#there was a comment on it that was like ‘jonathan sims would have so much fun with this’ why can’t you engage with things without making

[iliveinprocrasti-nationn]

i don’t have words on it really because that would take more brain power than i have before breakfast but seeing people react to “Boots” by rudyard kipling with “wow they should have put this in a magnus archives episode” is. hm

[mollymauk-teafleak]

just that still sort of quiet

Happy Christmas to the lovely @minky-for-short! Love you sweetie <33

Want more soft jmart dads? I have you covered. Let's not think too hard about why we need this.

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3!

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Jonathan Sims has always had trouble sleeping, even now he's left most of his demons in the past.

But tonight, he's not the only one.

-----

Jon had given up on asking why can’t I sleep a long time ago.

There were just too many answers to that question, enough that it was pointless to wonder. Like asking, of the entire house that collapsed on top of him, which precise brick had struck him in the back of the head and killed him. 

It used to just be plain old insomnia, a childish fear of what he’d see if he closed his eyes, an inability to give up that much control in a life where he already couldn’t convince people he was a boy and they’d all got it wrong. 

Then he grew and it was the bumps of coke at the weekend parties, the cup after cup of bitter black coffee, the books he’d buried himself in so he’d have an excuse to live in the university library and keep his life neatly organised and Harvard referenced. So at least the myriad ways in which he was falling apart were tucked away and organized. 

When he lost even that small amount of routine, the reasons shifted and became more stark. Suddenly, it was the tangled, hopeless mess between his ears that kept him up. It was the sticky black ink inside him that had soon leaked out and drowned him, no matter how neatly pressed his suit was or how brightly the brass nameplate on his door rang out Head Archivist . He hadn’t slept for days at a time back then, though it had actually been the least of his worries. The paranoia, the concrete certainty that the moment he closed his eyes, the horrors chasing him would sink their teeth in. Rest had been impossible, until his brain had simply boiled over. Sleep caught up with Jonathan Sims so hard he came close to never waking up. 

But now that inky blackness had a name, a neat little label and a prescription ticket. Undiagnosed schizophrenia, autism with no accommodations and a healthy dose of the bargain bin insomnia that had been plaguing him since he was a child. He saw a therapist once a week, a couples counselor once a month with Martin, he took the medications they prescribed him and was honest about when they couldn’t keep the bad thoughts out. The horrors finally crystallized, he realised the things he’d run from had been shadows on the walls of his own mind and, more importantly, there were ways to fight back. 

But Jon still couldn’t sleep some nights and he’d finally given up on wondering why. But he did know what to do about it now.

They slept so tangled together it was impossible to extract himself without waking up his boyfriend. Sure enough, Martin stirred as Jon squirmed out of his arms, threw his legs over the edge of their bed and felt around blindly for his slippers. He made a noise that was almost his name, one sleep glazed eye opening past the bird's nest of auburn curls. 

“I’m okay,” Jon whispered soothingly, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Just can’t sleep, that’s all.”

Martin scrubbed a hand against his face, “Need me? S’okay if you do, I’m up…”

The last part was an adorably obvious lie but Jon had slowly learned to believe Martin when he offered him help. If he asked him to come with him, to sit and watch the rain for a few hours or put the kettle on and talk about the weight on his chest, he would. The certainty of it, the solid, warm presence of his love was enough to make Jon smile as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of those messy curls. 

“I’m okay, I promise,” he murmured, tugging the duvet up over his broad shoulders, “You go back to sleep. I’ll come get you if I need you.”

Martin sank back down into the blankets with a sigh, back to softly snoring by the time Jon had belted his dressing gown. So much of him didn’t want to leave that warmth, ached to be back in the safe circle of his arms, listening to his heartbeat against his ear. But the itch had firmly settled into his brain by now, the restless static that pushed him to close the door and pad as quietly as possible down the hallway to their flat’s little sitting room. 

Shelley was asleep on the sofa, curled up in her favourite place where the sag in the leather was particularly deep. She opened one golden eye to regard her owner as he shuffled past, yawning and stretching to follow him into the kitchen like he should be grateful she’d deigned to get up for him. 

And he was, scooping her up and letting her perch across his shoulders like she always did, scratching behind the one ear she had left until she was purring contentedly.

“I’d feel worse about waking you up too but you have all day to sleep,” Jon murmured softly, smiling when she butted her striped head against his rough cheek.

He flicked the switch on the kettle, wincing at how loudly the old thing rattled, but it was worth it once he had a warm mug between his hands, breathing in the lavender scented steam. He’d insisted stubbornly for years that herbal teas had never helped with his insomnia since he was small until, after weeks of searching, Martin came home with a brand that was almost exactly the blend Jon’s grandmother would give him as a child, the precise ratios of lavender to passion flower to lemon balm. How he’d done it, Jon would never know but after one long inhale, he could feel his muscles unwinding and his nerves settling, if a little begrudgingly. 

Machen and Irving were asleep on the rocking chair, the two kittens curled up so close that it was impossible to see where one began and the other ended, just a lump of soft black fur. Jon felt bad, making them move when they looked so peaceful, though their indignant cheeping settled as soon as they could curl up in his lap and dig their tiny needle claws into the terry cloth fabric of his dressing gown. 

Jon somehow juggled their two newest additions, a mug of tea and the cat around his neck without scalding anyone, settling back and reaching for one of the books on the side table. Not the books he’d usually turn to, just a stack of dog-eared romance paperbacks from the library closest to their flat, but they were perfect for distracting his brain when it wouldn’t slow down. He could send his mind to some far off beach that didn’t really exist or some quaint little fictional town, bemusedly watch two one dimensional love interests fall in cliched, inevitable love. Hopefully, while it was gone, his body could be free to collapse. 

Jon set himself rocking, nudging the chair into a comforting, rhythmic motion, one hand holding the book while the other stroked across Irving’s back. He started to flick through pages, beginning to believe it was starting to actually work, that his eyelids were getting heavy, his limbs getting that lead feeling, his breathing slowing…

Until it occurred to him that tracking his body this obsessively probably meant it wasn’t working at all.

Jon closed the book on the couple’s ridiculous miscommunication before the grand declaration of love, pinching the bridge of his nose with a frustrated sigh. It always went like this, he’d shift all his anxiety from whatever woke him to the act of getting back to sleep, pulling him further away in the process. Whatever had caused his eyes to open, a bad dream or a phantom ache from a long time ago or the new mundane stresses he’d earned, getting them closed again always felt like he was trying to climb an impossibly steep cliff. 

“What’s the matter, daddy?”

Jon jumped so hard he sent the two kittens in his lap skittering away like puffs of smoke dissipating. Shelly dug her claws into his shoulder, hanging on grimly and giving Jon a low rumble of annoyance like it was his fault for having a heart attack.

And of course Gertrude Sims didn’t even blink, just staring up at her daddy like she was just waiting for him to collect himself and answer her question. 

“You’re going to have to stop doing that to me, darling,” Jon wheezed, only just remembering to whisper, “It’s that or we tie a bell to you.”

“Like the kittens,” Gertie beamed that sunshine smile she had, the one that erased any lingering doubt that she was a clone of Martin. 

The only thing she’d gotten from Jon was his eyes.

“I suppose so,” Jon chuckled softly, reaching out and putting his hand on her cheek, “What are you doing out of bed, darling? It’s so late.”

Gertie leaned into his hand, so close her little cheek squished, “Daddy was up so I thought maybe it was time to be up? Time to go to the museum and see the butterflies?”

Jon felt a prickle of guilt, shifting so he could take his little girl in his arms. She clambered up excitedly, sitting in his lap and resting her head against his chest so her fluffy hair tickled his nose. She’d grown so much in the four years she’d been alive, Jon would always miss the days he could hold her in one hand, but his arms had always found a way to fit around her. He’d make sure they always did. 

“I’m sorry, darling, it isn’t time to go to the museum just yet,” Jon sighed, “I should be in bed, I just…I can’t sleep.”

“Oh,” Gertie plucked at his dressing gown, “How come?”

Jon hesitated for a moment before deciding to answer honestly, “I…I don’t really know. All sorts of reasons, I suppose.”

Gertie absorbed that, he could almost hear the gears clicking inside her mind. Jon felt the same sense of needling dread he always did when he’d tried to explain the way his mind worked, to teachers, to doctors, to the therapists he’d tried in the past. That feeling of cracking open his chest for them, having to watch the poorly disguised horror on their faces as they examined all the parts of him that were wrong. 

There was only one person who he was able to open up to without that fear. And fortunately, Gertie was just like her papa.

“Daddy’s scared?” she mumbled, turning her face towards his. 

Jon swallowed, feeling his hands shake as they lay against her back, “Yes. Sometimes I’m just scared, Gertie. And it makes it hard to sleep.”

His daughter shifted, sitting up and craning her little neck to clumsily kiss Jon’s forehead. 

“It’s okay to be scared,” she hummed, her voice bright with that sunshine she always seemed to radiate, “I’m right here.”

Jon felt his throat close, a rush of emotion surging up from his chest. It wasn’t constricting like fear, like panic, it was an embrace, something solid and sure that anchored him when he was drifting away. The kind of tightness that said I’ve got you and I won’t let go.

Because how many times had he said those words, kissed his little girl in the exact same spot on her forehead as he pulled the covers up to her chin and tucked them close around her. On nights she couldn’t sleep because of bad dreams or the rain drumming too loudly on the windows or the colic she’d had when she was small, Jon and Martin had dug furrows in their carpet walking her back and forth, feeling her grow heavy in their arms as sleep finally found her. No matter how early in the morning it was, how long she’d wailed, there would always be that twinge of regret as he’d laid her down in her cot or her bed. 

So Jon had made that promise for both of them. I’m right here. And he’d meant it with every cell of his body. 

“Thank you, Gertie,” he rasped, holding her little face in his hands, “I feel a lot better now.”

Gertie nodded happily, all perfect confidence, “Always does!”

Jon held her tight for a moment, just because he needed to. The kittens came slinking back over, jumping up and curling against Gertie’s side, Shelley began to purr like a busted old engine. Jon rocked them for a long while, listening to his daughter’s steady breathing, feeling his anxious heartbeat slow to match her own. For a perfect half hour, he didn’t need anything more than that.

“We should try and get some sleep, I think,” he eventually murmured, “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Gertie gave a little wriggle of excitement as Jon stood with her in his arms, walking her down the hall to her bedroom, “Going to the museum! See the dinosaurs and the butterflies and the big whale!”

Jon chuckled softly. The Museum of Natural History was their daughter’s favourite place, she’d been looking forward to their visit all week. 

“We are…” he settled her back down into the bed, smiling as Shelley immediately unwound herself from his neck to snuggle up next to Gertie, “Sweet dreams, darling, I love you.”

“Love you too, daddy,” she smiled as he kissed her forehead, in just the right place, “And you have sweet dreams too.” 

“I think I will,” Jon waited until her eyes were closed, until the rising and falling of her chest settled into something soft, “I’m right here.”

Jon knew he should go back to his own room, leave the door ajar so the streetlight filtering in from the living room windows would soften the darkness. He should curl up in Martin’s arms, relax into the warmth of the people who loved him most, he should be finally, finally sleeping. 

But he would stay awake just a little longer, perching on his daughters bed and watching her dream of butterflies and blue whales.

There were plenty of reasons Jon couldn’t sleep. But she was his favourite.

[solsticewytch]

Okay, I had a crackpot idea, not even a theory (it is by the end of this post btw) just an idea, that I need to put out in the ether.

So, I recently came across a post from @vertigala who theorized that RedCanary might be the new host for Protocolverse!Jonah Magnus. And I thought, if they were to ever show up in person it sure would be fun horrible if RedCanary was someone we know from TMA. So... I'm trying to work out who would make more sense be absolutely gut-wrenching when it hits me. What if, just IF, because the likelihood of this is, like, zero, I'm sure, but JUST WHAT IF... RedCanary is Protocolverse!Jonathan Sims?

I mean just think about the potential in that. The moment we first hear this universe's Jon talking in TMAGP, sounding "awfully happy" or something, bringing a fleeting sense of joy, knowing that at least in one universe he's not so devastatingly miserable, but it slowly dawns on us, and on Jon if he's the one/one of who's listening, that it's not him, that that bastard wins again, that utter, truly next-level defeat, that heartache! And then for however long Jonah would be an active threat in TMAGP we'd have to hear him through Jon's own voice, see him in his body, all the while TMA!Jon, trapped in the 'puters (with TMA!Jonah nonetheless), using the last remnants of his own agency, all of his remaining consciousness, is actively trying to stop him (and/or this world's horrors), as the only people being vaguely aware of him are a paranoid IT guy who is actively conspiring againts him and a woman from his own world who has every reason not just to never trust Jon but also (imo) wanting to work againts him given the chance.

On top of all of this there's the several layers deep irony to all of it. Jon being the one who reads out that case, either out of his own choice or being forced to do so, the implication of him specifically chosing this case to deter Sam from or leading him directly towards the Magnus Institue, or someone else using Jon for that. Then there's the idea of this universe's Jon willingly seeking out spooky abandoned locations for fun and then meeting a gory demise from exploring the burned down ruins of the Magnus Institute, becoming a mistery known only to the mostly oblivious staff of an organization that specifically looks for these eldritch monsters to recruit, reducing his experience to little more than random numbers in a database that nobody uses anymore.

Even though RedCanary doesn't particularly strike me as a likely candidate for Protocolverse!Jon based on the wording of their comments alone, plus they also suggest they're from Manchester and their dad is still alive, I still think it would make some weird, karmic sense for them to be this universe's Jon. By not growing up in Bournemouth or, more importantly, not being raised by his grandmother, who'd carelessly buy any random cheap book on clearance for him to read, he could have avoided making any significant connection to the supernatural in childhood and therefore avoiding geting on the radar of the Magnus Institute prior to their destruction in '99, despite now being much closer to it. This being Jon, I think he would still have that Eye-aligned thirst for knowledge, secrets, uncaring for the dangers he'd be exposed to while looking for them, so with the Institute gone he finds another way to satiate that thirst and developes a liking for exploring abadoned places. Which then leads him back to the Magnus Institute, striking his interest, publically at least, with it being "cleared", "explored to death", holding no more secrets, yet not having any pictures to show it, not having any concrete information on it. So he goes to explore, not being deterred by the state of the building, being careless, expects piles of papers, the renmants of the knowledge that place once held, having the sense of doors shutting behind him, seeing grafiti on the wall and wanting to know more about it, trying to document all of it and failing to do so due to photographic distortions, having to resort to older technology, taking something they're weren't supposed to, not just in a supernatural sense, but the place they're discussing all of this is also against it, the rising paranoia that leads to the brutal mutalation of their eyes, the sight of which makes the forum freak out and remove the only photo that found its way to the internet, the only real evidence of what happened to them. All of it is there, narratively speaking, for the audience of TMA entering this new world, this new story, serving as a red thread from one world to another, basically summarising the entirity of TMA without spoilers. But how thematically fitting it would be that after being welcomed in this new world by the remnants of Martin, who's pained sob was the last thing the tapes supposedly recorded before entering the Protocolverse, telling us a tale reminisent of his own feelings and his, Jon's and Jonah's state of being at the moment ("Some of him") the person who then basically introduces us not just to this world's Magnus Institute and the danger it still holds but also theslightly changed rules of the Fears, warning us not to / beckoning us to investigate further, to be this world's Jon, appearing only through a thematically fitting username in a tale told to us by the remnants of the original world's Jon. Once used by Jonah to be the vessel through which all the fears entered the world, now possessed entirely by Jonah, allowing him to enter the world even after being defeated and do as he pleases.

(...Okay, I know it all started as a sleep deprived mind's musing on a bittersweet scene that was likely never to happen but I'm lowkey totally sold on this idea now.)

[morning-softness]

Story Title: Listen to the Voice that Told Me

Fandom: The Magnus Archives podcast

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47329336/chapters/119258467#workskin

Summary:

In this world of monsters and fear, where every day Jon is forced to read another description of the horrible fate that could befall someone—anyone—unlucky enough to encounter it, there are those—human and no longer human—who have singled out the Archivist as their target. And since pretending ignorance is obviously no protection, Jon’s determined to find out as much as possible about the threats he’s up against. After Prentiss's attack on the Institute and the discovery of his predecessor's corpse in the tunnels beneath it, Jon knows two things: 1. accepting the Head Archivist position put a target on his back and 2. he can't trust anyone, especially his assistants. As if he weren't already vulnerable enough, Jon discovers he's been cursed by a Web artefact to obey any order he's given. Can Jon find a way to break the curse before anyone else finds out?

Warnings: canon-typical worms, spiders, the Not Them, the Distortion, Jon's canon-typical Season 2 paranoia, canon-typical breaking and entering, nightmares, smoking, panic attack, stalking and invasion of privacy, strained relationships, arguments, power imbalance, manipulation, mind control, threats, abuse of power, Elias being a creep, burns, self-harm? (canon-typical Jon intentionally puts himself in danger because he thinks it’s worth it), thoughts of death and suicide, blood and murder (discussed), cursing, mentions of food and unconventional eating habits, alcohol, mention of drug use, roller coaster mention 

Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker, Sasha James, Elias Bouchard, Michael Distortion

Pairings: General (no romantic or sexual relationships)

Chapters: 11/11

Words: 54,751 (Making this the longest fic I've ever completed!)

When I Started: February 2023

I'm putting the rest of this under a readmore, because it got a bit long and rambley, but TLDR: Thank you so, so very much to @bunnies-in-the-archives for getting me started, to @wipbigbang, @nyctolovian, @prairiedawn, @liminalspacedout, and all of the wonderful people who commented on my fic for helping me finish.  Even if you've already read it, please check out Chapter 2 to see the awesome art that @liminalspacedout did for this fic.

How I Lost My Shit: This fic really got away from me in terms of length.  The classic problem of "the more I write, the further I am from finishing."  In my original outline, I planned for 8 chapters and estimated that it would be somewhere between 15,000 and 25,000 words.  Instead, the final version ended up being 11 chapters and 54,751 words!  At about the halfway point towards the original ending, I also realized that the ending I'd planned for wouldn't work because 1. it involved Jon knowing information that he wouldn't find out until Season 3, and 2. it actually didn't resolve one of the problems introduced at the beginning of the fic.  The ending I finally settled on is something like the third or forth version.

In addition to the fic itself fighting me, life also kept getting in the way.  I got a new pet and promptly discovered I was allergic to it.  I moved to a new apartment.  My pet got sick and I took on a lot of overtime to cover vet bills.  I took on additional tasks (essentially doing unpaid overtime) in pursuit of a promotion that I was turned down for.  I went through a few rough periods mentally, and hit a couple different stretches of writers' block that lasted for months.  I took on yet more additional tasks (working essentially 6-7 days a week) and actually got promoted this time.

How I Finished My Shit: A few major things helped me get back into writing this fic and eventually reaching the finish line. 

1. I joined @wipbigbang.  Just the excitement of that alone helped me push out about 1,500 words on the first day, although the initial enthusiasm didn't last very long before I got bogged down in the details again.

2. I was paired with an artist, and from the very first thumbnail sketches that @liminalspacedout shared with me, I was over the moon at how clearly they'd captured my vision of the main character.  I knew I had to finish so that everyone else could also see their artwork for this fic.  I think this carried me through a solid 2 more chapters before I stalled again. 

3. A friend in a writers' discord group that I was part of recommended the website 4thewords.com as being a fun way to kind of gameify the writing process and to break a large task down into smaller and more manageable parts.  I'd heard of it before, but I didn't realize there was a free version.  Using that has been a lifesaver for me in terms of completing not just this fic but honestly anything involving writing these past few months. 

4. The incredible @nyctolovian who had been my beta when I first started writing the fic was willing to come back and beta read the rest of the chapters after I started it again, and gave me some really good feedback on what worked and what didn't in terms of plot and characterization. 

5. Several people in the @themagnuswriters Discord helped me brainstorm ideas for the ending of this fic, which was the part I was stuck on the hardest and longest.

6. The wonderful @prairiedawn beta read the last two chapters in a single day and helped me get over the last hurdle to finally reach the finish line. 

7. Several people commented on the fic, and a few of them commented on multiple chapters, highlighting their favorite parts or speculating about what might happen next.  It really made me feel like this fic was worth writing, that there were people who appreciated it and wanted to see more of it, in spite of all its imperfections. 

[beauty-and-passion]

TMA - Chapters 1-10: The beginning and everything I didn’t expect to see

Hello, everyone.

As promised, here is the first post with my impressions regarding chapters 1-10.

Let’s not waste too much time here: there is a lot to say and I’ll leave my final impression for the end of this post. For now, let's start.

<< Main masterlist

_______________________________

MAG 1: Angler Fish

Well, that’s not what I expected.

So this series doesn't have a continuative plot, but it’s rather a “monster-of-the-week” situation. However, I don’t think it will be just like that: I’m quite sure a plot will come in the future. But since it’s not coming for now, I think the option I chose (i.e. commenting this series 10 chapters at a time) is perfect. This way, I can easily keep track of my favorite statements!

I also appreciate the small introduction. So we have a place: the Magnus Institute. I suppose this is the “library” I vaguely remembered. And we also have a person: Jonathan Sims, our maybe-protagonist. And we have Martin too! And Sasha and Tim! I have no idea who they are, but I’m looking forward to knowing them.

All I got for now, is that Jonathan (who I will surely call Jon from now on, because his name is too long) is kind of a skeptic. Clichè, but I accept it: this is a horror/supernatural series, so he will probably change his mind when he will face the real shit.

And speaking of the genre, glad to know that this story is horror/supernatural. I’m not a huge fan of horror, but I like to be surprised/scared/creeped out in creative ways.

And this first statement… fails to do that. Sorry to say that, but the story is kinda meh. The supernatural element is just here and it’s not very scary. Fine, the mysterious figure is probably just the bait of a supernatural shit we don’t see, but it’s weak. And the association with the anglerfish isn’t enough to creep me, nor creative enough to surprise me.

I hope the next statement will be better.

_______________________________

MAG 2: Do Not Open

Yep, that’s much more interesting.

I like that the wooden coffin doesn’t do anything you might expect from a coffin in a supernatural story. The scratching was still kind of clichè, but I didn’t expect the singing in the rain. Or the “dream possession” or whatever it was that weird power that tried to trick Mr. Gillespie into opening the coffin.

It was also kinda funny to follow his misadventures in dealing with it. And understandable too: my man doesn’t want to open the weird coffin, so he will do everything to not open the weird coffin.

Honestly, same: I am a wimp and if someone delivered some weird shit in my place, I wouldn’t be so stupid to go face-first into it. Curiosity might be strong, but my will to live is stronger.

_______________________________

MAG 3 - Across The Street

That’s another interesting statement.

First, you think it will be about Graham and his journals, then there’s the weird hypnotic table with the missing piece, then Not-Graham. There are a lot of things here and they’re all creepy and interesting and I want to know more about them. Could there be a follow-up to this story? Or, at least, to its mysteries? It would be very cool to read another story and find the missing piece of that table. Or one of Graham’s journals. Or to see Not-Graham again. It would be fun. I hope there are follow-ups.

About the supernatural stuff: I couldn’t really understand what the arm-y thing-y was, so it wasn’t exactly scary, but more… bizarre? And a bit meh. It was just a black arm-y thing-y after all.

What really crept me out was Not-Graham casually saying: “Hey Amy, we live so close to each other, what a weird coincidence! Maybe I’ll pay you a visit.”. THAT was creepy as fuck and I loved it.

_______________________________

MAG 4 - Page Turner

I vaguely remember the name Leitner, so I have high hopes we will see more of his books in the future. After all, this statement looks more like an introduction to him and his books, rather than a self-contained story about Random Weird Thing no. 247.

Maybe we won’t see Ex Altiora anymore, but other books… why not? Also, Jonathan knows about Leitner and asked to search more of his books, so maybe we will see more of them.

By itself, the story is good at introducing the weirdness of these books through the equally weird figure of the Keays. I feel there’s still a lot to find out about Mary Keay’s murder, her existence, her place and her connection with Sanskrit. I want to know more about her.

And I want to know more about Gerard Keay too. Will we see him again in the future? I hope so: I feel like he has still a lot to say.

I also noticed a guy named Michael. Will we see more of him too? Is he the same Michael I’ve heard about? Or is there another Michael? Can’t wait to find out.

_______________________________

MAG 5 - Thrown Away

I don’t think this statement is creepy, but rather, a great example of weird.

There is nothing truly scary here, only weird. And I love this kind of weird. Every new trash bag is a surprise and the surprises are not gore-y, bloody, or clichè with the sole purpose of shocking you. The stuff inside is harmless, just… immensely weird: a long paper strip covered with the Our Father prayer, a huge bag full of teeth that are all of the same tooth… that’s not dangerous stuff, just weird. Unexpected. And, therefore, very cool.

The metal heart was a great choice too: just like all other findings is not disgusting nor gore-y, but it serves its purpose perfectly. You look at it and you know Alan is dead. I love it when creativity is used so well.

I also noticed there is another Michael here. Is he the same Michael mentioned in the previous story? Or another Michael? How many Michaels are in this series? XD

_______________________________

MAG 6 - Squirm

Another meh statement: a mysterious girl is feeling very sick, then she basically explodes into worms. Kind of a backlash, going from the delicious, subtle weird of the previous story to the disgusting stuff of this one.

However, I can understand Mr. Hodge: if my room was packed with worms, I would’ve burned the whole house down too.

Also, it looks like Jon knows this woman in red. Will we see Jane Prentiss again? Or more of her victims? No, of course I don’t want your answers: the series will tell me ;)

_______________________________

MAG 7 - The Piper

A simple war tale, starring a supernatural element, the Piper. I don’t find it particularly scary, but rather a melancholic figure. Sure, it’s a bit eerie and mysterious, but not particularly interesting - not for me, at least.

The story isn’t particularly captivating either. It’s just here and it screams “filler”. Or maybe not? After all, Jon remembers the name Joseph Rayner, so we will see another story featuring this guy?

_______________________________

MAG 8 - Burned Out

There’s a lot of stuff here - maybe even too much. First, Mr. Lensik’s father and fractals and math and the mysterious guy with “all the bones in his hands”. Then Mr. Raymond Fielding and Agnes, the disappeared kid, the missing hand, the tree, the green apple with spiders… woah, woah, slow down! What are all these things? Should I remember all of them? Are they all important? I feel like I already forgot something while writing them down!

Honestly, this huge number of peculiar elements is very distracting, because it gets all of the reader’s attention and takes it away from the story itself. A story that, if we reduce it to basics, what’s truly about? A man meets a ghost and pulls down a tree. Not exactly the most exciting thing ever.

Now, I’m not saying that a story with multiple digressions is bad. It just needs an extremely good writer and A LOT of time and space to properly develop everything, because it would be too easy to “forget” the story and get lost into all the digressions.

So, considering these statements are all short, I would rather avoid too many elements and keep them as simple as possible, focusing more on the story itself and adding just one or two recurring elements.

_______________________________

MAG 9 - A Father’s Love

Another meh story. Some elements are interesting, like the necklace with the hand and closed eye related to the Church of the Divine Host and the mysterious something that blows out every lightbulb. But yeah, from the moment it was mentioned that the father had a shed, I knew he was doing some supernatural circle/prayer/whatever.

A simple story, but nothing truly amazing about it.

_______________________________

MAG 10 - Vampire Killer

Seriously, every time there is a meh statement, a great one follows up. And if it’s not great, it’s extremely interesting. Or, like in this case, it’s surprising.

I mean, a statement titled “Vampire Killer”? I expected the same old tale about seductive vampires burning out in the sunlight.

But nope, this story offered a new vision of vampires. Even better, it did it by putting these details into the story, in a great example of show don’t tell.

I really like that the vampires' characteristics are so… bestial. Shark-like teeth, a leech’s tongue and no ability to talk: it’s new, it’s cool, it’s interesting and I would love to see fanarts of them (once I’ll finish the whole series).

I also appreciate that they burn like crisps, because without blood (i.e. a liquid), they dry out: so, not only it justifies why they drink blood and not eat solid food, but also why they burn so easily. It’s cool, it’s logical, it’s creative: I love it.

Oh-oh, am I also noticing a small hint of doubt in Jon’s words? Is he starting to think these statements are not just silly stories made by insane people/mythomaniacs? Didn’t expect him to start so soon, but I suppose a lot of things will happen in the near future and he needs the right state of mind to face them.

_______________________________

In conclusion

My first overall impression is positive: this series looks promising and I want to read more statements. Sure, my impression is based on 10 chapters out of 200 (so basically nothing) and on all the assumptions I made while reading. I don’t know if there will be a continuative plot, I don’t know if the characters of these stories will return and I don’t know if something huge will come in the future. I am just assuming these things, based on my experience as an “art-forms-enjoyer”.

I just hope I am right and that, while being right about these things, the series itself will keep surprising me with creative ideas. I would be very sad if my assumptions were correct, but the quality of the statements gets worse and worse. Please, keep being creative! More surprising stories and less “meh” stuff!

That’s all for now. I’ll come back very soon with the next post about chapters 11-20.

>> Next post

(How about a coffee? ☕)

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[justatiredghost]

No Freedom from Knowing ch4

The general mistrust of magic as well as dangerous people in his past kept Jonathan Sims isolated, hidden away where he hoped he might finally be safe. Until he met someone who might be worth shattering that peace for.

ao3

-

John was nervous. He didn’t really know why, this was a practical item, it wasn’t really a gift. Still, he’d made the item himself and there were connotations that Martin might realize and the implications therein and— John just felt much too exposed when he thought about it, so he tried not to. 

He’d been hiding in the attic for a while now, where he kept his more dangerous items locked away for safekeeping, referencing everything he could to ensure he was using the correct rune. When he finally descended through the little trap door in the ceiling of the main room, it was to find Martin reading by the fire. Martin glanced up to smile warmly at him, and John was all too aware that his own returning smile probably looked more like a grimace. Martin was kind enough not to comment.  

“I’ve been meaning to give you something,” John said, sitting down beside him, perched on the edge like he was ready to flee at a moment’s notice. He knew he was being ridiculous. 

“Oh?” Martin set aside his book and turned to face him, waiting patiently. Why was he always so patient with him?

“Here,” he said, unceremoniously thrusting the necklace out to him. 

It was a simple thing, a glass bead shaped like a teardrop; what he imagined to be a crude combination of the Lonely as well as the domain where his own powers lay, under the Eye. It was infuriating how almost poetic it was, the strange rules this all worked on. At least symbolism extended beyond just poetry, but he imagined that would be the part of this Martin was drawn to most. 

“Wow,” Martin said, closely examining it. Glassforming wasn’t exactly a technique John excelled in, but he was still proud of it. ”Is it magic?”

“That’s— a hard question to answer,” John said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes and no?”

“What is that even supposed to mean?” Martin laughed. 

“I guess it has the magic we give it. If you accept it,” John said, ducking his head to avoid eye contact. “Sometimes that’s just how magic works. Dream logic. It can be a reminder that you’re not alone, though. Sometimes that’s enough, to get you out of a place like the Lonely.”

“Oh,” Martin said, smiling at him so fondly it broke his heart. No one should look at him like that. “That’s very kind of you.”

“I’d recommend avoiding the whole situation if at all possible. I’ve never had the opportunity to test. It wouldn’t have worked on me before without, you know, connections. I’m fairly certain it will work,” he added hastily. “For the same reason being near someone, someone you know, helps when you’re feeling the pull. You know, feeling particularly lonely. It’s just— better to avoid the risk altogether. I just don’t want you stuck out there with nothing if you do run into something in the forest again.”

He was babbling, he knew he was, but he was having a hard time getting himself to stop. Martin was just listening to him patiently as he slipped the necklace over his head, letting the teardrop rest against his chest before reaching out to take John’s hand in his when he finally managed to shut his mouth. 

“Thank you.”

John just nodded dumbly, looking down at their linked hands, memorizing where they touched, feeling like the warmth was spreading from there up his arm and all through him. The cold returned much too quickly when he released him. 

“So, do I just— hold it tight and think of you, then?” Martin asked with a teasing grin. 

“O-or, you know, anyone,” John stammered, feeling his face burning. “Anyone you’re close to. Or care about. Or—“

He trailed off, horrified by the words coming out of his mouth, and Martin laughed. It wasn’t a cruel laugh, not at all. It was full of fondness and settled some of the anxiety in John’s chest and he was grateful for it. 

“Do you think it would work for you now?” Martin asked, and John mentally took that all back, he took back every nice thing he’d ever thought  about this terrible man, putting him on the spot like that. 

“Y-yes,” John managed, although he was sure his glare was completely ineffectual. “I rather think it would, now. With you.” Because he felt closer to him. Because he cared about him. Those were the words that were left unsaid between them. They didn’t need to be spoken out loud to be heard. 

They were silent for a while, Martin looking much too pleased as he examined the glass in the firelight. There was a gentleness In his eyes too, though; a fragility that John was sure he mirrored. For his part, John was growing much more aware of how close they were sitting together on the couch. 

They’d started off on opposite sides, pressed against the arms of the sofa as much as possible. Now, they were nearly touching, resting much more casually. The couch wasn’t that big, so it kept them close regardless, but neither of them needed to be over quite this far. He had no intention of moving.  

“You know,” Martin said. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen you do magic. Does this count?”

“I suppose not,” John said thoughtfully. 

“Oh!” Martin said suddenly. “I’m sorry, is that too personal? We don’t have to talk about this, forget I said anything.”

“No, it’s— it’s fine,” John said. This was getting into dangerous territory, but he trusted Martin. He did. He had to forcefully remind himself as a thrill of panic shot through him. He was so used to this topic being as good as a death sentence, but he was safe here. With Martin. He had to be. “I’m not all that good at it, really. And my particular skills aren’t exactly useful in day-to-day activities.”

“See,” Martin joked, “the first spell I would have learned would be ‘clean dishes,’ but everyone has their own priorities.”

John surprised himself with a genuine bark of laughter at that. “Unfortunately, I don't think it works like that.”

“You’re really not selling me on magic, John. Is it really worth it if it can’t do chores for you?”

“No, it’s not,” he replied, much too seriously. Because it really wasn’t. It had destroyed his life. No, he had destroyed his own life, with his inability to see the big picture, to stop and ask why instead of ceaselessly looking for answers that hadn’t solved anything in the end anyway. He certainly wasn’t better off for knowing. 

“Oh,” Martin said at the sudden shift in mood. 

He reached out, hesitantly, slowly enough that John could react if he wanted, and placed his hand over John’s a second time. It was a comforting weight, warm and solid, and he couldn’t help but stare at where their hands were linked for a long moment. He took a shuddering breath and turned his hand over, wrapping his fingers around Martin’s. He would need the strength it gave him to continue.  

“There are things out there,” John said slowly.  “Hungry things that feed on fear. That’s where my magic comes from. That’s where the monsters come from. I’m not sure there’s much good it can do in the world. I think it was mainly made to harm, and I’ve done more than enough of that in my life. I don’t want to hurt anyone else.” 

“I don’t know if it helps, but you’ve already done more for me than you could ever imagine.”

“All I did was patch you up,” John rolled his eyes. 

“You know those things that live in the forest, you know that isn’t completely true. I think getting killed by one is the kindest thing they can do to you.”

“You’re right about that,” John sighed.

“And that’s without even touching on— y-your friendship,” Martin said, carefully, like John was a stray cat that might spook at any moment. “What it means to me.”

“You should know,” John said, looking down, not wanting to see the change in his expression that was likely to come. He kept his grip on Martin’s hand loose, so he could pull his hand away if the disgust got to be too much. “What they say about us, about anyone who uses magic, isn’t completely wrong. The idea of witchcraft is absurd, of course. Selling your soul to some sort of demon? Preposterous.”

Martin nodded with an apprehensive smile as he waited for him to continue, giving a quick squeeze to his hand and that really shouldn’t have helped as much as it did. 

“But I made every choice that brought me to this point because I had to know more about this world of magic I’d stumbled into. It didn’t matter how many warning signs I saw, how everyone I heard about ended up dead or traumatized. By the time I really understood what I’d gotten involved in, it was too late, I was in too deep. There was no one who would help me.”

”I’m sure someone would have,” Martin insisted. It didn’t sound like he was doubting John exactly. Moreso it was as if he was trying to reassure, promising that if things had been different, he wouldn’t have turned his back on him. It didn’t change the way things had gone, though. 

“I tried. They threw me out.”

“What? That’s horrible!” Martin exclaimed, his hand squeezing again, almost protectively. 

“They believe you can’t be tricked into selling your soul. They were sure I had to have chosen this.” And because he was absolutely pathetic, he felt the need to defend himself, as if that could possibly salvage the image Martin was no doubt developing of him. “That isn’t how it works, obviously. No decision is ever so cut and dry, but that doesn’t change the fact that the magic did change me. I think I might have lost some of my humanity along the way. I don’t even really know what that means, but that hardly matters. It terrifies me, but I’m well on my way to becoming a monster, and using the magic makes me worse. And that’s all they see me as, now.”

“I’m sorry,” Martin said. 

John looked up at him in surprise, and the judgment he thought he’d see there was missing. Everyone else seemed to think he had committed an unforgivable crime, and yet it didn’t seem to change Martin’s opinion of him at all. His eyes were still just as soft, no harshness or revulsion to be found. 

“Don’t be,” John said at last, with a sigh, looking away again. “I guess I should be thankful they didn’t try to burn me at the stake, or something. Leaving me beaten and unconscious in the wilderness was a kindness, really.”

“That’s hardly a kindness.”

“You didn’t know Elias; where I’m from, the town did. After finding out everything he’d done, all the people he led to their deaths, I can’t say I blame them.”

“Is that how you got your scars?“

“That’s how I got my bad leg, but no. The scars have been collected over the years; some from the things like the ones living in the forest because I was sticking my nose where it didn’t belong,” here he ran his hands along his pockmarked skin, shuddering at the memory of too many tiny slithering bodies and how he’d barely escaped with his life. “And others, well. Most people aren’t exactly thrilled to see me, even if they aren’t acquainted with Elias. And if they show up here like you did, they’re already terrified and ready to lash out. Can’t say I blame them. I’ve been told even before the magic that I’m very off putting. And an asshole. I doubt that helps my case.” Here he touched his neck, where a neat slash had faded into a pale scar; that had been one of his closer encounters with death. 

Martin was silent for a moment before he spoke again, bringing his other hand up to grip John’s between both of his. “You didn’t deserve that. Any of it. And you don’t deserve to be alone out here.”

“What would you know about it?” John snapped bitterly, and immediately regretted it. Why did he always do that? Why did he always have to lash out? He hated himself in this moment more than he usually did and he bit his lip, trying to stop the vitriol Martin certainly didn’t deserve. 

But Martin didn’t pull away. He didn’t flinch or sneer or leave, any of the things he would be completely justified in doing. And John just stared at him. He watched the way the firelight played across his features, how his jaw was set, determined. He wasn’t going to take the bait. He had chosen to care, to stay, and he would continue to do so. 

And— John believed him. For whatever reason, this man had encountered what was supposed to be the epitome of evil and had come to a different conclusion. John had no idea what he saw in him and was too afraid to ask. He already knew how alone Martin had felt all his life. Maybe the world had made him feel like an outcast too, maybe it had made him feel beyond love. His heart ached at the injustice of it all.

“I’m sorry,” John said eventually, because he had to say something, and it was the only way he knew how to take back the words he’d said. 

“It’s okay,” Martin said, and his smile was so soft, so kind, and John knew he didn’t deserve it, his mind screamed with it, but Martin apparently wouldn’t listen. 

He wanted to explain more, to lay everything out so Martin would see that he wasn’t worth this, but the words got stuck in his throat. He was scared, he’d always been a coward. He so desperately wished he could be the person Martin seemed to think he was, so he stayed silent. 

Martin shifted on the couch, resting his head on John’s shoulder deliberately, choosing to be close to a person tainted by magic, who had lost at least some of what made him human, and John squeezed his hand, wanting to reciprocate more but completely unable to. He leaned his head against’s Martin’s and hoped he understood.  

[nonbinarylocalcryptid]

MAG12 - First Aid, more review time

GERARD KEAY! HOW DARE YOU HANG OUT WITH THAT CULT! I AM ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED! YOUR ARCHIVIST IS NOW FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK, AND IT'S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT! IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE, WE'LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT HOME!

This episode may not be scary, but I must say that it's mysterious and it's hilarious. I'll explain in a minute.

Gerard Keay is the Batman of TMA, he would get along with Dean Winchester like a house on fire and he deserves his own movie, hell, a tv show. I mean, he lives in an action movie, what the fuck is he doing in this episode in Christmas Eve??? All he has was a suit, a zippo with an eye on it, a long black coat and was being basically a goddamn hero???

Dude's crazy and we love him for that

Quotes for this one:

Ms Saraki is not a poet nor she's dramatic, so I don't have much to comment from her. Every single paranormal bit had me like "sis, run" at every turn. Mad respect for her.

"There’s obviously a lot to unpack here, so let’s start with what is provable." - Jon "I hate my job" Sims, April 17th 2016

Sometimes I want to stranggle him, wtf you mean "provable" Jonathan???

“Veepalach” might also be a mishearing of the Polish word “wypalać”, according to Martin, which means to cauterize or brand. Admittedly, if Martin speaks Polish in the same way he “speaks Latin,” then he might be talking nonsense again, but I’ve looked it up and it appears to check out." - Jon "You must be proffessional at work" Sims

Emotional constipation strikes again!

"It has not escaped my notice that this is the second time Gerard Keay has turned up in this Archive." - Jon Sims, completely unaware of everything

"(...) and if we’re lucky maybe we already have a statement from him tucked away somewhere in these damn files." - Jon Sims about Gerard Keay

yeah, a statement from Gerry, i know how that would be:

JURGEN LEITNER? STUPID IDIOT MOTHERFUCKING JURGEN LEITENER GOD DAMN FOOL BOOK COLLECTING DUST EATING RAT OLD BASTARD SHITHEAD IDIOT AVATAR OF THE WHORE BIGGEST CLOWN IN THE CIRCUS LAUGHED OUT OF TOWN COWBOY MOTHERFUCKING JURGEIN LEITNER STOP PINNING ME WHEN I TALK ABOUT JURGEIN LEITENER I HATE HIM SO MUCH WHY DOES HE HAVE SO MANY FUCKED UP BOOKS WHY DID HE DECIDE TO FUCK AROUND AND FIND OUT---

"At 03:11:22, it shows everybody in that room, which I personally counted at twenty-eight people, standing up and calmly filing out of the doors. (...) The rest of the staff and patients do not return until 03:27:12, over fifteen minutes after they left, when they walk back in through the same doors. The footage does not contain any sound, and no alarm of any sort was recorded, so I cannot offer any guess as to why they left, or what they were doing in the intervening time." - Jon Sims, scared af

notice how he "personally counted all 28 people", woah, I liked this bit soooooo much.

"There is one other thing that Sasha highlighted, however. At 03:22:52, the feed cuts out for less than a second, and is replaced for a single frame by a close-up of a human eye, staring back through the video feed." - Also Jon

wtf wtf wtf wtf wtf

General overview:

Vibe: great, absolutely great, wtf gerry

Horror: spoooooooooky

Audio: pretty ASMR in general

Humour: just the facts, and Jon being neurodivergent

Score: 10/10

[a-weird-cryptid]

Not all is holy

A Magnus Archives based story/fanfic

Statement of Father Thomas Bright, regarding a confession made at the London Oratory. Original statement given January 14th, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head achivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins:

I worked at the London Oratory for over 30 years by now, taking over the position as a priest a few years ago, and I never had any issues with the confessions people made in the confessional. Sure, some might have been harder to handle than others, but nothing was particularly odd about them. The strangest thing I've heard until that point was a woman confessing me about her unhealthy obsession with buying expensive items and how it tore her marriage apart. She asked for advise and well, I gave some to her. Just like I always did. I was never one to judge the things I've been told. Simply accepting the story I was given, commenting on it, comforting whoever sat next to me, giving advice and so on...

That is until a few months ago. I believe it was on the 17th of November, 2012. A particular cold and busy Sunday. I still remember how exhausted I was from the day, even after the stressful part was over and all that was left to do is some preparation and organisation for the next few days.

It was already way past closing and confession time, I'd say around 08:00 pm, when I heard the heavy front door opening. I just assumed it had been the wind, since it started to pick up a lot during the last few hours. Even though I was sure I locked the door. But then I heard footsteps coming closer. I was concerned by that point, but I didn't though much of it. Still busy by my work I kindly told, whoever entered, that the church was closed and it would reopen the next morning at 7:30 am. But the footsteps were getting closer nonetheless. By this point more frustrated than concerned, I decided to make my way to the entrance, but to my surprise, I couldn't find anyone in there.

When I work overtime and alone in my church, I usually keep most lights on. Without them, it always makes the inside of the building look creepier than it already is. With all it's almost lifelike statues, that seems to stare right into my soul... Even after working there for so long, I still didn't get used to them.

I looked around, checked if somebody was hiding anywhere. I wasn't afraid, just... confused... I still couldn't find anyone, but there was this strange feeling of a presence. The same you get when you're watched behind your back. It felt strong and intimidating, sending shivers down my spine. I should have known that something was extremely off about the situation back then and there. But I just shrugged it off, blaming it on pure paranoia and the still open door with the wind whistling though it.

I made my way to it, my first few steps being unsure, but getting more confident the closer I got. As I shut down the door, locking it to make sure it couldn't open again, I started to second guess if that was a good idea... Still feeling this odd presence... Like an unspoken threat... Something that clearly means no good...

Being the believer I am, I quickly made a prayer, asking God for my protection, before moving on to go back to my paperwork. But I still couldn't shake off this sudden feeling. Of hopelessness... Perhaps even regret... Though I had no clue where it was coming from.

The presence continued to move, though this time without making a sound. And as it did, it seemed to pull me closer. As if I was attached to it with invisible strings. Slowly but surely, it made it's way towards the confessional, stopping as soon as it got inside. By this point, I decided to follow it, with a few feet of distance away from it at all times. Looking back, I don't even know why. It almost felt like my feet were going on their own... Or rather controlled by the presence...

The door of the confessional slowly closed. With a loud creaking, that echoed from the walls. Almost sounding like a choir. And I could have sworn at that very moment, I could hear the organ play ever so slightly...

It reminded me of Isaiah 6:1-4. In which Isiah described the throne of God, surrounded by an angelic choir, made out of seraphim, singing the same lines over and over again. They were the closest to the Lord, but I could tell for sure that the presence couldn't have been an angel. Or at least not anymore...

But then again, angels don't say "be not afraid" every time they appear to humans for no reason, so I thought. Leading to me making the foolish decision to sit down at the other side of the confessional. I had already convinced myself by that point that this must be a sign of God, a test, to see if my faith was still worthy. It needed my entire willpower to convince myself that I was in no harm, considering I was on holy ground and believing that an angelic being was sent to me. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Only after I closed the small door, I realized that the presence, whatever it was, must have tempted me to get in there, it already being too late to change my mind at that point. When I tried to open the door again, I was shocked to realize that it wouldn't open. Not locked by a key, or something standing in front of it... But held close by the pure willpower of what was next to me. I don't know how to explain how I knew it. I just did...

Of course I started to panic by that point, banging against the door, begging it to be opened again. To no avail.

That is when the presence first spoke to me. "Be not afraid.", it said, though I was certain it wasn't an angelic being by that time. I could hear it's voice echoing though my mind, giving me a headache, but it came equally loud from everywhere around me. Feeling like it filled up the entirety of the building. The church shook as it spoke, like during an earthquake, taking out all of the lights, leaving me in total darkness. I could hear how parts of the ceiling crashed on the floor, leaving dents in the wood and shattering the stone in the progress. I hold onto the wooden cabin for dear life, my heart pounding in my chest almost as loudly as the voice from the presence.

It was surprisingly calm though, I dare to say charming, even... In a way that made you feel lured in and tempted to follow whatever command it gives. Welcoming and warm, like a mother with open arms... Only making me even more cautious about whatever it was sitting next to me...

I tried to collect myself, holding tightly onto my cross I wore as a necklace, hoping that the Lord has heard my prayer, protecting me. My entire body was shivering, but not because of any cold. In fact, it was starting to get warmer. At first, I didn't notice it and if I did, I surely didn't payed attention to it. My entire body started to sweat. Just a little bit at the beginning, but then it got worse, as if I had a particular bad fever.

It was in that moment, that I decided to proceed like I normally would, asking the presence what's bothering it. My voice was mumbled and quiet. Unsure and hesitan. But the one next to me seemed to have understood it nonetheless.

It answered me, bringing the church to crumble down further in the progress and worsening my headache.

It told me about the war against God, the betrayel of his friend it lead to... And about the regret it feels for it. The shame... The sorrow... The pain that came with all of it... I almost felt sorry for it, if it wasn't for the unbearable becoming heat in the cabin and the feeling of the walls around me getting closer while the ceiling was crashing down on me.

I could feel that my hands burned badly. Just like any other skin exposed or otherwise. Peeling of my flesh, as if I had the worst sun burn of my life. I felt like I was burned alive, stuck in an ever getting smaller space.

I never had any problems with the size of the confessional, but during that moment, it felt like I had no place to move in, no place to get rid of the burning hot walls, them only tightening around me, taking away my space to breath.

Then the presence told me about the fall of Lucifer. And the, quite literally, hell of a place all of those fallen angels, lost souls, ended up in.

"But you already know all about hell and suffering, isn't that right, Father Thomas?.", it's voice echoed. I still remember the laughter that came after it, sadistic and cruel, like it was enjoying the pain it was inflicting on me. I don't know what I believe was scarier. It, or the fact that it knew who I was without me ever mentioning it. But I can't say I'm surprised.

As I cried in pain, begging for it to stop the torture, watching as black skin paled off my body, smoke started to come from my surroundings. If I didn't knew it any better, I'd even say myself. Like acid it burned in my eyes, filling up every inch of my lungs and eventually body. Caughing didn't helped either, only worsening the effect.

Then, the presence said something about advice, but I couldn't hear it anymore. Desperately trying to keep myself alive and stop my robe from catching on fire.

But the deal it offered me next I could hear loud and clear. My place in heaven, it return for me getting out of there alive. Without hesitation I agreed to the deal, just wanting for it all to end. For the overwhelming pain and heat to stop.

And it did.

Just like that I found myself back in the normal confessional. With the only evidence of it ever burning being a few marks and a faint smell of smoke. The lights were back on, as I could tell from the small gaps of the cabin's wood. I examined my skin, discovering that the burns were mostly gone, only leaving a few nasty ones here and there. Nothing of the blackened, peeled skin remaining.

When I tried to open the small door, I noticed it being unlocked again. Slowly I made my way out of the confessional, with my legs still shaking. I still felt the presence, though this time it seemed to come from the ceiling. I could hear the flapping of wings coming from the same direction. Then I heard a window glass shatter and caught a glimpse of what could only be described as a rotting angel. Before the presence was gone for good, leaving me standing alone in the church.

I didn't quite know what to do at this point, so I decided cleaning up the mess was as good as anything else. I also treated my left over burns with some wine, usually stored in the church for festival events. It wasn't the best desinfectant, for sure, but it was better than leaving the open wounds untreated. I believe my mind was too overwhelmed to comprehend what happened at that moment. All of the damage this... angel looking like devil... had done to the church was gone, as if nothing had happened.

After getting rid of the glass shards, I made my way to the confessional again. Trying my best to get rid of the burn marks. Which was surprisingly easy.

There was something else I should probably mention. When I checked the cabin the presence sat in, I found a large, white feather. Assumingly from it's wings... Which I decided to bring for... Well... This statement as well for further investigation...

Statement ends.

Well... this surely was unsettling. After questioning Father Thomas further, he stated that this incident was one of a kind and no further strange things happened during his work ever since. Though he seemed strangely exhausted when giving the statement, as if he didn't sleep properly for days, according to the staff.

Personally, I believe that the incident was most likely caused by just that. Exhaustion, a lot of stress and a lack of sleep over a long period of time. As well as the abuse of alcohol, more specifically wine. Said combination leading to those extreme hallucinations.

One of the staff members also reported to see some scarring on Father Thomas' arms. The type of which can only be created by a fourth-degree-burn left untreated by a doctor. The priest is also reported to be extremely interested in our further research. More so than most others giving statements. A few files about demonology, demonic possessions and exorcisms were stolen from the Archive, the day the statement was given, though the police found no evidence for Father Thomas to be responsible for it.

I can't say if this strengthens the evidence and truth of the statement given by him, though I think it's an oddly coincidence for sure.

I let Sasha do some research about the local news reports of earthquakes during that time, as well as any other reports of the London Oratory being destroyed.

Besides a few renovations that were made to replace and strengthen part of the churchs, damage that has mostly been made by time, she returned empty handed. No records or any kind point to the incident Father Thomas described.

Though one document of a renovation, made on December 1st, 2012, states that one of the windows of the dome had to be replaced, due to it being shattered. Most likely due to it being frozen and therefore easier to break. Assumedly done so by some kind of bird, since a few blood strains and feathers were found stuck on the remaining glass. All of which were white and of various sizes. The zoologist department of King's Collage confirmed that the ones found at the window match the one sealed in a plastic bag, which was given to us by Father Thomas after ending his statement. They didn't match any currently known species.

Personally, I don't believe this case needs any further investigation, but Tim seemed to be thrilled when the topic "architecture of the church" was brought up, although it was quick to fade when I explained to him that it was not one from Robert Smirk's design.

Nether the less, he insisted on getting some reevaluation on the case, so I just sent Martin. Though I most definitely believe it is just a waste of time.

End recording.

Author's Note:

Thank you so much if you've read so far!

I wanna give a HUGE shout-out to my friend, @sarah-kings, who helped me a lot with the final version of this story and it's titel, giving a lot of constructive criticism to my first draft. And even writing a bit for me, at the end of the story, regarding the part with Tim wanting to further investigate. Since I'm not too familiar with all of the different characters of TMA yet, only being at episode 18 of the first season (no spoilers please!). But I still wanted to include them.

I also want to thank them for continuing to drag me into this fandom. I listen to 2 or 3 episodes months, or even years ago. But never got really into it, since I didn't though it to be too interesting at first. But they told me it gets better, so I really hope it's worth to keep going.

Furthermore, I want to add that I wrote this fanfic in a way that makes it plausible for it to be canon in my own stories as well. If you're somewhat familiar with the Ocs I've introduced so far, you might even be able to put all of the puzzle pieces together. I will most likely add Father Thomas Bright to my official Oc list for the very same reasons.

For more original series, as well as reviews, discussions and similar, check out my master list of series.

[marlasomething]

JonDaisy Week D.1 - Somewhere Here P.2: The Mortal Painting

Previous Chapter

Summary:  After turning the world back, only Daisy and Jon manage to survive. Now,  together, they will have to learn to let go of their guilt and to grief  but also to live.

Relationships: Jonathan “Jon” Sims/Alice “Daisy” Tonner

Prompts: Share a fic or art + Art of a fanfic (for @jondaisy-week​). or this one, I got boost another piece of art, so I am going to recommend "Just Let Me Listen" by thatlilgayboy. I read it a few months ago and forgot even to leave a comment on because I am TERRIBLE. Twisted kind, really nice!!!!

Word count: 374

CW:   these two have clearly visible trauma

Also on AO3!

If there was something Daisy would have never thought to discover about Jon, it was that he draw. At least, he used to. To be precise, he did so back in university, taking into account the date on the drawing. She had unpacked it from one of the very few boxes they had taken to their new, ridiculously small, apartment in Cork. She believed it was likely the drawing had been misplaced by a Jon that was still adjusting to a mind that was merely human.

“Is that Dante with a dead girl… talking ?” she commented severely, out loud, falling into her former police’s customs.

“Her name is Beatrice” Jon’s voice was becoming less rough than it had ever been before, just as his looks was begging to seem less in the raggedy side. “She was…uh… Dante’s crush . All art and even The Divine Comedy itself only spoke about her beauty and her niceness but…there was no real reason for connexion to Dante. For him to be so in love ” he shrugged. “It made no sense at the time. Now, well, I kind of get it. But, back in uni, I wanted them to talk, to have something I could justify building a mutual attraction between them. I am not much of a writer…more a mere narrator but…I could draw, I used no be…not to brag, but rather not bad at it”.

“You could draw again” she said. “You could draw our Them . You could draw…us” he raised an eyebrow.

“ Us ?”

“Yes, me trying not to hit the racist shit we have as a landlord. You, discovering you can actually be pedantic in a practical way that people like” he scoffed.

“Let’s talk once I am been fired for the library”.

She stared at him for a second more than expected.

“Basira was right, you can be funny”.

He didn’t answer, but sat next to the open box. His eyes were lost again, and his hand had begun moving over the floor, conforming figures. She thought about sitting, but it felt as a too much of a personal moment.

Still, she knew she would come back. After all, there were a lot of conversations to be had.

[iris-echos]

Me on new years eve 2024 with blackbox warrior-okultra (true story actually that i would very much like to tell)

Yknow what fuck it under the cut imma put the story which is basically my origin story as a will wood fan

Okay so once upon a time there was a genderfluid rat motherfucker named echo

Hi. Thats me.

Uhhhhhh

So yeah being genderfluid there are a R I D I C U L O U S amount of us who are will wood fans so i had a couple pretty well known songs in some playlists (i/me/myself, the main character, thermodynamic lawyer)

Im also a magnus archives fan which is a fandom with A SHIT TON of will wood music used in edits and tt audios and whatever you can think of a fandom using a song for THEY HAD THAT WITH A WILL WOOD SONG

Now this journey of mine began... december (???) of 2023

In my tiktok scrolling i came across a sildeshow of someones "which will wood song are you" result and the little blurb under the result said something aling the lines of "are you a jonathan sims kinnie by chance?" Which made the creator mention they didn't know who that was and the comment section spiral (haha its a tma joke get it) into disbelief at a wwattw fan not knowing magpod

This played on my mind a bit because id heard a few songs and they were pretty good so i thought id listen to them sometime

Flash forwards to new years eve. My house was full of relatives my parents had given me permission to hang out upstairs by myself

I decided to give this will wood fellow a listen

I found a discography playlist, put if on shuffle and oh shit not only is his lyricism captivating some of the songs have SCREAMING (also i was wearing headphones which whole other level dude)

Now i love metal, i love punk (especially the loud shit)

So what else was i to do then scour spotify for playlists of loud ass will wood songs and then i found it

"CHAOTIC WILL WOOD"

Well who would i be to refuse?

I put that on shuffle and after a few songs i heard it

Piano. Faster than most guitar riffs. Holy fuck i kid you not this was the moment my life changed.

BlackBox Warrior - OKULTRA

I would finish that song and swipe right back to the start

I listened to that on loop for –and i shit you not– at lease FOUR FUCKING HOURS

From 10pm to 2am

I went into 2024 blasting will wood directly into my eardrums until i could almost feel my brain leak out of my ears and i kept listening

And i would do it again

you ever listen to a song 47 times in a row and every time you’re like wow what a good song. I’m gonna play it again.

[disregardcanon]

end of year writing meme 2023

Total Stories Written: 17

Total Words Written: 70,420

Average Words Per Story: 4,142

Shortest Story: Hair-Raising Tale, a Jonathan Sims character study

Longest: The Maid of Honor Made Them Do It, a Hatchetfield horror-comedy

Most Kudos: If You Show a God-Child Some Kindness, He'll Never Let You Go i really just hit the kairotic jackpot with this one, considering when i posted and the energy within the fandom

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you’d predicted?

since i've finally lowered my expectations on word count from when i was a lonely high school and college student, i'd say i wrote what i expected to write.

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write most?

pairing: jackieshauna from yellowjackets! they had their own fic and had a smattering of moments throughout my other yellowjackets fics

genre: horror-comedy

fandom: yellowjackets

all fandoms from the year:

the owl house: 2

dragon age: absolution: 1

camp here and there: 1

wolf 359: 1

the magnus archives: 3

succession: 2

yellowjackets: 4

hatchetfield: 2

What  pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted  in January?

i didn't expect to get back into starkid of all things

Did you take any writing risks this year?

i wrote a lot of fics that i knew wouldn't really appeal to people, so i gave up a lot of comments and kudos i guess?

Do you have any fanfic or general writing goals for the new year?

i want to get back to writing melting pot. i make no promises, but it would be nice

From the past year of writing, what was your…

Best story of this year: God Honoring Cannibalism! this story has everything! the yellowjackets stuck in the woods, elaborating on crystal's character, historical research, cannibal musical references, lottielee romantically promising to eat each other, jackieshauna breaking each other's hearts, and i feel like it really works as a story just as much as a joke. hands down the thing i'm proudest of writing this year

Personal favorite: Flipping off the Devil this is a fic for small spaces, a middle grade horror series that i loved but that disappointed me a lot in the second half. it was a great way to explore what i think would have made the books stronger and it was really fun to work with the characters

Most  under-appreciated: part of your world (in which "world" means HELL) this w359 fic was a spinoff for a really cool supernatural inspired au. i thought i did a really good job of bringing alana maxwell's recruitment episode into it, but it was so niche that no one read it. disappointed, but understandable

Most fun to write: how the world was looking in the spring was so much fun. it let me do some fun historical research, write about grade school (which i LOVE) and give a fandom that doesn't get much fluff some very cute little lesbians <3

Story with the single sexiest moment: The Maid of Honor Made Them Do It. This is almost solely because it's the only fic that remembers sex exists, but also... stephanie lauter... it's not my fault your honor she's just <3 <3 <3

Most challenging to write: History's Longest Suicide Note! I'd been tinkering around with this tma fic for a very long time, and it was really hard to dig into the actual consequences of Jarchivist getting his way for the end of the world. Because it was NOT going to be pretty, and I wanted to try to show that to the best of my ability

Biggest disappointment: you can join the hive. i'm still not sure how well i captured the dynamics in this, and since it's a fic about travis martinez in yellowjackets i certainly wasn't going to get. like. positive feedback from the fandom, sigh.

Favorite character to write: grace chastity! it's a joy to write for all the hatchetfield characters, but grace just brings such a funny and tragic chaos to whatever she's in

Favorite opening lines:

Jess Jordan knew how to handle Kendall Roy. She’s been doing it for years, after all. She’s been there since he was young and freshly married and thought he was going to make some ethical super-company entirely separate from his father. She’s been with him through an adoption, a birth, multiple stints in rehab, multiple separations from Rava, a divorce, the death of his father and then his installation of a fascist.

A Frog Leaves Her Pot

Favorite closing lines:

The Wilderness did not get to keep them; it never truly had them in this world at all, thanks to a weird little theater kid and a devout Christian who watched a movie.

God Honoring Cannibalism

Other favorite lines:

So Amity grins wide, baring her teeth, as she holds a hand up towards her face in that intimidating, condescending way that she used to do so often and deftly. “So what does that make you?” She looks him up and down, trying to send him her most condescending look. “The Emperor’s abomination?” 

I Tried to Get Better (How Did You Make Me Worse?)

“I’ll try- try to figure out some way for us to be normal again, okay Soph?” her mom asks. Sophie Roy, uberwealthy transracial adoptee who doubts she could ever be "normal", nods awkwardly. Then her mom helps them get settled at the table and they eat dry, slightly burnt waffles together and drink average coffee.

You're Not Elected, Sophie Roy

“I saw what happened to Jackie,” Javi tells him, eyes wide and scared, “ what you did .” Wait. Javi- Javi saw that? Is that what his brother sees every night when he wakes up screaming and Travis wonders, desperately, why Javi won’t just use that voice to talk to him ? 

Travis isn’t just a shitty big brother, one who’s sometimes mean and doesn’t stick up for him and steals his stuff- now he’s what haunts Javi’s nightmares.

you can join the hive

“We’re going to be counselors now!” Sydney chirps, “we get to mold the youth!” Jedidiah, frankly, would rather let mold grow on the youth than help them.

There's Nothing Wrong with Ohio

[scribbly-dee]

Melanie: and that's my story on the reality warping ghost I found. where's Sasha, I want to say goodbye before I leave for India

Jon: what are you talking about, that was Sasha just now?

Melanie: you GASLIGHT melanie? you gaslight melanie like a gatekeeper? oh! oh! jail for archivist! jail for archivist for One Thousand Years!!!!

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Rooting for You

My first fic for the Magnus Archives! Like most people, being deep in Season 5 meant I was desperate to put them in a nice, soft, fluffy situation so please enjoy a full fic of my Martin playing rugby headcanon!

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3!

-----

There were a lot of things John was willing to do for Martin. Pretty much anything, really.

He learned to love poetry. He let him answer a fraction of a second faster when they watched University Challenge together and a question Martin would know came up. He halved, then quartered, the amount of chili powder he usually put in his rogan josh, even though he could feel his grandmother’s disapproval radiating from beyond the grave. He even broke god knew how many HR rules when they fooled around in the archives’ stationary cupboard, after finding out it was a fantasy Martin had been nursing for years. 

John had done all of this for Martin and he’d do a hell of a lot more, without regrets. But he had to wonder if this was maybe asking a little much. 

It was just so bloody cold. 

Calling it a park would be generous, as John stood at the edge of it, shivering even in his coat and the scarf Martin knitted for him, it looked more like a muddy field. So much so that he had to check the address on his phone, just to be sure he was in the right place and hadn’t accidentally walked so far he was in the bloody Middle Ages. 

But no, this was apparently the place, confirmed when he saw Sasha waving at him from the sparse gaggle of equally cold people standing a little ways away, Melanie being one of them. John felt his heart sink, having to make himself trudge over there to join them. Now there was no chance he could make a break for it, lie and say the tube wasn’t running or he fell down a storm drain or something. No choice but to shove his gloved hands in his armpits and hope to get some feeling back in them as he walked over. 

“Is that Jonathan Sims out of his flat on a weekend? I must be dreaming,” Sasha’s grin was huge, beaming out at him from under the hat jammed low over her curls, another Martin creation, “Welcome to the WAGs!”

John blinked, “The what?”

Even from behind her dark glasses, John knew when Melanie was rolling her eyes at him. It was something in her voice. 

“Wives and girlfriends. Of the players. It’s a football term, John. Football is a game where people kick a ball around and try to get it in this thing called the goal, you might have glanced out of a window one time and seen people playing it…”

“Yes, yes, thank you,” John cut across her sarcasm with his own, “I’ve heard of it. I’ve also heard of rugby, which is the game our significant others actually play.”

“It’s just our little joke,” Sasha pointedly stood between them, a placating wall of a rainbow tweed coat, a bright smile and a pointed subject change, “So what made you decide to come along, John? Martin said we probably wouldn’t see you.”

John sighed, “You almost didn’t. It’s really not my thing, Martin said he was fine with that but…he was so nervous about his first match. Nervous enough that I thought he might pull out altogether and…well, me saying I’d be there seemed to make him feel better.”

His cheeks were already reddening even before Melanie chucked and Sasha cooed, “That’s so sweet, John! Just for that, you can share my thermos.”

“It better be spiked,” John grumbled, though he accepted the plastic mug of steaming coffee, fingers prickling pleasantly as they wrapped around it. 

“Oh, I only break that one out if they’re losing,” Sasha winked, passing another to Melanie.

“And…how do we know when they’re losing?” John frowned at the lines painted on the grass, trying to make sense of them, “Or winning? Or anything really. Like I said, I’ve heard of rugby as a concept but I didn’t get much time to research the specifics.”

“Wouldn’t worry too much,” Melanie snorted but there was something distinctly fond in it, “What our guys play doesn’t really resemble actual rugby, no one joins an LGBT teahoweekend team to play seriously. This is more for fun, y’know? Community and all that.”

John grimaced around his mouthful of coffee. Wonderful. Something he understood even less than sport. 

A few more people trickled in, wrapped in their own woolens, greeted with smiles and waves and inside jokes from everyone else, Sasha handed out a lot more pours from her thermos. But when the match started and the two teams started emerging from the slightly lopsided brick hut that was apparently the changing rooms, there still wasn’t much of a crowd for them.

They sure made a hell of a racket for them, though. Suddenly John was surrounded by whoops and cheers that misted in the air, the sound of gloved hands clapping excitedly. It was an odd bunch, a mix of people in all shapes and sizes; men, women, people who didn’t go by either. The only thing they seemed to have in common was their kit, the opposition in black, bright orange and green stripes across all their team’s shirts, even if some people were wearing ones clearly far too big for them. 

Like Tim for example, who’d tied the excess fabric of his into a knot, showing immense commitment to looking like an extra in a horny beach movie despite the temperature. He and Daisy were tossing a battered looking rugby ball back and forth, half practicing and half seeing who could throw it hard enough to knock the other off their feet. Basira seemed to be the only person on the team who was maintaining any order, barking at people and shuffling them into their positions. Sasha nudged Melanie gently, telling her which direction to turn in to loudly wolf whistle at Georgie and make her laugh. 

Meanwhile John searched the faces anxiously, looking for Martin. Surely he’d stick out like a sore thumb, he was a head taller than anyone here, oh god, what if he’d bolted after all… 

But there he was, lagging behind, looking like he was wondering if he could just make a break for it before anyone noticed he wasn’t there. Too late, Basira shouted at him to get in prop position- whatever the hell that meant- and Martin sagged visibly. He fidgeted towards his station, pushing his hair out of his eyes and back into the headband he wore, straightening his socks where they’d fallen down. He looked so uncomfortable, so scared just to exist, so like the awkward man John remembered from that first year in the Archives. 

It broke John’s heart a little. So, just like he should have back then, he did something about it. 

He joined in with the applause, making as much noise as he physically could, putting his fingers in his mouth and giving a piercing whistle. 

Martin blinked, like John’s voice stood out from all the rest, turning and seeing him there. Instantly a smile broke across his face, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, so wide it made the freckles in the corner of his eyes bunch up. For a moment it was like John had never been cold in his life, something about that smile, about knowing he caused it, lit him up from the inside. 

He grinned back, giving him a thumbs up, the smile not even fading when the whistle blew for the start of the game and Martin had to scramble to get his game face on. 

Though it did when he noticed Sasha smirking triumphantly at him. 

“Oh shut up…” he groaned, retreating back into his scarf. 

“I shall not! It’s adorable how happy you two are and I reserve every right to be smug about it!” she elbowed him in the ribs, making him yelp. 

“John’s happy? Gross,” Melanie said mildly, sipping her coffee, “Come on, Sasha, eyes on the game. I can hear people groaning, surely we’re not losing already?”

Sasha hummed, following the chaos that had erupted in front of them, “Oh, wait. Daisy had the ball, there might be hope, I think…oh no, they scored a try. Yeah, we’re doomed.” 

“Ah well,” Melanie hummed before screaming through cupped hands, “Come on, Albatrosses!”

John was grateful for Sasha’s commentary too, even if he didn’t understand most of what she said it helped him keep track of things, the tone of her voice telling him when to groan, when to cheer. 

It was actually quite exciting, once he got into it. Tim and Georgie must have run a marathon each, streaking up and down the pitch whenever they got the ball in their possession, at least until one of the opposition tacked them to the ground and earned them a mouthful of turf. Daisy was always quick to avenge them, spearing people twice her size with utter fearlessness until the players in black learned to be afraid of her. Meanwhile Basira was like an army major, her voice the only thing keeping them all together sometimes. Every point their team earned happened because she’d demanded it.

At first Martin hung on the edges, eyes darting, clearly hesitant to plunge in. Until, through a mammoth effort of mostly will, Basira took the ball from Tim and threw it into Martin’s arms, freeing it from the tangled knot of markers.

“Fucking take them out!” she barked at him, pointing towards the goal. 

And so he did. Face set with a steely stubbornness that John immediately recognised, Martin tucked the ball under his arm and plowed forward. The other team tried to tackle him but they simply couldn’t, every contact was just shrugged off like they were nothing more than buzzing flies. All the bulk Martin usually tried to hide was suddenly weaponised and, damn it, he was unstoppable.

John knew his jaw was hanging open like a complete fool, that his face was burning so much that he could have served as a space heater, but he couldn’t care less. He couldn’t even take enough of his attention off Martin to tell Melanie and Sasha to shut up when he felt them smirking. 

He could only stare until Martin had stormed a path through enough of the opposing team to throw the ball to Tim who saw it over the line. Immediately the Albatrosses erupted in screams of joy, throwing themselves at Martin until there were enough of them to knock him onto his ass. The crowd made a similar racket, though no one was clapping or yelling louder than John, grinning wide enough to hurt as he watched his boyfriend sit up, laughing, freckled cheeks streaked with mud and grass in his curls. 

“Did you see him?” John breathed, heart hammering like he’d run the length of the pitch himself, “He was amazing!”

“Well no, obviously I didn’t but I’m guessing you just saw why Basira’s been trying to bully him into joining for months,” Melanie snorted with laughter but even her voice softened, “Bet he’s glad he signed up now, huh?”

John laughed, “I suppose…and I’m glad I came to see it.”

Sasha squeezed his arm in delight, though the whistle’s sharp cry pulled their attention back to the game.

It seemed now the Albatross’ secret weapon was revealed, the opposition were on the offensive. Suddenly Martin couldn’t move without tripping over someone in a black shirt, every attempt to get the ball in his hands was snuffed out before they could get anyone near. The gap between the scores got wider and wider while Martin was trapped in the back, boxed out. John watched the lines on his face deepen, he knew the inability to help his teammates would be needling at him like a stone in his boots. John fidgeted, fingers tangled anxiously in the tassels of his scarf. 

Until that mounting frustration finally forced the stars into alignment, Martin shoving forward to catch a desperate throw from Georgie. He started to run, just like before, but it wasn’t going to be so easy. 

The man from the opposite team ran headlong into Martin, grabbing at his shoulders, throwing him so far off balance he was tipped onto the ground with a sickening thump, counterpointed by a groan of dismay from the crowd.

 “What the fuck was that?” John yelped in alarm, only Sasha’s hand firmly holding his elbow stopping him from running onto the pitch, “That was clearly an illegal tackle!”

“Thought you didn’t know anything about rugby?” Melanie reminded him, sounding bemused. 

“I don’t need to know the rules to know it’s illegal for that oaf to try and kill my boyfriend,” John snapped, “What the hell kind of game is he playing, am I going to have to put him back together myself at the end of this?”

“John,” Sasha sounded like she was trying not to laugh, “It’s okay, the guy’s getting a red. And Martin’s okay, see?”

John frowned, unable to believe it until he saw Martin stand up, blood trickling in a thin red line from his nose. Georgie was fussing over him, trying to lead him off the pitch but Martin shook his head gently, wiped away the blood on the hem of his shirt and moved back towards his position. 

“He…he wants to keep playing?” John said in disbelief, staring as the teams formed up for the penalty. 

“He’s a stubborn guy, isn’t he?” Sasha smiled, “There’s not much he wouldn’t do for someone who needs him.” 

“No. There isn’t,” John murmured, mostly to himself, feeling a deep pride burning in the pit of his stomach as teammates came up to pat Martin on the back, punch him lightly on the arm, say something encouraging.

“Think you’re starting to get into sport now?” Melanie grinned like she already knew the answer. 

And community too. “Maybe a little,” John shrugged. 

The game was something of a foregone conclusion but John had learned to love tragedies a long time ago. He cheered along with his friends, hissed and cursed when the tackles started getting dirty, chanted Sasha’s homemade fight songs, rewritten to be a little more bawdy and much, much more gay. 

It didn’t mean they won but it did mean they had a hell of a lot of fun. By the time the final whistle blew, John had been grinning for so long that his jaw ached and his coffee had gone cold without him realising. He knocked it back anyway, shoving the mug back into Sasha’s hand. 

“You’re joining us all at the pub afterwards,” Sasha grinned, collaring him before he could run away, “No ifs or buts, Sims. You’re both on the team now.”

“Understood,” John chuckled, surprising himself with how much he meant it, before taking off towards Martin as soon as she let him go. 

Martin was filthy, he’d been able to get a couple more miracles in but more had ended with him getting tackled into the ground. Legally this time, or at least that’s what Sasha had promised him. There was mud obscuring his freckles and more than a few blades of grass stuck in his auburn hair. His knees were skinned and red with cold, his nose was a little swollen but he still had a smile for John as he came running up. 

Martin gave a soft noise of surprise as John caught him in a huge hug, knocking any breath he had left out of him with a laugh, “Oh! You know we lost, right?”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” John admitted, grinning up at him, “Martin, you were incredible out there! I had no idea!”

“Neither did I,” Martin blushed, grinning, “You really thought I was good?”

“You don’t believe me, wait until we get to the pub and hear what everyone else has to say. You’re the star player today, darling.”

Martin was now red to the tips of his ears, nothing to do with the cold, “That’s okay…I believe you…”

John smiled, pulling him into a kiss before they walked back over to their friends who’d undoubtedly watched this whole exchange and were absolutely going to give them shit for it. 

“Jesus, John, you’re freezing!” Martin laughed, touching his cheek gently, “I can’t believe you actually came, you hate being cold?”

John just shook his head, pressing his lips to Martin’s icy palm. 

“I’m starting to realise there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, Martin Blackwood.”

[queenshelby]

Oppenheimer (Part 22)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Fluff, Angst, Depression

Words: 3,608

Please interact and comment to keep it going. I always love to know what you think.

Three days later…

Three days had passed and you spent the majority of your spare time in your room, trying to take your mind of what was happening with books and other reading material.

Your parents were once again concerned about your health, worried that you were experiencing some rebound depression.

You had been there before, especially when you went through the break up with Jonathan and after having experienced problems at school. It was just something you suffered from on occasion but you refused to take medication for your condition at this point.

You hoped that this was simply a phase and, after your move to London, things would be okay. The fact that your godmother Cara contacted you daily didn’t make things easier though. She continuously reminded you about her threat, wanting you to know that you needed to comply with her demand.

She also told you that she was still watching Cillian and told you that, if you were to do anything like this again, she would know. According to her, she had her eyes and ears everywhere and you eventually resorted to turning off your phone and changing your number.

Cillian had also called you regularly, wanting to talk, begging for you to explain to him why you changed your mind all so suddenly.

It was too much for you to bear and eventually, you destroyed your sim card, ignoring everyone around you but your parents who, unfortunately, you had to deal with on a daily basis.

Your father himself was struggling on set and was in a rather terrible mood. He yelled a lot, but not at you. Rather, he yelled at himself. It was how he coped.

He also complained about Cillian frequently making mistakes, knowing that something was bothering him. He knew that Cillian wasn’t usually like this and it was only recently that he forgot some of his lines and struggled to following instructions.

But your mother had her suspicions about this as well, telling your father that something must have happened on set, involving both you and Cillian.

“Don’t you think I would have noticed Love? It’s my set” your father told your mother but she began to laugh.

“You are oblivious to things happening around you Chris, especially where Y/N is involved. She’s good at hiding things from you and you should know this by now” your mother lectured your father and, as usual, he sighed at her in response.

“So, you still think that she is romantically involved with Cillian?” your father asked and she confirmed her suspicions.

“Yes, I believe this to be the case. Cara thinks so too. She told me that Y/N has been spending a lot of time in his trailer when she was on set” your mother explained and your father couldn’t help but ponder.

“I suppose it is a possibility and, if they had a fight, then this would explain a lot. I guess I just didn’t think that she would be getting involved with an actor. Besides, he is close to my age. I’ve only got five or six years on him” your father said, raising his eyebrows with concern.

“Well, look at Florence Pugh. It’s not unheard of. Despite, Cillian looks rather young for his age and, I think that, your daughter needs a man who she can have a proper conversation with, someone who is educated and smart. Cillian fits the bill, don’t you think?” your mother asked before telling your father that she had suggested for Cara to keep an eye on them both, believing that she could trust her.

Cillian’s POV

Unfortunately for your mother though, she was wrong. She couldn’t trust Cara even though she was your godmother and, when Max looked for more pain killers in his father’s trailer to help with the pain in his ear, he found something else.  

“Dad” he called out as Cillian was talking to one of the crew members right outside his trailer.

“Hang on, I will be there in a minute Max” Cillian shouted out but Max told him that he needed to see him urgently.

“I found something you may want to see” Max told his father as he stepped back into his trailer and handed him a small camera.

“Where did you find this?” Cillian asked surprised and somewhat concerned.

“It was fixed to the shelving” Max told Cillian before showing him the area where he found it and asking him why it was there.

“That, I don’t know Max” Cillian said angrily but, after he thought about it some more, he concluded that it was your father who was trying to spy on him, possibly suspecting that there was something between you and him after you had both contracted COVID at the same time.

Cillian was outraged and angry, thinking that, instead of resorting to childish methods like this, your father could simply have confronted him about this and talk with him about his suspicions.

Working under conditions like this, wasn’t an option for him. It is not what he had signed up for and he most certainly didn’t need to submit to anything like this. It was the very reason he despised Hollywood and large studio productions. He thought that your father was different to other directors, but maybe he was wrong?

***

With this in mind, he went to see your father in his office at lunch, taking the camera and a letter of resignation with him. He was determined to quit the movie and leave, especially now that you removed yourself from his life. You had broken his heart.

“What is this?” your father asked Cillian as he handed him a small piece of paper and sat down in one of the large armchairs in front of your father’s large desk. He could tell that Cillian was rather upset and angry.

“I am done Chris. This is my resignation” Cillian said with frustration and your father’s chin dropped.

“You are quitting? Right now? In the middle of fucking production? You cannot be serious” your father spat, angry and frustrated himself now.

“Yes, I am Chris” Cillian said sternly.

“Why?” your father responded with an equally stern voice.

“Because of this” Cillian told your father as he placed the small camera on the desk in front of him.

“What is this?” your father asked after having picked up the device carefully.

“A camera” Cillian said, causing your father to cock an eyebrow.

“I can see that Cillian but I am lacking context. Where did you get this device and why are you resigning because of it?” your father asked, unsure about what was going on and Cillian realised that your father didn’t know about the camera himself. He accused him of something he had not done and clearly knew nothing about.

“So, you don’t know about the camera having been placed in my trailer?” Cillian asked surprised when he came to this realisation.

“No! Why would I put a camera into your trailer?” your father asked almost amused but his amusement wasn’t going to last.

“I don’t know Chris. I am sorry. Some directors are known to do this kind of shit because it gives them control” Cillian said, wondering what all of this was about if your father wasn’t really suspicious about you.

“I like to be in control on my set but I don’t have the need to spy on my cast Cillian. If I have a problem, I will come and speak with you. There is no need for this shit” your father said sternly before considering the impact of such a device in Cillian’s trailer and the fact that, of lately, your mother had become increasingly suspicious about your relationship with Cillian. It wasn’t difficult for him to put one and one together in light of recent events, namely your abrupt resignation and rebound depression.

“So, who put the camera into my trailer then if not you?” Cillian wanted to know but your father had other questions to ask first.

“I don’t know Cillian, but did you get up to anything of concern in there in recent weeks?” your father then asked but Cillian wasn’t sure what he meant by that.  

“What do you mean?” Cillian asked somewhat confused.

“In your trailer Cillian! Did you do anything in there that may be damaging to you in any way if it had been filmed?” your father asked concerned and, when Cillian thought back about the things which occurred in his trailer, his chin dropped.

“Did I…? I have…shit” Cillian stammered in response, unsure about what to say.

“Cillian?” your father then asked again as Cillian gasped and was unable to form a coherent sentence. By this point, your father had gotten up from his chair and was walking around nervously, rubbing his chin, which was something he would do if he was thinking about something in a critical way.

“Chris, I think you might want to sit down for this” Cillian eventually answered him after a few moments of silence and your father’s heart began to race, already suspecting what Cillian was about to say.

He sat down just as Cillian had suggested and starred at him with wide open eyes, waiting for him to tell him about what he hoped not to be true.

Cillian, of course, didn’t want to tell your father anything. But he also knew that there was no turning back now. If the camera found in his trailer was on when you and Cillian had sex, there may be an incriminating tape of you out there and, at least if your father knew about it, he may be able to help.

In addition, it also no longer mattered if he knew. It was over between you and Cillian and you never bothered telling him why you ended it. So why shouldn’t he be forthcoming about your relationship with your father now? What other choice did he have? He had to tell him.

“I have been seeing Y/N in an intimate way Chris” Cillian eventually blurted out and, as soon as he did, your father inhaled sharply.

“You have been seeing my daughter?” your father asked sternly, his face angry and somewhat upset.

“Yes. I am sorry Chris. I couldn’t tell you. I promised Y/N and I thought that…” Cillian began to say but your father interrupted him quickly.

“How long has this been going on Cillian?” your father wanted to know.

“Six weeks, maybe seven. I was reluctant at first because she is your daughter and still quite young but one thing let to another and…” Cillian went on to explain but your father, once again, interrupted him.

“Please tell me that you didn’t do anything stupid with her in your trailer” your father began to say with great worry, thinking about the worst-case scenario, namely a sex tape being out there, and, when Cillian simply looked at him with wide open eyes and scratched his head nervously, your father began to shout in anger.

“For fuck sake, Cillian!” your father spat, angry and frustrated. “I can’t believe this. You slept with my daughter in your fucking trailer, out of all fucking places…” he went on to say, letting his head fall into his hands.

“I am sorry Chris” Cillian said, knowing very well that sorry wouldn’t cut it but he didn’t know what else to say.

“What the fuck has gotten into you Cillian? I can see Y/N doing something stupid like this but you are meant to be the responsible adult here. You are 45 mate. Have some fucking self-control!” your father went on to say before observing that, the chances are, that whoever put the camera into Cillian’s trailer now had a sex tape of his daughter.

This was a disaster and your father knew that he needed to rectify the issue at hand, if he could.

“I need to speak with Y/N about this, if she is even going to talk to me” Cillian went on to say, worried about the impact this may have on you and thinking that you didn’t already know.

“Why wouldn’t she talk to you? You didn’t do anything to upset her, did you?” your father asked concerned before explaining to Cillian that you had been in a very bad place lately, suffering from depression once again.

“Depression?” Cillian asked surprised, worrying about you.

“Yes Cillian, depression! So, if you did anything to hurt her, I will rip off your fucking balls. Are we clear?” your father spat but Cillian chuckled.

“There is no need for that Chris, I promise. I don’t think I did anything to upset her but, for some reason, she ended it three days ago and I really wish that she didn’t” Cillian told your father with a saddened tone in his voice.

“Well, this explains your inability to get your scenes right these past few days which, I may add, is really fucking annoying for me. Do you know why she ended it?” your father asked.

“No, she didn’t say. I’ve been trying to call her every day, asking her to tell me why she changed her mind so suddenly but she doesn’t even answer my fucking calls” Cillian told your father who, then, asked him a very important question.

“I need to ask you this Cillian and I need you to be truthful with your answer so that I can get onto the bottom of this and deal with the possibility of a rather compromising tape of my daughter being out there, in the public” your father said before continuing on, choosing his words wisely.

“Are you in love with my daughter or is this a career move for you?” he then asked and Cillian couldn’t help but chuckle again.

“I am in love with her Chris” Cillian confirmed before telling your father that he wished that he wasn’t. He never planned for this to happen, never wanting to fall in love with you. It just happened and now he was struggling with the fact that it ended.

“Okay, then I will ask her why she ended it. Perhaps she also knows a bit more about this issue we now have” your father then told Cillian while holding up the camera, assessing it some more before putting it into his bag.

Your POV

Later that day, your father confronted you, asking you to sit down with him. He needed to talk with you and you thought that he was about to give you yet another lecture.

“This was found in Cillian’s trailer today. Do you know anything about it?” he asked, placing a small camera in front of you.

“No” you lied. You suspected that this was how Cara got the tape, but you weren’t sure.

“Are you sure? Because, the truth is that I do not believe you. I’ve spoken to Cillian today and he admitted to me that he’s been romantically involved with you” your father said sternly and with raised eyebrows.

“Dad, I… I am…” you stammered nervously, your hands beginning to shake, causing your father to place his hands on to them in order to calm you down.

“Y/N, relax. I am not angry about you having been with Cillian. I am not even angry about you not telling me about it. Of course, I am concerned about the age gap between you but I also know that this isn’t something unheard off these days. What I am concerned with is the fact that you had sex with him, in his trailer, possibly while this camera was recording it. This means that there could be a rather compromising tape out there, featuring my daughter with the lead actor of my fucking movie” your father explained and you immediately broke out in tears.

“I know, I dealt with it. I am sorry I didn’t tell you. But I made it go away” you stammered, unable to say anything else which made sense. Your tears were overwhelming you and you broke down emotionally, falling into your father’s arms.

“You dealt with it how?” your father asked and, after you calmed down a little, you told your father everything, including the fact that your godmother had blackmailed you and that you broke up with Cillian because of it.

“This backstabbing bitch, threatening my daughter like this. She better be ready for a fucking shit storm to hit her when I am done with her” your father eventually spat after you told him what had happened. He was furiously angry and full of rage and you never quite seen him like this.

“I am sorry dad. I should have come to you with this but I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to explain my relationship with Cillian to you and I didn’t think that there was anything you could do” you told him, your eyes still filled with tears.

“It’s fine Y/N. I can see how you didn’t want to talk with your father about the existence of a tape like this. But, what you should have done is, talk to your boyfriend about it. You could have dealt with this together” your father said gently and the fact that he referred to Cillian in this way made you smile.

“I thought about it, but I didn’t think that there was another option. I felt as though I had to comply with Cara’s demands after what she had threatened to do. It wouldn’t just affect me and Cillian but also his children” you explained, trying to take some responsibility before asking your father what he wanted to do about Cara now.

“Well, let’s just say that your old man has learned a few things over the years when dealing with people like Cara Miles and, tomorrow, she will learn her lesson” your father said with delight.

“And what lesson may this be?” you asked curiously.

“Don’t fuck with me and my family” your father smirked.

“And how exactly will you teach her this lesson Chris?” your mother then asked while stepping into the kitchen after having overheard your conversation. She was just as angry as your father was, if not more.

“I will blackmail her, just the way she has blackmailed our daughter” your father said but both you and your mother wanted to know more.

“Oh god, please don’t tell me you have a sex tape with her on it” your mother joked, causing you to laugh momentarily.  

“No, don’t be disgusting Love. I have a resignation from the lead actor of my movie which I will threaten her to accept unconditionally unless she hands me this fucking tape. If Cillian resigns and I accept his resignation, the studio would have to halt production and resume filming at a later stage with a new lead actor and, if I was to resign also, they would also need find another director. The studio couldn’t afford this and, usually, in cases like this, they would cut their losses. If the studio has to cut their losses, Cara would also have to cut her losses and, since her investment into the movie was approximately twenty million dollars, she will go bankrupt” your father told you and your mother before telling you to wipe your tears of your face and freshen up.

“Why do I need to freshen up?” you asked when crawling back into your room was really what you wanted to do.

“Because I invited Cillian over for dinner tonight” he told you.

“You did what?” you asked surprised.

“Listen, I need you on set again tomorrow. The show must go on and I need Cillian to be able to perform or I will lose my fucking mind. If you choose to break up with him again, please wait until we wrap up filming. I cannot deal with him being like this. And I also can’t deal with you locking yourself into your room all day long. He has been an emotional wreck and you have been exactly the same those past three days. I need this to stop so I can finish filming this fucking movie in peace” your father said somewhat annoyed and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“So, you are okay with us being together?” you needed to know.

“I am not overly happy about you dating an actor but, as far as actors are concerned, he is one of the better ones and I may be okay with him as a partner for you. He’s sensible and I generally like him. The age difference is a little concerning but this is something you need to work out with each other. You are old enough to decide who you want to be with and if this is Cillian, then by all means, go for it” your father said gently and with a smile before carrying on in a different tone.

“I did tell him however that, if he hurts you in any way, I will have his balls and I expect you to refrain from doing…uhm…that thing…again…on set…or ever…just don’t…don’t do it” your father stammered with a look of disgust on his face.

“That thing Chris? You mean, having sex?” your mother laughed and your cheeks began to blush almost instantly.

“Yes Love. That is what I mean. No sex” your father said, clearly sensing the awkwardness in the conversation.

“She is a grown woman, Chris. This means that she has sex” your mother laughed and you were quick to interrupt.

“No sex! I got it! Let’s change the topic please” you gasped with embarrassment.

To be continued…

Tag List:

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[nat-20s]

me looking at my own post: you could fanfic out of this!

Anyway here’s how I think a typical “Martin’s Poetry Corner” would go!

~*~

Martin: And for my second thing, we’re going back to the poetry corner!

Jon: Again? Didn’t you have a poetry corner last week?

Martin: It’s been well over two months since the last poetry corner, my dear. And just for that comment I’m going to up the amount of the poetry corner. From now on this podcast is me reading poetry interjected with some guy talking nonsense.

Jon: You say that like the majority of our audience wouldn’t prefer that. Also, some guy? I’m wounded! Earlier you were calling me ‘beloved husband’ and ‘cherished one’ and now I’m ‘some guy’? What did I do to deserve that level of downgrade?

Martin: You decried the poetry corner!

Jon: I decried nothing! It was a purely non-judgmental comment on the frequency of it. If you want to do poem every week, I have nothing against that.

Martin: Hmm. I might test you on that. I know the whole point of this thing is to share things we think are lovely, and I do find all the poems I read lovely, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Jon: Oh? And what might your nefarious hidden agenda be?

Martin: I’m certain you’re the only one that would find it nefarious, but I can, must, shall, and will find a poem that affects you. Now, I’m sure the listeners at home would decry that goal. After all Mary Oliver, Maya Angelou, Wendy Cope, and Langston Hughes all did nothing. He didn’t even blink at “The Two-Headed Calf”, surely there can’t possibly-

Jon, laughing, which severely limits how much he’s able to sell his faux offense: I’ve been affected by poetry before!

Martin: Name one poem you had an actual strong reaction to.

Jon, smugly: It’s almost certainly not one you know. It’s called “Streets” and it’s by this really obscure author. God, what was his name? K was his middle initial I believe?

Martin, laughing: Piss off!

Jon: Well it’s true! I felt something at all of your poetry.

Martin: Liar! I very distinctly remember you calling it ‘almost affecting’! And you declared I was enamored with Keats, which doesn’t even make sense, we have wildly different composition styles.

Jon: You’re working from incomplete information. That tape was from my first read through. It was the reread where they got me.

Martin: Reread? I thought you hated rereading things?

Jon: Typically, yes. But. Ah. It was during the year you were gone.

Martin: Oh. Oh, love.

Jon: It’s been half a decade since then, Martin, I can assure you I’m fine. Though, I suppose reflecting on it, the affecting quality was more to do with who had written the poetry itself. Even now, you could write a grocery list for fun and I’d be hopelessly endeared by it.

Martin: Shut up.

Jon: I shall not! It’s been a hell of a road to get here, I think it’s more than acceptable to flaunt how much I like my husband, especially when he’s doing something he enjoys. In fact, I think it’d be more than appropriate if I did one of your poems for one of my wonderful things next week.

Martin: Absolutely not! Jon, there is a certain level of ‘embarrassing old men in love’ we’re allowed to be in the public sphere, and that would exceed it by, fuck, tenfold? Our quota would be wiped out for the year. For the next five years. No. Besides, my poems aren’t meant for anyone’s eyes and ears but my own, and occasionally you when you’re being nosy.

Jon, with audible shit eating grin: So you’re saying you wouldn’t like to hear your poetry in my voice?

Martin, having a gay panic despite being married to this man for years: I..uh..

Jon: Yes?

Martin: I would..I would like that very much. Privately. Er, please.

Jon: Well, since you asked so nicely. I suppose the poetry corner shall remain yours, for now.

Martin: Thank you for your grand generosity and understanding. Speaking of, should I get to the actual poem? I think I might have a winner with this one.

Jon: Please do.

Martin: So this week I’m bringing a poem written by an, as far as I can tell, unnamed ninth century Irish Monk-

Jon: -ninth century? Decided to abandon the contemporary route then?

Martin: Somewhat? The poem was written in the ninth century, but no one wants to hear me butcher the original, so I’m going to read the English translation by Seamus Heaney, which was done in 2006, so sort of contemporary? Depending how you look at it? Anyway, this is Pangur Bán:

Pangur Bán and I at work,

Adepts, equals, cat and clerk:

His whole instinct is to hunt,

Mine to free the meaning pent.

More than loud acclaim, I love

Books, silence, thought, my alcove.

Happy for me, Pangur Bán

Child-plays round some mouse’s den.

Truth to tell, just being here,

Housed alone, housed together,

Adds up to its own reward:

Concentration, stealthy art.

Next thing an unwary mouse

Bares his flank: Pangur pounces.

Next thing lines that held and held

Meaning back begin to yield.

All the while, his round bright eye

Fixes on the wall, while I

Focus my less piercing gaze

On the challenge of the page.

With his unsheathed, perfect nails

Pangur springs, exults and kills.

When the longed-for, difficult

Answers come, I too exult.

So it goes. To each his own.

No vying. No vexation.

Taking pleasure, taking pains,

Kindred spirits, veterans.

Day and night, soft purr, soft pad,

Pangur Bán has learned his trade.

Day and night, my own hard work

Solves the cruxes, makes a mark.

Isn’t that just delightful? Jon what did you-holy shit!

Jon, voice tight: What?

Martin: You teared up! You’re affected! Fuckin’ gottem!! I should’ve known. I should’ve fucking known that the way to Jonathan Sims’ soul was through a poem about a man feeling kinship with his cat. Incredible.

Jon, slightly sniffling: It’s a very nice poem! You read it because it’s a very nice poem!

Martin: Yes it is! That doesn’t discount the fact that I have read poems about love and hardships and finding joy in being alive and it’s the one about the cat that gets to you. Of course. I love you.

Jon: I love you too. Even if you are a bit too victorious over this. I think that will wrap it up for this week?

Martin: Think so! And as we say at the end of every episode, uh, the way to a man’s heart is not through his stomach, but through cat poems from a thousand years ago.

[cuttoothed]

A little fic for @jonsimsandcats and also inspired by some adorable art on discord! Featuring notes on kitten rearing, and of course some Jmart because it’s me.

Jon works at the Institute here, but a non-spooky version of it!

*

Martin is doing a final check on the fish tanks when he hears the bell above the front door jingle. He sighs; he knew he should have locked up first. Just his luck.

“This is your fault,” he tells the angelfish balefully. They don’t seem contrite, too busy nosing in the fine gravel for any food they’ve missed. Martin walks out to the front of the shop, preparing his best customer service smile to tell whoever’s come in at—he glances at his watch—three minutes past eight that they’re closed, and no, they can’t just wander around for a few minutes to look at the animals. Honestly, some people seem to think there’s no difference between a pet shop and an art gallery.

There’s a man standing at the front counter, looking around anxiously, a bundled up jumper clutched against his chest.

“Sorry, we’re—” Martin begins, and that’s as far as he gets before the man unleashes a frantic tirade.

“Please!” the man says, “I need your help, I-I’m not sure they’re breathing and they were out there for hours on their own, I know you’re not supposed to move them in case their mother comes back but I couldn’t just—just leave knowing they were still there, and all the vet offices nearby are closed, this was the only place I could think of!”

The man is wild eyed, almost panicked, and Martin lifts both hands in an appeasing gesture.

“Woah,” he says, “Uh, maybe start from the beginning again? Slowly?”

“Right, ah, sorry. Sorry. I spotted them this morning, under a bush just outside my work.” The man sets the bundle of jumper down on the counter, and unfolds it to reveal two tiny scraps of fur: one gray, one black. Kittens, Martin realizes, so small they can only be a week or so old; certainly not old enough to be without their mother.

“I left them alone, because I’ve heard that the mother usually comes back after a little while. A-and I meant to go and check on them again during the day, make sure.” The man sounds anguished now, his face miserable. “But I—I got caught up in work, forgot about it. It was only when I was leaving that I remembered. And they were still there, on their own. Barely moving. Please—is there anything we can do?”

Martin looks down at the tiny creatures in their nest of wool; he can just about see the shallow in-out of their breathing. All day outside alone, at their age, the odds aren’t great. But he’s met enough kittens to know that they’re shockingly resilient little sods, and he’s never given up on a so-called hopeless case before. He’s not about to start now.

“You did the right thing moving them,” he assures the man, moving to flip the sign on the door to CLOSED. “We need to get them warmed up and get some food into them. Body heat is the best thing for them right now—can you start warming them with your hands?”

“Oh—ah, yes,” says the man, turning to his bundle of jumper with a worried frown. Martin leaves him there while he rushes around the shop, grabbing kitten milk replacer and nursing bottles, and then into the back to heat two mugs of water in the microwave while he makes up the bottles. He pops them into the mugs to warm, and brings the whole lot out to the front. The man now has a kitten in each hand, and is holding them pressed carefully to his chest for additional warmth; his expression is still worried, but also desperately tender, and Martin feels a pang of something behind his ribs at the sight.

“One of them is moving,” the man says eagerly as Martin sets the bottles down. Martin can see the gray kitten wriggling weakly in the man’s grip, responding to the heat. Its sibling is still motionless, and Martin’s heart sinks a little.

“That’s great,” he says. “Hold onto her for another minute, and let me see if I can get her sister moving too.”

He holds out a hand, and the man almost reluctantly passes him the black kitten. Martin doesn’t try to notice that the man has lovely hands, with long, slim fingers, narrow wrist jutting out of his shirt sleeve, but, well, he notices a bit. He turns his attention to the kitten; he can’t make out the motion of its breathing anymore. He takes it in both hands and starts to massage it gently. It lies limp in his palms, head lolling, and Martin starts to feel despair crawling cold up his spine.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “You can do it.” The man is watching him anxiously, the gray kitten cradled against his chest, and Martin knows he can’t give up. He keeps rubbing the kitten’s small body, trying to will warmth and life back into the tiny, fragile form. At last, after what seems like an eternity, the kitten squirms in his hands and a faint, plaintive mew escapes it. An answering mew comes from the gray kitten, and Martin laughs, relief washing over him.

“Right, let’s see if we can get them to eat.”

After checking that they’re not too chilled to feed, Martin tests each of the kittens with a drop of formula on their tongue; thankfully they both seem able to swallow without difficulty. He shows the man how to feed the gray kitten, holding its body in a neutral position with the bottle tilted for a gentle flow. It doesn’t take long for the kittens to figure out the process, and Martin can feel the tug on the bottle as his kitten begins to suckle.

“Oh,” he hears softly from beside him, and turns to see the man gazing in delight at the gray kitten, whose tiny, unfurled ears are twitching as it sucks.

“She’s doing great,” Martin comments. “Good job.” The man gives him a tentative, pleased smile, and Martin still isn’t trying to notice but it’s a very nice smile. “I’m Martin, by the way.”

“Jonathan Sims—Jon,” says the man, and then gives a small, tense laugh. “God, I haven’t even apologized for storming in here while you were clearly trying to close up for the night.”

“That’s all right, I didn’t have any exciting plans tonight anyway. I’d much rather be spending time with these little beauties.”

Jon smiles again, more sure this time, and all right, maybe Martin deliberately notices the dimple in his right cheek. Just a bit.

Once the kittens are fed, Martin shows Jon how to stimulate them; both of them only pee a little—poor things are dehydrated—but it’s a good sign. They clean them up and tuck them back into the nest of Jon’s jumper, where they curl up into a small puddle of black and gray. Jon gives a sigh that’s somewhere between relieved and exhausted.

“Thank you,” he says. “I, ah, I think I forgot to say that as well. You know a lot about this.”

“I volunteer at a shelter, there are a lot of kittens. If you like, I can take them for tonight and bring them in tomorrow?”

“Ah,” says Jon. “Do you think that’s—I mean...I-I’m not sure I’d feel right, handing them off to someone else. Not that I think you’re not capable!” he rushes to add, and Martin finds himself smiling.

“No, I get it. You found them, you want to take care of them. I’ll warn you, though, it’s a big commitment. For the first couple of weeks you have to feed them every two hours, even during the night, and then it’s every three or four hours until they start weaning. It’s like having a newborn baby.”

“I don’t get much sleep generally,” says Jon. “At least this way I’ll have something to do while I’m up all night. And my work is—well, I’ll explain the situation.”

He looks set on it, brow furrowed with determination. Martin considers arguing more: that a shelter will be better equipped to care for the kittens, that there’s no guarantee they’ll survive in any case, that Jon doesn’t know what he’s signing up for. But the shelters are always crowded, and kittens this young have simple needs, and really, a dedicated foster parent—armed with the right knowledge—is probably the best thing for them.

“Right,” he says, “Let’s make sure these two are well wrapped up before you take them home.”

He scrounges a cardboard box from the back and they settle the kittens into it, still wrapped in Jon’s jumper along with a soft fleece blanket printed with cartoon fish. Martin gathers a couple of cartons of liquid formula and extra bottles to get them started, and shows Jon how to pierce the nipple so the flow isn’t too strong.

“It should be warmed to body temperature,” he explains, “But not directly in the microwave—put the bottles in heated water, like I did earlier. Do you have a hot water bottle?”

“Yes, I do,” says Jon, frowning intently as he listens. Martin nods.

“It’s better than a heating pad at this age, they’re less likely to get overheated. Don’t make it too hot—body temperature, again—and wrap it in a blanket so they’re not touching it directly.”

“Got it,” says Jon firmly, and Martin believes him. He bags up the formula and bottles and an extra pet blanket, and presses them into the hands of a startled Jon; the till is shut off for the night, but Martin can explain and pay for the items tomorrow.

“What’s your phone number?” he asks, and Jon looks even more startled.

“S-sorry?”

“Or your email. I’m going to send you some links—videos, a couple of good blogs that should be helpful.”

“Oh, ah, right. Of course.” Jon recites his number and Martin saves it under “Jon (Kittens).” He peeks into the box one last time before Jon scoops it up, and sees the kittens snuggled in the folds of the jumper, paws waving in little kitten dreams.

“Thank you again, Martin,” says Jon. “I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you tonight.” His tone is shy but genuine, and it sends warmth through Martin’s chest and up into his cheeks.

“Any time,” Martin says. “And feel free to text me if you need anything—if you have a question or...anything. Or call me if you like.” He’s aware he’s rambling a bit, but it’s not every day an attractive man says that he doesn’t know what he would have done without you, so he can hardly be blamed.

“I will,” says Jon solemnly.

*

He doesn’t text Martin any questions that night, but when Martin sends him the links to a youtube channel and three blog posts on kitten care, he replies:

Thank you :)

Martin spends most of the rest of the night wondering what that smiley face means.

*

He doesn’t necessarily expect to see Jon again, and certainly doesn’t expect to see him the very next day. But just before one o’clock in the afternoon the bell above the door jingles and there’s Jon, looking tired and more than a bit sheepish.

“I got all the way into work this morning before I realized I’d never paid for any of the things you gave me,” he says, reaching for his wallet.

“Those were gifts,” Martin tells him firmly. “Sort of a “welcome to foster parenthood” care basket?”

“No, I couldn’t let you—” Jon starts to protest, but Martin shakes his head emphatically.

“It’s no big deal, honestly. I get an employee discount anyway.”

“I...well, then I suppose I need to thank you yet again,” says Jon.

“It’s becoming a bit of a habit,” Martin jokes, grinning, and Jon smiles in return. He hesitates a moment before continuing:

“Maybe I could buy you lunch instead, then? To pay you back.”

“There’s no need, honestly,” says Martin, even as his brain berates him: What are you doing, idiot, he’s asking you to have lunch with him? Say yes!

“Please, I’d like to,” Jon says, and then gives a thoughtful frown. “Only if you want to, of course, don’t feel obligated—”

“I’m on lunch in five minutes,” Martin blurts out before he can overthink it.

“Great!” says Jon, sounding pleased. “If you have time, we could go by my office as well and visit the kittens. I just fed them before I came to see you.”

Before I came to see you, not before I came to pay you back, and Martin feels that warmth crawling up towards his cheeks again. Even if Jon’s intentions are purely friendly rather than...anything else, well, Martin could always use more friends.

“How were they last night?” he asks, and the smile that spreads across Jon’s face this time is pure delight.

“Oh I barely got an hour’s sleep,” he says, waving a hand. “And today they’re sitting under my desk reminding me every couple of hours that they need attention and that they are far more important than whatever I’m working on. They’re perfect.”

“Sounds like cat parenthood suits you,” Martin teases gently, and Jon laughs.

“I think it rather does.”

*

Lunch is...nice, and only slightly awkward in the “getting to know a new person” sort of way. Jon is serious, but also funny in an understated, acerbic way, and there’s a gentleness to him that wouldn’t be immediately apparent, if Martin hadn’t seen him cradling two tiny, fragile lives to his chest last night. He’s the kind of person Martin would like to know better, he thinks.

Afterwards they go to Jon’s workplace, which is extremely academic with a brass nameplate by the door and everything, and down to the basement office where Jon works; Martin doesn’t really know what archiving entails, but it looks like mostly a bloody great pile of paperwork. Jon’s two colleagues give Martin friendly and extremely curious glances as they pass; Jon pointedly ignores them in favor of directing Martin to his desk and the cardboard box sitting beneath it.

When Martin glances inside, the two kittens are curled up in the folds of the fish-print blanket, lying against the shape of what he assumes is the hot water bottle. Their bellies already look rounder than they were last night, thanks to regular feeding, and their limbs twitch as they sleep.

“I’ll take them to the vet for a check up after work,” Jon murmurs quietly, gazing down at them with a soft expression. Martin recognizes that look of adoration, and he knows this pair won’t be going to a shelter or anywhere else; they’ve found their home with Jon.

“They’re lucky you found them,” he says, and Jon smiles self-consciously.

“I think I’m the one who was lucky,” he says.

They spend a bit more time with the kittens, and then Martin realizes that it’s about time he got back to work if he doesn’t want to get in trouble. He excuses himself, waving goodbye to Jon’s still curious colleagues, and Jon walks him out to the grand front entrance of the building.

“Thanks again for lunch,” he says. “And—you have my number, right? The offer is open, if you need anything, just text me.”

“I will,” says Jon. “And, ah, let me know if you’d like to come and see the kittens again. Any day. Well, most days,” he corrects himself. “We could, ah, maybe have lunch again?”

“That sounds...really nice,” says Martin. Jon smiles, pleased, and Martin isn’t trying to notice the faint flush that spreads across his face, but it’s very cute anyway.

*

As he walks back to work, Martin’s phone vibrates with a text. It’s a picture of the kittens, curled up on top of each other, with the message:

Come back and see us soon!

Martin grins; the kittens, he thinks, weren’t the only ones lucky to be found last night.