#i found one in the sims to give them for this purpose and its got little cacti all over it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thekisforkeats · 3 years

Text

Love Languages

Info: The Magnus Archives, JonMartin, rated T probably for swears. Canon-Compliant. Set post-MAG 22, with a coda post-MAG 159. Everyone is ND and everyone is trans because that’s just how my personal S1 Archives gang rolls.

CWs: Mentions of ableism and Martin’s mother. I’d say canon-typical worms but the worms don’t really come up except in passing.

I do not know anything about BSL, so I did not try to describe the signs.

Summary: A love language is not just about how you best show love and affection; it is also about the ways you best receive love and affection. And so, for someone like Martin, who shows love by going out of his way to help others, someone going out of their way to help him, well. What better way for him to realize just how loved he is?

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

The first time Martin went completely non-verbal after starting work in the Archives, it was the morning after giving Jon the statement about Jane Prentiss.

It wasn’t a surprising development, really. Martin didn’t go fully non-verbal that often, but when he did it was almost always a thing that started in the morning and lasted most of the day. Sometimes it wore off by the time he went to bed, sometimes it lasted until the next morning.

After his mother’s diagnosis, he’d been unable to speak for an entire week. That hadn’t gone over well--as much as his mother wanted him to be quiet, she didn’t like the “silent treatment,” as she called it.

Martin hated that she’d called it that, as though his non-verbal episodes were anything he did on purpose. Some days talking just felt like a chore; those days he could get by only forcing words out when he had to. But some days, the worst days, he just couldn’t talk. He could understand other people just fine, he could make noises, sometimes he could even hum. And he could definitely read and write. But speaking words, aloud? No. He could not speak, on these days, however much he may have wanted to.

As Martin grew older and learned more about himself, he learned words and reasons and coping mechanisms. He realized that some of the problem came from dysphoria and the longer he was on hormones the less often it happened. He realized that he was autistic (even if he never got diagnosed), and learned how to handle the episodes that still occurred. He took sign languages classes because it was a good and useful thing to know regardless, to be able to communicate with more people.

As many Deaf people had learned before Martin, he’d found himself in plenty of situations when nobody around him knew BSL, so he’d found a phone app that let him type out things he wanted to say and repeated them in a tinny, mechanical voice. Feminine, but he found it didn’t cause dysphoria; it wasn’t his voice. It was the app speaking for him, a robot lady translating his words.

Martin was fairly certain he was going to need the robot lady to speak for him today, and he was dreading the whole idea. The app got him a range of reactions from scorn to derision to faux sympathy. The last time he’d done so at work, the Institute library staff had regarded him with such pity that he’d called in sick the two other times it had happened since.

He’d woken early, because he was always awake fairly early, to ensure he looked presentable and got to work on time. He did not want Jonathan “Crisply Professional At All Times” Sims giving him that look again. The particular look that was “I highly disapprove of your sartorial choices but I’m not going to get into it right now because I have so very much else to do. Nonetheless, if I could fire you for what you’re wearing I would.”

Jon had a lot of looks. Martin fervently wished he could stop categorizing them; he very much disliked his boss, and very much wanted to stop thinking about Jon quite as much as he did.

Jon was attractive, that much Martin had noticed the first day he’d come in, with a jawline Martin would’ve loved to trace with his fingers, eyes sharp and deep and intelligent, salt-and-pepper hair that Martin would have tangled his fingers in gladly.

Except, of course, that Jon was also a prick who didn’t like Martin one bit and made that very clear. He’d put down on record that he thought Martin would “contribute nothing but delays.” Martin was not such a sucker for punishment that he would put up with someone who hated him just for a pretty face. The tiny potential blossom of a crush had been, well, crushed five seconds after it had poked its head above ground, by Jon’s declaration that he could dismiss Martin if he didn’t resolve the “dog situation” immediately.

Martin counted his lucky stars every day that Jon had not, in fact, dismissed him, despite having had to deal with a doggy mess. The luck was really in having Tim around, Martin figured; Jon actually seemed fond of Tim, and the other man had managed to smooth the entire situation over.

Martin had fallen asleep last night thinking about the new look Jon had given him yesterday: concerned. Truly, genuinely concerned, which had rather taken Martin aback. He’d been certain Jon wouldn’t believe him, would scoff and roll his eyes at the entire statement, and instead he’d just looked… concerned.

And then Jon had offered Martin the cot that he’d woken up in this morning.

It wasn’t the look of concern that had Martin non-verbal, though; of that he was certain. It was the stress of the last two weeks, and dumping out the statement yesterday, and all the whirl of figuring out how to live in the Archives. Jon’s insistence on going with him to pick up basics with a toothbrush at the convenience store, and then coming back to be sure he was okay. Jon finding clean sheets and discussing how he’d do his laundry. Jon had expensed clothing bought online to the Institute, including next-day shipping, because he’d “lost access to his flat and thus his wardrobe in the line of duty.” It had all been bewildering and overwhelming and it was no real surprise that Martin was in the state he found himself when he woke.

Martin had known as soon as he’d opened his eyes. It was just there, the feeling of nope can’t talk today. He’d pulled on his binder and the same clothing he’d worn the day before and then fumbled around for his phone. Which… he didn’t have. The damn worm-hive-lady had stolen it from him. Well, shit.

He managed to avoid having to figure out how to talk while he went out to get breakfast, just pointing at a scone in the display and smiling at the guy behind the counter as if he wasn’t secretly irritated by the price of everything in Chelsea. By the time Martin got back, Jon was already in his office, so thank God he’d avoided that awkward interaction. He went to make himself tea, and had his breakfast in the breakroom, and brushed his teeth, and then went to get started on…

Wait. He didn’t even know what they were working on right now.

Well, he wasn’t going to bother Jon about it; however nice he’d been last night it surely must have worn off by now, and Martin had no interest in summoning one of his boss’ looks this early in the morning. Normally he’d still be on his commute at this hour.

After a moment’s thought, he went to go see what they’d recorded in his absence, and soon had a stack of statements on his desk. They’d gotten through five statements in the two weeks he’d been gone. Maybe Jon was right. Maybe Martin did contribute “nothing but delays.”

Pushing the thought aside, Martin focused on listening to the tapes, and was just finishing up listening to the second half of Father Edwin Burroughs’ statement when Tim came into the shared office the assistants used.

“Hey, you’re in early. You get the email?”

Martin raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

Tim snorted. “Jon claims he’s got something to warn us about, something that ‘won’t parse properly through digital means.’” He rolled his eyes. “Which is Jon-speak for ‘it’s a weird thing and I don’t want to admit it’s a weird thing because I have to keep my skeptic hat on to preserve my self-image.”

Martin chuckled in solidarity, then gestured toward the door to Jon’s office, to indicate that’s where their boss was.

“Not coming?” Tim asked, his own eyebrow raised. When Martin shrugged, he said, “Well, I guess if you didn’t get the email…” Tim also shrugged, then said, “Guess I’d better get it over with. Wish me luck!”

Martin gave him a thumbs up.

When Sasha came in, Martin silently directed her to Jon’s office as well, then heaved a sigh of relief. He hadn’t had to explain being non-verbal at all yet, and it was already nine o’clock. Maybe if he was lucky, Jon would warn them off talking to him and he’d manage to make it the entire day without having to explain the whole “non-verbal” business to anyone he saw on a regular basis.

Alas, it was barely thirty minutes later that Tim and Sasha returned to talk to him, both wearing expressions of mingled concern and guilt. When they spoke it was a flood of the usual, expected platitudes:

“We’re so sorry!”

“We didn’t know!”

“Are you okay??”

And such like.

Martin shrugged and nodded and shook his head in all the right places, and evidently Jon had played them the tape of his statement so he didn’t have to explain it all again (thank God), and he thought maybe, maybe he could even figure out what statement they were working on right now if he just listened to their chatter after they were done with the niceties, but then…

Well. Then Timothy Stoker happened.

Which is to say, Tim actually looked at Martin, and said, “You’re being awfully quiet. You sure you’re okay?”

And then he and Sasha just… sat there, looking at him expectantly.

Martin sighed and reached for a piece of scrap paper and wrote, I’m autistic and sometimes I go non-verbal. Today’s one of those days, but I don’t have my phone anymore, so no communication app.

As he held up the paper so the others could read the words, Martin braced himself for the ensuing reactions. Pity, probably, like those in the Institute library, and he couldn’t even call in sick to avoid it; he’d rather have scorn and derision. At least those reactions were honest.

What he got from them was not pity, however, nor even scorn.

Sasha hummed. “Autism explains a lot, actually. Don’t worry, it’s not a problem.”

Tim grinned and clapped Martin on the shoulder. “Yeah, why didn’t you just say so? It’s fine, you’ve been through an ordeal. And so you know--you’re hardly the only neurodivergent in the Archives.”

Martin blinked at Tim, then wrote: Wait, what? Who…?

“Would you believe me if I said all of us?” Tim said with a grin. “I have ADD, Jon’s… well… he’s Jon, and as for Sasha…”

Sasha sighed in fond exasperation and cut in, “Tim…”

“I contend that you cannot be neurotypical, Ms. James. You fit in too well around here.”

“I am not admitting to anything on Institute property,” Sasha said with aplomb. “And you shouldn't have either, but here we are.” She looked at Martin. “If HR finds out and they give you any trouble, let us know and we’ll figure out what to do.”

Tim, in the meanwhile, pulled out his phone. “Here, go ahead and use mine for now, until your replacement gets here or whatever. What’s the app so I can install it for you?”

Martin’s jaw had dropped open. Tim having ADD made sense; what did he mean about Jon, though? And Sasha? And what did Sasha mean about HR? And… and why were they being so… nice? So… understanding? It wasn’t an act, or at least he didn’t think it was. They seemed… genuinely fine with it. Accepting, even.

It was the strangest thing Martin had experienced in a while, and that was including the worm-riddled woman who’d stood outside his door for two straight weeks.

From there the day just… went on as normal. Tim installed the app on the phone, Martin’s robot phone lady spoke for him, the three of them did their work, and everything was fine.

Until, of course, the nature of their work reared its ugly head. They were discussing the statement of Leanne Denikin, case #0051701, which they had yet to attach a pithy name to; hence the discussion. It had long since become standard practice to attach a name to the “weirder” statements, to make them easier to discuss. (Jon insisted on using the case numbers on tape still, which was annoying, given that was the only place he did that.)

Martin was reading through the statement, and he typed into Tim’s phone: What do you think of this bit? “Be still, for there is strange music.”

What came out of the phone’s speakers, however, was garbled static followed by high-pitched screeching that startled Martin so much he actually dropped the phone.

Jon was walking in just as this happened; he stopped in the doorway, blinking. “What on Earth was that?”

“Martin’s robot lady gave Tim’s phone an aneurysm, I think,” Sasha said, eyeing Martin as well.

Martin scrabbled on the floor for the phone, pulled up the app (which had crashed), and typed, I don’t know what happened!! I was just typing in something from one of the statements!

Jon frowned at him sharply. “What are you doing with Tim’s phone? Are you quite well?”

“No, Martin is not ‘quite well,’” Tim said. “Non-verbal for the day.”

Then Jon did something that stunned Martin: Jon signed at him, specifically, “Do you know sign language?” He spoke aloud as he said this, too, but also raised his eyebrows and gave a quizzical tilt to his head to convey that he was asking a question.

Martin blinked rapidly, then signed back: “Yes, actually. But Tim and Sasha don’t.”

Jon nodded, then said aloud, along with signing, “Why are you non-verbal, exactly?”

“I have autism,” Martin signed. “Sometimes talking is overwhelming and sometimes, especially in stressful situations, I can’t talk at all. Woke up that way today. It should be gone by tomorrow morning.” Why was he explaining so much more to Jon than he had to the others? Maybe just because Jon knew sign, and thus could communicate in a language Martin found much easier than even the typing.

Jon frowned thoughtfully, then nodded again. Then, still speaking and signing both, “What were you typing into your phone?”

“Be still, for there is strange music. From the statement.” Martin gestured to the statement on his desk.

Jon’s frown deepened and he repeated the words. “‘Be still, for there is strange music….’” His expression went slack for a moment, and then he shook himself. “Right. Well. Just… just… I’ll be right back.” Then he abruptly turned and left the room.

Tim and Sasha exchanged bewildered looks. Then Sasha asked, “Do you know what that was all about?”

“I forgot Jon knows BSL,” Tim replied thoughtfully. “Hard of hearing on one side. Not that he’d have agreed to interpret all day or anything.”

Martin shrugged. It’s alright, he typed. This works just fine.

“Well, no, obviously not for some things.” Jon had reappeared as suddenly as he’d disappeared, holding a small brown notebook the size of Martin’s hand. “Here,” he said, thrusting the notebook at Martin. “This will work better, for communicating about the statements. You needn’t use it with me, of course, unless signing is also taxing.”

Martin stared up at Jon. There was an entirely new look on his boss’ face. Not any level of scorn or sneer, nor even concern. He was… nervous. Fidgety. Like he was offering a gift that he was afraid might be rejected.

Something went flip in Martin’s stomach and it was like the entire world turned upside down. Suddenly, in light of Jon’s actions in the last 24 hours, he saw the way his boss had acted toward him the last six months for what it was: a defense mechanism. Armor pulled up around someone fragile and soft and sweet, someone so terrified of rejection that he went about making sure it happened preemptively so he wouldn’t be hurt.

Martin had a sudden, fierce desire to hug Jon and tell him everything would be okay. It was so bewildering a sensation--he didn’t even like the man! At all!--that he just took the notebook with a nod and a signed “Thank you,” eyes still very wide.

Jon nodded in return. “You’re welcome.” He let out a breath, and seemed to relax a little. “Well. Then. I think we’ve found the name for this one, given the way Tim’s phone reacted to those words. ‘Strange Music’ it is.” He straightened himself. “Tim, you said something about the organ reminding you of articles you’ve read…?”

Tim nodded, expression suddenly serious. “Yeah. I’ll see if I can find them for you.”

“Right. Well, then, Sasha, if I could ask you to look through the Archive like we talked about? I’m certain we’ve had a statement from Jane Prentiss.” Jon then turned to Martin. “And if you wouldn’t mind helping me with ‘Schwarzwald?’ You used to work in the library, right?”

Martin was still staring at Jon in confusion, but nodded.

Jon actually smiled at him. Faintly. “Well, then, I’m certain you must know where to find the German history reference books, if you could go grab whatever they’ll let you bring down?”

The strangest thing about it was, Jon seemed sincere. Like he actually believed Martin did, indeed, know the library well enough to just… go up there and find the German history reference books. The faint, confident-in-his-assistant smile was a new look, at least directed at Martin; he’d seen Jon look at Tim and Sasha that way many times before.

Martin’s stomach was doing cartwheels. There were butterflies taking up residence in his intestines. His heart was pounding. How had he never noticed how nice Jon’s smile was? Soft and small, like he was afraid to let it actually take up residence on his face for too long.

Oh, God, oh, no. Martin could not fancy his boss. Jon hated him. Or, well, no, evidence suggested that perhaps Jon did not hate him, but Jon most certainly did not fancy him. This crush had to disappear, just as fast as it had come. This would not do.

He was going to be writing poetry again tonight, wasn’t he? Crap.

“Martin?” Jon’s tone was concerned rather than sharp, and the way Jon said his name made Martin want to sink into the floor.

Instead, he scribbled furiously in the notebook and held it up so all three of the others could see: Yeah, sorry, was just thinking about where that’d be. I’ll bring them down as soon as I find them.

Jon practically beamed at Martin’s use of the notebook and he nodded briskly. “Right! I’ll be in my office when you have the books, then.” He started to turn away.

Martin’s heart went pound pound pound because oh wow Jon was really cute when he let that smile take up more of his face. Throwing caution to the wind, he made a noise to get the other man’s attention.

Jon turned around, quirking a brow. “Yes, Martin?”

Martin signed, “Tea?” He, too, raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to indicate the question.

Jon nodded. “Tea would be lovely, yes.” He smiled at Martin for a brief moment, and then suddenly looked flustered. He glared at them all. “Anyway,” he snapped in his ‘boss’ voice, the impact of which was ruined by the flush rising in his cheeks, “there’s still work to be done. So let’s… do it.” And with that, he turned on his heel and left the office.

Had Jon blushed because Martin had offered him tea? Did Jon like his tea that much? Was Martin imagining things? He had to be imagining things. He put his head down on the desk and wrapped his arms over it so he could grab at handfuls of hair. What was happening to him?

Sasha tried to make her voice serious, but couldn't quite manage it past quite clearly holding back giggles. “Mourn for poor Martin, working alone with Jon.” She looked at Tim. “We should call HR preemptively, it’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Nah, I think Jon’s softening on our boy,” Tim said with a laugh. He reached over to ruffle Martin’s hair with one hand while he took his phone back with the other. “Don’t worry, Marto. I told you he’d come around one day.”

Martin looked up at Tim with a stricken, betrayed expression. In the notebook: Is this how you comfort me in my hour of need??

Sasha shook her head. “For once, Tim’s being serious. You weren’t in the room when Jon explained things to us. He’s worried about you, he doesn’t want you to have to leave the Institute alone, he doesn’t want you to have to look for the Prentiss statement in case it’s ‘too traumatic’ for you to run across on your own. He actually asked us if we thought we should avoid any mention of Prentiss altogether in your presence.”

“I told him no,” Tim said. “I hope that was okay. You seem like you’d rather deal with trauma by facing it and figuring it out, rather than avoiding it entirely.”

Matin gaped at them. Really? he wrote. Jon’s… worried about me? Really? As if he hadn’t seen the evidence just now that Jon was, indeed… softening.

Tim gave Martin a very serious look. “I’ve told you before… I’ve known Jon, well, not as long as I’ve known Sasha, but for a long while now. He’s prickly and thorny, even to people he cares about, but that’s a front and I’ve said so. You just didn’t believe me.”

“In Martin’s defense,” Sasha put in, “Jon’s been awfully ‘prickly and thorny’ to him specifically.”

Tim put up a hand. “Oh, I agree. I have had words with our dear boss about the way he treats Martin, largely because I’m one of the few people he might actually listen to.” He looked at Martin. “I don’t want to take the credit, because it’s really been a remarkably fast turnaround, but I’d like to think I helped, a little.”

Martin frowned thoughtfully. Thank you, he wrote. If Jon’s at ‘I can stand Martin’ instead of ‘Martin is the source of all bad that happens in the Archives’ work might be… better than tolerable, for once.

“That’s the spirit!” Tim said with a grin. “Now, then, Jon did say to get back to work…”

Jon gave Martin another of those soft smiles when Martin brought in the tea, a smile which widened on seeing the stack of books he carried in right after. That afternoon, spent sitting and going through books and discussing the Schwarzwald statement, was the first of many they’d spend together, reading and talking and comparing notes.

Martin was feeling verbal again the next morning, but he kept the notebook. If nothing else, it was a good place to jot down poetry. And it came in handy when he found himself unable to speak the morning after Jane Prentiss’ attack on the Archives.

And the morning after Jon confronted him about his CV.

And the morning after Jon disappeared, leaving Jurgen Leitner’s body at his desk. (Martin blamed that on the corridors more than the body, really.)

Funnily enough, he didn’t need it the morning after the Unknowing. But he kept it with him that day all the same, the first gift Jon had ever given him, and one of the few things he had left of him with Jon in a coma.

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

When they reached Daisy’s safehouse in Scotland, Martin had hoped he’d somehow manage to dodge the threat of going non-verbal. He’d been the one to drive the car, over Jon’s protests; it was something to focus on, to keep him remembering he was alive and real. He’d clutched the wheel and driven north north north with Jon giving directions in the passenger seat.

Martin had finally figured out that it was the chance to stop and think about trauma that led to his being non-verbal, which was why it was almost always a thing that hit in the morning. Adrenaline would keep him running after a stressful event, and then he’d carry himself through the rest of the day trying to clean up whatever mess had been caused. But sleep was enough for his body and brain to both tell him to stop, to process, to deal with whatever he’d run into.

It was possible, in hindsight, that he’d gone non-verbal more than once since the Unknowing and just hadn’t noticed because he’d been barely interacting with anyone. He’d certainly had a bad bout the morning after his mother’s funeral, dealing with so much misgendering and fake smiles. And there had been more than enough trauma to try to process in the past year, so it must have happened before.

He’d just really, really hoped it wouldn’t now, because he didn’t want to put Jon through that. (Why he thought he was putting Jon through anything he didn’t really want to examine. It made him feel Lonely, and that was bad.)

At any rate, the realization of why he went non-verbal had led to him keeping busy in order to hold it off, in order to hold himself together. So he drove, and he puttered about the cabin poking into cupboards, and he talked to Jon, and he talked to the shop lady in the village, and he brought back food and made dinner with Jon, and everything was good and fine.

And then he woke up the next morning, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, and he could not speak.

There was the smell of bacon and eggs and pancakes cooking, and Martin made his bleary way out into the main room of the cabin and peered at Jon, already up and dressed and cooking.

His boyfriend turned to look at him and smiled, one of those soft smiles Martin had come to love so much. “Sleep well?”

"Not really,” Martin signed. “I mean…” He gestured at his throat.

Jon nodded. “I figured you might feel that way this morning. I, uhh… hold on a moment, I need to….” He grabbed the pan of bacon and moved it off the heat, pulled a pancake off the griddle and deposited it on a plate, then turned off the stove and went to poke around in one of the bags.

Martin chuckled fondly. “What’re you looking for?”

Jon was still digging through his bag. “When I was grabbing essentials at the store, back in London, I was thinking, you’ve been through a lot, and the notebook I gave you before must be full if you even have it anymore. I know you were writing poetry in it, and… oh, here we go.”

Jon came up with another small notebook. This one was not plain and brown, the way the first one he’d gifted Martin all those years ago had been. This one was black, and had silvery stars on its cover that, as Jon held out the book and thus tilted it through the light, shimmered into rainbows.

“Just in case, you know, the shop lady doesn’t know BSL.”

Martin blinked at the notebook.

“It, uhh… I know it’s not your usual style,” Jon said, his voice suddenly nervous. He was looking down at the notebook as he spoke, instead of at Martin. “Not… retro. But… I saw it and I thought of you.” He paused. “That tape, where you were talking to Simon Fairchild. He talked about the ‘cosmic scale,’ and how we’ve never even been alive on that time frame, and you said… what was it? You said, ‘I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever.’ And I just… that was… maybe the most… it was very… you. And there were other options, flowers or cursive writing, o-or… I don’t know, they all seemed so obvious, but this…”

Jon swallowed, and finally looked up at Martin. “I thought, after the Lonely, you might like a reminder that, you have value. That… that to me, you shine as bright as any star.” And then he flushed, and Martin knew it was for him, just as he now knew the flushes about tea all those years ago had also been for him.

Martin was gaping. Oh. Oh. Jon… loved him. Which he’d known, intellectually, but the emotional knowledge of it hit him suddenly, took his breath away. He knew it, all at once, in that “oh we could spend the rest of our lives together” way he’d never really thought he’d ever feel.

Jon had clearly misinterpreted the expression; he started stammering, “I-if… it it’s bad, I can… well, no, I can’t take it back, stupid, I should’ve just grabbed the one that had--”

Martin cut him off by reaching out to take the notebook from Jon and reached out with his other hand to cup the shorter man’s cheek. He smiled, and because he’d realized long ago how well Jon responded to physical touch, he leaned in to plant a soft kiss on his boyfriend’s forehead.

Then he pulled back to put the notebook aside on the counter and signed, “It’s perfect. Thank you.” A pause, and then, “I love you.”

Jon smiled, both speaking and signing, “I love you, too.”

And for once in his life, Martin knew that to be true, and trusted that knowledge. He was loved. He had been loved, and he would be loved for the rest of his life, whatever state his voice was in.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #jon sims #jonathan sims #jon the archivist #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #archives gang #otp: one way or another together #fanfic #my fanfic #ableism tw #jmart #canon tma fic

308 notes · View notes

solomonish · 3 years

Text

My Personal Simeon Fall AU Headcanons

These are within the same realm of this fic - and it is intended as a Simeon x MC universe! These HCs will focus on his time in the Devildom rather than why he fell, but maybe that information will come eventually...

*some things regarding this war I keep mentioning may not be entirely clear - still working on that! However, I’ll try not to put out too much contradicting information, hehe!

WARNING: some angst, brief mention/implication of torture. forcibly removed memories.

First Days

He came to the devildom in a blaze, much like the brothers did, hurtling down like a shooting star. At the core, encasing him as his wings charred to soot, was a brilliant light blue, rimmed by a dazzling white and platinum gold. At his impact site, parts of the dirt and stone have crystallized in the same colors. The site is still roped off for investigation.

He fell, acting as a white flag for both sides to signal the end of a war very few people knew was raging. The impact sent the last of his holy energy into the surrounding area, and demons near the sight complained of itching and general irritation for weeks after.

The only people at the site who looked into his eyes when he struggled to get up were you, Diavolo, Barbatos, Lucifer, and Solomon. A few curious Devildom citizens were scattered about, too, but Diavolo's authoritative vibe kept them too far to see anything.

Diavolo and Barbtos kept him in one room in the castle as he adjusted to the sudden demonic energy inside him and learned to contain his wrath. You were allowed to see him, but only if supervised by Barbatos or Diavolo in case Simeon tried to hurt you.

He was despondent most of the time, sitting curled up and stiff in the middle of the bed that looked untouched. He spent days without sleep, simmering with rage. You never found out if he bottled it up or if he destroyed the room but Barbatos put it back together before you appeared.

(You might not ever learn that some of the methods Diavolo and Barbatos used to bring his memories back were...extreme. They had no intentions of torture or pain, but they desperately wanted to get to them if they could. That’s where his anger was used up - as he screamed out in agony, either from the extraction method or the feeling of having lost everything yet not quite grasping what that meant.)

Satan suggested books and sent some of his personal collection that helped him gather himself when he was created. Diavolo and Barbatos tried to jog his memories, both for personal reasons and to get information on the Celestial realm, but that was exactly why they were gone. His memories had been magically extracted, but haste made him forget most everything instead of just sensitive information regarding the realm.

Eventually, he was free to roam the garden and some hallways, and when Diavolo and Barbatos concluded that regaining his memories was impossible, he was housed.

Power & Standing

He was a powerful angel, so he is a powerful demon, yet not quite as powerful as the brothers.

Simeon, for the majority of the war, was fighting on the side of the Celestial Realm, so he's generally disliked among the citizens of the Devildom. Our cast are all weary around him for multiple reasons - aside from Satan, Beel, Solomon, and MC (obviously).

He isn't an official member of any student council or governing body, nor does he really have a final say in anything, but he does frequently act as an advisor of sorts. He tends to work with Barbatos on that front, discussing in the background anything that might need discussed or worked on separate from the brothers.

Simeon is a wrath demon, though the change in his temper is hardly noticeable at first. He resembles Lucifer in how strict he is, mostly when he is in charge of something, and his anger that releases when he isn't listened to mimics Satan's.

If they are near each other and angry about the same thing, Satan and Simeon can actually feed off of the other's anger and boost their power. Satan does NOT need the boost, but you bet he brings chaos and destruction tenfold is he has it. For Simeon, though, it practically puts him on par with some of the brothers, if only for a short while.

Socially, he is generally ignored, and nobody runs away from him if he initiates conversation - but he doesn't. Simeon turns into a bit of a loner, a large chunk of his personality and memories gone and replaced with anger.

He's still learning how to deal with it.

His demon form consists of black deer-like antlers (not small but just small enough to avoid being entirely cumbersome) and long wings with bone-tipped feathers. His wings are almost always folded against his back and hanging low, the dangling feathers reminiscent of his angelic cloak with the golden charms. He does have a little black deer tail but doesn't like it being commented on.

(Don't worry about aerodynamics or which animal he represents, it's a magical universe its fine uwu)

General Information

He lives in modest home on the outskirts of the Devildom, somewhat close to the castle in case there's some type of emergency that needs to be taken care of but not so close he gets a super nice house and causes some social uproar. He has a small yard and a garden he tends to meticulously.

I imagine the house as a sort of townhouse (although not a for real townhouse because its it's own thing), two stories tall. The downstairs has a small living room, kitchen and bathroom while the entire upstairs is an open bedroom/office type deal. It gives off a gothic cottage type of vibe. No idea if this is helpful so maybe one day I'll build it in the sims.

He keeps his house tidy but has many bookshelves filled with equal parts books and knickknacks.

As stated before, he is a wrath demon, and because of his memories being almost entirely erased, he had a similar fall and adjustment period as Satan. Also, as a writer, he has an intrinsic appreciation for books. He and Satan get along the most out of all the brothers - the fact that Lucifer has mixed (mostly negative)(?) feelings about Simeon makes the deal sweeter for Satan.

Beel doesn’t dislike him, and while he doesn’t trust Simeon yet he’s willing to see if Simeon is on their side now considering none of his family got hurt. Solomon still trusts him though, but he does get a little downtrodden when he has memories that Simeon doesn’t.

When angry, Simeon smiles sweetly but his voice turns dead cold. Whereas Satan goes feral and seeks destruction like a bomb, Simeon feels more like a sniper rifle that needs careful aim and precision with just as devastating consequences. Shouting and immediate carnage are rare and only come after a severe transgression.

Otherwise, Simeon allows himself to be more playful than before. He doesn’t exactly have snide remarks, but he is an expert at stating the truth in a way that feels like a blade cutting through your confidence.

In true "flaunt what ya got without really making it seem purposeful" Simeon fashion, he wears button-down shirts that are almost entirely unbuttoned. They are always patterned and funky, and he wears them tucked into black pants. I'm thinking something like this (he also has patterns that are more "groovy" than vacation)

Will also occasionally sport a deep v like this

He still acts just as naive and confused if you bring up how exposed he is to him, so its best just to suffer in silence.

When making a pact with MC, he makes sure the mark covers a scar he left and doesn't remember from the war on your shoulder. It feels like a longer-lasting apology.

He still calls you "little lamb," but instead of smiling gently at you like a loving shepherd, his smiles look like a predator baring his fangs at his prey. In a sweet way. In a hot way.

What Does He Remember?

At first, nothing. Demonic instinct claws at him and he lashes out at everyone and everything.

He is still a nightmare with technology. Nobody knows if this is residual from how he was before, a result of his memories being taken, or just a trick.

Occasionally, he’ll remember an inside joke, but only halfway. You’ll say something you don’t realize is from before, and he’ll laugh, almost like an impulse. But then his laugh trails off and he gets contemplative, wondering what, exactly, was so funny about it.

The brightness of the Celestial Realm is hard to forget. The rainbow framing the palace and vast fields appear in dreams. He never remembers anything ‘important,’ but it’s enough to remind him that he was discarded.

The Celestial War hasn’t gone away, not in its entirety. There are certain things like battle strategies that he can’t for the life of him conjure up in his mind, but he remembers the bulk of it. It helps him realize why some of the brothers were/are so aloof towards him - nothing was ever as simple as he thought it once to be. Fighting a losing battle isn’t a choice you make when its for love - its simply the only path available.

(Apologies are so, so hard to dish out when you can’t remember most of your transgressions, though.)

He remembers Luke and will worry himself to inconsolable tears at night just thinking about him. Those thrown away don’t get the privilege of knowing what happens to their friends - and even if he did, Simeon wouldn't be so stupid as to put a target on Luke's back by proving that he was still important to him.

But he can only remember Luke's terrified, teary eyes when he realized Simeon was going to turn on the Celestial Realm in the middle of a war, and how he pleaded with Simeon not to. Luke asked what he would do all by himself, and Simeon hopes to his Father for only one thing - that he figured it out.

This is his sore spot. Nobody is allowed to be privy to these thoughts, not even you. But some days he comes to RAD looking worse for wear and you KNOW something is bothering him. He'll just never tell you what.

#obey me #obey me simeon #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #swd obey me #swd simeon #simeon x reader #simeon fall au #mine #simeon #simeon x mc

158 notes · View notes

alphabravocharliedelta · 3 years

Note

HC request - the safe house crew (who’s been in relationship with Reader!Bell) reacting to the “good” ending of the campaign...?

Ah yes. living in spain but the s is silent

Adler

He feels numb and lost, doesn't know what to think

And he despises himself for following his orders through, but it was always for the greater good

But was it worth it?

The speech that Adler gave you on the cliff was true to the heart… or he tried to convince himself that it was

It wasn't until he pulled the trigger that he had realized what he'd actually done, and what he just lost

Does he regret it? He doesn't know anymore.

Kind of just stares at his hands, and when they finally return to the safehouse he locks himself in the medbay and draws the blinds to a close

Balls them into fists after he realizes that they were shaking, and not from the cold.

He was too fucking obedient— aimlessly following orders, was he too blindsided with the idea of keeping the free world "free"?

Adler thought that if the authorities were satisfied with the outcome, then nothing else mattered

But that ideology had no use now

Hudson

The most difficult of decisions require the strongest wills

But even then he found himself breaking underneath the pressure

Commitment to his job was one thing, but having the final authority on the verdict was the most difficult thing

One life vs potential millions

Before he could come to a finalized decision, Adler already done the job

He only gives one, curt nod: "I see."

Returns to his office after hearing the news, where he closes the door gently.

Inside, though, he just loses his cool

he literally throws everything off of his desk, swiping his arms across the top as everything falls onto the floor

Throws his glasses down in frustration before burrowing his face in his hands

Upon seeing a photo of you, the one from your file, he picks it up, about to rip or crumple it

Only to remember that it was one of the few pictures they had of you

Lazar

You saved his life

Lazar feels his heart just shatter upon hearing the news

He never forgets the people he owes, and even swore to himself to put his life on the line for you ever since Cuba

But he wasn't even given the chance to

It's complicated— should he take it and suck it up like he always was or lash out?

even if he was a weapons specialist, Lazar kinda just doesn't touch a gun for a while unless he has to

Despite working with Adler for years, there was finally a reason to hold a grudge against him, and he doesn't let it go

Locks himself in a room, he'll cry silently while cradling one of the presents you gave him.

It's not one of those "sitting there as tears fall" kind of thing, but the one where he's trying to choke back any sounds while attempting to find room to breathe in between

People won't see him for a while

Mason

Doesn't processes it at first

or maybe he just refused to

Just sits there for a moment, letting to words fully sink in and letting his mind comprehend the meaning

Mason gets beyond pissed

You went through the same shit he did, and this was the treatment you got in return?

He didn't even find out about your brainwashing until just hours before they raided the monastery

It was unfair and cruel, as if the CIA was playing favorites

You were one of the only people that actually understood and tolerated him. Loved him despite his flaws and deeply rooted issues.

and they just took it all away

Mason thought he lost you in the aftermath of Solovetsky, but was beyond relieved when he found you alive and kicking under the large debris

Now he felt all of that shit coming back, and this time it was permanent

Park

Hates herself for not realizing it sooner

The signs were there, yet she didn't bother to ask Adler where he was going with you

Whenever it was about you, she and Adler would talk before moving forward with whatever plan in mind

But this time he didn't, and he returned alone

"Where's Bell?"

Adler continues to prove himself as a man who she doesn't like working with, this was the final straw

Professionalism could only go so far, and she makes sure that the MI6 doesn't assign her anymore jobs relating to Adler

Withdraws from the team once her purpose is done, taking any of Bell's leftover possessions for a proper burial

Without any knowledge of your actual background, there's no one to give your things to, so she puts the belongings in a box and buries it six feet under, except for one

She keeps it on her at all times

Sims

He's typically known for being the laid back guy of the group

But upon hearing the news, that persona begins to untangle itself as he loses his composure

He needs to see the body himself, Sims will just keep convincing himself otherwise

his humor turns a bit darker and personal, since its one of his other ways of coping (other than his shrink)

Adler may be his friend but you were the love of his life, so you can catch sims saying things under his breath about Adler (and not in a good way)

buries himself into the world of technology more than usual, just trying to get his mind off of you, but he could only remember your innocent curiosity on the subject

How you continuously asked questions, or inquired him about upcoming releases/productions

Sims craves the assistance you used to offer him

as you would pass him whatever tool he needed while he repaired the cars, but now he could only accidentally call out your name, holding out a hand only to remember that you weren't there to give it to him

Needless to say, he becomes cold and distant for a while as the only thing that needs repairs is his own broken heart :(

Woods

"Wasn't [Y/N] with you?"

Was ready to greet you when you return, about to tell you about something he just found out

But… no.

He runs out of the place, trying to look for you

Takes every goddamn turn and path there is, keeping all of his senses tuned to the max just for any sign of you

When Woods doesn't find you, he returns to punch at Adler, no holding back

"Where the FUCK is Bell?!"

Similar to Mason, he didn't find out about your history till the mission

When first informed about it, he found himself doubting you and your loyalties a tiny pinch, but having you gone made him realize that he loved you too much to be held back by that idea

But it was already too late to apologize, and he regrets it

Just lies in bed staring at the ceiling while reminiscing about the limited time you both spent together, his heart fucking aching

Will literally grasp his chest and curl himself up into a ball and weep

#wow i love angst #call of duty x reader #russell adler #jason hudson #lazar #alex mason #helen park #lawrence sims #frank woods #text #asks #hc #abcd briefing #bo:cw #black ops cold war #call of duty black ops cold war #everyone is so complicatedddd i love them all but sorry heartbreak time

263 notes · View notes

pagesofkenna · 3 years

Text

Heads up, today is Creator Day on Itch.io, meaning Itch is waiving their service fee for the day and giving 100% of profits to creators! A bunch of people have put bundles together, including a bunch of indie TTRPG folks! Here's some of my tabletop and video game recommendations:

Tabletop:

Blades in the Dark - This is a very well known title in the TTRPG community, and one of my FAVORITE games of all time. You and your friends play a gang of scoundrels - thieves, murderers for hire, cultists, whatever you want to be - trying to survive in the seedy underbelly of a city plunged into eternal night. Very reminiscent of Dishonored, Bloodbourne, Peaky Blinders, and Crimson Peak.

Golden Sky Stories - THIS IS SUCH A CUTE GAME. You and your friends play animal spirits in a quiet, rural Japanese town. You can transform from forms that look like human children to foxes, birds, tanuki, and so on. There's no combat mechanic (not that I remember) because the purpose of the game is to help out the humans in the town, or the great spirits in the forest. I wish this was more well known!

Superstition - This is the game I did a writeup of on my portfolio blog a few weeks ago, written by a friend so you should check it out! It's a solo storytelling game where you play a fake seer making up rituals.

The One - A tabletop dating sim! I actually helped beta test this a little. It's another solo game, you draw cards and roll dice to try to maintain a successful relationship in a weird fantasy city. I ended up dating and breaking up with at least ten different monsters and spirits.

Take Root - Tabletop farming sim! Like Harvest Moon or Stardew Valley? Play it with dice! Can be played solo or in a group. I haven't personally played this one yet, but I'm planning to play it soon and do a writeup for my portfolio blog.

Alone on a Journey - A collection of solo games, some of which you can pick up for free if you just want to try them out. Sort of a meditative worldbuilding exercise - you draw cards to get prompts, then write out what you discover about the world around you based on those prompts.

Thursday - A diceless, GMless 2+ player game about time loops - like Groundhogs Day! I haven't actually played this one yet (*eyes emoji*) but I've been watching it for a while and it looks fantastic.

Delve - A solo dungeon mapping game. You control a kingdom of dwarves who are digging further and further into the ground, trying to unearth riches without unleashing an elder evil. The first time I played this I... sorta got my whole kingdom killed....

Monster Mix - A 2-player game, both players create a monster character and then create a music playlist for that character. Then you each listen to the other's playlist, and try to see how many questions you can answer about the other's character. It's a cool experiment in character creation AND playlist making, which I love.

Artefact - Another solo game, but instead of playing a character you play a magical artefact, a cool sword or magic ring or whatever you want to create. Over the course of the game you tell the story of this item, how it was created and what great events it's seen, over the long, long arc of history.

(Note on Solo games for people new to them: They're a lot like guided writing prompts, but I love to use them to create backstories for OCs, or flesh out a setting for writing projects or DND games. You can journal as much or as little as you like.)

Video Games:

Oxenfree - (In last year's Itch megabundle) A 2D sidescrolling horror game about teenagers stuck overnight on an island with angry ghosts. Listen I don't love horror as a genre but this got me SO good, its creepy and unsettling and ghosty, and the music is amazing, and it's an indie fan favorite.

A Short Hike - (In last year's Itch megabundle) A cutesy short exploration game - also stuck on an island, you play a bird-person who sets off on a hike to the top of the mountain.

Arcade Spirits - Nerdy visual novel/dating sim! I think this also may have been in that megabundle. In an alternate world where arcades never went out of style, you try to hold down your job at a floundering mom-and-pop arcade, fight the capitalist megacorp, and maybe find love (but only if you want)!

A Normal Lost Phone - The entire game takes place in a phone you've apparently found on the ground. You have to snoop through the owner's texts, email, and apps to figure out how to turn on the wifi and unlock more parts of the phone, discovering the story of the person who 'lost' it. I don't wanna spoil anything but it was a very touching game.

Feel free to share some of your own recommendations!

#itchio #itch.io #creator day #i kinda lost steam after four video games lols #i know theres a TON more on Itch but I don't know which games are and arent on there yknow #i know more about the itch ttrpg community

32 notes · View notes

elliethesuperfruitlover · 3 years

Text

Dew Covered Rose

A/N: So we’re ignoring the fact that I haven’t written in like......two, three months. I honestly just haven’t felt like it, and my brain has been busy thinking about writing, or getting back to my daydreams, or thinking about Midnight. Comfort character tingz. But yeah, I’m bringing Topazi back (i also forgot when juneteenth was, I was supposed to do something for her then, I missed the day, but here I made up for it :) This is mild hurt/comfort, except my OC is tired, not hurt. Also this is probably time to mention that Topazi is a gardener, and goes to clients houses to plant things for them! Enjoy!

Tag List: @joz-stankovich, @misskittysmagicportal, @badsext, @super-unpredictable98, @the-freckled-luba, @magic-multicolored-miracle, @ghouls-buddy, @maerenee930, @frogs--are--bitches, @neuroticpuppy, @forenschik, @bisexualnathanyoung, @robert-sheehan, @firstpersonnarrator, @salvador-daley

Warnings: kinda unsafe driving bc sleep deprivation, brief mentions of nudity, swearing

Topazi had a bit of a tiring day. The house that she’d been working at had almost no shade. The customers were as nice as they could be.....but it seemed as though every tulip that she planted correctly, they would request it to be put in a different place. Even though there was an extremely limited amount of space that she had to work with. It was very frustrating to her, to be honest. However, she got the job done. It took hours of her digging things back up and wiping sweat off of her face to be happy with the result. She was sure to make sure that everything was as good as it could be before the left for home. Even the thought of having to get back in her car and do something other than cuddle up and or sleep was killing her.

It was late into the night, and the owl in the front yard stared at her as she pulled into the driveway, eyes barely open. She took multiple deep breaths and rubbed a calloused hand over her face before stepping out of the car, not even bothering to take her tools out of the trunk. She trudged her way into the house, carefully unlocking the door, as to not disturb Klaus, who should’ve been close to sleep, or in bed at that point. She tossed the keys into the bowl by the door, and hung her coat up, silently grimacing at the soreness already developing in her arms.

Not having the energy to call out to Klaus, she walked into the kitchen, finding one of the cats on top of the kitchen island, fast asleep. A small smile found its way onto her face as she gently pet it, smoothing down the fur on top of her face. She made her way over to the fridge, which she opened, very slowly, to find leftovers of spaghetti that Klaus had cooked for himself. She could never stand the noodles and sauce together, so she looked around for more things. Canned soup in the pantry....she’d have to heat it up, and she needed something instant. Juice wouldn’t be filling enough. She began to nod off, looking at the fridge once more, and she found a solution that she’d looked over. A sandwich.

“Thank fuck for bread.” she thought to herself as she grabbed the bologna, mayonnaise, and cheese slices from their respective spots before grabbing a knife and paper towel. By the time she put the bread back, her sleep levels had reached almost the maximum, and she began nodding off, head on the side of the fridge. She quickly came to her senses, and trotted back over to the island, joints creaking.

She sat down on one of the stools on the kitchen island. (”Klaus, I need the stools, if my legs don’t look like a pretzel, I’m not sitting correctly.”) As she took a bite of her sandwich (crust first), her brain decided to shut down temporarily, and she almost fell asleep eating. The suds episode of Spongebob Squarepants, however, prevented her from doing so. She slowly ate the sandwich, grateful for the purpose that it served. After she finished her first bite, however, she completely knocked out. The cat woke up, looking at her owner, before hopping off of the counter, and walking up the stairs.

Klaus had heard Topazi come home, but it’d been a while since he heard her open the fridge last, so he went to check on her. He avoided Minnie on the steps (as in Minnie Riperton, not the mouse) and walked into the kitchen, to find his lover fast asleep, small snores coming from her mouth. He smiled, almost letting a chuckle past his lips when he realized his task.

“She looks fucking wasted.” he thought, before gently shaking her awake, resulting in a groan of annoyance.

“Come on T, you gotta get to bed.” he whispered, rubbing her back. She leaned against his chest, and shook her head into it, too tired to utter a rebuttal.

Klaus chuckled lightly, and put Topazi’s used paper towel in the trash can, and her utensils in the sink, to be washed when he eventually came back down for his late night (and sometimes morning) snack. He gently picked her up, leaning down to press a small kiss to her forehead. He thought back simply how much he just loved her. He didn’t know how, as he said that “I can’t fall for someone completely. At least not again.” but he did. Although, it wasn’t completely all at once though.

Klaus made his way up the steps (once more avoiding Minnie), and into their shared bedroom where he gently laid Topazi down on the bed. He figured that she may want to be clean when she slept as well, but was somewhat confused how he was to go about the entire “my partner is half asleep and I’d hate to disrespect her boundaries”. So, he settled on simply getting rid of her outer clothes, and bra, then placing nightie over her form. It was one of the newer ones she’d bought. She would go on and on about how “there’s tiny flowers on this nightgown Klaus, I need to buy it”.....ah he loves Topazi with all of his heart.

He gently tucked his lover into bed, making sure that she’s close enough to her phone that she won’t be grouchy about having to move from her spot in order to reach it. Topazi stirred in her slumber, but only a bit, and Klaus went down to the kitchen for his meal, which was going to be a good old fashioned lover boy nutter butter. Klaus thought back to when he first met Topazi as he ate his sandwich. It had been right after he met his....other siblings...like other other siblings. She was quietly sitting in a coffee shop, where she had her knees to her chest, reading a book. She was deep in concentration, but when Klaus found nowhere to sit, he had no choice but to ask her. (or to leave the shop and drink his hot chocolate elsewhere, but nah)

“Um, can I sit here?” he asked, pointing to the seat. She nodded her head without looking up, making a small noise of affirmation at the back of her throat. Klaus sat in the booth across from her, his shoes making a squeaky noise on the tile below. He awkwardly crosses his legs, taking small sips of the drink.

“What are you reading?” he asked, eyebrows quirked upwards. She gently lifted her book, and it read “The Human Anatomy, Down to the Bone Cell” He hmmed in acknowledgement, and resorted to looking out of the window.

The drops of rain raced each other on the windowsill, determined for few seconds at a time, only to puddle together in the end. Klaus stared at a single corner outside, where nobody seemed to be walking over. It was the crack where the sidewalk met the much smaller border of the sidewalk. He watched the rainwater trickle into it, and he felt himself start to zone out. But that was alright...he needed time to think.

This, in turn, was perfect for Topazi to stop reading her book and stare at this stranger. New people aren’t really her thing, as they’re usually below her standard of who she liked keeping in her circle. She peered at the way his curls were somewhat tussled, like he’d been caught in a windstorm of some sort. (Although it’s been rainy all day, no wind whatsoever.), she thought to herself. His eyes were beautiful, but so tired, it seemed. Wonderful shade of green, she thought, too. She pondered the different shades of green that she could remember, which lead to her thinking of the floating diamond of Sims’ characters. (plumbob, she repeated, overenunciating the first syllable). She went back to the thought at hand, and looked at the hand clutching the cup of hot chocolate, still seeming to be warm to the touch, judging by the steam coming from the mouthpiece of the top.

His hand was veiny, somewhat red, (maybe because of the heat). His fingers looked very pale though, almost as if they’d recently been subjected to extreme cold, or flashes of it. (the rain, she thought) His chest was partially exposed due to the.....vest that he was wearing (maybe he’s some sort of performer, he does have a cowboy hat) She paid more attention to his face, also tired, and glanced at his lips, but only for a moment, as she didn’t need to get exceedingly horny in a public space over a complete stranger.....again. She softly gasped when he looked back at her, and she softly smiled, getting back to her book.

“Were you just staring at me?” Klaus asked, looking back at her.

“Yes.” she replied, eyes skimming over her paragraph on metacarpals. She had a fleeting thought to wiggle her hand in front of her face in order to properly label everything, but she could do that back at home.

“Why?” he asked, his tone giving off the fact that he wasn’t in fact upset, just curious.

“Eye contact isn’t my favorite thing, neither is small talk, especially if I’m preoccupied, so I sometimes stare at people in order to get a better understanding of them.” she explained, glancing at Klaus.

“Oh, well, don’t mind me then. I won’t bother you.” he said, looking at the table. Topazi put her book facedown on the table, apologizing.

“You’re fine! You didn’t try to talk to me, and you respected me when I didn’t reply with the name of my book, verbally at least. I like that.” she replied, deciding to look Klaus in the eye.

“Oh, thank you. Care to tell me why you’re reading about human cells?” he teased, a smirk coming to his lips. Topazi panicked for a moment, because she thought “fuck....he’s a charmer”

She did tell him about why she was reading about human cells. And why she kept scratching a portion of the book as she read. He even noticed how she bit her lip when she read, which lead him to think that she was actually reading some sort of cell erotica, only to remember what she had previously told him. They talked for hours, it seemed. For once, Topazi found someone that she could talk to and not get tired. Interests, parents, everything (maybe a bit too much). They eventually had to separate, but not after giving each other their numbers, and Klaus found a small feeling of joy in his chest as he walked out of the coffee shop. He walked back into the Hargreeves (uh.....Sparrow) mansion with a small smile on his face. His face hurt, not from too much sun, or biting his lips too much. From pure excitement and joy, he found. Bubbling out of him, steamrolling its way out into the open. His fists shook in glee, and he squealed, and he didn’t care. For once. He needed something good, and she was it. Beautiful Topazi. Wonderful Topazi. That’s the answer.

Klaus came back to his senses as he realized that some of the marshmallow fluff had leaked its way onto the counter where he scooped it up with a finger, tempted to put it into his mouth. A few moments of thinking gave him his decision. He imagined Topazi’s look of disgust when she caught him doing that once, and stuck his finger under the tap for a few moments, wiping the water off on his bare thigh. He finished his sandwich, and went back upstairs (once again avoiding Minnie). He snuggled next to his partner in bed, breathing in deeply. Yeah....she’d need a bit of a shower when she woke up, but that’s alright. That’s alright though. She would spend the rest of the day at home, to rest from being on her feet and knees for hours the previous day. And he’d tell her how important and beautiful she is, and think about how he’d almost went to the pizza shop across the street. But he didn’t. And he chose right, so right. With no regrets, for the first time he could think of in a while.

Masterlist

#topazi marshall #topazi x klaus #klaus hargreeves x oc #tua fanfic

15 notes · View notes

rosy-cheekx · 3 years

Text

Dragged from the Deep

I will update with an AO3 link, two chapters, but I really wanted to get this out!

This is from @voiceless-terror‘s prompt: “ Been a tough few days. How are you holding up?” with jmart in the safehouse...Not what they expected but I am VERY VERY proud of this!

Martin awoke to the sound of Jon mumbling in his sleep. “I took my hand, and I reached down into the darkness.” Jon’s voice is quiet, reverent. Its barely his own; his voice of the Archive.

Really should have heard from Basira by now, Martin thought, trying to tamp down the frustration rising in his chest.

“Down and down,” Jon continued. “Until my whole arm was inside, up to the shoulder. It was damp and cold, with the rough stone sides scraping my skin, but my hand was stretched as far as I could, and it still gripped nothing but empty air. Then the hole began to close, and all at once the spell was broken.”

“Jon, m’dear?” he half-whispered, stroking Jon’s cheek softly. Jon was a light sleeper, but these times were...tricky. “Hey, Jonathan,” he added, voice at a speaking-volume now. “Wake up, it’s not real.”

“I tried to pull my arm out, to get free, but it held me tight. Not quite crushing me but holding me in place. I screamed and cried for help, looking around for anyone who might be able to hear me, but the only people walking by seemed utterly oblivious to what was happening. Then I felt it, something brushing against my hand from below it in the hole. Teeth. Wet, blunt teeth, which quickly gave way to a rough, slender tongue-”[97]

Martin couldn’t bear to hear any more. He hated witnessing Jon like this, possessed by the statements, by his need to feed. Jon’s voice was like marble, smooth and cold and mesmerizing, but it was heavy and would consume Jon if he allowed it.

Martin would not allow it.

“Jon!” He gave him a shake, firm on his shoulders. “Wake up!”

A drowning man suddenly reunited with his lungs; Jonathan Sims gasped for air. His eyes flashed open (there it was, the cursed glint of green that seemed to glow from within) and he clutched a hand to his chest as he began to cough. Martin pulled him into a sitting position, kneeling next to him and resting a hand on Jon’s lower back as he felt the convulsions double his frame. When his hacking had settled, Martin felt safe enough to breathe again himself, lest he had stolen air from the man beside him.

“H-hi,” Jon murmured, voice shaky, drawing his knees to his chest beneath the comforter. “How-how bad was it this time?”

Martin knew about Jon’s hunger, knew that statements were his fuel more than anything organic. The arrangement with Basira had been working relatively well up until now. Every three to four weeks, Basira would call the mobile they kept stashed in the safehouse for that purpose, only her number programmed in and let them know when she was coming, typically within a day or two. She should have called almost ten days ago. Had she let them go, at last, to fend for themselves? Had something happened to her, to the Institute? Things were getting dire.

At first, a little less than a week ago, Martin thought it was the nightmares; that the mumbling had been Jon apologizing to those so unfortunate enough to have him as a feature player in their nightmares. His words were unintelligible, so Martin had hugged him tightly in the night, in the way they had held each other those first days weeks, whispering affirmations of safety and love.

When he asked the poorly-rested Jon about it the next morning, he had frowned. “Ah, no. I mean, I haven’t slept with anyone—ah, more to say, no one has been in the room while I’ve been asleep to confirm for sure besides you, but I don’t think I usually talk in my sleep.” Martin chalked it up as “Weird, But No Too Weird,” and they agreed to keep an eye on it. Every night since, Martin had repeated that ritual, the words too unintelligible to understand, Martin clutching Jon like a life vest, carrying him safe through the morning.

Jon’s flu-like symptoms had cropped up three days ago. He woke weak, hardly able to move, and couldn’t keep any food down. The tea and water Martin literally spooned him were staying down, at least, which helped combat the dehydration Jon was surely suffering from the 40-degree fever he was running. The fever reducers weren’t helping, and Martin had nearly dragged Jon to A&E before he’d been able to explain to him what was happening. He was breaking down, needed the statements or things would get worse. “And, no, Martin-” cut off by a coughing fit. “I don’t know how much worse. Bad.” Whatever role Martin usually played in Jon’s life: roommate, friend, boyfriend maybe?, it didn’t matter. Or, at least, it came to second to Martin’s new role as nurse. Nurse was a role Martin was good at it. Practically a professional home-care assistant. But caring for a starving eldritch demigod was marginally different than caring for his human mum. At least the vomit cleaned the same way.

The statements had become more distinct the first night of the fevers. Words that had typically barely passed his lips were now being told to the night air with an intensity Martin had sorely wished he would never hear again. If Martin strained his ears, he could typically hear the tired hiss of a tape recorder. He tried to smash it that first night, out of anger and exhausted desperation, but Jon had screamed when he had bashed it with a vase, weeping as if it had been his head smashed and not the spinning dials of that cursed thing. Jon’s migraine had lasted through the night and into the afternoon, with Martin unable to do anything but apologize and stroke his hair, reading to him a novel that just wouldn’t be enough.

“Not too bad,” Martin answered, plastering a soft smile over his tired face. “Just scared me was all, I don’t know if it’s better to wake you or not, but it felt weird not to.” Jon was scratching at old worm scars, skin shiny and taut, and Martin took his hands gently, pressing a kiss to his pulse points in turn. God, he felt so hot against his lips.

“M-I’m sorry,” Jon sighs, eyes already fluttering closed again. His face was pale and his muscles slack; Martin hated how hollow his eyes and cheeks seemed, skeletal in the light of the moon.

“Shh, nothing to apologize for,” Martin assured him, reaching across Jon’s side of the bed to click on the lamp, wincing at the sudden light and the clock. 4:15. Too early, even for a morning person like Martin. “Do-do you want me to read to you some more? I can make some tea, chamomile? Milk and honey? Or we can listen to some music, or a podcast?” He knew it was fruitless. It would all be for naught until he got the damn statements from Basira.

Jon had the comforter drawn to his neck, shivering slightly, eyes closed. He nodded vaguely. “The book,” he managed, voice a broken whisper, so unlike the strong and powerful intonation Martin had just heard. Martin nodded, kissing his forehead, clammy and plastered with baby hairs, and stood, passing the book into Jon’s lap, page marked with a flat-barreled pen, something that had been tucked into a journal in the bedside table. (Jon and Martin had agreed that some things are better left unread.) Martin could see Jon’s hands shaking slightly under the blanket.

The walk to the kitchen was cold and dark, and Martin took a moment to himself, while the electric kettle hummed to life, to press his forehead against the cool plastic of the refrigerator, fingers interlaced behind his neck. God, he was so tired. He loved Jon more than anything, that was true, but he was at such a loss. It hurt to know there was nothing he could do to help, short of kidnapping a random neighbor from the town and begging them to tell Jon their story. He would call Basira this afternoon. He had tried the day the fever started and hasn’t received an answer. She was probably chasing down a lead about Daisy; she was known to go off the grid when hunting after her.

The click of the kettle, and Martin is on task again, portioning out tea and honey, chamomile for Jon, English breakfast for himself; he needs the caffeine. Two travel mugs later, Martin was heading back into the dark hallway, up the stairs, and to the dimly let bedroom.

The task had taken no more than five minutes, eight max. This was apparently, long enough for Jon to rifle in the nightstand drawer, retrieve that little notebook they had found, and to begin scribbling in it furiously. Martin could already see a good quarter of the notebook had been filled already, though what measure of that had been used prior to their arrival was unclear.

“Jon? Writing anything interesting?” Jon’s eyes jerked open and he let his gaze fall on the notebook.

“Oh-ah, no. Just doodling,” the words still weak, but the half-smile on his face lifts Martin’s spirits. See? He told himself. He’s still Jon. Jon closed the notebook and tucked it into his lap, reaching for the spill-proof mug with the hand not holding the pen that had been marking the page number. Martin noticed Jon twiddling the pen between his fingers and elected not to say anything. Whatever helped. And it had seemed to help; Jon seemed a little less gaunt than he had, but maybe that was the consequence of sitting up, letting himself focus on other things than his gnawing hunger. “Page 74,” Jon sighed as Martin resumed his position next to him in bed, tucking his head on Martin’s shoulder. “Second paragraph.”

“Creep,” Martin muttered good-naturedly, before settling into the pages and resuming the book, some sort of cop thriller-mystery (because of course that had been Daisy’s preferred reading material).

Martin had been reading for nearly an hour when, while pausing to sip his tea, the scratching of pen on paper had distracted him from the story. They had been at a rather thrilling part of the chase; the detective had just discovered that his wife, who he thought to be dead, was not actually dead and maybe even a part of the mystery. Martin had felt rather invested in giving Jon a good show, throwing himself into the narration maybe a little more than was necessary for the audience of one (1) ill partner (Boyfriend? Love? Patient? Whatever). Jon had remained quiet, save for a periodic coughing fit, but didn’t seem to be asleep from the way Martin could feel The Eye in the room with him, an inescapable feeling now, consequences of his proximity to The Archivist. With the sound of the pen, however, Martin closed the book, flipping it upside down and open. (Usually, Jon would chastise him for such a horrendous act to a book. Martin wished he would.)

Jon’s eyes were cast on the book, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. He was scribbling furiously, writing continuously in the notebook that had once belonged to Daisy. Jon’s handwriting, difficult in the best of circumstances, was positively chicken scratch as Martin tried to parse out the strings of words on the paper, some he could swear weren’t even English.

“Jon?” Martin asked, placing a hand on the journal gently. “Is everything alright?”

“I-ah, yeah,” Jon capitulated, sighing softly, even as it resulted in a series of weak hacks. “I was trying to remember the dream, the statement I was reading in my sleep. I thought maybe writing it down would help.”

“And? Did it help?”

“I…I don’t know.” Jon frowned and scrubbed his hands over his eyes, blinking wearily. “I need to keep trying.”

Martin frowned internally but tried to keep his face neutral. “D’you think it’s…good? To try?”

“I don’t know, Martin.” Martin is suddenly reminded of a paranoid, frantic Jonathan Sims, angry and scared and not knowing who to trust. “But I have to try something! I can’t just sit here, waiting to wither away and die.”

“O-okay then,” Martin took a deep breath. “It was just a question.”

“A stupid one.” He’s sick, Martin reminds himself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“Well,” Martin closed the book properly this time, surreptitiously dog-earing a page. What Jon doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “I’m out of tea. Need any more?”

Jon shook his head, quiet now as he continued to write, eyes glued to his page. “A-alright then,” Martin slid off the bed and frowned, catching a whiff of himself. Yikes. He had lost track of the last time he bathed, so worried had he been about missing a call from Basira. “Would you be okay if I have a shower?”

More silence, the scratching of the cheap pen the only sound in the room. At least there wasn’t a tape running. “Shout if you need me.”

It felt good to breathe in the steam and smell of lather, to luxuriate in the hot water rolling over him. Martin has always been a bit generous with his showers, especially as a teen. They had been his designated times to be off the hook from his mother, chores, his jobs, anything that was causing him stress. Martin felt a bit guilty remembering these things. His shower wasn’t long because he wants to avoid Jon, not at all. It’s just. Jon is clearly in a bit of a mood, so it would be good to give him some space without making it seem like he’s upset. Which, he’s not upset! Just. a break is good. Yeah. A break is healthy.

Martin turned off the water when he started to feel a bit dizzy from the heat, wrapped himself in a towel and splashed cold water on his face. There. He was feeling better already.

“Jon!” He called, cracking the door and letting steam roll out around him. “I know it’s a bit early, but I thought maybe I could start on breakfast. Maybe you can stomach down some crackers today?”

After a few beats of silence, Martin called out again. The loo, while not an en suite, was pretty close to the master. “Jon?”

Must be asleep. Martin smiled softly to himself and shook his head, ruffling his curls, more white than auburn anymore, and pulled on a fresh pair of sweatpants. Not like they were going anywhere today.

Tinged pink from the hot shower, Martin rounded the corner into the master bedroom and stopped, momentarily confused. “Oh, did you not hear me?”

Jon was awake. He was still writing, bent over the notebook and scribbling furiously, murmuring to himself, too quiet to hear. He didn’t look up. Martin frowned, shivering as a wave of static rolled over his body like a cool wind. “Jon. Jon, a-are you in there? Are you okay?”

The muttering continued, unceasing. Martin edged forward carefully, hands in front of him like he was buffeting back a storm or trying not to scare a wounded animal. Honestly, Martin wasn’t sure which sentiment was more accurate. He crept his way to Jon’s side of the bed, still apparently unnoticed by the Archivist. There was a bloody tape recorder on the bedside table. Martin knew better than to touch it.

He bent down, kneeling on the floor and craning his neck to look up into Jon’s face. His shoulders slumped as he gazed up into an emerald glow as Jon’s own eyes, usually a deep brown, lit the page in front of him like a torch, bathing it in harsh light. Jon’s own form was crackling slightly, seemingly more solid than a usual body should, silhouette a little too crisp against the wall behind him.

Martin could hear him now, too, and his voice was the same low, consistent monologue that Martin had first loved, but had grown to hate in his years working in the Archives.

“As I said, it was one of the last boxes I opened on the second day. It was late, and I had already made my way through most of a bottle of wine. The more I think about it, the more I think that opening that box felt no different to any of the others. No hard feelings, no smells, nothing. It was just a box empty of everything except a single typewritten note and an old hand mirror.

It lay inside, utterly innocuous. If it was a trap, there was no way to tell.” [60]

That one sounded familiar. An old statement, it must be. Something about a mirror and seeing things in a reflection? Punching a camera? he wondered. Martin felt another shiver roll through his body; he turned his attention towards the notebook, towards what he knew would be there. Now that he knew what to look for, he could read the handwriting with little trouble. As the Archivist spoke, he wrote the words in Jon’s handwriting, transcribing the statement.

“Jon,” Martin’s voice was soft. “If you can hear me, I’m going to take away your pen now. I think…I think that will let you rest. I’m going to count to three, okay? One. Two. Three.”

As soon as Martin reached for the pen, he felt himself being thrown backwards, as if by a tidal wave. He felt his body hit the wall, heard his skull hit the wall with a sickening thud.

------Chapter 2------

When Martin woke, he was confused. Last he knew, he had gone to sleep in bed, right? Not on the couch watching telly or drunk in a bathtub. So why was he so stiff—ow. He rolled his neck. And sore. He was on the floor, for one thing, head against the wall and legs splayed in front of him. God his head hurt. Was he hungover? No, he hadn’t drunk anything. Just eaten dinner in bed with Jon, done dishes, read, and fallen asleep.

Oh shit. Jon. It rushed back to Martin in a dizzying spiral; Helen would be proud. The mumbling, the writing, the pen, the eyes. Had Jon pushed him? Not physically, maybe. But hadn’t he heard through the grapevine something about Jon and the delivery man—Breekon? Or maybe Hope? Whichever one hadn’t died in the Unknowing. Something about him shoving him backwards with sheer force of a word? Jon had thought they were exaggerating. But maybe…maybe not.

Martin’s eyes were still closed, he realized. He was afraid to, he realized. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see: maybe a big, unblinking Eye where the body of Jon had been? A torrent of books and pages spinning around Jonathan Sims in a dramatic flourish as he commands them? Hundreds, if not thousands, of tape recorders piling around their bed, drowning them both in magnetic tape and words? Slowly, painfully, Martin opened his eyes.

None of those were there of course. There was just Jon. Sitting in bed, gaunt and frail. Writing and reciting as if nothing happened. That was almost worse, in a way, that he had flung Martin against a wall and continued as if it hadn’t hurt him to do so. The Archivist’s movements were stiff and mechanical as he turned the page and continued to write, voice now in a language Martin couldn’t understand but was probably Chinese.

Stopping the writing was no longer an option, he supposed. But what else could he do? Maybe it could recharge Jon a little, like sucking the marrow from a bone. Only Martin wasn’t sure if the statements or Jon was the bone in that scenario. God, he wished he could Eldritch Google “Eye statement starvation: stages of bad?” Unfortunately, his Eldritch Google was out of service and there was no one else he could ask who wasn’t also trying to actively kill him.

What were his options then? Wait and hope Jon doesn’t die. Call Basira again. Kidnap a stranger and have them read a statement. Well, he wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

Martin sighed, running a hand through his hair and feeling a lump throbbing gently on the back of his head. He checked the rest of his body for injuries and was grateful to find nothing too bad. Probably just a concussion.

Hauling himself to his feet (using the floor and doorknob to a closet as his supports), Martin teetered his way to the kitchen. He threw open the cupboard beneath the sink and grabbed the small black phone with Basira’s number saved.

Dialing, he slid himself into a chair at the kitchen table, resting his forehead against his free palm and closed his eyes again.

“Hello?” The faint voice Basira Hussain rang out into the air.

“Basira? It’s Martin. Any word on the statements? It’s getting a little dire here.” He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice.

“Dire? How do you mean?” Basira was always a little too direct for Martin’s taste; couldn’t she hear how drained he was?

“He won’t stop repeating and writing old statements. I tried to stop him and he—well. It wasn’t on purpose…But he threw me into a wall.”

“Shit.” Basira was quiet for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he bit back. “I would be better if we had the statements.” There wasn’t time for him to feel guilty about his delivery.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I caught wind of Daisy being in Italy, so I’m there now. If I take the first flight out of Rome, I can be at my flat tomorrow and yours the next. Two days, max. Less if I can. Can he make it that long?”

“Better bloody hope so.” The fight drained from him. “Please, Basira,” he added, sighing. “I don’t know what to do. He was sick and feverish and I could handle that but now he’s just…empty.”

“Maybe it’s like a diet.” He could practically hear her mind spinning through the phone. “You know, how when you starve yourself for too long? You start losing weight and all’s dandy. But the longer you wait, your body starts taking nutrients from your own organs?” Martin hummed an affirmation. “Maybe he’s sucking out every bit he can from himself to survive.”

“So…how do I fix that?”

“I mean, when I get you the statements, we can force-feed him. But until then? I dunno. I’m at a loss too. Keep him safe, I think? But don’t let yourself get hurt either.”

Martin nodded, momentarily forgetting he was on the phone. “Oh, yeah. Um, thank you Basira. I’ll do my best. Call me when you’re at the flat?”

“Of course. Call me if you get lo-bored.”

“Please hurry.”

Martin hung up and dropped his head to the table unceremoniously, wincing as the impact rattled the back of his skull. Now what? He didn’t want to sit in the room while the Archivist worked, but he was afraid to leave him alone. He hated how it felt to be in the room, the low wave static and the feeling of being known permeating every pore. He was afraid what staying in there would do, if Jon would Know him too well after he came back. Looking around, Martin grabbed the egg timer Jon used when he cooked and spun it to an hour. If he checked in every hour, that would be fine, right? He could let the Archivist have the bedroom; he’d stay downstairs, and check in every hour.

The first few hours crept by, but each ding of the egg timer was much too soon for Martin’s liking. He iced his head, wincing again when he realized it was the late morning and he had been unconscious for quite a while. He made himself an unassuming brunch, cheese toasty and curry left over from dinner a few days ago. Made some more tea, obviously, and took some acetaminophen to reduce the swollen goose-egg on his head. Read, watched an old DVD of some American TV show Daisy must have liked. Tried to keep his mind off whatever had taken over his boyfriend in the upstairs bedroom.

Each time the timer went off, Martin would repeat the same process. He would ascend the stairs, knock on the doorframe of the bedroom, tell Jon he was coming over to check on him, and would watch and listen to him for almost a minute. Some of the statements he recognized, some he didn’t. His eyes were always that throbbing, blinding green, staring into nothing, his face hollow and gaunt. Around two in the afternoon, Martin went in to see that Jon had moved from the bed. The notebook lay abandoned, filled to the last page. The Archivist was standing, in baggy sleep boxers, facing the wall, still intoning the fears and terrors of those who had contributed their stories to the Institute. Their stories were stark when written against the robin blue pant. Martin left the room before he could Know he was crying.

Afternoon turned to evening, and Martin continued his ministrations. The egg timer ran his day and he got little done, managing maybe half of a book from the meager shelf downstairs. He wasn’t even sure what it was about; he had to keep rereading the same pages over and over. The writing had grown to cover half the wall in Jon’s slanted script. Martin wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what would happen if he tried to smudge it. Between checking up on The Archivist, he half-heartedly ate scrambled eggs and chugged some wine; he figured he’d earned it. It was weird to feel strangely like an Archival Assistant again; knowing things were bad for the man he desperately wanted to be there but not knowing how to help.

KRRRRRRRRRRG!

Time to check on him again. Martin trudged up the stairs for what felt like the hundredth time that day. The Archivist was in a different position this time. He was kneeling, head bowed. Martin could have sworn he was praying; the monotony of words slipping from his lips as easily as the nuns Martin had seen growing up. Martin paused. It was…almost beautiful, in a way. The slight form of a man paying his service to a god to whom he was so completely indebted. The green light reflecting off the wall, covered in his scripture, casting a glow on his skin and through his curls, mussed from fever.

Would’ve been, anyways, if Martin hadn’t seen the drop of blood snaking its way down Jon’s thigh, creasing where his leg was folded along the calf. All at once, the beauty he had been caught up in was gone and all he saw was a helpless, broken man, compelled to write the words of the desperate, the lost, the broken. Martin shook a pillowcase from the bed, letting the pillow fall unceremoniously, and cautiously moved to the Archivist. As worried as he was, he needed to know what was going on before he could help.

The sight made him slightly sick. Jon was bent over his thigh, holding the pen as if it were a dagger, and was using the ballpoint tip to carve words into the meat of his leg. He hadn’t gotten far, apparently the effort took more out than the body of a weakened Jon could take.

“a fac-” [54]

Confused, Martin looked up to the wall where he had been writing and figured out the problem. The pen had run out of ink. The words got paler and less distinct until they were barely readable. Judging from the smears, the Archivist had tried to use Jon’s blood to write, using the pen as a quill. It clearly hadn’t worked, judging by the thin, weak curves of red and brown. Jon was still mumbling the statement, eyes blank and voice even, but the lines of his face seemed frustrated and dark.

The letters on his skin were weeping dark red now and Martin could see his hands weren’t the only ones shaking. He was afraid to touch him, afraid that trying to press a cloth to his wounds could quite literally be both of their deaths.

The more he stared, trapped in indecision, he watched as the decision was made for him. Jon had been ill, dehydrated and fever-laden, and the assault to his body was more than he could handle. His face, an ashen brown-grey-green from the glow of his eyes, went slack and as the emerald lights went out, Jon slumped, falling into Martin’s lap and shoulder as his body gave up. As soon as their skin touched, Martin’s mind snapped into focus. Fix this. You have to fix this.

Martin was immediately comforted by the fact that Jon was breathing. He hadn’t run out of fuel, not yet. Martin pressed a kiss to his hair (still hot) as he gently laid Jon flat, tearing open the sealed end of the pillowcase clutched in his fist so he could slip it up Jon’s leg and press it down, trying to stem the blood flow. You need something better, he thought, mind racing. It was oozing, not squirting, so Jon hadn’t hit an artery. That was good. Thank god Mum’s hospital soaps were worth something in the end. He needed a thicker fabric; the sheet wasn’t doing any good. Martin scoured the room, looking for any sort of thick fabric.

His towel from his shower. Thank fuck for his laziness. In less than ten steps, he had retrieved the towel from where it was haphazardly abandoned by the dresser and brought it back, folding and pressing it to his thigh, exchanging it for the thin white pillowcase. Sorry, Daisy.

Kneeled beside Jon, Martin lent most of his upper body weight to pressing down on the towel, keeping a cautious eye on Jon’s face and his chest, each shallow breath another blessing. He’s not sure how long he sits there in, that position, whispering platitudes to the pallid-faced man laid in front of him. Maybe an hour? Maybe three? Maybe twenty minutes? Time is blurry, intangible to him.

It’s dark when Martin felt okay to cautiously lift the towel and examine the letters carved in his leg. They’re starting to clot, he nodded to himself, feeling safe enough to leave Jon there on the floor to get the first aid kit from the lav. Carefully, lovingly, Martin pulled the ace bandage tight around the cotton pads on his leg, freshly doused and swabbed with cleansing alcohol. Daisy was nothing if not prepared for injuries.

Satisfied with his care, he gently pulls Jon into his arms and takes him downstairs. He didn’t want Jon to wake up and see the room like this—bloody and covered in the writings of the Archivist. Between the carpet and walls, it would take a while to clean anyways. The couch was certainly big enough to hold the man he held in his arms (and god he was way too light).

One Jon was laid on the couch, Martin made a fresh cup of tea, black tea with as much caffeine as he could stomach and pulled a cold compress from the freezer. Lifting his shoulders carefully, Martin situated himself to act as a headrest for the unconscious Jon, a cold compress acting as a barrier between them to hopefully aid the fever. One hand in Jon’s curls, the other holding a book open (still, no idea what it was about), Martin settled into the evening, saying a prayer to anything that was out there that Basira would hurry the hell up.

Martin read aloud to Jon all night, trying in vain to keep himself awake. Apparently, the book was a romance novel, some trashy erotica about a woman and a werewolf. Martin was just graceful it wasn’t sci-fi and horror. He annotated it as he read, giving Jon his stream of consciousness thoughts. “You know, I haven’t done that,” he chuckled to himself, brushing Jon’s hair from his face. “Especially not with a woman, but I don’t really think it��s anatomically possible.”

His eyes were starting to droop around three or four in the morning, the adrenaline draining out of him. Resting a hand on Jon’s neck, he felt for his pulse point and, after finding it, light and shallow as it was after the coma, let his eyes close, comforted in feeling the life fluttering beneath his fingers.

Martin woke up to a pounding on the door and he snapped awake like the knock had been a gunshot. The care he took to lay Jon’s head back down was deeply contrasted by the way he bolted to the door, unlocking it with haste and resisting the urge to throw his arms around Basira, wincing at the bright daylight that streamed inside.

“Woah—Martin,” Basira took a step back involuntarily. “Is there a reason your hands are covered in blood?”

“What? Oh-yeah, I’ll tell you about it. Things were bad. It’s fine now. It’s-It’s not my blood.” Martin swung the door open, letting Basira in. “What time is it? How did you get here so fast?”

“It’s quarter-three; I may or may not have found a plane that wasn’t on the official flight plans. And there’s more than one way to get in the Institute besides a key.” Martin shook his head and decided it wasn’t worth asking about. He beckoned her to the couch, where Jon lay, limbs limp.

Basira handed him the first statement on the pile and opened one for herself. “Ready?”

“Statements begin.”

Jon’s first thought was how wet his neck felt. His second was why he heard so many words. His brain floated between living dolls and a message in a bottle, washed up on the beaches of Greece. His teeth were chattering and he felt so cold. He grasped his hands out, reaching desperately for the comforter. Martin must have stolen it, he smiled to himself. Oh, that’s Martin. Martin’s voice.

“Hmm…Mm’tin,” he murmured, shifting towards the sound of his voice. Martin’s voice continued, telling him a story about a doll with painted lips and angry eyes. A hand reached out and cupped his face. Jon leant into the touch hungrily, grateful for the heat on his skin. He let Martin’s words carry him away again.

When Jon woke again, he felt more alive than he had in days. If his illness recently had been him submerged, he finally felt like he was breaking through the surface. The Choke released him, and he felt oxygen return to his lungs. But he was not in the Buried, he was on the couch. He was not drowning, he was breathing sweet air and felt it wafting over him in the drafty house that felt like a home when he was with Martin. Martin. God, he could hear his voice and he didn’t think he had heard anything so sweet than Martin speaking and reading to him. He was reading, yes, and Jon knew immediately what it was: the statement of Herbert Conklin, an Irishman who watched his son turn to plastic before his eyes, piece by piece. Jon’s eyes flew open and he craned his neck to find Martin’s face. His eyes were cast down on the statement in his lap, but his hand was folded in Jon’s, running his fingertips over the smaller man’s knuckles gently.

Jon felt paralyzed, unable to move as he let the statement wash over him, hating how good it made him feel to hear the statement, lavishing in the words. He felt a sharp pain in his leg throb to dull ache as the healing words flowed through him. As Martin uttered those forsaken words: “Statement Ends,” he brought his eyes to meet Jon’s, a pale smile ghosting his face before it solidified into something more real, more Martin.

“Hi love. Been a tough few days. How are you holding up?”

Jon was lost for words for a moment, gaping like a fish before he brought Martin’s clasped hand to his lips. Kissing it, he pressed the words into his skin, begging them to impress themselves there forever.

“Better that you’re here.” His memory was a blank, sure, but he knew it must be true and didn’t need to ask the Eye to confirm. Martin was here. All would be well.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #jmart #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #cw self harm #spooky #not mental health related tho #cw blood #cw canon typical violence #hurt/comfort #whos the one hurting tho #jk its both #ill post AO3 link in the morning

51 notes · View notes

knivestothroats · 4 years

Text

New series!! I don’t have enough I’m working on!! Basically I wanted to create something with less of a plot so I could just use the OCs/setting to do prompt fills n shit.

(update: here’s the masterlist)

CW: gunshot wounds, guns in general, knives to throats (heh), death threats, not exactly hunted for sport but a similar vibe

Buck put all of his determination into running. He tore through the woods, trying not to limp or stumble through pure determination, but the adrenaline could only do so much for the pain, and the wound in his leg eventually brought him down.

Managing to steer his collapse, he half-fell, half-dove behind a tree and pressed his back up against it. He put one hand over his mouth, trying to muffle his own heavy breathing, and one hand over the bullet hole in his thigh.

Buck had no idea how much ground he had covered. Existence was disorienting. He could have been running for miles, he could have made it five feet. The shooter had been a good distance away, but Buck knew. He could feel the dread like cement in his stomach. He hadn’t made it far enough. The woods weren’t thick enough. They would find him.

There was a rustling close by. Buck flinched, his heart nearly giving out from beating so hard.

A person came into view from behind some trees, still partially shrouded by the undergrowth. Not one of the ones Buck had seen – not one of the ones who had shot at him. Just a hiker, he figured, dressed in a flannel, denim jacket, and a knit cap. They were walking past, in the direction Buck had come from, but they saw his form crumpled against the tree and stopped.

“Don’t go that way,” Buck hissed, not wanting to make too much noise. He tried to push himself upright, but the pain radiated out through his body. “We need to get out of here. Can you help… me….”

He trailed off as the hiker stepped out from behind their foliage cover, his eyes flickering down to the gun in their hand, dappled sunlight glinting off the metal.

The hiker pulled a walkie talkie from their belt and spoke into it, “I found your runner.”

A slightly distorted voice replied, “Copy,” and they returned the walkie to their hip. They approached Buck.

“Yeah, I can help you,” the hiker said, lowering to one knee in front of him. They draped their forearm over their leg, displaying their gun in a faux spectacle of casualness.

Buck sagged, letting his head fall back against the tree, and closed his eyes. His hands were still clamped around his leg.

“Well, let me see,” the hiker said. They gestured ever so slightly with their gun in the direction of his injury, not quite pointing it at him.

Buck very slowly let go of this thigh and held his hands in the air, blood from his palms beginning to drip down his arms.

The hiker looked at the wound for a second, their face framed by dark hair that hadn’t been tucked under their beanie. Buck was aware that strands of his own long hair were plastered to his skin, but he didn’t dare move to brush them away as the hiker turned their gaze to his face.

“You seem like a smart guy,” they said. “I’m going to put my gun in its holster. I trust that you know better than to try to make a grab for it. It won’t end well.”

Buck clenched his jaw and nodded.

The hiker holstered their weapon and shifted closer. They reached out for Buck’s leg, examining the injury. Buck hissed in pain as they shifted his limb, feeling for the entrance wound.

“Not bad. Bullet went straight through, so that’s good for you. Really clipped you on the edge here, more or less, so I don’t think it hit anything important.”

They drew their hands away. Buck hesitantly replaced his own, trying to cap the flow of blood as much as possible. He was already starting to feel lightheaded.

“Were you facing them or running away when you got shot?” the hiker asked.

Buck licked his lips. “I was running away.”

More rustling through the trees. Careless, and getting closer. Two figures emerged - the same two Buck had seen before. He could be sure, despite the distance in the previous encounter, because one of them immediately raised their rifle and pointed it at Buck.

“Lower your fucking weapon, Dayal,” the hiker ordered. “I am right here.”

Dayal pointed his rifle at the ground. His face twisted like a kid who got scolded by a teacher.

“We need to review gun safety later,” the hiker said.

“I know my gun rules,” Dayal protested.

“Yeah?” The hiker raised an eyebrow. “Recite them.”

“Assume the gun is loaded, don’t rest your finger on the trigger, don’t point the gun at anything you’re not going to shoot…” Dayal rattled them off.

“Yeah, Dayal,” the hiker interrupted. “So why the fuck were you pointing it at us?”

“I was pointing it at him!”

“Yeah,” the hiker stood. They took two purposeful steps toward Dayal, looking down on him. “And I was right. Fucking. There.” They pointed at Buck’s leg. “That’s your marksmanship, I take it?”

“Yeah,” Dayal answered uncertainly.

“Is that where you were aiming?”

Dayal said nothing.

“Mmhm. I wouldn’t bet my life on your aim.” The hiker turned back to Buck. “Someone fill me in quickly before this poor fucker bleeds out.”

“I got it,” the woman next to Dayal muttered. She pulled a scarf from around her neck and tied it tight around Buck’s wounded leg, eliciting a groan of pain.

“He was snooping around the grounds,” Dayal said.

“I wasn’t snooping,” Buck said, shaking his head weakly. His mouth felt so dry. “I wasn’t snooping. I was just – argh – hiking.”

The hiker – or whoever they really were – eyed Buck with a cold gaze.

“Summers, check him for weapons, bugs, anything of the sort,” they ordered.

The woman knelt down next to Buck and began to pat him down. The hiker watched carefully as Summers emptied his pockets, setting his phone, wallet, keys, a compass, and a small pocket knife on the ground. When she was finished, the hiker picked up his personal items. They opened his wallet and looked at his ID, flipped briefly through the keys, examined the compass, opened and closed the blade on the pocket knife. Finally, they held up the phone in front of the others.

“This is the most dangerous thing he has on him. More than the knife, even. Can anyone tell me why?”

“He can call for backup,” Dayal suggested.

“It can be tracked,” Summers said.

“Well, that’s what I – that would bring back up,” Dayal said.

“You’re both right,” the hiker said. “It can send information, basically. His location through tracking, and anything else he knows when he calls, texts, or uploads information. Now that we have it, any information on here could be useful to us to find out more about this guy. However, us having it is also dangerous because that means our location is being tracked. So I’m going to turn it off until we’re ready to go through it.” They powered the phone down. “Under different circumstances, it may be wise to just destroy the SIM card if you know the phone is more of a danger than an asset. And, if you’re dealing with the government, turning off the phone might not be enough…” the hiker looked down at Buck. “But I think we’re okay.”

They pocketed all of Buck’s items, except the knife. Instead they opened the blade again. It was small, but it was sharp, and it could still get the job done if it needed to. They knelt down close to Buck again.

“What’s your name, friend?” the hiker asked. They already knew the answer – they had seen his ID – but starting off with easy, innocuous questions is a good way to ease people into talking.

He swallowed. “Buck.”

“Do you know who I am?” the hiker asked.

Buck blinked in confusion, eyebrows pulling together briefly.

“No,” he said.

The hiker stared at him for a beat.

“The name’s Fletcher. Nice to meet you.” They rolled the knife in their hand. “You wanna make this easy and tell us what you’re doing here?”

“I’m really – I’m really hiking,” Buck insisted breathlessly. “I don’t know… what this is. And I don’t – I don’t want to know, and I don’t, uh, want to be involved, or, or, talk to anyone, or whatever, um, the concern is. I didn’t…” he covered his eyes with his hand – the back of his hand, as to not get blood on his face. “I didn’t even see your faces.”

Fletcher laughed and pulled his arm down.

“Okay, Buck. Answer me something else then.” They rested their arm on his shoulder. “Where’d you get this knife?”

Buck swallowed. “My – my father gave it to me.”

“Did you name it?”

“Uh… no. I didn’t,” Buck said.

Fletcher made a disapproving noise. “You should always name your weapons. They’re your partners.” They trailed the blade over his collar bone, past the collar of his shirt, and slowly up his throat, resting the point under his chin. Buck tilted his head back, unable to get away. “What do you use it for?”

“Um… I… uh, not – not a lot. J-Just, um, uh, opening things, mostly,” Buck stammered. “I, um, just always bring it with me hiking, just, uh, in case. I guess. I don’t – I don’t know what… I would use it for, really….”

“Yeah, about that,” Fletcher said, pulling away. “You’re pretty deep in the woods for a hike.”

“I’m… a serious hiker…” Buck said lamely. “I always hike for miles.”

“There’s no trail out here,” Fletcher said.

“Well, I have a compass,” Buck said. “So as long as I know which direction I came from, I can make it back.”

Fletcher stared at him, saying nothing. Buck, growing increasingly nervous under their gaze, spoke up again.

“Um, I’m not from around here, so if this is s-something where, like, everyone knows not to go into the woods, uh, I just didn’t get the memo, so…”

“Oh, you’re new in town?” Fletcher raised their eyebrows. “Or just visiting?”

“New, uh, new in town,” Buck said.

“Hmm. What brought you out here?”

“Um,” Buck shook his head, trying to focus his thoughts. “Just… needed a change of scenery, honestly.”

Fletcher said nothing, just stared again. Eventually, Dayal spoke up.

“What do you think?”

Fletcher smiled, folded the knife and slipped it into their pocket, and stood.

“You know what I think?” Fletcher began, smiling down on Buck. “I think this guy’s a survivor. I bet he could walk all the way back to the house on that leg.”

Buck’s eyes widened.

“You know why?” Fletcher continued. “Because he knows the only other option is to lay down and die in the dirt. Or, you know,” they shrugged to their companions. “Try to run away. But that’s not much of an option. So, what’s it gonna be, my dear?”

Buck’s eyes flickered to each of the faces of the people standing before him. Each time he was met with a detached expectancy and nothing more. He put one hand on the tree and began to slowly, agonizingly, stand up. He kept his weight on his left leg.

“Great!” Fletcher said. “Follow me.”

The others walked slowly through the woods, allowing Buck to limp along behind them. Every step was an exertion of energy he didn’t have. His head was swimming and pain was flowing through his body in waves. And, with whoever these people were, he was mostly likely walking to his death.

Buck came to a stop, leaning against a tree for support.

Once he got to this house, would he ever come back out? There was no way he could run away; he was hobbled and at least two of these people had guns. But was it any better to prolong the inevitable? To force his bleeding leg to carry him all these useless steps?

Buck sank to the ground. Fletcher stood over him.

“Just leave me here to die,” Buck said, sweat coating his ashen face.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” Fletcher said. “It’s not humane. I would put you out of your misery.”

Buck hung his head, breathing heavily, but raised his eyes to meet Fletcher’s gaze.

“What do you want with me?” he asked.

“I want to see if you can make it,” Fletcher said.

Buck tried to swallow, but his throat was dry. Fletcher put out their hand.

“Little help,” they said. “For free. Where would any of us be without help from others, right?”

Buck closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then reached out and took Fletcher’s hand. Fletcher steadied him as he struggled to his feet again. They kept walking.

The house wasn’t far, but at Buck’s speed the group took a long time to get there. Buck was stumbling frequently, leaning on passing trees for support. He could feel sweat rolling down his skin.

Fletcher opened the door for Dayal and Summers to walk inside, before turning to Buck and waiting. Buck stood frozen, gazing into the dark doorway. His heart was pounding, blood screaming in his ears. He slowly became aware Fletcher was talking to him.

“Buck. Hey. Buck,” they snapped their fingers.

Buck turned his weak gaze from the doorway to Fletcher.

“Is there a problem here?”

“Of course there is,” Buck said, his voice dry and weak.

“You could still try to run,” Fletcher said, a wry smile tugging at the corners of their mouth.

Maybe it was better to be shot now than to face whatever would happen inside that house. Buck turned, ready to try his best to run. Put a real effort forth as his last act in life, even if he only gets a few steps in.

Fletcher bolted forward, effortlessly knocking Buck to the ground. He stared up at them from where he lay prone on his back, squinting at the sun haloing Fletcher’s head. They put a boot on Buck’s chest and drew their gun from its holster. Not aiming it at him – just holding it in their hand, finger off of the trigger.

“Think this through,” Fletcher said gravely. “If you’re alive, there’s a chance. If you’re dead, you’re dead.”

Buck said nothing. He closed his eyes against the glare of the sun and tried to breathe with the boot on his chest.

“If that’s what you want,” Fletcher said, “I can give that to you. Or you can get up and walk inside, and we can stitch those bullet holes shut.”

“And then what?” Buck wheezed.

“Who knows,” Fletcher said. “We won’t know until we get there.”

Buck took a rattling breath, and then another. He raised his arm, trembling with the effort.

With a smirk, Fletcher stepped off his chest and leaned down to help him up.

Buck was swaying in the breeze, and Fletcher took his arm and wrapped it around their shoulders, holding him up with an arm around his waist.

“Well, Buck,” Fletcher said as they crossed the threshold, “welcome to The Hunting Lodge.”

(update: here’s the masterlist)

#writings #original #whump ocs #whump series #guns #knives #gunshot wounds #hunted for sport #buck

180 notes · View notes

guigz1-coldwar · 3 years

Text

'Next move' : New chapter for "Redemption in a Spirit in a Cold War" is out !

'Next move'

"I can say that....you're an very lucky girl, Yirina Grigoriev !"

Chapter Summary : After the unexpected rescue mission of the recon team, Yirina and the team could finally have some rest before starting to planify the next moves against Naga.....

To read it on AO3, click here !

Words : +3200

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

In all the odds of the world, no one was going to tell me that the first day I will spent in Laos was going to be me and the others having to rescue an recon team constitued of Song, Mason, Sims & an woman called Rivas in emergency and literally no one thought that I will have to be the co-pilot of an Huey and then, its pilot on the way back. I don't know how I was able to know in an few seconds how to fly an helicopter in my life, maybe my fake memories did help me....or I've got an uncovered real memory about it, I can't tell.

I can say that my skills on piloting an helicopter did surprise Woods & also Park as I talked about her of my flashs of my 'old times in Vietnam' and to be honest, I think that she wasn't believing at first that I was really going to take the commands of an american helicopter, trying to evade an Perseus-affiliated Hind above the Laotian jungle. Thanksfully, Wolf managed to destroy the Hind with his so-called 'Death Machine', an minigun and thanks to that move, we were finally in safety and good to go to return to base.

On the way back, I wasn't speaking so much in the entire group that was chatting about what they did while Woods were giving indications of where to go and to check the controls for me like I did on the first flight. Park was also silent in the group, also in her thoughts and then after minutes of flying, we finally arrived back at base where I could land the Huey without too much damaging it, thinking that I would mess that up but none of it happened when the helicopter skids got on the ground.

"Well done, Yirina." Woods congratulated me once the helicopter's engine was shut down, stopping the loud noises we've been hearing since we got away from here. We did also cut off the music before arriving here too. "Didn't know that you got flying in your blood."

"Me neither." I breathed, removing my headset off my head, amazed by myself to be honest. "it was good but I don't think I will do this again for an long time."

"As you wish." Woods told me as he make some friendly tap on my shoulders before he looked behind him, his eyes on everyone. "Okay, we're going to patch you up, you're taking some rest and then, we'll make an briefing." He suggested and everyone nodded.

"Let's get out of that helicopter." Wolf exclaimed as he was helping Sims to get out while the others were also moving from the chopper but me, I stayed in the cockpit, the headset in my hands and looking at the group, leaving the helipad.

"Yiri." I was surprised when I heard that Park was still in the Huey with me in the transport bay. "How do you feel ?" She asked me, seeing me happy but confused at the same time.

"To start, I'm surprised that I managed to fly that thing and I wonder how I did this." I expressed, still looking away until I feel her hand on my shoulder, causing me to look at her.

"You were great !" She affirmed again to me, moving to get closer to my seat. "It's seems that you're an woman with many talents." She added, getting her both hands on my shoulders.

"Well, I can say that." I said, not wanting to brag myself about that talent I just discovered about me. "It's not everyday that I'm piloting an Huey above the jungle." I sniffed, looking away for an few seconds. "I guess that 'Bell' is maybe proud about it." I continued, trying to laugh about it but I couldn't.

"I'm proud of you." She moved her arms around my shoulders, getting her head on it. "I'm still sorry to have obliged you to be Woods's co-pilot." She apologized again for that but now, it was okay.

"It's fine." I whispered, putting away the headset to get my hands on her arms. "Next time, you're the one flying that thing !" I scoffed as I thought about it during the way back as an little lovely revenge and the only thing she did was to kiss me on the cheek.

"You didn't see me fly then." She stated, making me look at her eyes, thinking at first that she was lying. "What ? We learned how to fly too in the MI6." She exclaimed to me, realizing that she wasn't lying at all to me.

"I'm curious to see that." I mumbled before I decide to kiss her, this time, on the lips. "What's the biggest helicopter you used to fly with ? Tell me !" I demanded, holding her hands in mine, feeling her touch on my skin.

"I flied an Hind !" She replied and my eyes went wide again. "We had an mission in 1980 in Afghanistan with Garrett, Greta....and also Stone & Megan." She added, taking an breath. "To say that I flied it with Stone as the man who controlled the guns..." She thought.

"I would have been very curious to see that." I offered an grin, knowing that talking Stone was not an good idea even if he was now lying dead somewhere in the world. "Well, to see you fly an Hind." I corrected myself to that and that put an smile on her face.

"If someday, we had no choices but to use one, I'm the one taking the commands." She proposed and I know that she would be great so I nodded.

"Excuse me ?" We were both surprised when we heard Woods knocking loudly at the pilot's door and also coughing in purpose to get our attention.

"What do you want ?" I asked him in an semi-serious voice.

"Well, I preferred to see you back at your desk instead of staying in that helicopter." He responded, putting his hands on his waist.

"Come on, Woods, we're just having an discussion." Park protested, sounding in an flirty voice that wasn't appropriated right now with Woods.

"Yeah but I don't want to have you start to do your things in that." He told her back, finally opening my door by itself. "Don't forget my warning though."

"You maybe need to....chill out, Woods." I suggested to him and his only moves was to narrow his eyes to me, looking almost deadly and wanting to put his hands on my neck. "You know, we were in an discreet place, away from the others." I gestured at him as me & Park finally decide to get out.

"I know but an Huey isn't very discreet while it's in the middle of an CIA base." He admitted, making us take an look around. "So, get yourselves back in the hangar to have some rest before someone like Hudson found you two in an akward position." He scoffed at the end of his words, laughing a little while me & Park rolled our eyes around.

"As you wish, Woods." I expressed, using his same words that he used moments earlier before we walk away towards the hangar.

We came back to our desk inside, stripping ourselves from the equipment that we used....well, I didn't use my pistol or even my MP5 in combat because I had to fly an helicopter in an combat zone, meaning that I was the only one who didn't fire an single bullet. To be honest, that allowed me to keep my equipment in perfect shape and still having enough mags without asking Park for others and now, we were awaiting.

We had to wait for the other to get healed up as apparently, they were out of the base for two days straight for an big recon mission that Hudson ordered and hopefully, Song, Mason, Sims & Rivas weren't wounded too badly, having only some scratches on their arms or faces but nothing too badly for them. However, that wasn't the same thing for the other part of the recon team, having reported an lot of wounded and killed in action, including the pilot and the co-pilot of their team.

From their mission, they managed to get their hands on some intels about Naga but Woods preferred that everyone was up and good to be back on action to make an proper briefing and for that, we had to wait at the beginning of the evening, that's meaning the whole day until everyone were finally able to assist the briefing, fully operational.

"Everyone." Woods called everyone near an dashboard, meaning the beginning of the awaited briefing, we all took an seat on chairs that was put there. "Rivas, you might want to make the topo on the intels you found." He demanded to her, that wasn't seated.

"Good." She nodded to him as she was moving next to him. "For 2 days, we managed to discover some outpost Naga is using for his activities."

"And what is he doing ?" Garrett asked her.

"Naga is the supervisor of Nova-6 supply lines around the Golden Triangle." Mason replied to him, getting up to join Rivas & Woods as he was also there. "These outposts are used by Naga to make sure the supply lines are still there." He added.

"So, Stitch is still in producing his nerve gas." I spoke up as I didn't heard about it since last month....since that disaster in that mall in New Jersey. "If he's asking Naga to supervise his supply lines here, that means he's preparing something big." I suggested.

"And with Adler in his hands, it's sure that this 'something big' is really big." Sims stated, taking back my words on the subject. "We don't know what's Stitch planning with Adler but it's sure that he's really bad for us."

"Do you think he could kill him ?" Song questioned Sims about it.

"The two is having an hatred for each other but Stitch is maybe willing to make Adler suffer like he did to him years ago." Sims answered to her question, crossing his arms. "But we can finally advance now." He gestured to Mason.

"We finally found where's Naga main HQ is in the jungle." Mason said, pointing his hand towards an map that they got during their mission.

"I guess it isn't going to be easy." Park stated, looking at the map.

"You're right." Rivas nodded to her.

"We found intels that Naga's HQ is surrounded by AA guns, meaning that any incursions in chopper are impossible." Song stepped in to get next to Mason & Rivas, watched by Garrett with an smile. "The thing is the camp is very far from here and we had to use an chopper."

"So, we took an Huey and we land on an safe place to continue our travelling by walk." Park guessed right about it as Mason nodded.

"We can do that but we don't have any intels about what we could find on our way." Rivas told to us, looking at the map that was incomplete at some parts.

"May I propose something ?" Garrett raised his hand towards her. "As we have some Hueys that are from the Laotian Air Force, maybe two people with an pilot can make an recon in the skies without getting too close of Naga's HQ." He proposed and everyone start to think about his idea.

"That could work, who volunteers ?" Woods questioned everyone and no one was volunteering.

"Well, since it's my idea, I have to do this." Garrett breathed before I suddenly raise my hand.

"I'm with him." I told everyone with Park's surprised reaction on me before she nodded in approval even if she know that the two of us will be separated for an while.

"Good, I also thinking that I could go with an team in advance to try to secure the landing zone." Rivas suggested and to say, it was also an good idea : having two people in the skies, securing the way for the team on the ground while she took an team to make an advanced recon before we arrive.

"And when you will be leaving ?" Wolf demanded.

"As the place is far by walk, I will be leaving tonight." She answered to him, hands on her waist before she look at Woods who agreed.

"Take the men that aren't wounded with you." He ordered to her as he took an deep breath. "Well, I think that we will do this tomorrow, everyone can have an break." He added as we could finally got up from our respectives seats.

"Woods ! Mason !" An loud voice came inside the hangar, revealing Hudson himself, arriving with an satellite phone in hand.

"What do you want ?" Woods asked in an lazy voice.

"We have to talk....it's personal." Hudson replied to him and by the tone of his voice, it was really personal. "Got an call from home." He added as Mason & Woods look at each other in confusion.

"We're following you." Mason whispered before the two move away from the dashboard, following Hudson to an isolated place away from everyone who still got our eyes on the three.

"Shit, if Hudson talk like that, it's...strange to say." Sims said, an bit confused about the situation. "Anyway, I think that's not our business."

"Don't we have an drink to celebrate ?" Garrett recalled about the words from Park after the end of the rescue mission.

"Oh yes !" Wolf exclaimed as he moved to get to his desk, getting in his hands an bottle. "Who wants some Bourbon ?" He questioned but we didn't have to speak that we moved to his desk, ready to have an little celebration.

I should have thought that Wolf has bring some of his Bourbon in Laos with him and seeing that bottle in his hands showed that he was really loving it. He prepared some glasses for everyone and we all cheered to that little rescue mission we did today and our next move for tomorrow. Of course, we all took only one drink as we wouldn't want to be totally drunk on the field and after taking an sip of that drink that I missed for an month, we make an little talk about ourselves and like always, I let the others talk.

Even if some people around knows of my state and what happened to me, no one wanted to bring the subject on the table, thinking that it was an bad idea to talk about it. Instead, they talked about their lifes, how Garrett met Song on an mission in 1983 in Seoul, how Wolf got enlisted in the Delta Force for his 18th birthday and how Sims actually met Russell Adler during the Vietnam War.

Rivas also told us about her backstory, fighting against the Menendez Cartel in Nicaragua for an large part of her life and I was really impressed by it, discovering more the woman that I just met hour earlier, that story....it was nice but also sad to learn about. We did spent an good time, listening to each others story.

"Yirina, Park !" Woods finally arrived one hour after we began our little celebration party but he was sounding low and...kinda troubled, not exactly in the same mood of everyone.

"Yes ?" We both said in unison with Park.

"We...well, we need to talk...in private." He responded, still sounding troubled, there were something wrong in his voice. "Not here, outside."

"Something's wrong ?" Park asked.

"Just...follow me, okay ?" Woods told us as he start to leave and in an second, we slowly got up from our chairs to follow him outside the hangar, wondering what he would say to us. We then stopped in an hidden place, out of sight from everyone.

"Woods, what's the problem ?" I finally demanded, worried about him.

"I know that it's maybe not your business but Mason wanted me to tell you about this." He said in an low voice, his hands on his wait and looking sad. "Mason received bad news from home."

"Bad news ?" Park whispered and we start to fear the worst.

"We just learned that....his wife died." He said, his voice cracking by the emotions to talk about this. "She had an brain tumor and it was incurable." He added to us, making us shocked to hear that from him and feeling so sad about learning about it.

"An brain tumor ?" I repeated, my voice sounding very low.

"Yeah, she's been fighting it for months with Alex's help but...him been forced to leave to get back on the fight, it didn't help at all." He stated, passing his hands through his face. "Now, his son, David is alone."

"What will happen now ?" Park questioned him.

"Hudson is sending him home, Mason already packed up his things discreetly...it was better for him." Woods was like on the verge of not crying and he was struggling to not cry in front of us. "He wanted you both to know about it even if it was not your problem, David need his dad while his uncle is leading an group to save an CIA agent." He said, revealing that he was the uncle of Mason's kid.

"I....I...I think it was an good choice from him." I thought as Park slowly nodded, approving my words.

"It's better for him to get back to his son." Park added to my words, taking an deep breath.

"Yes, it's the only thing to do for him, Hudson wasn't going to let him here." Woods admitted to us. "Shit...to say that's my fault to have him come back." He continued.

"Woods..." I started, putting my hand on his shoulder. "You're not the one to blame, he thought that it was an good choice because he's your friend." I told him, not even sure of my words to recomfort him. "No one is to blame here." I added.

"I want to think of it but what's done is done." He whispered, joining his hands together. "Listen, this discussion is staying between us, if the other ask, don't tell anything about it." We nodded to his order, it was very important and we couldn't talk freely about it.

"Don't worry, Woods, we will not tell anything." Park affirmed to him as she made an very little grin to him.

"Good, I'm might need to take some rest before tomorrow." He snorted before taking an breath. "Take some rest too." He added before he start to walk away slowly from us to get back inside the hangar while me & Park were completely frozed in place.

"Damnit, I never thought...." I started to say before I stop myself, losing my words and then, I sit on the ground, crossing my legs. "Fuck...."

"You couldn't know, Yirina." Park said in an low voice, sitting in the same position as me in front of me. "I'm like you right now : shocked and sad about it." She breathed, meaning her words by seeing her look and voice. "Mason wants to live an normal life, away from what happened to him and I'm sure that you want too."

"I just want to able to live free and away from all of this and for that, I need you !" I told her, looking at her with eyes that was slowly filled with tears before Park slowly moved her hand towards my cheek.....

"And I know well that you're always there for me !"

#cod bocw #cod cold war #cod black ops cold war #cod cw #call of duty cold war #cod #cod bell #call of duty #black ops cold war #yirina grigoriev #fem!bell #helen park

2 notes · View notes

hangryandlazy · 3 years

Text

africa jul 19

wow lol it’s taken me 2 years to actually put this post together. a LOT has changed since then and it makes me immensely happy to recognize how lucky we were that we’d had 2 insane years of travelling right before the pandemic hit. but this post is not to dwell on that, so let’s get on with it!!

this was our amazing 2019 africa trip~

jun 30, 19 ••• we make our way from hong kong to the netherlands on klm airlines. i distinctly remember how impressed i was with the quality of service and the comfort of the 12ish hour flight. after around 16 hours of commute, we just want to stay in and chill, so we order room service and call it a night early. i recall wearing a fun t-shirt that read, “not to be rude, but shut the fuck up” which i personally find hilarious and endearing, but which made the guy at the front desk quite uncomfortable. lollll oops!

vimeo

jul 1, 19 ••• yay! we had a full day alone in amsterdam. we (i) decided to walk from the hotel to the town center, because it’s fun experience new cities by exploring them on foot!! why not? you come across many things that you just couldn’t have planned to find.

look how beautiful the canals in amsterdam are! anywhere you turn, it’s picturesque.

we had lunch at wagamama because i saw that the avant garde vegan, gaz oakley, had done a collaboration with them at some point, so there are some guaranteed vegan options. we then walk around the bloemenmarkt and find our way to the cannabis college, which had 2 verdampers for rent! yesssss! i was so happy.

we explored and walked around more, then stopped by a coffee shop to smoke a bit more. there was a lovely vegan cafe right next door, which i’d been eyeing when we went in to smoke, so we had a top up on coffee and matcha there. we saw a cute frenchie across the road and missed the dogs so...

vimeo

we had dinner at this place called cafe frijdag (which means Friday!) which was delicious! so happy that amsterdam had vegan options for me

jul 2, 19 ••• we got up bright and early to meet my parents for breakfast and we go to the airport to catch our flight to kigali. about 10 hours later, we were buying sim cards at the kigali airport. we then checked in to the radisson for the night, and it was feeling very surreal to be in africa. i remember feeling anxious.

jul 3, 19 ••• today started on a somber note. we went to the kigali genocide memorial. i cried a lot, especially at the exhibit with the photographs of only a fraction of the victims during that time.

then we drove at turtle speed to our next hotel, which was a loooong long way away. we arrived at the lake kivu serena hotel in time for a very late lunch. the cuisine here consists of rice, tortilla-like wraps and papadum-esque crispy rolls.

this fruit tastes disgusting... it looks like a tomato but isn’t sweet at all. i only remember spitting it out, trying another piece from another plate, and still hating it.

vimeo

thankfully everyone wanted to relax and take it easy, so we ordered in for dinner and spent the rest of the night chilling.

jul 4, 19 ••• we drove out to see the border between rwanda and the democratic republic of congo. we were told to be very careful about taking photos of the police officers there, so we were. it felt strange to take photos of the border, i’m clearly very ignorant of the relations and history. it was a very busy juncture, with a sea of people crossing this way and that, lots of cars bumbling about and a lot of fruit, as i recall. hahah.

we then drove out to see a makeshift hot spring. we were asked if we wanted to take a dip, but none of us wanted to..... felt bad saying no, but really not worth it, sorry.

vimeo

https://vimeo.com/568059672 (okay, i’m unable to embed more videos so links will have to do until i figure out something better...)

we took a boat ride along the lake, but there wasn’t that much to see around there, it was pretty dirty and murky... reminded me of the hong kong harbor, with trash floating around. it was also freezing, so i wasn’t having any fun at all.

we went to the gym and worked out a little bit because there was a lot of time to kill in between returning to hotel and our private pre-planned bbq dinner on the beach. we were lucky enough to enjoy traditional rwandan dancing which was absolutely gorgeous.

jul 5, 19 ••• we spent most of our morning in the car, having crossed the border to the republic of uganda. we stopped by a cute cafe along the way for lunch, but it was a grueling 4-5 hour car ride to mahogany springs, which was our hotel for the gorilla trekking. we managed to arrive around 715pm, by which time it was pretty dark and scary outside. the other car had broken down twice, once in the dark as well, so spirits were low and there was a lot of muttering and grumbling done under people’s breath. everyone was ravenous by the time dinner was served, but despite how late it was, it was absolutely delicious and i was happy! (also grateful for our car not having broken down)

jul 6, 19 ••• we woke up VERY early in anticipation of gorilla trekking. we waited around the hotel lobby after some coffee and biscuits for breakfast. it was an awful lot of waiting, but i didn’t sense anything wrong until i saw how pissed off our tour guide looked. it turns out our permits had gotten stolen! probably bribes.

here we were mucking around, still anticipating gorilla trekking.

we didn’t let it slow us down though. i actually am grateful for how things turned out because we wouldn’t have gotten to experience uganda like that without this turn of events. we joined a community tour that showed us how tea is harvested, how coffee is grown, harvested and round, as well as how bananas may be used to make juice, beer and gin! very cool

african tea leaves

jackfruit??

these are flowers from the coffee tree

the different stages of the coffee plant

this is henry, he owns this coffee plantation. here, henry shows us how to the use this contraption, the purpose of which is to grind coffee beans into powder

here henry is, sifting the coffee powder

here are my parents, having the time of their life (lol at my dad)

fresh bananas

these are the different stages of a banana’s life: from raw to ripe to fermenting. it can be made into juice and liquor.

we then visited a local school, where we were entertained by kids from kindergarten to 6th grade. we learned about their mission and goals to educate the younger generations by providing classrooms and a dining hall and even dorms for boarding. the singing and dancing was BRILLIANT. loved every single second of it. wish i’d joined in and not cared about what anyone thought.

we stopped by a women’s community center and saw a lot of cool crafts and art. that was on the way to the batwa pgymy tribe. we learned how they integrated with the batwa community. they showed us some dances they have dedicated to the gorillas, for which they are very grateful because it brings tourists in and therefore gives them an income. they showed us how to use a bow and arrow to hunt, and how they weave baskets and make handicrafts.

alan with the leader of the pgymy tribe

one of our guides spotted 2 chameleons, which was super impressive. he even brought the chameleon down close to us so that we could see it. i won’t ever understand how he was able to spot it in the wild, and from so far away as well.

we returned to the lodge and had lunch. the veggie stir fry was pretty dang good. it was served with posho, which is a maize bread, beans, and also matate (???) which reminded me a lot of plantain. back at the hotel, we chilled (without tv or wifi) until dinner. alan fell asleep, and i kept myself busy sorting out photos. dinner was early, and our night was early because we were promised gorilla trekking in the morning!

delicious!

jul 7, 19 ••• we were up and ready to leave by 7am. we were in the clear! we drove a little bit to the bwindi impenetrable national park for some entertainment (dancing and singing) from local students and a hilarious briefing on what to expect and do’s and don’ts of the trek.

we then had separate meetings within our trekking groups. ours was quite big, with 10 tourists, because michael and our guides had spent HOURS the day before handling our stolen permits. an exception was made to accommodate us all, so our group consisted of the starke’s, alan, kerstin, a couple from oregon, and an english family. we had to get in another car and drive a bit to the mountain, where we met our porters and then began our trek!

the hike up was difficult, and at times i legit feared for my life because the mud/rocks were loose and one wrong step would have had us tumbling down the edge of the mountain... and that was me at age 28!! cannot imagine how my parents were feeling...

alan with meddie

as we made our way to the gorilla family, we encountered a solo young male who was soooo friendly, he cut across our group, like right down the middle, and he even reached out and touched my mom on her jacket! it was wild that a gorilla was that close to us, and then he left as quickly as he had joined.

this is the photo my mom managed to take when the young gorilla male was right next to her

we kept on hiking and found a large. our guide, meddie, told us that we were lucky to have found such a large family doing a whole bunch of different activities: we saw mothers nursing their babies, babies swinging from the trees and playing with one another, sub adult males beating their chests and other members of the family eating and feeding. we even got to watch as a silverback gorilla pulled a very healthy poop out of its butt, and we ran into him snacking again later on.

on the way down, it started raining a little bit. we all slipped at one point or another, but it was especially dangerous for my dad so we all had to slow down our pace a little bit to match his speed. thank god he had a porter there to help him out and save him.

we returned to the same place as where we had started our morning for a debriefing, and we each received a certificate to show that we had been on this trek. we waited around a little bit for the other group to arrive, and were once again very grateful that our experience was much more pleasant. one lady in the other group had to leave the trek on a stretcher, and the others were caught in the rain on their way to the gorillas, so it must have been a cold and awful experience on their end.

us after the successful completion of our gorilla trek!!

we headed to a local inn nearby where we had a late lunch and could change into dry clothes. we then drove a bumpy 4 hours to mweya safari lodge, located inside queen elizabeth national park. we made a couple of stops along the way (one of which was in the middle of nowhere so that people could go pee out in the open where animals are potentially roaming around?!?!?) and when we finally arrived, it was already 830/9ish pm.... we insisted to order room service because we were pooped, and we got showered and hit the hay.

this cute sign was outside the lodge!

this super old school cash register was at the lodge too

jul 8, 19 ••• today started off with a game drive, early in the morning!

we drove around the gorgeous park and saw elephants, warthogs, antelope, eagles, all sorts of bird and butterflies, buffalo and weird-looking lemur or ferret creatures. we thought it was great, but some other members of the group were underwhelmed.

this is the view from the car we sat in for the safari

this gorgeous tree houses sooo many bird’s nests! do you see them?

cute antelope we saw on the tour

after lunch at the hotel, we went on a boat tour around the kazinga channel. i think it was called lake edward? we saw many animals again, including crocodile, elephants, buffalo, all sorts of birds, and hippos.

favorite photo of my parents ¨̮

we followed a few elephant cuties along the bank. it drizzled for a little bit in between.

dinner was delicious. it was a great buffet, although i was severely grossed out by the ants that joined us on the dining table.

there were so many animals on the grounds of the lodge. don’t be fooled by how cute these guys look, we saw them fight over raw meat at some point! we also saw a warthog stroll around.

jul 9, 19 ••• we were up bright and early today for a quick breakfast before heading right on out. on the way to entebbe, we stopped by a local motel for lunch. the service was SUPER slow (maybe because we had such a huge group together!) but it was delicious and worth the wait! i ordered a coleslaw and avocado vinaigrette (this was THE HUGEST AVOCADO i’ve ever seen in my life?!?!?), a veggie biryani and some of paul’s aloo matar. we then filed back into our cars for several more hours of “african massage” to the next destination. had an early night, i think we ordered room service to the hotel room and tried to get our butts to bed as early as possible because it was another EARLY day the morning after.

we stopped at the equator in uganda to take some photos, of course!

i was sooo happy to be able to order room service! we felt like we were finally back to civilization... 🥺 we had wifi and tv and hot water... ugh it was amazing

jul 10, 19 ••• my alarm was set for 4am this morning.... 🥲😅 we left the hotel at 5am for the airport and obviously i was tired and grumpy and just in a crappy mood overall hahahah. our first flight was barely 45 minutes.... to mbarara i’m guessing?? i was assigned a middle seat on my own originally but no one was in the aisle seat so i moved over woohoo! our first layover was 2-3 hours, not too bad. we hung around at the lounge area.

our second flight was to harare. alan and i managed to snag 2 joined seats towards the back end of the plane so that we could watch conan’s traevel shows on his ipad. there was a pretty scary drop when we were descending imto harare. i think we just stayed on the plane for about half an hour so some people could get on the plane and join.

we flew about 3 hours more to cape town, and we were EXCITED to arrive. it was a hell of a time checking in, and it was a nicer hotel in a nice area so we decided to just stay in and order room service again. we had a slow night and it was SOOOO needed. cape town felt a lot closer to the first world and we were enjoying and appreciating it to the max. we even started playing pokemon go and its harry potter-themed equivalent (oops forgot the name), but to be fair, we didn’t get cell phone service everywhere we went, so it would cut on and off.

jul 11, 19 ••• eek, cape town was COOOOLD! luckily i brought a jacket along, we really really needed to cover up and stay warm! got to sleep in a bit, we left by 830am to drive to the pebble beach by the water to take some gorgeous photos. we stopped by chapman’s peak for another photo op, then drove to boulders beach in simon’s town to see the penguins!! it was such a dream, loved every second of it.

i believe this was chapman’s peak??

what a model

this was at the pebble beach at the cape of good hope.

saw a cute ostrich on the way somewhere

next we went to cape point. we took the funicular to the top, then hiked up to the lighthouse. we took pots of great pics but omg it was EVEN MORE freezing there. we had lunch at the two oceans restaurant. fancy and delicious! the calamari was bomb, the arancini was alright, but the main of chickpea and mushrooms was delish. after lunch we headed right on back to the hotel.

when i said it was cold, i wasn’t joking... it was FREEZING at the top. i had a horrible time because i don’t do that well in the cold

alan and i walked over to woolworths to get water and makeup remover and snacks. on the way back we stopped by PLANT for dinner. i was sooo excited to try out their vegan fast food, so i ordered a lot of the menu. we got the quinoa salad, mac and cheez, seitan lasagna, schawarma, pot stickers, siu mai, spag bolognese, tiramisu, milk tart and a bunch of other random vegan snacks. i was in HEAVEN. even though some of the stuff was cold by the time we got back to the hotel and ate, it still tasted DELICIOUS. i was soooo impressed.

this was the lasagna. omfg i need an encore of this restaurant one day!!! wish i knew how to cook like this

jul 12, 19 ••• today we went to a wine blending workshop at grande provence winery. the first step was to blend 3 different mixtures. after tasting them all, we decided the last blend was the winner, with 40% zinfandel, 10% shiraz and 50% cabernet. so then we blended up a big bottle of it, corked it, thew on a hand-signed label, and then walked around the beautiful indoor and outdoor art galleries.

this was our group!

wine blending is literally mixing different wines together in different proportions and figuring out which you like the taste of the best

there was a lot of cute art at the winery! i loved all the dogs and greyhounds around the property. these 3 dancing pigs came a close second

we drove a little way for lunch at another beautiful vineyard. i had a charcoal ciabatta, tomato quinoa salad, root veggie risotto and steamed veggies on the side. we skipped the wine tasting because our lunch overran a bit and our bus driver buford said that the traffic would be pretty heavy on a friday afternoon and it wouldn’t be worth it to be stuck on the bus. so we just walked around the cute little town we were at, franschhoek (??)

there was a lot of cute art and small local shops around this town! we strolled around and got some souvenirs ¨̮

love this

we had a dinner booked way ahead at fyn restaurant. it was stunningly delicious. i loved every single course and was thoroughly impressed.

UGHHHHH just soooo good.

jul 13, 19 ••• FINALLY we had a day to sleep in!!!! we let our group know the night before that we didn’t want to join the walking tour around the city. we woke up and made our way to the company’s garden, which was directly next to our hotel. we played harry potter wizards unite and ran into the tour group. my mom told me later on it was a good decision of ours not to join haha.

we walked to addis in cape for an authentic ethiopian meal experience. we washed our hands at the table, ate the whole meal with our hands, and finally i was able to taste injera. it was 100% teff injera and it did not disappoint. i ordered a vegan platter while alan got a combo. the amount of food was PERFECT for us, we finished every single thing.

we ordered dessert but the hot berries never showed up and the ice cream was interestingly very gummy and very very sweet. the coffee was strong and served with a beautiful platter.

after that, we needed to walk our full tummies off. we headed to the waterfront, where there were many shops and stalls in indoor and outdoor malls. it was just a really good time walking around there and we saw soooo many things. there was bubble tea in south africa, a yogurt bar that made me sooo happy, dogs were up for adoption, and a bootleg jabbawockeez performance at the city square. we walked back to the hotel after that and got ready for bed.

jul 14, 19 ••• we woke up at 430am to head to the airport by 530am. we caught our first flight from cape town to johannesburg, then transferred to a direct flight back to hong kong. it was a TIRING trip but wow, the memories!! really want to go to back soon

#tanjastravels #tansworld #travel #wanderlust #tanja travels #tanjalan #cape town #uganda #gorilla #gorilla trekking #africa #south africa #safari #memories #travel memories #do you even travel

4 notes · View notes

bisexualkramer · 4 years

Text

Hi! I participated in @pilesofnonsense‘s 2020 Rusty Quill Big Bang this year, and I’m so excited to share my fic with all of you!

I’d like to thank @aibari for betaing this monstrosity and @cthulu-time for making a REALLY COOL ART PIECE FOR THE FIC LIKE HOLY SHIT IT’S AWESOME!! It was such a pleasure to work with both of them!

Hope y’all enjoy it!

The End of All Things - A Magnus Archives Lord of the Rings AU

Part One: Fellowship

Part Two: Towers

Part Three: King

Summer had come to the Shire at last. The green grass was soft underfoot, as gentle as the breeze that danced through the air, bringing with it the scent of wildflowers and tilled earth. The skies were blue and filled with clouds that drifted lazily about. Children wove daisy crowns and danced through the streets in preparation for the midsummer holiday. The old dozed; the young worked; everything was peaceful and good.

Not that Jonathan Sims would have known. His summer habits were no different than his winter ones. He awoke before the sun rose—quite the feat, in those long days of summer—and trudged down the lane to the Shire’s old archives, where he dutifully toiled until after the sun had set. The only variation in his routine was the thickness of his jacket and the presence or lack of an old woolen hat, a gift from his gardener that had kept him from catching his death of cold for at least the past three winters. Jon, bless him, had never thanked the man for it, but he was still willing to wear it, and that was quite enough for Martin Blackwood.

On the eve of the midsummer feast, Jonathan was down in the archive basement again, digging through a waterlogged box of paper and finding the documents that needed to be replaced. The head archivist, Gertrude Robinson, sat beside him, dutifully copying down an old deed that had been damaged in a spring flood. They worked in a quiet tandem, satisfied with the comfortable silence that came from years of friendship.

Jon had been very young when his parents had died in a boating accident. His grandmother hadn’t been keen on raising another child, but there had been no one else to take him. He’d grown up a lonely child in the country, kept company only by books, until his grandmother had died, leaving him her house. He’d sold it immediately and moved to the Shire, and his job application to the town archive had been accepted within a week. He’d been working there ever since, though he’d only become one of Gertrude’s close assistants in the last couple of years. Still, the two got on like a house on fire, and Jon liked to think that Gertrude would ask him to take over when she eventually retired.

A knock at the door brought Jon out of his thoughts. A young man stepped in, his blonde hair falling down around his cheeks in ringlet curls that made even Jon jealous. He handed a sheaf of paper over to Gertrude with a smile.

“Thank you, Michael,” she said. Michael Shelley had only been working in the archives for a few months. He had a bad habit of leaving his red cardigan in the archives. Jon was beginning to suspect he was doing it on purpose, if only because of—

“Hey, guys?” asked a voice from the back. “I’ve found another one with water damage. Where are we putting it?”

“Bring it here,” said Jon resignedly.

Gerry Delano was a short, broad-shouldered hobbit with badly-dyed black hair that hung in greasy strings around his face. He had a permanent scowl that occasionally lifted into a smirk. Every time he spoke to Michael, Michael would erupt into nervous, grating laughter, which did little to improve Jon’s mood but seemed to make Gerry much cheerier.

Jon hated working with them.

Gerry dropped the box in front of them and exaggeratedly wiped the sweat off his brow. He met Michael’s eye and smirked. Michael giggled. Jon tried very hard not to roll his eyes.

“Right,” said Gerry. “Think I’m off for today. Anyone fancy the Green Dragon for a half-pint?”

“Oh, ah, that sounds fun,” said Michael. “Uh, would either of you care to join us?”

Jon scowled, but Gertrude shoved at his arm. “Go have fun,” she said. “I’m expecting a visitor soon. I don’t need you moping down here next to me.”

“But the deeds—” Jon began, only to be hauled to his feet by Gerry in a feat of strength that stole the words from his throat.

“None of that,” said Gerry. “C’mon. Besides, I think your boy’s usually there on Fridays.”

“My what?” Jon scoffed, but he was already being firmly escorted out the door.

“Lord,” said Gertrude. “Youth is wasted on the wrong people.”

...

The Green Dragon was always lively around the end of the week, but it was even more so before holidays. Gerry crept to the bar for drinks and brought them back to the table, cursing as he set them down.

“Nearly lost one,” he said, passing them around. “Anyway, cheers to another year in the archives.”

“Cheers,” said the rest of them absently.

Jon peered around the room as Gerry and Michael began to flirt rather obnoxiously. He felt his stomach drop as he accidentally met eyes with Martin from across the room. Martin’s expression brightened, and he began to head toward the table. Jon tried not to scowl.

The truth of the matter was, Jon had spent a very, very long time hating Martin. Martin had apparently been the gardener at Bag End since before the previous inhabitant had left (very mysteriously, and no one in town would say anything about it—there were rumors that he had been close with Gertrude, but she refused to say anything about it). Jon kept him on because his rates were good and it felt like the right thing to do, and not because he had often heard Martin chatting quietly with the bees while he worked, oblivious to Jon’s watchful eye on the other side of the kitchen window. As Martin approached, Jon quickly realized that the only remaining seat was the one next to him. He tried to ignore it when Martin’s leg brushed very lightly against his own, but couldn’t quite manage to get it out of his head.

“All right, Martin?” Gerry asked, giving him a smile.

Martin blushed a bit at the attention, which made Jon want to commit murder, or possibly arson. “I’m all right,” he said. “And you?”

The two of them struck up a friendly conversation, which they roped Michael into fairly quickly. Jon buried his face in his drink for a while before finally allowing Michael to draw him in with a well-aimed question about the old books he’d found in his home when he moved, which led to several hours of debate over the whereabouts of the mysterious owner, and then a conversation about Michael’s sister, who had sold the property, and then the state of the small library in Hobbiton, and soon Jon found himself ranting about the properties of various waxes for almost a quarter of an hour.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly when he realized no one had stopped him.

“No,” said Martin, his face flush with alcohol. “No, it was interesting. It was really interesting.”

“Christ,” said Gerry. “Right. I think I’m done for tonight.” He glanced at Michael. “Care to walk me home?”

Michael stuttered a response and pulled on his sweater, leaving Jon and Martin sitting beside each other.

“Well,” said Jon, just as Martin said “Anyway…”

“Oh,” said Jon.

“Sorry,” said Martin. “I mean, uh, go ahead.”

“No, no, it’s all right,” Jon stuttered. “You first.”

“Right,” said Martin. “Uh, I was just going to say it was getting late. Maybe we should go.”

Jon stared at him blankly for a moment before the words made it past his ears and into his head. “Oh, yes,” said Jon. “Of course. Yes.”

“Unless you don’t want to…?”

“No, it’s really fine. Absolutely fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Jon tried not to let too much annoyance creep into his voice as he said “Yes, Martin. I’m quite sure.” From the look on Martin’s face, he was fairly certain he had failed.

“Right,” said Martin. “Um… I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

“Yes,” said Jon. “Tomorrow.”

“Okay. Night, then.”

Jon gave him a thin smile. “Good night, Martin.”

The walk home was colder than Jon had expected. He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly wishing he had brought a jacket to the archives that morning. The night sky was clear and star-filled, broken only by the slightest sliver of the moon. As he walked, a small group of fireflies flitted through the bushes by the side of the lane.

He passed by the archives on the way home. The lamps inside were still lit, and Jon could hear hushed voices from within. Never one to miss a chance to eavesdrop, he slowed his step and quieted his breathing, listening with all his might.

“… power grows ever stronger,” said Gertrude. “I’ve felt its draw for the last thirty years. I think soon I shall have to leave it behind.”

“I just hope we’re wrong,” said a familiar voice that Jon hadn’t heard in years. A silhouette appeared in the window, wearing a pointed wizard’s hat. Forgetting himself, Jon flung open the door with a smile.

“Sasha!”

She whirled toward him, her dark hair whipping out as she did. “Jon!”

Gertrude looked rather grumpy to have been interrupted, but Sasha’s eyes were full of delight. She wrapped Jon in a tight embrace, laughing all the while.

“It’s good to see you again, old friend,” she said. “I was going to stop by in the morning. I wasn’t sure if you were asleep.”

“Gerry and Michael dragged me out,” said Jon. Sasha’s face lit up at the mention of Michael’s name.

“I’m glad they’re getting you out of this dusty basement,” she said. “Don’t want you withering away down here, eh?” Her glasses and her many rings glinted mischievously in the lamplight.

Gertrude glanced at him over her reading spectacles. “I’m sorry to interrupt the reunion,” she said, “but I really do think we need to continue this discussion, Sasha.”

“All right, all right,” said Sasha. “Listen, Jon, I’ll talk to you at the festival tomorrow, yeah?”

“Very well,” said Jon. “I’m very glad to see you again.”

“I’m glad, too,” she said. “Take care of yourself, Jon.”

Jon turned to leave, then glanced back at Sasha. As she glanced at Gertrude, her smile vanished, and Jon’s heart filled unexpectedly with fear.

...

The midsummer festival was a full day and night of merrymaking, complete with the finest ales and pipeweeds that could be found in the Shire. People baked for days to prepare enough pies and pastries for the whole community. Everything was shared at the festival, from food to old stories. Even Jon, for all his curmudgeonly ways, could admit that it was a rather wonderful day.

A flowery banner had been erected across the entrance to old Eric Delano’s field, where they’d held the festival in memory of his late wife for the past ten years. (Gerry tended to complain about it, if you could get him drunk enough to recount the tales of his childhood with her—apparently, she’d been rather cruel, and he didn’t feel she deserved such a nice party.) Jon arrived in the early afternoon, far later than most of the Shire, as large crowds tended to make him nervous. It wasn’t long before he was accosted by Martin, who was camped in a corner, sipping at his ale.

“Oh, Jon!” he said, nearly knocking it over. “Hi! Nice to see you here.”

“Hello, Martin,” said Jon. He cast about awkwardly for something to say, landing on, “Uh, are you having fun?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Martin. “I was just helping set up this morning, and then I’ve been sort of running around with everything. D’you need anything?”

“No, thank you, Martin,” said Jon. “I was just, ah, going to see Sasha. Have you seen her or Gertrude, by any chance?”

“Uh, no,” said Martin. “D’you think they’re just running late?”

“I don’t know. I was hoping you would have seen them. I’ll ask around.”

“Okay,” said Martin. “Um, you’re here to stay, right?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, good! Because, you know, I was thinking we could get a drink—uh, with Michael and Gerry, I mean, and maybe Sasha, not just the two of us, haha, if that’s okay?”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon said distractedly, still searching the crowd for Gertrude and Sasha. “I’ll be seeing you.” He turned and began to shove through the crowd of hobbits once more.

He didn’t make it far. There was a large booth on the northern border of the property, near where he had come in, that sold beautiful pastries topped with intricate spiral designs. There were two people manning that booth. One was Michael, who was chatting with old Eric Delano by the fence. The other was his sister, Helen, who was handing out sweets to anyone who walked by with a smile and a nod.

Michael and Helen didn’t look very similar at all. In fact, they weren’t siblings by blood; their parents had married when the two were nearly twenty, and they’d instantly started to bicker like any other siblings. Contrary to Michael’s fair skin and hair, Helen’s skin was dark, and her hair was a deep black. The only similarity between the two was their hair. Both had hair that curled in tight coils around their heads. Michael kept his back in a ponytail with a fair bit of effort and oil; Helen let hers grow out around her head, leaving her with a spiral halo that could be quite disorienting if you looked at it for too long.

“Jon!” she shouted, waving him over. “Jon, over here!”

Jon rolled his eyes but made his way over to the stall. He and Helen had a somewhat tumultuous relationship; she enjoyed teasing him (though Jon likely would have said “torturing him), and he tolerated her jabs with the best humor he could muster on any given day. Often, this meant that he stormed away fuming, followed by her very distinctive cackle of victory.

It was as good a friendship as any, he supposed.

“Hi, Jon,” said Helen cheerfully when Jon arrived at her stall. “Here, try a hot cross bun.” She shoved the pastry at him forcefully and laughed when he took it and instantly swore at just how hot it was.

“Hello, Helen,” said Jon. “Have you seen Sasha?”

Helen pouted. “Don’t want to stay and talk to me, Jon? How very rude!”

Jon rolled his eyes. “Don’t give me that. I’ll come back later, if you like. I just need to speak with Sasha.”

Helen’s pout didn’t disappear, but she pointed a long, slender finger toward an innocuous tent that was hidden behind the many barrels of ale that had been prepared for that evening. “I saw her setting up in there,” she said. “I think it’s her fireworks, but I’m not sure. She didn’t even stop and say hello.”

“Right,” said Jon. “Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

He made his way quickly to Sasha’s firework tent, shoving through the crowds until he was able to duck inside. Sasha was there, thank heavens—Jon was just about ready to leave the party entirely if he had to talk to one more person.

“Jon!” said Sasha as she fiddled with the fuse of a long, red rocket. “I was looking for you earlier, but I couldn’t find you anywhere. Where have you been?”

Jon sighed. “Socializing,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.

Sasha laughed. “Oh, come on,” she said. “You love it.”

Jon rolled his eyes, but he let his expression soften. “So what brings you back to the Shire?”

Sasha’s smile faded slightly around her eyes, which Jon noted and tucked away. “I needed to talk to Gertrude,” she said. “And I thought it would be nice to see everyone again. You know I miss you all when I’m on my travels.”

“Ah, your mysterious voyages,” said Jon. “Any chance we’ll get to hear some stories tonight?”

“Perhaps,” said Sasha, waggling her eyebrows.

“Speaking of Gertrude,” said Jon, “I should probably go and find her. I haven’t seen her all day.”

“Really?” Sasha asked. “She said she was planning on showing up early. Apparently, her and Eric had a bit of a fight last week, and she said she wanted to apologize before the festival really kicked off.”

“A fight?” Jon asked. “What about?”

“I don’t know. You know they haven’t been as close since Eric left the archives,” she said. “And he hasn’t been the same since the whole Mary thing, or since he lost his eyes.”

Jon hummed. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s seen her,” he said. “When are the fireworks?”

“Just after sundown,” said Sasha with a sparkle in her eye. “You won’t want to miss them.”

“No, I won’t,” Jon agreed. He glanced up at her. “I’ve missed you, too, you know.”

Sasha’s smile grew. “Oh, Jon!” she said, and she threw her arms around him. Jon squawked in protest as he was smothered by her flowing wizardly robes, but Sasha paid him no mind. She squeezed his shoulders tightly. “I know how hard that was for you to admit—”

“I am capable of talking about my feelings, you know.”

“—and I want you to know that I’m very, very glad to have you as a friend.”

Jon laughed, then pulled away, trying to extricate himself from a truly ridiculous amount of fabric. “All right, all right,” he said. “I��m going to go and find Gertrude. I’ll meet up with you later.”

“Go on and have fun. And, hey, try not to cause any trouble.”

Jon scoffed. “I do not cause trouble.”

“Sure, you don’t. Enjoy the party! Have some of Helen’s pastries. They’re delicious.”

Jon made his way out of the tent and back into the midst of the festivities. The sun burned in the sky, and the air was humid and heavy. Most of the party-goers had retreated to the relative shade of the small copse of trees in the northeast corner. Jon spotted Gerry sitting there with old Fiona Law, who was regaling a small group of children with a fairy tale that seemed to have put Gerry halfway to sleep.

“Gerard,” said Jon as he approached, “have you seen Gertrude?”

Gerry shook his head sleepily. “Figured she was with you,” he said. “She must have gotten caught up in the archives. Want me to go and look?”

“No, don’t trouble yourself,” said Jon. “I’m sure she’ll show up eventually.”

“Mm-hmm,” said Gerry. He closed his eyes once more. Jon left him to his nap.

It seemed the whole Shire had fallen into the afternoon daze. Jon took it upon himself to clean up some of the mess while everyone around him slept, then decided he could return to the archives and do some work before the fireworks that night. He doubted anyone would notice him leaving, sleepy as they all were.

When he reached the garden gate, a horrible, wriggling sort of sound brought him to a stop. He glanced around, looking for its source, and settled his gaze on a ball of silver worms that were intertwined so tightly with each other that they almost looked like one creature. Normally, Jon didn’t have a problem with worms–only spiders were enough to set him shivering–but something about the worms seemed wrong, reminding him of rot and decay and illness rather than good soil and the smell of summer. He suppressed a sudden bout of nausea and carefully stepped past them, keeping his distance as best he could.

Hobbiton was largely abandoned, as everyone was at the party. The sun had settled into that lazy mid-afternoon place where everything looked a bit like a dream. Jon brushed away a bit of sweat and then paused, hearing the wriggling sound once more. There were more of those silvery worms in the soil beside the main road, though not in nearly so high a concentration as the ones by Delano’s farm. Jon hurried on.

As he rounded the last corner, he heard something that made his heart drop in his chest: a panicked scream, coming from inside the archives.

Jon ran down the lane toward the scream. As he ran, he accidentally squashed a few silver worms underfoot. The sensation of their segmented bodies bursting against his toes made him shudder, but he did not slow his speed. He flung open the heavy wooden doors to the archives with a desperate groan, shoving against years of rust that had grown across the hinges.

Martin was pressed against the wall inside the door, clutching his chest as though trying to keep his heart inside. His face was white as a sheet.

“Martin?” Jon asked.

Martin whirled around, curls bouncing against his forehead. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was wider.

“Jon!” he said, clutching one hand to his chest.

“What’s the matter?” Jon asked urgently. “I heard a shout.”

“I— it’s—”

“For God’s sake, Martin, spit it out!”

“It’s Gertrude,” Martin gasped. “Jon, she’s dead.”

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #my stuff #rusty quill big bang 2020 #jonmartin

23 notes · View notes

pitviperofdoom · 4 years

Text

Guess who’s back with another fun Magnus AU WIP! This one is... kind of a weird one. It’s somewhat inspired by but in no way based on or connected to Death By Dying, another fantastic podcast.

Warning for some pretty major Season 4 spoilers like, right off the bat.

***

Contrary to what some might think of him, the man currently known as Elias Bouchard did not enjoy the luxury of omniscience. The fact that he could see everything did not make him all-knowing. The “could” was the sticking point. He could see everything, or anything he cared to look at, but then, if he wasn’t looking at it then he wasn’t seeing it.

And so, at any given moment, he did not know certain things, like what the people of London were getting up to in their morning routines, or how a hadron collider worked, or the exact placement of the solar system in the larger known universe. These things did not help or hinder his purposes, and it was a considerable task keeping track of those that did. It simply wasn’t in his best interests to clutter his mind with anything and everything in existence, simply for the sake of knowing all of it.

The Eye itself might be interested, in the way that a man with a full dinner spread was interested in the salt and pepper, but Elias Bouchard, James Wright, and all the names that traced back to Jonah Magnus were not the Eye. He was not a god, only a man who had found a way to use one properly.

And so, when a prospective hire walked into his institute for an afternoon job interview, Jonah Magnus did not, strictly speaking, know anything about him. He knew when he arrived, and he knew the path that the man took from the front entrance to Jonah’s office, but it was only when they were face to face that Jonah decided to give him a proper look.

What he found was… interesting, to say the least.

Jonah’s eyes—just the two of them—showed him… not much. Nothing more or less than what he expected to see. A dark face, darker beneath the pale gray eyes, thin and slightly sunken with sharp cheekbones—this was a man that did not see to the needs of his body. Dark hair, streaked with gray—premature, given the date of birth on his application. He was crisply dressed, though less so than Jonah himself. A waistcoat without a jacket—gray, again. A neatly-done tie—charcoal, for a bit of variety. No adornments but a black ring on the middle finger of his right hand. A signifier of—Jonah lost interest in that train of thought immediately.

All of that taken together, there was not a drop of color on the man before him. Were it not for the brown of his skin, Jonah could have been looking at a black-and-white photograph given life. That would be an interesting diversion from the Stranger’s usual tactics, but Jonah knew, with the certainty of one who could see everything if he wanted to, that he was not dealing with a hand of the Stranger.

As Jonah took in the man before him, only half-listening to his polite introduction, he felt his senses stir with a revulsion that was not wholly his own. He swallowed the feeling, clearing his throat enough to say, “Tell me about your background.”

He did not listen to the man’s answer, as riveting as it surely was. He could see it for himself perfectly well: a lonely childhood, full of neglect and halfhearted care born of obligation rather than love, followed by a life in much the same vein. But nestled in the midst of all the rest of it, there it was.

It started, as these things often did, with a book. One that caught its reader on a gossamer thread as soon as it was touched, and with each turn of a page added more, until the hapless reader was hopelessly snarled and helpless at the end to do anything but find the right door and knock.

And that was where things got interesting.

Because the man before him was not a puppet of the Web. The book was not meant to make puppets; it was meant to catch food. To fall into its trap meant certain death. And yet here he was, sitting in front of him, overflowing with a power that Jonah’s god hated.

After all, the Eye had no use for death and dying, when there was nothing worth watching in its aftermath—and the fear of death came from the lack of knowledge, not its abundance.

(What an interesting move for Terminus, to snatch a victim from the Spider’s jaws.)

On the subject of death and uselessness, Gertrude Robinson was now dead and useless to him. She had been useless even before dying, far too single-minded to be manipulated, far too weak of an Archivist to usher in the future that Jonah sought to build. But now her position was open.

The man before him would also be useless as an Archivist. Were he merely marked by the End, or even by the Web, Jonah would have leapt at the chance. But a full avatar of the End still presented an equally tantalizing opportunity.

His Archivist would have to be marked somehow, would it not?

Jonah carried out the rest of the interview burying his own impatience. It was merely a formality, and he expected that Terminus’s servant knew that; they had both made up their minds the second he’d set foot in Jonah’s office.

“I have one final question for you,” said Jonah. “What, exactly, are you looking for in pursuing this position?”

Not for the first time, he quietly lamented the gaps in his own power. Were he the Archivist, he could pull the truth from him like a knife from a wound. But as he was, all he could do ask, and listen, and see if the answer was truthful.

Pale gray eyes met his over the desk, steady and unreadable as servants of the End so often were. “I’ve heard about this place. I believe that I can do a lot of good here.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” If the smile that spread slowly across Jonah’s face was disconcerting, his new employee gave no sign of it.

Instead, he offered a nod, or perhaps a respectful inclination of the head. “When can I expect to hear back?”

“Immediately,” Jonah replied, sitting forward. “I believe you’ll do very well in the archives.”

“Archives?” For the first time, the man seemed taken aback. “My application was for a researcher position.”

“Ah, I apologize for the miscommunication,” Jonah said smoothly. “The duties and responsibilities of archival assistants are largely research as well, so from time to time some new hire in HR will make an error.” At the ensuing hesitation, he added, “In my experience, the archives offers a somewhat greater degree of… job security. If that helps.”

“I suppose it does.”

“Well then,” Jonah said, rising from his chair. “Welcome to the Magnus Institute, Mr. Sims.”

The hand that he shook was cold. Colder still were the pale gray eyes as, for the first time since walking into his office, Jonathan Sims smiled.

With one more piece falling into place, Jonah Magnus smiled back.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #jonathan sims #elias bouchard #fanfiction #tales from the pit #true death au

97 notes · View notes