house when the ghost comes back. It’s late at night, but he can’t sleep – as usual – so he’s reading The Colour of Magic by the light of his phone and eating Weetabix. The ghost appears suddenly just in the corner of his eye. Martin drops his phone and fumbles for his knife.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” The ghost says.

“Forgive me if I have a hard time believing that,” Martin snaps.

“I want to make a deal.”

Martin moves his bowl to the floor and stands up, still pointing the knife at the ghost.

“What do you want?”

“I want you not to stab me. And I want you to leave.”

Martin can hear the wind howling outside.

“But… I understand that isn’t an option for you. So, we’ll make a deal.”

“What are your terms?”

“You don’t stab me, and you stay on this floor. In return, I won’t kill you.”

Martin thinks on it for a moment, then nods. “Fine, shake on it.”

“Put the knife down.”

Martin obliges, and reaches for the ghost’s hand. It’s cold as ice, and clammy.

“Martin,” he says. “My name’s Martin.”

“Jon.”

Martin’s making tea when their first actual interaction happens. It’s rooibos, and Martin makes it like he usually does. With copious amounts of sugar, and however much milk feels right in the moment.

Martin appears right as he’s pouring the water in the mug. “What are you making?” Jon asks.

Martin startles, and splashes boiling water through Jon and onto the floor. He’s a translucent blue this time, instead of solid but blurry.

“Jesus Christ!” Martin pulls out the knife, and Jon floats backwards.

“What are you making?” Jon repeats, surlier this time.

“Tea!”

“What kind of tea?”

“Rooibos.”

“Rooibos?” Jon repeats, confused.

“Yeah, it’s a type of tea.”

“I presumed.” Jon raises his shoulders, then asks, sounding like he’s forcing out every word “Can you… tell me more about it?”

“Alright?” Martin puts the kettle down, but still holds the knife out as he talks. “It’s from South Africa, from the fynbos area, in the… Western Cape I believe.”

Jon nods at him to keep going.

“Uh, well, it’s not even technically tea, just hot leaf water, which I guess you could say about all teas, but regardless. It’s got no caffeine, so I like to drink it before I go to bed. It’s also low in tannin. And I get migraines.”

“What are migraines?”

“They’re, uh, they’re really bad headaches. Sometimes they make you sensitive to light and stuff. When I was a teenager I’d just sit in the shower with the lights turned off when I got them. Now I take meds. Medication. Drugs to help with that.”

“And… caffeine?”

“How do you-“ Martin cuts himself off. “It’s a stimulant. It makes you more awake. Found in coffee and most teas.”

“Thank you for the clarification,” Jon says.

“Wait, Jon.”

“What?” Jon turns around. Even though they’re translucent, their gaze is still piercing. “Do you want some?”

He’s offering tea, to a ghost, to a ghost who has tried to kill him, who’s only not killing him because he’s threatening them with a knife.

Jon glances at the knife, then back at Martin. “Put the knife down.”

“You’ll kill me.”

“Then step away after it’s done.”

Martin pours the boiling water into another mug. He’s not stupid enough to tell the ghost who could and would kill him that he’s not going to hurt them, even if he is stupid enough to immediately jump into making tea for said ghost.

“Sure,” he says. “Would you like sugar with that?”

Jon shrugs, so Martin adds sugar and milk, then steps away, for Jon to grab it. As their fingers curl around the mug, they become solid, and land softly on the ground.

“Thank you,” Jon says, stiffly. “It’s… interesting to speak with you.”

“Thought you wanted me gone?” Martin takes a sip of his tea.

“I do,” Jon snaps. Then, softer “But you’re here, now, and I can’t exactly get rid of you yet-“ Outside, the wind still howls, and the snow still falls. But it’s warm inside. “-So, I might as well use the resources I have to learn how things have changed since I’ve been gone.”

“How did you die?”

Jon sips at their tea.

“You don’t have to answer,” Martin adds on.

“Thank you for the tea, Martin.” Jon says, and then they turn and walk away.

Martin’s not an extremely curious person, but when he’s living in a house with a literal ghost, who can blame him for doing a little digging on the history of the place.

On the next weekend, Martin goes to the library, and looks through the old newspapers, looking for any mention of Jon or the house. There’s a record of it being bought by someone called Jonah Magnus, who Martin’s never heard of before, but appears in the newspapers fairly frequently. He was suspected of grave robbery but there was no substantial evidence for it, which while interesting , really has nothing to do with what Martin’s looking for. He finds records of a Jonathan Sims, reportedly a close friend of Jonah’s who went missing around 1816, and that piques Martin’s interest. There’s only one picture, and it’s hard to make out if it’s Jon, but Martin jumps on it. Before long, he’s amassed any references to Jonathan Sims that he can find. There’s a few duds in there – he doesn’t think the ghost was born in Kentucky – but he thinks he’s pieced together a relatively thorough history of what might be Jon Sims. 

They were born in 1787 in what is now Bournemouth, and moved to London after their parents died in frustratingly ambiguous ways at a frustratingly vague time. The only news reports he can find from his childhood was from 1795, when someone – who’s name was obscured by a printing error on the only newspaper he can find – went missing, and Jon was the last person who’d seen him.

Around the early 1810s, their grandmother died, and Jon appeared more and more in local newspapers due to his involvement with Jonah Magnus. Then, around 1816, they went missing. But as far as Martin can tell from the news reports, no one even noticed for what might have been years.

That’s where it ends. Black text on white paper, stating that Jon’s disappearance was barely even noticed, that they probably died alone in that house.

Martin puts it all back and leaves, ignoring the steadily growing pit in his stomach.

Fuck their deal, if Jon’s death wasn’t noticed by anyone in his time, Martin’s going to have to be the one to keep his memory alive.

“What are you doing up here?” the ghost asks, startling Martin so badly that he drops his torch. In hindsight it was stupid to think that coming up at night would do anything to avoid being found.

“Uh...” Martin reaches for the knife in his pocket, only to find that it’s not there. Fuck.

“I asked you a question.” Jon’s voice is quiet, but all of Martin’s instincts are screaming danger.

“Just, um... looking around,” Martin responded. Jon raised his eyebrows, and smiled coldly.

“What are you actually here for?”

Martin takes a deep breath in. In for a penny, in for a pound. “I want to know how you died.”

Jon’s voice is ice. “Isn’t that an interesting question?”

“They don’t know how you died.”

“Who’s “they”?”

“The- the library? The general populace, anyone!”

Jon is silent for a moment. “Just go.”

“I’m trying to help-“

“ Just go!”

Martin flinches backwards. “Ok,” he said, voice barely a whisper.

“ Don’t come up here again.”

Martin nods, and hurries down the stairs. When he turns around Jon is gone.

Jon’s tea is left undrunk. Martin drinks it himself. It’s gone cold.

The next few weeks are spent apart. Martin never sees Jon in the brief glimpses of upstairs he gets. It’s familiar to be alone. Martin’s good at convincing himself that he doesn’t mind.

He calls his mum every week, and she answers cordially enough. There’s always been a distance there, a coldness that never fully dissipated. With her gone it’s freezing, but not cold enough to become numb. It just hurts.

He... spends a lot of time at the library, fulfilling his lifelong goal of finally reading the Lord of the Rings. It’s fine, he’s always preferred to be alone when he has free time. He’s always preferred to-

The problem is he has nothing to distract himself with. His motivation to read comes and goes, but is more gone than not. He doesn’t have to take care of his mum, and he doesn’t want to make her irritated by calling too much, so he’s just sitting in the library, staring at these words and being unable to convert them into meaning, because all he can do is think about how badly he fucked up everything, and how only he would be this torn up about upsetting a ghost.

It’s during one of these times where he gets the message. From Elias Bouchard, saying that he’ll be visiting to check up on how Martin’s handling things next week Friday.

Martin hastily puts the books back in their proper shelf and runs back home. Does Elias know that his house is haunted? Should Martin tell him his house is haunted? If Elias finds out his house is haunted, will Martin get kicked out?

He responds with “OK 👍” and tries not to panic too much. He can ask Jon to stay out of the way for an afternoon and not kill the person whose house he’s living in. Jon’ll understand, probably.”

“Jon!” he yells, as soon as he enters the house and slams the door behind him.

“Yes?” comes the answer, from behind him. Martin spins around, whipping out the knife. Jon flinches, and step’s back, so he’s against the wall.”

“Do you know who owns this house?”

“Not in the current year.” Jon spits out every word.

“Alright, so, the owner of this house, Elias Bouchard?” Martin pauses for Jon to respond, but they do not. “Well, Elias’ coming to the house on Friday.”

“Alright.”

“And...”

“And can you stay out of the way?”

“I don’t know, can you stay on this floor?”

Martin glared at them.

“Fine, I’ll stay out of your way.”

“ Thank you.”

Jon doesn’t dissipate, but instead stands there, fidgeting with their fingers.

“Jon?”

Jon’s head jerks up. “Uh... yes?”

“Do you... need something?”

“No?” Jon starts to walk past him and upstairs.

“Wait,” Martin says. “Do you... want some tea?”

Jon looks back at him. “Sure, that’d be... that’d be great.”

The next few days are the friendliest they’ve ever been. Martin steers clear of any discussion of Jon’s past, but slowly but surely, they actually start to be... friendly. Jon hates poetry, they’ll jump at any opportunity to mock it relentlessly. Martin loves poetry, and will take every opportunity to read his favourites aloud, much to Jon’s mock irritation, but Jon still sits, enraptured at the sound of Martin’s voice.

Martin likes Jon’s voice, or more so just likes the way Jon speaks. They tilt their head to the side when they make a joke or sarcastic comment, they open their mouth as if to say something when they’re speaking.

And when they’re talking to Martin, the smile in their voice is audible.

No, Martin is not falling in love with a ghost, that would be absurd.

But... if his plans were to fall through and he had to spend more time in the house... it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Martin arrives home earlier than he usually does on Friday, choosing to take the bus instead of walking like he usually does. Jon left a note on the counter, saying that he’d stay out of the way the whole time, just like he promised. He signed off with a heart, and Martin neatly folds it up, and tucks it into his shirt pocket, just above his heart.

There’s two swift knocks on the door, and Martin unlocks it to see Elias standing there, dressed all prim and proper, in contrast to Martin’s jumper and jeans.

“Uh, please, come in,” Martin steps aside to allow Elias entry, but as soon as Elias steps past the threshold, the temperature in the house seems to drop.

“It’s chilly in here,” Elias remarks.

“Yeah, it’s... not got any heating.” Martin rocks back and forth on his feet. “But I have a lot of blankets. And... jumpers.”

“Lovely,” Elias says. “Well, the downstairs doesn’t seem to be in any disrepair, let’s see upstairs, shall we?”

The steps to go upstairs creak, Martin clenches his fists and takes a deep breath in.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” he whispers, under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, it was nothing.”

Nothing happens when they head upstairs. They look through the rooms without anything out of the ordinary happening, and if Elias notices that Martin’s heart is beating out of his chest, he doesn’t say a thing.

Until, of course, they reach the final room. Empty of all but a penknife, or at least it was empty. Now Jon stands there, clutching the knife in his right hand.

“You know... this was my father’s, before it was mine,” Jon says.

“Jon, what are you-”

“It’s the only thing I had left of him.”

Elias scoffs. “Really, Jon, you’re still-”

“And somehow it was one of the only things that you didn’t rip away from me, and I wonder sometimes if you knew it would be my anchor.”

“Jon, can you explain-”

“This knife has killed me, has kept me tethered to this mortal plane, and now I will use it to kill you ,” Jon turns around. “Jonah Magnus.” His voice is tight with fury.

Elias just laughs. “Come now, Jon, we both know you don’t have it you to follow through. Let’s stop with this melodrama already-”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish, because Jon’s already stabbed him through the throat with his knife.

Elias falls to the floor. Jon’s breathing hard, still clutching the blood covered knife. Martin doesn’t – can’t – move.

“I’m, uh...” Jon barely whispers. “I’m sorry you had to see that, Martin.”

“Do we need to hide a body?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I mean, we’ve just... killed him? We’re going to need to hide the body, clean the floor, I bet he told Peter Lukas-”

“Lukas?”

“Yeah, his husband.”

“Husband?”

“We can dwell on the individual words when I’m not going to get done for murder, did you have a place in mind, do you want to just bury it outside, do you want to do it The Tell-Tale Heart style?”

“Are you-” Jon’s expression morphs into that of fondness. “Martin, are you... suggesting places to hide the body?”

“Yes, yes I am, keep up, Jon.”

Jon laughs, a combination of bewildered and delighted.

“How are you so calm about this?”

“I love me a man that can commit a murder? I’m, I’m, I’m really not, but we should probably focus on the practicalities of how we’re – I’m – not going to get arrested for murder? That would be -” Martin barked out a laugh. “Bad!”

Jon leans his head against Martin’s shoulder. “I love you, Martin,” he manages amidst the silent laughter.

“Do you want to, like, kiss?”

“I- alright??”

Jon’s breath is warm, Martin can’t remember any part of Jon being warm before.

“Kissing over a corpse is a completely normal thing to do with a ghost you met a few weeks ago,” Jon deadpans.

“Oh, Christ, the corpse!”

“What were you saying about The Tell-Tale Heart?”

“So,” Jon says. Disposing of Elias’ – Jonah Magnus’? Martin still isn’t completely sure’s – body was a fairly simple process, all things considered, even though they had to go by literary references and gut feeling, because Martin did not think it was a good idea to Google it. But once the hysteria at finding himself in the situation where he needed to hide a body with his ghost crush – ghost partner? – had worn off, the actual situation he was in fully started to set in.

“So.”

“He deserved it?” Jon suggests.

“What’d he even do? Who even is he?”

“He wanted to live forever. Hurt a lot of people trying to achieve that. Now he’s dead.”

“I know he’s dead.”

Martin sits down on the floor, and Jon follows suit.

“Did he kill you?” Jon’s hand is warm in his. “You don’t have to answer.”

“I died because of him,” Jon responds. “But... he wasn’t the one who killed me.”

The penknife lies in front of them, but they couldn’t wipe the blood clean.

Martin squeezes Jon’s hand. “I’m sorry you had to... kill him.”

“It was... quite cathartic, actually.”

“Maybe that’s not a good thing?”

“You’re the one who immediately jumped to body hiding and kissing.”

“It’s got the right ambiance.”

Jon laughs shortly, and leaned into Martin.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to do it alone,” they say, voice more sombre.

“I’m glad I don’t have to be alone, not with... you.”

Jon stands up and stretches, picking up the penknife, then holds out their arm for Martin to use to get up.

“Come on, let’s make some tea. It’s been a busy day.”

“You can say that again.”

They make two steaming cups of Rooibos tea, and sit outside the window, huddled up in blankets, but never cold. Not anymore.

[bendy-n-stuff]

Underneath will be the chapter~✨

The End. Jon knew that this was the end. The Eye had been defeated and the panopticon had crumbled. His guilt of starting this apocalypse, of moving the fears off to some unknowing universe, of betraying Martin, would all wash away into the nothingness that was The End.

…

…

Except the guilt didn’t wash away. Neither did the sore throbbing of a stab wound. Jon’s consciousness did not flee and although it was dark around him, he could feel… something underneath him. Something that was not a void and was not the stone and tile of the panopticon, but dirt. If he could still feel then…

“Martin!” Jon sat up suddenly causing his stomach to radiate pain from the knife still lodged in it. His eyes searched frantically for him, while also taking in the landscape. It appeared to be a plot of land a farm would have right before planting season. The ground was tilled and scarecrows were up, however the chill in the air suggested it to be autumn, meaning there should have been crops by this time of year, or at the very least, evidence of harvest.

“Jon! I thought I had lost you and- oh you still have that knife in you!” Martin hurriedly helped him off the ground slowly. Jon grunted but managed to stay on his feet with the help of Martin holding him up. “We need to find someone to get this wound addressed. Do you think Melaine is still around? Or Georgie? This place looks nothing like the panopticon but-”

“I can’t See them anywhere,” Jon interrupted. “But with the removal of the Eye, who knows if I can do any of that any more.”

‘’Well it can wait until you aren’t bleeding out onto the dirt anymore,” Martin said with finality. With a nod from Jon, they started walking towards the only light they could see in the hopes to find someone that could help.

The night was quiet except the crunch of gravel under their feet. The moon was full and bright enough to allow them to walk without stumbling over anything. It was a little eerie to be in an empty farm, void of harvest, surrounded by nothing, not even hills. A little eerie was much better than where they had come from, however, so neither said much about the scene.

“I’m sorry.”

“You can be sorry when you’re not in imminent danger of dying, Jon.”

…

“I’m sorry too.”

_______

They continued their walk in silence until getting met by a man holding a shotgun.

“Are you vermin or hoodlums?” asked a voice sternly.

“Neither! Definitely neither! We just got lost in your… uh… dirt fields?” Martin sputtered quickly, moving ever so slightly in front of Jon.

“Oh, you mean you got lost in my imaginary corn. Happens time to time, it’s a good thing I found you two. I see someone got to your friend there,” commented the stranger.

“Yes. We were hoping you could help with that?” asked Martin hopefully.

“‘Course I can. I’ve seen waaay worse wounds on the farm, let me tell you. I’m John Peters, the farmer.”

“Oh, uh, Martin Blackwood the… I’ll get back to you on that. And this is Jon.”

“Pleasure,” Jon nodded, starting to get woozy.

“Well let’s get you two inside and sort out this situation. Good thing I found you before the coyotes!” And with that John Peters guided them both to a brick farmhouse.

Hi! I decided to post this story on Archives of our own. This chapter is small but I hope to add more soon. Title is still a work in progress and I'll happily take suggestions

[cookiesandcantarella]

'Cause here’s the thing To know how it ends And still begin to sing it again As if it might turn out this time I learned that from a friend of mine

Please click for better quality.

[ID: A series of digital paintings centered around Jon and Martin set to lyrics from Road to Hell (Reprise) from Hadestown. Jon is a thin British-Indian man with dark skin and greying black hair. Martin is a fat Mexican-Polish man with dark curly hair and freckles.

Image 1: Lyrics read ‘it’s a sad song.‘ First person view of Jon‘s hands holding the apocalypse statement. Blood and tears stain the paper. He is kneeling on the ground.

Image 2: Lyrics read ‘it’s a sad tale.’ Martin is holding a bloody knife. Jon is reaching up to clasp his hands and guiding the knife to his chest, which is off screen. Jon’s hands are splattered with blood, some of which has rubbed off onto Martin’s hands. They are lit by warm, dramatic lighting and almost glow in the dim room. Behind them, a stained glass window depicting an eye is partially visible. Darkness encroaches along the edges of the painting.

Image 3: A bloody tape recorder on a dark background. Lyrics read ‘it’s a tragedy’ in large letters.

Image 4: Lyrics read 'It’s a sad song...’ Silhouette of Jon speaking into a tape recorder at his desk. He has short hair and is wearing a professional button up shirt. The room is dim and lit only by a single desk lamp, causing his silhouette to glow around the edges. Countless eyes with glowing orange pupils watch him from the darkness at the edges of the room.

Image 5: Lyrics read ‘but we sing it anyway.’ Jon and Martin in the archives. Martin is holding a dog and smiling shyly while Jon glares at him. The background is hazy.

[ithymedit]

oh my god. someone should make a fic about martyn littlewood being switched with martyn blackwood at core moments in both of their stories.

imagine, the final battle of dogwarts and suddenly, beside him is not his right hand man, it is a big british man with fog rolling off of him, knife at the ready and he says, "Where's Jon?"

meanwhile, Jonathan Sims looks horrified at where Martin once stood, now replaced by a blonde man with a red coat and fire in his eyes. Sword at the ready, he says, "Where's Ren?"

[mordenandmerry]

ALRIGHT HERE WE GO (I love sharing music especially when it’s about things I like let me be neurodivergent)

(All the songs are under the break)

- Sweet Time by Rebeca Sugar for some wholesome jmart

- Amnesia Was Her Name by Lemon Demon for some Martin losing his memory in the lonely + Jon eye motifs??? In the economy???

- Getaway by Earth Wind and Fire for some funk safe house music

- I’m Your Man by Mitski for some angst (personally I feel like this fits more with Daisira but it’s works for jmart too :)

- the fruits by Paris Paloma for some MORE jmart angst

- You don’t even know who I am by Underscores for EVEN MORE jmart angst

- Paper Boats by Darren Korb and Ashely Barrett (specifically the Songs of Supergiant Games version because the orchestral parts go SO HARD)

- recently, by Liana Flores because my boys are both so depressed someone help them be less depressed

- Killjoy by Fox Stevenson for some finale feels

- The Garden by The Crane Wives for my favorite murder couple :)

- Black Dog by Arlo Parks for even more Kmart depression

- Die Alone by FINNEAS for, you guessed it, jmart angst

- The Darkness by Alejandro Aranda for following your love into the darkness :)

- Nobody by The Crane Wives for Jonathan Sims, The Archivist

- fade by Mysie for Martin Knife Blackwood

Oh I’m sorry that was so much and all over the place in terms of genres but uhhhhhhhh yup that’s it :)

Enjoy

Who’s got songs for me to put in my jmart playlist💪🏻💪🏻💪🏻

[grayscaleskies]

[ID: A drawing of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood from the Magnus Archives. This is set during the final episode. Jon is a thin Pakistani person with medium brown skin, short, curly black hair with grey streaks and a beard. They are covered in a variety of scars, and are wearing a green khaki jacket. There are dark green magnetic tape strips coming from his skin, penetrating his jacket and there is blood where they exit. His left hand is cupping Martin's head and they are kissing him passionately while crying. Martin is a fat Afro-Brazilian man with dark brown skin dotted in freckles. He has bleached white 4c textured hair pulled into a bun at the back of his head. He has rectangular glasses, facial hair, and is wearing a pale lilac sweater. He is crying while kissing Jon, and holding a bloody knife by Jon's back in a tight fist. Behind them is orange and yellow mist resembling an explosion, and soft smoke frames them both. There is grey text at the top and bottom in a handwritten font that reads: 'Maybe we both die. Probably. But maybe not. Maybe, maybe everything works out and we end up somewhere else. One way or another. Together.' End ID/]

Happy anniversary TMA 200! I decided to redraw my piece from last year and am SO pleased with my art progress. I'm also glad I was able to draw this with my current Martin design! I miss TMA so much 😭 One way or another together 💖

Special thanks to @coulson-is-an-avenger for being so helpful with kissy 🥰 Kissy Master Mossy to the rescue!!

[collegeofglamour-art]

i’ve dug two graves for us, my dear.

—

happy mag200 anniversary lol

[image ID: (cw for descriptions of gore and death) a digital drawing of jonathan sims and martin blackwood from the magnus archives. they are lying on their backs in a field of green grass, with warm orange light like that of a sunset coming from the left. jon is a thin indian man with long, graying dark hair, small, round scars on his face and hands, and green eyes. he is wearing a purple long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and green converse. martin is a fat white man with freckles, curly red hair, and brown eyes. he is wearing a light blue sweater, jeans, and blue shoes.

jon is dead. his mouth hangs slightly open, and his eyes are unfocused and rolled back in his head. he is bleeding from a stab wound in his chest, and a thin trail of blood trickles from his mouth. martin has small splatters of blood on his hands, face, and sweater, and there is a bloody knife lying in the grass by his left hand. his right hand clutches jon’s wrist, and he stares at him mournfully while tears roll down his face. end ID.]

[goingtolebanon]

hey! so taro @fricklefracklefloof and i decided to once again shoot our filipinoify beam at martin blackwood for the @podcastbigbang and this was the result! this fic means a lot to both of us and is a deep exploration of both of our identities and relationships with our culture and queerness <3 our artists (@exyfordays and @captaincravatthecapricious) and betas (@pocketsizedquasar and @closet-trumpet-monkey) have been so patient with us and our wild schedules, and have helped us to create such a beautiful piece!! i cannot thank everyone involved enough, and hope that you enjoy our fic! read it here:

keeping my lungs and holding my tongue

[ID: A digital painting of Martin Blackwood and Tim Stoker from The Magnus Archives. Martin is a fat mixed Filipino and White man with tan skin, shaggy and slightly curly dark brown hair, and some facial hair on his chin. He is wearing a blue sweater and bright yellow cardigan, and is looking behind himself at Tim with a fond expression on his face as he chops garlic, the pieces flying from the knife. Tim is a Filipino man of average weight with brown skin scarred in small circles over his body, mussed dark brown hair, and a stubbly mustache and beard. He has pierced ears and nails painted black, and is wearing a stained white T-shirt under an unbuttoned red button-up with short sleeves. Tim is holding a soy sauce bottle in one hand, looking at it with a weary yet soft expression on his face. They are framed against a textured beige wall with a slight shadow behind them. In front of their heads in white against yellow text reads "keeping my lungs and holding my tongue." Below this text, "fricklefracklefloof, jawbonemage" is written in black. In front of Martin is yellow text that reads "artists" with "captaincravatthecapricious" and "exyfordays" underneath, while in front of Tim is yellow text that reads "betas" with "pocketsizedquasar" and "closet-trumpet-monkey" underneath. /End ID.]

promo image by myself and taro

[floating-potatoes]

Senshi (will feed you nutritious food)

Marcille (lil meow meow and pathetic lesbian)

Laios (tism man)

Jonathan Sims (lil meow meow and pathetic ace)

art by @potato-lord-but-not

Martin Knife Blackwood (best doormat to murder girlboss pipeline)

art by my beloved mutual @bluetaho!!

This poll is so skewed

open + no tags!

@bittersweetstargazer @morbid-perception @disaster-for-the-aesthetic

Saw a tag game that I liked.. not that I was tagged but I don't actually care, I'm doing it

Rules: make a poll with five of your all time favourite characters and then tag five people to do the same. See which character is everyone’s favourite.

Tagging @wanderingtrickster @charon-cries @gramnel @lokidanger @vvviktor