#blame it on the bad writing or whatever I just don’t see him as Jon | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shieldofrohan · 3 years

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I don't think GRRM explores the flaws in Arya's characterisation rather he explores how the world is unfair to her. Whenever I read Jon, Sansa, Dany , Robb and Bran, I feel they behave as their age requires them to be. They show capabilities yet are not exempted from bad choices which a character at their age can easily commit. With Arya, sometimes it feels like I am not reading a 11 year old kid but a grown up 25 year old woman who never messes up things or has any characterisation flaws which are not inherent within like the other child characters but those failings are primarily influenced by the society.

Hello Anon,

I have to agree and disagree with you.

I agree with that Martin writes Jon, Sansa and Dany better- MUCH BETTER.

I am obviously not a Daenerys fan but I enjoyed her character more than I did with Arya. I said it many times but I am going to say it again: Daenerys is the best written character in the series. She is much more interesting villain than man-pain Tyrion [looking at you Martin.. really, Tyrion?].

Objectively I find her character well written and interesting. But my problem with her is that her cult like fans who completely ignore her true position and characterization in the books. Hopefully in the future people will enjoy Dany character for the right reasons.

I felt like I need to explain my thoughts about Dany first to show my problems with the way of Arya was written by the author.

Arya is the WORST written main character. TRULY. Everything about her is so FAKE/FORCED/CLICHE/UNREALISTIC…

Author says that Arya is the underdog/outcast of the family. Does the writing show this?

NO!

She is literally her father's favorite child. We see Ned constantly favoring her, letting her do what she likes, he never scolds her, he makes time to talk with her about her traumas like losing a friend, he fcking finds a Water Dancer for her [but not a harp teacher for Sansa]. I have a great dad but jeez, even he never showed me this kind of devotion.

Catelyn seems like she knows her daughter well… we don’t see her abusing or ignoring her. She even acknowledges her struggles.

Her siblings love her. Even Sansa tries to keep include her into her own circle to enjoy things together, she covers for her against Septa Mordane.

As we can see, she seems doing fine as a tomboy girl in the family of 5 men/boys and 2 women/girls.

BUT SHE COULDN’T SEW SO SHE WAS BEING ABUSED.

Really? Wow she must be the only special snowflake who wasn’t good at sewing. I am sure rest of the girls in North were all experts. Arya is the only one who lacks some skill people and it made her super sad.

Fans tried to paint this as some "omg anti-feminism/sexism in society" thing and it feels absurd because Arya was bad at history and heraldy too..

A tomboy is not good at some female-coded skill is so fcking cliche for character building and I am not buying it. And this is BAD/LAZY WRITING.

Did Martin try to make her look like an underdog with this??

Well Sansa is not good at math? I am sure she had bad days because of this too but we didn’t read it. If you ask me Sansa (girly girl) being bad at math (male-coded subject) was more sexist than sewing and Arya thing [considering Sansa was good at music and playing instruments which require math but whatever.]

Arya is an outcast because she is not like other girls… WOW, it has never been written before, how did George come up with this idea? Meanwhile we have girls like Mormont girls so obviously she is not the only "NOT LIKE OTHER GIRLS MARY SUE".

Evil Mordane bullied poor Arya. Mordane is totally not good for her BUT Arya literally never listens HER TEACHER. I am not talking about her lack of skill in sewing. Arya simply NEVER listens anyone. She disobeys her septa, she declines QUEEN’s invitations rudely, she talks sh*t about CROWN PRINCE while princess is next to them.

Girly lessons like sewing weren’t the only lessons she was not into it…

Sansa would have known who he was, and the fat one too, but Arya had never taken much interest in titles and sigils. Whenever Septa Mordane had gone on about the history of this house and that house, she was inclined to drift and dream and wonder when the lesson would be done.

[ACOK; Arya VII]

She simply never cares about any lessons and she simply refuses to learn basic DECORUM. Yeah I am sorry that she had to learn things she didn’t want to but welcome to real world.

MY POINT IS: all these are so weak points to make her look like an outcast/underdog.

Don’t even let me start with Jeyne Poole calling her HORSERACE nonsense. I said it before so I repeat it: This feels so forced in the story considering Arya is the daughter of Warden of the North and Jeyne is some simple daughter of a simple man who works for Starks.

This is what author himself says about class system:

Q: What was the hardest thing in writing about such an alien world?

GRRM: The vast majority of fantasy is middle agey time wise, and he himself finds the period fascinating; glad to adopt it for novel writing - likes knights and castles and such. He objects to bad fantasy practice which adopts a time setting without accepting the culture - imposing 20th century values like the cheeky stableboy telling off the princess (in reality cheeky stableboy would lose his tongue - look what happend to Mycah); the class system was not just and ornament and these people truly belived in blood, and the rank and priviledge that came with "good" blood. [2006]

But Jeyne somehow had no fear when she was “bullying” a princess. Does this make sense to you or does it feel forced to make Arya look like a victim. And this bad writing keeps repeating itself while author writes Arya and when you realize this pattern you can’t unsee it and it ruins the books a little.

I wrote all these to explain what is ACTUALLY wrong with Arya as a character. I don’t blame Arya for the bad writing, I blame the author.

And I disagree with you a little when you said: "With Arya, sometimes it feels like I am not reading a 11 year old kid but a grown up 25 year old woman who never messes up things or has any characterisation flaws which are not inherent within like the other child characters but those failings are primarily influenced by the society.”

[I explained the her failings in society’s eyes part already.. that thing is a cliche and unrealistic writing]

I don’t agree with that reading Arya feels like reading an older woman. No it feels like reading a VERY UNREALISTIC AND DISTURBING CHILD. She totally makes mistakes:

Talking bad about prince in a room full of people, declining Queen’s invitations, not listening her septa and Sansa, making prince angry, hiding for 4 days while she should have gone to her father to deal with the mess so maybe Mycah and Lady wouldn’t be dead, attacking her sister, killing a stableboy, killing many other people, joining a assassin cult, killing a Black brother because she thinks she has the right etc..

She makes mistakes but we didn’t see her face any consequences. Will we see her face them?? When it comes to Arya I don’t trust GRRM. GRRM covers for her all the time. GRRM = Ned Stark. He favors her. I mean look at this:

Sansa saves Dontos who later molests her and he works for Baeslish who also molests her.

Arya saves Jaqen H’ghar and he turns out to be a Faceless Man who kills THREE people for her.

Sandor sexually assaults Sansa but not Arya [I am not saying he should!! But why is it always Sansa? Does the author punish Sansa for her beauty… ANSWER IS YES because I am done!]

Sansa trusts Joffrey and Cersei ends up the most hated character in the books [even author says she had a part in her father’s death and he is ok with fans hating her]

Meanwhile Arya’s spider senses tell her to not trust Roose Bolton or anyone etc.

Arya runs into people like Yoren or Harwin meanwhile Sansa… you got it.

Basically this is a simple case of author favoring a character and it happens in all books.

The only thing that indicates author knows she is not perfect is that him calling her a “psycho” or not disagreeing when fans call her a psycho [I know I usually make fun of this but actually this is not some good take about a child character especially if you say Starks- including Arya- are the heroes]

In conclusion: I think she is written terribly, she is the weakest part in the story and character building. I simply hate the way author deals with her character. I think she is not interesting. She turned out to be a very dark and disturbing child character and I have no idea what is GRRM trying to tell with her.

Thanks for the ask. Have a nice day.

#anti grrm #anti arya stark #anti arya stans #ask #answered #reply #anon #grrm critical #mine

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aerltarg · 3 years

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Maybe this is a stupid question, buuuuut:

I just can't imagine a world that Rhaegar comes back from the Trident, wins the war and becomes king. No, I'm not a anti Rhaegar, matter of fact I like him very much, I'm just can imagine how would Lya, little Jon, this whole affair, would settle in the capital. The norm that fics (at least those I read) tend to follow is to make Rhaegar:

1. A douche, paranoid and destiny-obessed king.

2. Completely incompetent, aloof monarch, that deep down has a heart of gold, but can't really be understood.

I mean, isn't he supposed to be a scholar since he was a kid? What's are your thoughts about it?

oh, yeah, i can totally understand this! it's is the whole point in canon actually, "the wrong man came back from the trident". you would expect a hero win against his antagonist and have a happy ending w his lady love but it doesn't happen. instead the subversion happens to them with rhaegar being killed by robert who becomes obviously a shitty king and lyanna dying after him. they were never supposed to have happy ending, they were created as tragic and doomed and dead from the beginning for the whole plot to start, jon to have his parentage mystery and dany to take the passed baton as the last dragon, prophesied savoir and the heir who has to carry entire house on her back now.

as for the realistic rhaegar wins aus that's the difficult question. tbh we just don't know enough abt their situation, plans and wishes. you see, e.g. in agot we can be right in ned's head and see his motivations, what he was thinking abt, what he was planning, what he was hoping to do. but if his story was told the way rhaegar's was i bet he would have his own crowd of haters and ~intellectuals~ jumping out every two seconds w their "hot takes" how actually all hints abt what rlly happened (ned being a good man w his own sense of honour, justice and experiences affecting him and the deal w cersei's children) doesn't matter and he was an ambitious prick, planned to grasp the power by being joffrey's regent and make his daughter sansa queen. (you can actually insert there any bullshit and still don't reach the level of stupidity of such "hot takes" this fandom loves so much lmao). also he would be blamed to the hell and beyond for being too stupid and not foreseeing the future and actions of other ppl bc ofc after everything happened it's so easy to say what was so obvious to notice. also they would say that the deaths of his men and horrible fates of his kids are 100% his fault and even straight up say he killed them lmao. i can rant abt it for hours so yeah. this is a situation w too many unknown variables bc it depends too much on actions of too many characters we don't know enough abt. the only thing it's possible to tell for sure is the fact that there couldn't be any perfect solutions since things got too complicated at this point.

such fics as you've mentioned tho are just a part of this dumb fanon where rhaegar is "too prophecy obsessed"/"incapable of love"/shrodinger's rhaegar both smart and stupid at the same time/whatever/all of this combined lmfao. the man was notably intelligent from the early age as you've absolutely rightly mentioned, his guesses abt himself being tptwp have nothing to do w egocentrism as some parts of the fandom would want us all to believe unless he wouldn't be so reasonable abt it and later on, after so many years, wouldn't have changed his mind and thought his son could be tptwp.

and literally fuck all antis that think you shouldn't consider prophecies that hold real power in this fantasy world lol. you know, aegon the conqueror was said to be motivated (or at least partly) to unify westeros by the prophecy and still got the treatment of perfect/maximum close to perfect figure of a leader everyone should look up to from the narrative and grrm. prophecy obsessed much, huh? i don't even talk abt all these parallels between him and rhaegar grrm put there not for bitches to ignore them completely! and i will never get tired of reminding that dismissing prophecies is UNWISE for targaryens of all people. the house whose story is built on the dream of young daenys and her father aenar that listened to her despite common sense (or what local "anti magic"/"anti prophecies" clowns consider to be common sense). targs would be as dead as the rest of dragonlords if not for daenys the dreamer. who else in the world has as many reasons to take prophecies seriously as them?

yet antis out there act as if rhaegar is one dimensional weirdo whose every character trait is abt mf ~prophecy obsession~. like how can they miss one of the main points so badly?? the game of thrones distracts ppl from the real danger beyond the wall, yk, the one rhaegar was aware of and meant to deal with. there wouldn't be such a problem if he became king and had as many years of head start before ice zombies apocalypse as ignorant bobby b did. rhaegar had to die just for westeros to sink in shit and our main heroes to save everyone to make this story more epic LMAO

so yeah, too many ppl portray rhaegar as this one dimensional robotic creature without any knowledge of what feelings are idk even for what reason. it seems these ppl can't read for real bc rhaegar was not only intelligent af as well as dutiful ("it seems i must be a warrior" but "he loved his harp more than his lance") but also. ugh emotional?? my boy had constant emo sessions w brooding at ruins of summerhall, sleeping out there beneath the stars all alone and writing songs that made all women cry. does it sound as someone who "isn't capable of love" lol? folks act as if he was completely heartless from the day he was born (bc he didnt play w other kids ig??) but in reality their emotional range is less than the one of a spoon in comparison to rhaegar's lol. i'm not even gonna address the horrible attitude of demonizing him for his implied depression, vile clowns never listen to themselves when they talk abt targaryens and their "madness".

tldr; these fics are mostly lame af and suck at characterization if they're making rhaegar like that lol. anyway his character isn't abt being a good or a bad king, it's abt being a would-be-king for characters in books and readers in reality to sigh over his tragic aura and pretty aesthetic abt how it could've been. however, grrm clearly doesn't write rhaegar as evil or incapable as some parts of the fandom would want to try to persuade others. realistically speaking in the scenario where he wins there couldn't be any perfect decisions but it's a territory of speculations on thin air and lit nothing more since canon doesn't provide us with enough information to rlly theorize anything instead of building biased headcanons some ppl call "analysis".

but remember what barristan said about rhaegar while practically watching him all his life, from a literal baby to the man grown:

“I know little of Rhaegar. Only the tales Viserys told, and he was a little boy when our brother died. What was he truly like?”

The old man considered a moment. “Able. That above all. Determined, deliberate, dutiful, single-minded.” (ASOS, Daenerys I)

“Prince Rhaegar’s prowess was unquestioned, but he seldom entered the lists. He never loved the song of swords the way that Robert did, or Jaime Lannister. It was something he had to do, a task the world had set him. He did it well, for he did everything well. That was his nature. But he took no joy in it. Men said that he loved his harp much better than his lance.” (ASOS, Daenerys IV)

#thank you for the ask!!!#hope it didnt get too long and rambly afshsjsjs #once started talking its hard to shut up 😂#and im sorry for any possible mistakes #.txt #rhaegar targaryen #targnation #mypost #fandom wank #anti antis #majorton #*answered #asks

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celosiaa · 3 years

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Hi! I am obsessed with your writing, it is so so endlessly good and you. Are so. Talented. Anyway, please feel free to ignore this, I won’t expect a reply, but prompt idea of someone (probably martin) giving jon a shoulder rub, and it giving jon flashbacks to his kidnapping and him very not being ok. Could take place either soon after the kidnapping, or like in post canon (maybe even with emma?) Again feel free not to reply, just wanted to share and tell you how much I love your work❤️❤️

hi friend!!! thank you so so much for this wonderful prompt!! and your sweet message <3 I apologize that this has taken so long, but I hope you enjoy it anyway! and I hope you’re having a wonderful day!

CW PTSD, flashback, panic attack

Quiet.

Peace of solitude, silence, loneliness has always been a bit of what Martin has missed from his life. He needs it as much as the sun, as much as the breath in his lungs. Sometimes the lingering ache of it all leaves him hurting—hurting over the fact that he shouldn’t want this; he should want to be, not to fade. He should be over this by now.

But, Jon. Jon understands. He understands that need for something you do not want better than just about anyone. So when Martin needs to disappear, or begs for quiet, or takes time to meditate and drift away, Jon always keeps his worry under what he surely thinks to be a careful façade. Martin sees right through it, of course. And loves him all the more for it every time.

Days like this should build up his reserve—the quiet days, where Jon is either gone, or busy, or engrossed in a novel Martin would never dream of picking up. But something about this is off, and Martin knows it.

He knows it by the way that Jon has barely shifted positions at his desk for many hours, other than to unfold and refold his legs under himself. Surely they must be aching—Martin knows they must. So many hours in one place tend to make Jon restless, his muscles cramping and his mind running wild. Sometimes in a good way—Martin is now accustomed to listening to very excited, lightning-fast monologues about whatever Jon had found himself fascinated by that day. But sometimes...sometimes, in other ways as well. Other ways not altogether pleasant.

Martin is certain this is one of the latter type.

From his vantage point in the kitchen, Martin can see the screensaver on Jon’s laptop running across it. Jon is working on nothing at all—has not been working on anything for nearly an hour now, and yet has not moved. It sets Martin’s teeth on edge, this sort of thing. When Jon appears as himself, is present as himself—and yet, not quite. Never quite there, not really. It reminds him of the early days after they had put the world back together, coming up on five years ago now. Days when Jon was drifting…and Martin had never been sure if he would come back.

Stop thinking stop stop

Don’t go there. Not now. Focus.

His head feels heavy with fog when he stands, as it often does—and he makes his way over to Jon, careful to step a bit heavier than usual so as to give some warning of his approach.

“Jon love?” he murmurs, keeping his tone as light as possible, much lighter than he feels. “You alright?”

The tiniest of jumps, barely noticeable. Jon freezes in place for a moment, before attempting to turn his head to look at Martin—and coming to a sudden stop with a groan, and a hand pressed into his shoulder.

“Hmm. Martin.”

His voice is rough from disuse, and he lets out a dry cough as Martin kneels slowly beside him.

“What are you working on?” he asks, trying the gentlest approach he can think of—and trying not to feel affronted when Jon flinches against the fingertips brushed against the back of his arm.

“I-I—erm—I was just…” He trails off as he realizes his laptop is asking him to enter the password again. “Ah. Well. Nothing at all, it seems.”

With a long sigh, Jon tips his head against the back of his chair—or rather, he tries. The motion seems to pull something uncomfortably in his neck, and he hisses painfully as he replaces his hand over the angle between his neck and shoulder.

“Alright, love? Can I help?”

“Ah, it’s—it’s fine, I-I did this to myself, I—”

“Jon.”

“—should get back to work—”

“Jon.”

Something of it seems to cut through his downward spiral, and he manages to meet Martin’s eyes at last—the shadows beneath his eyes outlining the exhausted desperation bubbling just behind them. For what, or who, or when, Martin cannot be sure—but he is sure that he needs to coax Jon out of whatever space he’s found himself in today.

“Does your neck hurt?” he asks, creasing his brows together when Jon attempts to shake his head, and winces instead. “Right, stupid question—how bad is it?”

“It’s fine—it’s nothing, it’s my fault anyway.”

It drives Martin mad how much Jon still wants to blame himself for everything, even the mundane, even things that require none. Especially things that require none. But, instead of putting a voice to this unsolvable frustration, Martin softens for the moment, stretching out a hand to cover Jon’s own where it still rests on the side of his neck.

“Want to try a little massage?” he asks, pressing a small kiss to Jon’s temple. “Maybe it’ll loosen you up enough to turn your head, at least.”

“Hmm,” is the only reply Jon gives, eyes falling closed against the gentle warmth of Martin’s hands.

“I’ll take that as a yes then.” Chuckling lightly, Martin stands behind him and gets to work.

He rests his fingertips lightly on the sides of Jon’s neck at first, being sure to always remain toward the back and away from his scar. Slowly, he begins to work his fingers a bit deeper into the muscle, traveling from the nape of his neck and down, as Jon unbuttons just the top of his shirt and shrugs the material off his shoulders. It warms Martin’s heart immeasurably to see him beginning to relax under his hands. And more importantly, gives him a wonderful idea for how to make this even better.

“One moment, love,” he whispers next to Jon’s ear, pressing another quick kiss to his temple before stepping away to root through his desk for the massage oil he’d been given by a friend. Sure, maybe he’s never used it, but…lavender certainly sounds like a relaxing smell, and god knows that Jon needs as much assistance with that as he can get.

“Alright, here we are.” He uncaps the bottle and holds it in front of Jon for him to smell. “What do you think?”

Jon blinks in surprise at the new smell, then furrows his brows.

“Wh—what is this?”

“Massage oil. I’ve never used it but—well, now’s as good a time as any, right?”

“I-I…I suppose so.”

The hesitance in Jon’s voice sends up warning flags in Martin’s mind at once—and he steps to the side to get a better look at Jon’s face. A bit glazed, vacant, as he turns the bottle of massage oil over and over in his hands.

“Is something wrong?” Martin asks, cocking his head to one side in confusion. “If you don’t like the smell, I won’t use it.”

“No no, it’s not that,” he assures, closing his eyes as if to clear some picture displayed in front of them. “I don’t know. I—erm. You can try it.”

“Jon…”

“Try it, please try it. It—it should be nice.”

For all that he insists, something about this gives Martin pause. Something in his voice, his body language doesn’t sit right at all—

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, setting a gentle hand on his knee as he crouches to his eye level. “What’s going on?”

A few tense moments go by before Jon responds, the knee beneath Martin’s hand beginning to bounce with an all-too-familiar surge of anxiety. Face going ashen, he attempts a strained, awful sort of smile.

“S-sorry, I—sorry, it’s fine, just—ah.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, love—is it the smell that bothered you? Can you tell me what’s happening?

His leg bounces harder, the other one beginning to join it. As he meets Martin’s eyes again, it is with a particular brand of shock and horror that tells Martin he is barely hanging on to his surroundings. It twists as a knife in his gut, pulling at his insides as his new task shifts to keeping Jon with him.

“Alright, love. You’re here with me, okay? Here, take my hand—”

He extends his own trying to pull Jon’s away from the white-knuckle grip on the arm of his chair—and Jon takes a gasping inhale, clutching at his neck in panic.

“Woah woah, Jon—”

“STOP stop stop please stop—”

Reeling from the sudden shouting, Martin pulls his hands away from Jon as if they had been burned, falling backwards from his crouch and onto the floor in alarm. The lavender oil in Jon’s hand skitters away across the floor as it slips from his hold. Pounding, pounding, pounding is Martin’s heart in his chest, adrenaline overpowering his thoughts for a few moments before he can really take action. What had happened? What had he done to make Jon feel so unsafe?

“Mm—ha—ah—”

“Hold on love, hold on,” he soothes, reaching out a hand of comfort, before thinking better of it. “I’ll be back, just hold on.”

Lifting himself as quickly as possible from the floor, Martin strides quickly towards their refrigerator, yanking open the freezer door and grabbing an ice cube for Jon to ground himself with. Or at least, so he hopes.

What happened?

What did I do? Did I say something?

Did I—

Oh.

Oh god, no.

Heart twinging with guilt, he hurries back to his husband’s side, gently slipping the ice cube back into his palm with as little skin contact as possible. If he feels like he’s back there, back with the clown, with unfamiliar hands of plastic and metal touching him, preparing him, readying him for the harvest—then Martin knows even his own familiar hands will be lost among the noise of the others. Interpreted as a threat.

God, Jon. What have I done?

“Here, sweetheart. I’m right here. You’re here with me.”

The words seem unable to reach him in this state—he blinks rapidly, staring into something unseen, unheard—his entire body trembling with adrenaline, fear, anticipation…and god knows what else. Aching, aching is Martin’s chest as he watches it all unfold, knowing that there is nothing to do but wait for the flashback to end and hope his suffering is as brief as possible.

“N-no—Nikola—”

“You’re here with me, Jon. You’re safe.”

“S-stop, don’t—touch me!”

Oh, Jon.

A few more seconds of true unawareness—before a bit of movement from his right pulls Martin’s gaze down towards the hand which holds the ice cube. As he begins to roll it around, Martin prays the sensation of it will be enough of an anchor this time, that this will be the end of it. That nothing will launch him back into the panic, just as his breathing begins to slow. As a precaution, Martin grabs the small vial of lavender oil from the carpet, shoving it into his pocket and out of sight.

“Jon? You back with me?”

“…mmm,” he hums, after a few moments’ delay. His eyes slip closed as he attempts to control his breathing, still running the ice between his fingers while his entire frame trembles.

“Alright,” Martin murmurs, coming to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of him. “I’m right here. I’m not gonna touch you, but I’m right here.”

Eerie stillness hangs heavy in the space between them, all silence save for the shuddering of Jon’s body against the chair and the scant air moving through his lungs. And oh, how Martin wants to reach for him—but knows of course he cannot, not until it’s passed a bit, not until Jon remembers where he is. When he is. It cracks in Martin’s chest, spidering through his heart and lungs the longer the silence holds.

Come back.

I’m not going to leave you.

“Mmm,” Jon echoes his earlier hum, leg beginning to bounce again, stocking feet curling into the carpet. “I’m—here. Here.”

“Yes, you’re here. Here with me,” Martin breathes, nearly crying with relief as tears begin to slip down Jon’s face. “Do you know where?”

“Home.”

His voice cracks in the middle, forcing a shuddering inhale; a broken sob of an exhale as at last he leans forward, bracing his head in his hands.

“Martin.”

“I’m here, love. Home with you.”

“I can’t—” He breaks off to inhale sharply. “Can’t feel my legs, Martin, please—”

“Okay, alright, love. Head between your knees—you’re gonna be alright.”

Jon obliges at once, sinking lower, deepening his breaths, following Martin’s careful pattern toward some semblance of calm. Not quite there, and will not be for some time. The knowledge of it sits heavy in the back of Martin’s throat, and he swallows angrily at it. This is his fault; he should have seen this coming, should have spared a single thought for the wellbeing of his husband and now he cannot even comfort him—

A trembling hand suddenly brushes against his arm, searching. Asking for him—searching for his anchor. After all this time…after everything.

Martin can no longer keep the tears back—and does not want to.

“Oh, darling,” he whispers, pulling Jon into his chest at once, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his hair. “I’m here. I’m so sorry, love. So sorry.”

“Martin.”

“You’re safe. I’m here.”

Jon buries his face into the soft knit of Martin’s jumper at his shoulder, slackening so deeply into his hold that Martin nearly topples over.

“I’m safe,” he echoes, muffled. “You’re here.”

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #hurt/comfort #jonmartin #cw ptsd #cw flashback #cw panic attack #if I need to tag this as anything else please please tell me!!#I know it's a bit heavy #my writing

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voiceless-terror · 3 years

Note

Hey! If your still taking prompts I would love one where the season 1 crew finds out about Mr. Spider. Any scenario is awesome, but if you need ideas- Jon having a panic attack over a spider, or maybe one of the others losing it on Jon over his skepticism and Jon just breaks down, maybe he snaps at Martin particularly hard for a lecture on spiders when it’s a Bad Day. Anyway, thanks, and no pressure! Writing is hardTM

Hi there! I actually tried to incorporate as many of the bits from your prompt as I could- you’ll have to tell me if I succeeded. Hope you like! :)

Jon’s never had his own office before. Just a desk or a cubicle, a study carrel where he could bury his head in a book and avoid prying eyes. But now he has an office- surprisingly spacious, cluttered as it is. It’s nice for privacy. But it has its drawbacks- specifically, a very mundane one.

People knock.

It’s common courtesy, of course. It is polite to knock. Martin’s is tentative, three soft raps against the door. Tim’s is a booming ‘Shave and a Haircut,’ irritating and playful.

Sasha’s is a brisk knock knock. No time or gesture wasted. Just knock knock. Simple, unassuming. It shouldn’t bother anyone.

After one week, Jon starts leaving his door open. It’s easier.

Today Martin peers around the doorway, a brief nod in Jon’s direction as he lifts his head from the statement on his desk. No smile, no question of how he’s doing. I deserve that, Jon supposes. Yesterday, he’d caught the tail end of Martin’s mumbling about his ‘ridiculous skepticism’ to Tim and promptly blew up, spitting insults over his research methods and incompetence. It was not his finest hour. By the end of it, Martin looked rightfully hurt and upset, and Tim just shook his head in disappointment as Jon barricaded himself in his office, this time closing the door.

Still, Martin brings him tea. Jon doesn’t know what to do with the feeling that stirs in him.

He moves softly, trying to make as little noise as possible as he sets the steaming mug down on the corner of his desk. Jon turns to him, ready to at least provide a thank you and a half-hearted apology when he sees it out of the corner of his eye.

A spider.

Just sitting there, staring at him from its perch inches away from the mug. The basement’s littered with them, unsurprisingly. Still, he can’t stifle the yelp of fear and disgust that tears its way out of his throat. His hands automatically grab at the nearest weapon - a particularly heavy tome- and his arms rear back, ready to strike. He isn’t expecting a strong hand to wrap around his forearm, stopping him in place.

It’s Martin’s hand. He knows it’s Martin’s hand. But that desperate, childish part of his mind that he tries to keep locked away is screaming black-spindly-leg- spider, it’s a spider, it’s a spider-

“Don’t touch me!” It’s a screech, louder than he meant it to be as he wrenches his arm out of the grip, chair hitting the wall with the force of the motion. Martin’s talking and Jon can barely hear because the spider is there, just sitting and staring and watching-

“I’m sorry! You shouldn’t kill it, though. I’ll bring it outside. C’mere.” Martin’s coaxing the thing into his hand, like it’s not monstrous, like it’s fine. “See? Nothing to worry about!”

Nothing to worry about, Martin says. It’s hard to reconcile that with the tightness in his chest, the quickening breaths that don’t seem to get him much air at all. Martin’s giving him a concerned look, edging closer as if to comfort him but that thing’s still in his hand, why is it still in his hand? He flinches, barely aware of the litany he’s muttering under his breath- please please don’t touch me.

There’s more people in the room, now. When did Sasha and Tim arrive? Why are they looking at him? Martin’s mouth moves but Jon hears nothing, just watches with wild eyes as Sasha ushers him out of the room as soon as she sees the spider. But he can still feel it’s crawling legs all over- light now, not strong. Just a teasing torment. He itches at his skin, fingernails digging into the worn sweater as if trying to reach bone. Tim’s moving forward, hands out as if he means to touch- can’t he hear what Jon’s saying? Why won’t they listen?

“...not going to touch you, I promise. But you have to breathe slower...going to pass out.”

He tries to focus on Tim’s breathing, the exaggerated rise and fall of his chest barely visible through his blackening vision. Tim nods encouragingly and Jon’s heartbeat lowers incrementally as he’s finally able to get a few deep breaths in, labored as they are. He doesn’t know how long they sit there for.

“Good job, boss.” Tim’s smiling but really, there’s nothing to smile about. All Jon feels now is a bone-deep exhaustion; he doesn’t even have the energy to summon embarrassment. He nods at Tim’s hands when they finally approach, letting himself be pulled to his feet though Tim takes most of his weight.

“There’s a cot in the back of document storage,” Martin’s back, worry clear in his voice. The spider’s gone. Maybe Sasha killed it after Martin let it go. She didn’t like them much either. “Might be more comfortable back there.”

“He’s got a cot here, really?” Tim’s voice isn’t directed at him. “We’re going to have a talk about that.” It’s like he’s not in the room. It’s nice, in a detached sort of way. Jon’s not one for talking right now.

“I’m sorry,” Martin’s apologizing to him, or maybe around him. He doesn’t like causing scenes, Jon thinks. “I didn’t realize it was that bad, or I wouldn’t have-”

“It’s fine,” Sasha’s saying from behind him. “It’s not like Jon comes with a user manual. We learned that the hard way.”

“Just maybe let him kill the spiders from now on,” Tim says as he deposits Jon on the cot, frowning at his refusal to lie down. He doesn’t need a nap, just a short rest. He might close his eyes. He hasn’t decided yet.

Martin’s still talking. “...And that fight, yesterday. I shouldn’t have said those things, set him off-”

“They were true, and Jon was being awful to you. You know his moods-”

Jon wants to interrupt. Wants to tell Martin he’s sorry, that he shouldn’t have yelled. That he didn’t mean (most of) those things he said, that being called out on his dismissals makes him feel even smaller. That's how he copes, by lashing out and sniping. What comes out instead is slurred, and altogether more revealing than he would have liked.

“I read a book, once.”

Tim pauses on his way out the door, presumably to get Jon water or a granola bar or something else he didn’t need. “What was that, boss?”

“A book.” His voice gets louder, and Martin and Sasha go silent. It’s nice when they listen. Jon goes on. “I was eight or so, I don’t know. It was a stupid, childish thing, but it was horrible. A-” he stops here, pauses to take another shaky breath “-A Guest for Mr. Spider. From the library of-”

“Jurgen Leitner.” Sasha finishes, staring at him with unblinking, curious eyes. She loves a good story, nosy thing she is. Jon likes that about her when it comes to research, and not other things. He nods.

“It felt wrong. Violent. I hated it. You would’ve too, if you saw it.” If Martin read it, Jon wonders, briefly, maybe he would hate them too. “And it wasn’t just a book. It should have been- should have been just a stupid, scary little story about a spider and a fly. But it wasn’t.” He doesn’t want to say the specific words. Doesn’t want to speak the book back into existence, as if the very mention would make it manifest. “He was real, in the end. Mr. Spider. He was real, but he didn’t get me. He got- he got someone else.”

Jon doesn’t cry. He thinks he should, but he doesn’t. “I’ve forgotten his name, you know? The one he took. I don’t think I could place him in a crowd, not even if I tried. Not that I could. He’s dead, has to be. He wasn’t a nice person- a bully, really. But he was just a kid. A kid who had the unfortunate luck to have met me.”

He feels oddly calm, even as his three assistants stare on in horror (and fascination, in Sasha’s case. There’s a strange tightness in Tim’s face that Jon can’t quite figure out). He turns his gaze to Martin, because he’s not done yet. He needs him to know why. “The statements, the tapes- I-I don’t know where to begin. It’s like I’m not even talking. It’s like living it. And I can’t do anything about it.” Martin’s face softens to something like sympathy, but he still doesn’t understand. “The follow-up- those are my words. They’re the only words I have control over.” Words have meaning. Words have power. Jon read a monster into existence and it devoured someone whole. What else will he do, given the chance? Given the right words? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

Martin doesn’t say anything. Jon doesn’t blame him- whatever he was expecting, it certainly wasn’t Jon’s childhood trauma. He’s probably revealed too much.

“That’s…” It’s Tim who’s speaking, his tone unreadable as he draws a hand across his face in sudden exhaustion. “Okay. Take a break, boss. A nap or something. You look like you’re going to collapse.” Jon feels it. “We can talk later. About... all of this. It’s uh, good to know, though. Thanks- thanks for telling us.” The words seem genuine, although his face is oddly hard and serious. Jon nods, finally allowing his eyes to close as he leans into the lumpy, uncomfortable mattress. Someone draws a blanket over him, but he doesn’t know who.

“Sorry. I’ll, ah, kill the spiders from now on. Just in case they’re the bad ones, yeah?”

Martin, then.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27700379

#prompts #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #tim stoker #martin blackwood #sasha james #good ol' mr. spider #cw panic attacks #back on my 'what if they all talked' train #Anonymous

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phoebenavarro · 3 years

Text

the fading sun

I haven’t posted any of my writing here in a very long time but I’m rather proud of this piece so, why not. part of my “Jon decides Tim is the only person he can trust in s2″ AU, but can be read on it’s own

the magnus archives, jontim, 1,456 words

on ao3 here

Jon is the most tactile person Tim has ever met. It came as a bit of a surprise to him, because of the general vibe Jon has projected the entire time they’ve known each other, but as they’ve gotten closer, Tim has learned that Jon only allows himself to be like this with people he trusts, and Jon has never trusted many people. Tim feels all warm and fuzzy, knowing he’s one of the few people Jon trusts. So Tim holds Jon, and Jon clings to him like a lifeline. Jon is wrapped around him, with his head resting on Tim’s chest, and Tim is stroking Jon’s hair when a thought strikes him, and he snorts. Jon hums an inquisitive tone.

“Nothing really,” Tim says, “I just realized that this…..” he gestures between them, “Whatever this is. Us. Is the most stable relationship I’ve had in years.” Jon huffs out a half laugh, a little bitter.

“Yeah. Yeah, me too.”

Tim lets that sit in the air for a few minutes, enjoying the calm between them.

“What are we?” he asks, “Are we a couple? Romantically, I mean.”

Jon considers it. “I don’t know, are we?” he replies, lifting his head to look at Tim with a raised eyebrow. Tim pulls Jon up to face him more comfortably.

“Oh no, you’re not turning the question back on me,” Tim says, a little indignant, then, softer, “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t interested.”

Jon has definitely thought about it. He’s thought about how his relationship with Tim really isn’t that different from any other romantic relationship he’s had in his life. The main difference is the lack of kissing (or well, snogging, but Jon hates that word), and going out on dates. Tim is handsome, and kind, and funny, and he’s the only person who makes Jon feel safe, the only person who understands exactly what Jon is going through.

So yes, it’s safe to say Jon is interested.

“I’d like that,” Jon says, shyly, “If you would.”

“Oh, I absolutely would.” Tim waggles his eyebrows at him, a large grin spreading across his face. Jon smiles back at him for a second, before his brain decides to ruin the moment for him.

“I’m asexual,” Jon blurts out. He winces, embarrassed at his own self. He’s never been good at this part. Tim sits up a bit, leaning on his elbow. He looks a little surprised, but not shocked at the sudden change in topic.

“I mean, I figured?” he says. Jon’s brain short circuits.

“You… What?”

Tim gestures to the black ring on Jon’s middle finger. “The ring. That’s an ace thing, right?”

“Oh!” Jon looks down at his hand. “Yes, uh.” Georgie gave it to him, shortly after he figured out he was ace. She was the first person to accept that he didn’t really want sex, and she was integral in helping him discover that there was a word for the way he felt. “I— Sometimes I forget I’m wearing it, and that other people know what it means.” Tim nods.

Jon plows on, unable to stop talking. He hasn’t dated in a long time, since before he got the head archivist position, so he hasn’t had to do the ‘coming out to a potential romantic partner’ spiel in a while. He’s always anxious about it, but with Tim, he’s terrified. Not that he thinks Tim will react badly, but… Every person he’s dated since Georgie lost interest after he came out to them. He knows that, statistically, his asexuality couldn’t have been the reason for all of them, especially when he considered his difficult personality, but the last thing Jon wants is to ruin what he and Tim have now.

“I don’t experience sexual attraction, I never have, and I just want you to know that sex isn’t something I’m interested in, except on very rare occasions. An— and it’s nothing you’ve done, it’s just me. It’s how I am.” He wishes he could blame it on a low libido, but it’s a lot more complicated than that.

Tim is looking at him with such gentleness that he thinks he might cry.

“Jon,” he says, “That is okay. More than okay, really. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable.”

“I mean— I don’t—“ Jon sighs, “I know that sex is something that you enjoy.”

Tim laughs a little, because now it’s his turn to explain a complicated subject.

“Yeah, sure, I have been known to enjoy casual sex,” an understatement, “But it’s not something I’ve been doing lately.” He sighs, unsure of how to explain it. “After Danny I was just… Numb, for so long, and hooking up with people was an easy way to feel something. It was a coping mechanism, I guess, but it really wasn’t healthy, so I stopped. Not that I stopped hooking up with people completely, but y’know, going on dates with people first and making more genuine connections instead of just… using them. And then Prentiss happened, and well, I haven’t exactly been sleeping with anybody.

“I know what my reputation was in Research. and I first liked you because you were never all judgmental about that. So if you never want to have sex with me, I’m fine with that.”

“Well, I didn’t say never,” Jon mutters. He knows he gives off a ‘never’ kind of vibe, (and he was, for a long time, until he figured out what he likes and how he likes it), but he genuinely enjoys sex, on occasion. Usually the issue is that he’s too much in his own head, thinking too much about the logistics, the vulnerability required, that it’s too much trouble, but it can be different with someone he trusts.

“That didn’t come out right,” Tim says, “I don’t want you to think that you’re a burden, or something. Because you’re not, and I want to give this a go, with you, because you’re you, and I love you.”

Jon stares at Tim, dumbstruck for a moment, because it is such a painfully Tim way to say it, and Jon once again feels like he could cry.

“Thank you,” he says, “I appreciate you saying that. Other people have not taken it well, in the past.”

“Fuck that,” Tim responds, “I’m sorry people were shitty.”

“Guess we’ve got that in common,” Jon says.

“Yeah,” Tim sighs, “Bi ace solidarity?”

Jon nods and leans in closer to Tim. “Kiss me?”

Tim doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s been thinking about it fairly often for the past few weeks. He presses his lips against Jon’s, gentle and chaste.Jon melts against him. Tim doesn’t want to push things too far, since they haven’t had a real conversation about boundaries, so they just trade soft, sweet kisses for a while. It feels simultaneously novel and intimate, and Tim finds himself thinking that he would be content to stay in this moment forever.

After some time, Jon pulls away, a small grin across his face.

“Alright?” Tim asks gently.

“Very much so,” Jon replies.

“Hey, if we’re dating, is it weird if I still call you boss?” Tim asks, humor back in his voice.

“Only if you’re into that,” Jon deadpans, and Tim laughs that delighted laugh he reserves for when Jon surprises him with a joke.

“Oh Christ,” Jon says, as he thinks about the implications of dating someone who is technically his employee, “HR is gonna be a nightmare about this.”

“I mean… Who says we have to tell them?” Tim says, and Jon stares at him, affronted. “Yes, alright, I’m sure the employee handbook has lots to say on the subject, but this stopped being a normal job the moment we got attacked by a worm lady, so forgive me if I don’t see the point in doing the proper HR paperwork.”

“I suppose you have a point.”

“I genuinely don’t think there’s much we can do at this point that would make Elias fire us. And if he did fire us for dating I would leave a hell of a bad review on GlassDoor.”

Jon smiles. “I don’t think academics really use GlassDoor.”

“Whatever,” Tim shrugs, “I think HR would also have a thing or two to say about me sharing a bed with my boss every night for the past few months.”

Jon’s face goes red at that. “Yes, alright. We won’t tell anyone.”

“I’ll make it up to you. We could go on a real, proper date? Go out to dinner, maybe see a movie?”

“I haven’t been to the cinema in ages,” Jon says, “ ‘Would be nice.”

Tim snickers. “Cinema. Alright, Grandad.”

Jon kisses him again to silence his teasing.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #jontim #jontimweek #mine #my writing

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aflyingcontradiction · 3 years

Text

The Magnus Archives Relisten: Episode 117 - Testament

But Tim isn’t going to sit home and wait, and Elias seems pretty insistent I go along. Part of me thinks it’s just so he can see if whatever this “preparation” he’s been trying to do on me works. - Jon

I guess, yeah, that's part of it and the other part is that he wants to make absolutely sure Jon gets touched by as many powers as he possibly can and sending him right into the lion's den is a good way of doing that, I suppose.

I don’t quite get those two. I suppose what they’ve done, seeing what they’ve seen… it’s a hell of a bond. The sort of thing I’ve mostly done alone.

Ouch. That is a painful realisation right there! (The usual disclaimer of "I'm obviously not talking about the scale of cosmic horror here because duh or for that matter even the scale of massive trauma" but I actually think that realisation is on some level relatable because of the realisation I had multiple times in my life of "I don't really know what a close bond feels like because I've never actually been anywhere close to the best friend of the people I've considered my best friends." Fortunately my luck has shifted somewhat in the "close emotional bonds" department, or at least I hope I'm not kidding myself about that, but the realisation that some people have these fire-forged, ride-or-die relationships and you're just kinda doing your own thing, dipping a finger shallowly into human connection every once in a while and then watching it flow away, is a bit of a twinge.)

And… aside from some, uh, uh, office gossip which I, I’m not sure is necessary or, uh, conducive to a workplace that… hey, it, it, it’s natural it’s, it’s normal.

I love how Jon just goes from deep emotional turmoil to being a bit upset that people are gossipping about whatever may be going on in his love life. Talk about emotional roller coasters!

Oh, yeah, I found something on the other body the circus stole, this “George Icarus.” (...) Jurgen Leitner. I just can’t be rid of him.

Ah, okay, this is where we learn who George Icarus was. Also, the pseudonym is very fitting, I mean, Leitner did, in fact, fly too close to the goddamn sun and subsequently crash and burn when he decided to create a library of fear books, didn't he?

He always said, if you don’t like something, you accept it and you adapt, or you fight and you change it. Whining doesn’t help. I always tried to live like that. But I think sometimes you feel like you’re adapting, but it’s just denial. - Basira

This is definitely something I've experienced myself but it's also definitely something I've seen in some people who like to go on like Basira's dad about stiff-upper-lip-don't-whine-adapt-and-overcome to other people and shame others for expressing their emotional pain. When the cracks finally do start showing up (usually under the influence of alcohol), it's not so much a crack as a full-on explosion.

But at least Daisy’s coming. I mean, I know she’s… difficult. Everything they say about her, it’s true, it’s fair. But, she’s solid. She’s a… a fixed point, and if she’s there, I know exactly where I stand, exactly what I’m doing, relative to her.

It's tragic but also on some level a little bit heartwarming that Basira never actually stops doing things relative to Daisy, even when it takes everything out of her, even when Daisy starts destroying herself.

Still stuck, still miserable, still angry. New traumas, but they hurt just like the old ones. Elias thinks he’s got this ingenious way to hurt people, but it’s just the same old and a creepy new package. Arsehole. God, I just want to rip his – When did I start to lose the parts of me that weren’t just anger? - Melanie

I always have a soft spot for the angry ones, the ones who have to forcibly stop themselves from punching people in the teeth, who have to put every last shred of willpower into keeping a lid on the boiling, hissing, steaming pot that is their inner life. The ones whose willpower sometimes fails them and then they do end up hurting people or themselves because of their anger. And not to go all REPRESENTATION here, but I'm actually glad to see that in TMA that character archetype is basically all women, because the people exploding in violent anger or having to try so fucking hard to keep it in and occasionally failing are usually guys.

They did manifest, but they weren’t what I thought they’d be. They were fused, somehow, all mixed together, a huge angry mass of dead flesh and guns.

I'm kind of glad this isn't a fully-fledged statement because I feel like that sentence, that image, is really all I need and anything further would actually weaken rather than strengthen the horror.

Good luck, Jon. I do hope you win. But I also hope it hurts.

Damn, this episode is so good at summarising characters in a line or two, isn't it?

I, I’m scared, I guess. – no, wait. No, no, I mean, ah, I don’t want that to be my last message, the thing that defines me. “Martin Blackwood, he was always scared, then he died. The end.” I don’t want that. - Martin

I'm a very anxious person and this is INSANELY relatable, this fear that all that's going to be left of you is the things you didn't do because you were terrified. ... Martin, stop making me tear up by being too damn relatable!

I need them to be safe, I need him to be okay.

Aw, Martin!

I mean, it’s not like I’m going to be safe, like my plan’s not dangerous, but it’s, it’s mine. 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.

a) This thought process makes perfect sense. Sometimes you just need to express your goddamn agency, even if it's dangerous and even if it's bound to hurt and b) I know the podcast immediately lampshades the "web" thing, but WEB!MARTIN THOUGH! I MEAN! THINK ABOUT IT! That would've been such an amazing plot point and they had it all set up. I mean, he's got a lot of good Lonely-related shit going on later, too, but ... why not both? I do enjoy it when the powers squabble over a character!

I used to blame my brother for going off his own and poking around where he wasn’t wanted. I used to blame myself for not helping him. But now… now it doesn’t matter. I’ve read through enough of these things to know that this doesn’t matter. The only thing you need to have your life destroyed by this stuff is just bad luck. Talk to the wrong person, take the wrong train, open the wrong door, and that’s it! - Tim

I think Tim's view of this is actually very close to the way that TMA handles this. The Entities don't eat you because you deserve it. They just happen to happen to someone. And that makes the horror work so much better than if that wasn't the case. (It also feels closer to how LIFE actually works a lot of the time.) So I find it somewhat odd to see when people do read desert into it, I feel like that weakens the storytelling.

Honestly, I hope that Jon learned something from her because, because I don’t expect I’m going to be coming back from this. I don’t know if I want to. And if he needs to pull the trigger, to use me to stop it… well, he’d better have the guts to do it.

Well. Fuck!

Gerard’s page… Gerry. I-I know there’s more he could tell me – he he, wouldn’t of, of course, I, I know that but he, he… he would still be there, th-that, that knowledge, i-it would, it would still exist…(...) …y-you owe me one, Gerry. Rest in … Just rest. - Jon

Damn, seeing Jon struggle against the instinct to keep knowledge available to himself, seeing how much it literally hurts him and seeing him WIN is sure something. Also ... "Rest in ... just rest." ... make me cry, why don't you?

My impression of this episode

This is not so much horror as it is concentrated emotion and I adore it. I nearly teared up a few times on my relisten (I think I wasn't in quite the right headspace during my first time). The gut punch quotes come thick in this one. This may actually be my favourite plot development episode (as opposed to favourite statements that don't relate directly to the overall plot). The writing is just. so. good.

#tma relisten #the magnus archives

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writingjoycebyers · 3 years

Note

40 "i want a baby" for jopper please!!

(angst and discusses pregnancy.)

Jopper - Nr. 40 I want a baby

They had been laughing when he said it. Laughing about some stupid joke that wasn't even funny, but they were laughing their heads off because they had had a few too many at Karen's birthday party. Joyce loved how she could have fun with him, now that they were a real couple. Laugh, and be serious, argue and make love - they could do it all. He really was what she had been looking for forever.

In retrospective, if he hadn't felt a little tipsy that moment, he would have most definetely lacked the courage for that particular sentence.

They were curled up next to each other in bed, Joyce's head spinning a little from all the Italian white wine Karen had offered her some hours ago. She moved closer towards him, resting her head on his chest. Her world stopped spinning, he was her rock.

"I want a baby, you know."

Joyce was still giggling though at his words her body suddenly stiffened. Was that still part of the joke?

She quickly realised it wasn't, indicated by Hopper's sudden silence heavily sucking the air out of the room. He seemed to be holding his breath.

"Hopper.", Joyce softly whispered, not knowing what else to say or do.

"No, no, forget about it. I'm drunk. It was just... stupid. Forget it.", he replied, giving her an insecure chuckle as his real response.

"No, Hopper... Jim, please talk to me.", she insisted softly, her hand tenderly caressing his under the comforter.

He sat up and switched on the small lamp on the bedside table. Suddenly, they were both sober again. He looked scared and Joyce felt bad about it. Why couldn't she just happily agree? Why couldn't she just make him happy if that was what he really wanted. She felt so different about this.

"I dunno,..", he continued as he looked down to her. She was on her side, her head propped up on her hand. She looked so beautiful, so beautiful and confused, and God, how often had he imagined to make her the mother of his child?

"Just been thinking about it, now that Jon's gone and the other two are growing up aswell. And... I just think we'd make a damn fine kid, you and I, I don't know, just been dreaming, Joyce.", he confessed. He felt as if this was going the wrong way, he should have kept his mouth shut, just for once.

"Hopper, I...", she stuttered but he did not let her finish her thought. "Just been dreaming 'bout another little girl, your hair, my eyes. Stupid, ain't I? With you, it's... we make love, Joyce, we don't just fuck. And ever so often I've thought in those moments that this was it — this is what it takes to make a baby, a real love kid.", he said, smiling a rather sad smile and his words broke her heart. She hadn't even considered it, or yes, she had, but she had never allowed herself to really consider it, to get lost in that dream. A love kid. Oh my.

"I understand you, I do.", she tried. "But Hopper —", he cut her off mid sentence.

"You don't want one, right?", he asked carefully. This wasn't a topic they should have a fight about, even if they weren't of the same opinion.

"I just think I'm not made to be a mother again. What if I fail? I can't provide for a child, not my mind nor my body can and certainly not my money.", Joyce said as she tried to take his hand back into hers. "Wouldn't get any award for best mom then, would I?"

"You're just talking about yourself, don't you realize that... I'd be there all the way? I would, Joyce. With my money and with all I can give, love and everything. It wouldn't be the way it was with Lonnie. I'd never get drunk the day you go into labour. I'd hold your hand. We'd share it all.", he answered. He had a feeling he knew what this was about. That her doubt wasn't about him but about what she had gone through with Lonnie, with her first pregnancies. That she was afraid. And she was.

"Oh, Hopper, you're... You'd make the best father. I believe that. I do, I truly do. It's just... There's one thing you can't help me carry and that's the pregnancy. Hopper, I'm not exactly twentyfive anymore. I'm.. old. And what if we try and try and it's just too late? How disappointing would that be? Or what if I get pregnant but... what if..? ", she was spilling her thoughts now, her voice sounding hoarse and filled with tears that were not yet rolling down her cheeks.

"I don't want to be the one that has you lose another daughter.", she finally claimed. She sounded rational and clear, but those words hurt so damn hard.

"Let me sleep it through.", she said and went back to cuddling him, her head on his thigh as he still sat up. He combed her hair with his fingers, making sure she felt comfortable and started to relax.

"Joyce, if we ever tried - and I say if - I'd never blame you for anything. Whatever happens, we'll go through it together. We try or we don't, it works or it doesn't. In the end it's your choice to make but everything's fine with me. And I love you.", Jim answered. His voice was softer now, he tried to see things from her perspective.

"As long as I've got you.", he mumbled and switched off the lamp.

______

Thanks to you, anon, for the ask.

Thanks to @hopbyers98 for helping me find writing inspo, haha.

Feel free to send more jopper pregnancy or baby asks, jopper baby fics seem to be a thing haha!

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equalseleventhirds · 4 years

Text

Pilgrimage

I made a fun & friendly post about considering all the fates worse than death for a tragedy, and I got to talking to myself about it. Self, I said, if you were asked to write a terrible fate worse than death for these boys, what would it be? Well about that…

- - -

Georgie hasn’t been to visit Jon since the apocalypse ended. Or, before that probably, she certainly hadn’t been popping in for a cuppa when she was trying to cut him out of her life. But then the world ended, and then unended, and Melanie has been insisting on having him around for dinner, or to go on a shopping trip, or just to visit the Admiral. Because they’re friends. Because this is what friends do: meet up, talk, and make sure their other friends aren’t alone.

Melanie’s been to visit Jon. Georgie hadn’t gone with her.

The… place where he lives is too creepy, she thinks. It was probably creepy back when Smirke built it, it was extra creepy when it was some impossible tower, and it’s still creepy now, even if it’s fallen down to earth. The Eye’s tower.

“So this is it? The Panopticon, or whatever?” Georgie felt Melanie’s hand shaking, and tightened her grip.

“…yes. I’m afraid so.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “See what I said about him being ominous?”

Jon opens the door before she knocks. It’s either some remnant of power in him, or he’d been watching out the window after Melanie called him. Georgie doesn’t ask.

“Hey, Jon.”

“Georgie. Hi.”

She steps inside, then stops. “Shoes on or off?”

“Oh, er… on. I haven’t quite finished cleaning all the… Shoes are probably better on.”

Jon was panting, standing over the nearly-empty chair where Jonah Magnus once sat. Martin laid a hand on his arm. “You did it, Jon. He’s gone.”

“That’s it? All done? You killed the big bad guy, so the apocalypse ends?”

He barely even winced at her tone. “It’s—I don’t think it’s going to be quite that simple—”

“Then why are we here—”

“Melanie sends her love, by the way.”

“Does she?”

“Yes.” She holds his gaze as levelly as she can. He just grins at her, holding his hand palm-out until she rolls her eyes and reaches into her bag. “Fine, and she sends her latest batch of halwa.”

“Thank you,” he says, plucking the container out of her hand and immediately popping it open to try a piece. “Mm… you can tell her she’s almost as good as my grandmother now.”

Georgie can’t hold back her laugh at that, short and disbelieving and a laugh, which she wasn’t sure she’d ever accomplish here. “Your grandmother always bought halwa at the store, you told me so—”

“Ah, yes. But I haven’t told Melanie, have I?”

“Jonathan Sims!”

It hurt. She’d thought she was immune to fear, to the fears, and maybe she was, to smaller ones. Normal ones. Real ones. But every ounce of impossible, enormous Fear that had clawed its way into their universe was bearing down on the tower at once, and Georgie wasn’t afraid, but it hurt.

“What now? What do we do? Jon, Jon, what happened, what do we do?”

“I…” She could see a trickle of blood coming from his nose… his eye… Hadn’t Martin said Jon couldn’t See anything about the Fears? Was that what he was trying to do? “I think… we can still stop it, maybe, but it’s… the tower, Jonah’s throne…”

“What do we have to do?”

They make it through about an hour, sharing out the halwa between them and chatting, about the books Jon finally has time to read, about the podcasts Georgie’s gotten Melanie into, about the really huge rug Jon’s planning to order when he gets everything cleaned up enough. It’s… it isn’t normal, but nothing’s really ever going to be normal again, is it? But it’s almost nice.

Except then she has to go and say the halwa’s made her thirsty (and it is sweet and dense and perfect, Melanie did an amazing job and she’s going to rat Jon out as soon as she gets home, and Georgie really cannot eat something that sweet at her age without something to wash it down). And then Jon gets up to make tea. And stops at the cupboard, and pulls out three mugs.

He doesn’t look at her, keeps his eyes on the kettle, on the mugs, on the tea bags, on his hands. But eventually he says, low but clear: “Whenever I make tea, I. Um. Bring some to him. He can’t really drink it, but it helps me feel better.”

And what can she say to that?

Jon stared at the seat, the throne, horror dawning on his face. She could tell—they all could tell—that he Knew what to do. He just had to tell them.

Martin grabbed his arm, shook him, spun him around to look at them. “Jon. I know this is—hard, for you. But what do we need to do?”

“Not us. Me. What I need to do. Someone touched by the eye, and who more than me?” He was biting at his lips, and she recognized the rhythm, from when he was stressed from essay after essay and trying to calm himself. “I have to take his seat. There has to be a king.”

“If there’s a king—” Melanie’s voice was strained, from the fear or the Fear, and Georgie tightened her grip again “—then wouldn’t it just be the same? Someone ruling over this, this ‘ruined world’?”

Jon was already shaking his head. “No, not if it’s now. Not if it’s someone who wants to stop it. Dream logic, remember? Except.”

“Except?” Melanie prompted.

“Except they won’t be able to leave. They’ll be—be trapped in the fear forever. In everyone’s fears, forever. Like I was, with the dreams, but for seven billion people—”

Georgie couldn’t help the gasp at that. “The dreams like we—with you watching all the time—”

“—or, more like our journey here, when we went through all those domains,” he continued, as if he couldn’t hear her. Maybe he couldn’t, with all his attention locked on Martin, drinking him in like it would be the last time he ever saw his face. “Because, because it’s here, and I said—Martin, I told you at the beginning, the eye can’t see inside itself, so I’d be—”

“Alone,” Martin whispered. “Always watching, and alone.”

She goes with him. Of course she goes with him. On some level, that’s what this visit has been about—seeing Jon, sure, but also seeing… Martin.

Martin is the whole reason Jon’s here, after all. Living in the ruins of the Panopticon. Living at all.

Georgie doesn’t look away. Doesn’t wait in the other room (the little living space Jon had made with curtains and boxes and a folding divider Melanie found for him), safe and ignorant. She knows Jon wouldn’t blame her. Might encourage her, if she brought it up, even if she said she had to go.

She thinks she might blame herself if she did.

It’s still difficult to stand there and watch without some kind of distraction, though, so she does bring her tea with her. Bobs the bag up and down (Jon remembers she likes to leave it in even after she adds sugar and milk, like some kind of monster, he’d teased back in uni, before that word became so damn loaded), clinks the spoon against the side.

She’s trying not to stare, but there’s not a lot else to look at, besides… there’s not a lot else to look at. He must have brought that little end table in here pretty soon after moving in, set it up next to the chair with a lamp and a book and… a pillow on the floor next to it.

She doesn’t ask.

Now Jon sets the third mug down and carefully, carefully pries Martin’s hand off the arm of the chair, pushes his fingers to curl around the mug, guides them down together to the table. He keeps one hand on the mug, like he’s afraid Martin will move suddenly and spill it. Maybe it’s happened before.

There’s only so long she can avoid looking, of course. And Martin looks… a lot like the last time she saw him, just after the end of the end of the world. Very, very still, sitting upright, although Jon’s gotten him some cushions and a blanket since then. His eyes are still wide, too wide, and staring at nothing. At everything. At everything but what matters.

And his lips are slowly, slowly moving.

“But why does it have to be you! It’s always you! The whole world is touched by the Eye now, isn’t it? Can’t it be—I wanted you to—”

“I’m—I ended the world, Martin, it’s only right I fix it.” He was pleading now. “I just—Martin, please.” Jon reached up, curling his hand around the back of Martin’s neck, and pulled him down until their lips just brushed.

He closed his eyes, and Georgie wanted to look away, leave them this one last moment together. She’d be glad, later, that she didn’t, that she kept watching, watched them kiss, watched their tears, watched Jon break away and head towards the chair. Watched Martin grab him and push him away, taking the seat himself.

“Martin, no—”

Martin turned his head, slow, so slow, smiling one last time at Jon. “When are you going to stop blaming yourself?”

“Is he… talking?” She moves closer, squinting. “What… what’s he saying?”

Jon smiles, brushing his thumb over Martin’s slow-moving lips. “The same things he said to people in the apocalypse, of course. No matter how many times I told him they couldn’t hear him.”

And Georgie can see it now, the minute shapes, forming words as familiar as any casual conversation.

Excuse me… Sorry about this… How are you?… You’ll get through this… Just hang on… Hi there…

- - -

End notes: Every once in a while (not every night, bcos he has 7 billion ppl to get through), if someone were to look at the unchanging body of Martin Blackwood, and if they were good at reading lips, that someone might be able to see him talking one Jonathan Sims through his fear dreams. Of course, no one does see that; the only person who’s close enough would be asleep at the time.

#algie writes things #fanfiction #ABSOLUTELY NOT A HAPPY FANFICTION #jmart sad end from georgie's pov p much #flashbacks make a sorta nonlinear timeline but u get the drift p quick i think #sidenote jon's indian but specifically malyasian indian #bcos kim coralreefskim has a galaxy brain #looked up some malaysian indian halwa recipes and they look. so good. so GOOD #my personal headcanon for melanie didn't make it into this fic but however u hc her sometimes ur cooking after the end of the world #and u learn how to make ur friend's favorite dessert bcos it comforts him #even if he keeps insisting his grandmother made it better #...listen sometimes there are bits of happiness in grief. but also the grief is horrific and overwhelming. things happen.#the magnus archives #god absolutely not trying to maintag this can u imagine.#ppl just had to deal with sadness already u want this now???#anyway. i turn martin's politeness into Bad Foreshadowing.#aren't u glad i'm not jonathan jonny writerman sims and do not have control over this narrative. aren't u glad.

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snarkwriteswrasslin · 4 years

Text

summer sizzle | sweet - mjf [m]

[ prompts of choice ]

Honestly... I had a whole ass prompt set chosen for this but the need to write Maxwell as an actual fucking softie took over and I wound up not actually using ANY of the prompts I chose. So. Yeah. This is just an oc, softly getting railed by Maxwell.

[ pairing ]

Maxwell Jacob Friedman x Female!OC, Bianca. You will probably see more out of these two. I enjoyed writing this and maaaybe I’m tempted to do more with them as a result.

[ authors notes ]

I offer no apologies nor do I make any excuses. And the brunt of this was the result of a late night conversation between @unabashedwrestlefics and I last night. So. Yeah. Viv, if you’re reading, I love and blame you partly for this.

[ warning ]

Maxwell written as an actual sweetheart... provided that he actually gives a fuck about someone. Probably gonna piss a few people off but again, idec. I wanted this. I needed it. Smut. Not a condom to even be thought about. Body fluids. Biting. A little dirty talk, but mostly just teeth rotting filthy fluff.

[ tag squad ]

@kyleoreillysknee

@rampagewriting

@writertoo18

@thatnerdwriter

@wrestlingismyguiltypleasure

@chasingeverybreakingwave

@waywardwrestlewritingwaif

@unabashedwrestlefics

@wardl0w

@wrestlingthot

@missjenniferb

@adampage

@cowboyshit

@cabotcoves

[ tag list doc - masterlist - about page ]

MJF & BIANCA, SOFT.

By the time Mox was pinning Maxwell for the 3 count, I was watching the match through my fingers, almost sick to my stomach and definitely dreading what the outcome of this match would most likely spell out.

If there was ever a night for the shoe to drop and the mask to come down, tonight was that night.

I was so sure of it that as soon as Maxwell stepped through the curtains, dried blood caked on his forehead, I’d mentally prepared myself a thousand times over for the tongue lashing of the decade. My eyes darted around but I didn’t see any of the girls I’d gotten to know in my short time working with the company.

I took a deep breath and I tentatively made my way over to him, choosing to keep my mouth shut as I typically do around him. The tension was thicker. I could see the anger brewing in his eyes. I could feel the tension in his body as I wordlessly slipped one of his arms around my shoulders to keep him a little more steady.

“Where the fuck is he?” Maxwell’s anger laced outburst shattered through me being lost in survival mode and I gazed up at him, a brow raised. “Who?” I finally asked.

“Fucking Wardlow. He did that on purpose.” Maxwell scowled and his eyes darted around the crowded hallway, searching for a sign of Wardlow.

As he did this, I took a shaky breath or two, preparing myself for what everyone’s been warning me about for weeks as far as he’s concerned.

Everyone’s so convinced that sooner or later, Maxwell is going to show me his nasty side and I am going to get hurt. I can’t count on both hands the number of times since creative stuck me as his valet upon arrival that I’ve had people pop up and offer condolence, -or protection, should the need arise. I guess I let that all get to me, because I’ve been living on pins and needles for weeks now and honestly?

Maxwell has literally never been anything like people claim he is towards me. I won’t say he’s been overly nice, because he’s just a naturally abrasive guy, but he hasn’t been the cold hearted bastard people write him off to be, either.

If anything, being his valet has been… well, it’s been strange. Because all this stuff people told me about him?

I’ve gotten the exact opposite, from him.

People told me he’d treat me like a toy. That he’d constantly tell me I was below him. That he’d probably wreck my self esteem.

None of that’s happened.

Maxwell spotted Wardlow while I was lost in my own thoughts and fears and before I could stop him, he was shoving through the crowd, catching up to the other man, shoving at him.

“Damn it.” I swore quietly to myself, pushing through the crowd gathered around them as they fought and trying to pull them apart. Every now and then I could hear bits of what was being said in between licks passed and shoves and punches, but it wasn’t enough to know exactly what had the two men fighting other than the fact that for whatever reason, Maxwell seemed convinced that Wardlow purposely cost him the title belt.

What got my attention was when my name came up. Maxwell seemed to be accusing Wardlow of something that had everything to do with me and Wardlow wasn’t bothering to deny it, either.

The whole thing was just… Too much for me, so I slipped away, hoping to just go somewhere quieter and pull myself together. As I rounded the corner, Mox stopped me, an arm beside my head as he stared down at me intently, this shit-eating smirk on his face that had his eyes dancing.

“What?”

“Better brace yourself, kitten. Gonna get the brunt of Maxy’s anger because Wardlow’s done with his shit.” Mox said it calmly, hoisting the belt over his shoulder as he continued to stare me down. I shrank back and bit my lip, trying to come up with any form of rebuttal.

Nothing came.

But it did leave me wondering. What if everyone was wrong about Maxwell? And I wasn’t stupid, I could look into Jon Moxley’s baby blue eyes and know that I was just another way to stick it to Maxwell and that just made me angry. So far, Maxwell had done literally none of the shit everyone kept accusing him of being capable of and literally every single guy back here? Turning out to be the ones who kept their truest selves hidden. Like Mox and his half-assed lazy little warning. Who the fuck did he think he was?

I stood taller, staring up at him in defiance. “So what? Is this you, offering to protect me? I hate to break it to you, Mox but… I don’t need or want your protection. I finish what I start, come whatever may.”

Even with my voice wavering just a little as I spoke, I was still impressed with myself because it was more me, less this unsure and quiet little meek thing I’d allowed myself to become just to tread on eggshells and keep from making waves. I stepped beneath his arm and slunk through the doors leading out into the parking lot, letting the night air hit me and calm me down a little. I pulled myself up onto a brick half wall and sat there, staring up at the night sky as I tried to work through all this confusion in my mind right now. Trying to pick the best path of the two I was currently torn between.

Everybody kept at me about how ruthless and cold and unfeeling Maxwell was. And yet, he hadn’t ever come across as any of those things. But I kept circling back to everyone saying it. Everyone being convinced they were right and they knew exactly what was going to happen to me.

I even had one of the girls in hair and makeup suggest to me that he was dangerous because he knew exactly how to pour on the charm and make you fall for him, but when he was tired, he knew how to turn off that charm and leave you feeling like you were nothing, like you were lost without him.

If it wasn’t at least a little true, I reasoned with myself as I waited on him to walk out of the arena, then why did everyone keep saying it?

By the time I heard the door being thrown open and my name being called,I’d made up my mind… Just keep doing what I’ve been doing for weeks now. Prepare myself for the worst. Keep waiting it out, see what happened in that regard.

He was towering over me and I tore my gaze off the moon and stars above to meet his intent gaze, my eyes searching a little, waiting on Wardlow to pop up like usual.

“Wardlow’s taking his own fucking vehicle tonight.” Maxwell mumbled quietly, gazing at me a few seconds. I nodded and took a deep breath, standing. At this point, I was just tired. I wanted to get to the hotel, get to the privacy of my own room and think. To try to figure out all this internal conflict. To try to figure out why exactly, despite everyone’s repeated warnings over the past few weeks, I still couldn’t deny that for whatever reason, there was this magnetic pull to the guy - and what that said about me if the ride to the hotel went as bad as I was half afraid it would.

Our bodies brushed together and I realized that yet again, we were migrating closer to each other. It happened a lot if I really stopped to think about it. It happened almost as much as the way he always seemed to be where I was. More than once I’d looked up to find him sort of staring at me. He’d always look away first, of course, but I couldn’t deny that I’d caught him looking on more than one occasion.

And then another thought hit me. I liked it.

“We should get going.” Max’s quietly muttered statement shattered through the bit of an epiphany I was currently having and I glanced up, swallowing hard when I found him staring down at me with this look in his eyes.

“It was just a match. Just a leather strap.” I don’t know why I said it, but I felt like maybe he needed to hear it. I tensed a little in the seconds following because I was at least half sure that he’d explode.

Because yes, I was still waiting on the mask to be peeled away and Maxwell to show me this nastier side people seemed to keep reminding me he had. The side I’d seen come to the surface so easily with pretty much everyone else.

“I’m tired and it’s late.” he muttered quietly, his eyes still locked on me. When our bodies bumped against each other all over again, I bit my lip just to keep the unexpected quiet whimper that rose to my throat from coming out. When I couldn’t take the way the tension between us seemed to be growing heavier with each second that passed, making my breath catch in my throat, I spoke up quietly.

“We should get going, Maxwell.”

I reluctantly stepped away a little, everyone’s repeated warnings about the man filling my head. The unease I’d been feeling earlier had lifted slightly and now I was just left with confusion. Tension. My own little pesky thoughts as of the last few minutes.

If I didn’t know any better, I’d almost swear he pouted slightly when I stepped away. I dug around in my pockets for the keys to his rental car and raised a hand, aiming the key fob in the general direction of the car, unlocking it and starting the engine. Then I turned to him and found myself on the receiving end of another one of those stares.

Which had me fidgeting more than a little, I could feel my thighs starting to slip off of each other. I reached out, prepared to take his gear bag, but he shook his head, slinging it over his shoulder as he fell into step beside me. For the entire walk across the lot, neither of us really said anything.

Like usual, he opened the passenger door and gestured for me to get in. I scoffed at him and shook my head. I tensed in anticipation of a potential argument or him being nasty towards me, but I took a deep breath and eyed the passenger seat and then him as firm as I could.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m letting you drive when you just went through that.” I muttered as calmly as I could, continuing to hold his gaze.

,, why do you even care?” the thought bubbled to the front of my mind and I shoved it out, choosing to ignore it until later.

I needed to make it to the hotel. To the sanctuary of my own room so I could relax for the night.

Rather than argue, Maxwell sank down into the passenger seat, his head leaning against the headrest, his eyes closing. For the entire ride to the hotel, neither of us really said anything. And the tension that seemed to linger between us almost constantly?

So much heavier.

Not necessarily in a bad way, either.

I pulled the car into the empty space in the third row and I killed the engine, sitting there for a second or two, sort of collecting myself. In that time, Maxwell had gotten out and grabbed not only his gear bag but my bag from the trunk. I was just trying to process. To figure out whether it was safe to relax a little or whether the shit storm was incoming. A gentle rap at the drivers window had me looking up just as Maxwell opened the door on my side, staring down at me.

He held out a hand and I eyed it briefly, letting my eyes dart upward only to be locked on his. Naturally, he wasn’t bothering to say anything, instead, that cocky little smirk played at his lips.

He’s never very talkative with me. It’s weird, it’s almost as if he just doesn’t know what to do or say, so he does and says nothing. And yet, I found myself thinking, maybe that in itself says everything I need to know. My own gut feeling should’ve been enough for me to ignore everyone else’s warnings, but given that I’ve been burned two significant times in the past and whenever I’m around Maxwell, I always feel like I’m seconds away from letting my guard down. Which isn’t a bad thing but given what people keep telling me, I’m fully aware that it could backfire and be the thing that hurts me in the long run.

I don’t enjoy being a bundle of raw nerves around the guy. I want to be able to fully give him the benefit of the doubt. I want to relax. I’m just so afraid to do so until I can’t around him a lot of the time.

I blew at the shaggy strands falling into my eyes and tentatively, I reached out, taking hold of his hand. He pulled me up and out of the car seat. He pulled me with such a force that our bodies collided and his arm shot out, wrapping around me, hauling me closer as he continued to just silently stare down at me. And if the look in his eyes was anything to go by and I were a lot more… Hopeful… I’d almost swear that he intentionally pulled me closer. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask what he was staring at or why he was always doing it but I didn’t dare.

If I thought my thighs were slipping off of each other before, it was nothing compared to right now, the literal flood taking place in my panties at the look in his eyes. My breath caught a little in my throat and I managed a nod towards the hotel.

“Standing here isn’t getting us in.” Maxwell muttered the words quietly just as I was about to say them and I nodded in a daze, still trying to tear my eyes out of his. Neither of us had stepped away from the other. And that tension lingering between us?

Almost at a boiling point.

“It’s not.” I managed a quiet laugh as I finally tore my eyes off him and reached for my things. He shook his head. I didn’t want to argue, so I fell in step beside him quietly, the two of us body to body in the doorway leading into the hotel when he held the door open for me and I went to step inside at the same time as him. I gulped and found my eyes focusing on his mouth and despite all my best efforts, I stared for a good second or two.

From behind us, Jericho’s throat cleared and this only made me step closer to Maxwell and it hit me then.

I do that a lot. If someone comes up and I don’t feel comfortable? I find myself migrating closer to him.

I felt the warmth of his hand lingering at my lower back, fingers grazing right against bare skin and I felt a wave of heat rushing to my cheeks. Normally, he just kind of puts his hand there.

“Are you two going to move or stand there all night?” Jericho’s voice broke through our moment and I glanced over Maxwell’s shoulder, scowling at the man. Maxwell’s hand left my back and he whirled around, squaring up almost, a quiet growl slipping out as every single part of him tensed up.

“Max.” I mumbled his name cautiously. I was still very much trying not to rile him up.

“Just a minute, Bianca.” Maxwell grumbled, his gaze fixed firmly on Jericho. I rolled my eyes and reached out, tapping at his shoulder, immediately drawing my hand back just to be safe.

“I think you should probably listen to your pretty little valet, Friedman. This is a fight you don’t wanna start. Take your bruised ego and move it out of my way.” Jericho smirked as he said it and I tensed up all over again. Maxwell’s gaze flitted back and forth between me and Jericho for seconds that felt like years, anger flashing in his eyes almost dangerously until they settled on me. He took a deep breath and shoved at Jericho a little, muttering quietly, “I didn’t say you could talk to her, did I?”

“Maxwell. For the love of ten thousand fucks, the line.” I stopped mid sentence, giving Jericho my best hateful glare when my eyes met his and I found him staring at me like I was a piece of meat. “Jericho, if you don’t want a stiletto to the eyeball, I’d suggest you stop looking at me in that tone.” I snapped, biting my lip as I was quick to pull my gaze off the old creep and fix it back on Maxwell, nodding to the reception desk. “Line. Now.”

With one last lingering angry glare, Maxwell turned away from Jericho and we started to walk towards the line, falling into the end of it. I shuffled my feet and when he chuckled quietly, I glanced up at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Maxwell shook his head and went silent again. The line was getting shorter and I could feel myself relaxing a little more with each second that passed because it meant that I was closer to being in the sanctuary of my own room.

Where I could decompress, finally.

I had a lot to think about.

I took to scrolling through my Instagram account and a time or two, I felt his eyes on me. I rolled my eyes at the comments on a bikini pic I’d posted at a family barbecue the last time I’d been home and grumbled under my breath at an ex who’d slithered himself into my dms.

I felt Maxwell tense up beside me and after shoving my phone back into the pocket of my leopard print jacket, I glanced up at him, quickly looking away again when I saw the look in his eyes and I felt my cheeks starting to burn hot all over again. I shuffled my feet and squeezed my thighs together slightly but it didn’t help.

It was our turn at the check in desk now.

“A double?” the clerk flashed a smile at Maxwell and I. Honestly, I figured this would be the part where Maxwell made some cutting remark and demanded his own room, but to my surprise, he chuckled and dug into the sweats he was wearing to produce his wallet, passing it through the plastic barrier between our side of the desk and the other side.

I kept waiting on him to correct the assumption, but he never did. And for some reason, whenever I went to speak up and do so, my mouth refused to cooperate with my brain and make the words form.

As soon as the paperwork was filed and the clerk was handing us back our identification and Maxwell his wallet, I found myself gazing up at him, puzzled.

He bit his lip and stared down at me intently.

“That was okay, right?” he finally asked the question a good ten seconds later when we were standing in front of the elevator.

,, oh sure, sure. I’m fine, this is fine.” I thought to myself as the tension I thought I’d be getting rid of the second I was behind the doors of my own hotel room returned with a vengeance. Rather than argue, because I was still tiptoeing around him very much so at this point, I took a deep breath, gave him my best calm smirk and nodded.

Like a good girl.

Not rocking the boat, not making any waves.

But now, on top of everything else on my mind, I had yet another new thing to unravel… If everyone says he’s such a cold and heartless bastard, why in the hell would he take every opportunity he could get to be around me?

Because this has happened once before.

And yes, it was one hell of an intense weekend. I spent most of it down at the hotel pool or the hotel bar, just so I felt like I could breathe a little.

Because damn if being around the man almost constantly didn’t leave me breathless and so full of tension I thought I’d explode at any second.

The elevator doors slid open and I hurried on, leaning against the wall in the back. Maxwell stopped beside me, leaning in a little. “You know if you didn’t want to share a room, you could’ve said something.”

His voice was quiet, almost teasing. Almost as if he were amused by this. I’d been scrolling through my phone again and without looking up, I couldn’t, because God if I did, he was going to see the way my cheeks were burning bright red right now, I shrugged a little. “If I didn’t want to, you’d know it.”

The fact that when I said it it was 1000 percent true and I didn’t even realize it until I said it had my mind blown.

“Interesting.” he mumbled, mostly to himself. I scrolled through my Instagram feed again, trying to focus on anything but the night ahead. Or the tension between us that was now so thick that I felt like at any second, either one of us was going to explode.

The elevator squeaked and slowed to a death crawl and at one point, it lurched just a little, sending me into Maxwell’s side as I tensed on impact. “What the actual fucking..” I whined a little, eyes widening in panic at just the thought of now being trapped on an elevator.

“It’s just an elevator.”

His voice was calming, his breath tickling the shell of my ear and serving to make me almost painfully aware of the fact that I was pressed completely into his side and he’d slipped an arm around me to keep me there. “I realize that, but I need you to understand it’s called claustrophobia, sir.” I muttered the words in a daze, my gaze settling on him.

“That’s it. Keep lookin at me.” his voice was softer, an almost lazy drawl as he spoke. Neither one of us was making an effort to look away, god knows I tried. Somehow, just realizing that I’d fallen for the guy and people had warned me about him repeatedly just made me feel uneasy when he’d never shown me any actual reason to.

I gulped and nodded, my breathing syncing with his and I started to feel a little calmer. The elevator roared to life again and I relaxed a little, my shoulders slumping as I did so.

“Thank fuck.” I muttered quietly, making him chuckle a little as he reached up and brushed some hair out of my eyes, smoothing it behind my ear, giving a satisfied nod as he did so.

It felt like an eternity between the elevator starting back up again and when we finally reached our floor, but the doors finally slid open and I hurried off, stopping to wait on him.

He caught up just as I found the door to our hotel room and started to dig around in my pockets for the keycard and he tapped my shoulder.

I whirled around so fast that I catapulted myself right against him and before I could stop myself, a quiet whimper slipped out of my mouth. My eyes lingered on his lips and I took a shaky breath before forcing myself to look up and lock eyes with him. He was already staring at me, hints of an amused gleam in his eyes as he licked his lips slowly.

If I thought I had my thighs clenched before, they clenched so tight this time that I felt a dull ache starting to build.

“What?” my question came out quietly and he bit his lip and shook his head, again saying nothing. He took the keycard from my trembling hand and slid it through the card reader, pushing the door open as soon as the little light turned green and buzzed.

I stepped in, dropping my bags on the second bed and immediately shedding my shoes then flopping back first onto the bed, my eyes fluttering shut as I took a few seconds to attempt to decompress.

Tonight had been a lot. All I wanted was to try and fall asleep now that I was starting to realize that whatever explosion I’d been waiting on Maxwell to have apparently wasn’t coming.

Maxwell spoke up, shattering the silence in the room.

“Are you always this tense? Or is it me?”

I rose up slightly, propping on my elbows and staring at him a few seconds, completely unsure of how best to answer.

I felt really, really bad, because there was just something soft and quiet in his voice when he asked the question. And he wasn’t really looking at me, either, his gaze fixed intently on his hands instead. It was nothing like the strong and self assured guy the world saw on television. And if it hadn’t been for the weeks of literally everyone seeing fit to shove warning after warning about the guy down my throat constantly, I would’ve felt even worse.

I’d been tense, I’d been dancing and tiptoeing around him because I didn’t want to see that side of him. God knows I saw enough of that in an ex or two. I’d been holding my breath and waiting on him to be just like everyone said.. Or like those exes that I let my guard down for and I only ended up getting hurt by them.

As it all sank in, I shook my head, laughing at myself softly. If anything, this was not how I’d seen tonight turning out.

“ It’s not so much you as the shit everyone keeps saying. And the magnetic pull I keep trying to fight where you’re concerned...” I admitted quietly as I stood, starting to pace. Starting to ramble. Everything was spilling out of me because I just couldn’t hold it in anymore. I couldn’t keep going like this. “Everybody keeps telling me that you’re eventually gonna snap or worse, you’re gonna go cold towards me when the novelty of having a valet wears off and damn it, I just… I can’t deal with that happening. I’m afraid that you’re going to turn into my ex. I’m afraid that if I let my guard down, if I…”

He was watching me now and I could tell he was processing what I was saying. When I went quiet, he took a deep breath. “If you what?”

“If I let myself go ahead and fall for you, I’m only going to get burned all over again. And this time, it’ll be so much worse because this time, I’ll know it was the real thing and somehow, I wasn’t enough.”

I sank back down on my bed and let out a ragged breath, raising my hand to my forehead as I gave a quiet laugh. “The funny part of all this is it’s too fucking late. I did anyway and I’m just so goddamn tired of fighting it. Of spending second after second reminding myself that everyone keeps telling me you will hurt me. You will turn some hidden nasty side, that people seem to think you possess, on me. And I’m realizing now that you’ve pretty much shown that side with other people. But never with me.”

I kept my eyes closed as soon as I finished talking. Looking up at him was not an option, not for me, not at this particular moment. I kept waiting on laughter or some kind of cutting remark, the things I know he’s capable of and the things that I’m used to seeing from him with everybody else we know but nothing came.

He kept sitting there, silent and staring at his hands. Until he wasn’t. I sighed and stood, gathering my things to go and take a shower. Honestly, I thought that if I just got out of the room then maybe I could distance myself from the outburst I’d just had and the fact that his lack of a reaction did sting just a little. I thought that if I took a long and hot soak, I could get rid of some of this tension built up inside me.

I reached for the handle on the door to the on-suite bathroom and my breath caught in my throat, escaping in a quiet hiss as his chest pressed against my back and his hand covered mine over the handle. I turned around and my back connected with the door in a soft smack. For at least five seconds, all I could really do was stare up at him. He was staring right back, neither of us were saying anything.

“So that’s it. You tell a guy you’re falling in love with him and then you go hide in the bathroom?” a teasing smirk played at his lips and I gulped as I felt his hips really press into mine, the handle of the bathroom door digging into my lower back softly.

That didn’t last for long because while I was distracted by the way it felt to have that hard,muscular frame pressed so close to me and by the way I just wanted to raise to tiptoe and tug at his scarf to pull his mouth down to meet mine, I missed the way that his hand slipped between my lower back and the door. But as soon as I realized it, I whimpered quietly and despite trying desperately to control myself and keep at least a little bit of my guard up, I found myself pressing into him, our bodies rubbing together lightly. His other hand glided over my curves, going still at the hip as he dug fingertips into my skin lightly.

When he exhaled, it was shakier. When I found myself rubbing against him all over again, he groaned quietly, his mouth opening and closing like he was just about to say something but he backed out at the last second.

Fitting, because I’d be damned if I knew what to say at the moment, all things considered. All I did know was that the urge to take his face in my hands and kiss him until I couldn’t breathe was doubling, no, tripling by the second and it was getting so that I was fidgeting a little in a last ditch attempt to keep from doing so on a whim.

One of us had to cave, to do or say something. I was determined that it wasn’t going to be me. Because every single time I’ve caved in the past, it hasn’t gone well for me. His forehead rested against mine gingerly and the hand on my hip raised, resting against the side of my face and he chuckled quietly.

“You realize if I didn’t want you, I wouldn’t have demanded you as my valet… Right? I had to do something, they were going to put you with Mox. One of those other assholes.” his mouth brushed right against mine as he went quiet and I didn’t think, I just reacted. My hand caught on the side of his face, steering his mouth right back against mine and my other hand caught in his hair, giving a little tug. He pulled back, staring at me a second or two and shook his head, raising a finger to my lip when I went to speak. “I don’t waste my time. When I want someone, I want them.” filled the silence and sent the last of the tension I felt scattering and he was pressing into me with more urgence now, his hand against the side of my face as he leaned down, his mouth crashing against mine, his body rubbing against mine and making me whimper into the kiss as his tongue pushed between my lips, parting the barrier they formed to tangle with mine.

The kiss broke, and we pulled back from each other to breathe, Maxwell staring down at me with this wild fire burning in his eyes as he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, the ragged rise and fall of his chest with every breath he took making it crystal clear that he was well past worked up if that weren’t already obvious to me before.

His hands caught on either side of my face as his forehead settled against mine and he stared down into my eyes. If I thought either one of us had a chance to properly catch our breath I was wrong because just when I caught my breath, his lips latched onto my lower lip all over again, nipping hungrily. “I mean that.” he muttered in a harsh intake just before his tongue slipped between my lips all over again, “ I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

I could feel his cock really starting to strain at the sweats he was wearing and I whimpered as he kept bucking himself against me and his mouth strayed from mine to wander right down the front of my throat. The hand resting against my cheek lowered to rest against the side of my neck, holding it still as the blunt of his teeth caught on my skin, littering it with little bite marks. “Fuck.” he breathed against my skin, the roughness of his lips and the warmth of his breath tickling the surface as he pressed me into the door even harder. “Do you not feel exactly what you’re doing to me right now, princess?” his hips snapped against me and I rubbed myself against the growing bulge strained at his sweats, my hand lowering and my fingers catching in the waistband.

He sucked in a ragged breath and bit his lip, a shiver racing through his body when I stepped away from the door and completely against him. With each step I took forward, he inched closer to his bed until the backs of his knees brushed against the thick mattress and when that happened, he sank down to sit on the edge and I lowered myself, settling in his lap, taking his face in my hand as my lips latched onto his all over again and I started to rock myself back and forth over the bulge strained at his sweats until I heard him whimpering even more and I could feel him bucking up into me from below.

His hand slipped up the hem of the little black dress and settled palm down against my throbbing core as he started to rub my lace covered crotch. My head fell back slightly, giving him access to my neck. He took the opportunity to his advantage, pulling me in as close as he could get me, latching onto my skin almost needy when he did it. The whimper that left his mouth and dissolved against my skin sent a shiver racing through me and I rocked myself down harder against the hefty bulge, earning me a needy whine from him as his fingers dug into my hips and he pressed me down harder, took control of the movement of my hips. It sent that dull ache building between my thighs to an almost blind throbbing pain.

His mouth trailed down my neck and one of his hands raised, the thin strap of the little black dress snapping under the weight of the tug from Maxwell’s fingertips and almost the instant the strap to my dress was no longer an issue, Maxwell was latching onto the neckline with his teeth, tugging it downward, revealing bare breasts.

He backed away and took several shaky breaths, his eyes roaming slowly and that smirk on his face just before he lowered his head, resting his forehead against the tops of my breasts. I clung to him and gripped his shoulders tighter while baring down against his lap as soon as I felt the way his teeth softly grazed against exposed skin and it had me shivering and whining almost helplessly.

I wanted his mouth on mine again. I needed him to kiss me. I reached down and tilted his chin, lust hazed brown eyes locking on mine as soon as we locked eyes and when I crashed my mouth against his, he deepened the kiss, bucking himself into me all over again from below. Harder.

One of his hands disappeared up the hem of my dress and I heard the quiet tear of fabric. Lace panties came away torn in his hand and he growled against my mouth as soon as he felt how wet I was already.

My hand slipped down, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of his sweats all over again and I felt his abdomen tense as he took a deep breath and grabbed hold of my face, pulling my mouth against his all over again, greedily. His left hand lowered, disappearing beneath the dress, thick digits carefully working me open as his thumb struck against my clit, rubbing. “How’s that feel, hm?” the warmth of his breath against my skin as he mumbled against it had me whimpering and rocking myself against his fingers.

“Mmf.. Ah..” I whimpered as the ache began to intensify and all I could do was keep on meeting the scissoring thrusts of the fingers buried deep inside my dripping pussy and hope that took away some of it. “Feels so.. Fuck!” I cried out as I felt his fingers strike against my spot, sending tension through my body just to try and keep my rapidly approaching orgasm at bay. He chuckled as his mouth found mine again, teeth digging into tender and kiss swollen lips.

The more I moaned, the deeper inside me his fingers sank, stretching me out, the wet sounds making me both self conscious and almost a feral level of horny. It seemed to be doing the same for him because he growled against my skin as his mouth caught hold of my nipple, teeth latching on, his tongue dragging over the surface slowly until it stood erect, aching at the torture.

“Max!” the moan that came out of me shattered through the soft silence, echoing, making his mouth turn upwards in a smirk as he continued to lick and suck my tits, bucking himself against me from below while his fingers pumped in and out of my dripping heat. “That’s it, princess. C’mon. You can get louder.” he muttered soft against my skin, raising goosebumps to the surface and making me whine and beg.

The more I whined and begged, the slower he seemed to go until I was shaking with each thrust of his fingers or slow drag of his tongue over my nipples. A glance down at my chest showed hickies littering every strip of skin he’d been able to get his mouth on and I bit my lip just to keep from screaming his name out loud, a needy moan escaping instead. “Maxwell, c’mon. I need you. Now.” I grabbed hold of his face again, my mouth diving down against his as I begged and kept rocking myself over the bulge strained at his sweats and against nimble and fast moving fingers as they fucked into me, striking against my spot and sending shivers dancing through my body.

I tried tugging at the waistband of his sweats again and this time, he obliged, drawing his fingers out of my cunt and lifting me a little, working the sweats down his hips and letting them pool at his feet on the floor of the hotel room. I whined as my eyes settled on his thick length, standing at attention and I swallowed hard. Maxwell pushed up the little black dress over my hips and then lowered me down, his cock splitting me in two, stretching me out and filling me up.

“You need me now, hm?” he questioned, his mouth crashing against mine needy, slow and deep. I got the sense that he needed to hear me say it. That he needed to hear me say everything I felt, actually. With a whimper as he started to fuck into me from below, slowly at first, I grabbed his face in my hands, pulling his mouth back against mine all over again, my lips crashing against his in the neediest kiss I could manage. “Feels so good. So good.” I encouraged, my hips rocking back and forth, making him dig his fingertips into my bare ass, squeezing harder with each deep drive into my pussy.

My head fell back as I rode him faster and he raised a hand, tangling it in my hair, pulling my mouth against his, our teeth scraping and bumping together as his tongue rushed past my parted lips and tangled with mine. My legs circled his waist and the new angle had his hips stammering as he slowed down, pressing hot little kisses and nips against my face and throat, his forehead against mine and our faces so close that whenever he quietly muttered “I’m fucked. I’m absolutely fucked.” and gave a quiet chuckle, his lips brushed against mine and I whimpered, rocking my hips against his shaky thrust and responded quietly, “Why?”

“Because you got to me and that literally never happens. And now I have you and I…” he trailed off and although I wanted to push for him to say more, I got the feeling that it was hard for him.

To my surprise, after a few gentle biting kisses trailing down the side of my neck and across the tops of my breasts, he raised his head and met my gaze again, capturing my mouth in a deep and needy kiss as he groaned out, “I’ll do whatever I have to to keep from losing you. You have me.” he emphasized his words with an even deeper drive into my dripping cunt, immediately bottoming out and pushing me even closer to an orgasm that I was only barely holding back from having, his hips snapping upward, his cock striking my g-spot over and over as he bottomed out and his hands roamed all over my body gently cupping and squeezing, touching me anywhere he could get his hands on me.

“Ah fuck! Bianca.” Maxwell’s growled words echoed off the walls and he pulled me against him tighter, his mouth latching onto mine in a deep and needy, bruising kiss. My lips were aching and swollen now, I could feel it. “Maxwell, please. I’m so close.” I whimpered, tears starting to sting at my eyes because I simply couldn’t hold off anymore.

“C’mon, princess. Use me. Get off.” Maxwell’s head fell back as he continued to slam into me from below, his fingers digging into my asscheeks deeper, squeezing. “Can’t wait to feel you get my cock wet, baby.” his words were a quiet groan against the shell of my ear, his heavy breathing merging with mine as I started to bounce myself up and down on his cock faster. Deeper. He met each bounce eagerly.

My orgasm shattered through me, leaving me shaky and light-headed but Maxwell kept pumping me up and down on his cock, determined to fuck me right through it and nearly into another one because it all felt so good. Too good. Too much. I almost couldn’t think straight. I latched my lips onto his neck and he groaned quietly, his hips stammering as he slowed down a little and tilted my chin so that i had to look him in the eye, pulling my mouth against his all over again in a lingering and tender kiss as he muttered lazily against my lips that he was getting close and he didn’t want to stop. I gave a helpless and needy whine, nodding my head, begging him not to stop, my pussy still tightly clenched around his cock. “So close, ah.. Fuck. Are you ready, princess?”

“Please?” I begged in a breathy moan, clinging to him as dots danced in front of my eyes and I tried and failed a time or two at actually catching my breath and calming down. I could feel his cock throbbing, the warmth of his seed settling inside, coating me as the excess slowly leaked out. He fell back against the bed and pulled me down on top of him, his arms wrapping around me tight as he buried his nose in the crown of my hair, taking a few long and deep breaths, his cock still buried inside me as we lie there.

“I don’t want to move.” he mumbled quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “Just wanna stay exactly like this.”

“Me either.” I yawned lazily, my lips pressing against the side of his neck. I rose up a little to stare down at him and he leaned into my face, his lips feathering against mine as he muttered quietly, “You know I meant all of it… Right?”

I nodded, giving a soft smile as I deepened the kiss. “You don’t say things you don’t mean, remember?”

He chuckled quietly, pulling me back down against him, his hand smoothing over my back, toying with my hair.

#mjf #maxwell jacob friedman #mjf fanfiction #mjf fanfic #mjf oneshot #mjf imagine #mjf imagines #mjf smut #mjf one shot #//18+ only #// smut tw #// body fluids tw #// unprotected s*x tw

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amphitritemists · 3 years

Text

MAG 199 Spoilers (Also talk about suicide/suicidal thoughts)

F**k it. It’s an underrated and touchy opinion, but I’m going to throw it out here anyways. Jon did offer input on his own life and the group listened. But the group disagreed and for good reason because Jon wasn’t talking about saving the world (not really) he was talking about killing himself to end his suffering and guilt. That’s a hard pill to swallow even for me writing this but I have a feeling in my gut it’s true and I’ll elaborate more later. Saving the other universes or saving this universe, he’s decided he doesn’t want that weight on his shoulders anymore because he never decided he wanted it in the first place. The group is right. There is no telling how many other realities had scenarios that played out like their own. There could be other archivists who’ve released the fears into other dimensions and caused a never-ending cycle.

Whatever they do may not change anything, but Jon is right, whether people have done it before it still doesn’t change the fact that they’ll still be the ones living with those heavy consequences. Just because they can’t hear people screaming outside their window doesn’t mean it isn’t happening because of a decision they made in that room. And why? Why is it up to them? To him?

His whole life Jon’s been manipulated into ending the world. He never wanted any of this, but now he’s this all-powerful god compared to everyone and he can’t even do anything. Everyone expects so much from him, but he’s so exhausted. He exists surviving off people’s fears and it terrifies him because there’s a part of him that enjoys it and he thinks that one day he’ll give in and become the monster he was always meant to be. He thinks the only way out of the guilt and misery is killing himself. He can’t think about the pain he’s caused if he’s dead. He wants to die thinking he’s finally getting the punishment he deserves for all the suffering he’s unleashed.

If it so happens that his death makes things better then it’s a happy side-effect. But he’s not going to die trying to convince himself he’s doing something heroic because he no longer believes he can be heroic. He believes that sacrificing himself to save a humanity that he destroyed does not make him a hero. We can shove the majority of the blame on Jonah Magnus and the fear entities, but Jon was right it doesn’t change the fact that Jon made his own choices. Freewill is a funny thing that pushes and pulls, but at the end of the day we’re in control of our own words and actions no matter what the big picture is. The good he does now, does not cancel out the bad (That’s a lesson we learned from hating on Tova McHugh).

But he’s still a human life. He has friends. He has Martin. And they’re in that room listening to him talk about different ways he can end his life for certain. And I don’t think it’s wrong of them to vote no on his favorite plans, not just because it won’t save their universe, but because they know Jon matters. Sure there’s still a danger to Annabelle’s plan, but here’s this fraction of chance that everyone from their universe can live. Jon is someone they know and care about to some extent and to watch someone you care about decide that they want to die, that they’d happily die?

There’s only so much they can do to convince him that he has so many reasons to live and not just because he’s this chosen one hand picked by the Mother of Puppets. He’s loved by the people who know that he’s kind and sarcastic and loyal and so many other things I can’t begin to name. I just wish he could see that he deserves the love and protectiveness his friends feel towards him. He deserves to live. But he has to decide whether he’s worth saving. No amount of pushing and pulling from his friends can stop him if he decides otherwise. I understand that Jon has been manipulated a lot and he deserves to choose for himself what he wants to do with his life, but I’m glad his friends spoke out against his plans.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma199 #mag199 #tma spoilers #jonathan sims

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janiedean · 3 years

Note

Hi hello! So happy to be able to offer you something 😊

Redfish, Blame it on the love of Rock-'n'-roll

*RUBS HANDS* THANK YOU VERY VERY MUCH *cracks knuckles*

[leave me bon jovi inspired prompts!]

blame it on the love of rock n’ roll (jonc/brynden, past one sided jonc/rhaegar, jaime, oberyn, jon s.;, pg13)

“He can’t have - he can’t just have done that,” Jaime Lannister says for the umpteenth time in the last thirty minutes, and - in any other case, Jon would have told him yes, I know, I’m entirely fucking aware, I have the offspring to show for it currently sleeping in my spare room right behind us, but all things considered... he can’t blame him. He really can’t.

“Well,” Oberyn says, shrugging, sitting across Jon’s sofa in a way that honestly should be reserved for R-rated movies, but he’ll leave it at that, it’s too hot and he’s too tired to tell him to do any different, “he has, and while I suppose that for him this entire exercise was a past time, but I think it doesn’t solve our main problem here, which is that next week we should audition for a record deal, and we can’t exactly do it without the lead singer, so how does anyone here suggest to proceed? Because as resourceful as I usually am, I have zilch here, and we’re never going to find anyone who’s going to learn all the songs in a week.”

Jon wants to scream.

Fact is: when he and Rhaegar and Oberyn stared playing together in Oberyn’s father’s basement in high school, it was for shits and giggles and because they wanted to play Nirvana covers and impress girls, or better, Rhaegar wanted to impress girls, he wanted to impress Rhaegar (and maybe guys, but mainly Rhaegar) and Oberyn wanted to impress everyone regardless of gender, but then... they had fun, and it stuck, and they started actually writing their own songs, and then Rhaegar said that he was tired of playing guitar if he had to concentrate on singing and while they were in uni they searched for a guitarist, and -

Well, Jaime Lannister had showed up, and he had been a tad younger than them and obviously had a lot of family trauma to share looking at his lyrics, but he was fucking good, and so they took him, and -

And after some five years of grueling sets in pubs they did manage to land a meeting with this guy Mance Ryder from an indie label who apparently liked them very much, and it would be a damned record deal, and that’s when Rhaegar decides that he’s going to... elope with his girlfriend and leave their six-month old with Jon himself and they’re going to find themselves in India or whatever and that’s not going into the fact that the six-month old was born after a bad split from Oberyn’s sister and it’s a miracle Oberyn hadn’t murdered him in the spirit of friendship and being in the goddamned same band.

Fucking hell.

And now both Lannister and Oberyn are looking at him because they’re apparently in the only band in existence where the decision-maker is the fucking bassist, that’d be him.

Fucking hell.

“Okay,” he says, “well. No, we can’t find another singer, not at short notice. Especially since they didn’t say what songs they want to hear so what if they just ask out of the blue, but.” He closes his eyes, tries to think about it. There has to be a way to get out of this mess, and certainly he isn’t good enough of a singer to take Rhaegar’s place -

Wait a fucking second.

“Okay,” he says, “Jaime.”

“... Yes?”

“From this moment on you’re on vocals.”

“What the hell? Jon, I’m -”

“You wrote more than half of the lyrics, you know them and you can sing worth a damn, which is way more than me and him can say for ourselves, and while finding a new singer is impossible, a new guitarist - well, someone good can learn most of the songs and improvise in case. Sure as fuck it’s less of a long shot.”

“But -”

“But nothing, Jaime. I know you liked it better if someone else sang about how shitty your sister is, but if we want this deal it’s either you or no one else. And now - now let’s just get online and send the word out. It’s Wednesday, we have to audition Friday next week, we can fucking hope it’s long enough for someone to show up.”

Two hours later, he’s sent Oberyn and Jaime off with a bunch of flyers and he has put online ads too - he also knows that it’s highly fucking unlikely that a skilled guitarist enough to improvise like that will walk into his house in the fucking middle of July being a good fit. Sure, there’s the possible record deal thing up that might sweeten the pot, but.

But he’s nowhere near sure that it’d be enough.

Still.

They’ll see. And Oberyn and Jaime better be there every single afternoon until Friday next week.

The next Wednesday, the heat is unbearable, his namesake is crying desperately because it’s too hot, Jaime and Oberyn are failing to calm him and Jon has just sent away the umpteenth college kid who tried to audition and was a shit fit and just cared for the record deal.

“We’re fucked, aren’t we,” Oberyn says, matter of fact, as Jaime finally manages to get the younger Jon to calm down.

Considering that Rhaegar hasn’t answered a single message -

Fuck, Jon had been trying to get over him for ages.

He’s sure this might be what actually makes sure he does.

“Probably,” Jon says, “unless some miracle happens right the fuck now, but -”

His phone starts ringing.

It’s an unknown number.

Jon takes it.

“Yes?” He asks, tentatively.

“Jon Connington?” A deep male voice asks, slightly gruff, but Jon can’t help thinking it’s nice. It has a lovely warm baritone to it, for sure.

“That’d be me.”

“My name is Brynden Tully. I’m calling for the Kingsguard audition.”

Jon doesn’t want to say that this guy sounds competent, but.

But.

“If you haven’t filled that position already, of course.”

“Oh, no. Not at all. You’re welcome to come even now - the place isn’t ideal, but... we don’t have the studio, this week.”

“Not a problem at all. Should I come to the address that was on the ad?”

“Yes,” Jon says, “it’s - it’s my house. We’ll meet you outside, I have all the gear in the garage.”

“Very well. I could be there in half an hour - or two, if I have to go back home and get my own guitar -”

“No,” Jon says, “it’s all right, I have more than one that you can use. Thank you, I -”

“You haven’t tried me yet,” the man replies, and he sounds like he’s smiling, and the call closes.

“Well,” he says, “let’s get to the garage and let’s hope this one guy is the miracle.”

“Did it sound like he could be?” Oberyn asks while Jaime says he’ll go get something to put the poor kid in while he has to listen to them, at least Rhaegar left him with the fucking supplies to care for him.

“He sounded more competent than any of the other guys who showed up.” The whole fifteen of them, but never mind that.

Jon walks down to the garage, already sweating the moment he sets foot out of the house. Fucking hell. This is the hottest summer he can remember in years, he just hopes he doesn’t end up fainting while they rehearse. Now that wouldn’t convince anyone to join his band, right?

They manage to get settled fairly soon - sure, Oberyn hasn’t played with that drum kit in years and Jaime is grumbling that not playing will be fucking weird, and the younger Jon at least doesn’t seem too bothered by their tuning, and then -

“I imagine these are the Kingsguard’s quarters?”

Jon raises his head from his bass, staring at the man who just came inside the garage, and -

Well, fuck.

Having been into Rhaegar for all of his life, he has always found people older than him hot on a general notion, but he never looked into it. But this guy - fuck. He has to have at least fifteen years on him, never mind Lannister, that would make it at least twenty, but he’s hot, with auburn hair with just the slightest hint of silver here and there, a short beard and bright blue eyes on a face with tanned skin and a few lines here and there. He’s also wearing jeans, dark boots and a fucking black leather jacket in the middle of this heat, and how does anyone do that without fainting, but - but honestly, Jon kind of never was so instantly attracted to anyone in his entire life bar Rhaegar, and - yeah.

Let’s not just discuss that now.

“Yes,” he says. “Brynden Tully, right?”

“In the flesh. I see that you are... somehow in trouble?”

“What gave that out?” Jaime smirks. “The garage, the fact that we had a week to audition before a record deal or that we’re looking after a kid that doesn’t belong to either of us?”

“All of that, honestly,” Brynden replies, “but the kid would be the most glaring one. The rest... happens. Also, the ad said you looked for a guitarist and if someone knows anything about the scene, I’d have thought golden boy here had quit.”

Jon decides that it’s the case to be upfront.

“Yeah, well.” He sighs. “The kid belongs to our former singer. Who has eloped with his girlfriend in the middle of the night last week because of family disagreements and shit and he left us like this. Fact is, auditioning a singer is a whole goddamned mess, and golden boy there writes most of the lyrics anyway and can carry a tune, so I have not democratically decided to put him on that and audition for the guitarist instead.”

“Thanks for recognizing it was not democratic,” Jaime mutters.

“Well, I’d have voted with him,” Oberyn replies, rolling a drumstick in his hand.

“So,” Jon sighs, “we actually need the guitarist instead. I understand that learning an entire repertoire in a day if you’re a fit might be a problem, but -”

“I think that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Wait, how?”

The man smiles ever so slightly. “First thing, I didn’t read that ad from the internet. I learned about this because my niece is engaged to your singer’s girlfriend’s brother and she called me up telling me about it.”

“Wait, you’re - oh, shit, Catelyn Tully, I didn’t even -”

“So,” Brynden smirks wider, “my niece, who’s known me for years, knows that the only reason I never was in a band that actually got a record deal was that I got kicked out of the house back in the day because the relatives didn’t like my sentimental preferences.” A wink. Oh. “And thing is, I’m good. Improvising type good. But at that point I couldn’t survive on it and so I found a more boring job, but I never stopped playing and I go to gigs and I know the circuit and I actually did listen to most of your songs, that demo you were selling last year was really good. So... I actually do know most of them. And I made enough money now to afford actually playing full time.”

“Then,” Jon says, not believing his luck, “I think we should just try you already. Just pick any guitar from the stands. We can do one of our usual covers to start with and then a few of ours.”

“Sounds good. I’ll go serve myself, then.”

He goes to where Jon keeps the guitar stands, chooses a red Stratocaster and goes to join them while Jaime seems to try and find a decent position, for someone that outwardly charming you’d think he would want to be a lead singer, and yet.

Never mind.

Please let him be the right one, Jon thinks, and if maybe he wasn’t just thinking about it in band terms, well, no one has to know.

“You’re hired,” he says to Brynden five songs later. “And you,” he tells Jaime, “you can sing, just - please try to not be awkward as hell tomorrow. You can do it, I swear.”

“That’s what you say,” Jaime scoffs, “but yeah. What - you’re good. Enough that I almost don’t hate the idea of not playing those solos anymore.”

“I say that if Rhaegar ever wants to come back we tell him to fuck off,” Oberyn proclaims. “And I’d say welcome to the club. If we fail the audition please don’t leave.”

Brynden laughs, putting the guitar away. “Oh, I had missed doing this regularly. Don’t think I won’t.”

“Well,” Jaime says, “it’s late and I need to - psych myself up. I’ll - I’ll go get a drink. And be in touch.”

He stalks out of the garage, looking like he’ll faint.

“I’ll go after him,” Oberyn says. “Don’t worry, I’ll get him to relax one way or the other.”

“You know he’s straight!” Jon calls after him, but they both already disappeared beyond his driveway.

Whatever. Maybe Oberyn is gonna find him a decent lay. Anything as long as he projects some confidence the day after tomorrow.

“You know,” Brynden says, “I was going to ask if you wanted to come out for a drink to celebrate, but I understand that if you have to mind the kid -”

Jon stops dead in his tracks, turning to look up at Brynden, who - who is half-grinning at him in the way people do when asking to buy someone a drink because they’re interested and fuck Jon really wants to kiss him, and he has a feeling he’s going to hang around in the band a lot, and -

“Tell you what,” he says, “I do, but I also have alcohol upstairs. Fancy it if I make you that drink?”

“Oh,” Brynden says, “excellent compromise, I say. Lead on.”

He smiles.

Jon smiles back.

Ten years later

“You’re not saying that the first time you two smooched I was watching,” Jon Stark groans from his seat in Jaime’s cramped living room where they’re celebrating having come back from their last UK tour during which Brynden not-so-incidentally asked Jon if he would want to make things official in the backstage after the last show, a question to Jon enthusiastically answered yes just before frenching him in front of each single roadie still moving around the place.

“No,” Brynden says, “you were actually dead to the world after having cried your eyes out for one hour, and we didn’t do anything else, but you were in the same room.”

“Gross,” the kid snorts, and Jon is just thankful that he eventually ended up with Ned and Cat because he certainly wasn’t going to raise a kid properly and that he’s not visibly traumatized by how shitty his biological parents have been to him. Never mind that Rhaegar never apologized for bailing but eventually said well you sound a lot better like this, and - Jon will always love him in a way, but he was truly over him romantically at that point.

“I’d say,” Jon says, “that you should be honored that you were not-watching-but-there the day I smooched the love of my life, but what have you.”

“Oh,” Jaime snorts, “you are writing the love ballads now.”

“Forget it,” Jon replies, “wouldn’t Brienne be sad about it?”

“Please,” the girl in question says from the kitchen where she forbade any of them to enter while she got dinner ready, all of you except Oberyn can’t cook for shit, I’m not risking it, “I think you all can stand some variety from me. And congratulations.”

"Gross,” the other Jon replies, and - he lets that go, he’s ten, everything in that sense is probably gross to him, and then rough, calloused fingers hold his and -

“The love of my life now? Maybe you should write me a ballad.”

“Hm,” Jon replies, “maybe I will, but just if you do the same. Maybe Lannister deserves a break from songwriting.”

“Think I can handle it,” Brynden says, and so what if he can hear Jaime in the background telling them that if they don’t go down at it too hard they can use their bed while they kiss?

Who cares.

Maybe they’ll even take him up on the offer. What he knows is that he can’t wait to make things official and to write that damned ballad.

Oh, yes, he thinks, life is good, and then he kisses Brynden harder and tunes out anything else going on in the room.

End.

#redfish #jon connington #brynden tully #cowt fic for ts #my fic #I FINISHED SOMETHING HALLELUJAH #let me go fill the rest after dinner #jksdgljk #thank you!!!! i loved writing this #jaime x brienne for ts #ulspi #ask post

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smallestclowninthecircus · 3 years

Text

Season 4 notes

Ep 121: mmmm tape recorder turning on without them knowing goes brrr. AAAhjhdsjfhjdf "do you mind if i call you jon" its like "can i call you elias?" is this the dream guy with the tendrils? who wants to bet the boat is captained by peter lukas? big man if it killed yall how are you still here. oh boy the tape is doin that thing. who do we think it is? did he wake up? hmm. ep 122: lol jon. 6 months!?!? bruh quit movin big man. he just Knows things sometimes you know how it is. nah b/c i can relate to feeling like other ppl/ things arent real, thats the biggest mood BUT i think it is kinda pretentious to entertain the idea that youre the only Real person. If you dont see a body dont believe it. i'll hold out hope for a bit. theres not a new archivist is there? surely i wouldve heard about that. oh god peter what changes did you make. ep 123: web development. hope its about spiders. she blames him. bruh why. if they hadnt done anything the world would've ended piss off melanie. why are ppl acting like he chose to be in a coma for 6 months. we know this they just appear. no longer "head archivist of the magnus institute, london" now he's just "the archivist" covered in spiders? cuz ik the spider has to do with controlling what youre doing and all this stuff but i cant think of how this connects to that. ep 124: ugh vertigo. is michael crew an old man? oooh. fairchild. how did he know it was martin? hmm. GRR I LOST MY NOTES AGAIN. FROM EPISODE 125 - part of 131. ep 131: bruh he's so hard to understand big man ur voice is so low. Jared Hotworth. the boneturner. "the ones i helped find their proper bodies" name a better top surgeon? our favorite trans ally? ep 132: woo field trip into the coffin! static lol. he says "chill out im just poppin in for a quick recall mission" is the rib thing actually gonna work? bruh it feels so odd and contrived but he's an odd man with some odd powers so idk. rip that archivist ayyy statement time. voices? recordings? are those tape recorders? was it the tape recorders? did they pull him back? i hope so b/c if the rib thing actually worked im gonna be so disappointed. ep 133: predicting the lonely? tundra. like the lukases. hmm. sanikova! like sanikov land. so its the hunt? i suppose? yeah. so daisy's clearly rejecting the hunt, which makes sense cuz she doesnt seem to like the entities that much. wait so are we just not gonna talk abt all the tapes playing on the ground?? no? ep 134: not an archival assistant anymore? Adelard Decker (or however you spell it) i recognize that name. 15th power. i was right there are 15. the extinction? im trying to remember what ive heard. oooh spooky. no i gotta be real i dont understand this fear but i'll believe you that its a thing. ew lukas is so squealy. lukas can turn invisible? oh boy. oooh martin put the tape recorders there. lol lukas is worried he's gonna be an avatar of the eye. ep 135: yoo its the third Daedalus statement! maxwell rayner (reiner? reigner?) i dont know who that is but ik its somebody. is he the cult leader guy? church of the divine host? 4 people?? what? did they kidnap somebody and keep them up there?? oh dear jon are you dying? did he try to See or Know or whatever? why does everyone call basira detective lol. ep 136: he was the one from the spider movie that ate ppl right? the special effects artist? is it annabelle cane? "its a joke jon" lol. hmm they wanted to record the therapy session with melanie? i wonder who that is. i almost wanna guess annabelle cane but im not sure. ep 137: this is the one! he went to the other place and read the war statement but it wasnt the one she took. not the music again. sounds like the slaughter. who the heck is eric lol. "the watcher's crown" like the crown of eyes we saw in the piccrew ep 138: oh boy Robert Smirk time. is that elias? as unhelpful as usual. if new powers can be "born" can others die out? did jonah magnus wear the watchers crown? maybe they were born from our fear or maybe our fears were born from them. ceaseless watcher does ceaselessly watch so. idk what you want

big man. yeah jonah for sure did something. ep 139: agnes!! lol that one dude threw off all their plans thats so funny. BUT this does tell us something. the tree in the backyard of the hilltop house? not made by her. it going down didnt kill agnes. im guessing gertrude tied agnes to the house using the tree? u good jon? cuz every time you try to Know smth intentionally it seems like it causes you great pain. how come he can do it accidentally with no problem but the second he wants to know smth of plot relevance he gets a headache or whatever ep 140: lol pagan exultation. classic. "oh thats my rib" lmaoo. ppl are always so mad at jon and his Eye powers except when it benefits them. they're like "oh you shouldnt do that its not right" and then all of a sudden they want to know something and its all "oh cmon jon its the only way" ep 142: oh god jon what did you do. its interesting she's giving her statement in the way that they do when jon Asks. did he see her in the Coffin? and so he's following her? ok cmon jon you're supposed to let them come to you. lmao ikr martin. "start to hear the blood" "suure." lmao ep 143: lol that awkward moment when gertrude is already dead. big J if you die im gonna kill you. bruh. ayo helen? i guess it worked? ep 144: lol this reminds me of that one edgar allan poe story where he kills the old dude with the weird eye. spooky music stuff. lol thats my favorite symptom of a heart attack its hilarious. so its smth abt the location probably? bro i feel like you should write down the numbers idk. 162830165049 564846474827. seems like the distortion? like the kinda thing that causes you to go crazy because of the numbers. oh boy is it the extinction again. bro what?? im?? his dad just died and he's like eh. martin dont be mean. he's being all lonely again. big man ur pushing ppl away. oh god its fucking squealy boy. ep 145: that almost sounds like breekon/hope... Arthur? agnes. aah was he from the lightless flame cult. a tree. lol he's just ranting rn. hehehe fuck landlords amirite. yay someone tells jon outright to go to therapy. now do it big man. ep 146: oh great! the distortion! i'm making a spiral themed building in mc right now! jon maybe accept you did a bad? nah this goes back to what i said before. they're fine with him compelling ppl when its convenient for them but otherwise its "no jon you cant, youre a monster jon" the tapes didnt turn on. i spose that means its not important? i agree with daisy, this seems unecessarily dangerous. ep 147: is that a tape? the first tape? well that went better than i expected tbh. BAHAKJASHDJKF she did the "can i call you jon" like nikola says "elias, can i call you elias?" damn annabelle is such a girlboss. oh! the one thing from the picrew. its been a while since ive connected smth to that. lol all the other avatars always talk abt their patron so lovingly and the jon just. absolutely hates the eye. ep 148: lol thats the most elias thing. "i just like the way it sounds" ep 149: did he disappear? bruhh. ur lonely powers are popping off i guess. oops i accidentally deleted my notes for 150 - 152 ep 153: thats the cult right? yeah. it doesnt sound like the church of the divine host? idk. if it is the church of the divine host then they worship the dark right? so is the eleventh the dark star or wtvr? it almost sounds like the corruption b/c of the oil or grease or whatever. oh dear what happened. oh its the hunters. theyre so annyoing. not an "it" he has a name. he's a person. is this a page from the skin book? ep 154: oh shit this is gerry's dad! oh shit he quit! oh dear god. jon don't you do it. haha martin. yeahhhh... is he gonna tell the others? cuz you know theyre gonna get mad if he doesnt. oh also picrew connection! the bandages over the eyes? yeah thats this im guessing. ep 155: oh good he told them. oh my god what did you do. lol i have no mouth and i must scream. nah you get none of my sympathy you're straight up murdering ppl. its like the desolation, destroying lives to sustain your own. ok but taking their statements doesnt

kill them. oh... bye melanie. ep 156: lmao imagine if the tape recorder spoke back. oh boy decker! i swear we got a statement from him already. oh god mirrors scary. They're gonna eat the body arent they. Yup... sounds like the flesh or the slaughter, but I'm not sure. Could be the extinction for sure. Smth at the center! Like Helen mentioned. God Peter you dick. Ep 157: peter's just so :/ another decker statement i see. a statement about the corruption? hmm. maybe its not abt the corruption. the extinction. lol pandemics. topical. John Amherst. helen? lol i can hear admiral purring in the background. oh cmon helen dont be like that. im trying real hard to like you but you make it so difficult. ep 158: did they fucking free the stranger? im gonna lose it. you absolute dumbass. im sorry who is that? jonah magnus? my guy. peter. you absolute dickhead. that's elias. (im p sure i had this spoiled for me that elias is jonah) oh dear this is her death. god peter you prick. i hope this is a pop off martin moment and not a "martin you idiot" moment. i hope the hunters kill the stranger entity. or she kills them. furry daisy pop off! yeah fuck you peter martin can make his own decisions. you know that clip from Twisted where jafar says "ok what the fuck was that" martin D: ok like i know its gonna work but still D: D: ep 159: peter you bitchboy. because if im alone i cant hurt anyone else. imnotgonnacryimnotgonnacryimnotgonnacry do it do it do it do it. pop off jon. ok its a pretty good idea for a ritual i gotta be honest. she didnt even have to blow it up lol. oh dear that was certainly a noise. "he gets you" did he not have jon already? he's back! our boy is back! awwww thats so cute. ep 160: oh right this is the thing in the safe house. i love him. "obviously im going to tell you if i see any good cows" martin my beloved <3 :)) oh boy who is this. fuckin. people. jonah you dick. gahh. you can tell he's trying to resist so hard lol. ohh. hehe keep an *eye* on him. altho if the extinction is a real thing he needs to be marked by that right? lol he sounds so intense im sorry- i want martin to just burst in and be like "look at this cow i saw!" its so dramatic and for why.

#tma notes #tma

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whichstoodonrockyshores · 3 years

Text

Chapter Two

(*stupid dumb southern families and gay people*)

But Danny did worry his little head about Ron. And who could blame him, so many people were after him, and as far as Danny knew, he was alone! Alone, and being chased by Pinkerton’s, coppers, and probably a bunch of other outlaws! He had to write back as soon as possible. He got out his pen and paper, and started to write out his reply. But he was interrupted by his father slamming the door open. Danny flinched, but he’d already put the letter away, so he just looked back at him.

“Hey son, sorry for slammin’ the door. I just wanted to show you this suit.” He held out a black suit with some flowers on it. Danny liked it. It had a bunch of frills, too. Perfect. His face lit up. “So you like it?”

“Yeah! Thanks Pa, I appreciate it a lot.” Danny said, taking it and hanging it in his closet. He had a big smile on his face. His father just stood there, a proud smile on his face, a low sigh escaping his lips.

“Ah, I remember when I was like this. Young and in love.” Danny let out a small laugh, trying to make himself sound less uncomfortable than he really was. “You know, when your mother walked down that aisle, I swore I saw an angel.” He said, patting his son on the head and turning to go. “I’m goin’ out to visit your Uncle James, bye son.”

“Bye Pa!” Danny said back, sighing. He really didn’t want to get married. He wanted to finish this damn letter, but..he didn’t have the heart to continue it. He had to see his Uncle Hamish. He crumpled up the paper and threw it away, he could continue later and mail it tomorrow. He sighed. Uncle Hamish wasn’t well liked by the family, because he’d fallen for a Zachary boy in his 20’s. That Zachary boy was his Uncle Otis.

Danny snuck down the stairs, keeping his steps quiet. But, unfortunately, his sister was in the kitchen, and instantly spotted him. Opal sighed.

“Where are you goin’?” She asked, the sound of her chopping vegetables loud and clear. “Back to the library? To visit that Blackwell girl you’re supposed to be marryin’? Or are you gonna ditch this weddin’ too?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna go back to the library for a while, and I won’t ditch the weddin’, I promise.” He said, quickly walking out of the door and quietly closing it behind him. Opal sighed, and continued chopping up her vegetables.

“What are we ever gonna do with that boy..?” She muttered to herself.

But Danny has already passed the library, and was walking in the swampy woods to the edge of town, in his Uncle’s shack. He knocked on the door, well, it was more like banging actually. He knew Hamish was hard of hearing. But it was Otis who answered the door this time.

“Danny! My boy!” Otis yelled. “Hamish, my love! Wake up, our boy is here!” Hamish popped up from his bed, saw Danny, and ran up to hug him. Otis hugged him too.

“Danny, it’s been too long!” Hamish said, after separating from him. He invited Danny to sit down on the bed, while Otis and Hamish sat in their rocking chairs, holding hands.

“Uncle Hamish, it’s barely been two weeks-“ Danny said, making both of them laugh.

“I know boy. Just teasin’. So why’d you come here? Your pops bein’ the ass he is again?”

“Well, um..not really. I’m supposed to get married…” Danny said, and Hamish’s expression visibly changed. He sighed.

“Well..haven’t you gotten out of it before?”

“I..I don’t wanna let Pa down again. I..” Danny stuttered out. He looked really upset, and Otis quickly went over and hugged him tight. Danny ended up crying, and Hamish joined them.

“You’re not gonna let your Pa down, Danny..is the lady a bitch?” Hamish asked, looking worried. But he still cracked a joke.

“N..no Uncle..she’s real nice actually it’s just I..I..” Danny stuttered again, struggling to speak. He didn’t know why, it wasn’t like Hamish would be upset about it, like his father would- Hamish was a homosexual himself! So why couldn’t he say it?

“You’re what, Danny? Whatever you are, I’m sure it’ll be okay..” Otis said, comforting him.

“I’m a homosexual..I..I had a wonderful boyfriend out West.” He explained. Hamish made a face at Otis, who just smiled in return.

“Don’t you dare say it-“

“I called it!” Otis yelled in excitement, hugging Danny as Hamish let out a loud groan. He sighed.

“You’re uncle over there had an inklin’ you were since you were a boy.” Hamish explained, a scowl on his face.

“Really?”

“Yeah, of course. But.. about the whole marriage thing. Who’s it too?”

“A Blackwell girl, real sweet. Her name is Lucille.”

“Lucille Blackwell? Oh, you’ll be fine boy.” A wave of relief seemed to go over both the older men’s faces.

“Why is that?” Danny asked, a little confused.

“You’ll see, Danny. Now run along home, we don’t want your dear old Dad comin’ along, now do we. See ya, boy.” Hamish said, as Danny stood up. Both of his Uncle’s waved at him as they interlocked their hands, and he walked out of the door, going back through the woods and going back inside of his house. His sister Nancy was there for whatever reason, but she just ignored him and continued talking with their mother. Who also just ignored him.

He let out a sigh. Most of his family was like that. Ever since Kendrick died, at least. His brother. He’d left a son behind, a son his sister had to raise. He’d been killed in cold blood, and his fiancée too but..no one knew by who. Danny flopped his head on his desk, and pulled out new paper so he could start on another letter.

Dear Ron,

First off, I’m not stupid! And second, I will worry my little head off about you! I think you should come and stay with me. You’ll be safe here, alright? Or maybe I just miss you terribly. Because I do!

And it is very sad Charlie died. I hope the rest of the old gang is okay. I hope George and Charlie’s family is doing okay. Jon and Wy especially, they were very inseparable.

I’m due to be married about a week from now. To a woman. I’m being forced by my Pa, and I’ve never met this woman before today. She don’t seem too bad, but still..I want to be with you, Ron. I love you very much! I just want you to be my husband. It’s unfair. It’s very unfair that we’re apart like this, as well.

Love you too, Ronnie,

Danny

#danny #ocs #my ocs #the peachy's #hamish peachy #otis zachary

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fishfingersandjellybabies · 4 years

Text

When Your Love Hurts - fic

Characters: Damian Wayne, Conner Kent Pairings: jondami, timkon Summary: Damian didn’t expect his brother-in-law to break into his office today. He also didn’t expect the reason that he did so. A/N: In which I write about Tim but I’m actually writing about myself, whoops. Tim did show up to Jon’s office, whatever that is I haven’t decided, and Jon just immediately took him back to his and Damian’s house. I might write more for this little scenario, or I might not, I dunno. As soon as they kind of make up a little, Tim and Conner immediately bombard Damian and Jon with questions about when they’re getting married. Damian surprises himself by not regretting a single bit of it. He loves this new life.

Freedom AU

He heard a commotion in the lobby. Nothing new, not in a place like this. Dogs barking, scared cats, sobbing persons giving up their animals, angry ones trying to steal theirs back. The shelter was almost like Gotham, but nothing he, or his staff, couldn’t handle.

In fact, this commotion was more his staff than anyone else, he noted. Trying to…stop someone? Or get more information, perhaps. The dog currently recuperating in his office, Isabella, heard the noise too, and raised her head to growl.

“Sir…sir, wait!” The call was much closer than the lobby. Damian glanced up just as his doorknob turned. “You need an appoint-”

The door swung open to reveal a man in red plaid underneath a leather jacket, jeans and sunglasses. He let the office door smack against the wall, and under Isabella’s barking, Damian could only sigh.

Not the boy from Smallville he liked to see.

“Hey, Dames.” Conner grinned, raising the sunglasses to sit on his head. “Have a sec?”

“I’m so sorry, Damian, I tried-” the receptionist rambled behind him. Damian waved them off.

“It’s fine, he’s…family.” Damian said reluctantly. The receptionist glanced between them and nodded, disappearing back into the hall. Damian glared at Conner. “I told you not to call me that.”

Conner shrugged, closing the door behind him and dropping into the chair across from Damian’s desk. Immediately, his ‘cooler-than-thou’ façade dropped, and he ran his hand down his face. Isabella gave a small woof and stood, jogging over to slot her face between Conner’s knees.

“If you’re looking for your brother, for the millionth time, he does not work here. He has his own job.” Damian hummed, going back to his paperwork. “But I’m sure he’d love to catch a late lunch-”

“Not looking for Jonno.” Conner droned. Dropped his hand and gave a weak smile to the dog waiting for love. “I am actually here looking for you. I guess. I don’t know.”

“Oh?” Damian put his pen down, giving the other his full attention after fixing his glasses. “Everything…okay?”

“…Yeah.” Conner sighed again, taking Isabella’s muzzle in his hands and petting along her whiskers. “…Your brother is an asshole.”

Ah.

“I mean, they all are, but I’m assuming you’re speaking of one in particular.” Damian surmised. “…Does he know you’re here?”

“No. And if he does, he clearly doesn’t care.”

Damian almost scoffed, because that couldn’t be further from the truth. Tim cared about Conner more than probably anyone else. He did marry him, after all.

“I see.” Damian said instead. “What happened?”

Conner shrugged, focused on Isabella.

“Conner, you just broke into my office.” Damian hummed calmly. “I think I have a right to ask what you and my brother fought about that caused you to do so.”

Conner still held out, still remained silent for a few moments.

“…He doesn’t care about himself. He doesn’t take care of himself.” Conner muttered. “Says it’s a waste of time, and that his energy is better spent taking care of other people. Taking care of me.”

“You’ve known for years we’re all a bit…self-sacrificing.” Damian admitted. “What made it so bad this time?”

“He just...won’t even consider it!” Conner snapped. “I even begged him to take care of himself, for me, and he refuses.”

“It is…a flaw. One he’s carried for years. Even Grayson couldn’t rid him of it.” Damian sighed sadly. “He’s never thought he was worthy, or mattered.”

“And he does! He matters!” Conner cried, slumping back in the chair. Isabella tried wagging her tail to regain his attention. “He matters to me, to our friends. To you, I’d hope.”

“Of course he does.” Damian agreed quickly, trying to push down the feeling of being offended. It’d been years since he and Tim had been at odds, Conner knows that. “To me and the entire family.”

“And that’s why I’m here, because you get it. You get him.” Conner deflated. “But more than Dick or Bruce, you don’t feel a need to go running to him and tell him everything I said or…or try to fix everything right in that moment or whatever.”

“Because he’s a grown man. I can’t fix his problems for him, and pressuring him in a demand he talks has the opposite affect. One day our father and brother will get that.” Damian nodded. “However…in Drake’s defense, I know the feeling. You know, of not mattering, or being worthy.” Damian snorted. “I know it all too well.”

“Yeah, but you got over it.” Conner whined.

“Well, for one, that’s a far too oversimplified conclusion, as I don’t entirely agree with that personally.” Damian scolded. Isabella whined at Conner’s knees and jumped up to put her paws on his thigh. “And two, I’m only dealing with it in a healthy manner because of your brother.”

“What, did he just overwhelm you with his undying love, to the point your brain couldn’t not believe what he said to you?” Conner pouted, crossing his arms. Isabella tapped at his leg, but he ignored her.

“In the attempt to not, again, oversimplify it while not getting into a discussion of my own personal health and derail this entire conversation – yes.” Damian snapped his fingers and Isabella hopped down, trotting back to his side. “But that also took years to even get to that point, and Jonathan knows it continues to be an ongoing process.”

A pause to glance down at Isabella. She gave him a doggy grin.

“But that is also me. A person who had a poor upbringing and was not told explicitly I was loved until I was eleven, by Grayson.” Damian explained. “Timothy, if I had to guess based on observation and experience, did not have that tragic past. His idea of his lack of worth most likely comes from dealing with our father’s grief in the aftermath of Todd’s death, and then continually losing loved ones to violent deaths every few months for a number of years. He believes it his fault, that his presence somehow forced those tragedies to occur, or that he should have been able to fix said emotional issues of others, like with my father.”

“So…what you’re saying is that me telling him I love him more than the goddamn sun like Jon did and does for you won’t work.” Conner exhaled.

“Not necessarily.” Damian admitted guiltily.

“So…what do I do?” Conner asked pathetically. “Because I don’t think I have to tell you that I love him more than anything in this solar system. But I can’t…he’s breaking my heart, Damian. I can’t live this way.”

“And you shouldn’t. But I am sorry you are.” Damian nodded. “But, again, if I had to guess, based on what you’re telling me…he knows that. He knows he’s breaking your heart, and he blames himself for your frustration. He probably believes if he was better, if he wasn’t so worthless, or maybe even selfish, he wouldn’t have frustrated you.”

Conner tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. Isabella barked at Damian.

“And if in your arguments he’s yelling at you, it’s because he’s also frustrated with himself. Because he wishes he could believe you, wishes he could fix his brain and make all the disbelief in himself go away. But then it restarts the cycle of believing he could and should be better, thus cementing the idea that since he’s not, he’s worthless.” Damian leaned back in his chair, circling his hand in the air as he spoke, reaching out to pet Isabella with the other. “Logically, I’m sure he’s fully aware of all these problems. But emotionally, he just can’t fix them, as much as he desperately wants to.”

“So…” Conner repeated. “What do I do?”

“Educate yourself, for the time being. I told you what I believe, take that into account if you wish.” Damian shrugged. “But in the meantime, just stay with him. Know he’s trying, even through your mutual frustrations. And as cliché as it is, don’t go to bed angry.”

“What?”

“It’s…what Jon did.” Damian admitted quietly. “We would have fights that probably rival you and Drake’s. One of us would often storm off, without anything being solved.” Damian looked at Isabella, giving a soft smile. “But…every night, even if it was past midnight, Jon would come home, or find me wherever I went, and just lay in the bed with me. We didn’t always apologize, or even say anything. But we still went to bed together, still held each other.”

Conner waited.

“It didn’t fix everything, or probably really anything, but it was evidence, to that little demon in my brain.” Damian continued. “It…also helped when I, when we, left the costumes. But I’d never ask that, or even suggest that, to you or him.”

Conner smiled. “Because you and Tim are different people.” Damian chuckled. “And you each need different solutions.”

“So you do listen sometimes.” Damian shook his head. Just as he did, he got a text, his phone buzzing underneath some of the papers on his desk. Already having a feeling he knew who it was, he dug it out and picked it up.

It was a picture. Tim lying pathetically on his living room floor, surrounded by many of their pets, clinging to the closest cat.

I believe he’s here looking for you.

Damian snorted, texting back, ‘Be home soon. Please speak with him in the meantime about how you and your brother’s minds work. Also ask him what he wants for dinner, since it appears we’re having guests.’

“I should charge you and Drake for therapy services.” Damian murmured, lifting his phone to snap his own photo of Conner, slumped childishly in his chair. He sent it immediately.

Jon quickly responded. Niceeeeeeeee.

Damian grinned at the childish response, then glanced down to the dog at his side. “Would you also like to accompany us for dinner, Izzie?”

Isabella barked and wagged her tail.

“What?” Conner asked dumbly. “Who’s going to dinner?”

“You.” Damian hummed, standing. “And then I’m locking you and Drake in our guest room where you can fight or fuck it out. You choose. Then you’ll be staying the night.”

Conner shook his head. “Got patrol tonight.”

“As I’m sure Drake did too. But considering he’s currently trying to smother himself in the fur of my cat, I believe those plans are all cancelled.” Damian walked by, Isabella following, grabbing his car keys from the hook by the door. “Also, if you really think you’re leaving without staying the night, you don’t know your own brother as well as you believe you do.”

Conner groaned, but stood anyway, following behind Isabella like a scolded child. “I was…kind of hoping Jon wouldn’t know I was here.”

“And I would have let that happen if my brother didn’t show up on his office’s doorstep as well.” Damian smirked, opening the door. “You and Drake are predictable and far too similar.”

“Almost like we’re an old married couple.” Conner drawled. Damian laughed. “…Thanks for your help, though. I do appreciate it.”

“I’ll accept that appreciation only if anything I told you actually helps Drake heal, in any way.” Damian countered. He hesitated in the hallway, though, and glanced back. “Remember, this process will take time.”

“I know.” Conner smiled, he put a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “That’s why if you lock us in your guest room tonight, we’re absolutely fucking. Because this fight won’t be over for a long time.”

Damian frowned. “You’re disgusting.”

“But you love me?” Conner tried, waving to the front desk staff as they walked out.

Damian sighed as Isabella ran ahead, jumping and barking back at them. “Only for the sake of my boyfriend and my brother. And even then, only sometimes.”

“I’ll take sometimes as a win.” Conner grinned as they got into Damian’s car. Isabella happily wiggled in Conner’s lap. “Now, chauffeur, please deliver me to my husband.”

Damian just sighed and pulled out of the lot.

#Damian Wayne #conner kent #kon el #jondami #timkon #freedom au

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