jonnyvangelis

[jonnyvangelis]

as ao3 approaches almost 6x what they asked for, here are some other places to give your money to

Iranian American Woman Fund

Women’s Committee of the National Council of Resistance of Iran

Taller Salud (which is non-profit in Puerto Rico currently collecting donations for support after Hurricane Fiona)

Out & Equal (which supports LGBTQ+ during the hiring process + helps defend against workplace discrimination)

The Foundation for AIDS Research

Center for Black Equity (supports the black queer community)

Funds for Writers (which offers grants to aspiring writers so they can afford publication, time off from work, etc.)

The Audre Lorde Project (which directly supports queer POC in New York City)

PEN America (which helps writers in financial need across the United States)

This is an entire list of organizations supporting queer and BIPOC STEM students you can donate to

The BGD Press (which specifically publishes queer POC)

****but if you want to directly support the people who make you free content, the next time your favorite fic writer or artists makes a crowd funding post, opens commissions, talks about their patreon/ko-fi, donate your money there!!****

literally Wikipedia would be better at this point

[jonnyvangelis]

Quick PSA, if you get one of those "Work scanned, AI use detected" comments on AO3, just mark them as spam.

Some moron apparently built a bot to annoy or prank hundreds of authors.

There is no scanning process, your work doesn't actually resemble AI writing, it's all bullshit. Mark the comment as spam (on AO3, not the email notification you got about the comment!) and don't let it get to you.

[jonnyvangelis]

WORKS REVEALED

Gender identities, check your email for your gift! Works are now revealed.

Authors will be revealed tomorrow.

Crossovers are the Mechs and… Welcome To Night Vale, The Magnus Archives, Howl’s Moving Castle, Wooden Overcoats, The Adventure Zone, and Doctor Who!

Read the works here and be sure to leave comments!

#wa. ts in the adventure zone. mayhaps i will read some of these :]

[jonnyvangelis]

bitches will be like “i love my blorbos they mean so much to me 🥺 🥺 🥺” and then draw them in complete and utter anguish having the worst time of their lives.

#i write my gay little fics because prev is working on The Smell and someone has to rehab marius #also go read The Smell. good horror and anger in there

[jonnyvangelis]

one of my favorite things i’ve ever written, now in convenient sleepily recorded with a bad mic setup podfic form. i made an archive.org account for this. tumblr makes it very difficult to embed a link to the internet archive

(also its here on ao3. so you can comment and kudos and do the things that make me want to keep writing and speaking words)

hearteater

in which jonny gives tim a heart to eat, and he does. 300 words, content warning for… that, and the moon war.

Keep reading

#petty advertising #podfic

[jonnyvangelis]

chicken soup for the marius

sometimes i think about scrawny early mechanism marius and i just wanna give him soup. heres jonny making him soup. marius uses he/they. arguably canon compliant (for once!), jonny/marius, 933 words.

It’s been 40 years since the crew of the Aurora gained a doctor and a science officer. It’s been 42 since Byron von Raum died, gangrene taking his arm, and it’s been 10 since the first mate started looking near them when he talks. He doesn’t do it all the time, but Marius will take what he can get.

Jonny doesn’t look up from the stirring pot when he hears Marius walk into the kitchen. He can tell from their footsteps that he thinks he’s being stealthy (he is, but Jonny’s lived too long to be snuck up on).

Marius pokes his head too close to look in the pot and gets a facefull of Jonny’s palm as he pushes them out of the way. Marius just stares at him, brow furrowed. Jonny sighs and pulls out a long piece of thyme, still not looking at him.

“It’s chicken soup with egg noodles. You’re getting a bowl.”

Marius looks interested, then hardens their expression purposefully. “What if I don’t-”

“You are skin and bone. I won’t force you, and if you don’t like it I’ll make you something else, but you’re going to eat.” It’s not a request, but it’s not cruel either- something like sympathy buried in the word choice. They don’t like the sympathy, but they like the smell of the soup.

Marius’ expression softens some, but he says nothing, hopping up on the counter while Jonny leans against it, staring into the broth. They’re both quiet for the half hour or so until the timer beeps. Jonny curses at it under his breath. He turns it off before it can finish.

Marius slides down to the floor and finds a barstool, grabbing a beer from the fridge on the way over. He turns the bottle over in his hands. The label looks like someone on the ship made it.

A bowl of soup slides into their peripheral vision. They raise an eyebrow at Jonny seated next to him. Jonny waves his hand impatiently before beginning to eat.

There’s little bits of tomato floating in it. Marius opens his mouth to say something, but Jonny notices his hesitation and winces.

They know tomatoes aren’t poisonous. He understands, now, that his home planet ate off pewter and the combination of tomatoes and pewter gave you lead poisoning, not the tomatoes themselves. But they can hear the horror stories in the back of his head still.

“Right. Tomatoes- just push ‘em into my bowl. I’ll eat ‘em.” Marius nods, pushing his bowl closer and carefully fishing out the chunks to drop into Jonny’s bowl. As they eat, he gives Jonny the bits he doesn’t want.

Neither of them comment on the fact that Marius didn’t scoot back, and they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder on a counter with 12 stools.

The soup tastes like—

It doesn’t taste like home. He hasn’t found anything that tastes like home, and he isn’t sure he wants to. They are just barely beginning to think of Aurora as home, in the way that a motel between moving might if home had had motels, if they hadn’t grown up in the shadow of some older civilization’s mistakes.

It tastes like being able to slump his body up against someone’s side and feel them relax into him, a head on his shoulder. It tastes like someone's fingers running over the clipped-short back of his hair that they’re still too scared to let grow out (still too scared to change too much).

It’s also gone too fast, spoon hitting ceramic with a squeak and pulling him out of his thoughts, shoulders tensing. He says nothing, barely having the time to relax, before Jonny nudges the rest of his bowl over, tomatoes eaten. He also seems to have picked through and gotten the dark meat, but Marius just hums appreciatively and finishes the bowl.

Jonny is pretty sure Marius doesn’t catch his warm smile when they pick up the bowl to drink the last of the broth. (Jonny is wrong.)

Jonny stands, taking both bowls in hand, and goes to wash them in the sink. Marius takes his beer (of which he’s had maybe two drinks) and follows, waiting for Jonny to finish so they don’t have to raise their voice over the sink. The mate raises an eyebrow.

“What.”

“That was really good. Thank you.”

Jonny blinks. Furrows his brow. “Don’t- don’t make a thing out of this.”

“I’m not.” Marius’ arms fold.

“Good!” Jonny’s hands fly up.

“Good.” Marius stands there longer than necessary. The air vibrates with stubbornness.

Marius turns on their heel and walks back to his quarters. He curls up under their hoard of blankets, tugging them over his head, and slides a hand down to rest on their stomach with a soft smile. He hasn’t been this warm in a long time, down into his bones and all sort of fuzzy and comfortable and safe.

Half-asleep, they hear the hiss of his door sliding open and the thuds of Jonny’s heavy boots pausing. Not expecting it to be unlocked. Then a quiet knock on the doorframe.

“You still awake?”

“Mm.”

“Can I come in?”

Marius rolls over, lifting the covers with one arm and patting the bed with the other. Everything’s a bit of a blur through one eye without their contacts, but he makes out Jonny quickly dropping belts, his vest, his boots, an earring to the floor before curling up with his back to their chest. The blankets drop on both of them, and Marius dozes off with his face in Jonny’s hair.

Jonny snores.

#the mechanisms #my fic #jonny d'ville #marius von raum #heart on sleeve #previously posted in the drabble collection but i wanted to toy with it a lil more

[jonnyvangelis]

hi i did a fic

#petty advertising

[jonnyvangelis]

Your lunch break fic made me yearn!!!! Im a sucker for ivy/jonny polymechs and its so SPECIFIC but the Vibes.... the patches! Jonny with a pacemaker!! Aaaaaaa i can't!!!!!

woe. yearning be upon ye

#THANK YOU IM GLAD YOU LIKED IT #IM JUST BAD AT RECIEVING COMPLIMENTS #babble #asks #zenodotus-xxiv

[jonnyvangelis]

okay, this was MEANT to be for @ivyalexandriaweek but things happened

lunch break

ivy hasn't seen jonny since the start of the pandemic. her boyfriend is still sweet, though. ivy uses she/he/they. modern au, fluff, 637 words.

Ivy wasn’t particularly looking forward to going back to work, but they’d be lying if she said he missed the endless video calls and end-of-week migraines that came with them. It is nice being back at her desk in the library. Less nice dealing with middle schoolers, but they’re not so bad as he remembered. Things are alright, ignoring the world being on fire.

A man walks in with the requisite nametag of a non-employee on campus, and they raise an eyebrow at him over her glasses.

The year and change at home have been kind to Jonny. (Admittedly, Brian and Tim have also been kind to him.) Without the daily stress of his boss breathing down his neck and having started freelancing again, he’s let himself go soft around the edges- round cheeks, a double chin that Tim kisses to make his face burn in the morning, strong shoulders giving way to a proper bear bod and a belly Marius has dubbed the perfect pillow. With his hair grown out, his beard fuzzy, and the recent weight, he feels more… at ease. He looks it too. Things are alright, ignoring the world being on fire.

He nearly spilled his drink tray- his mocha, and Ivy’s latte, as well as an almond croissant- on the poor secretary in the front office in his attempt to write his name down. He’s here after his morning shift, but he has to catch the bus home and it’s raining and he doesn’t really want to wait at the bus stop and shiver for the few minutes it’ll take between buses.

Ivy regrets not wearing her bifocals. The man is walking toward them- he assumes they’re a man- and his face breaks out into a sheepish smile and he opens his mouth and- Oh!

“I brought y-” “Jonny!” Ivy squeaks, fumbling their way out of her chair and closing the gap with his arms flung around the shorter man’s shoulders (who took the few spare seconds to set their coffee down on the desk before grunting at the sudden squeeze). Ivy feels him grin against her neck.

“Hi.” His voice is muffled.

“You look cute. Sorry I didn’t recognize you.” Ivy tugs her mask down to kiss his forehead. They pull away a bit, and cock their head, a hand on his chest. “Is that Brian’s shirt?”

“It’s alright, face blindness and all th-” Jonny’s cheeks turn pink. “Yeah, I figured my usual thing wasn’t… school appropriate?”

“You look like a hipster.”

“I figured the front desk wouldn’t be amenable to the battle jacket with the all caps ‘eat your fucking heart out’ backpatch.” Jonny bares his teeth.

“Or the ‘louder than God’s revolver and twice as shiny’ on the chest?” Ivy grins.

“And the ‘fuck’, and the ‘this machine kills fascists’ with a pacemaker, and the ‘real men eat out’, and the ‘freak on the streets, freak in the sheets’, yeah.” Jonny laughs, smiling fond and warm.

“They might have been a little hesitant, yeah.” Ivy’s chest feels fuzzy.

A beat passes. Chest to chest, Ivy’s arm still wrapped around Jonny’s shoulders, both their breathing a little slow.

“I missed you a lot.” Jonny breaks the silence, his voice a bit small.

“I missed you too.” Ivy runs a hand to the back of Jonny’s hair and presses their cheeks together, before pulling away a step and glancing down at the desk. “So… treats.”

“Right. Treats.” This is still Ivy’s workplace. “The croissant’s yours, the mocha’s mine.”

Ivy hooks a foot in the chair closest to hers and pulls it over to the desk next to him, waving at it with the hand that isn’t picking through the bag and tearing off a bite-sized bit of croissant. “Sit, then, there’s catching up to do.”

Jonny beams and takes his seat.

#petty advertising

[jonnyvangelis]

also hey that last fic is on ao3 go comment on it if you wanna :]

#petty advertising

[jonnyvangelis]

lunch break

ivy hasn't seen jonny since the start of the pandemic. her boyfriend is still sweet, though. ivy uses she/he/they. modern au, fluff, 637 words.

Ivy wasn’t particularly looking forward to going back to work, but they’d be lying if she said he missed the endless video calls and end-of-week migraines that came with them. It is nice being back at her desk in the library. Less nice dealing with middle schoolers, but they’re not so bad as he remembered. Things are alright, ignoring the world being on fire.

A man walks in with the requisite nametag of a non-employee on campus, and they raise an eyebrow at him over her glasses.

The year and change at home have been kind to Jonny. (Admittedly, Brian and Tim have also been kind to him.) Without the daily stress of his boss breathing down his neck and having started freelancing again, he’s let himself go soft around the edges- round cheeks, a double chin that Tim kisses to make his face burn in the morning, strong shoulders giving way to a proper bear bod and a belly Marius has dubbed the perfect pillow. With his hair grown out, his beard fuzzy, and the recent weight, he feels more… at ease. He looks it too. Things are alright, ignoring the world being on fire.

He nearly spilled his drink tray- his mocha, and Ivy’s latte, as well as an almond croissant- on the poor secretary in the front office in his attempt to write his name down. He’s here after his morning shift, but he has to catch the bus home and it’s raining and he doesn’t really want to wait at the bus stop and shiver for the few minutes it’ll take between buses.

Ivy regrets not wearing her bifocals. The man is walking toward them- he assumes they’re a man- and his face breaks out into a sheepish smile and he opens his mouth and- Oh!

“I brought y-” “Jonny!” Ivy squeaks, fumbling their way out of her chair and closing the gap with his arms flung around the shorter man’s shoulders (who took the few spare seconds to set their coffee down on the desk before grunting at the sudden squeeze). Ivy feels him grin against her neck.

“Hi.” His voice is muffled.

“You look cute. Sorry I didn’t recognize you.” Ivy tugs her mask down to kiss his forehead. They pull away a bit, and cock their head, a hand on his chest. “Is that Brian’s shirt?”

“It’s alright, face blindness and all th-” Jonny’s cheeks turn pink. “Yeah, I figured my usual thing wasn’t… school appropriate?”

“You look like a hipster.”

“I figured the front desk wouldn’t be amenable to the battle jacket with the all caps ‘eat your fucking heart out’ backpatch.” Jonny bares his teeth.

“Or the ‘louder than God’s revolver and twice as shiny’ on the chest?” Ivy grins.

“And the ‘fuck’, and the ‘this machine kills fascists’ with a pacemaker, and the ‘real men eat out’, and the ‘freak on the streets, freak in the sheets’, yeah.” Jonny laughs, smiling fond and warm.

“They might have been a little hesitant, yeah.” Ivy’s chest feels fuzzy.

A beat passes. Chest to chest, Ivy’s arm still wrapped around Jonny’s shoulders, both their breathing a little slow.

“I missed you a lot.” Jonny breaks the silence, his voice a bit small.

“I missed you too.” Ivy runs a hand to the back of Jonny’s hair and presses their cheeks together, before pulling away a step and glancing down at the desk. “So… treats.”

“Right. Treats.” This is still Ivy’s workplace. “The croissant’s yours, the mocha’s mine.”

Ivy hooks a foot in the chair closest to hers and pulls it over to the desk next to him, waving at it with the hand that isn’t picking through the bag and tearing off a bite-sized bit of croissant. “Sit, then, there’s catching up to do.”

Jonny beams and takes his seat.

#ivy alexandria week #the mechanisms #my fic #ivy alexandria #jonny d'ville #hearts and minds #surely that isnt the ship name. #can i make it jonnivy. i like jonnivy

[jonnyvangelis]

Writing is hard and not getting comments can make it feel pointless. If you’re able to, please leave one. It means a lot. <3

[jonnyvangelis]

original tweet

[jonnyvangelis]

happy ivy week next fic is getting tagged as "all parties are vaccinated"

#babble

[jonnyvangelis]

POC deserve to feel safe, seen, and cared for in fandom spaces.

Fiction should be a form of comfort and escape, but more often than not, POC are left out, ignored, pushed aside and mistreated in media and the fandoms that form around it.

Take some time to ask yourself , “Am I creating a safe, caring and supportive environment for POC in my fandom?”

Racism is beyond exhausting. It feels like a constant weight. It makes you check around every corner, afraid that hatred will appear in every quiet moment. Afraid that hatred will crush you. That feeling follows you to fandom spaces.

Every second I wait for the penny to drop. Every second I wonder who will dehumanize me next. It’s a sickening way to live. But the worst part is, I’m used it. I’m so used to it I don’t even realize how heavy my heart is all the time.

POC deserve to have fun and rest in fandom spaces. So please. Make room.

[jonnyvangelis]

Hey remember what I said about making changes to the OTW and AO3 from the inside? Fuck that shit, I was completely wrong. Stop giving them money, stop wasting time voting in their rigged elections, and start giving them noisy, angry hell on every single fucking platform you can find. Especially white people.

I loathe being stuck between the rock and the hard place of AO3 being the ONLY place I get any kind of engagement on my fic, and how much I hate, in order, the organization and people who run it, their policies, their volunteers, and the people who stan for them.

The urge to take my fics down from their site and just deal with the fact I'll never have readers again gets stronger every day

[jonnyvangelis]

(also hey you should go comment on ao3 and give kudos and all the other things that make my heart fuzzy as a writer)

Years down the road

A little of my minecraft character's backstory :] 1032 words, general fantasy.

Years down the road, Icarus wakes without his patron curled up to his side, and he panics. (Or, how Samir got those scars, and how Icarus and the Wisp got another partner.)

Years down the road, Icarus wakes without his patron curled up to his side, and he panics.

They have spent centuries by one another’s sides and had every intention of spending centuries more— but Cod is gone, and in their wake (tangled in the thick blankets) is a note in someone else’s hand that reads “Hallo’een night, come to Annwfyn unarmed and unarmored . Ride, for what you seek will be masked by the thickest shade of trees .”

He blinks away fearful tears and throws himself out of bed to pack a bag. He wakes Wisp with a light shake, explaining himself in soft tones and a forehead kiss for good luck.

The road to the forest is long, but by nightfall, he winds his way through the creaking oaks and tangled firs. He shivers, tugging his fur cloak around himself, and keeps a sharp eye on the road ahead and a pointed ear to the woods about him. His horse stumbles on a root— he curses, then falls deathly silent.

Something shimmers in the clearing ahead. Like a spiderweb, stretched thin between the trees and almost transparent where the light hits it.

Icarus slides off the mare and pets her nose, hitching her to a tree at the edge of the clearing and rifling through his pocket to give her a biscuit. He takes a shaky breath, turns, and walks out into the clearing with a hand on his satchel and a worried spark in his eye.

The momentary black of the space between worlds is familiar to him by now. It has been familiar for centuries.

He makes his way through kudzu-choked trunks, the hanging green brushing his face and swaying slightly in the perfect summer breeze. The air is heavy here, warm but not hot, but he feels the malaise of a summer sunday afternoon seeping in.

He follows a stream, cool burbling water the same blue as the bits of sky visible through the green, and eventually comes to a clearing, stopping with a half-step and widened eyes.

In the center sits a throne erupting from the roots themselves, behind it a loose court of onlookers, a pool beside it that the stream seems to feed without overflowing. The owner herself is a tall woman, thin-faced and pale-skinned with a stern brow and smiling lips. Her ears are long and pointed, her eyes a faded gold, her hair long down to her knees and near-white.

To her side is a wicker cage, and within that, the unconscious body of his patron. The sight makes it hard to breathe.

“So you did come! How we have been expecting you, little hero. You may have your friend– if you can keep hold of him through seven forms. You must prove to me you truly want him. Am I understood?”

Icarus nods firmly, fully aware his voice might have cracked if he’d spoken.

The queen— no one calls her such to Icarus, but he knows a queen when he sees one— reaches down and plucks the chubby cat from the cage like they weigh nothing, holding her out like a dirty dish rag. Icarus pulls Cod close to his chest, a hand on the back of their head scritching lightly.

The queen snaps.

Icarus feels bones break, shrink, as the shedding form in his arms lets out a weak hiss and he grips the adder tight, wincing as thought and memory seem to melt away with the fur and sharp teeth try to dig into his wrists.

Snap.

Icarus stumbles back, his grip tightening as the form grows and bulges and a great black bear is snarling in his face, squirming but unable to pull out of the strong arms around its waist.

Snap.

A swan, hissing again, but Icarus pins its wings under his armpit, the other arm about its chest. Hot tears sliding down his cheeks as the frightened thing wails.

Snap.

Icarus has never seen his patron in anything approaching a human body save for a severely outdated portrait, and he doesn’t see their face now- he holds, however, a statue of ice, the bare skin on his arms protesting the cold. He feels a heart beat frantic against his own chest.

Snap.

A wolf. It snarls, bites at his shirt, digs its claws hard into his ribs and tries to scrabble over his shoulders. Icarus stays fast.

Snap.

A lion, heavy enough to topple Icarus. He rolls the two of them over so he’s on top, the beast unable to run. Its teeth come within inches of his neck, then—

Snap.

Icarus screams. He wraps his body fully around the fist-sized lump of glowing iron, no longer fighting, and rolls into the pool.

All is quiet for a while.

“My congratulations, hero.”

Icarus looks to the queen, vision blurry from pain. He can feel the warm breeze of the woods through the burnt hole in his shirt, the fresh sting of his skin. He’s drenched, and clinging to—

Cod nuzzles into the crook of his neck with a whimper. Their pale body is blotchy with burns, the water having boiled around them and under his chest in the time between this form and the last. Icarus runs a hand through the side of their hair, kissing the top of their head. He stands shakily and pulls them up into his arms like a koala. They are very good to hold, a spoiled cat making a plump faerie.

“Are you done with them?” Icarus’ voice is steadier than he expected.

“Yes. You have your prize. Go.” The queen doesn’t quite smile when she waves her hand dismissively.

Icarus stumbles back through the wood with Cod slowly waking in his arms (bundled in his fur cloak), hushing them softly when they can’t keep the little noises of pain at bay. He finds himself muttering “We’ll be home soon” every few breaths. He sets her on the horse before he climbs on behind her, arms around his waist, chin on her shoulder, Cod leaning their full weight into his chest.

Icarus pulls him into bed, gesturing for Wisp to join them. Neither sleeps until Cod does. They all sleep well, though.

#petty advertising