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pnkb1tch-archive · 11 months

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okay, finally finished typing up the behemoth that is arlo's acting career (childhod trauma teehee!). eventually i'll do a write up on the specificities of arlo's trauma and his relationship w his sisters, but for now this has the most important things regarding arlo's history outlined. under the cut for a mobile friendly version.

Born on August 17th, 1997 to Veronica Thompson, nee Hughes, and Derek Thompson, Charlie "Arlo" Finn Thompson never stood a chance. Veronica, a former Elite London model & former favorite WAG, always saw a future for herself and her children that was covered in glitz and gold. Arlo's elder sister Tiffany was a Gerber baby, and the face of Pampers by the tender age of three. It goes without saying that Arlo was thrust into the limelight soon thereafter without so much as a second thought, with Derek, Veronica's former agent, taking up that very same role for his own son.

From diaper commercials to branding deals with Joules, Boden & the like, the Thompson family name very quickly became a household one, a name that when spoken aloud rung of success and good breeding. Arlo stayed a child model for a good portion of his early years, tottering around after his parents as they lavished their darling son with affection in the presence of others. They had him and Tiffany tag along for countless parties, charity event after charity event, Derek & Veronica the very picture of domestic bliss, their children shining examples of good parenting. Of course, when the lights went out and the cameras were nowhere to be seen, it was a different question altogether. A coke habit carried over from her modeling days and an eating disorder to match, Veronica's attention was rarely on her children , delegating the role of mother to the trusted family nanny Jen (whom the media didn't find out about until the cheating scandal, miraculously enough). Derek was a workaholic, the agent of several other young talents, constantly with his nose buried in paperwork and his eyes glued to the prize (re: his bank account).

Derek and Veronica weren't abusive in the way the media is used to portraying the parents of child stars, they never forced Tiff or Arlo to work when they didn't want to, they were never physically abusive and they hardly spoke to their children enough to be verbally abusive. No, their abuse lied within neglect, the utter lack of consideration for their progeny when they weren't making them headlines or making them money. It got worse for Tiff around the time that Arlo turned seven and was cast in his first acting role, the younger brother character on a BBC family sitcom, "Our Family", that ended up taking the nation by storm the following five years. Arlo's character quickly became a fan favorite, with his button nose and big blue eyes, and of course, his point of origin (re; fans of Veronica).

The show ended on its sixth season, a few months before Arlo turned 12 and a few months after Tiff had turned 15. The following three years are incredibly successful ones for Arlo, but tumultuous for Tiff. With his seasoned past and effectively endless CV, Arlo scored several on-screen leading roles, as well as a contract with Disney that resulted in two DCOMS and two more sitcoms. Around this time, the youngest Thompson, Bambi, had turned five, and was following in the footsteps of her elder siblings. Unfortunately, going through puberty with absentee parents and the baggage of being a child star weighing her down, things started to roll downhill very quickly for Tiff. Tiff was officially the least successful Thompson, and as the gossip rags put it, the 'least attractive' as well. Her self-esteem takes a turn for the worst, and she has no one there to take care of her.

At age 18, Tiff starts experimenting with the pill bottles she finds in her mother's bedside drawer, eventually discovering evidence of her mother's affair. In the following weeks, Tiff leaks the story to the papers, "former WAG rekindles flame with famed footy star—while still married?" The press eats the Thompsons alive, former nanny Jen coming forward as well regarding Veronica's coke habit and both her && Derek's child neglect. The five week whirlwind ends in Tiff's public overdose, which she just barely survives. The Thompsons retreat into the shadows, "to heal", as Derek tells the press, still attempting some semblance of damage control.

The following three years find Veronica and Derek divorced, and Tiffany having cut off her parents completely. Now 19, Arlo enters the world of acting once again, with Derek still as his agent. Despite their family's marred reputation, Arlo's talent and history thankfully speaks for him, and he's able to land several smaller roles in assorted dramas and sitcoms that eventually build back his reputation enough to where instead of attending open calls, he's being invited to audition for roles personally.

From age 20 to 23 he stars in a superhero trilogy as the titular character, "Firesong", winning "Best Hero" award for his performance at the MTV Movie && TV awards three years in a row. At age 24 he decides he wants to branch out and try new roles, break out from the typecast that he's been stuck with since effectively age seven (the golden boy, boy-next-door type). He and his father fight about it, with his dad wanting him to "play it safe" as to not risk the success he's seen thusfar the past three years. Arlo tries reasoning with his father by opening up to him, explaining how his whole life, his career has been a source of depression for him, and how if he keeps playing these roles, he's afraid he'll never be able to escape the painful memories that come along with playing them.

Unable to sympathize with his son for even once in his life, Derek responds to Arlo's pleas like an agent would, instead of a father, still prioritizing a paycheck over his son's overall wellbeing. This is the final straw for Arlo, who fires his father. Derek insists that Arlo will be nothing without him, and that if he goes down this role, he'll never land a successful role again in his life—thus, Arlo not only fires his father, but fully cuts him off, Like Tiff did all those years ago. The next three years are a whirlwind of success for Arlo. He takes the leading role in an upcoming A24 movie, "Serendipity", one so avant garde and raw and real that upon seeing the trailer, Derek blows up Arlo's phone, insisting that his son's going to make a laughing stock of the family name. Of course, no such thing happens, and Arlo's performance is so emotional and captivating that he wins an Oscar for Best Actor that year. After his Oscar success, he scores another leading role in an HBO original, an adaptation of a cult-classic fantasy novel series, "Court of Deception", that's taken the internet by storm. For this performance alone, he earns himself two Emmy noms.

During filming of the second season of COD, Arlo takes up songwriting, avoiding therapy but still trying to find ways to cope with his childhood trauma. In the time he has off filming, he releases an album under the name "The Sound", gaining himself a cult following with his indie alternative music. The following summer when filming has wrapped for the third and final season of COD, he and The Sound go on tour, the last show on Arlo's 26th birthday that August.

Between the time he fires his father up until present day, he becomes close with both of his sisters, who are also suffering from the aftermath of their parents neglect. Tiff, now 29, is a successful museum curator, and is going to art school in London. Bambi, only 19, still lives with Veronica, but is slowly freeing herself from their parents clutches, and seeing a therapist weekly that's paid for by Arlo.

#╰ * ARLO THOMPSON : study ⧽ best you’ve ever had .#╰ * ARLO THOMPSON : hc ⧽ darlin' how could you be so blind ?#╰ * media : ⧽ textpost .#infidelity tw #drug use tw #overdose tw #child abuse tw

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wygolvillage · 2 years

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002 shanoa 👀

how i feel about this character: i think everyone knows by now! shes my absolute favorite, she is literally me, shes my dear little meow meow, shes amazing and the best written castlevania protagonist, etc etc

all the people i ship romantically with this character: tbh mostly just laura. theyre just... so perfect together. i do have some weird random ships where its just like "what if she kissed (random other lady from an entirely different cv game)" but idk if those count really. she and laura are basically canon anyway and they really cant be beaten...

my non-romantic otp for this character- well albus is the obvious choice here since ooe is basically about their ~tragically beautiful sibling bond~ lol. i do have a lot of thoughts about them and how much they clearly care about each other, how even when shanoa was basically transformed into something unrecognizable and turned against him, albus still went to the ends of the earth just to make sure she would get to live and be happy... 😭 how albus gave up everything he knew, everything he had, just for her 😭😭😭 man its been almost 2 years since i first played ooe and its still so emotionally effecting

my unpopular opinion about this character- im not sure what the POPULAR opinions on her are to be honest, shes a pretty overlooked character so i dont see a whole lot of hot takes on her or anything. there is an exception, i (obviously) dont agree with the notion that shes bland or boring. her deadpan personality can actually be quite comedic in contrast to some of the sillier interactions with the villagers which i think people kind of overlook.

one thing i wish would happen/had happened in canon- just a short little scene at the end confirming that she went back to wygol after the castle crumbles. its the obvious conclusion i think and its always so weird to remember that it never actually happens in-game lol. but the village really is her home after everything transpired with ecclesia. the people there care deeply for her and would be glad to welcome her and rescuing the villagers/being exposed to viewpoints and supportive people outside of ecclesia is, subtextually, what allows her to eventually see past all the lies shes been raised to believe, at least in my interpretation... the village is important to her arc thats all and i think it would be the perfect conclusion <3

my OTP- shanoa/laura of courseee i love to imagine what it was like when shanoa came back to her and was finally able to give her a smile and i just. aughhh Them <3 i love the ways their personalities contrast but dont clash. and laura clearly just loves her so much its very sweet

a crossover ship- idk i dont do crossover stuff a lot! ik some people ship shanoa/miriam but i just think they'd be friends tbh. maybe thats my unpopular opinion actually

a headcanon fact- all of my headcanons are facts she has trouble remembering things even after regaining her memory and her mind can be a bit foggy sometimes

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disheveledorganization · 5 months

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intro

contacted a second divorce lawyer today. the first one never responded, so i'm hoping to at least hear back from this one.

i'm putting this post (and if any others i might make) under a cut because i don't want them reblogged and i don't want them saved if i should decided to delete them later on. hopefully that's a thing still.

i want to say that i'm not sure how my marriage got to this point, but i do know. communication breakdown! reaching out for connection and being rejected! lying! drinking! and the icing on that cake: financial infidelity.

my soon to be ex-husband has at minimum $15k in cc debt that i didn't know about, and probably more. like there's a strong possibility that he ran up some ccs (and then paid them off?) without me knowing. and to pile more shit on top of shit, he (his business - an s corp) owes the irs like $300k. i had a full blown panic attack when i found out. and i only found out because the irs sent a certified letter to the house. this has been going on for years and i had no idea. and i can't get a straight answer out of him. first he said the irs thing had been going on for 3 months, then he said 3 years.

we have children, pets, a house, and i haven't worked in more than a decade because i've been homeschooling our kids.

(please, before anyone says anything about homeschooling freaks, i have trans kids with autism, adhd, severe depression, among some minor physical issues that call for regular doctor appts out of town, so. public school would be a dumpster fire.)

i'm currently taking college courses in the hopes of some sort of career. no, idk how i'll homeschool my kids and work. but i'll figure it out. i have the support of my parents and sister. and an extended family who will be there for me. and my friends.

i've told him i want a divorce. he said he's been expecting it for 10 years. blew my mind. he said he wants me to keep homeschooling the kids. that he'll move out of the house. that he'll keep paying bills. but then he hasn't really talked to me about it since then. i'm hoping for a collaborative divorce where we work through it while keeping the kids our priority. i don't want this to get messy.

yes, i'm in therapy. i started going because of my severe anxiety and depression, but i'll continue seeing my therapist through this and beyond. yes, my kids are in therapy. i thought it might be good for them to form a relationship with a therapist before the shit hits the fan.

and, just to be clear, the $ isn't the only reason for this divorce. i've tried everything, even couples counseling, which he stopped attending. he started pulling away from me about 10 years ago, which is odd to think about when he says that's when he started expecting me to leave him. and he does things sometimes that just...... he lied and told my youngest that i'd taken his sister to the emergency room because she was much sicker than we originally thought (i'd taken her to cvs for cold meds). this was his idea of a joke. my child was frightened and shocked, and he insisted it was 'just a joke' over and over.

he is not physically abusive. i'm not afraid of him. and i honestly believe that he cares about and loves the kids. he's just emotionally stunted and refuses help.

this got long. hopefully any updates will be shorter.

#divorce #intro post

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living-my-future-past-life · 8 months

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Lies For A Fancy

My ex partner lied a lot, to the point where I cannot even say I dated the man himself, when caught out, he made elaborate excuses. I will share some of the things he lied about here, for records sake.

He openly admitted to having lied on his CV in his youth for material gain, and shunned those who did not and thus struggled to find employment. Looked down on me for being honest on my CV.

Lied about his intimate past. He claimed he had no romantic or physical partners since his ex girlfriend (who passed away), and that he never sent sexual content to women before me, he then threatened me that if I ever did this or that or whatever he would leave me. It turned out all his claims were lies, as proof was uncovered he did all of these things.

He made claims that he had basically died 3 times over, and that half his bones were solid metal (not pins... I mean solid metal) and that his blood was poisonous. This is not biologically possible. Bones contain critical components to make up white blood cells, without which... He would be dead. Also if his blood was poisonous then any pet of his that ever bit him or licked an injury would also be dead or at least very sick.

He made claims that his grandfather was ex-military and that he had guns in his house, and yet when I stayed there, I did not see one.

He claimed he had many savings, yet he had NO credit score. He also promised to go 50/50 on the costs to rent a house, yet when I asked that when he move in he pay 40% he got annoyed and said he didn't know if he could do it.

He claimed he had a serious illness yet never thought to show the woman he intended on living with, ANY medical documentation, even after I asked... 10 times.

He claimed he stopped his illegal behaviours long before meeting me, but when I discovered he was doing it months before meeting me he made excuses and used his ex-girlfriends death as an excuse.

He claimed he understood my spiritual standing on things and my personal situation, but later when this came to the surface, he cut his hand and bled on me to 'mark me', or 'protect me'? (From something I needed no protection from btw).

He claimed he had stopped smoking, yet when he argued with me, he pulled out a nearly full pouch of tobacco, papers, and filters.

He claimed he had his own business, but there is no record of it's existence anywhere online at all, including government websites.

He claimed his ex insisted her child was his, and that he plucked a hair from the child's head to do a DNA test and proved himself not to be the father in court... No record of any of this happening.

He claimed he hospitalized a man. No record.

He claimed he punched his ex into the floor upon finding out she cheated on him. Not arrested for assault?

With so many lies, I cannot say that I even knew the man I dated. I have no idea what was real and what was not. I cannot even say any of the happy memories are real, because all the stories he told, the things he said, most of them were lies. He talked about little else other than these things.

But here are some other facts about him.

Conservative: Believes that benefits shouldn't exist. Mothers who cannot afford to have children shouldn't have them, people shouldn't be given help from the government.

Anti-LGBTQA+: Believes polyamorous people are just being greedy.

Transphobic: Believes transgender is not real, and that people are just following a trend.

Anti-LGBTQA+ rights: Believes gays shouldn't have kids.

Narcisist: Literally very seriously said the words " My life is the worst anyone has ever had".

Violent: Literally threatened that his mother would shoot my parents to my grandmother.

Ex-drug dealer: Made claims that he made and sold Class A drugs.

Disrespectful of sex workers: Instead of going on OnlyFans, openly searched for leaked images of sex workers rather than subscribing, and then shunned them.

Animal abuse: Made claims that he trained his dogs in ways that are not animal friendly. Also man-handled my 18 year old cat when I was trying to train her to go outside in a new house.

Claimed to have a sniper rifle and ties to the military.

Got angry at me when I was sexually harassed by a contractor working on my house even though I was obviously upset.

I looked after him on our first 'date' (it wasn't a date).

Looked down on my career, when I asked for him to contribute more to the household he was LIVING IN RENT FREE, so I could pursue a dream, he got annoyed and just said 'maybe'.

Insisted I apologize when I told him to 'stop gaslighting me please'.

Blamed me, and claimed I was at fault when I found out all of his lies. Made me the bad guy.

Upon having a panic attack, he told me that if I didn't listen to him he would leave me... I was having... A PANIC ATTACK. STFU.

Why is it so hard to trust again? Because this man openly lied to me, over and over and over again. When he realized I knew it all, realized how he had treated me, he said 'Why would you want to stay with me'. And when I ended it, he got angry at me, begged for another chance. I already gave him many, many chances, many chances to admit the lies, to be honest, to put in minimal effort, be an equal partner with me, to make it work... And he didn't, time and time again.

He got me because he presented himself very well at the start, but he lost me because he kept spinning his web of lies after I told him I knew.

This was the last, the last I intend to have, I have seen enough of this bullshit now. The 9th relationship I had, and the worst. I know my truth now, my life is not without love, but it will never again be with love that is destructive, toxic, and built on a castle of lies, ever again.

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spectrallik · 10 months

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Speaking Like a Kobold

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It's time to talk about Cimar's phonotactics, or, what makes different languages sound the way they do.

Syllable Structure

In conlangs and conlang criticism, phonotactics often just means "syllable structure". But syllable structure is the least interesting part of Cimar, so let's just get that out of the way real quick.

Cimar has only 5 possible syllable structures: V, CV, VC, CVC, and CV:. In practice though, only CV, CVC, and CV: are common.

Cimar has gemination (long consonants), but only at syllable boundaries. For instance, in 2-syllable word with the structure CVCCV, the geminated consonant takes both of the two middle C slots.

Simple, right? Well, it would be if Cimaran speakers thought in terms of syllables. They don't.

Mora Timing

Cimar uses a mora-based phonotactic system, like Japanese or Ancient Greek. What is the difference between a syllable and a mora? You can think of morae as “beats” in a rhythm. Each mora is one beat, and each beat is the same length of time.

Syllables are composed of different amounts of morae, and so they take different amounts of time to pronounce. Here is an excellent video that explains how this works in Japanese:

youtube

Cimar has a different syllable structure than Japanese, so its mora system is also a bit different. These 4 rules cover how to count morae:

The consonant at the beginning of a syllable is “free.” It doesn’t count for anything on its own.

Each vowel is 1 mora. Long vowels are 2. In a sense, long vowels in Cimar are two of the same vowel back-to-back in terms of length.

The consonant at the end of a syllable (if there is one) counts as 1 as well. This applies to all consonants, even plosives.

Vowels at the end of words are long by position (unless followed by a grammatical particle). They count for 2. There are certain circumstances where a vowel is both long phonologically and by position. In those cases, the vowel counts for 3.

So, for example, take the words kamat, kimmet, and kîmet. Breaking them into their morae, we get ka-ma-t, ki-m-me-t, and ki-i-me-t.

In the native writing system, counting morae is easy. 1 full glyph = 1 mora. The Romanization makes it a bit more complicated with its accent marks and lack of marking word-final long vowels, but it isn’t impossible.

The word nakí is a good example of a word with complex morae.The morae here are na-k-yi-h. When we apply all of the elision rules, it becomes na-ki-i-i

Intonation & Pitch Accent

On top of the morae system, there’s also a set of rules governing pitch. Some vowels are pronounced at a higher pitch than others. Only one vowel mora in a word will get this raised pitch. This system is highly regular and follows a few simple rules:

For words with more than one vowel mora, the last vowel gets the accent. Ex: laman = la-MA-n

Case marker postpositions get the accent. Ex: mijra-el = mi-j-ra-E-l. This rule does NOT apply to number markers like -kor or -'es.

When there is a first or second person marker on a verb (-ev- or -in-), that marker gets the accent. This rule overrides rule 2 where necessary. Ex: lamanin-ez = la-ma-NI-ne-z

If there is a long vowel, than the first of two (or three) morae gets the accent instead. This means that all long vowels have a falling pitch. This rule overrides rules 2 and 3 if both apply to the same word. Ex: lîmen-ez = LI-i-me-ne-z

For words with only one vowel mora, it is the opposite of what the last vowel in the previous word is. If it is the first word in the sentence, phrase, or clause, it is unaccented. Ex: sal laman-kor = sa-l la-MA-n-ko-r vs. laman-kor sal = la-MA-n-ko-r SA-l

This is one of those systems that sounds weird on paper but is really intuitive when you actually start speaking it. The mora and pitch accent systems take the place of a stress system.

#conlang #worldbuilding

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nonsupe-a · 2 years

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the road to get to this point was a long one, separate bends in their ways that was no doubt filled with various obstacles along this treacherous path. it was no easy feat to find their way around them, to dig themselves free from the dirt and ugly truths their government has tried to bury them under, the lies fed to the media and the public, the blood and god knows what unfathomable things that were “uncovered” with the so - called truth of their experiments, of them.

shiloh, for one, was rather used to being lied to and about. it came with the territory of his last occupation. but he can’t imagine what it must be like on the outside, can’t imagine what it is to be on the opposite side of this situation where these secrets are uncovered, finding out almost everything you knew was a lie; that your own people used you as a way in and took advantage of an opportunity, of purposefully set blindness. cv-a was not an isolated test and shiloh knew it from the start, knew it even when he volunteered, but the extend of its reach was beyond him. he had no idea that there were others that were unknowingly receiving the same altering drug. several steps above his paygrade, far beyond his authority.

wood from the fire between them cracks and sends embers erupting into the sky before they cool and fall back to the earth. night skies in montana are usually clear, at least thats been his experience so far, but this night there was a fair amount of cloud cover. a storm is brewing over the mountains to the north of them, often he can catch the bright flash of lightning and feel the rumble of thunder in his chest. hours away from them and still he can feel the power and respect it demands from here.

“ when i was a kid, my father said to me once ... ” he starts, but first he takes a drag of the cigarette in hand, exhaling the smoke in a long sigh before he continues his thought, “ power isn’t control at all. power is strength, and giving that strength to others. ” another drag from the cigarette before he tosses what remains into the fire before them. smoke falls as he speaks this time, “ you have power. ” / @ichormotel, for beau.

#ichormotel #[ 𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙴 . ] what we did in the dark / normal.#starter.#listen this before they decide to try and find out more about these injections #why and who decided that injecting cv-a in unknowing participants was a good idea #because !!!!! i need it #also if this doesn't work let me know !!

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agapaic · 3 years

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[19 days] whiplash [ch. 365 after-shot]

The shop will be closing soon. He’s seen an attendant wandering around, who will probably ask him to leave in the next five minutes. There’s no one else here. His clothes are vivid against the neon glow of the tanks. The fish cast strange shadows on his shirt, living out a second life on his skin.

They swim in half-circles before sharply changing direction, never touching the glass. He wonders if they know it’s there, as if they can sense some immovable wall that holds them back.

He’s not getting deep about this. He could contemplate, quite extensively, about how their freedom must be bought by some higher power, and they would really only go from one tank to the next, slightly bigger, slightly richer. It’s all fake shit, and he remembers that in some ways he’s got it better than an animal. He can, at least, run away. Maybe he won’t get far. Just to the edges of the city villages where he’ll get a job earning less than before and lose his place in school.

Guan Shan puts a finger on the glass in front of him. There’s a label in the corner, peeling away from the glass. Veiltail goldfish. They have wispy, membrane-like tails. He could put his hand on the other side and see all the way through. Guan Shan watches the only black fish in the tank move placidly through the water.

Beneath the label, a smaller one: Black moor. For a minute he considers tugging the label off and putting it in his pocket, a little secret. He remembers that would be stealing, in some way, and someone in the shop would have to go to the effort of printing and laminating and reapplying the label just for one fish.

Guan Shan turns away.

He wanders for a few more minutes. He’s aware of his reflection in the glass. He worries about how long the attendant will let him stay there, and the thought that they will make him leave makes him feel slightly sick. He likes it here—the quiet, the muted hum of the tanks, the strange lights. They make him feel somewhere else.

His mother is working the night shift and won’t be home until just before he’s meant to go to school the next morning. They’ll have long enough together that he could tell her he got fired from the shop, but not long enough that he could reasonably pretend to have forgotten as he tugs on his uniform and slips out the front door.

She won’t be mad—she never is.

She can’t take on another shift.

Mentally, he has started taking stock. His Xbox is a few years old, but he’ll get something for it. He has a stack of old music magazines from his dad that could catch the eye of a collector. His computer, maybe.

The earrings.

His stomach twists.

Really, it’s not much. It’ll earn them a month, which could be just long enough for him to get another job, but what’s the likelihood of that in a city where most kids are just trying to bulk their CV’s for their college applications. Besides, his grades speak for themselves. He got lucky with the shop, and lightning doesn’t strike twice.

‘Hey, kid. We’re closing soon, so unless you wanna buy something…’

Guan Shan nods. His shoulders round.

For no logical reason, he says: ‘Can I take a goldfish?’

‘Sure. The black moor? Saw you had your eye on that one.’

‘No, one of the others.’

The attendant comes up next to him. ‘Just the one? They don’t like being on their own, you know.’

He presses his jaw tightly. A small sound comes out of him. He looks at the price tag and is somehow shocked and saddened to see the figure so low.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘The black one, too, I guess.’

He pays, then leaves. It’s late enough that the streets are quieter than he expected. He’s usually home by now, his shift over, reheating leftovers while he works on his homework. He stands there while the shop attendant locks up behind him, holding the plastic bag with two fish in his hand. He feels stupid. Behind his eyes, he can feel a sort of stinging sensation.

He has the unnameable urge to grab one of the passing strangers and tell them how he’s feeling, what has happened, what could happen. On some level he knows that everyone has their own problems, and he’s not the type of person to overstep his bounds. Instead, he watches them pass, and after a few more minutes he goes to the nearest subway station and gets the train home.

He had half expected He Tian to find him on the street. He’d imagined it, He Tian catching his arm as he wandered from store to store, deliberating at large windows with thin mannequins and expensive jewellery without price tags. There is a part of him that’s disappointed that it didn’t play out like this, a part of him that is even angrier to find He Tian sitting in the stairwell of his apartment when he eventually does get home.

It’s close to midnight, and the stairwell is clinically quiet. Outside, the stars are dusty and covered in a thin layer of smog that is less noticeable in the day. He Tian looks exhausted. He’s the type of good looking where even the slightest imperfection somehow makes him even more attractive. Guan Shan hates it.

He stands when Guan Shan walks in, suddenly filling the space, and Guan Shan says, ‘Get outta my way.’

‘Where have you been?’

Guan Shan shoulders past him. There’s a moment where he thinks He Tian will grab him around the shoulders, the air around him simmering enough that Guan Shan is convinced it’s a near thing, choking with danger, but he lets him pass. He follows Guan Shan up the staircase, his footsteps silent, his body casting long shadows on the steps where Guan Shan sets his feet.

At the door, Guan Shan pockets the notice that’s taped there, knowing He Tian has already seen it. Less sharply, he picks up the notes in He Tian’s and Jian Yi’s writing and folds them into careful squares.

‘You’re not comin’ in,’ he says.

‘I called you, like, fifty times. Did you block me?’

Guan Shan thinks He Tian sounds angrier than he really has a right to be. He turns and presses his back to the door. He has his keys clenched tightly in a closed fist.

‘Yeah. I didn’t want to talk to you. I thought you would’ve gotten that.’

‘I can get you another job. Something better paid.’

‘You’re so fuckin’ clueless.’

He Tian’s eyes tighten.

‘You’re ruining my life,’ says Guan Shan.

‘That’s—that isn’t true. I’ve helped you. You would’ve been expelled if—’

‘Maybe I would’ve gotten expelled. But I wouldn’t have had She Li on my dick all the time, would I? Wouldn’t need you to get me a job ‘cause you made me lose my last one, would I? You’re just—stickin’ a bandage on shit when you hurt me first.’

‘It’s not always like that. Don’t make it sound like it’s always like that.’

Guan Shan shakes his head. ‘I want you to go. I told you I didn’t want to see you again. Fuck off.’

He Tian says, ‘Let me pay what was on the door.’

‘Fuck off.’

He Tian doesn’t move and Guan Shan squeezes his eyes shut. He’s going to cry again, the frustration bubbling sourly in the back of his throat. He doesn’t trust himself to open the door while He Tian is still here because he knows he’ll probably let him in.

‘Do I really make you feel like a failure?’

Guan Shan rubs at his eyes with his fist. His voice comes hoarse and thick: ‘I am a failure. Bein’ around you just makes it so much more fuckin’ obvious.’

He doesn’t want He Tian’s pity when he says this, or his reassurance. He’s just being honest. Saying it out loud is kind of breathlessly relieving. He couldn’t say something like that to his mother, or any of the teachers at school. He couldn’t say it to Grey, who he’s known for years. He Tian knows more about him than anyone. It’s a terrifying thought.

If they never see each other again, will He Tian tell everyone the things Guan Shan has told him? About the restaurant and his dad, or about She Li and the things Guan Shan has let him do to him? He feels vulnerable and sick thinking about it, completely powerless, as he does a lot of the time when he’s around He Tian.

He oscillates between that feeling of uselessness and the feeling of being so empowered that he thinks it must be what being high or drunk feels like. That latter has him trusting his own convictions, having an unadulterated faith in himself like jumping from a bridge and thinking he might just fly—so long as He Tian is with him. He doesn’t like how it’s one or the other, empowered or powerless, and rarely anything in between. He’s heard adults on TV talking about being codependent, pulled punishingly into each other's orbit, and he wonders if this is the same thing.

In the end he supposes it doesn’t really matter. So what if He Tian tells everyone? Probably, he won’t see the rest of the year out at school. He’ll get a job on a different side of the city and no one will hear from him ever again. The embarrassment will all be internal and will only last a week or two. Then life will move on. He wishes he were older and wiser and better at believing this. He wishes it didn’t feel like the universe might fall out from beneath him.

‘Doesn’t matter what I do, it turns to shit,’ he tells He Tian. ‘No matter how hard I work, I’m never gonna earn enough. I can spend three hours studyin’ for a test and still come last. If it isn’t She Li, then it’ll be someone else. I just—I can’t catch a fuckin’ break, He Tian. But you do somethin’ and you come first every time. Life’s so easy for you.’

He Tian shifts from side to side. ‘Do you think things wouldn’t feel so hard if you stopped focussing on what you think my life is like?’

‘You’re pissin’ me off.’

‘I don’t know how I’m meant to help you. You won’t let me give you money. It’s like pulling teeth from you just trying to know what’s going on with you. What are you so fucking afraid of?’

‘I never asked for your help.’

‘You shouldn’t have to—that’s why we’re friends.’

‘I never said I wanted to be your friend.’

He Tian frowns, his look very serious. He isn’t teasing tonight. Neither is Guan Shan. There is the sense that their interactions are always anything but teasing, really, some dark undercurrent that runs between the two of them like dark veins.

He Tian says, ‘Are those fish?’

For a moment Guan Shan thinks he’s joking, deflecting wildly to distract from the seriousness of what Guan Shan has just said. Then he feels the crinkle of a plastic bag in his hand and, remembering how he’d just spent the last few hours, nearly drops the two goldfish onto the floor.

‘Yeah,’ he says.

‘You don’t have a tank.’

‘Yeah, no. I don’t know why I bought them.’

He Tian hesitates. There is a curious, predictable gleam in his eyes. ‘Red and black?’

‘It’s all they had left at the store.’

He Tian is looking intently at the bag. ‘Do you remember when we went to the aquarium? And you said I wasn’t someone you could forget?’

‘I just meant that—’

‘I know what you meant. But I always pretend like you meant it the other way.’

Guan Shan thinks, Don’t you think things would be easier if you stopped focusing on what you want me to mean and what I actually mean?

Instead of saying anything, he looks down at his sneakers. They’re scuffed and starting to rip at the seams. The thought of having to buy new ones makes him panic and the thought of buying a pair of second-hand ones online makes him panic even more. There’s no shame in it, but the thought of wearing someone else’s clothes makes him feel strange, especially when he knows He Tian could buy fifty pairs without blinking.

Guan Shan considers that thought and replays what He Tian has just said about focusing on his life too much more than his own. Maybe part of that is true.

Before He Tian, did he always feel things so intensely? Did the bad always feel so fucking awful? He knows that things were mechanical, and he was mean and didn’t think much about other people in particularly nice ways. He knows he didn’t laugh much then, or have dinners and sleepovers with friends. He knows everything hurt on a distant, muted level that was easy to ignore. Not much time has passed since then, and he reasons that nothing about him has probably changed, just everything else around him.

‘I can’t understand why you won’t let me help you,’ says He Tian, when the silence has stretched too long.

‘Because I’ll get used to it.’

He Tian frowns, not understanding.

‘One day, you’re not gonna be around. And I’ll be fucked.’

‘I’ll always be there for you.’

‘You don’t know that. People say that a lot and then they disappear or get taken away, even if they didn’t want to.’

It’s obvious they’re talking about his dad, but it feels safer to talk about things in vague, subjective conversation. Maybe things would be easier if they talked openly about things and didn’t use metaphors and hypotheticals. As it is, Guan Shan doesn’t feel ready to try the alternative. He is conscious of the fact that this feels like a conversation. They are passing words back and forth that hold meaning and neither of them has touched the other yet. It feels new and fragile as an oil painting, still wet, and so he doesn’t let himself think about this for long.

‘I think you’re getting this wrong,’ says He Tian. ‘I’m not asking you to rely on me. Obviously, I’d kind of like that. I like the thought of you needing me, and I know that says something about me. But—I’m just asking you to let me help you. Just here and there, no strings.’

Guan Shan rubs his forehead with the back of his knuckles. His keys are starting to pinch his skin and he can feel a headache starting to surface.

‘I’m tired,’ he says. ‘I actually do want you to go.’

He Tian’s jaw clenches and he breathes out heavily through his nose. He’s probably thinking he’s wasted his time.

‘Okay,’ he says then. ‘But we’re not done.’

A new wave of exhaustion comes over Guan Shan, crippling and final. He wants to get into bed with his skin against cold sheets and sleep for twelve hours without waking once.

‘You’re not the only one that ever gets to decide that,’ he tells He Tian, a little sharply. ‘You’ve gotta learn to let people go.’

‘But what if I know I can help them?’ says He Tian. ‘If I don’t, I’ve just—failed.’

They look at each other.

A minute stretches into an eternity that could be seconds or hours, and everything has gone backwards. Everything is the same.

Guan Shan can’t put his finger on what has just happened, but he feels like laughing. Their fears are twinned, self-perpetuating, some kind of ouroboros chasing its tail. Who will get caught first?

They both seem to take in a breath at the same time, and He Tian takes a step back.

‘Goodnight,’ he says.

Guan Shan nods. He waits for He Tian’s retreating back to disappear a few flights down before opening the door to his apartment, and shuts it swiftly behind him.

There’s a knock at the door while he’s brushing his teeth. The fish are swimming placidly in their bag on the edge of the bathroom sink. It’s past one, and he keeps all the lights off because his eyes are feeling sore. He’s adjusted to the dim glow that comes from street lamps seeping through the curtains, the blink of the timer on the electric stove, his Xbox gleaming in his bedroom. His mother shouldn’t be home yet and she has her own set of keys.

With a sinking heart, Guan Shan pictures his landlord demanding payment.

Worse, he pictures He Tian. Before He Tian left, they’d resolved nothing. It feels like being back to square one, chasing each other around a chess board. It fills him with a vast emptiness that makes him feel like he’s existing outside of himself, waiting for someone else to take over.

He pads silently towards the front door, his toothbrush jammed into his cheek, and peers through the viewer. There’s toothpaste dripping down his chin. In the hall, there’s no one there. He’s half-convinced he imagined it. He counts to ten before he opens the door, steps out—and his foot connects with something hard. There is a cardboard box sitting on the welcome mat.

Guan Shan peers around. The light in the stairwell is artificially bright. He kneels down and opens the tabs on the box, which hasn’t been taped. He swallows.

For the fish, says the note on the second box, nestled inside the first. Careful, it’s fragile.

Guan Shan rubs the heel of a palm into his right eye. He sighs. Then he reaches out, braces himself, and picks up the tank. He carries it into his apartment, and the door locks behind him.

thank you for reading! if you’d like to support me on my ko-fi/request a short drabble, you can do so here: https://ko-fi.com/agapaic 💞

#19 days #tianshan #old xian #he tian #mo guan shan #my fanfic #sorry for errors - it's late but i couldn't get this out my head

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bibliocratic · 3 years

Text

clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

Martin is happy.

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

Jon is happy.

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“… you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.

#tma #the magnus archives #cw racing thoughts #cw anxiety #tw eating disorder #tw ptsd #ask to tag #cw nightmares #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jonmartin #tma spoilers

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gammija · 3 years

Text

The final Web!Martin evidence list

Now that canon is done, and we’ve got word of god confirmation that Web!Martin wasn’t complete nonsense, I decided to go back to my lil chronological evidence list and actually clean it up a bit, delete parts that in hindsight weren't all that indicative, and put everything in a slightly more readable format. (Obligatory disclaimer that i don’t and never did believe or advocate for some kind of evil web!martin, and that I'm not intending to connect a moral judgement to martin (or anyone else for that matter) having some of these traits)

So here: The (hopefully, please) final list with Web!Martin Evidence! Presented in order of importance, according to. me

The final (hopefully) Web!Martin evidence list

(In order from most to least obvious)

Spiders

I mean, it’s called the Web. TMA reiterates quite a few times that Martin liked spiders. Sometimes it IS that easy.

MAG022: Martin: "I like spiders. Big ones, at least. Y’know, y’know the ones you can see some fur on; I actually think they’re sort of cute -"

MAG038: | Sasha: "A spider?" Jon: "Yeah. I tried to kill it…" [...] Sasha: [Chuckles] "Well, I won’t tell Martin." Jon: "Oh, god. I don’t think I could stand another lecture on their importance to the ecosystem."

MAG059: Jon: "I have done my best to prevent Martin reading this statement in too much detail. I have no interest in having another argument about spiders."

MAG079: Jon: "Apparently, biologically, his account of the spiders doesn’t make any sense according to Martin."

MAG197: Martin: “What? Because I like spiders? Well, used to.”

Lies and subterfuge

Martin is able to use lying and subterfuge to achieve his goals, and is called manipulative a few times.

Lies:

MAG022: Martin: "[He] became slightly more co-operative after I lied to him and told him that one of the upstairs residents had buzzed me in."

MAG056: Martin: "I lied on my CV."

MAG158: Peter: “But you said –” Martin: “Honestly, I mostly just said what I thought you wanted to hear.”

MAG164: Jon: "You – I actually believed you!"

MAG189: Martin: “Sorry. Sorry, John. Not sure how much everything up there actually understood what was going on. But, y’know, I didn’t want to take any chances so it made sense to… um…” Jon: “Put on a show?” Martin: “Yeah, basically, more or less.”

MAG191: Martin: "That's not true." Arun: "Liar!"

Subterfuge:

The plan in 118, which revolved around convincing Elias that Martin was only “acting out”, to create a distraction for Melanie. (Also compare the way he evades giving a straight answer here with the way Annabelle talks in 196.)

Working with Peter in s4 under false pretenses, to distract him from Jon and eventually try to learn what Peter wanted.

Manipulation accusations:

These, I know, are somewhat contentious, since it’s mostly villains saying this to him. I’m still including them, since

1): From a media analysis standpoint, being mentioned 3 times is a sign to pay attention, even when it may not be the full truth.

2): I only see it as describing Martin’s behaviour in the previous points, not as a moral judgement; Especially since he almost always ‘manipulates’ people in positions of power over him.

Still, if it bothers anyone, feel free to ignore these.

MAG138: Martin: "That’s it? No, no monologue, no mind games? You love manipulating people!" Elias: "That makes two of us."

MAG186: Martin: “I can be a real manipulative prick, you know that?” Also Martin: “Oh yeah.”

MAG196: Annabelle: “Because you always managed to get what you wanted through smiles and shrugs and stammerings that weren’t nearly as awkward as they seemed.” [SMALL SOUND OF MARTIN’S CONCESSION TO THE POINT] Martin: “Point taken.”

The Lonely/the Web

The Lonely and the Web sometimes affect Martin to similar degrees.

In season 3, when Martin is getting used to reading statements for the first time, most of them leave him emotionally affected: MAG084, MAG088, MAG090,

MAG095: Martin: “S-S-Statement… done.” [HEAVY BREATHING & TREMBLING AS MARTIN STEADIES HIMSELF] “I don’t like recording these. There. I-I said it.”,

MAG098: Martin: [Panting] “End of statement.” [Deep breath] “I, um, I think I might need to sit down. Oh. Yeah, I am. Right. I don’t, uh, I’m not really sure if these are actually getting easier or harder. I mean I don’t feel –”

Only the last two statements he reads are remarkably easier. This might be a hint that Martin is just getting used to reading them, but the quote from MAG098 seems to contradict that. Either way, it’s likely not a coincidence that those last two happen to be the Lonely and the Web:

MAG108: Martin: “Statement ends.” (exhale) “That wasn’t so bad…”

MAG110: Martin: “Statement ends.” [...] “I mean, I think it sounds like a Jurgen Leitner book. About spiders. Hm. Good John didn’t have to read this one, anyway. I know he’s not a fan. Although, this one wasn’t too bad, actually! I – yeah. Anyway.”

In season 5, there are two powers’ Domains that actually affected Martin mentally, as opposed to only physically: the Lonely’s, in 170 (and arguably 186), and, depending on your interpretation, in 172, when Martin went exploring without knowing why he did so.

Proximity

Martin investigates a lot of the Web statements during season 1 to 3 (in other words, when the archive team still researches statements). The only ones he isn’t mentioned in during this period are MAG019 and MAG020, when he’s being harrassed by worms, and MAG081, which Jon records by himself outside of the institute.

Most notably, he’s the one who discovered the statement in MAG114, ‘Cracked Foundations’, which is the one statement in the entire show that sets up the interdimensional properties of HTR.

The Web!Lighter passed through Martin's hands first, before he gave it to Jon.

Similarly, Annabelle mostly spoke to Martin in season 5, despite most other Avatars usually focusing on Jon.

Aesthetics

Apart from the above obviously Web related areas, there are some other aesthetics which are mentioned in connection to both the Web and Martin, throughout canon.

These are describing the Web;

These are describing Martin.

Tapes:

Martin is the only character to treat the tape recorders as friends - any other character is either indifferent, or treats them as enemies.

MAG039: Martin: "I think the tapes have a sort of… low-fi charm."

MAG154 Martin: “Oh. Hi. Hello again.” … (small laugh) “Sorry pal, false alarm this time.”

MAG156 Martin: “Mm? Oh.” [HE LAUGHS, GENTLY.] “Yeah. (rustling paper) I was going to read one. Hate for you to miss it!” [SHORT, FORCED LAUGH, AS HE FLAPS THE STATEMENT AROUND.]

MAG170 Martin: “Oh. Oh, hello. What’s this? Wow, retro! What are you up to, little buddy; just – listening? That’s okay. It’s nice to have someone to talk to.”

MAG190 Jon: "[The tapes] seem to like [Martin]."

Retro:

MAG069: Statement: “I only saw Annabelle Cane once during this period. She wasn’t hard to pick out. She dressed like a vintage clothing store exploded on her, and her short bleach-blonde hair stood out sharply against dark skin.”

MAG160: Jon: “Anyways, don’t tell me the phonebox down there doesn’t appeal to your retro aesthetic.” Martin: “It – might. Maybe.”

MAG163: Annabelle/the Web callying Martin via an old payphone: [ A PHONE RINGS. IT’S NOT THE TINNY, ELECTRONIC SOUND OF A CELLPHONE – NO, THIS IS A TRUE, HEAVY, CLASSIC RING.] Martin: “Uh. John? Uh, J, John – the, uh, payphone that’s – here, for some reason – it’s ringing?”

Hatred of burns:

MAG067: Jack Barnabas’ statement: “I looked up and noticed within the corner of the room, where there had been a spider’s web this morning, there was just a faint wisp of smoke.” “Another held a bag that seemed to be full of candles, while a third had a clear plastic container filled with hundreds of tiny spiders.”

MAG139: Statement by member of Cult of the Lightless Flame: “The Mother of Puppets has always suffered at our hand; all the manipulation and subtle venom in the world means nothing against a pure and unrestrained force of destruction and ruin.” Agnes burned down Hilltop Road.

MAG145: The Web ties Gertrude to Agnes, stopping the Desolation’s ritual (the only Power whose ritual the Web is known to have prevented).

MAG167: Gertrude enlists Agnes’/the Desolation’s help in order to burn her assistant Emma, who was Web aligned.

MAG169: Martin: "Look, I just – don’t want to get burned, all right? It’s, it’s like my least favorite pain ever. [...] I, I legitimately hate burns, alright? They’re, they’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just – it – it just makes me sick; I, I hate it. Hate it!"

Phrasing:

MAG039: Martin: "I’m trapped here. It’s like I can’t… move on and the more I struggle, the more I’m stuck. [...] It's just that whatever web these statements have caught you in, well, I’m there too. We all are, I think."

MAG079: Martin's poem: "The threads of people walking, living, lovi–"

MAG117: Martin: "This last couple of years, I’ve always been running, always hiding, caught in someone else’s trap, but, but now it’s my trap, and, well, I think it’ll work. I know, I know it’s not exactly intricate, but it felt good leaving my own little web. Oh, oh, Christ, I hope John doesn’t actually listen to these. “Good lord, is Martin becoming some sort of spider person?” No, John, it’s an expression, chill out! Besides, spiders are fine. I mean, yes, people are scared of them, obviously, but actual spiders, they just want to help you out with flies."

MAG167: Jon: “Methinks the Spider dost protest too much.” Martin: “Jon –” Jon: “Joking! Just joking.”

Personality:

How applicable these are depends heavily on how you interpret Martin's own personality, so your mileage may vary.

MAG008: Statement: “Nobody ever said a word against Raymond himself, though, who was by all accounts a kind and gentle soul [...]”

MAG123: Jon: "The Web does seem to have a preference for those who prefer not to assert themselves."

MAG147: Annabelles statement: "I discovered a deep and enduring talent inside myself for lying. [...] My manipulations were not intricate, but they were far beyond what was expected of a child my age, and I have always believed that the key to manipulating people is to ensure that they always under- or overestimate you. Never reveal your true abilities or plans."

Word of God and Annabelle

I kinda wanted to ‘prove’ that Web!Martin had quite a bit of evidence to back it up, hence this header being last. But of course, in this post-canon world, there are a few lines that most obviously confirm the theory:

MAG197: Martin is Web enough to be able to read the 'vibrations', like Annabelle, and see Jon and Basira (the latter being especially notable, as he hadn't known she was there beforehand): [CHITTERING, BUZZING AND HIGH-PITCHED SQUEALS CHANGE CADENCE] Martin: "Wait… Wait, hang on, is that him?" Annabelle: "Yes. I guess you’re better with the Web than we thought." Martin: "And – Wait, ha– No, uh… is that… Basira? He – He’s got Basira with him!" Annabelle: "Yes."

Season 5 Q&A part 2: Jonny: “Essentially, it was fascinating looking at the fandom and, like, the Web!Martin believers, because what they were doing was correctly picking up on hints dropped in the early seasons that were later, like, not exactly abandoned, but it was much more like, ‘Well, no, he does have like aspects of The Web to him, but he is moreover The Lonely.’ And that came about very… very organically, really. Because throughout Season 3 and going into Season 4, we had this conversation and we were like, ‘No, actually he's like-” Alex: “‘It can't be, it cannot be, it must be the other way round’ Yeah.”

(Note that they say “throughout season 3 and going into season 4,” which likely means that season 1, season 2, and at least part of season 3, aka half of the entire show, were written with Web!Martin as an intentional possibility.)

If you read all that, thanks so much! Obviously, Web!Martin never really came to fruition, so it's fine if you still don't like it. This is just a post explaining where it was coming from, at least for me and the other theorists I've spoken to.

#the magnus archives #magnus archives #tma #tma s5 #web!martin #web martin #webmartin #or as jonny called it:#spider!martin #tma theory #tma meta #martin blackwood #martin k blackwood #martin #tma martin #magnuspod #i feel like i say this every time too but #when i say martin lies a lot i dont mean that #in comparison to 'normal people'#i mean that in canon he gets specifically mentioned to lie; at a higher rate than the other protagonists #ditto for everything else. im not speaking about real life people who might have these traits. im doing a media analysis #my own real life bedroom curtains being blue dont mean im depressed but in media sometimes aesthetic themes can be deeper signifiers #and tma especially has some very strong aesthetic themes #ok i think im done talking now. webmartin theories always get me rambling #EDIT: oops i changed a part on mobile and now the formatting is a bit fucked #ill fix it back tomorrow #if anyone cares #EDIT EDIT: ok fixed it

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chrisevansjellybeans · 3 years

Text

Happier|Part Two

A/N: Here it is! Thank you to everyone who has read part 1 and has sent back such kind feedback. It really means a lot!

Part 1

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: swearing, angsty as hell

Just open the fucking door.

You hesitated as your right hand hovered over the familiar front door. Over the last five years you’ve always just walked in. This home was like your home. But now, he wasn’t just his.

“Just walk in. It’s not rocket science.” You muttered to yourself. Sighing you tapped your fist against the wood.

Your body relaxed a smile fell on your face as you heard Dodger’s familiar bark ring through the house as he approached the door.

“Alright, bubba. Relax.” The butterflies flurried in your stomach as Chris’s voice carried past the door. You gave a small smile as the door flung open to reveal a shirtless Chris. “Why did you knock, you meatball.”

You just shrugged and quickly gave him a hug.

“What are your plans for tonight?” You asked as you both made your way to the kitchen, his arm slung loosely over your shoulder.

“I was supposed to go watch the game with Scott but he wasn’t feeling too hot, so I’m actually just going to stay in. But don’t worry, I won’t get in the way of your girls night.” He laughed, ruffling your hair as you turned the corner and caught view of Carissa.

“Yeah no boys allowed. Right, Y/N?” Carissa dried off her hands and rushed over to you, pulling you into a full body hug. You bit back the frustration when you realized that she was wearing the shirt that you always wore whenever you would spend the night at Chris’s, the familiar fabric like sandpaper under your fingertips now as you gently hugged her back.

“Yeah. No boys.” You said meekly as you took another good look at her. The shirt looked way better on her than it ever did on you. It fell just below her hips, the way it did on you but she somehow made it look so stylish. She just had on a pair of workout leggings underneath and fluffy socks. Her blonde hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail and you noticed how she managed to not look like a founding father with her hair pulled back.

Subconsciously you twisted the bottom of your oversized college crewneck in your fingers. You were practically wearing the same thing as her but you felt like a middle school girl in gym class while she just screamed model off duty.

Add that to the reasons he noticed her and not me.

You needed to stop comparing yourself to her. But it was hard when the stark contrasts were so evident.

“So,” Carissa clapped her hands together. “Chris told me about your love for tequila so I made some of my famous spicy margaritas! And I just put on some popcorn and I may have gone a little overboard at Ulta today.”

You followed her gaze and it landed on an array of face masks and nail polish.

“Sounds like my que to leave. Have fun, ladies.” Chris pecked you on the cheek before pulling Carissa into a passionate kiss. You turned away, your face reddening.

“Thanks, baby.” You heard Carissa sigh. You heard the sound of them kissing again and you looked for any welcome distraction.

As if he could feel your pain, a wet nose booped your hand and you smiled down at your favorite little pup.

“Hi buddy.” You bent down and pressed a kiss to his nose. “I’ve missed you so much. Yes I have.” You ruffled his fur and smiled a genuine smile as he started licking your face.

“Oh boy, Bubba found his girlfriend.” Chris laughed as he bent down next to you. “I think he missed you more than I did when we were in Canada. Every time we would FaceTime his ears would perk up.”

“That’s cause he’s my best bud.” You kept talking to Dodger.

“Ouch.” Chris gently pushed you. You winked in his direction and for a moment everything felt normal. Chris’s eyes sparkled as if he was appreciating the normalcy too.

“Chris, please.” You were snapped out of it when Carissa let out a playful whine.

Chris blinked and then slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. “Alright, baby. I’m gone.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

“He did not!” Carissa burst out laughing as you finished telling the story of when Chris singlehandedly knocked down an entire aisle in CVS.

“I’ve never seen him turn so red in my life. I think he went back to that CVS every day for the next year to apologize. And of course he stayed afterwards to help clean up.” You wiped your eyes, tears falling from laughter.

“Sounds just like him.”

You took another sip of your margarita. You were surprised at how much fun you were actually having. You guys had just finished your second sheet mask of the night and were currently working on demolishing the stuffed crust pizza you ordered. Manis and Pedis to follow.

“Have I walked in on an evil plan being hatched?” You both turned as Chris emerged from the basement, Dodger in tow. Thankfully he had put a shirt on because his tattoos always did something to you.

“Had to share the CVS Incident of ‘17.” You replied as Carissa hid her face as she giggled again.

“Oh god,” Chris groaned, slapping his hand to his forehead. “Please. Let that story die.” You watched as he positioned himself behind Carissa, caging her in with his arms. You always knew Chris was an affectionate person. If it was a year ago, you would have been the one trapped between him. He had a lot of love to give and wasn’t afraid to show it. He placed a kiss on the top of her head before his blue eyes met yours.

You knew that he was silently asking you if you were having a good time. You could see the sense of hope that was behind the question.

“You came up just in time for a manicure.” Carissa turned around on the stool and smiled up at her boyfriend. “I’m thinking hot pink would look amazing on you.”

“I don’t know, I think he’s more of an aquamarine kind of guy.” You lifted up the shade of blue that was in front of you. “Compliments his eyes.”

“Ooh, you are so right, Y/N/N.”

“Wow, would you look at that? Looks like the game is back on.” Chris jokingly started moving away from Carissa.

“Oh come on, baby. One hand.” Carissa pulled at his hand, her lips coming out in a pout.

Chris gave her a look of fake annoyance but you could see the smile forming on his lips before he let out a dramatic sigh.

“One hand.”

“Yay!”

You watched as Chris sat down and Carissa got to work painting his nails.

“Okay, Y/N. Tell me about the men in your life.” Carissa looked away from Chris’s hand and turned to you.

“Well, I guess you’ve already met them. Chris, Scott and Dodger are it.” You shrugged, half kidding and half not. Chris gave you a look of what you could only call pity and you chose to ignore him. You could feel your face become hot at your lack of a love life.

“Oh that can’t be the case. You’re absolutely gorgeous, there’s no way that men aren’t all over you. Right, Chris? Tell her she’s beautiful.”

“She knows I think she’s beautiful.” Chris said, his tone seriously as his eyes never left yours. “It’s more of getting her to know that.”

“We’re not going to talk about it.”

You and Chris stared each other down before Carissa cleared her throat.

“Well one day you are going to find something like what we have. The hopeless romantic in me truly believes that there is someone for everyone; and I know that if we can find happiness like this, so can you. You’re an amazing person, Y/N.”

You looked down and bit your lip. You wanted so badly not to like her, to have her be some terrible person so you could justify the feelings that you had for her boyfriend. And yet, here she was, being the kindest person and caring truly for your feelings and your happiness.

“Thank you, Carissa.”

She smiled a toothy grin before turning her attention back to Chris. Chris kept his eyes on you a moment longer but when you didn’t look back he sighed and focused on his girlfriend.

- - - - - - -

“You don’t have to do that.” Carissa came up behind you as you finished washing the plates from before.

“It’s really no problem.” You shrugged. “You did all of this, the least I can do is clean up.”

“Yeah, but you’re my guest. A host should never have her guest clean up.” You knew she meant it without malice but the words stung. She was right. That’s all you were in this house, a guest. You were their guest. They lived here, together.

You just nodded and finished the plate you were cleaning before stepping away from the sink so Carissa could finish. You mumbled that you were headed to the bathroom and quickly made your departure from the kitchen.

You rounded the familiar corner and bit your lip as you were five steps away from the bathroom, where you could finally take a deep breath.

“Hey sweetheart.” You jumped as Chris stepped out of his bedroom, a grin plastered on his face. “I think you made a good call on the nail polish color.” He waved his fingers in your face, jokingly.

You let out a soft laugh but refused to meet his eyes, instead eying the bathroom door that was so close and yet so far.

“Okay, come on.” Chris’s voice got serious. “Is there something going on at work? Are you sick? Why are you so…” Chris motioned his hands up and down your body.

“So what, Chris?”

“So sad?” His eyebrows creased in concern. “You know you can tell me anything.”

Not everything.

“I told you at the restaurant, I’m fine.”

“Yeah and I barely believed you then.” You bit your lip and once again looked away from him. You should have known that he knew you were lying out of your ass.

“Chris, it doesn’t matter. It’s not your problem.” You huffed.

“Of course it’s my problem.” He said as if it was the most obvious thing.

“But it’s not.” You snapped. Chris took a step back at your sudden change in attitude. “Just back off. You’re not my boyfriend.”

“And?” He snapped back, but he did move closer to you. He reached out and grabbed your forearms, pulling you into him. “I may not be your boyfriend but I am your best friend.”

“Chris, just let it go. It doesn’t even concern you.” You lied as you pushed him away.

“Well clearly this one thing as something to do with me. Since you’ve been acting like a mega bitch since I got home.” He crossed his arms.

You took a step back. Chris had never called you that before. Yes, you two had gotten into some heated discussions in the past and maybe have gone a couple times without talking to each other for maybe a day. But never once has he called you a bitch.

“Chris!” Carissa’s scolding voice came from behind. “Apologize to her right now, there is no reason to call any woman that word.”

Chris’s gaze held yours before it softened.

He sighed and dropped his arms. “Fuck...sweetheart. I’m-”

“Thank you for having me over, Carissa. I really did have a great time.” You turned away from him before he could finish. “I think I’m going to head out though.”

“Of course.” Carissa glared at Chris over your shoulder. “Please let us-or me, know when you get home. We can plan another one soon.”

“Sure.” You smiled weakly at her before casting one last look at Chris. He opened his mouth to say something but you just shook your head and made your way out of the house.