#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]

no one mourns the wicked (chapter one)

I have listened to this song too much. Huge thanks to @minky-for-short for beta reading!

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3 if you enjoyed this!

-----

Jonathan Sims has been dead for five years and the world is better for it.

Well. Half of that is true.

Jon has spent those five years in exile, jumping from place to place, staying on the fringes of this post Change world. He has to, no one can know that he's alive or he won't stay that way for long, not when everyone knows him as the Archivist, servant of the Eye and the person who brought the Apocalypse.

But, more than that, they can't know about his family.

-----

Jon had always told himself he was happy to watch from a distance. 

He observed, he cataloged, he listened from the other side of a broad wooden desk or a reel of magnetised tape then he filed it all away. Nothing on his hands but a few spots of ink or a smudge of graphite. 

Jon had told himself that was safest. That detachment was the only way to stay alive. He wasn’t the hero, it wasn’t his story. He was the reader, able to close the book and walk away, and that was enough. It had to be.

Because look what had happened when he’d tried to play the hero. Not being in the story at all, watching from the sidelines, was better than being the villain. 

Five years was plenty of time for people to forget his face. Especially when people never really knew much beyond the terrifying and implacable Archivist, servant of the Ceaseless Watcher, herald of the new world and presiding over it all from his throne in the looming, lidless Panopticon. Not exactly a title Jonathan Sims lived up to in person. Even before he’d let his hair grow long and his beard fill in and he lost weight he never had to lose in the first place. 

Even knowing that, Jon couldn’t help the prickling anxiety when he was anywhere remotely public. There were only a handful of other people sharing the cafe with him right now, all of them absorbed in their own grey, rainy Tuesday afternoons, but it was enough to send his foot tapping restlessly under the table. He hunched his shoulders, pretending to be fascinated by the milk billowing and swirling through the cup of tea clutched in his hands, avoiding any eye contact. He knew that’s what would give him away if he wasn’t careful. How many people had seen those eyes, eagerly drinking in the worst moments of their lives?

Jon wouldn’t risk it, not usually. He was so careful with everything else, moving between short term rental places, having his shopping delivered, working several remote, mind numbing jobs where his employers and coworkers existed solely in emails and Excel spreadsheets. It was surprisingly easy to cut out all human contact these days, to be a kind of modern hermit in the middle of a crowded city. Sometimes it even felt encouraged, in this post Change world where people were still trying to get rid of the taste of fear lingering on their tongues.

Jon existed in isolation, his own kind of solitary confinement. Not to keep himself safe anymore, he’d stopped caring about that sometime around the moment he’d doomed the world. Now it was to protect everyone else. 

But there was one reason to break his rule, one thing that was worth the gnawing anxiety and the gentle tremble in his hands as he stirred his tea. It tasted like bitter mud water when he took a sip, nothing even close to the memory he was trying to evoke but he didn’t choose this cafe for its quality. 

His eyes flickered left every so often, out of the large front window he’d intentionally sat beside. It gave him an excellent view of the other side of the street, the building that was standing exactly opposite the cafe. It wasn’t anything special, it looked exactly like any other community center grimly clinging on from a time where councils actually had the money to do outreach. Squat and square with bricks worn dull by the city’s smog and a sign nearly illegible under the many graffiti tags. There was a noticeboard, the posters under its scratched plexiglass looking sun faded and out of date, adverts for a bed frame that would be rusted through by now, a flyer for a play that had been performed years ago, local health alerts urging people to get their eyes checked in words so faded they were invisible. But, somewhere under all that, was a sign saying ‘Ballet lessons for children ages 4-10. Tuesday afternoons, 4 to 5 pm.’ That was what brought Jon here, what brought him here as many weeks as he could allow himself without the guilt becoming something suffocating.

Finally, after countless nervous glances between the clock on the wall and the door to the community center, Jon saw them. It was like two swift punches to his stomach, one after another, no time to breathe between them and no chance of ever having braced enough. 

Martin came first, holding the door open, dressed in his usual jeans and an oversized t-shirt, though the tiny green dinosaur backpack thrown over his shoulder was a little less familiar. Jon looked for anything other than exhaustion on his face, that bone deep, aching tiredness with teeth. He’d looked like that for five years, every moment Martin thought no one else was looking at him. Jon dreaded and hoped in equal measure to see it ease, even a little, but it never did. 

The only thing that chased it back behind the clouds was Gertie. She came dashing after Martin, buzzing with her usual endless energy, even after an hour of ballet. She had a coat buttoned tight against the cold day, even though Martin had clearly forgotten his own, and a homemade knit hat pulled low over her ears. She was talking, she usually was, looking up at her father as she rambled and he nodded and smiled, knowing better than to interrupt. Even as she bounced and fidgeted and clumsily went through the new dance steps she’d learned, Gertie kept her little hand in Martin’s, hanging on tight, like she always wanted to know for certain that her papa was right there. Like the world was brighter just by having him close.

Jon understood. There were so many moments as they’d walked through the Change where he held on to Martin just like that. And so many moments after where he’d wished he could. 

He was staring. He needed to be more careful, anyone who looked over would immediately wonder why he was so fixated on the man and his child across the street, an association between them so faint but still far more than he could allow. But Jon couldn’t take his eyes away, it would have been less painful to pull them out of his skull. He made sure he didn’t miss a single step Martin and Gertie took as they walked down the street, as Gertie waved to passing cars and Martin frowned up at the gathering clouds, Jon watched devotedly like he was pressing every instant against his brain hard enough to leave a bruised imprint. These few seconds were all he had. 

And there was never enough of them. Too soon, far too soon, they turned the corner and disappeared, out of Jon’s sight for another week. Everything in him ached to follow, to run after them, to catch hold of Martin’s sleeve, throw himself down on the pavement and beg to be allowed into their beautiful, normal little life. 

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. All he could do was breathe, slow and steady, until the shaking stopped, wipe his eyes and leave money on the table beside his now cold cup of tea. Jon stood, making sure his hood was pulled up and his face was hidden, before stepping out into the cold and walking in the opposite direction to Martin and Gertie. He had to move quickly, he wanted to be back in the flat before the weight of it all paralysed him and left him unable to do anything but curl into a ball and stare into space. 

He was doing the right thing. This was the only way, the only thing that would keep his boyfriend and their child safe. It had to be like this, he could never do anything more than watch from a distance.

Jon knew this, he’d always known this. But he could no longer convince himself that it made him happy. 

-

People were calling it Post Change. 

That’s how everything was becoming divided, linguistically, into the world before and the world after. That was the phrase they were using on the news, in the press conferences, on posters plastering the tube stations, directing people to the hastily cobbled together government services that claimed to deal with the quagmire of issues people faced as they tried to remember what normal life meant. Here’s how our company is growing in the Post Change world. Dating Post Change, how you can move forward with a new love in your life. Post Change Therapy Groups near you. Contact the Post Change Office for help getting in contact with missing loved ones. 

See some suspicious activity? Contact the Avatar Alert Hotline. Help keep our Post Change society safe. 

Jon supposed it was an attempt at optimism. Post Change implied it was over, that they’d all just snapped back to real life after a horrible collective dream, that they’d all pick up where they left off and keep chugging merrily along through late stage capitalism. Back to their much slower and less literal apocalypse, comfortably of mankind’s own making. 

Of course it wasn’t an accurate term. The world wasn’t post change, it had been changed, permanently, irreversibly. It was scarred, in a way that wouldn’t fade in five years or five decades. Jon didn’t need a connection to an all seeing eye to know that. 

It was in the quiet as he walked to the train station. London had never been this quiet before, not even out here in the city’s periphery. It was an absence, the sense that these streets should be full of people coming and going, lives should be running in their restless currents, but they simply weren’t, they’d stalled or been snuffed out completely. It was in the nearly empty Underground station, so many people were still unwilling to face that kind of claustrophobic closeness, the darkness, the loud noises that would make the vague memories they carried feel just over their shoulder. It was in the low chatter that hummed through the train carriage, complete strangers talking about nothing because they simply didn’t want to feel alone, they needed to know there was someone else there, someone real who would nod along with them about how the weather had been terrible lately. 

Jon kept himself apart from it all, slumping against the window with his shoulders hunched, arms folded tightly across his chest. He lived for his glimpses of Martin and Gertie, those seconds where he could know they were safe and whole and so blessedly normal. Where he could see with his own eyes that he hadn’t ruined their lives completely. 

Jon loved those moments, needed those moments, but they left him so drained. He leaned against the window of the train, too tired to even shift so the vibrations would stop rattling his skull. At least it kept him awake. He couldn’t afford to sleep, however much his body wanted to. He couldn’t leave himself so vulnerable and, more practically, he hadn’t lived in this newest flat long enough to get home on automatic, if he slipped under and missed his stop, god only knew how he’d get back. 

That realization twisted the corner of his mouth, sending a bone deep feeling of wrongness jarring through his body, like he’d touched an exposed nerve. He couldn’t pretend his exhaustion was just grief over his family, he wasn’t allowed anything so normal anymore.

These fog came and went, they had since he first opened his eyes after closing them against the bright white glare of the Panopticon’s fall. Since he’d first seen the grey blue sky, heard the waves murmuring a few meters from his head, felt stones shift under his aching body. His first glimpse of the world Post Change, post Fear with a capital F, had been a beach in his home town of Bournemouth, one he’d played on as a child. 

But the world wasn’t Post Change, not really. And neither was Jon. 

It was impossible not to feel the frustration, as much as he hated it. When he wore the Watcher’s Crown, the information had been overwhelming, an ocean of knowledge that pushed out at the seams of him, ignorance was a blessed chance to take a gulp of air. But now it had evaporated, a barren desert in its place. The absence was so infuriating that simple things like realising he didn’t know how to get to his new address made him want to tear his hair or scratch his skin until it bled, the worst kind of withdrawal that didn’t seem to be fading. 

Jon would wonder if the other Avatars felt like this but he knew there were so few of them left. Those that hadn’t been torn down by mobs, who’d survived long enough for the justice system to cobble itself together again had been hunted down just as ruthlessly, it just ended behind bars rather than at the end of a rope. The sentence was the same, in the end. Jon had a morbid fascination with the fates of his fellow Avatars, he’d followed them quite closely and nearly every one he’d been able to track had ended with a body being discovered by a guard during morning rounds, no one with any idea how it possibly could have happened though Jon had a few guesses. And it wasn’t just the Avatars who were pulled down, they were bombs that exploded and scorched the lives of those around them too, anyone who was close. Jobs lost, homes seized, backs turned, all for the crime of loving an Avatar.

Better to be dead already. Better to have a boyfriend who everyone, including him, believed had killed you to save the world. Better to have a daughter who didn’t know she’d ever had another father. Better, however much it hurt.

Jon did manage to make it to the right stop without falling asleep, trying to let the gust of cold air as he stepped out of the carriage wake him up a little. It did but the itch stirred too, becoming something with teeth that paced in his chest and gnawed at the ribs he had left. Jon sagged in defeat, resigned before he’d even made it through the ticket gates. He wouldn’t be allowed to lock himself away in the flat and collapse under his grief. Not until he’d dealt with this. 

Finding a library wasn’t too difficult, he’d developed a bit of a nose for them over his life, like a floundering ship desperately surging towards a lighthouse.Though it did take a lot more walking than he’d expected, he was further in the mass of London then he’d ever lived before while on the run and most of the streets were given over to bars and shops. Finally he turned a corner to see a public library. 

It was a squat, rather sparse building, like it was fully aware that no one in their right mind would visit it when the grand, sumptuous London Library and British Library were just a tube ride away. But it was exactly what Jon needed, it was close, it was quiet and it had books. He walked quickly through the revolving doors, past the front desk, scanning the sign by the stairs for the non fiction section, heading up them the instant he knew that was what he needed to do. All with quick, purposeful movements he’d practised over the last five years, the way an extra might move in the background of a movie. 

The moment Jon inhaled the smell of old, well used books, he felt better, the itch cooling just at the edges. He started grabbing some off the shelves, not looking at the section he was in or even glancing at the titles, going off instinct. It didn’t matter what they were about, what he would find as he cracked the spine of the first one, which turned out to be about gardening. The only thing the itch cared about was the flow of knowledge, the sensation of facts about winter perennials pouring in through Jon’s eyes as they darted across the text. 

It was a far cry from the all consuming, overwhelming tide of the Eye simmering in the back of his mind or the true omniscience of those terrible minutes he’d sat as the Pupil. But, as if his brain knew this was the closest he’d get in the Post Change world, it let this be enough. 

Once the pile in his arms felt heavy enough, Jon took them to the nearest table, ready to tear through them and absorb enough things he didn’t know that the need would die down back to a low drone. It would flare again, it always did, but maybe he could even get some sleep if he fed it enough. Maybe he’d even see Martin and Gertie in his dreams, if he replayed those moments enough in his mind, like running a tape over and over until it scorched onto the TV screen.

Though Jon had to be careful what he wished for. There had been other dreams of Martin, of Gertie, ones he didn’t think he could handle seeing again. Ones with eyes, his own staring eyes, unable to even blink against the blood, the twisting pain, the sobbing. Just thinking about them, the briefest second of memory before he could roughly shove them away, had Jon screwing his eyes shut in physical pain. 

But it wasn’t enough, he could still hear a soft, shuddering voice hitching with tears, a voice that was far too young to be filled with fear. He’d never gotten to hear her speak her first words, he’d never gotten to hear her say her first words, he’d never gotten to hear her call him daddy but he knew how his daughter sounded when she was terrified. The unfairness of it all, the bitterness of the ashes he was left with, was suddenly so overwhelming that he couldn’t take a breath, he could only put his hands over his ears and try to hold himself together.

But the sound of the crying still didn’t fade. Confusion was a shock of cold water, enough that Jon actually had a moment of silence, an eye to his storm, enough to take a breath and realise it wasn’t a dream or a memory. It was just a sound. A sound there with him in the otherwise silent stacks of the library. 

Jon knew better. He did. He’d spent five years and a lifetime before that convincing himself that distance was the only option, that all he was allowed to do was watch from a distance. He had an apocalypse’s worth of proof that everything he touched turned to ruin and, if that didn’t convince him, he’d watched the entire world celebrate his supposed death, turn Martin into a hero for killing him. 

He knew all of this. And still he didn’t hesitate. 

Gertie was standing in the middle of the historical section, hands twisting anxiously, her round cheeks streaked with tears and lower lip wobbling. She was crying in the way toddlers did where the sobs took over their whole bodies, hitching her shoulders as she looked around helplessly. 

It was all Jon could do not to take her in his arms, hold her tight, do anything he possibly could to stop those frightened tears. It took every fraction of his self control to walk slowly, to keep his hands shaking on his knees as he knelt down a yard or so away from his own daughter, to keep his voice from breaking as he murmured to her. 

“Hey. Hey, it’s okay, sweetheart. Are you lost?”

There was a little wariness in Gertie’s eyes as she turned to face him, a slight tensing of her shoulders that deepened the fracture in Jon’s heart. He pulled down his hood quickly and pushed his hair out of his face, trying not to look quite so much like a vagrant. 

God, she looked so much like Martin. She had from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, the moment he’d cried in relief to see so much of his boyfriend in their child, from her button nose to the perpetually messy auburn curls to the round cheeks with their slight dusting of freckles. He hated knowing she cried like him too, hated how close it was to the last time he’d seen Martin’s face before the Panopticon fell, burning with tears against the cold metal sliding between Jon’s shoulder blades. 

It was only the eyes that were different. The same deep, mossy green as his own.

“Uh huh. I can’t find my papa,” saying it out loud seemed to make it more real for Gertie and she began to cry harder, words tumbling out between her shuddery sobs, “He was looking for books for school and I was supposed to stay in the kids books but I wanted to read some grown up books and be smart like him so I went to find some and now I can’t find my papa and I’m lost and…and…”

Jon blinked, absorbing that rush of information, realising that rambling was apparently as hereditary as freckles and hair that curled in defiance of any hairbrush. 

“Oh…oh, it’s okay, we can fix that? I can help you get back to the children’s books and he’ll come find you there. Or maybe we can go to the front desk, they’ll put an announcement on the tannoy and he’ll come straight away,” Jon risked a few inches closer, smiling softly for her. 

“He will?” Gertie gulped in air, looking at him with a new trust. 

“I promise,” Jon felt his voice tremble ever so slightly, “Everything will be okay…what’s your name?”

“Gertrude Blackwood,” she pronounced it carefully, like she’d practised saying all of it, scrubbing a pudgy fist against her eyes, “My papa is…um…” 

She paused, face clouding with the confusion of a small child who had to consider the fact that her parent had a life outside of actually being her parent. 

“Martin! Martin Blackwood!”

“You have a very pretty name,” Jon chuckled, “I’m…I’m Jon.” 

He supposed it was a common enough name. And he was already skirting far too close to lying to his daughter. 

Gertie nodded, smiling at that, “I like your name too. Hello, Jon.”

She stuck her hand out to him, little fingers reaching from the sleeve of the coat she still wore. It took Jon a moment to realise she wanted to take his hand, that she trusted him enough to anchor herself to him. That her world had only ever been full of adults who meant what they said. 

His hand shook as he reached across the distance and closed his fingers around hers. Five years. Five whole years since he’d held her in his arms, felt her warmth against his cold skin, felt as she shifted closer to his heartbeat like that sound made her feel safe. 

It had been under the Panopticon, in the tunnels of the Institute. He’d taken her from the makeshift bassinet they’d cobbled together from a blanket and a box that once held Archive files, feeling bad for waking her but knowing he couldn’t leave without saying goodbye. He’d whispered to her, keeping his voice low and soothing even as the tears had fallen from his eyes, promising that he didn’t want to leave but he had to. That this was the only way. That he would build her a better world, one she could live a full, safe, happy life. That he loved her so very much but he had to go. 

That he would always be watching from a distance to make sure she was safe. 

At least he’d been able to keep that promise. Up until this moment, anyway. 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Gertie,” he murmured, “Thank you for letting me help.” 

-

Establishing himself as Gertie’s rescuer apparently opened some kind of floodgate in her. She began to chatter, bright and cheerful like the tears from before were in another lifetime, stopping Jon at nearly every shelf to peer at the books and ask him questions about them, like she assumed he was an expert on everything. 

Jon was nearly giddy, pressing every word to his heart like beautiful flowers preserved between the pages of a book. He knew he needed to be careful, a not insignificant part of his brain was babbling frantically about that. But he couldn’t help the warm feeling in his chest as he watched her simple joy, the first break in the endless fog after so, so long. 

It would be okay. He’d take this unexpected gift, treasure it while he could, then make sure he was out of sight before Martin came back to the children’s section to find her. No harm done and more gained than he’d ever dared home for.

“Have you read this one, Jon?” Gertie asked brightly, pointing up at a thick book that, according to the spine, was a history of the Roman Empire, “It has a horse on it!”

“Can’t say I have,” Jon chuckled, pulling out so she could see that there were, in fact, even more horses on the cover, “You really read books like this?”

Gertie nodded, her chest puffing out with pride, “Uh huh! I read big grown up books! Some of them aren’t as exciting as the little kid books but some are real good…papa says not to tell people at school though. He says just read the books my teacher says to.”

Jon stalled at that, his stomach turning, “He does?”

Gertie nodded, already careening off down the next aisle and trusting Jon to keep up, “He says they wouldn’t understand why. And they might get scared.”

Jon did understand why but he was definitely scared. Of course he’d worried about the effects of the Apocalypse on his daughter, after being carried across it, half inside him and half in his or Martin’s arms. Most other fathers asked how many fingers and toes their newborn had, Jon had only relaxed once Martin told him Gertie had just two eyes. 

It had been slightly strange, a baby who didn’t cry, didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, who peered out at her surroundings with a curiosity much older than her features. But there hadn’t been any fear or pain, the only thing Jon had dared ask for back then. He’d told himself that, when he fixed everything, Gertie would be released. She’d go back to normal, she’d get to live the childhood being held in stasis. Like a butterfly, he’d told himself. 

“Gertie…” he pulled out the book that had caught this second’s worth of attention, a book about- ah, of course- the structure of the eye, “Can you read some of this for me? Can you show me?”

He held it open to a random page, watching with a sinking feeling as her eyes fixed on the words, in the same way she’d watched the ruined landscape roll past them. Her voice flowed easily, without hesitation, almost rhythmic. 

“The size of the pupil (often measured as diameter) can be a symptom of an underlying disease. Dilation of the pupil is known as mydriasis and contraction as miosis…”

“Thank you, Gertie,” Jon swallowed hard, pulling the book back, closing it firmly and pressing it against his chest like he was trying to contain it, protect her from its contents, “That…that is very, very cool.” 

Gertie’s face lit up at the compliment, a delighted giggle escaping her. Jon smiled back, even as his heart clenched painfully. What other traces of the Eye were still clinging to his little girl? What clumsy smudges of ink had he left on her?  And who else would notice? He slid the book back on the shelf with more force than was needed.

“I can read all the grown up books I like when I’m in the shop, though!” Gertie confided, taking Jon’s hand again and squeezing it in her excitement, “Papa takes me sometimes when he has to work.”

“Your papa works in a bookshop?” Jon tilted his head as he was pulled along, curiosity dulling his anxiety. He couldn’t deny his hunger to learn everything he could about Martin, to fill in some of the sparse sketch he could make from one glimpse across a street per week. 

He almost wished for the early days, when Martin was on the newly restored television most mornings of the week, jumping from channel to channel, telling the same story as it was requested again and again. The story of how he’d killed the Archivist and saved the world. At least then he’d been able to see his face, hear his voice, as he’d tried to tune out the words. 

That didn’t happen anymore. Jon selfishly hoped it was because Martin refused, that maybe those words had been as hard to say as they’d been to hear. 

“Uh huh! It’s on Murray Street,” Gertie nods, “He doesn’t own it but the man who does isn’t around a lot so I can read all the big ones I want. They’re all real old and interesting.”

Jon smiled, imagining Martin behind the desk of a bookshop full of warm, dark woods and old leather spines with gold filigree titles. It felt right. Like seeing a penguin in Antarctica or an owl nestled in the bolt hole of a tree. 

“Papa does his homework for school and I get to read,” Gertie continued, eyes bright, “And I can have one cup of tea cos papa says caffeine is bad for little girls but he drinks so many…”

“Your papa goes to school?”

Gertie nodded so hard her curls bounced, “Uh huh! University in his computer! He learns about people’s brains and next year we get to go to his graduation and he said I can throw his hat in the air like in the Simpsons.”

Jon gave a soft laugh, a rush of pride and relief easing the ache in his chest like he’d taken a swallow of warm tea himself, “That’s wonderful. He’s…I’m sure he’s always been a very smart man. I’m glad he’s happy.”

A cloud passed over the sunshine in Gertie’s expression, she halted in her flitting from book to book like there was a sudden weight on her shoulders. She tugged on Jon’s hand, pulling him down to her level and lowering her voice like she was telling him some secret. He knelt, leaning close, putting both of his hands around her small one almost reflexively, following fatherly instincts he’d thought he’d never gotten the chance to develop. 

“Sometimes. When I’m there. But when I’m not, papa looks so sad…he thinks I don’t notice but I do…”

Jon swallowed hard, that momentary relief shattered though he scrambled to comfort her, to do anything to ease the worry on her face, “Ah. I see. I’m sure he doesn’t want you to worry, Gertie. After everything that happened, it’s normal to be sad sometimes?”

“That’s what Auntie Georgie said when I asked her,” Gertie worried her bottom lip, the same way Martin did, “She said he lost someone when the bad stuff happened and he misses them a lot.”

Jon blinked rapidly, having to feign a sudden interest in the laces of his battered trainers before she saw the tears that rushed so quickly to his eyes, “Oh…”

Gertie hesitated, that strange perceptiveness like a light in her gaze, a strange green lighthouse on a shore Jon thought he’d left behind. Her voice was soft, gentler than he remembered anything from that place being. But it pulled the truth from him all the same, powers or not.

“You look the same way he does. Did you lose someone too?”

Jon didn’t trust himself to speak straight away. He’d gone too far, he knew that. He needed to find that distance again, he needed to take a step back before he made things worse, before he ruined everything again. Martin had clearly worked so hard to build a real life for himself and Gertie, he needed to pull away before the sickening radiation that rolled off him sent it all crumbling down. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t hurt them anymore than he already had. 

“I…I lost everything.”

He dropped her hand, pulling his away like he’d burn her if he held on another moment. He made to croak that he wanted to take her back to the children’s books, back to where Martin would be, that he wanted Gertie to forget she ever saw him. But, under that green gaze, he couldn’t say anything but the truth. So those words wouldn’t come. 

“I’m sorry, Gertie…”

He turned to just walk away, seeing no other way out that didn’t end with Gertie hurt. He would tell the front desk there was a lost child in the non fiction stacks, they’d help her. Anyone would be better to help her than him. She’d find Martin and her soft, warm, safe life could continue, with him at a distance. Their story would go on and he’d be a ghost in the background of the illustrations, a bad ending they’d mercifully avoided, a dragon they’d slain to earn their freedom.

It was enough. It had to be. 

Gertie was a five year old girl, her grasp wasn’t strong, but the moment she reached across the distance between them and grabbed his hand again, Jon froze in place, unable to move. 

“Please don’t go.”

Jon knew what he should do. He knew what he needed to do. He knew what he couldn’t do. 

But he didn’t know what he was going to do. And he would never have to. 

“Gertie? Gertie, where are you? Oh god…”

There was no time to do anything but stand there as Martin turned the corner of the stacks. The face Jon had been doing all of this for, the face he saw twisted in pain, in fear, in hatred in his nightmares. He looked so much older, the streak of white had never left his hair, the exhausted lines in the corner of his eyes that the make up on TV had never really been able to cover. 

But Jon knew that smile, that had never changed. He got to see it break across Martin’s face, pure relief as he saw his daughter standing there. He opened his mouth to thank this stranger, eyes warm and happy as they looked up and fixed on Jon, just like they used to be. 

And he had to watch as that warmth froze and died. As he stepped back into Martin Blackwood’s story and broke it clean in two.

“...Jon?”

[stonathandreamer]

These past few days have been utterly shitty, and the only thing capable of uplifting my mood was ✨Jonathan Byers and Stonathan✨

Warning: long-ish rant ahead, because I'm pissed and in need of a vent, otherwise I'll commit an atrocious and heinous crime against humanity.

So, I was messaging a friend of mine last night, and I mentioned my drawings. They asked if I could show them one, and I sent a half-finished sketch of Jonathan. They complimented my drawing and I said I was trying to draw Jonathan and sent a photo of him to my friend with the caption, "Ain't he a cutie? (P.S.: he's my crush 😍)."

This is the photo I sent:

Their response was:

"Couldn't you have found a better crush? 😂"

I thought, "Okay, they're joking about my crush. Super normal for friends to do. We listen and we judge. Done it multiple times myself, and it's all good fun."

And then came the follow-up message:

"I mean, what do you see in him? He looks ugly and sick. He looks drugged."

Haven't talked to them ever since.

Are you really not talking to your friend just because they said those things about Jonathan? Yes, because, one, I am a very petty person when I want to be, and two, this isn't about them talking about Jonathan. Like I said in a previous post (this one), when you comment on a character's appearance (calling them ugly, sick, drugged, anorexic, or whatever), your words aren't hitting the character, but rather the actor portraying the character. And in Jonathan's case, they offended Charlie.

There's an abysmal difference between saying, "Oh, he's not my type," and, "He looks like a fucking drug addict. He's ugly as hell." Why do you feel the need to say something like that about another person?! If you have a mean comment about someone's appearance, do the universe a favor and keep that comment to yourself.

How would you feel if someone said something like that about you to someone else? You wouldn't like it, would you?

And my response was a very short and simple, "No, he's not ugly." And I think my friend noticed they made an ill comment, because their reply was a, "Alright, if you say so."

And it's not only because of that.

Before we started talking about my drawings, we were talking about The Sims 4. I told them that I had started playing, how much I was enjoying the game, and sent them a pic of my Harrington-Byers family.

My friend didn't notice they were two guys until I started talking about babies and jokingly said I wouldn't have to worry about them getting another kid because they can't get pregnant. My friend asked why they can't get pregnant, and I said, "Well, because they're both men." They asked me why I made them both men, and I jokingly said, "Why would I make them straight? There are too many heteros in the world."

And the conversation went south.

Their response was, "TOO MANY STRAIGHT PEOPLE?! Are you serious? You can't turn a corner without bumping into a gay or a lesbian or whatever nowadays."

Uhm 🤨🤨🤨🤨🤨???????????????????

That sounded homophobic-ish (?).

I mean, doesn't it sound like something your conservative fake news-believing relative would say at the family Sunday barbecue?

I dunno, that comment made me raise an eyebrow, but after a few minutes of thinking, I brushed it off and thought it was just an ignorant comment without any true malicious intent. I mean, it's not uncommon for people to say something mean without properly thinking if their words are hurtful to someone. And I think my friend noticed they said something bad, because of the way I responded: "Well, it's a good thing you're bumping into gays and lesbians on every corner, because last time I checked, it's straight people who ruined the world, not the LBGTQ+ community. They didn’t start any world war, or invaded any country, or persecuted people because of their beliefs. So the more gays we have in the world, the less problems we'll have to fix. Not to mention that gay marriage, in addition to being an option, is population control." - yep, I made a reference to a song from Rita Lee called "Obrigado não." You should check it out. It's really good!

And after that, my friend kind of backtracked on their statement, saying, "Well, as long as people are happy, that's all that matters," to which my reply was a short and simple, "Yeah."

I just wanted to talk to someone about stuff that I like and what I got was this. Hoorray... 🙄

Welp, lesson learned, don't talk about Jonathan and Stonathan (or gays in general) outside of Tumblr.

[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.)

[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? ☕)

_______________________________

TAGLIST:

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[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. 

[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

[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

[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.

[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!!!!

[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…

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[mollymauk-teafleak]

if we're lovers then we're screwed (chapter one)

Huge thanks to @minky-for-short who came up with this au and who continues to be a great friend and an excellent beta reader <3

Please reblog and comment over on ao3!

---

Jonathan Sims always dreamed of bigger, better things than his bleak home town. He knew that Bournemouth held nothing for him.

At least until Martin Blackwood moved in across the street.

And now that bigger, better future has arrived and Jon wants to take Martin with him.

But it isn't going to look the way Jon thought.

---

There was a letter for Jonathan Sims on the doormat. 

That wasn’t the name on the front, of course, not entirely. Halfway there. As close as he was going to get right now. 

It was meant for him and that was more of a letter than he’d ever gotten before. It caught his eye as soon as he walked through the door, snagging his attention in an unpleasant way like an uneven paving stone catching his foot. Something unexpected interrupting what, up until that point, had been a day just like every other.  For a moment, all he could do was glare at the letter on the mat, like he could stare down reality until it righted itself again, until it hurriedly swept away this unexpected error and let him continue with his routine. 

He didn’t get letters. The only ones that came through their door were bills and they had his daadi’s name on the front, though it was often misspelled, like they were perfectly fine to ask for her money, more and more every month, but couldn’t be bothered to look up any name that wasn’t English. 

When the letter didn’t realise the mistake of its own existence and vanish, Jon gave an irritated sigh, shifting his backpack so he could pick it up. That was definitely his old name printed on the front in stark black letters, so firm and indisputable that it twisted his stomach. He’d trodden on it by mistake as he’d walked through the door, the smudge of black sand from the beach across that dead name did make him feel a little better. 

Though the return address he saw as he turned the envelope over sent him right into freefall. For a terrible moment, he was certain he was about to throw up on the hallway carpet. 

Admissions office. University of Oxford. 

He had to read the words a few times just to make sure, the text blurring a little more each time as his hands began to tremble and he fought to breathe steadily. But no, this was it. The thing he’d been trying not to think about for months had hunted him down and dropped right onto his daadi’s doormat. 

Jon swallowed hard, trying to strain his ears past the hammering of his own heart. The little house was silent, nothing bubbling on the stove, no radio crackling in the kitchen, no whisper of slippers or soft, creaky voice singing in Punjabi. His daadi must still be at work. 

He did feel guilty about the rush of relief that brought him. He knew how much this meant to her, how hard she’d worked so he could afford the train down to London for the interview, how many times she prayed for him even though he’d stopped joining in, how she believed even though she came from a family where a granddaughter going to school, let alone university, was unheard of. Not that she had a granddaughter anymore but those conversations had only ended in frustration and raised voices. 

Regardless, daadi had supported him with everything she had, even after she’d been left with so little. She cared, even if she did it in a way Jon couldn’t always understand and didn’t always feel. 

Which was exactly why he couldn’t open this envelope in front of her. Because standing there, holding it in his hand and feeling it grow more heavy than a piece of paper had a right to be, all Jon could think was that he’d let her down yet again. 

But he did have someone who would look at him the exact same way, no matter what the letter said. Someone who cared about him in a way he understood even less because he could never- probably would never- figure out how he deserved it. But he could depend on it. And right now he needed something solid to cling to as his stomach roiled and his skin prickled and he held his future in his shaking hand. 

Fortunately, Martin was right across the road. 

Jon was careful, approaching the house from the back, walking right around the street to do it even though a single strip of badly maintained tarmac separated them. He was pretty sure Mrs Blackwood was having one of her stints in the hospital but he wasn’t about to take the risk of going to the front door, just in case. He hadn’t always been careful and Martin had paid for it. 

He’d much rather put his own neck on the line, hopping up onto the back wall and climbing into the jagged branches of the tree that dominated the Blackwood’s back garden. It was a damn sight harder now, ten years on from the first time he’d scaled it as a scrawny, bird-boned eight year old. But he’d be lying if he said there wasn’t that familiar sense of thrill to it, a flickering moment where he could be a prince scaling a tower or an explorer summiting a mountain. That had never fully gone away, even if the branches bent under him a lot more than they used to and his shins and palms ended up raw. 

Jon perched on the branch that had been scratching at Martin’s window every windy night since he’d lived there, scaring him and making him think some monster was tapping on the glass, demanding entrance. Jon had snorted when Martin told him that, drily saying at least the monsters were more polite than him, he just let himself in, had been for years. Why not lock it, if he was so afraid?

Martin’s voice had softened and his eyes had ducked away, as he’d mumbled that if he did, Jon wouldn’t be able to let himself in. That knowing he could come over whenever he wanted was worth being afraid. Jon had replayed that over in his mind a lot, so much that it would have worn out if it was a tape. 

It was enough that he understood why no one at school was surprised when they started dating. 

Climbing through Martin’s window had been easier when he was eight years old too. As he was shifting his weight, the toe of his boot barely secured on the flimsy plastic windowsill, a wave of nausea crashed over him. With no warning, his stomach tried to crawl up his throat, turning his muscles to water and his grip to nothing. Absurdly, his panic was all for the letter grasped tight in his fingers, he had a horrible vision of it whisking away on the breeze, completely forgetting that he’d be right behind it, falling a lot faster and harder. 

“Jon, bloody hell!”

Jon just about managed to keep hold of his stomach and his letter as he was yanked onto the safety of Martin’s floor, catching ragged breaths as his eyes focused on the peeling glow in the dark stickers he’d helped put up ten years ago, insisting they go in the astronomically correct positions. 

Then, for one pretty fantastic moment, his whole world became Martin. He looked exhausted, the way he always did these days, deep shadows carved under his eyes from waking up early and working until late in the night, lines of worry etched into the corners of his mouth. He looked far too young for his own expression, his face still soft and child-like underneath the tired, tense jaw of someone trying to balance three jobs and a spiralling mother. Like he was dressed up to play a role, a small child made up like an older man for a school play. But those cracks, that worry, wouldn’t rub away on the heel of a hand, Martin wasn’t allowed to set it all aside once he’d said his lines. This was just his life. 

Jon felt his heart thump painfully. It wasn’t just his own future clutched in his fist. 

“Did you come over just to give me a heart attack?” Martin panted, studying Jon’s face carefully like he couldn’t believe he was completely okay yet. 

“Maybe,” Jon rasped, shifting so he could move the envelope in front of Martin’s eyes, “Depends what’s in here, I guess.”

He watched Martin’s jaw drop, heard his quick intake of breath, “Oh shit…”

Jon felt himself pulled to his feet, Martin helping him sit down on the bed. His boyfriend’s hands moved anxiously, fluttering like birds trying to decide where to land as he fussed over him, pulling a twig from his hair, brushing a leaf from his shoulder. Martin had never been able to sit still when he was nervous, driven by some frantic impulse to help even if it wasn’t needed, like he was a robot who got stuck on a looping command. 

“So…you haven’t opened it?” he finally plucked up the courage to ask, once Jon had caught those restless hands and held them tight and safe in his own. 

“Chickened out,” Jon admitted with a weak smile, running his thumbs over Martin’s knuckles, “I don’t know, as soon as I had it in my hands, I just…I needed you.”

Someone, even with how tired he was, even though Jon knew he’d been up at four in the morning, had worked in the bakery until ten, had to run to the bookstore to work through until four, even though he only had another hour before he needed to go to his evening shift at the supermarket, Martin still put all of that aside to look at Jon with what felt like all the love in the world. Like to him love wasn’t something exhausting or difficult, it was the breaks of sunlight in between. 

“Well, you’ve got me,” he smiled, squeezing Jon’s fingers, “So enough stalling.”

He had to let go of Martin’s hand to slide his thumb under the seal and break it, freeing a tightly folded sheaf of clearly expensive paper. Jon got about as far as recognising the University’s crest at the top before shoving it away, shaking his head. 

“Nope. Can’t do it. You read it,” he managed to croak out of his tightly closing throat. 

Martin sighed, though it wasn’t frustrated or exasperated, the way people usually sighed at Jon. His broad hand came to rest at the small of Jon’s back, just a reminder that he was there. 

“Dear…Mr Sims,” Martin edited with the barest stumble, “Thank you for your application to Oxford University and our BA course in History and English…”

Jon closed his eyes, turning his face against Martin’s neck, like he could will the world to stop turning. Because even with how hard he’d worked, how sure and certain he’d made himself seem when teachers had looked at him with badly hidden doubt and other kids had sniggered, even with how stubborn he was, in that moment it seemed inevitable. He knew, with a sickening certainty, what that letter would say. It would say thanks for trying, thanks for the effort, thanks for padding our diversity statistics but this isn’t for kids with behaviour problems and no money behind them, this world doesn’t have room for people like you so just give up and stop trying-

“Oh…Jon, you got in!” Martin gasped, “‘We’re delighted to inform you that your application was successful’, you did it!”

“Wait, what?” 

Jon snatched the letter back, scowling at it until the words resolved and the truth sank in. He felt oddly hollow at first, a little dizzy, like he’d been walking down the stairs in the dark and miscounted the steps, left to wobble on the edge of the world. He’d done it. 

“I got in…” he said the words out loud, like that would make it seem real, “I actually did it…”

Martin laughed, his smile wide in a way Jon had almost forgotten it could be, a smile he remembered from when they were small, planning futures where they were pirate captains of their own vessel or astronauts settling a far off planet for just the two of them. Like he’d believed in this dream as earnestly as he’d believed in those, like it had all been equally as likely just because Jon had promised it to him. 

“You look surprised!” he pulled Jon into a tight hug, “Did you not realise how amazing you are?”

“Guess not…” Jon murmured, holding him back just as tight, grounding himself, “I mean, I know what I said but…I never thought I was actually good enough.”

Martin flinched, like something had struck him. He moved back, enough that he could meet Jon’s eyes, his gaze stubborn in that way it sometimes got. 

He’d seen that look when Martin had found him in his daadi’s bathroom, sobbing and holding a pair of scissors in shaking hands, hacking messily at the black hair that had reached the small of his back since he was a toddler. Martin had set his jaw, taken the scissors from him and helped Jon find someone who looked like himself in that mirror. 

He’d seen that look when he’d told him, through a thick tongue that didn’t want to work, that he was a boy and his name was Jon and please, please don’t hate him. Martin had just smiled, his love as fierce as anything Jon had ever seen, wrapped his arms around his shaking shoulders and told him it was so nice to finally call him the right name. 

He’d seen that look when Jared had shoved him against the back wall at school and threatened to break his teeth, striking him with names that burned, knowing no one would hear and they probably wouldn't come to help, even if they did. But Martin had. He’d seemed to grow twice his size as he’d drawn himself up and yanked Jared back, shoving him to the ground and growling that he wouldn’t let him hurt his best friend. 

He’d seen that look, watched Martin try so hard to be brave when he was so nervous, when he’d first told Jon he loved him. 

That look had always made Jon feel safe, protected, like nothing could hurt him because Martin simply wouldn’t let it. It had taught him that love could have teeth, that it wasn’t a resigned obligation, it was a choice. And it was a choice Martin had made, over and over, for him. 

“Jon,” he smiled, resting a hand on his cheek like this was too important to risk him looking away, “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to go to Oxford. You’re going to show those posh dickheads how smart and brilliant you are. You’re going to get a degree and a masters and probably a PhD and spend the rest of your life being ridiculously clever and surrounded by books. You’re going to get everything you want, Jon, and it's going to have your name on it. Your real one. Because you’ve worked so hard and you bloody deserve it.”

Jon had to swallow hard before he could get the words out, eyes swimming so Martin blurred and seemed to move away from him, enough that he grasped his arms tighter just to be sure he was close. 

“You forgot something,” he realised he was grinning as he spoke, his heart so light it was bumping up against the top of his ribcage like a balloon. 

“Oh, right. You’ll also have a pet cat,” Martin cocked his head playfully, poking him lightly in the ribs. 

“No. I’ll have at least two,” Jon poked him right back though Martin was infuriatingly less ticklish than him, “I meant you, Martin. You’ll be there.” 

An expression flickered across Martin���s face, too fast to catch, “What?”

Jon beamed, “You’re coming with me. We can live in London, Martin, we can get a shitty flat that’s ours, you can find a job you actually like or you could go to college like you wanted. We can go to museums on the weekends and poetry readings and listen to music and it’ll be hard but it’ll belong to us. This is the start of our life together, Martin.”

For the second time in less than half an hour, Jon was so sure, so certain that he knew exactly what was about to happen, like he could see the next moments of his life mapped out clearly. And for the second time, he was proven wrong. 

“Jon…Jon, I can’t.”

He was falling again, stomach dropping, bile rising, air rushing through his ears and, this time, no hand to catch him. The hand had shoved him over the edge instead.

“What? What are you talking about?” Jon found he was still smiling, like he could force this into an absurd joke by just having the right reaction. 

But Martin’s face stayed devastated, deeply lined with grief, “It’s okay…I promise it’s okay, Jon, I’m happy for you. But this was how it was always going to be.”

“You need to start making sense, Martin,” Jon drew himself up, pulling away. He knew he was speaking too sharply but he couldn’t help it, the shock and the panic were lining his throat with broken glass, “The hell do you mean this is how it was always going to be?”

Martin’s hands were off again, now grasping at his auburn curls and plucking anxiously at the front of his own jumper, nowhere for them to land and soothe, placate, “I can’t go to London, Jon. I can’t go anywhere. My mum, she’s getting worse, she needs me more and more and we can barely afford the rent as it is, if I go…if I go, she’ll have no one.”

Jon had to stand, his whole body vibrating with nervous energy, like a violin string plucked in a discordant note. He paced back and forward, stumbling into piles of comic books and clothes Martin always left haphazardly on his floor. 

“You can’t be serious,” he shook his head, “Martin, you can’t just give up on the rest of your life. Especially not for her, not after everything she’s done to you. You already dropped out of school you already work yourself to the bone for her and the way she speaks to you, the way she speaks about us-”

“Jon, she needs me! She needs me and you don’t!” Martin’s voice almost broke, almost, but he took a breath, pulling a smile up from somewhere, “But it’s going to be okay! This is your dream, you’re going to get everything you want, you don’t need me anymore.”

Jon felt the words he desperately wanted to say pressing between his ribs, reaching out and grasping for Martin. But he didn’t know how to let go of them. Everything hurt too much, everything was too loud and too bright and so he did the only thing he seemed capable of doing. He got angry. 

“So what, this whole relationship you were just watching the clock, waiting until you could set me free like this is fucking White Fang?” Jon snapped, scowling at Martin, “When exactly did you decide on this plan, after I came out to you? After we fucked? After the night on the beach?”

Martin had tears in his eyes, brimming behind his glasses and god, Jon wanted to shut his eyes but he couldn’t, like if he looked away Martin would be gone when he looked back. Like everything around him would just crumble into dust. 

“Jon, that’s not…it’s not like that,” Martin’s voice trembled, close to bending and breaking entirely, “You’re too good for me, you always have been, you were always going to…outgrow me.”

Jon felt as though he’d been punched in the stomach, the sickness rising again, “Fucking hell, Martin…”

Martin seemed to hear his own words, shifting uncomfortably, tears rolling down his cheeks and hanging for just a moment on his jaw. Just a moment, then they fell. 

“I know my mum’s not perfect,” he croaked, “I know she’s difficult but…everyone else has left her, Jon, I’m all she’s got. I can’t leave too, not when she’s so sick. She needs me.”

“That’s bullshit, Martin,” Jon grit his teeth, feeling like he running out of space to fall, that the ground was coming up to meet him, that there was nothing he could do, that it was really going to hurt, “That’s complete bullshit,  you don’t owe her anything after what she’s put you through. You know, there’s a fine line between being a martyr and being a coward.” 

Martin’s eyes widened, his expression pained, “That’s…that’s not fair. She’s my mother, I love her-”

“Well she doesn’t love you!” Jon shouted, hard and sharp like a slap, “She doesn’t, Martin, and I do love you but you still won’t choose me!”

He’d hit the ground. The silence that fell between them was the ringing, white hot silence that came after a heavy impact, the silence that had pain on its heels, the silence where you were forced to just hold still and wonder if you’d ever be the same again. 

Martin’s jaw worked, his chest heaving like it was fighting against some enormous weight. Like there were words trying to escape him too, trying to drag themselves out on broken limbs. But they wouldn’t come. They couldn’t, no more than Jon could let go of his own. 

“Fine,” he choked out, turning on his heels and heading back towards the window, feeling every new ache and bruise and broken bone from his fall, feeling his nerves screaming at him not to go. 

“Jon, please,” Martin sobbed out from behind him, voice cracking like ice underfoot. 

But it was too late. They both knew it. 

Jon didn’t remember climbing down the tree, vaulting the wall, stumbling back across the road. The next thing he was really aware of was falling to his knees in their front garden, heaving and spewing his guts up amongst the dahlias that daadi grew to remind her of home. His fingers dug deep furrows in the dirt, his body still wracked even when he had nothing left to give but sobs. 

There was a bitter irony to it, as bitter as the bile in the back of his throat. He’d gotten everything he’d wanted but he’d lost the one thing he’d never even dared hope for. The future he’d held in that envelope was whole but he was the one broken, shattered beyond recognition. 

Twice in one hour, Jonathan Sims had been so sure of what was around the corner, only to find himself tumbling. 

And, little did he know, he hadn’t hit the ground yet.

[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.

[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.