#I HOPE YOU STAY THAT WAY GERRY I HOPE YOU GET ALL YOU EVER WANTED

[jaebeomsbitch]

All I Want Is You (R.R.)

Summary: Roman learning to heal through the pain and eventually realizing he’s capable of so much more than just being a Roy. He learns to love and laugh and eventually gets married! 

Warning: Mentions of Logan's death, Roman's insecurity, and one mentions of his eating disorder. GN! Reader except literally one line just hinting.

A/N: I had this idea of calling Roman "Roro" and it turned into this. I just love him so much, he deserves the world.

Nicknames had been spilling from your mouth all day, you loved to annoy Roman. Calling him any and everything, “Pookie, honey, Romey bear,” especially in front of board members. You loved to rile him up, he’d sometimes lash out but for the most part he’d play it up. Following you around calling you equally embarrassing nicknames, it had become a game of sorts. Trying to see who could embarrass the other worse.

You’d have a sickening display of affection as you feed him an hors d’oeuvre at some company party.  Whispering how “sweet your love bug was for you,” Gerri would clear her throat asking to pull Roman aside. They’d talk in hushed tones as he sighs and comes back to you. Muttering a half-assed apology but he has something urgent to take care of. You usher him away, knowing he’s here on business and not to entertain you even though he promised you’d have his undivided attention. 

You muck around taking a champagne glass joining Willa and Connor in a conversation about cryogenics. You pretend you’re interested, nodding your head as you tip your head back gulping the alcohol. It was going to be a long night.

You drink a couple more glasses before leaving them, walking toward a window to watch the view. You couldn’t even remember where you were. Roman had told you to pack a bag and an hour later you were shoved into a private plane. He was too busy talking logistics to inform you of where you were going or what you were doing. 

Cousin Greg tries to make conversation, asking some absurd question you’d probably see in a “how to make friends” blog. You relent because watching Greg squirm is entertaining. You answer asking him an equally absurd question, watching as he juggles the question in his head as he stumbles over his words. Your gaze unlike most people doesn’t move from his face, you like the way it makes people nervous. He gives you a non-answer mostly just stuttering noises as his eyes dart around the room for an escape. His eyes landed on Tom before excusing himself. 

You can’t help but chuckle, Roman walks up to you. What the fuck was that all about? Was Greg trying to put the moves on you? He laughs but a piece of himself feels uneasy. He never likes the feeling of falling which is why he never allows himself to feel it. He’s always surrounded himself with faux relationships, ones he could pull around the room as arm candy to appease his father. Not that he was ever happy with Roman’s endeavors or conquests.

But you were different. You had this ability to pull him apart like a lobster at dinner. You broke him limb from limb, throwing the pieces of shell in the garbage as you exposed the soft tender meat of his heart. He’s panicked, panicked that you can be ripped away from his hands like his favorite toy. Panicked that he’ll have to watch his dad stomp on the piece of plastic destroying you into a million little pieces. He doesn’t think he’d recover if you left so he stays cowering in the back of his cage. 

Slowly you unravel Roman, even when he asks stupid questions. You let him win on most occasions, you want seafood for dinner but he wants steak? Steak it is. Something about being with you is everything he’s ever wanted and not just because you let him win. You made him feel something he’d never was allowed to.

His father never had high hopes for Roman’s partner. However he didn’t feel any particular way about you. Didn’t say some mean comment, didn’t embarrass you in private, he watches you with a scrutinizing gaze but you don’t buckle. You had nothing to hide because to the Roys you were just another fling. 

To Roman however you were everything. You were the reason he wanted to wake up in the morning, you were the reason he stopped counting calories as he joined you in a midnight ice cream snack. Laughing as he smears ice cream across your face because you called him your “precious little prince.” He tells you to fuck off, rolling his eyes as his ears turn red. Blood rushing up his face at all your praises. He was so unused to it, unused to the feeling of someone being proud of him. 

You were never shy with Roman, always showing him off. Calling him your trophy husband as you twirl him around. Slapping his ass on the airplane, joking that his was better than yours.You show him off with pride to your parents, after you’d mentioned they were at the same restaurant as you were. He noticed their judging gazes, recognizing his face from the newspaper but you beamed. Holding his hand tight, teeth on full display as you press yourself into him, cheek resting on his shoulder as your parents say something you’re not paying attention to. 

Roman doesn’t know how to act, he’d never made it to this stage. Most people weren’t willing to accept someone with sexual trauma, always leaving him because he was too emotionally scarred. They’d always give him the line that they weren’t fulfilled but you were always willing to wait. So he nods, cracking an occasional joke until you’re waving goodbye on the sidewalk and you follow him into the Escalade. 

You help him through the after effects of a panic attack. He’d never done that, never really cared what people thought of him unless he could benefit in some way. So teary eyes, that he tries to pretend is caused by the window cracked open, he asks how that was. He looks away afraid of what you might say, afraid that you might end it right there because your parents hate him. 

“Roro, I could give a flying fuck what they think. All I want is you, okay?” You try to reassure, reaching for his hand. He blinks away the tears, silently nodding. Someone wanted him? Even when he’s wholly broken, even when he can’t fulfill every boyfriend duty, even when he has to abandon you at boring parties? He’s afraid of the feeling in his chest, it feels like he just jumped off the balcony of his penthouse, free falling, waiting to hit the ground. He shoves away the feeling of doubt and plays those words over and over again in his head, a small smile forming as he stares at the city passing by. 

He lets himself grow attached to the silly nicknames, attached to the feel of your skin under his hand, the feeling of his fingers running through your hair, the way you massage his scalp, the way you hold him in bed. Your sleepy eyes blinking at him as you whisper a new nickname before cuddling into his chest. 

He liked the domesticity of you in his apartment, he’d usually feel disgusted only ever liking the feeling of being alone. But somewhere he grows accustomed to the way you leave your shoes at the entrance, seeing your toothbrush next to his, and even though he complains, the way you take half of his closet. He liked seeing your clothes together, promising he’d either upgrade the closet to fit both your needs fully or buy a new penthouse. He wanted you to have a say in the building, he was ready to let go of his “bachelor” pad, wanting you in every trace of the new home. Wanting you to be in the fiber of the new apartment so even if you left he could never forget what you shared. 

Soon enough the Roys lump you in with Roman like you’d always belonged. You were practically married without the certificate, Logan would give Roman shit about it. Telling him you were a fine piece of ass and that he should lock you down before you realized the mistake you made. 

In all of Roman’s sureness the doubt creeps in but you’re there through his fathers death. You’re there to console him and let him cry. You let him be vulnerable in a way he was never allowed, never judging, just reassuring. You’re there when Gojo buys Waystar. You’re there to enjoy him even when he’s lost. When he realizes that all his sacrifices were for nothing and that his entire being was bullshit. 

“But you’re not bullshit to me,” you whisper. Forehead leaning on his back as you hug his abdomen. He lets himself be held, no quip on his lips as he leans into your hold.

“Roman… it’s just you and me forever and always,” you finalize. You knew in your heart it was always Roman. You were two broken puzzle pieces that somehow fit together and in your brokenness you made each other better. In your time together he transformed into the phoenix you knew he was. He opened his eyes to the abuse he endured and refused to continue the cycle. 

You spent almost a year on a self healing journey, traveling the world together now that he had stopped nipping at your hand. He let you pull him out of the cage and he was free, completely free. He was fearless to love, you both relished in your time together even though his smart mouth got ahead of him sometimes. You find ways to be intimate figuring each other out. You live in the ups and downs of the relationship. Realizing that he never needed to be in a loveless marriage like his parents. 

He proposes unsurprisingly to everyone. The Roys finally have something to look forward to in the life of mundane nothingness. They Pat him on the back for ‘finally not being an idiot and making the right decision.’ He surprisingly offers to take your name, says he’s ready to shed the Roy name and try out a new skin. Kendall calls him a cuck for even suggesting it, that was his legacy after all. They might not have the company but they’d always have the name and blood. You knew Roman wasn’t serious, knew that calling you a Roy would elate his little heart so you deny him. 

The word fiancé is always at the tip of his tongue, he loves the word. Loves that he’s finally able to say it. When you become his wife he becomes unbearable but you’re the same. Going to restaurants and talking about the “ole ball and chain” making him late when in fact, it was him fixing his hair that made you late. Nonetheless you whip your hand around showing off your wedding ring set at everyone that glances at you, holding your head high as you walk with him. Roman was yours and you were his and somewhere you forgot where he ends and you begin. 

—side story—

You notice the way his eyes light up when you call him ‘Roro’ because no one has ever called him that, so it was special to you.  Also because he remembers the day in the Escalade when you didn’t outright but basically admitted your love for him. His siblings take to jokingly calling you Scooby Doo because he was 

“Roro Roy” to you. It starts after you ask him to pass the salt, “Roro, pass me that please.” The Roy siblings turn to look at you and Roman. They were used to your nickname antics, sometimes jumping in with their nasty names but this was new. Seeing Roman beat red as you kiss his temple, unaware of Shiv and Kendall’s knowing smiles. Connor looking at Roman with a small smile before turning back to Willa.

“Roro raggy, Roro shit the bed” Kendall would joke in a fake accent, that just sounds horrible. The table laughs, including you.

Roman quips back something stupid but you were happy. Happy that you had a nickname and that you were a part of their lives. That Roman gets to be an uncle to Shiv’s little boy. 

#roman roy #succession #roman succession #succession roman #succession spoilers #succession season 4 #succession fic #roman roy fic #roman roy imagine #roman roy au #roman roy lives on #roman roy / reader #roman roy x reader #roy siblings #mentions of the roy siblings #kendall being kendall #gn!reader #mentions of tom wambsgans #greg hirsch #logan roy #roman roy is my baby boy #cheesy #just roman and reader being cheeseballs #domestic fluff #succession fluff #slight angst #not really

[sylvies-chen]

Succession 4.02 thoughts:

emotionally just SO much to unpack in this episode holy shit

roman going back to logan makes sense and we could all see this coming especially with the way shiv and kendall have had to coax him into these ideas for the past two episodes, but oh man. my heart fucking breaks. like we get the verbal acknowledgment that logan ACTUALLY HIT ROMAN AS A KID and then see him crawl back right after??? i dont know where along the line he internalized all that trauma and became so submissive but it’s crushing. watching s1 you would’ve never guessed it, but we need to protect roman roy at all costs. okay thank you.

for a brief, sweet moment though, the three of them banding together and seeing through logan’s bullshit apology (which, sadly, was undoubtedly his best and most honest effort and all he will ever be able to give them) was glorious. i love my siblings trio and i need to have faith that they will get through this 🥺

WAIT WE STILL HAVE THE SIBLING HUG COMING SOMEWHERE okay so not all hope is lost they can turn things around even after they find out about roman’s betrayal

shiv calling him a human gaslight is hilarious because she is without a doubt the most manipulative of the four siblings so it’s kind of ironic, but she’s also right so pop off i guess

kendall on the other hand… idk what angle he’s playing. the business stuff I don’t pay as much attention to so maybe I missed something, but I’m curious as to what his play is here

greg is his usual awkward self but it’s just a little ✨elevated✨ now which i love

CONNOR’S MOM MENTION??? THAT MONOLOGUE OF HIS??? HOLY HELL. that was… tragic. it was so much to digest. logan sent con’s mom to prison??? he shunned connor his whole life??? and him saying love just isn’t something he needs because he’s never had it, that he’s accustomed to it, that his siblings are greedy for wanting, nay, demanding love from their father is just… wow. this poor guy.

conwilla stay strong though, willa being in bed when con came home was very precious to me. these are two people who know and accept the very transactional nature of their relationship, and who want to go through life together anyway and we have no choice but to stan

I’m curious as to why doesn’t logan want gerri at the meeting with mattson??? is it because he knew he wanted roman there and didn’t want to have to deal with them given the whole dick pic thing??? is it because of hugo’s laptop thing with kerry’s news anchor tape??? don’t know but I need my queen to keep her job 🙏🏻

NEXT WEEK BETTER BRING ME SOME KENSTEWY GOODNESS

#lukas mattson #succession spoilers #succession #kendall roy #roman roy #shiv roy #connor roy #conwilla #succession hbo #hbo succession #the roy siblings

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My website

Chapter 53: March 2017

Ever since having the conversation with Tim, Martin really had been trying to have a better work-life balance. Or, well, any kind of work-life balance. He, Tim and Sasha had reached an agreement to rotate out the recording so that one of them wasn’t doing all the work, with each of them taking no more than one day a week or recording more than one real statement per day, and he’d also promised not to work more than an hour outside their regular working hours or spend more than an hour a day in the tunnels. He’d taken to doing one or the other on any given day, and it was working more or less well enough. He also knew that Tim was right—he needed to do something that didn’t involve the Institute—and being alone wasn’t the smartest idea, for more reasons than just the fact that he’d be more likely to lapse back into bad habits if he was.

The discovery that the shop he frequented for knitting supplies had a circle that met on Tuesday nights hadn’t surprised him nearly as much as learning that the little old ladies who made up most of it referred to it quite casually as a “stitch and bitch”.

The leader of the group had challenged Martin to try a particularly tricky sock pattern that involved colorwork and cables, and he’d been so focused on it that he’d almost missed his stop that morning, but he had managed to make it in time, barely. He’d exchanged a few kind words with Manal, the young woman who’d been hired to replace Rosie, and then headed down to the Archives. For just a moment, he’d hesitated on the threshold, hoping against hope that he’d walk in to find Jon waiting for him with a smile, but of course that hadn’t happened.

So…here he was. Wednesdays were his day to record, and Tim had presented him with a stack of statements they’d finished the research on. Most of them were going straight on the Discredited shelves when they were done, but Martin, with unerring instinct, had already located the one real statement in the bunch and set it to one side. It was a bit distracting, really, and by rights he probably ought to do it first or he wouldn’t be able to focus on the others.

He didn’t want to, though. Something about it made him want to record literally anything else. It seemed to be taunting him, which he knew was bullshit—he couldn’t See anything on the statements for a reason, they didn’t have anything of the Fourteen in them specifically—but still, he had a feeling he wouldn’t like whatever was in it. The name was no help, either, so he obviously hadn’t been helping with the research for it.

The tape recorder turned itself on at his elbow, and he glanced at it suspiciously. He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t, but…well, no one was around. And if they were something harmful, they needed to know. Maybe he couldn’t use the candles, but they could surely figure out some way of warding against whatever was behind them.

He was just reaching for his glasses when the office door opened. Trying to suppress the sudden flare of guilt, Martin looked up and saw the last person he would have expected—Basira, looking puzzled or angry or worried or some combination of the three. She nodded at the stack of files in front of him. “Still recording, then?”

“I mean, it’s what we do,” Martin pointed out. He put his hand on top of the real one, but didn’t pull it towards himself or flip it open. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Daisy.”

Irritation flared in Martin’s chest. He’d told Basira, told her to stay away for her own good, and here she was in the middle of the Institute and looking for Daisy. The urge to say I wouldn’t tell you if I did know bubbled up in his throat, and he swallowed it down and tried to be rational. The stress of the last few weeks was getting to him. His anxiety about Jon, his anxiety about Melanie—who Gerry had said would be a couple weeks later than initially planned getting back but hadn’t reached out to him—the worry about the Unknowing, and the general atmosphere of the Institute was combining to make him less patient with people than usual. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. The fact that Basira was asking about Daisy wasn’t helping that, because despite everything, she still scared the hell out of him.

“I don’t know where she is,” he said, aware that his voice was tight. “Why would you think I would know where she was?”

“Okay, okay,” Basira said, holding out her hands. “It’s just that they said at the station this was the last place she checked in.”

“When she interviewed us,” Martin said. “Which was more than five weeks ago.”

“Yeah, I haven’t heard anything, so I went to check in with her at the station.” Basira avoided Martin’s eyes when she said that. “They said she hadn’t been in since February.”

Martin lifted an eyebrow. “And no one thought to check in on that?”

“I mean, they don’t keep a close eye on…well, she goes off the grid sometimes when she’s investigating a case. Never this long, though. I thought it might have something to do with…y’know.”

Martin felt a probably unwarranted surge of pride at that. He knew that the reason Daisy usually went off the grid was to track down a suspect, and the fact that Jon had managed to elude her for a whole month was a pretty big deal. He wasn’t going to let that last part slide, though. “You can’t seriously believe Jon killed anyone.”

“I mean, if you were going to cover for anyone, figured it’d be him.” Basira shrugged uncomfortably at the unimpressed look Martin gave her. “I just hope he didn’t. Don’t want to think I was wrong about you. I really like you, you know?”

“I’m gay,” Martin said automatically, then winced as he heard the words come out of his mouth.

Basira recoiled, which didn’t exactly do wonders for his self-esteem. “No, not like—ugh, why does everybody think that?”

Martin made a mental note to strangle Tim later. “Sorry, no, I didn’t—that just—”

“I just, I mean you’re good company,” Basira said, gesturing to him vaguely. “You know, when you’re not being all morbid and paranoid.”

“Working here will do that to you,” Martin said dryly. “But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Sure.” Basira took a deep breath. “So, you have no idea where Daisy is?”

“Considering Elias seems to think she’s still looking at Jon for the murder? Probably using her ‘operational discretion’ to bully some poor sucker who hasn’t seen Jon in a million years,” Martin grumbled.

Basira froze. “What did you just say?”

Martin paused and ran over what he’d just said. “Elias thinks she still suspects Jon?”

“No, no. Did she use the phrase ‘operational discretion’?” Basira pinned Martin with a look more intense than she’d given him since the first official interrogation.

“Yeah,” Martin said slowly. Dread, never very far away these days, began creeping up his spine. “She said she had ‘full operational discretion to make everything go away’. Is everything all right?”

Basira didn’t answer—or if she did, it was definitely not an answer Martin wanted to hear. “I need to find him.”

“He’s safe,” Martin said quickly. “If she hasn’t found him by—”

“No, I need to find him now.” Basira looked Martin over intently, then evidently decided he was telling the truth. She handed him a business card. “Look, here’s my number. You call me immediately if you find anything out, okay?”

“I—fine. Wait, hold on.” Martin grabbed one of the business cards for the Institute Jon kept on his desk to avoid having to give them to people, flipped it over, and scribbled out his own number. “Here’s mine. Do the same, okay? And—and if—” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Sure.” Basira took the card and left, a lot faster than she’d come in.

Martin watched her go, feeling even more unsettled and off-balance than he had when she first arrived. He turned to glare at the tape recorder, which was still running, so at least he had a record of the last…however long it had been.

Suddenly furious—with himself, with Basira, with the Fourteen, with everything and everyone that stopped him from being an ordinary office drone or, better yet, a chorus boy—he swept up the folder, snapped it open, and yanked out the statement. He didn’t even bother skimming the statement or the supplementary research, just began dictating.

“Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 0030411, statement of Enrique MacMillan, given 4th November 2003,” he said crisply. “Statement begins.”

He wasn’t past the first sentence before he felt it—the itch that settled on his shoulders, the tightness around his chest, the ache in his hands, the dry cold and the stale air, and the sharp, burning pain a mere hand’s breadth from his heart where the tiny sliver of metal that had broken off the end of the alleged seal still remained, in too precarious a spot to remove safely but not in such a position that it would work to a more dangerous place. Unfortunately, he also felt the pressure in the back of his eyes and the static on his tongue. It was really a matter of which would hurt him more—continuing or stopping.

Since the Fear in question wasn’t actually on the statement, and all the sensations were mild enough that it was probably just probing at him to see what it could get, Martin plunged ahead and hoped the Eye would be protective, or at least possessive, enough of him to stop anything else from getting at him while he was actually working for it.

“Statement ends,” he said finally. He took a deep, shaky breath and pushed the statement aside, reaching for the supplemental notes. There weren’t many. “Um, the, uh, the statement ends rather abruptly there. According to the few notes in this file, it looks like Mr. MacMillan got in a bit of a fight, which led to his arrest, and…the replacement of quite a bit of floor in the Archivist’s office. There are still a couple of boards on them with scratches I’ve always hoped weren’t fingernail marks. That’s my luck, I guess.”

He turned over the paper and saw a few lines in Sasha’s handwriting, which he skimmed quickly. “Anyway, Mr. MacMillan passed away while awaiting trial. The official cause of death is listed as ‘asphyxiation,’ but neither Sasha nor Tim can find any details about exactly what happened. And…given the nature of this statement, I can’t look into it myself, for…reasons. The book itself is currently held by Artifact Storage in a welded iron box, and it’s at the top of the ‘Do Not Access’ list, but since then it doesn’t look like it’s caused anything unpleasant to happen.” He exhaled heavily. “Thank Christ.”

There was a tapping on the door—a very familiar pattern—and Martin’s head shot up, his spine straightening. Gerry wouldn’t come to the Institute, not under the circumstances, so that must mean—“Hello?”

The door opened, and sure enough, Melanie peered around it, doing her best “Kilroy Was Here” impression before pushing the door open enough that she could come in, smiling and throwing out her arms. “Well, aren’t you going to say hello?”

“I already did,” Martin pointed out, but he was around the desk faster than he’d thought possible and hugged Melanie hard. “God, it’s good to see you. I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m fine,” Melanie claimed, but Martin didn’t even need to look at her to know she was lying. “I’m better than I was, anyway.”

Martin let her go and gestured for her to sit down. She dropped rather gracelessly into the chair in front of the desk; rather than sit behind it, he sat on the edge of the desk and smiled down at her. “When did you get back?”

“Last night. I decided to indulge myself a bit and took the train.” Melanie stretched, her spine popping. “I still fucking hate flying.”

“I don’t blame you. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yeah, and then some.” Melanie hesitated, then admitted, “I…kind of got shot by a ghost.”

“Melanie!” Martin was on his feet and kneeling in front of her before he thought twice about it.

Melanie shoved his face back, not exactly gently but not exactly violently. “I’m fine. Jeez. Got a doctor to check me out, they said there was nothing in there.” She hesitated, then added, “And…I talked with a specialist, too. He also said it looked okay.”

Martin frowned slightly as he heaved himself to his feet. “You, uh, you went by the bookstore last night?”

“Different specialist.”

Martin froze as the implications of that sank in. He stared at Melanie, who was watching him intently, like she was waiting for him to say something. Hope and fear mingled in his chest, and all he could think of was that he was glad she hadn’t come in before Basira.

“You’ve…run into one of your music friends, then,” he said carefully.

Melanie nodded once. “Probably the last one I’ve got, to be honest. I burned through a lot on this trip. Savings. Goodwill. Friends. Luck. He’s pretty much the only one I’ve got left besides…well, you. And you’re the reason I’ve got him, so, uh, thanks for that.”

“Hey, you might’ve met if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have tried to like him if it hadn’t been for you. He genuinely likes you, not like all those fake people who liked the fake you when we were kids.” Melanie studied Martin’s face. Evidently she didn’t find what she was looking for, because she sagged slightly, then dropped her voice. “He misses you.”

For just a moment, Martin let his guard down and let himself feel hope and longing. He knew who Melanie was talking about, of course he did, but as long as he pretended he didn’t…until Basira found Daisy, it was just safer Martin not know for sure. Still, he said softly, “I miss him.”

Melanie nodded and swallowed and looked away. “Anyway, I just…I dunno. I promised I’d let you know when I got back, so…hi, I’m back.” She looked back up at him and tried for a grin. “Hope you weren’t too bored while I was gone.”

“I’ve managed,” Martin said, as dryly as he could. He almost added that a full debriefing could wait until later, when they were at the bookstore, but if she wasn’t planning to head back there, he didn’t want to bring it up. “Just been a lot, you know? Not half a day after you left and Jon got accused of murder.”

“Who?”

“They don’t know. They found the body of an old man beaten to death in his office and decided Jon must’ve done it.” Martin brushed the surface of the desk lightly. It had taken him the better part of a day to scrub all the bloodstains out, but fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it—he had a lot of experience with that sort of thing. “He didn’t, though. He wouldn’t.”

“I know,” Melanie said softly. “You wouldn’t care about him if he were a bad person.” She cleared her throat and added, “But the work’s been okay? Nothing particularly…unusual?”

“It is what it is,” Martin said with a shrug. “We’ve been…some projects have stalled, others are still going forward. I was working a lot of extra hours until Tim made me stop, said it wasn’t good to spend all my time in this place.”

“He’s right, you need rest,” Melanie scolded lightly. “The work will still be here during regular hours, you know?”

“Yeah, but some days I don’t think it’ll ever be done.”

The door opened abruptly behind Melanie. Martin looked up with the intention of telling Tim he’d be along in a minute and almost swallowed his tongue when Elias stepped in, genial and affable. “A friend of yours, Martin?”

At this point, lying didn’t seem like that viable of an option—especially, he realized, since Elias had probably gone over the personnel files with Manal and doubtless knew, if he hadn’t already, that Martin had changed his emergency contact information. He tried not to blink. “Uh, yes, she’s my sister. Melanie, this is Elias Bouchard, he runs the Institute.”

“Hi,” Melanie said unenthusiastically. “We’ve met. Briefly.”

“Ah, yes, when you came to give your statement last year.” Elias smiled blandly. “My apologies, I didn’t recognize you then. Ms. King, correct? Surely you’re not the one who runs Ghost Hunt UK?”

Melanie stiffened, just for a second. “Not anymore.”

“Ah, of course. My apologies.”

Melanie gave Martin the briefest of incredulous glances. “What, you used to watch it?”

“I’m sorry to hear it’s no longer running,” Elias said, which wasn’t exactly an answer. “Your techniques were rudimentary, but you showed surprising promise.” He inclined his head in Martin’s direction. “Had I known you were Martin’s sister, that would have explained a good deal. You share quite a few traits. Your instinct for the truth in the tales of the credulous, for example, and your penchant for knowledge. Your tendency to…rush in where angels fear to tread, shall we say.”

“Thanks. I think,” Melanie said dryly. She set both feet on the floor and turned to Martin. “I should get going, I guess. Let you get back to work. You’ve got a lot on, you said.”

Elias scanned Melanie with his one good eye. “One moment, Ms. King. Martin has filled you in on recent events, I believe?”

“A bit,” Melanie said slowly.

“Then you are aware that the Archives are…well. Three is the usual number for assistants, but there is certainly enough work to support a fourth. Especially under the present circumstances.”

Melanie stilled. “Wait, are you offering me a job?”

Martin’s blood ran cold. Elias’ pleasant expression never changed. “You have some experience in the field, I believe. And some familiarity with the Institute. I believe you’ve made some use of our library in recent months?”

“Well, yes, but…” Melanie began.

“She’s my sister,” Martin interjected. He didn’t think Elias was serious, and he knew Melanie wasn’t going to accept, but still, he might as well give her a good excuse. “Wouldn’t that be, er, a conflict of interest?”

“You wouldn’t be supervising her, Martin,” Elias said pointedly. “At any rate, favoritism among the assistants is less of a concern down here than you think.” He turned slightly to face Melanie more directly. “Do you want the job, Melanie?”

That he had shifted from using her surname to using her first name was a bad sign, but Martin was fully prepared for her to still tell Elias to take a long walk off a short pier and hug an octopus. After all, she knew what he’d done, some of what he was capable of, and she knew enough about the Institute in general and the Archives in particular to know accepting would be a bad idea. Besides, she technically already had a job.

“Well, it’s a bit sudden, but—yeah, okay.”

“W-what?” Martin blurted, shocked into indiscretion. “Melanie, are you out of your mind?”

“Problem, Martin?” Elias asked. His voice was mild, but carried a faint warning tone.

And in that instant, Martin knew he was beaten. He knew Elias had no clue how much Melanie actually knew, how much they’d discussed, and for whatever reason he wanted her in the Institute. And if Martin objected too hard, neither of them would walk out of this office alive.

“I guess not,” he said.

“Good.” Elias turned back to Melanie. “Well, come on up to my office. We’ll finish up this interview. Hopefully we can fill out some of that paperwork.”

“All right. Lead the way.” Melanie got to her feet and whistled as she followed Elias out of Jon’s office.

Martin sputtered for a moment, then finally forced out, “Oh, great.”

At that point, he realized the tape recorder was still running and shut it off with an excessively forceful stab of the button, then propped his elbows on the desk and dropped his face into his hands.

He wanted to scream. There had probably been a scream building inside him in years, one he’d swallowed and suppressed and fought down and fought against, and if ever there was a time to let it out, it was now. He also wanted to chase after them and beat Elias to death with the pipe that had been used to murder the old man in Jon’s office. It wasn’t like Daisy didn’t have him as a back-up suspect, so even if he got caught and for some reason the other members of the staff cared, it wouldn’t be that much of a stretch, and at least Jon and Melanie would be safe. He also found himself wanting to call Gerry. Elias was distracted, he wouldn’t know if Martin called his brother, so they could keep Gerry hidden a bit longer even if Martin called him to tattle, or enlist help, or something.

He did none of those things. Instead, he forced himself to try and calm down, to be rational. He didn’t have to be quiet, he told himself, he just had to be sensible, and that actually suppressed a lot of his desire to be loud. He took a few deep, slow breaths and tried to think.

It wasn’t that much of a stretch of the imagination to guess why Elias was trying to recruit Melanie—had recruited Melanie. It was one more thread of control around Martin, one more safeguard against him doing something like setting the entire Archives on fire and walking away. He didn’t know about the bookstore, so he thought this was Melanie’s only option—and surely Martin wouldn’t make his sister jobless, homeless, desperate. What it was hard to figure out was why Melanie had accepted.

“Martin? Martin, are you okay?” Sasha’s voice startled him so bad he almost tipped the chair over. He looked up to see her hovering over him a little anxiously. “Are you sick? Is it—oh, shit. Tim! You weren’t supposed to give him that one!”

“I’m fine,” Martin insisted, or tried to, but Tim had already burst through the office door when Sasha yelled his name, and at the last part of her yell, he’d dropped his gaze to the folders and turned white.

“Fuck—fuck! That wasn’t the one I meant to give you.” Tim snatched the statement up and reached for the recorder. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll—”

“I’m fine,” Martin repeated, despite that being objectively false. “It’s not—it isn’t the statement.” Although that probably hadn’t helped, he had to admit. He rubbed at his chest, where he could still feel a little tingle of pain, and tried to explain to his friends, who were both hovering anxiously. “Basira was here—she was looking for Daisy—and some of the things she was saying…I just, I got worked up. Then, yeah, okay, I read the statement, and maybe it got to me a little, and I was just coming down from that, but…Melanie was here. And Elias was here, and he fucking hired her. And she accepted.”

“She what?” Tim and Sasha said together.

“She’s up in his office right now. I’m surprised you didn’t see any of them.”

“I’ve been back in the stacks for the last hour,” Tim said, sounding a bit guilty. “One of the files we’ve got cross-referenced another and I was trying to see if I could find it.”

“And I honestly had my head so far up my own research you probably could’ve dropped an elephant next to me and I wouldn’t have noticed,” Sasha added. She sat on the corner of Jon’s desk. “Christ, I can’t believe…okay, you are not all right.”

Tim nodded. “She’s right. Look, go home for the day, okay? You don’t—”

“No, I—I need to be here when she comes down.” Martin clenched his hands tightly. “I need—I have to be sure she’s okay, and I, I need to know why she did it, why…”

“Okay, okay. But you at least need a break,” Tim said firmly. “Go outside. Take a walk, or just sit in the courtyard for a bit or something. Take your knitting with you if you want. Just…get some air. After…after a statement like this, you need some open space. And you need to breathe. Okay? You can’t help her if you’re compromised.”

Martin didn’t want to admit it, but Tim was right. He could feel every nerve straining to the breaking point, and at this point, one more stress and he might explode. “I can go down to the tunnels—”

“Absofuckinglutely not. Outside. Now. Don’t come back for an hour at least.” Tim pointed sternly. “I mean it, Martin.”

Martin took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay.”

He somehow wasn’t surprised that both of him shadowed him the whole way across the Archives, presumably to make sure he didn’t slip down into the tunnels or upstairs to commit homicide. Clutching his knitting bag in one hand, he opened the secondary door and stepped out into the crisp March morning.

The fog that had descended that morning was still hanging about. Martin wasn’t the world’s biggest fan of fog, for a few reasons, but he had to admit Tim was right, it beat the feeling the Buried gave him. He crossed the courtyard, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him, and tucked himself away in a corner, pressing his back against the stonework. Bag on his lap, he tried to let his head clear, fog be damned.

What had Melanie been whistling when she followed Elias out of the office? Martin ran through the tune for a moment. “The Maid on the Shore”, that was it. It wasn’t one they used all that often for burning Leitners, but somehow, he didn’t think she’d chosen it at random.

Almost without conscious thought, Martin began singing the song, trying to follow the plot of the lyrics. It was the kind of song Melanie had always liked, the ones where the fair young maid turned out to be as devious as the men or worse, about a girl who tricked the sailors into thinking she was their prisoner only to rob them blind and row herself back to shore unaccompanied. By the time he reached the last verse, he got it, or at least he thought he did.

Trust me, she was saying. I know what I’m doing. I’m not as trapped and helpless as you think I am.

Well…okay. Martin wouldn’t say he was exactly happy about it, but he was going to trust her. He had to. He always had before, and…okay, sometimes she gave him reason to doubt her, but for the most part, she knew what she was doing as much as he did. Which wasn’t always a recommendation, if he was being honest. Still, she had to have her reasons, so he would take Tim’s advice, sit out here for a bit to calm down, and then go back in and find out what those reasons were.

He thought about pulling out the sock he was working on, but a sudden impulse came over him. He didn’t normally sing outdoors around the Institute, not during daylight; he didn’t like disturbing people, and he’d always worried about causing a scene. But the fog meant not a lot of people were out, and…well, it wasn’t like they could pinpoint where he was anyway. He stood up, planted his feet the way he’d been taught in school, took a deep breath, and launched into his favorite of the two songs he’d used as his audition pieces for college.

He hadn’t sung it terribly often since then, but not because of the memories. Mostly, it was because it was an operatic aria, and those were never meant to be sung quietly.

The last of the fog burned away as the final note rang off the building nearby, which Martin took as his cue to sit back down and pretend he was concentrating on his knitting for a while. As he did so, he realized that a lot of his tension—not all of it, but a lot of it—had lifted as surely as the fog had. Clearly, he needed to do that more often. Maybe he’d look into joining an amateur choral group or something.

For now, though, he was going to at least work this sock up to the heel, and then he was going to head back inside, get back to work, and wait for Melanie to finish her interview so he could either assure her he trusted her or wring her fool neck. He genuinely wasn’t sure which way it was going to go, so he supposed he’d have to wait and see.

That seemed to be his lot in life these days.

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest) #martin blackwood #basira hussain #melanie king #sasha james #tim stoker #implied/referenced abuse of power (esp. police) #mention of chronic pain #manipulation #lying #pining #Elias Bouchard #panic attacks

[d-lissa]

Liveblogging TMA - Season 3 - MAG 111-114

"Dying isn’t so bad. It’s staying dead that sucks."

FAMILY BUSINESS :

... Oh.

Oh no.

Gerry was adorable.

How could I have ever said anything bad about him ever ?

I love my dead goth son. Please let him rest now. He is so tired, he just wants to be dead and stay that way. God, I hate Gertrude.

Though I do find her relationship with Mary even funnier in retrospect. Just imagine, bitter exes fighting each other to keep the boy. Those two deserve each other, actually.

But anyway.

WE FINALLY GOT THE LORE !!! ALL 14 OF THE ODDITIES COMPLETELY CLASSIFIED I AM SCREAMING !

A description of what I think of each, I guess ? More like a list. I was going to list off every oddities from the beginning to now that we ever met and categorize them, but that's too much work now, so I'd rather do that on a relisten.

The Eye

So, the Archives, obviously. The Ceaseless Watcher, who always watch, and learn but never act, knowledge for knowledge's sake, at the detriment of anyone that might be caught up in something it would think is interesting. Which is.

I understand where Jon got his paranoia from then, this is the type of stuff that literally builds it up. God knows I'm not the type to trust people, so this would probably send me directly into a straight jacket.

The Spiral

The fear of madness, The Distortion, things not making sense that messes with your senses, to the point of making you think you lost your mind.

God, erm, I am relating to more of those than I thought I would. Of course, Helen and Michael. I enjoy Helen more than Michael, truth be told, mostly because I am curious as to how she'll turn out as a monster.

The End

The fear of death, of course, but not just, is it ? I can't imagine that something so big and so vague would only touch death and nothing else, especialy since we've seen that death doesn't really matter in this universe.

Oh, and we met its avatar already, haven't we ? Well, he was mentionned to us. "Antonio" something, trying ot warn off Gertrude. Pretty sure his real name is Oliver though.

The Stranger

That one probably overlaps a little with The Spiral, doesn't it ? But the fear of the unknown is pretty much the opposite of the Eye. Makes sense then that Elias would work so hard to avoid letting it happen, not even out of curiousity like I thought he might.

The Circus, obviously, the Big Bad of the season. I wonder how Breekon and Hope even factor into that though.

The Lonely

And yep, this one is another one I do not like. Being always alone, even when you are surrounded, trying to escape but never able to, just ... What a mess.

That being said, this one also has overlaps with another concept, The Vast. I am guessing that the Lonely is more of a Lukas family type of thing though.

The Desolation

Ah, it seems I had a confusion earlier, didn't I ? Between this one and The Dark. I feel kind of super stupid now, but I'm putting it on the lack of sleep !

The lightless flame, the pain, the Devastation. Destruction for Destruction's sake, with no end nor meaning outside of causing pain. I think this one would probably not get along with the Web and its ... Everything.

The Slaughter

This one also overlaps a lot with other concepts, and so I struggle to take it appart completely. This one is violence for violence's sake, with no meaning either, unstoppable.

I guess that War makes sense to belong to this category, though I am then curious about the Rayner that fell victim to it. It was the same Rayner that we know, right ? I'm pretty sure the guy's immortal at this point, or something.

The Vast

This one, I am assuming that it is more of a Simon Fairchild territory, as well as a Mike Crew one, right ?

Yeah, this one gets me as well, especially considering the big ass monster in those places, so big you can't even outline it with your eyes.

Endless open space forever.

The Buried

This is the antithesis of The Vast, just closed spaces and underground, no room for you at all, constricting, crushed on all sides.

The coffin was our first meeting with it, I think ? Since it leads down to somewhere. If not, then "Lost John's Cave". Honnestly though, if I were stuck there, I'd probably just go the Karolina route. Just. Lay down and try to sleep. If I'm gonna die anyway, why even panick about it ? It'll be painful enough as is, struggling will only make it worse.

The Dark

The cult of Maxwell Rayner, of course, the fear of the dark and everything that belongs in it, pretty straightfoward actually.

We have met it several times, in different forms, but I think that the Montauk's affair was its most glaring apparition.

The Corruption

I'll stick to calling it The Filth, personally, because this one is just ... Brr. Disgusting.

Of course, Jane Prentiss and the Hive, and Amherst and his ... Disgusting-ness. This one doesn't scare me, really, just creeps me out, in the sense that I want to puke whenever it is mentioned. Out of disgust.

The Web

Oh look, the spiders ! With a very evil kind of power. I am SO not surprised.

Yeah, they're definitely going to be bad guys at some point, like it just has to. Surprised that The Stranger is the one with the puppets though. I think it would fit it better, but who am I to judge ?

The Flesh

... I was joking, you know ? But, seriously, just how many people on the writing team are vegetarian ?

Anyway, guess we got the culprit for the whole meat thing. And the cannibalism thing. And the dysphoria thing. And the body horror in general that comes with Jared.

Wonderful.

The Hunt

And another one based on animals ! Trevor belongs to this one, definitely. And the "werewolf" wolf man thing. Pretty straightforward too, although it also does overlap with the more violent fears.

Makes me think of Daisy, somehow.

~

Personally, out of all of those, the ones that creep me out the most are The Eye, The Web, The Lonely, The Spiral and The Vast. Don't get me wrong, all of them could petrify me, but those five are definitely the ones that would affect me the most.

Back onto the actual story though, Elias is definitely planning for The Eye's ceremony, isn't he ? The Watcher's Crown. That's why he killed Gertrude, who wanted to stop everything, including this one, and put Jon in place, who doesn't know anything on how to stop it and would be unable to learn anything if Elias didn't tell him, at least not without enough time. This is.

God this is fucked up, but it makes sense. Oh no. Is Jon a sacrifice for the Eye apocalypse ?

Speaking of Jon, could he please leave the place quickly ? I don't trust them. Though he does seem to have gotten better at lying, i'd rather he get away from here the earliest possible. Pretty sure Trevor and Julia would enjoy hunting him for sport.

THRILL OF THE CHASE :

"As I reached for another knife, I found myself tapping my foot, as if to music."

Or when you organize a murderous man hunt with all of your best buds. Can't imagine that they ever got bored sunday evenings. The police was such a bummer, if people want to consensually hunt each other for sport, they should be able to !

So ! Daisy belongs to The Hunt, doesn't she ? That's confirmation. Ain't that nifty.

Definitely what I want the mentally unstable woman with a penchant for violence to have, supernatural powers coming from the concept of The Hunt itself.

Somehow, those that belong to that category stress me out. At least, Basira is here to ground her, you know ?

And something shady is happening with her dreams, because of course they do. Used to be both of their dreams, but Basira had hers "fixed" when she got to the Institute ?

Ah well.

BREATHING ROOM :

"It’s not like I sleep enough to worry about dreams."

Oh look. The same dream thing Daisy was talking about ! Ain't that nifty. Jon, sweetie, I am very concerned about your dreams too.

Dekker is back, and I can see why he got along so well with Gertrude. Brutally efficient, I guess ? Disturbingly so, at least up until the point where he got killed, I am assuming.

Again, I get why they worked somewhat together.

Let's forget about it, and about the magical tapes that I am starting not to trust, EXPLOSIVES !!

I know one bloodthirsty cop that is going to love those. I know they're for the ritual, but can we syc them on Elias too, pleeeaaase ? At least his office. Nobody will miss it !

I mean, maybe the rest of the Institute, but who cares about the extras. I just want to see stuff belonging to Elias set on fire. Just a tiny bit. It'll be so cathartic.

Huh. I think I am starting to understand the burning cultists.

CRACKED FONDATIONS :

"Everything is just… wrong. I can’t find my favourite coffee shop. And I don’t know who you people are."

... Did she travel between dimensions ?

Is that a thing now ? Is dimension traveling a thing ?

Under what concept would that even fit ? Since there were spiders and stuff, the Web then ? But how ? God, Hill Top Road just always gives me a headache.

What was Agnes even doing at this house when she was young, being all burn-y and shit ? I don't think that The Control got along that well with The Chaotic Destruction, that has no rhymes or reason outside of reveling into fucking shit up.

All that being said, they talked.

Oh my god, they finally talked.

Shit, I'm getting emotional here.

It was a prety horrendous talk, and Tim is still so angry and ready to blame Jon for everything, but there is something here, finally, and my heart hurt just thinking about Jon and Tim.

This entire fucking conversation was just a murder attempt on ME, actually, I was maimed, this is a second-degree murder attempt against me, actually, and I feel like I should be allowed monetary compensation for the pain this story puts me through.

I regret not getting to know Sasha more, I have to say. I didn't feel her death as acutely as I could've, how I will feel it when either Martin or Tim or both will die, and it's kind of a shame, considering just how much her death impacted the others.

Anyway, Gertrude's corpse is now skinless, I am assuming, and the only man that flew too close to the sun that we know died pretty recently would be Jurgen Leitner, so I am guessing that he is too.

Honnestly, just for that, I want Nikola to have a good time. She deserves some chaos after that stunt.

The quote of the post will be :

"Like colours, but if colours hated me."

End Liveblogging.

#tma #the magnus archive #liveblogging #liveblog-tma

[mcufox123]

Table 5

Summary: You are a 5-star chef. What happens when two avengers enter your restaurant. 

WandaxFemReader

AN: this is going to bea multichapter series. 

Warning: Slow burn 

I do not own any of the marvel characters.

Chapter 2. Chapter 3 Chapter4 Chapter5 Chapter6

Hiss. You heard as you dropped a piece of halibut into the frying pan. You had ten order fires for your famous white fish dish. You sauteed the veggies and spinach that went along with the dish. It was hot in the kitchen, but you kept your head down and just kept working. It was a busy Saturday night at the 5-star restaurant you worked at. the kitchen was on the floor so all its patrons could see you hard at work.

You loved your job. You threw everything you had into the prep work during the day and the excitement of 10 order fires at a time at night. You laid the plates out and set them up so all you had to do was place the fish on top. Your eyes never left your station to look at the patrons. With your rough hands that had suffered many burns and scars, you placed a dish on the table to be taken out when you looked up momentarily and was completely caught off guard.

You looked up to see one of the most beautiful women you had ever laid eyes on. Her reddish hair fell perfectly around her face which held the most beautiful emerald eyes. You watched as a tall man pulled out the chair for her as she went to sit down. Your trance was cut off by Bill asking if the dish was ready to be taken out. You nodded as you wiped your hands on your towel.

“Bill keep me updated on what table 5 orders.” You said giving him a stern look at turning to finish the other 9 halibuts on the stove. Every time you put another plate on the table your eyes went to her.

“You know we have two avengers in here tonight?” Bill asked as up put up another fish.

“We do?” you asked interest peaked, thoughts drifting from table 5 for a moment.

“Yeah, Vision and the Scarlett witch. Vision told the hostess that he was going to propose here tonight. They’re over at table 5.” You looked over and your stomach dropped. The women who you had stolen glances of was about to be engaged, not to mention she was one of the most powerful beings in the world.

You covered up your disappointment as you told Bill to keep you posted on their order. Ten minutes later he informed you that they ordered a fish and a steak.

“I’m going to run their platters; you keep an eye on the fish when I do.” You informed Gerry who was working at the station next to you. You plated the fish and waited for the steak. When both were ready you wiped your hands, brushed down your hair and made sure you looked somewhat presentable.

You grabbed the platters and made your way across the restaurant. The servers were eyeing you suspiciously. You never leave your station; the governor even came to dine at your restaurant and requested to see you and you turned him down choosing to continue to cook. The only other time you left your station was when your mom was in town and decided to eat at your restaurant. You set the meat in front of Vision eyeing him up. He looked like an alright guy. Then you turned and put the fish in front of the Scarlett Witch.

“I am Chef Y/N, welcome to Contento. I hope you enjoy your food and if you need anything I will be working right over there.” You said talking mostly to the women glancing at the man occasionally.

“Thank you, Chef Y/N.,” Vision said trying to get your eyes off his girlfriend. The beautiful women just kept smiling at you.

“Enjoy!” you said while backing away from the table. You made your way over to your station picking up where you left off with the fish you were cooking. You glanced up at table 5 when you put another dish up.

Vision was on one knee and the Scarlett Witch had her hand to her mouth. You could see him talking and you could see tears form in her eyes. You became extremely uncomfortable at that moment and seemed to hold your breath.

Vision stopped talking and you could see the woman shake her head no as he got up off the ground. Then an argument between the two seemed to start. Vision held his hand up before walking out of the restaurant as the woman sat back in her seat with her head in her hands.

She sat there for the rest of the night. She ordered the chocolate cake and a bottle of wine. All night while you were working you continued to glance at table 5 to see if she was there. Usually, you would tell the servers to kick people like that out but when your most trusted server asked if you wanted her out you shook your head no. You finished up for the night and cleaned up your station. Instead of doing your normal prep for the next day you decided to pour yourself a glass of wine. You watched as the woman continued to sit at table 5.

“Should I tell her to leave or just start wrapping up the night?” Bill asked you.

“Just start wrapping up, I’ll take care of her.” You assured him. You stood behind your station continuing to drink your glass of wine trying to figure out the woman who sat in your restaurant. The servers and staff finished up for the night and one by one waved at you as they left through the back door. You waved back and finally decided to make your way to table 5.

“You have officially been the customer to stay the longest at my restaurant.” You say walking over to table 5 with the bottle of your best wine and wine glass in hand. You take a seat across from her

“Oh, I am so sorry! I didn’t even realize. Wow where did everyone go?” she said looking around the restaurant now realizing it was empty.

“The restaurant officially closed an hour and a half ago and my staff just left about 10 minutes ago.” You informed her.

“Oh my gosh its midnight.” She said now finally looking at her phone then at the dishes on her table. “And I left a mess, I can clean this up just let me know where it goes.” She said while stacking glasses and trying to brush up the crumbs. You put your hands on tops of hers to stop her and feel warmth spread throughout your body. Your eyes meet and you gave her a little smile.

“It’s totally ok just leave it. You are more than welcome to stay; I saw what happened tonight. I just wanted to let you know that I will be over there cooking.” You said as you picked up your wine glass leaving the bottle behind.

“Would you mind if I came over there and watched?” she asked hesitantly. You glanced back and saw hopeful eyes.

“Not at all Scarlett Witch.” You saw her flinch at the name.

“Please, call me Wanda. Scarlett Witch is just for the media really.” You smile and nod. You pulled up a barstool where Bill usually stands on the other side of the station, while you grab some veggies to cut. You had decided to make your own dinner tonight instead of eating a bag of chips.

“What are you making?” she asks as she sits on the stool and watches you curiously.

“I’m not sure yet, but whatever it is it’ll be my dinner.” You said honestly.

“Come here.” She instructed you and you don’t know why but you listened. You made your way around the station and saw her stand up from her seat and pointed for you to sit. “You have been working all night, you let me stay way past close, and you gave me a $500 bottle of wine to drink. Get off your feet drink some wine and let me cook.” She informed as she made her way around to where you had been just seconds before.

“Thank you, not many people are willing to tell a head chef to chill.” You said to her. You watched her as she pulled her hair back and began to expertly cut the vegetables. “And you know your way with a knife, remind me not to cross you.” You chuckled.

“Well, I like to cook myself. I try to cook something new whenever I can. I started cooking when I was young with my family in Sokovia.” She said as her cutting slowed obviously lost in a memory.

“I can relate to that; I grew up in an Italian family. I started when I was old enough to hold a knife.” You said adding to the conversation.

The conversation continued to flow as she began to throw them in a sauce pan. She searched your station for her next ingredients. Usually no one was allowed to go through your station, but you were curious to see what she was making.

“So, I know it is absolutely none of my business but are you ok?” you asked full of concern. You saw her freeze her search on a momentary pause before she continued to look pretending as if she didn’t hear you. You decided to keep talking.

“I was almost engaged once. I have been in this industry since I was 15. I have thrown everything I have into becoming the best. Two years ago, I started dating this girl. We dated for a year even moved in together. She tried to rush everything, like she was trying to prove something to herself. So, when she proposed I had to decline. Instead, I moved out and opened this restaurant. Hurting people is hard but sometimes it’s for the best.” You said trying your best to comfort her.

She seemed very concentrated on the chicken she was now expertly filleting. “We weren’t in love love. He’s my best friend and we do everything together, but I was never attracted to him. When he asked me out, I said yes and now it’s been two years. All because I was scared, I would lose him if I didn’t. Now I ruined everything.” She said turning from you to put the chicken in the pan.

It was quiet for a minute before you heard a sniffle. She turned around wiping her eyes and trying to pull it together.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to unload all of this after crashing your night. I should probably just leave you be.” She said while wiping her hands on the towel and turning to leave your station.

“Hey its ok, you’re ok. I enjoy your company.” You said while reaching out for her hand. She turned and looked at you curiously.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” she said looking in your eyes for any trace of insincerity.

“I, I, I don’t know, but I feel like, like you can be good to me. That maybe you’re the one who can teach me something. What that is I have no idea, but I want to know.  And I want to do the same for you.” You said knowing that you probably sound like a mad idiot to this strange woman who you have only known for an hour.

She continued searching your face. “Your strange and bold. I like that.” She said while squeezing her hand before going back behind your station.

You sat back down and continued to watch the woman who piqued your interest continue to cook.

#wanda #wanda maximoff #wanda marvel #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda x reader #vision #marvel #Avengers #The Avengers

[mollrat101]

Alright, here’s my nerdy reason for not liking the idea of Marty and Deborah ending up together...

Thematic dissonance

Everyone knows I support the idea of an Ava/Deborah endgame (whether or not it will happen is a separate issue), but if I’m trying to temper my expectations, I would gladly accept an ending where Deborah does end up single but 1) her and Marty are fucking over and I mean for good this time. She is not wasting anymore time or energy on that garbage man. And 2) if I’m really shooting for the stars, I would also like to see Deborah possibly explore her sexuality beyond men because so far that hasn’t made her happy. Whether or not, she partners with Ava is besides the point. I would love to see Ava supporting baby gay Deborah, even if she’s not giving her the practical experience, if you know what I’m saying. 

But to me, not only is Marty a terrible choice but it also doesn’t make sense with the story they’re telling. 

Allow me to explain with a couple of other pairings I like who are toxic as fuck like Deborah and Marty except I actually like those. 

Two that come to mind are Eve and Villanelle from Killing Eve and Roman and Gerri from Succession. 

These pairings measured by all standards of what would be considered a healthy relationship, completely fail. They can be awful to each other and they’re all not good people. 

But these pairings are fun to enjoy because they make sense within the context of the story. Both of these shows are dark and are about toxic relationships and power dynamics. It would be weirder if these pairings weren’t messed up. 

But Deborah and Marty are a toxic couple in an otherwise pretty hopeful and optimistic show. They bring out the worst in each other, there’s no real consistency in how they feel about each other or how intertwined they’re in each other’s lives and their whole relationship is based in uncertainty of where it’s heading and what they are to each other. 

With Gerri and Roman and Eve and Villanelle that’s all fine because that’s the point. That uncertainty and that push and pull are part of the intrigue. 

However, Marty offers no growth for Deborah. 

In a show, that seems to want so badly to see Deborah grow and come back to a more authentic version of herself, it just doesn’t make any sense to pair her with someone who represents falling back into old, toxic patterns. If the point going forward is for Deborah to tell her own story even if it doesn’t get her external validation, then why be with a man who she can’t ever seem to be good enough for in his eyes? A man who really only seems to care about what she can offer him in terms of money or sex, but doesn’t care to know her deeply or curious about her inner life. 

That cut to Deborah as Ava says, “I think it’s really cool that you found someone who loves you for exactly who you are” tells us Deborah wants that too but fears she won’t ever find that. She wants to be loved exactly as she is now regardless of her age, regardless of whether or not her show takes off. For such a famous person, it would make sense that Deborah wants someone who will stay even when the spotlight isn’t on her anymore. Someone who she’s built a strong private connection with and won’t drop her the minute they can make their image look a little bit better. If in the 30 years that they’ve known each other, Marty can’t find a way to be that person, he’s not going to be. 

To me, the best couples are also ones that embody the themes of the story they’re in. I obviously think that fits Ava and Deborah perfectly, but who knows if that’s going to happen. 

But that sure as fuck doesn’t apply to Deborah and Marty. 

#hacks hbo #hbo hacks #hacks #hacks thoughts #deborah vance

[natromanxoff]

9 - Freddie's Trivial Pursuits...

Hello, good evening and welcome...again

As Jacky mentioned the other day, Trip is in Oz (he's actually trout fishing in NZ at the moment) for a holiday and I have the misfortune of having stay with me. If anybody doesn't know who he is, let me try and enlighten you. Trip is the guy who sits in the middle of the arena, twist a few knobs and makes the band sound fab and very loud. He has worked with just about every big band eg: Elton John, Fleetwood Mac, Madonna, Wacko Jacko, Police, Steely Dan, Bon Jovi and a million others, oh, let's not forget the Queenies. I've been walking around all day trying to think of a Trip/Crystal story and I can't tell you about Japan, and I certainly cannot mention Dallas, and most things I can remember I won't write, just yet. Maybe he can think of something decent. He got in late last Sat. and we had one or two at the pub and relived a few old tales, It's great when this happens because we bounce off each other and even more old stories reappear.

One thing I did remember about us actually tied in with one of the first questions I received, Jacky said I could talk Fred into doing things. Well it's true to a degree but I'm no god, it's just that we had a mutual respect for each other and he knew that I would not ask him to do anything that would look bad for him, it's called trust. This tale starts about two months before the Magic Tour begins and nearly everything is finalised and ready to go when late one afternoon Roger calls me up at home and say's we have a huge problem and Freddie wants to cancel the tour after the Wembley Stadium shows because he's getting very nervous about the tour becoming so big. I suggested that their manager spoke to him and Rog said "Beach has agreed with Fred, can you talk him out of this?" I said I would try but at the time had no idea how to go about it. Trip was living in London at the time, so I called him and said "Meet me tonight for dinner, I'm buying and we have a mission." Trip was the ideal person to have as a sidekick for this cause FM loved him and listened to him as well.

After a very nice Italian meal, a couple of bottles of Chianti and the odd Sambucca I filled Trip in with the plan, we rock over to Logan Place, try and get the singer to have a drink, make him feel relaxed, and then NOT mention the tour all evening. On the way to the house we buy a couple of bottles of Champers, when we get there Phoebe lets us in and says Fred's not really in a party mode, so we walked straight past him, said Hi and popped the first cork. It took a while but we finally got him to have a drink, so we started to chat about this, that and everything, except the tour. After talking for an hour or so I suggested a game of Trivial Pursuit and he said "One quick game then I'm off to bed." After the Champagne went and the Vodka appeared the house was getting very rowdy, and by 6am when Trip and myself left the tour had only been spoken about once. "I'm really looking forward to the tour, we're gonna have so much fun," and that was said by the one person who apparently did not want to do it. Mission complete.

One last thing, books about Queen. I was in the bookshop the other day and saw the L.A.Jones book on Freddie, so I had a quick look and saw Spike's story about how he joined, I don't remember that happening but I'm sure the Duke's not lying, although it did make me out to be a bit of an ogre, cool eh. What I did notice on the one page that I read was that Mz. Jones say's that the band finally got a keyboard player in Spike. What about Morgan 'The Guru' Fisher and Fred Mandell, can't these writers get anything right.

Whilst on the subject, somebody gave me 'Mercury, the king of Queen' by Laura Jackson, and after reading it all I can say is if you have not got it, don't waste your money, I thought it was a crock of shit with so many errors. Gerry's book, if he ever gets it off the ground, should be interesting, I hope it's more about his life, cause he worked with Hendrix, did Woodstock and everything big since the late 60's. What I'm getting at here is that over the years a lot of people have said that I should write a book, well my dear's, the time has come. Somebody has come up with a different idea for a change and we're gonna go ahead with it. It's going to be a book on Rock and Roll by people who know about it, and that's all I'm going to say at the moment.

Sleep well.

Crystal

#queen #queen band #roger taylor #freddie mercury #crystal taylor #crystal's tales

[marlasomething]

Jonmartin Week 2022 Day 8: The Work of Three or Four

Hello there!

As said in previous one-shots of this week, I cannot see a "challenge" and let it go so...Jonmartin week 2022 here we are! The idea is "forcing myself" to write piece of under 1K in different universes, AND, ONCE AGAIN, AS WE FINISHED SAID WEEK WITH THE BONUS FREE DAY I DIDN'T MAKE IT UNDER 1K YAIH, MARLA, GOOD BAD JOB!

This was written for the prompt of day 8: Free/AU day. As I have already done quite a lot of AUs, I also took the concept of Free quite literaly to be included into the story (somehow) and, then, I just wrote a pirate AU set in the universe of Our Flags Means Death bcs I can (highly inspired by some of the ideas discurssed in the TMA Spanish-speaking discord, love you pals!)

Also: I will try to end all one-shots with the line of the finale "One way or another. Together". AND I DID (with an extra note by Tim, but I am not letting go not having a certain type of episode on the canon, NEVER)

I wanted to thank from the bottom of my heart to @jonmartinweek for arranging this week of promps, I love a good challenge (especially a writing one).

As usual, do please forgive my quick tipper and non-native speaker mistakes,

Marla

Allons-y!

AO3 version!

Whole week Masterlist!

Martin and Jon were being attacked.

At night.

At the bloody harbour, the only day they were the only the two of them of board. Because, of course, Gerry’s evil supposedly-dead mother had to choose that week to make her great comeback, and they had to be the designated members of the crew to keep an eye on The Sixteenth Fear (at least, it had been a great opportunity to stay together, being the ones that pulled the Jacks out of the deck -a very democratic fair system Tim had come up with after his brother Danny had been tormenting him for months in his letters with his later hiperfixiation: card games-).

And, to be honest; spending the night in their quite cosy pirate ship tied in a port city far quieter than Nassau had even sounded delightful.

However, as they hid behind the food and drink provisions, their visions of how this night was going to develop were changing rather quickly.

“I am starting to regret those knaves; I’d be far keener on facing Mary Keay…” Jon muttered, playing with the globe that covered his burnt hand.

He still recalled perfectly well when, after betraying the King (as if fucking George would have ever known who the bastard he had working as a quite efficient privateer had been), Jude Perry and her mercenaries had tried to catch him to reclaim the price over his head.

They had those two chaotic co-captains and their improbable crew to thank for that rescue. Another favour he owned Ed.

He just hoped this time wasn’t to be the entertaining distraction , singing shanties to a murderous crew of people drunk enough to get mad over the stupidest of things and yet sober enough to properly aim when shooting. Also becoming, later as the night had progressed, the physical incarnation of the infamous messengerof the renowned idiom (you know? The one that everyone eventually tries to kill) as the other pirate crew stole God knows what.

If he hadn’t been able to fit in a rather small wine barrel, he’d be dead by know (though he had wanted to be, in all those weeks of Tim mocking him while gently pushing him towards admitting his feelings, that he might have been muttering to himself when Blackbeard and The Gentleman’s crew had left the Jon-barrel right next to their shit…specially since now he was a bard).

He came back to the present to a Martin that, next to him, emitted a muttered sound that could, with the power of sheer imagination, pass as a laugh.

“Trust me, you don’t” his tone had gotten extremely severe all of the sudden.

Sometimes, with his nice smiles and soft appearance, Jon forgot that he had been a pirate for far longer than he had.

After all, his life had truly begun when he had been asked to retrieve him to his family…or something on that line; the details were to never be revealed.

The step of the intruders grew nearer, making both men shivered in place; there were at least seven of them (if not more), and they were only the two. They definitively needed a strategy.

In an ever lower tone, Jon communicated the beginning of the first step of the prologue of a very terrible disastrous plan.

“As we are well aware of, I am what could be easily called a light-weight and I am rather highly proficient at sneaking…”

“What you mean is, you are a scrawny bastard that has a special talent to backstab. Yeah, I know, and I am so not letting you risk your bloody stupid life on a suicide mission.”

“I love you too” the second man said, half mockingly.

“I am serious, Jon. You have to let go this carry-all-burdens constant attitude…I could be the first to attack them too, you know? I could get rid of, like, three or four? At least, before…”

“Who is talking suicidal now?” he had to use all his will power not to start yelling. It wasn’t much of a consolation but, with his initial terrible idea doom was only an extremely likely scenario for him. With Martin’s?

There was no way on Earth he was surviving a frontal encounter, as much as he was right about probably ending the life of at least five of the people entering their ship and…he couldn’t lose him.

Not like this.

Yes, they were pirates, and that doesn’t make you any closer to immortality, precisely; but one thing was to go away in a boarding, in plain daylight, hand in hand, you’ll never take us alive and all that experimental shanty and a very different one was to die alone, bleeding out in the arms of the other, as you can only feel betrayed because of how stupid their decision has been, even though you wish you could only feel love and grieve in that moment.

What’s more, he knew Jon would likely be already dead had he stayed in his former position; the jobs given to him by Jonah would have slowly but steadily turned him into the exact kind of avatar of his will he had always wanted.

He would have never left if it hadn’t been for Martin, even if he had just been an annoyance he hadn’t actually known anything real about. He had made him free, shown him he could be himself, no shame about it; no need to hide or constraint anything. Martin was the reason he met Gerry, and Sasha, and Tim, the Michaels (having three people named the same way in the same pirate ship could be a bit of a headache, but they handled it)…

“Hold on, Mikaele.”

“Yes, our art expert, what about him?”

“His annoying protégée: Cane. The thread system she installed…it is connected to the lower decks…we could just…pull the right strings and…” he let a knife (that he had gained after it had been positioned inside of him for being a bit of a known-it-all, quite the story) show for a moment from inside his vest and smiled a little bit too enthusiastically.

“You are not letting the backstabbing bit go away, are you? God, do you remember when you were this little too polite privateer that just wanted to be left alone with his books and laws.”

“I still want to be let alone with my books, I just rather have some people close to me while I read them. And stabbing people that are almost certainly going to kill you otherwise is an immensely entertaining activity.”

“Fine, ‘lright. I’ll admit your whole murderous bookworm energy is adorable.”

“I am not…” he breathed deeply, pretending to be annoyed as he opened the wooden piece beneath which the system of cords was. “Ready?”

“Let’s give them Hell.”

Next morning, the rest of the crew came to a pile of ten bodies of random sketchy looking men, only one of them alive (someone had to tell the tale -and also be followed to their employers, to know if there was something bigger to worry behind this attack-).

“What happened?” Joshua Gillespie asked; he had been their last acquisition and, in a very mundane way, he had the precise common sense of the common folk the rest had eventually lost.

Martin and Jon looked at each other, smiling mischievously.

Tim crossed his arms, he had a new scar in one cheek; the short he fancied collecting (and, in all honesty, it was a completely understandable decision; he really knew how to pull them off).

“You either tell us right now or I will make you sing, literally.”

Martin shrugged.

“Well, let’s just say, that we are not going down. We are getting through, whatever they threw at us. One way or another…”

“Together” Jon ended, entangling his burnt (and now covered in blood) hand with Martin’s.

“Ugh, alright. But you are not getting away without the song.”

#jonmartinweek2022 #day 8 #jmart #jonmartin #jonmartinweek #tma #the magnus archives #challenges #tma challenge #fanfic #pirate AU #everybody lives #our flags means death references #bcs it''s me #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #tim stoker #joshua gillespie #YEAH YOU READ THAT WELL #free #AU day #magnuspodfic #one way or another together #no beta we kayak like tim #magnuspod

[pitviperofdoom]

Hotel conversation?? Is this just Helen locking everyone in the corridors until they Talk?

I was hoping someone would pick this one!

Excerpt under the cut:

It didn’t make much of a difference to him, whether he was summoned or dormant. His existence was unending pain regardless. That said, at least when he manifested he had a working mouth to complain about it.

So, when the Archivist’s voice dragged him out of his skin for the second time, Gerry wasted no time voicing his displeasure.

“Typical.” Once upon a time, he might have cared enough about dignity to deny it when his voice broke. But death was not dignified, no matter what stage of it you were stuck on. “One request. One simple fucking request. I scratch your back, you burn what’s left of mine. Nothing could be easier! But no—once is never enough, there’s always one more question, one more interrogation, one last drop of knowledge to wring out. Well you can fuck right off, Archivist. I’m not doing this.”

He braced himself for—something. Shouting, maybe. Threats. No—this one wasn’t the type. Pleading, then, cajoling, maybe appealing to Gerry’s better nature, just this once, then I’ll burn your page, I promise, and the infuriating part was that it might even work.

But the only reply, at least at first, was the rhythmic click-hiss of a lighter going on and off.

The hotel room he found himself in was small and cramped, with pale brown walls that might have been white at some point, and a faded bedspread. Institute policy must have changed in the years he’d been a book; back in Gertrude’s day, Bouchard was happy to shell out for nicer rooms than this. Every light in the room was on, from the wall lamps over the bed to the bathroom lights, and there were several torches and handheld camping lanterns scattered on the bedside table.

The Archivist sat upright on the still-made bed, curled and hunched over like a gargoyle with his knees drawn to his chest and his little spiderweb lighter in his hand, thumb spinning the wheel to light it, then flicking the cap to extinguish it, then lighting it again, over and over. Gerry’s page sat beside him, still not yet on fire.

“I’m sorry,” the Archivist said, after the silence had lasted long enough to be uncomfortable.

Distantly, Gerry was aware that no one had ever said that to him before. It might have meant something once. But his pain had outgrown apologies long ago. “What do you want from me?”

The Archivist opened his mouth, then closed it again. He spun the wheel, opened his mouth, and—

Something scratched at the door. It wasn’t the faint scrabbling of something trying to burrow its way in. The sound was long and deep and drawn out, stripping paint and parting wood fibers from top to bottom.

You didn’t make a noise like that if you really wanted to come in. You made it when you wanted it to be heard.

When it stopped, Jon had gone still again, for the most part. The lighter was off, and the hand holding it shook visibly. His eyes were closed, and stayed that way until the silence had gone on long enough. By his head, the wall lamps flickered.

Slowly, the Archivist drew in a deep breath and let it out again.

“It followed me here from the diner,” he said. “I think it’s with the Hunt. Not Trevor or Julia,” he added quickly. “I think it’s also got a bit of—of the Dark? Colors blending, I suppose.”

Gerry’s heart sank. “So that’s it, then,” he said after a moment, unable to hold back his disgust. He wanted to stand firm. He should. After everything, didn’t he have a right to be selfish? Didn’t he have a right to turn around and spit in the Archivist’s face, after what the last one did to him? After this one was just as happy to lie to his face and pump him for information when it was convenient?

But he wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t. He knew himself, and he knew that not even the bitter, faded ghost of Gerry Keay could look his man in the eye and tell him no.

“So, what, then?” He didn’t taste things anymore, but the words were still sour in his memory of a mouth. “Want to grill me on how to kill them? What they’re weak to? How to get out of this alive?” What the fuck was taking so long? Gertrude never took this long to let him know what she wanted from him. “Just ask already, will you? Can we get this over with?”

The doorknob rattled. On went the lighter again, flame trembling in the Archivist’s unsteady hand.

“It won’t come in,” he said. “It can’t. I know that much. I—I Know it, I think.” The creature outside struck the door again, and the Archivist flinched. “It can’t. It’s stronger in the dark, but it’s not strong enough to mess with the lights. It can’t get in, and it’ll be gone by morning.”

For all that his voice shook, the Archivist spoke with the quiet conviction that only came with the fickle boons from Beholding. He was safe here for the night, well out of the reach of at least one of the things hunting him.

“Then why’d you bring me out?” Gerry asked.

“I just—” On, off. On, off. “I can’t get a signal, so I can’t—I don’t need anything, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, I just, I didn’t know what else—who else—”

The Hunter hit the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

“It can’t get in,” the Archivist repeated, soft with shame. “It’ll be gone by morning. But I don’t want to be alone.”

Gerry stared at him. Slowly, the hinges stopped rattling and the room fell silent again, except for the click of the lighter.

“So you—” He stopped. Tried again. “You called me out… because you wanted company?”

The Archivist’s eyes closed. “I’m sorry. I know it’s selfish. But could you stay?”

It was a simple question, and without the press of compulsion behind it, it was utterly meaningless. What was the point of asking it, when the Archivist held his page and could damn well decide for himself whether Gerry stayed or not?

And yet.

It was utterly irrational. He had no reason to think like this, beyond the same bleeding-heart sentiment that had gotten him in mess after mess after godawful bloody mess before his own body turned on him. And yet Gerry knew, with a rock-steady certainty that rivaled the End itself, that if he said no, then Jon Sims would dismiss him, and that would be the end of it.

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #gerard keay #tma fic #not exactly jongerry #tales from the pit #wingardium-leviohshit

[iceeckos12]

very loosely inspired by this post by @statementends!

Summary: Gerry’s ghost has been bound to Jon ever since his page was burned, but only Jon can see him. Gerry figures out how to manifest, and stops Jon from finishing the ritual. spoilers for 160, cw for implied self-harm.

Martin’s been gone for ten minutes - less than, even - when the wind suddenly picks up, and tall clouds roll across the sky, turning the world an imposing, iron grey. He squints up into the gathering darkness, scowling, trying to remember if a storm had been on the forecast this morning.

Eventually he sighs and turns around, giving the walk up as a lost cause. A night in, curled up in front of a documentary with a bottle of wine, Jon pressed against his side, sounds quite nice actually.

It’s as he’s walking back that he realizes that there’s something...off. It’s not just the suddenness of the onset of the storm, or the sharp temperature drop; the air has turned a faint, sickly green, like the atmosphere has been painted with a green overlay. And more than that, his heart begins to pound too-quick in his chest, his instincts screaming that something is terribly, irrevocably wrong.

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and he thinks, Jon.

He runs the rest of the way up the path, ripping his glasses off and stuffing them into his jacket when they begin to fog. He trips, almost falls over a rock, then scrapes his hands pushing himself upright, his breath rasping harshly in his chest. He almost cries out in relief when he finally reaches the front door, practically falling through it in his urgency to get inside. “Jon!”

He hurries into the room where Jon had been recording -

And freezes in the doorway.

Jon’s passed out on the couch, his neck covered in bright scratches that match the red stains that rim his fingernails. His upper half is sprawled across an unfamiliar man with poorly dyed black hair, his grey eyes wide and scared and just a little wild around the edges.

Martin’s gaze zeroes in on the black eyes that have been tattooed onto the man’s knuckles, and just like that, it clicks.

“Can you see me?” Gerard Keay asks in a voice that’s been forced calm. His tattooed fingers, wrapped around Jon’s upper arms, are shaking hard.

“Gerard,” Martin says faintly. Then corrects himself, “Gerry.”

Martin had only ever known Gerard Keay through second hand accounts, first through statements, then through Jon himself. The man had been a mysterious specter, a tentative symbol of hope, proof that not everyone involved in the supernatural inevitably succumbed to it.

And then, two days into their stay at the safehouse, Jon had quietly admitted that after he had burned Gerry’s page the man’s ghost had never left, and had been with him this entire time like a real life version of Caspar the Friendly Ghost. Gerry and Martin had had some stilted conversations through Jon, but it was hard to get to know someone that you couldn’t actually see or communicate with directly.

(At the very least, they could commiserate over the fact that Jon was incapable of staying out of trouble.)

But now Gerry is here, inexplicably visible, and Jon is like this, and -

“Help me,” Gerry breathes, just shy of begging, and Martin finally starts into motion.

Much as he’d like to interrogate Gerry about the how and why of his sudden corporeality, they’ve got bigger things to worry about right now. He and Gerry carry Jon to the bedroom - and he’s far, far too light, his face screwed up with fear and pain in a way that makes Martin’s heart clench.

Once Jon is situated in the bed, Martin hurries into the bathroom to wet some toilet paper so he can clean the blood from under Jon’s fingernails. He returns to find Gerry sitting on the empty side of the bed, watching Jon with cool, unreadable grey eyes.

Martin hesitates for a moment, struck by how little he knows this man, for all that they’ve technically been living in the same space for the past few weeks. He slowly walks to the other side of the bed, almost pausing again when Gerry’s eyes flicker to him and then toward the floor.

Martin sits down, takes one of Jon’s hands in his, and gently begins to clean the blood away. Finally asks, “What happened?”

“It was a statement,” Gerry responds, quiet and even. “Jonah...Jonah was trying to use him to end the world. All the, the marks - the burn on his hand, the cut on his neck - well, he has 14 of them. Apparently you can only complete a ritual if you bring all 14 entities into the world at once.” He pauses and lets out a quiet, morbid laugh. “Jon was right. ‘Colors, but if colors were trying to kill me’.”

“It’s not funny,” Martin snaps, then bites down on his anger. Fear is still buzzing in the back of his mind, snapping at his control. It’s not Gerry’s fault.

“You’re right.” A pause. “Sorry.”

“S’fine.”

He finishes cleaning Jon’s left hand, then moves on to the right, methodical and grim. Gerry’s watching him again, his gaze like a brand on the side of his face.

He sets Jon’s hand down, arranges them neatly at his sides. Examines the scratches on Jon’s neck, before deciding that he should probably wait until he wakes up first. “And you?”

Gerry shrugs a shoulder. “I just - I wanted to help him. He couldn’t stop reading the statement and - “ He shrugs again, and for the first time his face twists with an emotion that isn’t blank neutrality.

“Oh,” Martin whispers, relieved that Gerry had been there in his stead, burning at the thought that he hadn’t been there when Jon needed him. He forces himself to take a deep breath and say, “Thank you. For helping him.”

Gerry snorts quietly. “I couldn’t have just done nothing.”

Jon lets out a low, pained groan, and Martin and Gerry immediately turn to him, momentarily distracted from their somewhat tense conversation.

“Jon?” Martin asks, leaning over.

“The statement - “ Jon rasps, rolling over with a quiet, gasping whimper. “Did you - burn the statement - “

“I’ll do it,” Gerry responds immediately, already getting to his feet and heading out of the bedroom. He seems visibly steadier now that he has a purpose.

Martin watches him go, and decides to work through that messy knot of gratitude, suspicion, and curiosity at a later, more appropriate date. Instead he carefully draws a trembling Jon into his arms, whispering words of comfort into his tangled hair. 

#tma #iceeckos12 writes #my writing

[bitters-enthusiast]

birthday fic but belated

@timmys-and-scribbles i love you and i am sorry in advance if this is long and cheesy but

1. that’s julian and

2. that’s just showbiz babey

happy belated birthday bestie i hope you enjoy

“No, you don’t understand! Please, I’ll-- I’ll beg on my knees if I have to!”

Julian could be seen, and probably heard, from a block away pleading a poor man operating a gondola on the canal, and it didn’t look much like the man was giving in to him either. 

The man shook his head, planting his hands on his hips. “You-- you don’t have to get on your knees. But I still can’t do it, I’m sorry. It’s too short notice.”

The sob that came from the redhead next was anything but subtle, and he shoved his face in his hands. “Please. Please, sir, everyone else has cancelled on me. Don’t you want to be the minority?? Wouldn’t that be a more interesting story for you?? Please, I’ll pay double, I just need this ride tonight. It doesn’t have to be all night, even just an hour if I could--”

The gondola rower rolled his eyes. The dramatics were a bit much, but Julian had good selling points. “Fine! Fine, if it means you’ll leave me alone and I can get back to work, I’ll do it for double.” 

Julian almost screamed in excitement, and grabbed the man by his shoulders. He gave him a little shake, beaming a smile from ear to ear. “Thank you! Thank you, you’ve saved me. Thank you. I’ll see you in a few hours!”

--

After having shaken this man nearly to death, Julian decided it was time to start grocery shopping. If he was going to plan the perfect dinner for his perfect partner in crime, he wanted to have the perfect ingredients. After all, a pirate couldn’t ask someone to court him if he didn’t at least offer food and drink. . . right? 

He didn’t want to stress about it. This day was already a long time coming, but every time he thought he’d worked up the courage, he found it all lost again when Julianne teased him, or plotted with him another sneaky escapade. This woman definitely, without realizing, always kept him on his toes. And he wanted to return the favor, at least for tonight. Besides, a fun date never hurt anybody, even if he didn’t wind up asking her to be his girlfriend. 

The doctor spent about an hour or so shopping around for a dinner worth remembering. It took some time thinking of recipes he knew from the top of his head, but he settled on something fond from his childhood. Something Mazelinka almost always made, and almost everyone always liked it: soup. You couldn’t go wrong with a perfect soup dish paired with bread. Plus, looking for fresh ingredients and bartering with the merchants kept his mind off of the pent up anxiety he was feeling about everything. At least a dinner he was making by himself couldn’t be cancelled last minute. 

He’d finally settled on everything he needed, and was beginning to head back to the ship. He was carelessly swinging his bags back and forth, whistling a merry little tune to keep him in high spirits. 

The high spirits lasted all of five minutes to keep his mind off his worries.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Julianne, speaking to a familiar baker about eating some lunch. She was ordering some food when she caught him out of the corner of her eye, and excitedly called him over. 

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no.

She wouldn’t notice the bags, right? Of course she’d notice the bags. But he could just pass it off as stuff for the crew! Or maybe he could just pretend as if he didn’t see her--

Of course he couldn’t do that. 

Awkwardly, he put his arms behind his back, the bags hanging over them. He gave a strange smile and headed toward Juli, giving a head nod of acknowledgement. 

“Heyyyyyyyy... how are, uh-- whatcha up to?”

The woman raised a brow, a smile on her lips as she had just finished joking with the baker. “I’m........ ordering food. Why are you being weird?”

Uh oh.

Julian gave a dismissive ‘psh”, his face turning into an expression of confusion. “I’m not being weird. You’re weird for asking that, Juli. Anyway, what’s on the menu? What’s, uh, what’s for lunch?”

Julianne immediately knew something was up, but she wouldn’t press him about it until later. For now, she’d give him a bit of a hard time about it to see if he’d spill. “Food. Looks like,” she leaned over a bit, just a small part of his groceries in view, “you also have food on the menu.”

He leaned the opposite way, trying to make the bags less noticeable from her angle. “Oh. Oh! These, right. Yeah, Cap sent me out for errands today. You know those men, uh, always hungry! Yeah, can’t go forever without snacking, even if there’s only four of them on ship!”

A small laugh came from Juli. Yeah, she’d have to find out later. “Right. Well, I have to go eat before I go back to my own errands. Would you like to join?”

Why’d she have to be so sweet?? It made him all the more nervous, and he wasn’t being a very convincing actor at the moment. “Oh, I wish I could, darling! But Cap has been on my ass this morning about staying on task! We all know how, um, fleeting time is! I’ve gotta go, don’t worry about me, I’ll see you later on board, right?”

Her eyebrow still raised, she adjusted her own bag and nodded. “Ri--”

“Okay! Perfect! Amazing, and even perfect, you could say. Oh. Wait, I said perfect twice. Anyway, farewell! See you tonight.”

Juli watched as Julian walked away backward, still trying to hide his groceries. As he finally got further away, he tried turning away quickly to take off running, but accidentally bumped into a busy woman passing by. He apologized promptly and profusely, making sure she was at least okay before taking off again. 

Yeah, he was up to something.

--

It finally had gotten darker outside, the sun setting as Julian strode back toward the boat. After a few hours, he had prepared dinner, finalized the gondola plans, and had even set up an nice surprise afterward to make sure everything was picture perfect. As if he hadn’t used the word ‘perfect’ to describe what he was going for all day. With his hands in his pockets, he’d finally settled down on his way back toward the ship, fairly confident in how the night would go.. at least for now. 

As he got closer to his familiar home of sorts, excited to meet Julianne and to get the night started after all this planning he’d done, Julian stops aboard the ramp of the ship, watching as Juli was mid-conversation with his crewmate and co-captain, Gerard.

Damn it. Here we go.

Forcing a smile, he stepped closer to hear their conversation.

A hearty laugh came from the crewmate, one that sounded incredibly devious to Julian’s desperate ears. “He really lied to your face like that, Miss Juli? Ah, you know I’d never treat you that way~”

Shut up. Shut up, Gerry. Not tonight.

Julianne would have been seen to smirk, rolling her eyes. “It’s not that he lied maliciously. I’ll still get him back for lying. But I know he’s doing something behind my back. I’m just confused as to what it is.”

Gerard leaned back against the rail of the ship, giving a nonchalant shrug. “Still. You know, it’s taken him far too long to commit to you. Maybe it’s time you give the ol’ captain a try. I,” a puff of his chest, and he placed his hand upon his heart, “wouldn’t have made you wait this long for me to meet up after lying to you, maiden.”

It was taking everything in Julian to not barge into their conversation immediately. The confidence he’d built on the way back was slowly diminishing, but he’d wait a few more seconds to see where this conversation went. 

“Co-captain, Gerard.” Julianne shook her head in amusement, also taking a seat on a nearby barrel. Might as well make herself comfortable as she waited. “How would Zora feel if she heard you giving yourself all the credit?”

“Hopefully very, very awfully.” Gerard chuckled as he ran his fingers through his hair. “But my point remains. See how he still isn’t here? That just proves my--”

If Julian wasn’t known for dramatic entrances, then the sky wasn’t known to be blue. As if on cue, interrupting Gerard as he tried to make his “point” was easy as pie for Julian, and he climbed aboard with the biggest, most confident grin he could muster to save face. “Julianne, my love!” He greeted as if she were the biggest and most important guest he could ever serve, stepping between the two to swoop her into a hug. “I’m terribly sorry it took me so long to get back! I got caught in a scuffle between two men arguing, and you know I can’t resist a good fight.” The last lines were said between almost-gritted teeth, and Julianne pulled away from his hug reluctantly.

Like her expression was before at the marketplace, she had her eyebrow raised in suspicion. “Is that so? They didn’t happen to also be the ones to eat your snacks, were they?”

Gerard chuckled from behind, making himself comfortable both physically and in conversation. “I’d say Ilyushka has a bit of a hole to dig himself out of here, hmm?”

Begrudgingly, Julian turned to look at Gerard with the same forced smile. 

“Don’t you have a hole to dig yourself into, co-captain? Go find some buried treasure.”

A laugh from the man, as well as a clever reply, “Ah, but why would I go search for one when there’s one perfectly right before my eyes?” He flashed a smile in Julianne’s direction, and then gave an innocent, seemingly curious head tilt to Julian. “Oh, unless you couldn’t see that for yourself. It seems that eyepatch gets in the way of you looking past yourself and seeing what’s in front of you.”

The smirk began to fall from the redhead’s face, and he tried not to ball up a fist onto his friend right about now. In the end, he knew Gerry was teasing, but it didn’t make the blow less hard on his ego.

Julianne wasn’t naive to the tension; she started to make off-topic conversation. “I think Gerard is talking about the wine that Zora brought back after making a deal with the bartender down the street. Something about bringing back some of that Salty Bitters stuff from Vesuvia that you like so much. He wanted to advertise something new.”  

“Right. The wine is the treasure I was talking about.” A final chuckle from Gerard and he stood, clapping a hand against Julian’s shoulder. “Save me some dessert, Ilya. You know where my room is. Send her my way.”

“Bye, Gerry. Have a good night.” Julian pulled away slightly, looking his friend up and down.

Gerard gave a hum of triumph, and pulled his hand away. On his way toward the steps downstairs, he gave a final “You know I will.” in reply.

Once he was finally out of view, Julian deemed it safe to turn back to Juli for conversation. “I am.... so, so sorry, Juli. I know you’ve been waiting for a while.”

“I know you heard the conversation with Gerard.” She replied, placing her hands upon his shoulders. “I’ve been here for a whole of ten minutes. You know how he is. Dramatic.”

He gave a soft scoff in return, rolling his eyes. “More than I am sometimes.”

With a laugh, Julianne pulled her hands away, but not before giving him a gentle pat to the face. “Not quite.” Getting up from the seat she’d made herself, she patted down the dirt that’d gotten on her dress from doing so. “Anyway, are you finally done acting weird, or are you going to keep me on my toes.”

“Well.......” Julian gave a shrug, “Hopefully the latter. But not in a bad way, I swear. I do.”

The woman only gave him a pointed glare in response. In defense, he gently took hold of her hand, and began to lead her off the ship.

“Here. Just follow me.”

--

The doctor had finally gotten Juli all to himself. After all the shenanigans of the day, he could finally wind down and listen to her talk about her day. Her errands, odd customers, the odds and ends of magic that he enjoyed listening to her go on and on about. It was what gave him some sense of normalcy among the absurdity that he endured on the regular. The gondola ride had gone smoothly, and he had definitely given the rower far more than he was worth. If not just for the theatrics and the experience, he hoped that Juli enjoyed it. Maybe she’d grown suspicious of him throughout the day, but he wanted to make it up to her.

They talked about a woman who’d called Julianne in to help cleanse her home, not knowing the “cleanse” wasn’t anything spiritual -- it was because the woman had attempted far too many cleaning spells and caused an overgrowth in weeds in her garden and magic cobwebs in her corners. Julianne had to explain that “cleansing” a house didn’t actually mean to clean it.

How cute. How cute, how cute. 

An hour or so had gone by, and after their ride, they both thanked the rower tremendously. They’d even gotten a complimentary bottle of wine and a basket of fruit -- or maybe the rower was being kind since Julian had paid him so handsomely. 

Then, he took Julianne back toward the shore. 

He had taken hold of her hand and not let go, leading her down the beach close to the docks their ship had stopped on. He was sure she probably thought something odd was going to happen by the end of the night, but he wanted to make sure she enjoyed her time nonetheless. 

As they walked, he made soft conversation.

“You know, the ocean is a view I could never get sick of. It’s so beautiful. And when the moonlight hits it just right--” he gave a chef’s kiss of sorts with his free hand.

“I guess that’s a good thing, considering you’re on a ship the majority of your time.” Juli teased, giving him a gentle nudge. “But I think so too. It’s very captivating. Calming, even.”

“Like you, hmm?” Turning his gaze from the ocean to Juli, he gave a wink. 

With a fond roll of her eyes, she laughed a little. “You’re still being weird.”

“What? No. This is just regular ol’ Ilya.”

“Yeah. Weird.”

He grinned in turn, a grin full of absolute adoration. It was getting easier to rebuild that confidence from earlier. 

They continued their playful banter, all the way up until hey reached a hidden little cove, a tucked away cave of sorts, with a light shining from within. They were far away enough now that the lamps in town seemed like blur now, and Julian preferred it that way for what he had been planning. 

Julianne stopped, looking up at her partner with a confused expression. “What’s this?”

He let go of her hand, make sure he didn’t seem as if he were coming off maliciously. They had met, after all, under the guise that he was a murderer on the run. Julian offered one of his grins, the sweet kind, the kind that made you want to follow him into the unknown on an adventure you wouldn’t want to return from. 

“Just dinner. You trust me, right? You don’t still think I’m a weirdo?”

“Well. I definitely do.” 

A laugh came from Julian, and he just shook his head. He continued forward into the cave, giving her a nod to follow. 

She did, and as they entered, a small table Julian had stolen off the ship was sitting in the middle of the cave, lit candles surrounding it in the sand below to keep light inside. On the table sat dinner: two bowls covered to stay warm, bread on either side of them, a great big glass of wine in the center of the table, and two glasses for one each. 

With a great big swoop of his arm, he gestured toward the set up with a smile.

“Well, here’s the thing I was acting strange about. I just wanted... to set up something nice for the both of us.”

After her jaw had dropped at the initial shock, Juli turned to the man with a growing smile, and she genuinely looked impressed. “I’m surprised you could keep a secret this long.” Although she teased, she found his dinner setup rather charming. Nothing short of the extravagance he made for himself since the day she met him. 

He continued forward once more, pulling one of the chairs out for her to sit. Once she was seated, he also took a seat, and began to pour them each a glass of wine to drink. 

“Also, I stole this wine. This is the one Zora brought back, and Gerard is probably looking for now. Serves him right trying to steal my thunder.”

The woman laughs, reaching for her glass once it’s filled. “They’re going to kill you.”

He shrugged yet again, his signature smirk puling at his lips. “Worth it, if not just for the thrill of the escape.”

As Julian reached to uncover the bowls, a warm, earthy and flavorful aroma takes over the cave, and he explains his escapade to gather ingredients. Making the food proved to be a pain, having to bribe the ship’s cook to let him take over the kitchen to prepare their food, and to help him set everything up while he was out on the gondola ride with Julianne. He talked about how he now owed the cook kitchen duty for a week, and had to scrub the inside of the old hearth to make up for it. But it was worth it for him, to see how much she enjoyed his childhood favorite food. All the more memories to create, even if it was just soup.

Throughout dinner, it seemed as though Julian had about finished off the bottle of wine by himself. He was getting a little tipsy, and a bit more nervous toward the end of them eating. If only he had more liquid courage to help him out.

Julianne noticed how awkward he’d begun to get as dinner went on. When they finally cleared their bowls, he started going on about the importance of the correct shoes in acting. Something was up. 

She reached for his hands, which were getting ready to pour the last few drops of alcohol into his glass.

“Ilya, tell me what’s the matter.” Her voice was soft compared to his big, velvety tone. He couldn’t help himself, not in this state of mind.

“I- no, nothing’s the matter! I’m just saying, how can you frolic about in a tunic and boots? Sure they look great for the aesthetic and for the costume, but you need the smaller and more rounded shoes to move around the stage more fleetly.”

“You’re talking about shoes, Julian, after we just had a nice dinner in a fancy set up in a remote cave.” She laughed a little at the situation, and gave his hands a little squeeze. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

She was right. And he knew that she was. He hadn’t spent all day preparing for this moment to talk about how quick your movements need to be on stage. He had put all of this off long enough. Hell, for months. He was surprised she’d even stuck around that long, unless she thought this was all totally platonic. 

“Yeah. Yes. Yes, there-- there is something I have on my mind.” He let out a slow sigh, mentally preparing himself for his little speech. He knew that she would listen to every word, even if he slurred and stuttered his way through it. Her touch gave him a bit of sobering up, and in turn, he moved his hands to grab hers instead, leaning in closer to her presence.

“I.. hm. I’ve known you for quite a while now. And, for some reason, it feels like I’ve known you far longer than the several months we’ve been adventuring together. I don’t even know if that’s what you’d call it-- never mind. Regardless, darling, it feels like I’ve known you longer than a lifetime. Like I’ve known you since a life too distant to remember. And you... Julianne, you just seem so familiar. You met me thinking that I was a murderer. A fugitive. And even then, even after you thought I was using you, you stuck. You stuck with me. Up until then, I struggled so hard to find something like home. You gave me a chance, and I can tell you haven’t regretted it thus far. I just... don’t ever want to have to just remember you again. I want you to stick around. You’re perfect to be around. My perfect adventuring find. My... my perfect partner. We’ve never made any official call for what this is, and... I know this is all so ridiculous and grandiose and seems like some sort of proposal. In... in a way, it is. I just--” he lets his head fall, and he takes a pause, before he looked back up into Julianne’s face. “Please, little dove, would you give a pirate a chance and just call yourself mine already?”

...

Julianne, flustered, and unsure of how to respond in the immediate moment, searched Julian’s eyes for his genuine feelings. It was a long search -- after all, he’d just poured his onto the table, practically. This wasn’t at all a surprise, they had in fact been in some rut of infatuation without ever having admitted it to one another. It was always just implied. But here they were now, Julian basking in all of his monologuing glory...

Before she could respond, he was quick to make a joke, giving her hands a squeeze as she did his before he had come clean. “Plus, now I’m less likely to get in trouble for starting a fight with Gerard, seeing as how we’d be an official couple rather than just flirting, fleeting friends.”

Julianne shook her head, letting it fall as she let out a laugh. “You... are quite simply the most unbearable person I’ve ever met. In the best way possible.” Looking back up, he simply gave a friendly and teasing shrug in response, and she leaned in to seal the space between them with a kiss.

It wasn’t long before it grew passionate, one full of longing and hope from both of them. It would be hard for Julian to pull away, had he not been wait for a response. Before he let the kiss get carried away, he pulled back, a hand pressed to Juli’s face. 

“So?”

She looked him in the eyes, lifted a hand toward his face, and promptly gave him a flick to the nose.

“Ow!?” His brow furrowed, “What was that for??”

“For lying to my face earlier. I just needed you to know I didn’t forget.”

A huffy laugh came from the redhead as he reached to rub at his nose, now stinging slightly in pain. “Alright. Noted.”

She offered a final, soft smile, reaching to gently swipe her thumb over his nose in comfort. The woman then reached in for a soft peck. “I’ll be your girlfriend, Ilya. Or rather, your co-captain.” 

Julian beamed taking her face into both of his hands. “Oh, I’m so glad. As co-captain, can your first duty be to teach me an adjective other than ‘perfect’? I’m a doctor, not a novelist.”

“Sure. But only if you teach me one rather than ‘weird’,” Juli offered in reply.

“Good, good. But uh, can we wait until after dessert?”

“Didn’t Gerard ask you to save him some?”

“Oh, no. Gerry can starve. I’m sneaking dessert back into my room.”

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My Website

It was significantly colder in Newcastle than it was in London, and Jon hadn’t prepared for it. The jumper was warm enough for the few blocks between Sloane Square and the Institute, or for exploring the tunnels—although they weren’t doing that so much anymore, not with the Not-Them trapped in their depths—but only helped a little on streets three degrees above freezing while the wind blew in odd little eddies that curled around buildings to catch them off-guard. He’d loosed his hair from the half-topknot he’d pulled it back in that morning in the hopes that it would make his neck warmer at least, but he still found himself trying not to shiver, or at least trying not to make it obvious he was shivering. He failed at both.

“Here.” Martin stepped closer to him and held his jacket open to one side. “You’re going to get pneumonia or something. I told you to bring a scarf.”

“You didn’t,” Jon grumbled, but he didn’t hesitate to tuck himself against Martin’s side.

“No, but I wore a jacket.” Martin let the side of the jacket fall and wrapped his arm around Jon as he pulled it closed, trapping him in the warmth. The scent of new leather—a Christmas gift from Gerry—mingled with the odor of lanolin from his jumper and the usual mint and cherry smell that always clung to Martin, and Jon felt a tension he hadn’t even known was knotting him up bleed away. “And I’m a Northerner by birth, remember? Just because I’ve lived in London since I was seven doesn’t mean I’ve completely forgotten.”

Jon sighed and leaned against Martin for a moment, as ill advised as that was while they were trying to walk. “Thank you. For coming with me. I’d have asked Melanie rather than come alone if you’d said no, but…I’m glad you came.”

“I’m glad I came, too. And not just because Melanie doesn’t have enough body fat to stand between you and hypothermia.”

“Also because Melanie and I are more likely to do something stupid?”

“Maybe a little.” Martin smiled down at Jon, that smile of his that always sent warmth flooding all the way to his toes. “Mostly because I’m enjoying spending time with you away from the Institute, even if it is work-related.”

Jon felt his cheeks heat up a little, and he ducked his head to avoid Martin’s gaze. “I like that, too,” he said quietly.

It wasn’t the first time since Jon’s return to the Institute that they’d spent time away from it together, of course, but it was definitely the furthest they’d ever gone. Aside from the previous week’s gathering at Cinnamon Rose Books, they’d spent two separate evenings at the small pub Martin and his siblings preferred (Nancy had taken to Jon at once, for a wonder, and the second night they’d stayed long enough for the singing to start, leaving Jon enchanted when Martin was persuaded to take the lead in a song). Jon had lost his flat during his weeks in hiding, not that he minded all that much, so he was still staying with Melanie until he found a place of his own, but he’d gone over to Martin’s a couple times for dinner. Both times he’d accidentally fallen asleep and woken up on Martin’s sofa with a blanket tucked around him and Martin sitting nearby humming softly.

It felt…easy, being with Martin. Right. Jon wanted to say that what they were doing was dating; it certainly felt like it. But since he hadn’t even admitted out loud that he was in love with Martin, and obviously Martin hadn’t said anything, he supposed they were simply…hanging out. Keeping company, as it were. Which was…fine. It was fine. Jon would take it, would take any excuse to be around Martin.

Which was why he’d made the suggestion to Martin that they head to Newcastle together after finding the reference in the latest statement from Elias. When Breekon and Hope had first come up, nearly two years ago now, Sasha had done some research into the company and found that the Nottingham depot mentioned in the statement had long ago been converted to luxury flats, but none of them had known there was also a depot in Newcastle. But the reference in the statement Elias had given him, to “help clarify his next move”, had given Jon a starting point. He still wasn’t sure how closely they were aligned with the Stranger, but there might be a clue in Newcastle. It was something, at least. So Jon had proposed to Martin that they make a day of it, and Martin had smiled and bought their train tickets.

“It should be just around here,” Martin murmured, looking back and forth as they came to an intersection. “Maybe six blocks that way.”

“Had you ever heard of them?” Jon asked, looking up at Martin for a moment and nearly stumbling over his feet before righting himself. It was only natural for him to slide his arm around Martin’s waist; it made it less awkward to walk tucked inside his jacket as he was. “Breekon and Hope, I mean. Before, before they turned up in the statements.”

Martin hummed in negation. “Them turning up to deliver the table was the first time I ever actually met anyone aligned with the Stranger.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’m pretty well steeped in the Eye, Jon. Have been for a long time.” A sad note crept into Martin’s voice. “I was eight when I found my first Leitner, and, well, there was no going back for me after that. By the time I was old enough that…things started poking around me, I was at a point where the Stranger avoided me as much as possible. Didn’t even see my first Stranger-aligned Leitner until I was…thirteen, maybe?”

“That’s still so young,” Jon said, completely ignoring the fact that he, too, had been eight when he found his first Leitner, or when it had found him. He paused, then added, “Did…did you burn it?”

“No,” Martin said, a bit regretfully. “Not then. We didn’t start burning them until…God, almost ten years ago now? Mm, closer to nine. We burnt our first one just before Aunt Mary did her ritual.”

Jon shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold. “Were those two facts connected?” he asked, mostly joking but not entirely.

Martin surprised him by answering absently, “Probably. Gerry was looking at ways to get away from her entirely, and maybe get me away from the Institute too, and burning the books was our first step at freedom. I think she sensed that and did what she had to in order to keep him controlled…oh, look, there it is.”

It took Jon a second to realize that Martin was talking about the depot and not…anything else they’d been discussing. Sure enough, a few meters away from them was a shipping depot with a faded sign that still said BREEKON & HOPE clear enough. “Right. Let’s go.”

As they approached, it became clear that the building was deserted. It was still intact, but the windows were caked with years of dust and grime, and weeds poked up through cracks in the driveway. Sat in the driveway was a delivery van; Jon didn’t know car models, but it seemed like the sorts of vans he used to see trundling about when he was a child. There was what might have been a field out back, which would probably be quite beautiful in the spring but was currently brown and barren.

Still. The depot was here. And it might have a clue that could help with their next move.

Jon—reluctantly—slipped out of the depths of Martin’s jacket and tested the door. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. He stepped back for a moment and studied the door, the windows surrounding it, and the building itself. “It seems a shame to break one of these.”

“No need.” Martin reached into an inner pocket and produced what looked like a canvas pencil case, or possibly an oversize wallet. “Say hello to my little friends.”

Jon blinked. “What—what are those?”

For an answer, Martin unzipped the case and opened it, displaying a number of odd metal bits that at first glance looked like the tools Jon was accustomed to seeing on the tray at the dentist’s office. He got down on one knee, the case propped on his outstretched leg, and peered at the lock. After a moment, he shook his head. “No good. This one’s a lever lock, I don’t have the right tools for that. Come on, let’s see if there’s another door round the back.”

“You can pick locks?” Jon asked, which was a ridiculously stupid question to be asking.

Martin got to his feet and gave him a crooked smirk. “Taught myself when I was fifteen or so.”

“Do I want to know why?”

“Probably not.” Martin started around the side of the building.

Jon hurried to catch up to him. “Martin.”

“You’ve been to the bookstore, Jon. How many ways in or out are there?” Martin studied the building as he spoke. “I figured I could jimmy open a window and sneak in to see Gerry without going through the store while Aunt Mary was in there, or without having to ring the bell. I did, too. And I’ve picked my fair share of locks trying to get at Leitners or get us out of jams…hmm, this looks promising.”

The window Martin had stopped at looked like every other window to Jon, but he was hardly an expert in the lock picking side of breaking and entering. “If you say so. What do you need me to do?”

“Keep watch. This shouldn’t take long.”

“Unless it’s alarmed.”

“Judging by the tires on that delivery van? Not bloody likely.” Martin studied the latch in the window, then opened his case again and selected two bits of metal. “The company went into liquidation, remember? Any other buildings got sold, which is why the one up in Nottingham got converted to luxury flats, but for some reason, this one escaped new ownership. Maybe no one wanted the property. But something like an alarm system would need to pay a monthly premium, and once that stopped getting paid, the company would shut it off pretty damn quick. Not to mention the fact that there’s probably no electricity coming in anymore…ha.”

While he had been talking, Martin had been manipulating the tools into the lock of the window’s latch, with some difficulty with his off hand, which was still bandaged and recovering from the burn inflicted by Jude Perry. Now he twisted it to one side, then replaced the tools before shoving the window upward. It protested, as windows unopened for several years were wont to do, but after a few moments it was open enough to allow them both access. Martin gave Jon an exaggerated bow. “After you.”

“Why, thank you, kind sir,” Jon drawled. He hoisted himself onto the sill, then swung his legs over to the inside and dropped to the floor.

Martin followed a moment later, with a bit more difficulty, then slid the window shut and relocked it. In response to Jon’s look, he shrugged. “I don’t really want someone following us in here if we can help it. We can go out the front door—we should be able to unlock it from the inside.”

“Good point,” Jon admitted. He let Martin pull him to his feet—then froze. “What’s that?”

Martin turned to follow his gaze. “It looks like a shoe. And judging from the angle, I’m guessing it’s not an empty one.”

“Someone sleeping? A homeless person?” Jon asked, without much hope.

“Since when has our luck ever been that good?” Martin made his way over to the desk and looked behind it. “Yep. Dead body. Or, well, what’s left of one.”

Jon shivered and started to come closer. “I…I assume it’s been here longer than Gertrude.”

Martin held up a hand to stop Jon from advancing. “Don’t. It’s not pretty…yeah, it’s been here at least a decade, maybe longer. There’s not much left of it. Big guy, older, I think. What’s left of a business suit. Looks like he’s been…chewed a bit. There’s, um, there’s what’s left of a box here, too. I think whatever killed him came out of it.”

Despite Martin’s words, Jon came over anyway. The body was exactly as Martin had described, but what interested Jon was the box. He hesitated, then bent down and picked it up. A standard cardboard box, rather ill-fitting and somewhat desiccated. The label on top had been heavily redacted; the only words visible were in a viciously precise handwriting: Return to Sender.

“What do you think this is? Or was?” he asked Martin.

Martin stared at the box, his eyes going slightly unfocused. There was a faint, a very faint, crackle of static that died almost instantly. “Whatever it was, it came from the Stranger.”

“I was afraid of that.” Jon sighed and gingerly set the box on the edge of the desk.

They spent a few minutes exploring the office. There wasn’t much of interest—certainly no book of plans for the Unknowing, or instructions on how to stop them—but one of the log books caught Jon’s attention. It looked a bit newer than the others, and when he pulled it off and flipped to the back, a frown crossed his face.

“Martin—look.” He showed Martin the book, finger pointing to the last entry.

“March 2013,” Martin murmured, a frown creasing his forehead. “That doesn’t make any sense, the company went into liquidation in 2009.” His frown deepened as he skimmed the entries on the spread before him. “At least half of these involve the Trophy Room. Big surprise.”

Jon shuddered at the mention of the taxidermy shop. “You think it—it has something to do with the Stranger.”

“I don’t think, Jon. I know. Daniel Rawlings was one of the Anglerfish’s victims. I knew Scaplethorpe’s statement was a Stranger one before we’d even started digging into it. It’s why I was so adamant that Tim not be the one to look into it.” Martin took the log book and began turning pages back slowly. “And you said Nikola Orsinov wanted you to find the gorilla skin—look, that’s the last thing that was actually delivered to the Trophy Room by Breekon and Hope: Gorilla skin (ancient). That place is bound up in the Stranger as tightly as the Institute is bound up in the Beholding.”

“Great,” Jon muttered. “Next question, then. Why was someone still logging deliveries four years after the company’s assets—save, apparently, this building and a single delivery van—were sold off?”

Martin turned back a few more pages. “It was Breekon and Hope.”

“I mean…yes? That is the name of the company…”

“No, the delivery drivers. I’m pretty sure they took their names from the company, not the other way around. And they definitely did…huh. Most of these entries?” Martin kept going, then stopped and pointed. “There, look. See those two entries?”

Jon looked where Martin indicated. One entry showed a delivery of two dozen bowls (clay) to a location in Glasgow. The other showed a deliver of one coffin (wooden, locked) to an address in Bournemouth. It had to be the delivery Joshua Gillespe had taken, so obviously had been their Breekon and Hope, but he honestly didn’t understand why Martin was pointing it out. “I see them,” he said.

Martin gave him that crooked smile again. “The handwriting’s off. Not much, not enough to be obvious. Just enough that whoever wrote the rest of these entries would think they maybe wrote them and just don’t remember it. Honestly, I think I can mostly see it just because it has the hint of the Stranger clinging to the edges.”

“Ah.” Jon peered at the handwriting a little more closely. Now that Martin had pointed it out, he could spot a couple of tiny, tiny imperfections, small inconsistencies that could easily be explained by the writer being tired or rushed or upset. “That seems more Spiral than Stranger to me.”

“Like I said, the damn things overlap.” Martin handed the log back to Jon. “Do you want to take it with you?”

Jon considered for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think there’s anything useful in it. Unless you think where they made deliveries is helpful.”

“Might tell us where the Unknowing is. If they’ve been making a lot of…strange deliveries to the same place.”

“Good point.” Jon tucked the log under his arm. “Right. Let’s see what else is here.”

There wasn’t much. Some dry-rotted boxes, rolls of tape that had fused solid or lost all adhesive, shipping labels, a roll of postage stamps commemorating the Ruby Jubilee, and something Jon at first couldn’t identify but that Martin said was a postage scale. Not a lot to show for however long the place had been in business.

In the front of the building, where the door Martin hadn’t been able to pick was, they found a pile of mail two feet high that would have impeded their attempts to open it anyway. Lying on top, as though it had just been shoved through the mail slot, was a crisp brown envelope far newer than any other in the pile. The name typed, not printed, across the front was easy enough to read from where they stood: ARCHIVIST.

“Who…?” Jon began. He reached for the envelope, then hesitated. It could be a trap. His curiosity was burning, but…Martin was there. If he opened it and brought something horrific down on their heads…

Martin’s hand rested lightly on his shoulder, not restraining him, just letting him know he was there, and Jon leaned back into him. He heard that faint burst of static again, and then Martin sighed, sounding more exasperated than anything. “Elias.”

“You’re sure?” Jon asked, twisting his head to look up at Martin.

“Pretty sure. It’s got traces of the Eye on it, not much, but enough to tell me it’s from ‘our lot’, as Jude Perry put it.”

Jon stared at the envelope. “Do you think he followed us?”

Martin sighed. “No, but you did have me expense our tickets back to the Institute, so it’s not like he didn’t know we’d be up here.”

“Oh. Right.” Jon winced. “What’s in it?”

“Only one way to find out.” Martin stepped around Jon and picked up the envelope. He raised an eyebrow. “May I?”

“Please.”

Martin worked a finger under the flap of the envelope and pried it open. Two sheets of paper fell out, on official Institute stationery, and Jon instantly recognized them. “A statement. He’s sent us a statement.”

“Yep.” Martin skimmed it quickly, then sighed and sat on the counter next to the door. To Jon’s mild surprise, he reached into his pocket again and pulled out a tape recorder, which he clicked on without even looking at it. “Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 9961505, statement of Alfred Breekon, given fifteenth May 1996. Statement begins.”

Jon leaned against a shelf and listened to the rise and fall of Martin’s voice as he dictated the statement into the recorder. The statement confirmed several things—that Breekon and Hope were not the ersatz delivery men’s real names, he supposed, and that they were affiliated with the Stranger—but it didn’t seem to have all that much useful information in it, all things considered. If that was all they were getting out of it…well, it had at least been a pleasant excuse for a day out.

“Statement ends.” Martin lowered the statement but not the recorder. His eyes had taken on that vacant look again, but for all that they seemed…bright. Intense. “We found Mr. Breekon. The original one. It’s funny, for all he talks of worrying that what’s in the box will get him, all the bite marks seemed to be coming from the inside going out.”

Jon hadn’t made that connection, actually. He was about to say so when Martin continued. “I have to say I’m not thrilled about the parallels here. Sleeping in a cot in your office, afraid to go home in case something malevolent and dangerous follows you there, constantly threatened in your workplace without actually being harmed…seems the Corruption took a tip or two from the Stranger. There’s something there, but I can’t put my finger on it. Anyway, this statement does confirm Breekon and Hope didn’t own the company, not really, and that they’re connected to the Stranger. From the vague descriptions the original Mr. Breekon gave of some of the deliveries they took, and the statements we’ve had in the past—not to mention their delivery to the Institute—we know that Breekon and Hope will deliver for any of the Fears, not just the Stranger, but their connection to this person ‘dressed as a circus ringmaster’ ties them pretty thoroughly to the Stranger, as does the description of ‘hands where the skin feels wrong’ and that their so-called friends have faces that are hard to recall afterwards. Wherever Mr. Breekon is now, I hope he can take some comfort in knowing that he wasn’t targeted for a reason, or chosen because of anything he did; it was just his own rotten luck. The other useful thing we found here is one of the old log books, which lists deliveries for four years after the company technically ceased to exist. We’ll need to go over it in more detail, but…not here. This place is done with its story. We’ve found all that was left to find, and now it’s just…empty.”

Click! The recorder shut itself off, despite Martin’s finger not being near the button. He flinched and blinked hard, shaking his head slightly. “Um, sorry, that—that just…happened.”

Jon straightened up. He felt slightly off-balance, and slightly achy, like he’d just had a bad bout of the ‘flu, but for the most part, he was concentrating on getting them out of there. He nudged the heap of mail to one side with his foot, then threw back the bolt on the door before taking Martin’s hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

They didn’t speak on the walk back to the train station. Jon bought their tickets, and they managed to just catch the train before it pulled out of the station. Martin was the one to break the silence, right after they passed out of Newcastle. “I really am sorry, Jon. I didn’t mean to just…do the follow-up like that.”

“It’s…it’s fine.” It wasn’t, but not because of anything Martin had done per se; Jon just didn’t like that the Eye had seemingly given him all that information. He always worried for Martin when that happened. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Martin assured him. “That sort of thing’s honestly been happening for a while now.”

“You just…having information?”

“I was more referring to being able to do the summing up at the end of a statement without having to really think about it, but yeah, that too. But that’s been going on even longer.”

Jon sighed, a bit unhappily. That Martin was right didn’t make it any better. “I didn’t think about the parallels while you were reading, but now that you’ve pointed them out, I don’t like them either.”

Martin laughed. “Speaking of things about this situation I don’t like, it’s a weird coincidence, but this statement was given almost exactly halfway between when I met Gerry and when I met Neens.”

“Really?” Jon was intrigued. “I’ve been under the impression you and Melanie knew one another for ages before you met Gerry.”

“Nope, I met Gerry first. Mum had got wind of the Fourteen from somewhere and had a notion that it might help her get better, so she made an appointment at Pinhole Books and moved us to London after my dad left—I told you about that. My school hosted a support group for single parents, and Mum joined up. Roger started coming about six weeks later and that’s how we met Melanie.” Martin handed the envelope with the statement to Jon. “Here. Keep that with the log book. It’s all going in the same file, right?”

“Right. I suppose I’ll have to make a new one.” Jon carefully slid the envelope into the back of the book. “Elias probably destroyed the original one.” He looked up at Martin. “Can I ask you a question? K-kind of a personal one.”

“You can ask me anything, Jon. You know that.”

“If you and Melanie are siblings—even step-siblings—why do you keep calling her father ‘Roger’? A-and she calls your mother ‘Lily’, is that—why is that?”

“I mean…those are their names?”

“Right, but—you didn’t, um, you didn’t call him ‘Dad’? O-or Melanie call your mother ‘Mum’ or anything like that?”

“Oh.” Martin winced. “We used to, when we were younger, but we stopped when we got older.”

Jon studied Martin’s face. “Do you mind if I ask why?”

Martin bit his lip, just for a second. “Well…I mean, mostly it was because Roger had dementia. He usually remembered he cared about me, sort of, but he didn’t always remember me, and he got distressed and confused every time I called him ‘Dad’. So I stopped, so I wouldn’t upset him further. Then Melanie decided if I couldn’t call her dad ‘Dad,’ she’d stop calling my mum ‘Mum’. The habit just stuck.”

“That makes sense, I suppose. I just…wondered if it was something about loyalty to your birth parents.”

“No, I—I don’t really remember him well, but what I do remember, did back then, is that I called my birth father ‘Papa,’ not Dad. And Melanie called her mother ‘Mama.’ So using ‘Dad’ and ‘Mum’ wasn’t disloyal to their memories, I guess? It made sense to us.”

“I understand.” Jon had never had step-parents himself, but he imagined he’d have wanted to call them something to distinguish them from his birth parents if he had. “I wish I’d had the opportunity to meet Roger King. He seems…from what you and Melanie have said, he seems like a good man.”

“He was. He was always kind to me.” Martin paused, then added, “That’s what the K is for.”

“King?”

“Yes. I—I didn’t want to change my name. I like Blackwood, it…it fits me, I think. Roger understood, and even when he legally adopted me, he somehow convinced Mum to leave my last name as it was. Got some funny questions when I handed in my birth certificate at college, but it was easy enough to explain.”

“So instead your name is Martin King Blackwood.”

Martin laughed. “You want the truth, Jon? No. Legally, my name is just Martin Blackwood. The K is just…I just added it as an initial for my poetry and the like. I liked the sound of it, and like I said, it was a tribute to Roger. Plus it means Melanie and I have the same initials, just mixed up—M.K.B. and M.B.K. We thought it was funny.”

Jon laughed, too. “Dare I ask what the B stands for?”

“Beatrice.”

“Of course. After her great-aunt, no doubt.”

“That’s the one.” Martin studied Jon. “I never asked—do you have a middle name?”

“Gilbert,” Jon admitted. “It was my grandfather’s name, apparently, but I’m damned if I can tell you which one.”

“Jonathan Gilbert Sims,” Martin repeated. “It suits you.”

“Thanks.”

They didn’t speak much on the rest of the three hours it took to get back to London, but it wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward. Instead, Jon found himself resting his head against Martin’s shoulder. Martin wrapped an arm around him and began absently combing his fingers through his hair, humming softly. After a while, he began to sing, and Jon closed his eyes and let himself be soothed under the spell of the music. The next thing he knew, Martin was shaking him gently. “Jon. C’mon, wake up, we’re pulling into King’s Cross.”

“I wasn’t asleep,” Jon lied, sitting up straighter and blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Martin laughed at him with the utmost kindness and offered him a hand to stand up.

The South Kensington Underground stop was a bit farther from the Institute than Sloane Square, but both of them agreed they were rather tired of being on a train, and anyway it was a nice enough evening—nicer than in Newcastle, at any rate. It seemed the most natural thing in the world for Jon to take Martin’s hand as they walked.

“I’m sorry not to take your right hand,” he said presently. “But I—I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Martin squeezed Jon’s hand gently. “I’m doing much better than I was. But this is fine, too. Anyway, I don’t expect we’re going to need to mark chalk arrows on the buildings as we walk.”

Jon laughed. “True. Still…”

“Still,” Martin agreed. “There will be time to hold hands the other way round later.”

“I like the sound of that.” Jon smiled up at Martin. Martin smiled back.

They were just turning onto the street where the Institute stood when Martin suddenly tensed. His hand tightened briefly around Jon’s, then eased back. In a low voice, he said, “Jon. Run. Get to the Archives.”

“What?” Jon blinked up at Martin in surprise.

“Run!” Martin gave Jon a light shove in the direction of the Institute just as a delivery van came around the corner towards them. Jon noticed its age—at least thirty years old, possibly more—then noticed the two hulking shadowy figures in the front seats, then registered that the paint scheme matched that of the van that had been parked in front of the Newcastle depot.

He didn’t wait to be warned a third time. He ran.

“Go, go, go!” Martin shouted from behind him, and Jon ran faster than he had in years, even faster than he’d run in the scrap yard after being stabbed. There was no doubt in his mind, the van that was almost certainly trying to find a way to reverse or turn around belonged to Breekon and Hope, here to collect him for Nikola Orsinov, and he did not want them to get their hands on him.

The Slaughter ghost would only have killed him. This, he was sure, would be worse.

He half-sprinted, half-stumbled across the courtyard and threw his entire body weight, slight as it was, at the door. It opened easily, thank God, and he burst through so fast he lost his balance and tumbled headlong down the short flight of stairs. Log book and statement went flying. The floor in that part of the Archives was stone, not wood, and it tore at his hands and knees, but he almost welcomed the pain. Pain meant he wasn’t dead.

“Jon!” The voice made Jon flinch before recognition filtered through. Tim. “Are you okay?”

Jon shook his head. No. No, he wasn’t remotely okay. He still shook head to toe with adrenaline, his chest ached with exertion, and fuck that had been a close call.

A pair of scuffed brown Doc Martens appeared under his nose; Jon looked up and accepted Melanie’s outstretched hand, letting her pull him to his feet. She took his other hand and turned them both over, studying the scraped palms with a critical eye. “You’ll live. What was chasing you? What—” She suddenly sucked in a sharp breath, and her hands tightened around his. “Where’s Martin?”

Jon’s veins flooded with ice water. He whirled around to stare up at the door, but it had shut firmly behind him. Panicked, he almost cleared all three steps in a single bound and yanked the door open, dashing out into the courtyard, only dimly aware of Melanie on his heels. Tires squealed away into the distance, but by the time he reached the street itself, it was deserted, save a pair of fresh black skid marks, a stain on the sidewalk, and something small and broken lying in the gutter.

He ran to the curb anyway, looking desperately, but there was nothing—no sign of anything. Melanie, who had come up alongside him, knelt down and picked up the object, then stared at it for a long minute. She looked up at Jon and didn’t say a word, just held it up for his inspection. It lit up as she raised it, displaying on its cracked, shattered surface a picture of the Archives crew holding one another up as they attempted to balance on ice skates before it flickered and died.

Martin’s phone.

Jon’s head swam as all the blood rushed out of his face in advance of reality crashing down on him. He knew he was about to faint, and he didn’t care. “Oh, God.”

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest) #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #breekon and hope #tim stoker #melanie king #unreality #abandoned places #breaking and entering #death #mutilation #misuse of Beholding powers #mention of memory loss #stalking #panic #minor injury #kidnapping

[beholdme]

WIP Day!

@starrypaws tagged me <3

Tagging @big-urchin-energy @aghostchoir @platanosandprejudice @mag-118 @solarianvoidthearoace and @nofashinpunk if you're interested!

Snippet from my new JGM au where Gerry is a witch and Jon and Martin work in the Institute that revolves around strange magic and even stranger people.

This scene is from when Gerry and Martin meet for the first time.

The first time Martin ever sees Gerry, it's through the age mottled windows of Memoria, and they're standing at the counter talking to an exhausted-looking woman. Gerry gently hands her a large, hardcover book, covers one of her hands with one of theirs, and Martin watches as all the tension slowly drains out of her.

He's heard of the Morden bookstore where the proprietor can always suggest just the right book, of course, but Martin has always been convinced it was just an overblown rumour.

Still, he can't deny the sudden and complete ease that had overtaken the woman, and the mental image remains with him over the next weeks.

What he would give for a bit of ease.

The next time Martin walks past the store, it's almost midnight and he's supposed to be looking for something for his mother, but he's caught by the soft warm lights of the bookstore, still open despite the late hour.

They're there, the person with their long black hair and eclectic collection of piercings, hands decorated with rings and black polish. They look up at Martin as he lingers before the big windows, and their eyes meet for the first time.

Their eyes are an unusual shade of bright, light green, and Martin can see them clearly, even through the hazy window panes and across the space between them.

Martin feels seen, as if those eyes are gently resting on his soul, instead of his tired, haggard face.

Gerry tilts their head as if inviting him inside, but Martin feels a spike of anxiety rush through him and he takes off, down the street and towards his errand, desperately trying to put the beautiful bookseller out of his jumbled mind.

Those green eyes start to appear in his dreams.

Most of Martin's dreams are less than fun, full of anxiety and fear, but these are soft. Every time one comes, he wakes feeling settled and energetic, ready to face the day.

They start to feel like a lure, guiding Martin's steps back to the bookstore again and again.

He resists going inside, convinced he won't find anything in there he couldn't find at the library. There's no such thing as magic, no miracle booksellers that can hand him just the right tome to bring him some kind of comfort or fulfilment in life, especially not when life is dull and frustrating and dragging, when the weight of his existence pulls down on him every second of every day.

Martin still finds himself in front of the store day after day on his way to work and then again on the long slog of a commute home, and each time it gets a little harder to resist.

"You could come in, you know," comes a warm, smokey voice from behind him.

Martin jumps, turning to find the bookseller there behind him. They're even taller up close, almost six inches taller than Martin's height of 5 foot 7, and they're wearing bold, dark make-up today, green eyes made more piercing by the carefully applied black eyeliner.

He feels his face heat, caught out. He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, looking away before the sight of them renders Martin speechless.

"I… I don't really need any books." He offers lamely.

"Memoria isn't about need," they respond, subtly shifting further into his personal space. "It's about the freedom to want something."

Unlike most people, who tend to leave Martin flustered and vulnerable when they press too close, their presence is far more welcome, their aura comforting and steadying.

"I don't know what I want," Martin admits, shivering in the cold autumn air.

"Tea?" They offer, stepping up into the doorway and holding the door cracked open.

Martin almost says yes, Martin burns to say yes, but instead he shakes his head, pushing back inexplicable tears as he turns and rushes away, away from hope and freedom and towards the unchanging monotony of his everyday life, just work, and mom, and bills, repeat.

And repeat.

And repeat.

Hope is dangerous. Martin can't afford it.

It's an unexpected rainstorm that finally sweeps him in, the sky opening up in a deluge at just the right moment that the bookstore is the closest open place, and Martin is totally unprepared to deal with it in any other way than to throw himself inside, shutting the door behind him as quickly as possible.

He breathes in a big sigh of relief to be out of the rain, before remembering his previous encounter with the bookseller and burning with shame. He almost throws himself back out into the rain, but they appear behind the counter at the very moment, and Martin doesn't want to compound his terrible behavior by repeating it.

"Good evening," they say politely. "Bit damp out there, isn't it?"

Martin laughs awkwardly, stepping further into the store. It's warm, the air dry and comforting against his damp skin. "Yeah, feels like it came out of nowhere though."

He catches sight of a large clock on the wall, and blinks when he realises that it's past 11pm.

"Oh, I, ah, I'm so sorry, I didn't realise it was so late, you must be closed."

"Must I? Is there some law that says I have to be closed when a cute boy needs shelter from the elements?" They offer a warm, flirtatious smile, leaning on the counter casually.

Martin blushes from the roots of his hair and all the way down to his toes, burning at the completely unexpected compliment. Not only is he decidedly not cute, at the best of times, being recently drenched and looking half drowned certainly wouldn't help the situation.

"I, um…" he takes a deep breath, "Well, as long as I'm not keeping you?"

"Don't worry, I'm not particularly fond of the rain myself. Stay as long as you like." They gesture at the stacks, shelves stuffed full of books in every shape, size and type imaginable. "Looking for anything in particular?"

Martin shakes his head. "I actually work in a library."

"Really? What kind?"

"Well, it's an academic library in a research institution, so it's not like they have many fiction books laying around, but I keep myself entertained."

"I bet you do. You're a bit of the independent sort, aren't you?" They step out from behind the counter, casually (carefully) moving towards him.

Martin's eyes widen. "I live with my mother," he blurts out, starting to tremble slightly from nerves and his wet clothes.

Their eyebrows raise questioningly. "In my experience, mothers are far more work than any 'independence'. That's just my bias speaking though."

"I'm Martin," he blurts out, wanting to talk about anything other than his mother, though he had brought her up. "Martin Blackwood, that is."

They offer a wide smirk, lip piercing flashing in the warm lighting. They offer a hand. "I'm Gerry Delano."

Martin shakes their hand firmly, and finds their grip confident without any aggression. Gerry takes the opportunity to take another step into his personal space. This close up and in an enclosed environment, Martin can smell them, a mix of old paper and black ink, combined with the sweet floral of jasmine. It takes him aback, the contrast is so wild and unexpected.

Martin sways towards them, making no move to step away or extract himself, at ease and not willing to risk breaking the little bubble he's found himself in, even if it is with a handsome stranger.

#the magnus archives fanfic #tma #martin blackwood #gerry keay #witch au #in memoria

[mslynnwrites]

Would you consider Distortion Michael and Gerry Keay with 73? Height difference.

(In this house we ignore canon timelines)

I can consider it indeed! I didn’t intend for it to go this hard but uh. I couldn’t stop, so here’s some sadness.

CW: Distortion and unreality, canon character death(? kind of?), bit of body horror (i.e. Michael being generally creepy)

#73: Height Difference Kisses Where One Person Has To Bend Down And The Other Is On Their Tippy Toes

He should’ve known better. This is what happens when you chase the damned, Gerry thought bitterly. He looked around the twisting colors. Spiral. Distortion. Fear of not being able to trust your own mind.

He should’ve known better.

And now he was stuck here in these stupid corridors with nothing but his wits that he couldn’t even trust. And the person he’d been trying to stop—to save—was gone. They were lost in the Spiral, and he wasn’t going to be able to help them anymore. They were at the mercy of the Fears, now.

So was he, he supposed.

The yellow door he’d entered through was gone. That was no surprise. He was going to have to call on Beholding to get out of this, wasn’t he? Just his luck. Always his luck. At least Mum can’t get to me in here.

There was a laugh behind him, no...around him, no...above? It echoed and twisted inward on itself and spread out wide until all that there was was the laugh.

Gerry glared at the spinning walls. “Oh, piss off!” he shouted.

The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had begun, cutting off with a punch of static. Somehow that made the headache he was forming worse.

“I know what you are,” he called, “and the worst you can do is kill me, and that just feeds Terminus, not you. Let me out, and I won’t kill you.”

There was Something behind him, above him, surrounding him with twisting arms. “Hello, Gerry,” the creature said.

He knew that voice. It was twisted, warped, but… “Michael?”

The creature laughed like a pounding migraine. “That is certainly a name.”

“Show yourself.”

It laughed again. Did it ever stop laughing? “If you insist.”

It’s arms flattened and wrapped into a more visible reality. Something resembling a head rested on top of his own. Gerry pushed it away and Stared.

It resembled Michael Shelley in many ways, but it wasn’t him. Even if it had once been him, it wasn’t him anymore. Its limbs stretched too long, twirled in places where there should not be any joints. Its pale skin was tainted by colours and static distortions. Its hair looked blond, but was it? Perhaps. It twisted and swirled with the rest of the creature.

Not-Michael grinned. Its smile twisted up and spiralled far too wide and long. “You’re afraid now,” it cooed.

He glared at it. “You stole my friend’s face. That’s the Stranger’s m.o., not yours.”

It cackled, seemingly not able to catch its breath. But its face didn’t seem to reflect its amusement. “I didn’t steal it,” it claimed. “I Became.”

“So you killed him,” Gerry replied. “Same thing.”

“Oh no, you misunderstand!” it giggled. “I was once called Michael, but now I am Me. The Twisting Deceit. The Throat of Delusion. I am Distortion Incarnate!”

“Fancy titles really don’t mean anything, you know.”

It crossed its arms. “I don’t recall asking you.”

Gerry leaned back, mirroring its crossed arms. “So what? You ate Michael and then decided to take his body and puppet it around?”

It tapped a too-long finger against its chin. “That is a way to put it,” it mused. “I believe I am both. Michael Shelley and Distortion as One.”

“I don’t appreciate you killing my friend.”

“But I’m still Me! I’m right here! I’m just...different. Something New.”

“You’re not helping your case.”

It sighed, the sound like razors cutting the air. “I am Michael, but I am More, now.”

Gerry glared at it. This thing had taken his friend and Twisted him. “So what do you want?”

It hummed. “I don’t know. I know that I am...fond- of you. I’m not going to kill you, I think.”

“Well thanks, I guess,” Gerry replied. “So...are you gonna let me out?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Right.” He looked around. “Gonna be honest, Michael’s flat looked way better than this mess.”

“Remind me why I liked you,” it muttered. “It’s not like it’s my fault it looks like this.”

Gerry glanced up at the creature. It was tall—very tall. “‘Liked me’?”

Its eyes locked with his. “Yes...when I was just Michael, I was very fond of you, I think.”

He had to look away. He’d never been able to tell Michael—the real Michael—how he felt about him. Now he was Warped into this monstrous entity…

“Do you remember the day I asked you to walk me home?” it asked. “Back when you and...and Gertrude- had just started working together?”

It said her name with such vitriol that Gerry had to take a step back. “So I was right,” he whispered. “She did kill him...you.”

It let out a wail, static breaking through its form. “That bitch!” it screamed. “I didn’t know about the Powers of Fear and Dread! I trusted her!”

Gerry stepped toward the creature’s distorting figure, hands held out. “Hey, hey! Calm down, it’s- it’s not your fault, okay? I should’ve told you.”

The creature that was once Michael fizzled and deflated. “Did you know she was going to betray me? Feed me to a Power greater than any human could hope to control?”

Did he? He knew what happened to all her other assistants. But...Michael hadn’t known any of it. Michael wasn’t murdered by another assistant, or by a spouse, and he hadn’t given himself over to one of the Powers… “No,” he said. “I didn’t know.”

The creature—no, Michael—stared down at Gerry. “I believe you,” it- he said.

Gerry took another cautious step toward Michael, hand stretched out for him to take. Michael’s hand reached up to meet it, now resembling something more human. “I don’t think…,” Michael whispered, staring longingly into Gerry’s eyes. “I don’t think I was supposed to Become. I think I was supposed to die.”

Gerry reached up, cupped Michael’s cheek in his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to die,” Michael said simply, “but I don’t think I want to keep being me, either. I don’t want to be Michael.”

There wasn’t really another option, was there? Aside from giving in completely to the Distortion. Even if Gerry would let himself become an avatar for Beholding, he didn’t think he could save Michael. Not now. Not anymore. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, surprising himself when the sound came out strangled.

The corridors calmed their twisting. The colors weren’t so bright anymore. Michael almost looked human again. “You should go,” he said. “I don’t want you to see me.”

As if the Powers hadn’t taken enough from him—hadn’t hurt him enough. “If there was any way that I could—”

“Don’t.”

“But I—”

Suddenly there were lips upon his own. Or at least, there was something that very closely resembled lips upon his own. Michael was practically bending over himself and then some, and he was kissing Gerry.

And Gerry found that, even though Michael had become something that he actively worked to destroy, he quite enjoyed it.

He leaned up on his toes, pushing against Michael, deepening the kiss. How long had he wanted to kiss Michael? The Original Michael—before he’d been betrayed and murdered and forced into a role not meant for him? It didn’t matter. This was the only time he would get to. He wrapped an arm around Michael, pushing him against his own hellish corridor walls.

Michael practically melted into him. There was definitely something weird going on, anyway. Gerry’s skin prickled at the feeling of what seemed like too many limbs, but really was only two. Just two very disproportionate limbs. His size altered, bringing him down a bit closer to Gerry.

Some needling desire in the back of his mind told him that if he just stayed, just pulled Michael closer, just kissed him a little harder, maybe he could save him after all. Bring back his humanity out of love.

But he knew it didn’t work that way. It never had. Never would.

He knew better.

He didn’t care.

Michael wrapped his arms all around Gerry, twisting and bending many times over. A cocoon of limbs. Then he was breaking the kiss. Throwing him out in the cold drizzle of London.

The door slammed behind him.

#tma #kiss prompt #prompt #kiss #distortion michael #michael shelley #distortion!michael #gerry #gerard keay #gerry keay #the magnus archives #gerry/michael #this is what i wrote instead of my final essay #this wasn't supposed to get so long #it was supposed to be a slightly soft slightly angsty drabble #i spent an hour on this #i wasn't supposed to do that #even my throat was getting tight towards the end #and i WROTE THE DAMN THING #i don't even really ship this #but it made me HURT #i'm proud of this one #tw body horror #tw distortion #tw unreality

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

You're a worker at Ransom's country club and he takes your virginity, please? 💖

+Drabble request for randsom! He start to blackmail the reader into sleeping with him or he’ll let out her dirty little secret ( you can choose what ever that would be!)

requested by @bbyhoneybee-x

Plus Gratuity

Warning: noncon, thievery, blackmail

Your heart raced as you crept around the locker room. The first time was terrifying and almost paralysing but with each visit the guilt slowly faded. These men were so rich, they probably didn’t even notice the missing bills. They tipped well enough but not enough to stomach their errant hands and wandering eyes. They owed you more if you were going to pay your way through grad school on their perversion.

Sad almost how old men filled their midlife crises with golf and ogling women who weren’t their wives. Women who were much too young for them. How they spent the money which had once brought them pride and joy on a woman who would never do more than preen and give a fake laugh in hopes of another bill in her apron.

But you needed more and you weren’t about to beg for it. Your textbooks had infringed upon your rent and your grocery bill had sent your account into overdraft. The first time had been desperation, the second for your commute, until the profit was as much the thrill as the money. Oh, and your phone was cracked thanks to your sprint for the bus.

Harold Ballard's wallet was thick but you were disappointed to find only ones. Perhaps a post-golf visit to the strip club. Ted Lauren’s was a bit more flush and you trusted that a twenty would be unnoticed among the wad of fifties. You continued your rounds as you listened for any footsteps, any strain of the faucets, any clatter of the locker doors beside your own careful prying.

You eased the last locker closed and sighed. You tiptoed around to the exit just beside the showers. You grabbed the long metal handle but the door didn’t budge. You frowned and tried again. The little knob was broken and the flat face was centered with an impossible hole.

You shrugged and flitted back around and across the locker room. The other exit was much the same and there was only one other left; that which led into the pool. You’d have to hope no one noticed you sneaking through.

That door was locked too.

“You didn’t get the hundred in my shoe. Tucked up in the toe.” You turned at the voice which often had your blood cold.

Ransom was of the few younger members of the club and never had more than an arrogant sneer to offer for your troubles. He was a terrible tipper and a worse person.

“I don’t know what you mean,” You said.

“Don’t act so innocent,” He scoffed as he crossed his arms. “You’re pretty slick. Fast. Quiet. If not a little oblivious.”

“I don’t—”

“Hey, if I was you, I’d fleece these pricks for all they got. Gerry’s Rolex is a cool ten grand, even if it is as old as me.”

You stared at him. You were caught. The bile gathered in your chest and you reached into the shallow apron around your waist.

“I’ll put it all back,” You said softly.

“I don’t care. These assholes won’t even know it’s gone.” He smirked. “Unless… Unless someone tells them.”

“What do you want?” Your head pulsed.

“Oh, honey, don’t worry, I’ll add that hundred to your haul.”

He dropped his arms and his hands gripped his hips, his index fingers pressed to the smooth leather of his belt. He still wore his golf clothes, the white shirt tight enough that you could as good as see through it and his slacks sleekly cut so that he seemed even taller.

“What is it? New purse? Shoes? I always wondered what you looked like without that ridiculous apron.” He taunted.

“Tuition. Books. You know, because some of us weren’t handed a trust fund.” You snarled.

“Now, now, don’t be a bitch cause you got caught,” He warned. “I could be a real piece and tell the owner. I’m sure that tuition will be easier to pay without a job.”

You frowned and stayed quiet.

“You done for the day?”

“On break,” You answered.

“I can be quick,” He winked.

You drew your brows together. You didn’t like the way he was looking at you.

“You can have the money,” You offered weakly as he stepped forward.

“I have money,” He grabbed your arm before you could retreat. “You know that.”

“What are you--?”

“Stop wasting time,” He wrenched you toward him. He spun and shoved you into the locker room. “Not much I could want from you.”

He grabbed the waist of your pants, just below the string of your apron. He pushed you forward around the bench as you tried to dig your flats into the tile. You threw your hands up as he forced you against the lockers. He leaned his weight on you until you felt the metal of the door dip.

“Ransom—”

“Mr. Drysdale,” He grabbed the back of your neck. “We’ve never been that familiar.”

You shuddered as his fingers pushed beneath your pants. “Mr. Drysdale, I—please…”

“We don’t have time to waste,” His breath tickled your ear. “Do we?”

“Stop—I don’t—I can’t—Just tell Mr. Denakos. I’ll tell him myself—”

“Mmm, that’s no fun,” He ripped your pants down below your ass and wiggled his hips as he ground his crotch against you.

You whined as he slid his hand between your bodies and rubbed himself before tearing down your panties. You pushed against the locker and tried to wiggle out from his grasp.

“Please—”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Don’t act like you don’t want this.” He purred.

“No, no, I haven’t—”

You bit your lip as he dipped his hand along your ass and forced his fingers between your legs. He kicked his foot between yours and inched them apart. He pushed you harder against the locker and the breath rushed from your lungs.

He was rough as he felt around and teased your folds. You gulped as he slipped a finger into you. You were unprepared for the intrusion. You squeaked and he added another finger.

“Ah, st—ow,” You uttered.

“Come on, don’t act like such a precious little…” His voice trailed off as your body tensed and your nails scratched the metal. “No…”

“Please, stop,” You begged.

“Oh ho, this is gonna be even better,” He drew his fingers in and out of you. “Shit, you better get wet soon.”

“Mr--- Drysdale!” You exclaimed as he pushed until he was knuckle deep. “Ahhh.”

“Fuck it,” He pulled out harshly. “We don’t got time for this.”

The metal of his buckle jingled and tickled the top of your ass. He kept your feet apart with his as he pinned your shoulders with one arm. You felt the smooth tip of his cock as he bared it and pressed it to your ass.

“Ran—”

“No,” He snaked his arm around you and clapped his hand over your mouth. “What did I say?”

You mumbled into his hand as he bent his knees and poked between your legs. Your feet slipped slightly as he pressed his head along your entrance. He pushed until he was cradled by your. He brought his other hand away from his cock and grabbed your hip. He tilted your pelvis and you tried to turn your head away from his other hand. He slammed into you so that your chest was crushed against the locker.

You were on your tiptoes as you were stretched by his length. It hurt so immaculately that the corners of your eyes pricked. He jerked his hips, each time you struggled to keep your feet on the tile, each thrust crushed you further against the locker.

You whined into his palm as he clamped over your mouth and his other fingers curled around your hip and tangled in your apron. You strained around him and latched onto his wrist as you tried to ease the pain.

“A fucking virgin,” He hissed as he rutted against you. “Fucking thief.” He nuzzled your head. “Bet ya not even on anything, hmm?” He got faster and faster, driven by his own voice. “And I just went in bare. Oh, you feel fucking great. So tight.”

You slapped at his hand as your breath hitched and the pressure built in your pelvis.

“I’m gonna blow inside of you,” He whispered. “You like that, hmm? You gonna go out there and smile at those old men with my cum dripped out of you.”

You shook your head and his hand got tighter around your face. He thrust frantically and his grunts filled your ears. Your hips ached as he hammer into you and he withdrew his hand to slap the locked door beside you. He growled and you felt a sudden warmth. He slowed and finally stilled. Your walls were tender and sensitive.

“What time you done?” He asked as he pulled out and his cum leaked from you.

You quivered as he backed away and you barely kept on your feet as you stayed frozen against the metal.

“Well?” He sat heavily on the bench and huffed.

“Four-thirty,” You uttered as you turned slowly to face him. You were stunned as you couldn’t think of anything to do but pull up your panties and black pants.

#dark ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #dark ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale #ransom thrombey x you #ransom thrombrey #ransom thrombey x reader #dark!ransom drysdale x reader #dark!ransom drysdale #dark!ransom x reader #knives out #drabbles

[fangirlinglikeabus]

my unsolicited thoughts on the novelisations of doctor who, season four

the smugglers by terrance dicks i suspect this is one where the presence of actors makes me enjoy it a bit more, because i’m a bit ‘eh’ on the book. a competent novelisation of a middling doctor who story, with not much changed - maybe for people who don’t like reconstructions, since if nothing else it isn’t on the lazier side of these things where they just slap the dialogue down there, and we get some insight into the characters’ heads. also a crash course on what happened in the war machines, and an explanation of what police boxes are. jamaica is...not great, as black doctor who characters go, and there’s some out of date language used to describe him (which is bizarre, because this book was written in 1989, by which time i’m pretty sure ‘black’ had long been the polite word to use). there’s a line ben has when polly goes back to the tardis where he tells her to put the kettle on, and it might have been there in the original (i can’t remember) but i wouldn’t put it past terrance ‘i’m sending tegan off to make tea as a gotcha to the feminists’ dicks to add it in there. equally, he could easily have cut out any sexism about the girls staying at home to make tea if he’d really wanted to since he wrote the damn book, so i’m not letting him off even if ‘it was in the script’

doctor who and the tenth planet by gerry davis like davis’ previous novelisation, this doesn’t change much plotwise. unlike that one, it actually feels like a book someone put more than the bare minimum effort into. in terms of what is different: ben and polly are made contemporary to the novelisation’s publication date of 1976, which means that the setting of the story is also bumped up, to 2000; the cybermen are described in a way more in line with their later appearances; the regeneration scene plays out in a very different way; some lines are dropped/reworded; ben and polly have apparently been travelling with the doctor for longer than we see on screen. significantly, too, a much greater emphasis is placed on the doctor’s ageing, which crops up several times throughout as something that’s happening worryingly fast and is mentioned even before they step out of the tardis (he’s also apparently become more crotchety recently, and has taken to calling ben and polly ian and barbara). as a heads up, this one also uses dated language to refer to a black character (since it was written in the 70s), and the first description of the second doctor uses some...questionable wording to establish him as ‘dark’. also, there’s a bit more violence than on screen, and polly gets wolfwhistled. other than that, though, i think this is pretty decent! although probably not a top ten must read novelisation. 

the power of the daleks by john peel ok so full disclaimer i am not a big fan of this story, so a novelisation that’s a good 100 pages or so longer than any other i’ve read is definitely not something i was hoping for. it...has some decent pov stuff, and it expands the culture of the colony (owned by imc, apparently), plus there’s some continuity at the beginning about unit arriving to clear away the cybermen of the last story, but i’m gonna be totally honest with you i think this is the point where john peel’s insistent sexualisation of women finally made me snap. janley’s depiction is definitely not the worst i’ve seen from him but i’m sick of this man and his inability to write a story without going on about how hot one of the female characters is and how horny every dude is for her. and it’s so transparent, too, because no men ever get the same intensity of treatment from him! janley is written as a heartless bitch, which makes the characterisation of her as someone all the men want but who has turned down all of them way, way worse, too, because it links ‘woman who doesn’t want to have sex with you’ to ‘amoral villain’. other issues with this include several lines which draw out the macho must protect polly from things (with the assumption she can’t handle herself) side of ben which has always slightly irritated me about him, and the fact that i think some parts of it are just genuinely poorly written from a technical point of view. case in point: ‘the desk was a symbol of power’ [two lines later] ‘the desk spoke of wealth and power’.

the highlanders by gerry davis THIS is my favourite troughton serial. i fucking love it to bits, i think more stories should be about dr who’s intrepid female companion mugging a british officer while they go around causing chaos for no good reason. all that to say i really enjoy experiencing this story in any of its forms so even though this isn’t a great one i loved reading it. helped that it felt like a bit of effort was put into it, too. we get some background context on the situation shared with us in narration - that’s most of what stands out as different. also, ben spends a chapter calling polly princess for some reason? there’s also this line: ‘he always enjoyed showing off to polly; the opportunity for it came all too rarely’. i didn’t like the weird qualifier over the doctor wearing women’s clothing where he looks disgusted (although i think this is in the original, so for the record it’s bad there too); the narrative ganging up on kirsty along with polly just because i object to the implication that all 18th century women are inherently passive and useless (maybe this is worse because i’d just read moll flanders immediately before this, and she’s a contemporary to the time heroine who’s anything but passive). i’m vaguely disappointed that the doctor’s german name gets changed from von wer (who) to von werner. bring it back, coward.

the underwater menace by nigel robinson ok i was going to say things but then i was filled with a blind rage over the narration calling polly ‘the hysterical female’ near the end. i will fucking kill you. otherwise...it’s fine? i mean there are a few lines about ‘primitive civilisation’ which i also hate, there are also a few lines i like. it takes the story too seriously, i think - at one point we get an earnest explanation as to why the fish people go on strike, but i don’t even think the explanation makes sense so it doesn’t work and it also undermines the absurdity here that i actually enjoy. polly pulls an ‘unearthly child’ on zaroff at one point, like she’s straight up ready to brain him with a rock. this keeps up a general trend in the novelisations that they’re often slightly more violent than what we get on tv. the most baffling thing about it is that i thought it was going for a more balanced science/religion divide than we saw on tv, but then they pull the whole ‘this is all religion’s fault, we must give it up’ at the end anyway, even though literally every priest we saw fucking hated zaroff, and it was the scientists who were ignoring the warning signs because (as the book itself says) he’d only taught them what he wanted them to know.

doctor who and the cybermen by gerry davis so what do i say about this one? there’s lots of minor changes, really - nothing earthshattering. we learn a bit more about some moonbase personnel. the cybermen get names! ben and polly share coffee responsibilities a bit more equally than i remember on tv. something i liked as a detail is that polly doing her nails gets attention drawn to it before she brings up using the solvent. ben and polly are from the 70s again, only this one was written before the tenth planet but refers back to the plot for it, and this time the future date’s kept to 1986. it does mention telos, though, as the cybermen’s other planet (it’s where the invasion force is from) which brings me to my next point - telos and mondas are always rendered in full caps, for some reason? i wasn’t a fan of jamie being called dim at the beginning (and ‘primitive’, ugh) because i think it conforms to some nasty stereotypes about scottish people - and also, i don’t think it’s even true for his character, he’s actually very good at adapting himself to new situations. once again there’s a bit more violence than on screen - and heads up, this uses the r slur. it was written in 1974 so the word was still in use to mean ‘delayed’ and i think the more general use is meant, but here the cybermen do use it in direct relation to humanity. 

the macra terror by ian stuart black i’m genuinely stumped about whether there’s anything of note changed in this, because...i mean, there are minor deviations? the claw on the scanner is explained as an interfering signal that breaks through when the tardis is adjusting its systems. we witness the tardis’s arrival and departure from medok’s point of view, i liked that. we lost the ‘well this is gay’ line. there’s some good descriptions of the macra. the most significant change is that control is a moving picture - just slightly out of sync with the speech, as the doctor points out. overall, though, i think this is another one of those novelisations where i’d just rather be watching the story, ya know? the famous ‘nobody in the colony believes in macra’ becomes just ‘there is no such thing as macra men’ three times, which is SIGNIFICANTLY worse sounding, and there’s a few comments on female attractiveness which i thought were a bit weird but not, like, john peel level. it did lead to this line, though, which i find legitimately baffling: ‘the scatter-brained, kooky, vivacious blonde with the long legs had vanished and become a glamorous woman’. like...what??

the faceless ones by terrance dicks another one of those ‘broadly competent as a novel but doesn’t add much new’ ones. a few minor details about characters, the scatter scene is altered, and i’m pretty sure there’s more of a threat of the kidnapped humans dying now. also, the sonic’s there. liked: ben and polly’s desire to get home (and ben pestering the doctor to try) being brought up at the beginning so their departure’s not quite so abrupt; samantha’s ability to overpower the chameleon who attacked her being explained as ‘samantha was young and strong and very angry’; the departure scene’s lines being altered slightly so ‘looking after ben’ isn’t implied to basically be polly’s job, so much. disliked: jamie being described as primitive; the line ‘jamie wasn’t really used to bossy females, and he wasn’t equipped to handle them’. overall, solidly middling, and i wouldn’t really recommend seeking it out unless you’re like, desperate to know that the commandant used to be a cricketer. 

the evil of the daleks by john peel this took me an inexplicably long time to read and that might influence my overall opinion on it: not really worth the double novelisation length. it references dalek lore a lot if you’re interested, but most of that just refers back to various tv stories. i liked several details: waterfield can’t pray for comfort anymore because the daleks have made him lose his faith in god; the fact that once victoria’s safe waterfield plans to surrender himself to the authorities is interesting conceptually but obviously nothing comes of it; victoria makes the doctor think of susan because he also found discussions with her to be illuminating; kennedy thinking the dalek he sees looks ‘like something from a daft bbc serial’ is a genuinely decent joke. equally, there are bits i didn’t like: it’s not nearly as creepy as power overall but jamie does ogle some waitresses at the cafe; kennedy has this weird bit where he apparently both has contempt for and wants to be one of the ‘rich slobs’ (the socialist of the conservative imagination, i guess); they’re in a poor area at one point that causes the dr to worry about ‘thugs’ (another thing that feels uncomfortably stereotyped); ruth apparently thought her fiance was in love with victoria and has started to resent her for it (we don’t need drama about men between women, john!); it spells out things i can already infer. predictably it also does nothing to address the questionable elements of kemel as a character, and if anything the narration makes it slightly worse (he ‘comes from a place with an unpronounceable name’, is described as ‘the giant’ as though not fully human, apparently has no inner life since ‘he had no unfulfilled dreams or desires’, is ‘in many ways a child’, etc.). i thought some of the insight into maxtible’s psychology, like him comparing the daleks to powerful people he’s dealt with in the business world, was interesting, but i’m sick of lack of love (in this case for his wife and daughter) being used as a shorthand for moral corruption. jamie gets to say (well, think) bloody! content warning on the fact that mollie briefly considers suicide over fear of job/financial instability. this is a lot to just say it’s Too Long and otherwise a mixed bag, really. 

#doctor who #classic who #first doctor #ben jackson #polly wright #second doctor #jamie mccrimmon #victoria waterfield #laura reads dw books #target marathon #finally finished doctor 1 and it only took me eight months! why did i decide this was a good idea! #well i made my bed etc etc #also fun fact which is probably only fun to me: this is one of only 2 dr who seasons where the main cast changes completely between #the first and last episodes #sorry this took me so long the TWO double length dalek novelisations by dweu fandom's shared nemesis really took me out jdsknfk