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ollieofthebeholder · 4 months

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20 Questions for Fic Writers

Thanks @fridayyy-13th for the tag!

How many works do you have on Ao3? 64!

What's your total Ao3 word count? Holy...! Uh, 1,700,611. (I should've guessed, I've got some ultra-long fics on there, but Jesus Christ on a cracker.)

What fandoms do you write for? These days, mostly The Magnus Archives. I've also written for Star Trek (primarily the AOS/Kelvin films), the MCU/Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Cut & Run, and RQG. I've got a couple of very, very old Sherlock fics, a couple PJO fics from some ship week challenges I took part in back when the Heroes of Olympus books were still coming out, a couple WTNV fics, a few Star Wars fics that never made it to AO3, and three one-offs.

What are your top five fics by kudos? leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall) - 1,758 kudos Had He Known It - 777 kudos Whiskey Lullaby - 395 kudos It Was Just My Imagination Telling Lies - 378 kudos Hurry Up and Slow Me Down - 349 kudos

Do you respond to comments? Every single one! It's half the fun to me.

What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Ooh...that's a toughie, actually, but I'm going to go with Where the Road Waits to be Taken because it's the only one where the ending focuses on the people left behind.

What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Also a toughie! But I'm going to go with Love Will Find Out the Way.

Do you get hate on fics? Not so much anymore. I've been around long enough that I definitely used to, but I write for saner fandoms now.

.Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Not these days. I'm asexual and, while I'm personally sex-averse, my tolerance for it in fiction kind of goes in cycles. I think the last time I wrote an explicit sex scene was in 2016 or 2017.

.Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written? Heh...I do, on occasion. Most recently the WTNV/TMA crossover (the full extent of which hasn't been published yet), which isn't that crazy. I think the craziest one I wrote was the Sherlock/Star Trek crossover that was also (sigh) a HP AU...which I have deleted, so sorrynotsorry.

Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not as far as I know, but I don't exactly go looking.

Have you ever had a fic translated? Again, not as far as I know.

Have you ever co-written a fic before? Uh...technically? My brother had an idea for a fic, but he wasn't old enough to join any fanfic websites at the time (we were probably the only two kids who never lied about our age on the internet to join websites), so he dictated it to me, I fleshed it out and posted it under my username.

What's your all time favorite ship? I love so many, but I have to say, the only ship I love that I genuinely can call an OTP in that I cannot fathom them in a relationship with anyone else (even adding anyone else to the equation) is Cecilos. JonMartin is a close second, but, well, I can see (and frequently enjoy) them also having other people in their relationships. Cecil and Carlos? Nuh-uh.

What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Ooh. There are...a couple. But I have a WIP sitting in my Tumblr drafts that was a sequel to Hurry Up and Slow Me Down that I would very much like to finish someday...I just, yeah.

What are your writing strengths? Angst and heartbreak. I've got a gift for descriptions, and I'm really good at conveying emotion in text. And I think I have a knack for putting together a tasty sentence.

What are your writing weaknesses? I do tend to get hung up on irrelevant details, and I frequently think myself into a corner. I also think I tend to obsess sometimes about things being perfect...and if I'm being honest, a big weakness of mine (not just in my writing, but in general) is that I often feel like it's something I need to apologize for, which is not helpful.

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? Oh, I love doing that! I try to put a translation in hover text, and also in a footnote for benefit of screen readers, but I also try not to burden the actual text with translations. It's one of those "trust the reader to know what you're trying to say, and if they can't figure it out from context, you have failed as a writer" things to me. (This may have something to do with the fact that I used to write Star Trek fanfic, and conlangs are a thing.)

First fandom you wrote for? If you want to get technical, Power Rangers; I used to tell myself stories about the Power Rangers to put myself to sleep at night when I was a little kid, and once I wrote one down and read it out loud for Show and Tell. (The opening line was "One night, when Kimberly and Trini were sleeping, they were stolen," which should tell you everything you need to know about it. In my defense, I was seven.) I didn't know that's what it was at the time, though. If you're talking fandoms that I wrote for knowing it was a fandom and published on the internet...well, I grew up in the '90s and turned thirteen in the early '00s, so it probably shouldn't be that big of a surprise that it was HP.

Favorite fic you've written? It's like asking me to pick a favorite child. I am deeply in love with to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest) even if the next chapter is currently frustrating me a bit, because I am always deeply in love with my current project, because I love the way it showcases how I've grown as an author. That being said, I think my favorite fic that is currently complete might actually be Tomorrow When the World Is Free.

Tagging (absolutely no pressure) @blasphemous-lies-and-deceit, @amberastra, @magnetarmadda, @astudyinfic, @dyscalculated, and anyone else who wants to give this a go!

#ask games for ts #fic writers asks #ceaseless watcher turn your gaze upon whatever the fuck this is

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iamnmbr3 · 2 years

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any spooky fic recs in honor of October?

sure! here's an assortment of fics from different fandoms. mind the tags on some of these.

We Go There by Donotquestionme (Words: 36,318 | symbrock | Venom)

So soft and fleshy and sweet these creatures were. So different from the hard, chitinous creatures of the last world. So much easier to break, infect, consume . How had something like them ever lasted this long to begin with? Ah, but what a blessing that they had. And for them to have such a developed sense of taste, and of pleasure. Not in all his years had he come across creatures with such an exquisitely rich ability to experience and to enjoy. In them, he’d discovered the marvelous ability to relish and to savor. And he did so intend to relish and savor.

Every last one of them.

Eddie is part of a scientific expedition in Antarctica that discovers something deep under the ice. A John Carpenter's "The Thing" AU.

What You Are in the Dark by illwynd (words: 16,559 | thorki | MCU)

Thor brings his friends—and more or less drags his brother—on an adventure to a mysterious cave in Nidavellir, in hope of glory, for there are tales of strange monsters there. But the truth is stranger than they know, and when Thor and Loki are separated from the others, they find out for themselves what lurks there in the dark.

one exquisite kiss by MaryPSue (words: 2,124 | Crimson Peak)

There was nothing at all sweet or lovely or innocent in the stare Edith raised onto the transfixed Thomas. Only a dark, wicked intensity that called to mind their father in his blackest moods, when Lucille had had to step in to spare Thomas a beating. Or perhaps the way Lucille looked at Thomas, when she wished to remind him who he belonged to, and he was only too glad to let her.

A hunger.

... or, the one where Edith Cushing was a vampire all along, and the Sharpes find that out slightly too late.

Dead wings carried like a paper kite by illwynd (words: 48,612 | thorki | MCU)

In the heat of battle, Loki kills his brother. As soon as Thor lies dead at his feet, though, he realizes this is not what he wanted. So he brings Thor back, and surely all is well again. Right?

Molt by Dribbledscribbles (words: 14,743 | jonmartin | the Magnus archives)

It had been baffling, really. Such loyalty to someone who’d treated him so badly. At the start, anyway. Time had passed. Events had transpired and threads of fate had drawn tighter. Heartstrings, strong as steel, fine as silk, weaving around the initial office crush until it became something new.

Jonathan Sims loved Martin Blackwood. He was wound snug as a ring on his heavy little finger. Especially here, now, in the Changed world. The Archivist, bound to his hip. Never straying. Good and close and loyal.

Just as Mother wanted.

Be Careful What You Wish For by The_Necroposter (words: 225,838 | Twilight)

What if Breaking Dawn wasn't a Mary Sue fantasy, but a story with a plot, character development, and consequences? What if Bella's transformation actually was a sacrifice, and not only her getting used to an alien body was a challenge, but also staying alive in a world filled with enemies? Find out how a naive, selfish girl grows up and copes with the biggest mistake of her life.

Wasp Harvest by Overlithe (words: 92,528 | gen | MCU)

‘We are going to do great things together.’ 1947: Bucky Barnes wakes up to a metal arm and Arnim Zola’s voice. 1979: Alexander Pierce, newly-minted member of Hydra, takes over a now-useless asset tucked away in a vault. 2014: The master has a mission for the soldier. This is everything that happens in between.

Or: Bucky Barnes, disassembled. The Winter Soldier, assembled. Horror/thriller. MCU with a few shout-outs to the comics. Gen, but you can read some Bucky/Steve and a tiny little bit of Bucky/Nat into it if you’d like.

Written for Marvel Big Bang 2014. Awesome accompanying artwork by dark_roast: Artwork @ AO3

Detailed warnings inside.

Honey, It Will Come Back by Flyting (words: 4,296 | Kyle | Star Wars)

Something was wrong with the general.

Ever since the Resistance attack on their Axaca base, he had been… different. Not himself. He is brighter and more vicious. There has always been an edge to him, a tension, but something has filed it sharp. He talks louder, smiles more, is full of an energy that borders on manic. At first, some of the command staff joke that he’s fallen in love.

Or, Hux Comes Back Wrong. For the Huxloween Prompt: Transformation

#asks #fic rec #thorki #symbrock #kylux #Twilight #jonmartin #the Magnus archives #gen

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alfalfairy · 1 year

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Tagged by @knifewieldingenby - thanks friend! I am loving all of the tag games going around lately.

3 SHIPS

Tealoranges - from Our Flag Means Death. Yeah, y’all knew this was coming. Love for this ship is a common denominator with most of my mutuals.

Trobedison - from Community (Troy, Abed, and Annie)! They are a trio of pure chaos, and my favorite scene has to be the chloroform scene.

Jonmartin - from The Magnus Archives. I hope they are somewhere no eyes are watching!

1ST EVER SHIP - I still rember sitting in my grandparent’s kitchen watching KND on their little TV set, and adoring Numba Three/Numba Four! It still makes me happy that they were together at the end.

LAST SONG - “Is It True” by Tame Impala

LAST FILM - John Wick 2

CURRENTLY WATCHING - The Last of Us and Season Two of The Legend of Vox Machina

CURRENTLY READING - Still trying to work through Gideon the Ninth. It is the first book that I actually went and read a summary of so that I could follow what was happening before reading it. Not too bummed about it though, because I’ve seen so many spoilers here. Also Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth.

CURRENTLY CONSUMING - Just had a McDonald’s Big Mac. I do enjoy Big Mac sauce.

CURRENTLY CRAVING - Well, I was previously craving that Big Mac, so I’m good there lol. I do have some banana bread from the farmer’s market that I’ll have before bed.

If you are interested, I am tagged @thetragicallynerdy, @yerbamansa, @yourlocal-charlatan, @hairasuntouchedaspartoftheamazon, @nyxisadyke, and @assignedknivesatbirth - and anyone else who feels like it!

#tag game

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agnesmontague · 3 years

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this is going under a cut, i am tagging this tma negative and tma negativity AND tma critical, absolutely do not even look at it if you can’t handle it right now or ever, you have been warned. goes without saying but do not rebl*g. ok last chance to scroll past

i like that there’s this huge discussion (which is valid and fruitful) going on about how the “fear capitalism” metaphor fell flat in s5 bc everyone’s read on the metaphor’s strength and presence is different while im sitting here shrugging bc my biggest gripe with the finale wasn’t even thematic or ethical it was just that jonmartin never hashed out their differences and finally betrayed each others’ trust by going behind each others’ back and everyone treated jon pretty badly including martin who just got pettier and naggier in a way that was difficult to stomach as the season progressed? and spent several eps holding the idiot ball without ever apologizing to jon properly?

the reason im not currently upset rn is bc 1) i spent about two (absolute dogshit) weeks before the finale forcing myself to come to an emotional reckoning that sometimes things don’t go the way i want and i should pull up my pants like a big boy, 2) i recognize that my particular gripes with characterization, while common, aren’t universal and definitely did not land the same for everyone else, and 3) the ending is ambiguous and open-ended enough to allow me to imagine that every conversation that i think should have occurred on-screen actually did occur in a couples therapist’s office somewhere in some other universe. canon is closed now so it’s our city and they mercifully left us a hook so we can continue doing whatever emotional work we feel like doing on the story/characters while still technically remaining within the possible realms of “canon”. i do appreciate that a lot and it was a smart move imo

like there’s a lot more things i feel bleh about including larger thematic elements etc and im famously someone who feels like the last 10 or so eps weren’t very good pacing-wise but after the finale i refuse to dwell on these any more bc a closed canon means we can sculpt it with more ease than when it was still ongoing and not continually getting my expectations down week after week when it didn’t go the precise way i wanted lmao. and im not about to give the cringe culture kiddies the satisfaction of sneering at yet another popular “”bad”” franchise when it was overall still leaps and fucking bounds better than 99% of things mainstream media has ever presented to the world, s5 and all. i also feel like i hold a relatively unique viewpoint within the fandom just by virtue of where im approaching the canon from, so i don’t expect any of my specific grievances to resonate with anyone else either. this is the last post im gonna write about this, hopefully, so i never have to think about any of this again and go back to reblogging jmart fanart and missing the fuck out of the characters i loved for 3 years

#do not rebl*g #rambles #tma negative #tma negativity #tma critical #this is a vent post and not delicately worded #im putting out every warning i can so folks don't read this anyway and feel bad #i mention this in the post but this is hopefully the last tma neg post i ever write bc i don't want to write any more either

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schrijverr · 3 years

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What’s up with that Sims guy?

After the Apocalypse Jon becomes an uni teacher, three students take in interest in what’s up with this weird new professor.

On AO3.

Ships: JonMartin

Warnings: none, but tell me if I missed anything or if you want me to tag something!

~~~~~~~~

Time and space moves differently around the Fears, something that could be confusing and strange, but also pretty handy as Jon and Martin had discovered during the Apocalypse. It meant that when they’d turned the world back to normal, banishing the Fears far away, no one had even noticed it had happened.

With Elias, uhm Jonah, gone their ties to the Institute had lessened. However, Jon was still depended on statements, but Martin had decided that being away from it all would be better for him, so Jon was now working part time, while Martin kept an eye on the place.

Which is how Jon had ended up as a professor at a university. He was filling in, because the current professor had gotten pregnant and they hadn’t been able to find someone more suitable than Jon to replace her temporarily.

Jon knew he didn’t have the credentials necessary, but he Knew everything with the help of the Beholding, so he hoped that would be enough to get him through the year.

So here he was, standing in front of a big hall that was slowly filling up with students, who were eyeing him with a mix of curiosity, confusion and uneasiness.

Once everyone had settled down he took a deep breath and started: “Hello everyone, I’m Jonathan Sims and I’m replacing your previous professor until she returns from her maternity leave. I have an oversight of what you all need to know and do this semester, so lets get started with that right away.”

Jane looked down at their new professor and shifted in her seat uneasily. He was strange, or at least had a strange aura surrounding him. Jane wasn’t once for judging on appearances, but it was hard not to wonder what the Hell had let a man such at him to this.

He was short, sure, but he wasn’t small and he had a big presence to make up for it. His black hair was streaked with gray, but he had a youthful face that didn’t quite match up, although the tiredness that hung around him seemed old.

Beside that he was also littered with scars. It was hard not to notice the white circles that contrasted with his dark skin, it could be acne scars if they hadn’t been on his exposed forearms as well and so perfectly round. And those weren’t even his only scars, the entire palm on his right had was covered with a burn mark and the open buttons on the top of his shirt exposed a white thin scar across his throat.

So, yeah, strange.

He started to introduce himself and his voice was posh and low, but overall pleasant to listen to, she supposed. This didn’t stop her from exchanging a small look with Jesse, her best friend. Jesse raised her brows at her and the message was received, they were so going to talk about this later.

Later came as soon as they were out the door. Jesse leaned over and said: “Tell me I wasn’t the only one who got a weird vibe from that guy.”

Jane laughed and shook her head and answered: “You weren’t, I mean, this who building is filled with stuffy academics and suddenly this random dude walks in with the scars of a thug? That’s weird.”

Jesse nodded and asked: “What do you think happened to him?”

“I don’t know.” Jane shrugged, “But it seems pretty rude to just ask.”

Jesse sighed, then perked up with a realization: “We could plant a seed in Sams head.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Jane said, mischief bubbling up inside her eyes. They had known Sam since their first year and were pretty close with the guy. Sam was also known for not being the most delicate or observant and unafraid to ask personal questions. If he was curious, he would ask.

“I would.” Jesse grinned back, she tugged her along through the crowd with an: “Come on!”

They found Sam easy enough and Jesse plopped down next to him and started: “Hey, Sam. What did you think of our new professor?”

Sam shrugged and scratched his forehead as he said: “Dressed like every other pretentious asshole in here, posh accent. But seemed to know his stuff. Normal teacher if you ask me. Why?”

Jesse inflated: “Come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t even noticed!”

“Noticed what?” Sam asked with a frown.

“The scars.” Jane said.

“Oh, were they scars.” Sam said, “I thought he had weird freckles.”

“Weird fr-” Jesse began before cutting herself off and asking: “Aren’t you curious why they’re there? I’ve never seen scars like that.”

“And the burnt hand and the scar on his neck.” Jane continued, “Those don’t appear randomly.”

Both looked at her now, heads to the side in confusion. Jane said: “Oh, didn’t see those?”

Jesse and Sam shook their heads. “Well,” Jane explained, “He has this burn on his hand like he gripped a hot burning coal or something and this line here,” she drew on her neck with her finger to signal where it was, “like someone tried to slit his throat. Makes me wonder what he did before this job.”

The three of them fell silent. Lost in thought to what could’ve happened to their new mysterious professor before all of this.

The next lesson didn’t clear anything up in the slightest. While they were discussing the 17th century literature circles Sam had raised his hand signaling he had a question. Jane and Jesse, who had decided to sit behind him tensed up. He got called on and asked: “Dr. Sims, what did you do before this?”

Dr. Sims frowned and pushed up his glasses, before saying: “You don’t have to call me doctor, it wouldn’t be deserved. Just Sims is fine, or Mr. Sims if that feels better. And I’m the A- an archivist.”

“Am?” Sam blurted out.

Sims laughed humorlessly and said: “Yeah, part time now.”

Then he went back to the lesson and didn’t acknowledge any more questions about his life. Jane didn’t know how he did it, but he seemed to just know which people had questions about the lesson and which about him.

She walked out the hall with Sam and Jesse, who said: “That wasn’t insightful at all.”

Jane agreed: “Yeah, in what danger would an archivist be that leaves that kind of scarring?”

Sam shrugged and pulled out his phone as he said: “I can Google it.” the he muttered more to himself: “What kind of danger experiences an archivist, cool yeah.”

Jesse strained her neck to look on his screen and asked: ‘Well, what does it say?”

“Nothing much actually. Just a bunch of online archives and stuff.” Sam said.

Jane had a bit of a light bulb moment and suggested: “What if you type in Jonathan Sims?”

“Jonathan?” Jesse asked.

Jane shrugged and said: “It’s how he introduced himself during the first lecture.”

Sam typed in the name and his eyebrows crept further up to his hairline as he read the results of his search. Jesse couldn’t take it anymore and ripped the phone out of his hand, quickly scanning the page and gasping. Jane was now also curious and asked: “Well, tell me.”

She showed her the screen and Jane read the headlines. ‘Explosion at the Wax Museum, two survivors.’ The small excerpt reads: Last night there was an explosion at the wax museum, cause is still unknown, but suspected attack. Two survivors were found on the scene. Basira Hussain and Jonathan Sims, the latter of which is in a coma…

Underneath that is another headline. ‘Attack at the Magnus Institute unearths body of former archivist Gertrude Robinson’ with a picture of a big fire brigade, some police and an ambulance under it, she can vaguely make out Sims getting loaded into the back of one of them.

And lastly a small report into the murder of Gertrude Robinson, listing Jonathan Sims as one of the suspects along with one about an older guy, who was apparently found dead in Sims office.

Jane leaned back and whispered: “What the actual fuck.”

After that the rumors spread over the campus and by the time the next lecture rolled around the whole room was buzzing with nervous energy. Sims took one look around the room and sighed: “You are probably not going to let this go in favor of learning something that will actually be useful. Correct?”

A murmur went through the crowd, they had realized that the rumors had most likely reached Sims, but they hadn’t realized he’d be so straightforward about it.

“Okay.” Sims said, “I am willing to sacrifice ten minutes of my lecture for inquiries, but I will not promise to answer.”

Then he waited. Sam was the first to raise his hand and when called upon he asked: “How did you get the scars?”

Sims thought about it, the class thought he was thinking about how to bring it delicately and thoughtful, but inside Jons mind he heard Martin laugh at him and tell him he was an idiot after Jon had told someone the round scars had come from tripping. In hindsight it hadn’t been a good excuse, so Jon decided that vague was probably the safest way to go and said: “A workplace incident.”

Without raising his hand this time Sam asked: “Did it happen during the attack on your workplace? Why would anyone even attack archives?”

“The Archives are a small place in a big organization.” Jon began to explain, ignoring the fact that the Archives had been the target, “And in the end it turned out to be an aggressive infestation, just an accident.”

“Why your institute then?” Sam asked.

“Depends on if you believe in the paranormal, but you have to excuse me, Mr. Jacobs. It seems you are not the only one with questions.” Sims replied, then he turned to the other side and said: “Yes, Ms. Hendrickson?”

“Did you murder anyone?” she asked, clapping her hand over her mouth afterwards in shame of the question that she had blurted out.

Sims didn’t react to the harsh and accusatory question, just said: “If I murdered anyone, I wouldn’t be here, but in prison, don’t you agree?” then he smiled, but somehow Jane didn’t feel comforted by it.

Jesse spoke up, causing Jane to duck into herself in the hope that she wouldn’t be noticed in her seat next to Jesse. She asked: “Then who murdered them?”

Sims huffed a breath, blowing a strand of hair out of his face in the process and answered: “That would’ve been my former boss, I have to say I’m happy to see him gone and his replacement is more than capable.” he looked at the clock and clapped his hands, making more than a few people flinch. Then he stated: “That’s enough questions, time’s up. Lets get back to the symbolism in poetry during the Renaissance.”

And so life continued with Sims as their professor. There was still something uneasy about him, like he was just a sliver off in a way you couldn’t pinpoint, but felt in your bones.

But he was actually quite nice. Which was weird in itself, since he could be pretty prickly and snappy if he found your reasoning or answer particularly stupid or ignorant and he was generally grumpy, but that changed completely if you actually had a problem and needed help. He would listen and then explain with the things you could understand, it was as if he could look at you and know what you needed to understand. That was also strange, but it was nice to have someone explain so correctly.

He was also a walking encyclopedia. He had fun fact about everything and when they said everything they meant everything. When he noticed Mary had died her hair he said: “I like your hair, did you know hair dye contains over 5.000 chemicals.”

Then when Jamie asked what kind of tea he was drinking he answered: “Lady Grey, it was created by Twinings in the early 1990s to appeal to the Nordic market, which found Earl Grey too strong.”

While discussing Oscar Wilde he commented: “Funny how important this guy is, since he has only published one novel in his life.”

When Kyra stumbled in late telling him the taxi had broken, he replied with: “Well cars have about 30.000 parts, so it isn’t far fetched that something broke.”

The funniest part about it was that it just happened to slip out it seemed. He was also just as surprised as them when something like that tumbled out of his mouth and he always covered it up with a small cough, before ignoring it had happened and moving on with his lesson.

It had become a bit of a game among students to make him say a fun fact. Sims had caught on to it, but he didn’t seem to mind all that much, his lips only tightening the littlest amount and his eyes tiring slightly.

So all in all, after two moths of lessons they felt like they knew the guy. He was nice in a grumpy way, could tear you apart verbally if he wanted to, had a lot of facts and worked part time as an archivist, which was apparently a pretty dangerous job.

Jane, Jesse and Sam had become pretty close to him, often staying after class to ask a few questions about the subject, help clean up, try to pry into his private life. The last thing never seemed to work, but it was fun to try and Sims had never let on that he minded it. He even seemed to enjoy their little chats.

Then one time after class, he suddenly looked up, frowned and stalked out of the hall. Quickly sharing glances the three followed after him, curious what had gotten his attention so suddenly.

They walked through a bunch of the main halls, then through a few quiet corridors until they were much further than hearing range, making them slightly uncomfortable. There was a kid, first year probably, barely an adult still very much baby faced, crying on the floor, knees drawn tight to his chest.

Cautiously Sims approached him and gently lowered himself to the ground. The kid looked up at him with a startled face, but Sims shushed him and gently asked: “What’s wrong?”

There was something off about the words, something compelling. The kid starts to speak, he had a slightly northern accent: “It’s all so different here with the big buildings and large crowds with loads of people everywhere, still I’m all by myself. No one want to talk to the dumbass from north, who has trouble with the tubes, you know.” he sniffled a sad chuckle, “And everything is just so overwhelming and I have no one to guide me or to talk to and I hate it. Then I saw everyone just talking about a party and I know it’s dumb, but I heard them say they were going to invite everyone and someone asked even me, but then they laughed and said of course not and I just couldn’t anymore, so I went here and I cried.”

It seemed he was finished and went back to small sniffles and silent tears. Sims gently put a hand on the kids knee and said: “Did that help?”

“Yeah,” the kid looked at him, “bit cathartic, honestly. Sorry for the trouble.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, Edward.” Sims said.

The kid didn’t seem to realize it, but the three silent watchers noticed the kid had never mentioned his name.

Sims went on: “If you like, you can come over to my lecture hall. There are a few older years there, nice people, who I’m sure will want to help you. And a cup of tea.”

Edward rubbed his eyes and said: “They wouldn’t want to talk to me, I’m a loser and I don’t want the to think I’m even more one by telling them what happened.”

“I’m sure you won’t have. They’ve been where you are.” Sims responded, there was a bit of an edge to his voice and they realized he knew they were there and he was right. Jesse had been too brash, Jane too shy and Sam too blunt, it’s what had made them flock together. It was much better now, but they all remembered those awful first weeks. Without saying a word they hurried back to Sims hall.

When he came back they were making tea and lounging around. Jesse greeted him: “Hey, Sims. Where were you suddenly off to?”

Jane pushed her slightly and said: “Don’t pry.” then she turned back, “Want a cuppa, we just put on the kettle?”

Sims smiled and said: “I’d like that, could you make one for my friend, Edward here, as well. I had forgotten I was going to meet him, he’s curious about the Minor course and I thought maybe you could tell him a bit about it. If it isn’t any trouble, of course.”

“Of course not.” Jane smiled, then gestured to a chair: “Here, come sit with us.”

Edward did and later left feeling much better with a few new friends.

Friends, who were beginning to be suspicious about their teacher. They had a lengthy discussion about his knowing stuff and his spooky vibe. But no certain conclusion could be made and they decided that the mission for this year was finding out at least one personal fact about their teacher to prove he was at least somewhat normal.

They didn’t have to wait long. Their classes had been thrown around due to an unfortunate miscommunication. So two classes were switched, causing Sims to teach on Wednesday instead of Thursday for just one week. He looked a bit pale that day, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was the season, so no one spared it a second thought. Until a larger man came through the door after a gentle knock.

He was tall, about 6ft2, and chubby with a crème sweater and jeans. His face was freckled and he wore a gentle smile like it was second nature. His hair was curly and looked very soft, he in his entirety looked soft, you know, like the kind of person you know gives good hugs the moment you see them.

Sims was the only one who didn’t seem startled by his knock, just looked at the man and frowned as he said: “Martin, what are you doing here?”

“Sorry, sorry, Jon.” the man, Martin, said apologetically, “I know you said not to come and such, but I saw you had forgotten your statement and I know how you can get without them, so I thought I’d bring them to you.”

“I was going to read it tomorrow.” Sims said, “It can wait for one day. It’s not like it used to be.”

“Yeah, I know that as well, but we agreed that a rhythm would be good for you and your body to get used to.” Martin replied, holding out a folder.

Sims grabbed the folder and sighed: “You’re probably right, annoying as that may be, but couldn’t it wait till after I was done?”

“No, I’m meeting Daisy to discuss the proper storage of a Hunt artifact and you know how Daisy can be.” he answered.

“Yeah, I know.” Sims chuckled, absentmindedly touching the scar on his neck.

“Besides, I wanted to see you.” Martin said, then he brushed a lock of hair, that had freed itself from Sims’ messy bun, behind Sims ear and pecked him on the cheek. Turning to leave immediately after calling out over his shoulder: “Read it, Jon! And don’t forget to pick up milk on the way back if you want any good tea.”

Martin opened the door and Sims smiled, like a real and soft and dopey smile, as he touched his cheek and yelled back: “I will, say hi to Daisy from me.”

Then Martin was gone and the silence that had fallen over the hall with Martins entrance was broken. Multiple people called out questions and it was a bit of a chaos. It took a few minutes to get everyone settled down again and Sims returned to his lecture as if nothing happened. Sam called out from the second row: “Really, Sims? Nothing?”

Sims shoulders sagged, he had clearly hoped he could get away with it and was sad that it hadn’t worked. He said: “Mr. Jacobs, although I appreciate your interest in my personal life, I hope that I don’t have to explain how normal it is for my husband to come bring me something I forgot at home.”

The hall exploded again, but Sims ignored it all again telling them there were more important things to talk about, for example the lecture, which will be on the exam.

For Jane, Jesse and Sam it was enough. Their teacher was weird and off, but he was nice enough and if someone as soft looking as the Martin figure was willing to marry him, then he was good enough in their opinion and not worth the detective work.

#RR writing #the magnus archives #the magnus pod #jonathan sims #jonathan sims x martin blackwood #martin blackwood #jonmartin #martin x jon #ocs #tma #tma season 5

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growingdarker · 3 years

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not a request or a question just. screeching about how much I love your art. there are honestly no words to describe how much I love your art but I WILL try. your style is sooo expressive and so comforting to look at, the way you draw characters interacting looks so real and good and your Jon and Martin bring me so much joy that I do not mind the s5 spoilers I've gotten from your art (I have all the tma tags filtered so that I can avoid spoilers but sometimes I decide Content is too good to wait for and I have ZERO regrets for doing that for your art). like just... no words your art is so beautiful and makes me so happy to look at, the way you draw Jon and Martin are so good (short king Jon rights!!! strong Martin rights!!!) and your style in general is so!!!!! awesome!!!! pretty and expressive and good and unique and all your characters are so distinct but look so good!!! your art fills me with so much emotion it makes me want to try learning to draw hshdjsndjsn. yeah. just wanted to send some love to your inbox bcus your art makes me crazyyy (with joy)

ohhhh damn thank you so much, this honestly made my entire week now! I’m real sorry about the spoilers but I understand, I did the same thing with other artists-

I never expected to get a message like this and I’m really glad that you like my art, because uniqueness and expressiveness is exactly what I want to learn and achieve! Especially when it comes to big character differences like Jonmartin. Also, if you feel like trying to draw then go for it :) Nothing to lose!

#ask

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radiosandrecordings · 4 years

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hi ive been afraid to touch tma fics since fate or something ended because every time i go in the tag i lose seven years of my life do you have any recs?

OH BOY DO I! I gotcha anon. Just gona run through my bookmarks here so some of these are oldies but goodies. I’ll also for simplicity’s sake try and go with ones that are finished.

Starting off literally anything by @cirrus-grey and @bibliocratic they’re both phenomenal TMA writers, specifically that good jonmartin content (And they both write so much that this list would be 90% the two of them if I tagged each individual fic)

And not to self promo but there’s always my ao3, elfgrunge, but a lot of it is QUITE OLD so I can’t vouch for the quality

Jonmartin:

Interwoven was my first love of tma fics, phenomenal 40 chapter fic with that superhero/journalist dynamic with Martin as basically Spiderman? And a big big metaplot. (Sharky doesn’t have a tumblr to tag unfortunately)

Write Me A Letter by @theritaminute! Season 4 fic where JM write post it notes to each other while Martin is working for Peter.

searching for a light (for a right) by @kalgalen is a repulsed-ace Jon fic that makes me cry. Very good and cathartic

The World Is Always Ending (So Let’s Make Time Now) Roadtrip to Scotland fic, has a demiro Martin scene that also made me cry

Small Things, Simple Acts is another roadtrip to Scotland fic

The Reminiscences Of Martin Blackwood, Post Mortem by is a Victorian au with Lonely Martin who’s a journalist, and begins with him investigating the mysterious man in a six month coma. I think I might actually still have a few chapters left to catch up on but it’s been great so far. It does have some petermartin but as someone who normally avoids that I think it was actually handled pretty well as an abusive dynamic.

be kind, i beg you Look at a certain point the Scotland fics blur together in my brain but I’m going to trust past me that this was good enough to get bookmarked. it’s 15K of pining and I’ll probably reread it tonight

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner Safehouse fic. Newly confession’d JM accidentally lead their neighbours to believe they’re just married. Said neighbours are very insistent on becoming their best friends.

wouldn’t it be nice Is a uni au that makes me say yes. yes it would be nice.

Chamomile. The thing-that-is-not-tea gets Archive Dog’d

Jongerrymartin

Visible World is a collection of fics, all very domestic

Because You Feel Like Home Has a chapter focusing on each duo, and then them as a trio (So, four)

Illicio is a rewrite of S4 but Gerry is brought back by the Beholding when Jon wakes up. I know I said only fully written things but it’s SO GOOD and currently updating regularly

Other

The Weight We Carry is Love Made me cry last summer hiding in a spare room in my grandmother’s house and I would describe it as part fanfic part therapy. No powers au, focuses on Jongeorgie in uni and then jonmartin in the later chapters, while Jon is still friends with Georgie. involves a lot of christmas parties. The jongeorgie dynamic is just... so fucking good

not what it was made out to be Do you also wish to project onto a bi ace trans guy who thinks kissing is okay but isn’t like, super into it? Yeah. It’s real nice. Jongeorgie.

Mere Monstrosity is jongerry childhood friends timeline up through to the actual podcast time

I did not think I was capable of feeling sympathy for jimmy magma but then the act of creation said ‘but what if trans’ and made me cry about him

#My Post #FUCK THAT TOOK A WHILE #now I want to reread half of these hmmm #sorry they're all jon -1 but I play favourites shamelessly

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eldritchteaparty · 3 years

Text

After the Lonely

So I wrote safehouse-ish JonMartin a while ago (like technically it’s that gap between the lonely and the safehouse), but I was *not* going to be sharing my TMA fanfic because time and energy but… now I kind of want to? Like I found it comforting to write and maybe other people will find it comforting to read :)

FYI my head canon is that they never slept a night apart after Jon pulled him out and things happened FAST. NEVER SAID IT WAS HEALTHY <3 (I feel like I need this disclaimer on all my JonMartin posts sdjkfhdsjk but maybe it’s obvious)

Will eventually post on AO3 and add link later.

Read on AO3 here!

I wasn’t sure how long was too long for one post, so four posts for now (only this one tagged):

Part 1 here (1865 words)

Part 2 (915 words)

Part 3 (1251 words)

Part 4 (2026 words)

I’m working on some post-canon fix it too if people like this

Summary: After Jon saves Martin from the depths of the lonely, Martin accepts his invitation to go home.

CWs: discussion of loneliness, discussion of sexuality (up front, Jon is ace here), discussion of canon character death, brief mention of scars, general anxiety/comfort… let me know if I missed anything!

***

The Magnus Institute was on fire. Part of it was, anyway; smoke poured from a broken third story window. The more Martin stared, the more he realized the extent of the damage to the building: an entire section of wall had blown out, and a small but insistent stream of water flowed over the edge of the gaping hole.

Honestly, he hoped it all burned, hoped it collapsed into a pile of ash and ruins. His only regret would be that he hadn’t been the one to light it up himself.

Martin and Jon had only just emerged from the tunnels a short time ago to find the archive deserted. Toppled shelves, broken furniture, and scattered papers greeted them; shell casings had littered the floor. Martin had swallowed involuntarily when he caught sight of a deep crimson stain on one of the rugs.

I’m surprised you came for me with all this. Martin had meant only meant to emphasize the damage, but after he said it he realized the truth of it. He was surprised.

Of course I did, Jon had replied, almost bitingly, and Martin hadn’t known how to respond.

The main floor of the Institute had not fared any better, but unlike the archive had not been abandoned—quite the opposite, in fact. Police (sectioned, Martin thought, or they will be soon), emergency workers, and other less identifiable uniformed officials had swarmed the place. A few spoke quietly among themselves, while others, deeply engaged in their tasks, paused occasionally to take notes on clipboards or tablets or whatever they had handy. None had so much as glanced at them as Jon had hurried him on toward the large glass doors at the front of the lobby. Of course, there had been no sign of Basira or Daisy, and Jon had not suggested trying to find them. That wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it couldn’t have been a good thing.

He shifted his weight uncomfortably in the street. He didn’t want to look anymore. He coughed.

“So… now what?”

He turned to face Jon, standing at his side, who continued to stare toward the building. He appeared to be looking more through it than at it; his eyes were focused on something in the distance. When he finally spoke, his words were marked by exhaustion.

“We should go back to my flat. I—I don’t think it would be a good idea to be apart just yet.”

Martin turned the words over in his mind. What did he mean, not a good idea to be apart? A prickle of resentment rose up inside him. It wasn’t what he wanted to feel right then, but there it was, and he was too raw to negotiate with it. What was Jon not telling him?

“Jon, wait. Are we in danger right now? Because if we are, after everything we’ve just been through, I would really hope that you would just—”

“No. Martin, no.” Jon spoke louder, cutting Martin off. “We’re not in any danger, not right now.”

“Then why—” Oh. His indignation rapidly drained away, replaced by awkward embarrassment. Of course, Jon would take pity on him. It wasn’t the first time. “I get it. You don’t want me to be alone.”

Jon finally turned to face Martin, meeting his eyes directly for the first time since they had walked away from what remained of Jonah Magnus. “That’s not it.”

Martin faltered, warmth rising uncomfortably in his cheeks despite the chill air. “No?”

Jon sighed, mercifully shifting his gaze back to the building. “No. Well, I mean, I don’t want you to be alone, but what I mean… I don’t want to be alone.”

Before Martin could really consider, Jon sighed again in growing frustration. “No, that’s not what I mean either. It’s not—I want to be with you.”

Something like shock washed over Martin, a first wave and then a second that made the feeling drop from his stomach. He opened his mouth to respond, but his voice had simply left him. He stood, paralyzed, until Jon spoke again.

“Please. Will you come?”

It was almost like—well, like Jon didn’t know the answer. How could he not know the answer?

Martin swallowed hard, followed by a deep breath, unfreezing himself, desperate to provide reassurance.

“Yeah. All right. I mean, of course. You just caught me a bit….” He swallowed again, took another breath. “Thanks for saying it. That you want me there, I mean.”

Jon exhaled slowly, then nodded, eyes still on the pavement. “It’s not far. We can walk.”

They walked in silence, Martin remaining a half step behind Jon. Partly this was because he didn’t know where Jon lived now—he had deliberately avoided learning that information since Jon had woken up, it might have been dangerous—but mostly he didn’t want Jon to see him. Even if Jon couldn’t know his thoughts, his face would tell everything.

I… I told him I am in love with him. Well, I guess I said I loved him, but I mean, it was clear right? Was it clear?

And what about him? He said he needs me, that he doesn’t just want to survive, and I thought… but what does that mean, really? I guess that’s not so clear either, now that I think about it.

But also, he could have just left me, and everyone else would have been fine, maybe better. I could have been alone, forever, and it would have made no difference to anyone. He should have run, all things considered. He—

Wait, is there a couch? Do I sleep on the couch?

I’ve barely spoken to anyone in months. What if I can’t anymore? What if I can’t talk to him anymore?

Martin shook his head. He tried concentrate on the sound of their feet on the pavement, noting that they had fallen into the same rhythm. Had he done that?

Is that weird? Is that—

“Stop,” he said.

“Hm?” Jon turned his head to look up at Martin, slowing his pace slightly. “What?”

“Oh, nothing, I’m—just talking to myself, I guess. I’m sorry.” Martin shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket, aware again of the cool night air on his hot face.

“It’s all right, Martin. You’ve—well.” Jon reached out his hand and gently touched Martin’s arm. Despite several layers of fabric between them, Martin could have sworn he felt the warmth of his fingers. His shoulders untensed just a bit; he hadn’t even realized he had drawn them up. “We’re almost there. See that building just after this one?” He pointed, and Martin recognized the building up ahead.

“Oh, wow.” Martin was a little taken aback. “I actually—I had a friend that lived there once. Well, it was a while ago now, but this place was pretty nice then. I’m kind of surprised you’d—well, I mean, before you were living in that studio with basically a desk and—”

“Don’t get too excited, I still have ‘basically a desk’. It was… convenient. Close.” There was a hint of tired amusement in Jon’s voice, and he squeezed Martin’s arm lightly before letting go.

“Jon, can I ask… why did you get a place after you came back? I mean, with everyone else staying at the archives—I was surprised you didn’t. I mean… when you were around.”

“You weren’t staying there.” Jon paused before continuing softly. “And the others—they didn’t want me there. Not really.”

Martin didn’t answer him. He couldn’t argue, because he didn’t actually know how the others felt; he’d worked so hard to push them away. He reached toward Jon’s back, wanting to comfort him somehow, but hesitated. He finally gave up, letting his hand drop as he followed Jon the rest of the way in silence.

The first thing he noticed when they entered Jon’s flat was that there was, in fact, a couch.

“So, um…” Martin began, closing the door behind him. He was just going to ask before he fell apart again. It was a stupid thing, it was small, there were so many big things to deal with and it really didn’t matter. “Should I—”

Jon turned and caught his eyes for the second time since they had walked out of the Institute; Martin fell uncomfortably silent. So much for not falling apart. Jon studied his face carefully, thoughtfully, before he finally spoke. “One of us could sleep on the couch. Plenty of room in the bed, though. If—if you want.”

Did he… did he know what I was thinking? Martin decided it didn’t matter for the moment. He was pretty sure he’d been looking at the couch when he started talking, that could explain it. In any case, the answer came a lot easier than he thought it would.

“Yeah. Okay. If you don’t mind.”

Jon nodded his head in assent, and turned away to pull off his coat. Martin exhaled in a sort of relief, reaching for the zipper on his own jacket. So I guess that’s happening, he thought. That’s… good. It was a bit overwhelming, but not as much as the thought of sleeping by himself, after everything that had happened. And not what had just happened, but the months before that, too. He had just been so alone, for so long. A familiar ache filled his chest.

I have been so lonely.

“Martin.” Jon called him back into the moment. “I want to tell you—well, I’m glad you’re here, and… well, I hope you understand if I can’t stay awake. It’s been—”

“Oh, no, that would be great,” Martin interrupted. “It would be nice to see you actually get some sleep.”

Jon’s answering look made Martin wonder for just a moment if he had said something wrong, but then Jon was reaching for him, touching his face, his cheek. The ache in Martin’s chest began to burn. He gripped Jon’s wrist, gently at first, then firmly, turning his face into the open palm.

Do not cry, he told himself, just not tonight, do not cry. He closed his eyes, breathing, breathing, just breathing; Jon was so close…

“Martin—”

“I’m fine,” Martin said, patting Jon’s wrist roughly as he let go, breaking away. “Honestly, I’m fine. Right. Um, sorry, where’s your toilet?”

Jon stepped back, letting his hand drop. Martin could see he was concerned, but he didn’t push it, for which Martin was extremely grateful. He would talk about it, he wanted to—just not that night. Not right then.

“Oh, of course. I wasn’t thinking. It’s that—that door right there.”

“I didn’t bring a toothbrush.” What? Martin could have kicked himself. “I mean, that’s stupid, of course I didn’t bring a toothbrush, but—”

“There should be an extra under the sink, if you want one. Feel free to, um… use the toothpaste, too?”

Thank you, Martin thought. Thank you, Jon.

“Great, thanks.” Martin started toward the door Jon had pointed to. “Go ahead and lie down, ok? I know you’re tired. I’ll be right there.”

“All right.” Jon nodded. “End of the hallway. When you’re ready.”

Go to Part 2

#the magnus archives #tma #mag pod #jonmartin #tma fanfic #the magnus archives fanfic #my writing

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bibliocratic · 4 years

Text

for @speakerunfolding who has done some AMAZING art of Jon and Martin with their daemons: aren’t. they. beautiful!

jonmartin, that martin’s daemon character study that’s finally finished.

Some cws in the tags. Also on A03

“What do you think then?”

“'bout what?”

“About this one.”

“Don't think anything much. You like it, I like it.”

There's a rodent-fanged nibble on the fleshy pad of his thumb. A sure-footed scamper up his arm, a scritch-scratch scrabble of claws up the terrain of crumpled uniform that he's yet to change out of. Backpack slumped spineless by his bedroom door, his shoes toed off unlaced.

“You've got to have an opinion, Martin.”

“Why?” Martin replies, playfully obtuse. He's gifted with another nip.

“You jus' hafta,” comes the long-suffering, impatient response. Long buck-teeth roll the lobe of his ear in an admonishing but painless grind.

“Fine. Bossy. I like this one, right?” Martin says to keep the peace. He brings his hand up to flatten the attentive perked-up peaks of rounded ears, ticks the fur-fat round of a soft stomach. The pink tail that's trailing lazily, wormish with ridges, he strokes along its length and it coils around his middle finger. He brings it up and watches the mouse trapeze itself playfully by his tail.

“You like everything I try,” harrumphs the mouse dismissively. There's a flutter of dirt-brown wing, and Martin giggles as the nightingale alights on his forehead, hopping initially to balance.

“That's not a bad thing,” Martin says. His attention truly stolen away, he closes the notebook he's been tongue-out concentrating on, filling with careful doodles.

“You're indecisive, 's what it is.” The nightingale pecks at his nose affectionately.

Martin shrugs because it's true.

Expecting a response, the nightingale chirps a half-annoyed sound.

“What about this then?”

The bird transfers to his chest and fixes him with a beady, challenging stare. Martin stares back, though it makes him grin cross-eyed

The weight on his chest increases, and bigger rounded eyes look out of a furred face.

“Ergh – you're getting hair everywhere!” Martin complains, pushing petulant against the bulk of the huge rabbit. “Mum'll get mad!”

“I'm fluffy,” the rabbit says almost defensively. “How'd you like that – me being soft?”

“You are really soft,” Martin concedes, running his fingers through the dense tufts.

“Right, what about this?” The rabbit repeats insistently, shifting on his haunches, getting hair absolutely all over Martin's school trousers. He'll have to clean them before Mum notices.

Suddenly the face has lengthened to a snout, the teeth have sharpened vulpine.

“What you think? Better in a fight than a rabbit or a mouse.”

“Are you planning to get into fights?”

“Someone needs to protect you,” the fox says simply, the colours of his fur pulling his face into a natural frown.

“Well, you don't like being bigger animals anyway, so it doesn't matter,” Martin replies. He rubs the silky fur through his fingers like trailing river water.

The fox growls and whines in the way he does when Martin's just not listening.

The grasshopper mouse comes back, snuffling his small pink nose.

“You really wouldn't mind?” Aron says slowly. His words more precise now, considered. “Even if I'm not big, or soft, or fast, or strong?”

Martin shakes his head and thinks mournfully that he really ought to get a start on his homework.

“We've got ages yet,” Martin replies, scooping the mouse up under his chin. “Ages 'n ages. And I know I'll like whatever you end up being, so why do I need to worry?”

“That's 'case I do the worrying for the both of us,” says Aron, but he nuzzles up against Martin's throat anyway.

–

The first day of the summer holidays finds him blearily squinting in the dawn-wash glow of his room. Its grasping fingers illuminate bookshelves and posters and a pile of clothes that's slipped off his desk chair; it cuts a slice across his bed, over his pillow.

He wonders, too woozy for irritation, blinking deeply, why he's awake so early.

“Martin!”

Something nips at the skin of his hand.

“Mart – wake up.”

“Wossit?”

He garbles a sound that barely makes landfall at language, strains his neck up to look around for Aron.

He sees the crouching, cringing shape sat unfamiliar against the back of his hand, near the fin of skin between thumb and forefinger. Legs folded tight against each other, the spokes of the form folded neatly back into itself so that it squats like a bobbly pebble, eyes catching the room light and reflecting it back like the precisely set stones in a crown.

“I can't change back!” Aron moans. “Martin, I don't know what to do, I – ”

“Ok,” Martin whispers roughly, sitting up and wincing as it sets the bed off in a snapping creak. His hands hover because he wants to pet and stroke and reassure, but he doesn't know where he can touch. “Ok, it's, it's alright, it's – try something easier? Come on, it's alright.”

Jointed legs tufted with monochromatic hairs flail, propelling themselves to scuttle over skin, off his hand, unsteadily tumbling onto the bedclothes, clambering back up on the duvet slung messy over Martin's knees. There is a sensation of a headache that barks with a sudden ferocity behind his eyes even as Aron gasps, strained.

“I'm trying,” he replies, miserable, and that headache rips and snarls up in Martin's head, the ache distracting from everything else but Aron's panic. “I'm trying, I can't, I can't, a-and I don't know what to do, what should we – ?”

“Shh,” Martin says, near tears himself, clearing his throat. “Sh, it's – stop, stop for a minute.”

Aron stops. The headache subsides. Martin feels clammy and overheated, and his small soul is churning out enough terror to blanket them both insensate.

Martin forces himself to take a very long, very troubled breath.

“It's – it's ok,” he whispers finally. “We'll just. Let's just – let's breathe, yeah. We'll – we'll sort this.”

“I'm sorry,” Aron garbles, “I'm sorry – I'll – I'll try something else, something bigger, something with teeth or a tail or wings, I'll be better, give me a minute.”

Aron's tried on the shape of dogs and lizards and snakes and horses, and even – once, when he was younger and Mum took him to the seaside, a fish.

Martin's never seen his soul in the dressing of a spider before.

“Aron,” Martin says slowly. He keeps his hands folded on his lap but his fingers twitch to reach out. “This is – we've settled, haven't we?”

Aron can't nod. His form can't allow for such an expression. But he brings his legs in closer, pebbles up and won't look at Martin, and that's answer enough.

“Please,” Martin says, holding out his palm. Flat, fingers docked against fingers. “Come here, please.”

It takes a moment before Aron creeps shamefaced onto his hand. Martin adds his other hand so he can cup the small shape like he's holding a weakly burning candle flame out of the wind.

Martin studies him now the panic has subsided. Admiring the greenish-blue of the chelicerae at the front of his face, the way they ripple with colour as the light catches them like fish scales, like an oil spill. The downy white tufts and lines like tree rings along his abdomen that break up the coarse run of black hair.

“Aron,” Martin whispers, “I think you're great. Look at you. You're amazing!”

“But I'm not – ” Aron begins tentatively, but Martin interrupts him by clumsily reaching out with a pawing touch, stroking the upstruck wired fur against where he thinks his neck probably is.

“Ow.”

“Shit. What?”

“.... you poked me in the eye,” comes the response, tinted with a ghost of amusement.

“Sorry!”

Martin pauses, and then leans in eagerly to see, holding up his hand to get a better look.

“I am not an art exhibit Martin,” comes the huffy reply.

“Sit there and be admired for a minute,” Martin snarks back, and he feels Aron's fleeting smile in return.

“I can and will bite you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Martin replies, not really listening, turning his cupped hands this way and that. “How many do you have? Eyes, I mean?”

“Eight. Duh.”

“Woah,” Martin replies, ignoring the snide aside. He casts out a finger again, moving it over the abdomen a bit more carefully, his bitten nail trailing along the curving round to the small protrusion at the back where he supposes webbing must come from.

“I think you're cool,” he whispers again.

“What about Mum?” Aron asks. He's grown bolder, crawls up to the ends of Martin's fingertips where he sits like a lord surveying his kingdom.

“We just, we just won't tell Mum yet.” Martin worries at his lip. “She'll... she'll worry, she doesn't need to know right now, does she?”

They keep their secret for four days. An advantage of how small Aron has grown.

Until his Mum catches sight of him, half-burrowed under the lip of his t-shirt collar while Martin is finishing drying the dishes. He's had a growth spurt recently, and barely going on tip-toe, he reaches up the higher cupboard where the glasses are kept.

“Change into something else,” she says briskly. It's been a bad day, her face washed out and lined with sleeplessness, pale-lipped and shivery. Martin watches as she finishes swallowing the last of her tablets with a blank expression, clipping her pill box closed.

Martin stiffens. Feels Aron crouch and bristle against his collarbone. He sees Kacper perk his ears up, his yellowish eyes snagged on Martin's throat. His bushy tail tipped with white flicks distracted.

“I can't,” Martin replies, feeling his face heat up with the suddenness of attention being paid to him. His voice cracks in the middle, and he flushes at how squeaky it comes across.

“Something else, Martin,” she insists sharply, her eyebrows pulled down.

Kacper, who has been sat on his hunches near her leg, stands. Glances up at her.

“Lena, calm down,” he warns, but his Mum takes a step forward. Martin blunders back the same distance, nearly elbowing a plate off the counter. Their kitchen is pokey, and he's crowded back against the washing machine.

“Mum, I- I can't,” he repeats. His words are thick and clogging in his throat, his body feels too unwieldy, too big for the suddenly very cramped space. “Aron's, he's settled, Mum, and – ”

“Don't be stupid, Martin, you can't have – ”

“He's settled, Lena,” Kacper's voice is grumbling terse at the back of his throat. “Being upset about it isn't going to help anyone.”

“He's not settled. Not as that!” she barks, and Martin's not sure who she's snapping at, but she takes another step and grabs against his wrist, and it's tight as a manacle and her nails dig into the pasty skin there, and Kacper's protestations become a vocalized growl. “He's not settling like that.”

Martin does start crying then, hot tears leaking down his cheeks, his free hand cupped protectively over the fragile, unwanted shape his soul has taken. His mum's lip curls upwards when she sees his tears but still she doesn't let go, and her grip is bony and harsh and it hurts.

“Lena!” Kacper snarls, and his teeth catch and yank backwards at the fabric of her trousers, “Enough, Lena, leave it!”

“Mum?” Martin asks faintly with his squeaking, crumbling voice. He doesn't pull away. There's nowhere to pull away to.

His mum sniffs. Sets her shoulders high again, and rips her hand back, and leaves the room without another word. Kacper glances over at Martin, and Martin desperately wants to bury his face in the soft orangey fur like he used to when he was younger, wants to feel it under his fingers.

But Kacper leaves too, and Martin and Aron are suddenly very alone.

They don't say anything for a long time. Martin puts the last of the plates away, and he goes upstairs and locks the door of his room, sits heavily on the side of the bed.

“Aron...” he begins.

“I don't want to talk about it,” comes the cloth-muffled response.

“I – ”

“I mean it,” Aron snaps. “I don't want to talk about it. Leave it be, yeah?”

“Oh,” Martin replies. He wipes at his eyes, stares at his feet. “Oh. Ok.”

The entire incident is never spoken about again.

Aron takes to lurking under Martin's clothes whenever they're in the house.

–

“All you have to do is look in a mirror.”

The world rings wrong in his ears. His in-gasping weed-choked breaths are scraping and disjointed as he parses them as noise. He can hear the slide of his own fingers curling against his damp palms. The room is at once so loud and crushingly far away like a distant crashing storm tide, and yet right up against his ear, like a dropped glass in an empty room, Elias' voice, cut-sharp and close and the slivers sliding into him as splinters as he listens.

“The resemblance is quite uncanny. You even have a spider, you know, just like he did. Not the same species of course, but then she never looks close enough to check, does she? The face of the man she hates, who destroyed her life, watching over her...”

“Shut. Up.” Martin hears himself push the sound out as a feeble whistle between his teeth, and it gets lost in the groaning rigging of sound in the room. The weight of being so splayed open has him bow-backed and trembling.

It's hard to remember why he's doing this. It's hard to focus on anything other than how much she despises him. How much he's always known it.

Through blistering tears, he watches Aron scuttle down his trouser leg, over his shoelaces, a tear-blurred shape moving at surprising speed over the foot-worn and un-swept floor. He thinks he might be planning on biting Elias. He can feel the pulsing reckless fury that is the only thing breaking up the solid mass of despair cementing and expanding in the hollow of his chest, the rage that even the satisfaction of burning statements hasn't appeased. At everything this man has done – but he's not a man, he's not a person – , at everything he's sat back and watched and done nothing to prevent, and as Martin chokes airless on his own drowning grief, his anger has found motion, enough room to lash out amidst the agony.

Elias looks down at Aron, almost bored.

And brings down his foot.

Martin drops.

There isn't an expression to describe the sensation. His knees send a pained recoil down his legs as he slams against the floor, a shock up his spine, but Martin can't feel that, can't feel anything but alight, burning, illuminated down to the bones of him. He retches on a shell-shocked wail as Elias idly watches the panicked body squirming under the vicious pressure of his shoe, as Aron cries out as his body is pressed squashed against the floor, and Martin can do nothing.

There's a curve to Elias' smile now.

He shouldn't be touching him, Martin's brain is scream-sobbing, he shouldn't, he can't, he shouldn't be touching...

“You want to know what she sees when she looks at you?”

Martin thought he didn't have room for any more, but Elias pushes his mother's hatred into him anyway.

There's a harder, painful pressure, and he hears Aron squeal. He thinks his own voice mouths a pleading 'stop' that goes unheeded.

Elias' voice is tight and biting and cold.

“Don't burn any more statements.”

Even when the pressure lifts, there are steps walking away, the door closing on this pitiful tableau, Martin cannot move, awash in the flotsam of wrong, smudged and tarnished and beheld in the cruellest violent light, knotted in the weeds of a revelation that is no less choking for how little of a surprise it was.

Half-blinded by tears, he inches forward on his knees, feeling around, finding the furred body quivering where it was made to stay.

“I've – I've got you,” he slurs desperately, scooping the shape up against his face, feeling for anything broken, anything fractured, feeling his front legs twitch feebly against his cheeks. “He – he's gone, he shouldn't have, he – he....”

“She hates us,” Aron finally speaks. The loudest thing in the room, Martin almost wincing from the suddenness – where Martin's grief has already begun to settle into the cracks of him, Aron's is an outpouring, a final barrier broken. “She hates us so much, Martin, a-and we did nothing and she – god, he left so we got everything she reserved for him for no better reason than we were there to hate and he wasn't, a-and she...”

Aron's words are lost in a babbling wail, and Martin can do nothing but clutch him desperately, shushing, every excuse and reasoning and childish hope he's ever entertained that she'd ever be proud of him laid bare as the dessicated husk it always was, already striped by life's disappointments long before.

Aron climbs under the collar of his shirt when Melanie comes in. He will not crawl out for a very long time.

–

He discusses it with Aron while Jon is in the shower. Jon uses up all the hot water from the immersion heater, his showers long, aimless and scalding, even with his hair now hacked back from its tangles. Sometimes Martin even thinks he catches a hum, a snatch of tune, though it's always faint, muddied by the bathroom acoustics, close-lipped and idle. He thinks Jon's happy here. Hopes he is.

There's the slow wash of steam trickling from under the bathroom door onto the landing, into the sitting room. Martin tries not to be reminded of other, colder mists.

“It seems unnecessary...” Martin is responding, chewing the nail of his thumb.

“We don't know who could come here!” Aron replies dogged. He keeps rubbing his front legs together anxiously, like Martin does with his hands, but he stays on the sofa arm so all his front-facing eyes are fixed on Martin. “One of us needs to be here to keep watch. Who knows who could come? Daisy – ”

“Daisy's Jon's friend.”

“She's tried to kill him before,” says Aron dismissively. “We don't know her, Martin, we don't know she can be trusted.”

“Jon does – ”

“And it's never helped him,” Aron snaps. He untenses, and the bristles coating his back soften. “OK. Maybe Daisy isn't a problem. But what if Elias finds him? While we're out getting food or walking down to the village, it's not safe for him to be alone.”

Martin nods worriedly. He rubs the cold-cracked skin of his palms over his thighs and tugs at his lip with his teeth.

“We don't even know if it will stretch that...”

“We do, don't lie,” Aron retorts. It's not unkind. It's just harsher. More direct. Everything about them has had all the edges taken off. “You know it will stretch that far.”

It will. Martin doesn't know how far it was, from his office to the Panopticon, but he'd stretched it and stetched it until he'd stopped feeling Aron's terror, until it had boiled down from a fire-brand mutilation to a wincing sunburn of feeling. And once Peter cast him into the Lonely. Well. He hadn't felt anything at all then.

“We shouldn't be able to do this,” Martin says miserably. He rubs his hands over his face. “Be so far apart from each other.”

“Well, we can,” Aron replies simply, “so we should use it to make sure they stay safe.”

Martin lets out a breath too heavy for his lungs to hold.

“You're right,” he says finally. “I know you're right, s'just... it's not – it's not natural. Being able to – it's not, it's not right.”

“No.” Aron says and he crawls onto Martin's arm, up onto his shoulder. “No, it's – it's not. But it's what we've got now.”

Martin wipes at his eyes, takes another more pronounced inhale.

“Hey. Hey, it might heal one day. Don't make that face.”

“'m not making a face.” Martin replies, feeling belligerent and childish in his response.

Aron rears up and sets both front legs on the spot on Martin's chin he can reach.

“Your sulky face,” he says, and his voice is warm. Everything about him feels warm these days. Martin is mummified in five layers of clothing and still has goosebumps.

“I missed you,” Aron continues, simply. He has never found honesty easy, but he looks at Martin, taps against his chin with the stunted pedipalps at the front of his body and repeats: “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Martin croaks out, and he has no more words to express what he wants to stay.

After a moment, Aron makes a decisive 'clearing throat' noise, and continues.

“I've told Emer. The plan.”

“How'd she take it?”

“She's practical. She can see the benefit.”

“Is she going to be the one to tell Jon?”

“You don't want to do the honours then?”

“You know I don't.”

“Chicken.”

“Sod off.”

“I'm right though.”

“Yeah, don't get used to it.”

Aron hums in reply, and then returns his gaze to Martin.

“You really want to get back into the habit of keeping secrets from him?”

“No, I.... No. You're right.

“Twice in one day.”

“It's a miracle.”

“If you're going to be this insufferable with him, he'll hand you back.”

“I'll hide in his sleeve cuffs. Jump out at him.”

“Don't.”

“I won't. Relax.”

Martin carefully traces a finger over the bristles of Aron's abdomen, scratching lightly with a nail near the back, rewarded with a contented chitter.

“Then it's agreed,” he says, and they sit, quiet and sedate in each other's company until Jon and Emer come out.

–

Martin frets, so as he tramps down the uneven and rain-boggy hill, muttering and grumbling about the state of his boots, he throws out little questioning checks through the wide net their thread has become.

Aron, secure in the safehouse and out of the spitting rain, responses momentarily with reassuring pulses, wordless and rudimentary but implying safe – warm – dry.

Martin gets these placid reassurances three times in a row when he sends a hand-wringing anxious ?, before he's eventually gifted with a spikier snatch of mild frustration. The wave of safe – warm – alive – annoyed is speckled with the impression that whatever Jon, Emer and Aron are now doing, Martin's frequent checks are now disruptive.

A pause, and then a kinder wash that implies that Martin should hurry up and get back.

Martin leaves it at that and keeps his queries minimal.

It's while he's in the little shop that the humming connection shifts, a new harmony billowing into the background melody, and he's treated to a rising ball of crunched and cosy heat blooming and pulsing at his breastbone.

Martin knows what causes such a fireplace in him. He's been feeling it a lot recently. His hands suddenly don't feel as cold-nipped. He has to try and keep the smile off his face to avoid looking foolish as he peers at the 'two for three pound' offer on grapes, ticks vegetables off the shopping list, impulsively throws in some strawberries on the off-chance Jon might like them.

Another pulse, not three minutes later: a glint through his spine, like a cloud shifting and exposing a sun trap as he stares non-plussed at the spice isle, trying to decipher Jon's deplorable handwriting.

The steady sensation comes upon him with the regularity of waves upon a beach.

He has a pins-and-needles buzz at his fingertips as he makes the walk back, the bag handles digging into his palms, and even the rain, pouring hard from burdened storm clouds, does not dampen his mood.

He hears Jon's rumbling tumbling speech as he shoulders open the front door, hefting the bags into the entranceway.

“... and it's actually a common misapprehension, easily done by rudimentary scholars in the field, when in fact, a rather simplistic way of rectifying such an error is to...”

Martin watches and allows the smile to claim him utterly.

Jon is ironing. A little pile of ordered clothes on the sofa, precisely folded. Chattering away to his audience: Martin's spider soul, settled comfortable on Jon's shoulder. Martin waits long enough, and Jon, thoughtless and undisrupted in his lecture, reaches up to run his finger all the way from Aron's front section, poking one of his eyes more likely than not though Aron doesn't say a word, all the way down to his stubby spinnerets, doing this two or three times in a rhythmic gesture before he returns to his chore.

Martin feels bathed in an undemanding tenderness.

Emer has noticed his arrival where Jon hasn't. She flutters over to him, lands in his coarse briar bush of hair before alighting again and setting down on his shoulder, the position more to her satisfaction.

“You've missed a treat,” she says drolly, using her front legs to clean her long, feathery antennae. “He's been on a roll for about twenty minutes.”

“That's our Jon,” Martin murmurs. His eyes crinkle as she snorts a laugh.

They watch him for a minute.

“He irons his socks?” Martin continues, Jon using the steam function to neatly flatten the fabric over the toes obliviously.

“Even the socks,” Emer replies, ever so fond.

Another pause.

“Never thought I'd see the day when Jon would like spiders,” Martin says.

“Not any spiders,” Emer says, and she flutters her gossamer-white wings at him affectionately. “Just yours.”

Jon notices him then. His face breaking into softness. Helps him unload the shopping into their neatly categorised cupboards and newly cleaned fridge, makes them both tea though he steeps it too long and adds too much milk, sits up against him, folded up and knobbly-limbed as they channel-hop through the rubbish on TV.

Martin's soul sits safe on Jon's shoulder all evening.

#tma #the magnus archives #daemon au #martin's is a bold jumping spider #jon's is a white ermine moth #cws apply #implied emotional neglect #implied self hatred #cw poor parent-child relationships #elias's usual bastardry #non-consenual daemon touching #Martin's not explicitly ace in this but he's intended to be #jonmartin

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