#melanie and georgie just want to like. not be dragged into (or back into) a world of unimaginable horrors

[cowboycharmac]

ok i dont want to be the language police or whatever and bitch is a really good curse in the right context but could we all remember that it is also a gendered insult and calling women "bitches" when theyre angry or when they get assertive in a way you dont like has some bad undertones.

#someone on reddit just called melanie king a bitch and i got so angry i threw up #slash exaggerated #but they were like oooh how DARE she not be thrilled to see the antichrist during the apocalypse. how dare she be concerned for her own #safety as well as the safety of everyone she holds dear. during the apocalypse. which was brought about by the guy she has mixed feelings #about hanging out with. shes such a bitch #and its like. have you considered you just hate women #also they were talking about how they hate how alll the mean women are mean to jon and its like. its not gendered thing #it just so happens that jon himself and his literal love interest make up 2/3s of the male protagonists #and the remaining 1/3 is also mean to him #and the whole. women hating jon thing is so. it completely ignores the nuances of his dynamics with the rest of the cast #which are all incredibly complex. and different. and they dont hate him besides #melanie and georgie just want to like. not be dragged into (or back into) a world of unimaginable horrors #daisy was a literal monster blinded by her bloodlust and incapable of seeing jon as a person until he rescued her from the buried #and after that they got along fine #and basira. well. shes just not really great at seeing anyone as people. cop mentality

[emhasthoughts]

Gertrude and the cat-avatars

Summary: Gertrude let one cat in. Said cat has a habit of bringing in other cats.

A/N: During @dcartcorner's stream the topic of avatars as cats came up and I decided to write a little something for it. I have another part with the Distortions that might be posted later. Also worth noting: I do not own a cat, never have, I'm horrible with cat breeds, so I've tried to describe Simon/Peter/Elias through this art and Mike's look is taken from this

Lastly: Not beta read by someone else, just me and my lil google document.

Pt 1, You're here! / Pt 2, Michael and Helen Distortion, Agnes / Pt 3, Annabelle, Jude, Oliver / Pt 4, John, Jane, Maxwell, Manuela / Pt 5, Jon, Martin, Sasha, Tim / Pt 6, Melanie, Daisy, Basira, Georgie / Pt 7, Jared, Gerry, Nikola / Bonus, a visit to the vet / Halloween bonus!

Simon was the first cat she actually adopted. It had been one of her coworkers who had wanted to get rid of him due to their financial situation and asked Gertrude about it. Claiming that he was old and an inside cat, easy to take care of. She had agreed. Thinking it would be easy and that, in the worst case, Simon would not live for long after getting him. She could not have been more wrong.

Sometimes he could have passed as a kitten. Rather small for what he was meant to be, thin despite the amount of food he ate, his gray fur was not fluffy enough to hide how thin he could look. Despite it all, the veterinarian had claimed him healthy. He was also not that much of an indoor cat. Sometimes, whenever he felt like it, he would wander out of the house, sometimes gone for days. Gertrude did not mind it that much. He was a rather loud and talkative cat after all.

Simon also had a habit of getting more cats to her doorstep. 

One day she opened the door to see small Simon standing proudly in the middle of two new cats. One looked nearly ridiculous next to him. Light beige and at least three times bigger and fluffier, with yellow eyes that sort of made it look like he did not want to be there. To the other side was a mainly brown cat, who seemed to be in a perfect middle of size and fluff. A bit of white around the eyes, nose, stomach and paws. He looked at her with judgemental green eyes and for a moment she worried if a cat could actually see into someone’s soul. Since they kept coming back she had named the two Peter, the fluffy cat and the other Elias.

Peter came and went. Similarly to Simon, he could be gone for days, maybe even weeks. Whenever he was home he was with Elias and/or Simon, being quiet and calm. Elias was probably the most judgemental cat she had ever come across. He was not really loud or overly talkative, but he could spend hours in a corner just looking at her without blinking. It was a bit creepy and sometimes it felt like he was secretly planning to kill her in her sleep.

Four months ago Simon was gone for a week, only to come back in with a very disgruntled cat. Looking rather similar to Peter, though smaller, thinner bit of brown around the eyes, paws, tip of ears and tail, including a branching scar most visible on the back. Despite the cat not being a small kitten, Simon still managed to drag them there. The cat had seemingly accepted its fate, making Gertrude question how far from home they were.

She had taken the cat to a veterinarian the day after. It was a male, named Mike, who had once belonged to a couple that passed two years before in a house fire. The scar was older, though it had gotten infected over the two years. She had gotten more of a rundown of everything that was wrong with Mike and she planned to simply let him up for adoption, except Simon did not seem to leave Mike’s side. So, Gertrude accepted Mike in. If only until he was healthy again, by then Simon would hopefully be over it. 

Since then Gertrude had tried to throw Mike back on the streets while Simon was away. Except the pair kept coming back. Which caused her current situation. Sitting on her sofa, trying to watch TV, except she found herself staring at Mike, who had made himself comfortable on the shelf next to a vase, glaring back at her. His paw slowly raising towards the vase, never breaking eye contact. Gertrude narrowed her eyes. Until -

There was no crash. The vase was no longer on the shelf but it was also not shattered on the ground. Her eyes did not leave the falling - flying? - vase. It did not really stop the small cat from glaring at her. 

Gertrude had no real clue how long it was like that. The vase floating on the spot, her looking at the vase and Mike glaring at her. Like a picture, frozen in time. At least until -

CRASH

Well fuck.

#mike crew #simon fairchild #peter lukas #elias bouchard #gertrude robinson #cat avatars #mention of past fire #very brief mention of death #tell me if I should add anything

[panderbearwolf]

TMA/TMAP Orignal VS Somewhere else

OK, So….

I’m new here. Take anything and everything I say here with a MASSIVE PILE of salt.

I don’t think that TMAGP takes place in an alternate universe. I think this is the world they left behind, and the fears are making their way back in for some reason.

Now, I know that this is not what most people expect. A lot of what I’ve seen is people thinking this is “somewhere else”, that Jon and Martin made it somewhere else in this sort of monkey’s paw sort of way.

But I don’t think so. I think this is the TMA universe. And the fears are coming back in. That’s why all the artifacts were coming back in from Hilltop.  I think Jon and Martin and the extra got caught in the web and dragged into the last semblance of the fears that stayed behind—the web, because it connects everything and wasn’t going to wholly leave its home world because it knows that it’s home is useful and filled with a source of fear—so it left itself a way back in. We know that Annabelle is not wholly trustworthy from Jon’s last statement in TMA 200.

I think that as the fears come back, Jon starts to get more power again, as well. This is why he’s now reaching out to people via e-mail. He’s also probably trying to stop Fear-pocalypse 2, no fun for anyone. Because if the fears are coming back so quickly after leaving, there’s something else driving them back. And they’ll want to feed again.

It would also explain why the ruins of the Magnus Institute exist in this world. Why would a world that never had to deal with  the 14  15 cosmic soup of the fears have a ruined Magnus institute? While the fears are a universal thing—or so it seems from how they left in TMA—the specific landmarks and people who are coming through make me think that there wasn’t a somewhere else for Jon and Martin to land.

Now I do understand why people think that this has to be somewhere else. The world of TMA should have been in ruins after the fears took over. And I agree, you’d think. But at the very, very end of TMA we do get Georgie and Basira talking. And it seems like the world just ‘snapped’ back to normal and it seems like everyone is pretending it was just a mass hallucination that everyone suffered. (I don’t want to imagine the generational PTSD, though. Yikes.) It seems like this is the TMA world, a few years down the line after everything righted itself.

That’s why Celia is there. I’ve seen a lot of people saying that she must have made the jump with Martin and Jon, but I don’t see how. (If you have an idea, please, please PLEASE tell me. I would LOVE to be wrong here.) She wasn’t an avatar. She wasn’t even an acolyte outside of being a victim herself. I guess I could see that since she lost her identity that she sort of qualified as a emissary of the stranger, but she’s the only one we’ve met thus far who is might be. And if I’m right, there should be a TON of people who are. Although, I guess people probably wouldn’t talk about their experiences in the fear-world. So maybe I’m wrong. I don’t know.

Anyway, I wanted to ask about something I hadn’t seen many people talking about from TMAP 7: The fact that a ‘security’ force burned down Hilltop Road Consignment shop. It almost seems like the security force knew what was going on, what it meant and why it needed to be stopped. Almost like it was a splinter cell of the original Magnus Institute that recognized what the hell was going on and was trying to stop it. I haven’t seen anyone geeking out about this part as much—mostly because OMG THERE’S SO MUCH to be excited about and theorizing about—but I was hoping someone else thought the same?

I was kind of wondering if there are any descendants from those who survived the TMA series—Basira/Georgie/Melanie—who may have started a watch-group or something because they knew the fears could return.

Anyway.

Happy “I’m losing my goddamned mind” day. I look forward to next Thursday where we somehow find a scrap of sanity left to lose it when TMAP 8 rolls out.

#tmagp #the magnus protocol #tmagp spoilers #the magnus archives #the magnus pod #the magnus institute #basira hussain #melanie king #jonathan sims #jon sims #gwen bouchard #sam khalid #alice dyer #celia ripley #tmagp 7 #tmagp speculation #tmagp theory #the magnus protocol spoilers #tmagp theories

[adamofingolstadt]

I recently got the news I was hired back on or my scare-actor gig this fall

To celebrate: TMA go to a Haunt AU!

Jon:

Particularly averse so any sensory or tactile horror

HATES strobes and hanging bodies you have to push through

Dislikes fairgrounds in general

Only goes because Georgie got promo tickets

Tim

Fucking loves haunted houses

talks the entire way through the haunt

keeps trying to touch props (politely apologizes when stopped by staff)

popcorn!!! spun sugar!! is he in heaven??

Sasha

More partial to rides and photos than haunted houses

Politely asks roaming actors not to bother her

full-time babysitter to her coworkers

Martin

nope nope nope nope

Tim drags him through houses even though he's petrified and freezes in place

is exactly the kind of person scarers target anyways

Tim gets him hot chocolate to apologize

Melanie

went with Georgie on night one

Decked a very expensive animatronic out of fear and was too ashamed to go back.

Daisy

Gets drunk on $30 beers

gets rowdy in line

barks at the actors (this is actually very common)

prefers rides anyways

Basira

Full-time babysitter to her drunk-ass partner

gets into fights with security when they try to boot them out

Threatens actors to cover her fear (also very common)

Georgie

Has to spend most of the time vlogging because it's a brand trip

not scared but occasionally pretends to be because she doesn't want everyone to feel bad

designated line-stander

Elias

was not invited

waits half an hour just to walk though houses and politely clap for the actors like a sadistic asshole

Peter

RSVPed to Elias

did not show up

#tma #tma shitpost #martin k blackwood #jonathan sims #timothy stoker #sasha james #basira hussain #daisy tonner #elias bouchard #georgie barker #melanie king #halloween #the magnus archives #teaholding #tma au #The Magnus Haunt

[annabelle--cane]

You don't have to answer this if you don't feel like labouring the discussion but I'm. Baffled as to how that recent post's points got you called an abuse apologist. I'm trying to rationalize it in my head I. Was it implying that Martin and Georgie had similar levels of power and therefore freedom and that Martin held more power over the rest of the archives? Was that truly what hit the nerve somehow? Because Georgie's controversial and Martins a fan fav??? I'm sorry again I don't want to drag this out but. I'm baffled. This fandom baffles me.

I believe the thing that set people off was that my og post from way back in the day was phrased a bit more emotionally, something like "it's really sad that jon didn't have access to that kind of support because martin didn't think he meant it and georgie thought melanie wanted help more" and some people read that as me saying it was georgie's duty to help jon and she didn't have to right to cut him off (I have not said that once ever in my life), and that idea really set some people off to the point where I was getting thirty paragraphs in my notes from someone a decade older than me asking me to explain why I thought it was okay to force people to be on call 24/7 for toxic friends who don't actually want help and just want to drag people down and control them. wild times.

#and like I do have sympathy for that person because that idea (that I didn't say and they made up) clearly hit on something personal #but they continued to not apologize or concede any fault even when they calmed down a few days later so. #answered #anons #will probably come back and retroactively tm/a tag this for my own organization in a few days but not just yet #tma

[iceeckos12]

and he sees dawn before the rest of the world

or: a fucked up little au of 200. intended to be unsettling so just be warned warnings for: unreality (i think that’s the appropriate term? please lmk if not), implied self harm, fucked up relationship dynamics; lmk if i should tag anything else

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

“Ugh, five more minutes,” Martin hissed, throwing an arm across his face, as though he could stop the barrage of sound just by covering his eyes. His alarm was unsympathetic to his whinging, continuing to scream its daily mourning dirge, grieving the end of another period of blessed rest. “Fine, fine! I’m getting up, christ…”

He reached clumsily for the phone on his bedside table, only for his fingers to scrabble uselessly around the ghost of its presence. He was momentarily so stymied by the absence that it took him longer than it should’ve to remember that he’d moved it to his desk, to prevent him from giving into the temptation to hit the snooze button just one more time.

Letting out another slew of curses, Martin shuffled onto his other side and reached for

A jaw-cracking yawn near split Martin’s face in two as he hunched over the gleaming tea kettle, steam beginning to pour from the spout. He shuffled his feet, eyes meandering sightlessly over the cow-shaped mug drying on the counter, the cluster of crumbs that he must’ve missed when cleaning up after dinner last night.

He hated mornings. Maybe it was the preemptive dread he felt at the thought of going to work; maybe it was because he hated having to be upright this early in the morning. Either way, he felt strangely disconnected from his morning routine, each motion carried out with habitual, distant efficiency as his thoughts raced along like a hamster on a wheel just below the surface.

It...was a bit silly for him to be worried about work, though. The stuff he was doing was interesting, and he had the loveliest coworkers a guy could ask for. They’d even offered to teach him a thing or two about artifact restoration once they learned the truth about his CV.

He drew himself up to his full height and rolled his shoulders back, clouded sigh mingling with the fog from the boiling water. Things were going well. Hell, he was actually going to get top surgery sometime in the next year or so, which was amazing considering his teenage self would’ve laughed at the very idea of being out.

There was no reason to dread going to work.

Martin carefully poured the water into the mug, letting the tea steep before adding a splash of milk and sugar. When he picked the mug up, the heat from the tea had bled into the ceramic, so warm as to be uncomfortable against the delicate skin of his palms. He didn’t let go, just kept on gripping the mug, like trying to contain the last gasp of a dying star.

Martin stared around his kitchen. The waterstains on the inside of the cow mug slowly evaporating into the still air; the crumbs that had sat there for who knows how long. The empty, blank face of his fridge.

Martin lifted the mug, and steam collected on his glasses as his breath wafted over the surface of the tea. He drew away, waiting for the lenses to clear, before leaning in for another sip.

His reflection stared back at him, a monochrome facsimile of his face rimmed in white smoke, and he recoiled, the mug slipping from

Working nine to five, what a way to make a living…

Martin stared out the window, his hand pillowed in the palm of his hand as Dolly Parton crooned in his ears. Split second by split second, he let his eyes catch on a point in the darkened surroundings, only letting his vision blur into incoherence when that fixed point whipped out of sight. It was a game he sometimes played when he got bored of reading or playing cards on his phone.

The old woman across from him let out a quiet grunt and shuffled, drawing his attention back inside the train. She was a gnarled old thing, bowed by the gravity of grief and time and life, though Martin couldn’t say for certain whether it was one well-lived.

Barely getting by, it’s all taking and no giving...

That was the thing about people watching: Martin was never quite sure if it was disrespectful to make assumptions about a person’s life based on a passing glimpse. He could never be sure if the person with the grumpy expression had a foul attitude, or if they were just a kind person on the tail-end of a truly awful day.

The old woman was knitting though, and Martin generally found it safe to assume that knitters were nice people.

For a moment he thought about taking out his headphones and striking up a conversation; the pattern looked devilishly complicated, and as a beginning knitter, he always appreciated tips. There was an unfinished set of fingerless green gloves in the back of his closet; it was easy for hands to get cold in the Archives, and the color suited

“Alright, Martin?”

Martin startled, his pen clattering to the floor. He looked up to find Sasha perched on the edge of his desk, grinning like the cat who’d just eaten the canary. Or, he thought she was. His eyes kept skittering from one corner of her face to the other, like a smooth stone skipping across a lake.

“Uh…” Frowning slightly, he let his gaze travel over the shelves of books, the humming lights, his cluttered workstation. He removed his glasses so he could rub at his aching eyes, and let out a deep sigh. Probably just the stress. “Yeah—yeah! Sorry, I’ve been distracted all morning.”

Martin got the impression of Sasha’s grin being tempered with genuine concern. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is everything okay?”

“I think so. Just...work, and my mum…” he gave an expansive you know sort of gesture at life in general. “Thank god the weekend’s coming. Anyway, is there something I can help you with?”

“Well, I was going to ask if you wanted to come get drinks with Mel and Tim and I after work, but…” She cut him a meaningful glance, the bottomless holes where her eyes should be boring bright spotlights into the back of his skull. “We’d understand if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“Is Georgie coming?”

Sasha shrugged. “Probably. Mel didn’t say so, but they’ve been all over each other since they started dating.”

Martin laughed. “True.” Tried to gauge how he was feeling, whether or not he was up to a night of socializing. You should go, a strangely posh little voice murmured in the back of his head, and he found himself saying, “Actually yeah, I would like to come. I could use a night out.”

Sasha clapped him on the shoulder, and the impact rattled through him like a gong being struck. The echoes of it vibrated all the way down to his toes. “Excellent.”

Martin hesitated, and then, not entirely sure of what he was asking, “What about J

“Thanks for waiting with us,” Georgie said, smiling beatifically up at him. Passed out on her shoulder, Melanie let out a drunken snuffle and curled over, like she was thinking of climbing through the spaces of Georgie’s ribcage and sleeping in her chest cavity forever.

“Not a problem,” Martin replied, scratching the back of his neck.

To be honest, waiting with her was as much for his benefit as theirs. At first, he’d thought it was just stress; now, he was very sure that something was wrong. It wasn’t anything specific, or even bad; more like there was a sepia camera filter tinting the world dusty and nostalgic.

After his third drink, he’d looked into Tim’s laughing face and thought he might burst into tears. And he still didn’t know what Sasha was supposed to look like.

But he didn’t want to worry her, so he just bit his lip and rocked back and forth on his heels, even though the motion made his head spin that much worse.

(Maybe he needed to take a couple of days off. Have a lie-in. But that would—that would delay his work. The Institute’s work. Delays were bad; he felt strongly enough about that to carve it directly into his skin so that he’d never forget. He could roll down his sleeve and take a peek at it whenever his motivation slipped, like checking a watch for the time.)

For lack of anything else to say, he nodded toward Melanie. “She’s really out, huh?”

“She’s always been a lightweight.” Her tone was wry, but her eyes were soft and fond as she brushed Melanie’s bangs back from her face. “Never gets hungover though, the lucky bastard.”

“The nerve!” Martin said, affecting offense, which sent them right into another giggling fit.

Once he got his breath back, Martin mentioned offhand, “You know, considering how similar they are, I’m surprised that her and J̷̧̱̜͕͕̤͉̣̺̺̝͖̠̹̜͙̣͉̩̺̤̟͉͓̞̹̗́̆̂̋͆̊̎́͂̑͋̌͊͘̚͠ͅo̶̧̨͕̖͔̬̖̝̪͚̻̟̠̜̣̰̅n̶̥̉́̎͑̀͂͆̿̾͛̾̔̐͌́̅̂͂̒̆̐́͊̄̾̍̅̅͝

“Stop it!” Martin screamed, grabbing the mug from the counter and throwing it across the room. It shattered against the wall, scattering shards of ceramic across the floor. “I know

“What you’re doing,” Martin gripped the bathroom counter, ignoring the persistent ringing of his alarm, staring deeply into his reflection, “Stop it, stop it, nononon̴̡̡͚̮̠͙̻͔͎͈̜̓̈́̈́͜͜ͅǫ̸̯̠̱̖̲͙͍͎͒̇̑͒ṅ̶̨̩̳̩̝̹̳͎͈̬̦͆́̈́́͐̏̈́̕͝͝o̸̡̻̱̗̥̮̙̳̞͗̄͋̈́̀͝n̸̢̛̟͙̘̱̩͕̦̫̤̮͆͑̊͋́̂̽͜o̶̘̱̗̘̘͑̿͜ņ̶̥̞̠͕͓̠͔͚̮͈̬͕̀͗̄̓͑͑͛̕ͅő̸̮̫̓͌̾̌͋́̂̏̒̃̃̄̚n̵̗̫͕̺̻͔̭͖̉͒͗̀̈́̃̅o̴͓͉͉͗͋̎̕—”

“Shhh, it’s okay. I’m sorry, it’s okay—”

“No!” Martin shrieked, shoving Jon’s hands away, skittering backward across the broken and cracked stones of the Panopticon. Through the arched windows, the sky was a poisonous green and black, and multitudes of eyes orbited the room, watched his every movement with sickening fascination. “Just—stop.”

Luminous gaze weary and resigned, Jon did as he was bid, dropping back onto his heels.

Rubbing sweat and grime and tears from his face, breathing harshly through his mouth, Martin took a moment to remember where he was, why he was here. It always took a moment for everything to come back.

As though unable to keep silent any longer, Jon asked, “So what was it this time?”

“Don’t,” Martin hissed, dragging his hands through his greasy hair.

Though his expression went mulishly annoyed, Jon raised his hands placatingly, a silent, alright, you win. It was a familiar gesture, one that he’d done so many times while they were living in Scotland, while they were traveling the devastated landscape of the apocalypse. It made Martin ache for when things were simpler, when his heart didn’t just feel like one big bruise.

He gently set the thought aside, and turned a more assessing eye on the Panopticon. Normally the changes were insignificant, but something thick and red and black had started to coil around the windows, weaving in and out of the floor, cracking the stonework. Martin traced the strange things with his eyes, frowning—

“Christ, Jon,” he whispered in horrified realization. “Are...are those corpse roots?”

Jon bobbed his head. “They’ve long since overtaken the rest of London. It’s just us, now.”

Martin sucked in a long, frustrated breath through his teeth. There was no point trying to talk any sense into Jon, not after so long, and force would only result in immediately getting kicked back into that horrible dream world.

“And the others?”

Jon shrugged, tracing the cracks in the earth with his fingers. “Still alive, and living happily in the dream I made for them.” He didn’t say, unlike you, but the implication was so loud he might as well have screamed it.

“Shut up,” Martin muttered, pushing to his feet and limping to one of the windows.

Corpse roots, as far as the eye could see. They covered the city of London in a blanket of tangled black, so thick that it was impossible to see the buildings beneath.

“Was it worth it?” he asked, sagging against the side of the window, too tired to be angry.

When the silence persisted a second too long, Martin turned around to find Jon with his head tilted back, examining the corpse roots consuming what had once been the Beholding’s seat of power, expression distant and thoughtful. The eyes, ever-watching, never understanding, drifted closer, greedily drinking in the sight.

When Martin realized that Jon wasn’t planning on answering, he let out another sigh, ruffled his bangs away from his face, and said, “You’re never there.”

Jon’s gaze snapped to him with a laser-edged focus. “Sorry?”

“If you’re going to trap me in a dream,” Martin said, each syllable clipped and precise, “You could at least be there.”

Like it always did, Jon’s face crumpled, and he looked away. “...I don’t deserve it.”

“Oh, we’re well past that and you know it!” Martin shrieked, striking his fist against the stone. “You made your fucking decision to damn the world, to hell with whatever we thought, the least you could do is stop hiding behind your pointless guilt and act like this is what you actually want!”

It would’ve been better, if Jon had simply become drunk with power and was no longer listening to reason. The fact that he’d made this same decision every single day with clear, unclouded eyes and sound judgement—as Jon the human, rather than Jon the lynchpin of the apocalypse, pupil of the Eye—made Martin want to scream.

“I do want it!” Jon snapped back, then quieter, “I do.” He looked up at the corpse roots again, eyes going misty. “I just—I should witness every second of misery and pain that I’m causing. I don’t deserve to just...forget.”

Wind snapped and howled around them like a creature mad with rage, and Martin idly wondered what would happen to this world once Jon died. If it would all go back to the way it had been before, or if the shell of the apocalypse would remain until the end of time, a corpse husk of a reality warped beyond repair.

“You shouldn’t have to experience this alongside me though,” Jon continued, rallying. “So I would really appreciate it if you’d stop breaking your dreams.”

“Tough,” Martin snapped back, folding his arms obstinately over his chest.

“You could be happy!” Jon reiterated, stabbing his index finger into the palm of his hand. “You could just...live your life! Forget! There’s no point in being here.”

“It’s a deal, remember? Where you go, I go. Fuck you very much, but I don’t break my promises.”

Jon stared at him for one beat, then another—and then promptly burst out laughing, his whole body shaking with the force of it. Martin stared at him, utterly bewildered, as the laughing slowly began to dissolve into desperate, heaving sobs, as he began rocking back and forth, arms wrapped around himself in a mockery of comfort.

“I miss you,” Jon gasped out, half-crazed. “So much. I miss you every day even though you’re right in front of me. But I can’t go to you, because I don’t deserve to, not when I’m the one who trapped you here. I’m everything that’s wrong with the world. I always have been.”

“Jon,” Martin sighed, low and tired.

Jon buried his face into his knees. “No, you shouldn’t—you shouldn’t forgive me just because you pity me, that’s not what I—I don’t—”

“Who said anything about forgiveness?” Martin shook his head. “Fine. You’re an asshole, and I hate you. But it’s like I said.” He gestured toward the Panopticon, the roots, the poisonous sky. “When has deserving ever mattered?”

Jon lifted his face from his knees, though his gaze stayed rooted to the floor. “...I suppose.”

“Right,” Martin agreed. “I’ve accepted that you’re not going to change your mind, but...at the very least, I don’t want to die alone. So can you please just…”

There was a long, weighted pause.

They’d had arguments like this what felt like hundreds of times before. Martin begging for Jon to change his mind, Jon refusing with that same resigned, determined expression on his face, before sending Martin back into his dreams.

Maybe it was because Martin wasn’t asking him to change his mind this time. Maybe it was because they were so close to the end of all things, and soon they’d be the last two people on earth. Maybe it was because Jon was tired, had been for so, so long, and he had won anyway, so there was no point in fighting any longer.

“Alright,” Jon whispered.

…

…

...

Bzzzt! Bzzzt! Bzzzt!

“Ugh, five more minutes,” Martin hissed, throwing an arm across his face.

Somewhere in the far distance, the toilet flushed. A moment later, a pair of feet padded lightly into the room, hesitated at the edge of the bed, and then made their way over to the desk. The alarm abruptly went silent.

Martin uncovered his eyes and grinned up at Jon as he tentatively slid back between the covers, every movement careful and deliberate, like he was reading stage directions from a script.

“Look at Mr. Workaholic, having a lie-in,” Martin teased, pulling Jon into his arms and inhaling the scent of his coconut shampoo. “Must be the end of the world, or something.”

Jon stiffened for just a moment, before turning around and burying his face into Martin’s chest. “Or something.”

#iceeckos12 writes #my writing #tma #jonmartin but make it especially tragedy flavored

[pitviperofdoom]

TMA Bright Spots: Night Night

Jon and Martin: still together? Still together.

"To whatever Dread Power it may concern." People like to say Jon and Martin have nothing in common but one's a funny bitch and the other is also a funny bitch, so there's one thing at least.

The other thing being they both care about children. Like holy shit, the Web was literally Jon's nightmare and he wasn't as vocally upset there as he was here. He cares so much, he just shows it differently than Martin.

No, seriously, even the snotnosed bullying avatar gets his compassion because he understands that Callum's lashing out comes from a place of fear and trauma rather than matured and genuine pleasure like Jude and Jared. I briefly entertained the question of whether Jon would have killed him if Martin asked him to before realizing it wasn't a question at all, because Martin would never have asked him to and Jon knows that. That's probably why he knocked on Callum's door in the first place. He was never going to lay a finger on that kid.

On that note, another avatar is spared the smiting!

Your mileage may vary on this one but I think Martin's gradual journey to taking his fingers out of his ears is a good thing even though he vehemently didn't want to when Jon's "vents" first started.

Hear me out. For every person who's turned their back on Jon, whether justified or not, the main catalyst was their refusal to hear about what he was going through. Tim and Melanie were too wrapped up in their own anger to have room to consider his struggle, Basira was laser focused on pragmatism to the point of trying to cut emotions out of her decisions entirely, and Georgie just didn't want to be dragged into the horror at all. Martin started out in a somewhat similar headspace to Georgie ("I can't be that for you.") but in spite of this he's still been asking questions, trying to learn more, trying to get a feel for where Jon's head is at. And Jon, as we all know, is terrible at communicating his feelings. He's trying but he's still bad at it, and I think this episode was a big step for Martin realizing, okay, telling isn't working, I need to bite the bullet and have him show me. He wants to empathize! He wants to understand, even when it's hard and the truth isn't pretty! And through it all he still checks on Jon and Jon still checks on him and ugh ugh they love each other so much even when they're scared.

Martin still won't give up hope that fixing things is possible! He seems to be moving past the idea that there's an easy or immediate solution, though. Let's see where this goes.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma spoilers #mag 173 #tma bright spots

[voiceless-terror]

Ep. 192 Spoilers: Jon’s thoughts on the Panopticon, Rosie’s statement, and Jonah Magnus.

Martin says goodbye.

Georgie does not, and neither does Jon. She thinks carefully about the words she speaks, now that she knows their power. Jon appreciates this, here at the end. 

There are Archivists (colleagues) in their path, blocking their way. They’re you, they’re what you might become - but they aren’t, because Jon’s managed to do what none of them could. He is the Archive and they are shadows and dust, forever doomed to guard the tower and never truly know the favor of their God. And they will heed his call.

Ceaseless Watcher, see your servants approach. Herald their arrival and bid them welcome into our your sanctum.

They move. Jon and Martin start their climb.

It’s dizzying, their ascent. Jon can feel the power thrumming heavily in his veins as they grow closer. The tunnels, while not so cut off as Upton House, were so numbing. He felt pitiful, mundane, sapped of all energy. And this is his world, isn’t it? He should never have to feel that way. Jon feels guilty for this thought, of course. He’s felt guilty all his life, that will never change. But now he feels powerful, and that is altogether different.

He answers the call, accepts the gentle but insistent tugging. It speeds his steps and devours his fear and it feels so terribly good. There’s a voice but it’s distorted by a familiar static; if he focuses hard Jon thinks he hears Elias’s Jonah’s voice, but he can’t be too sure. It’s all the same now.

Martin calls to him, tells him to slow down. He tempers his excitement, tries to keep it light. Corrects his Shakespeare. He feels guilty for enjoying this, despite his terror. Martin’s his reason. Martin keeps him grounded. Martin’s right behind him- no he isn’t. Jon pauses.

The door that bars them from Elias’s office is the same as it always was, but on a nightmare scale. His fingers itch to reach out, he’s so close, he wants to see but then- of course.

Rosie.

She’s always barred his way. From his time as a researcher, to his promotion as Head Archivist and even now, trapped in a hell of her own making. He regards her with a strange mix of pleasure and pity; she doesn’t deserve this, none of them do. But the familiarity soothes him.

They need an appointment. Martin scoffs, tries to get through to her. Jon insists. She buzzes Jonah with some reluctance, and where Jon expects to hear the crisp, clear voice he knows so well, there is nothing but static. 

But Rosie understands this static. Is Jonah even speaking to her? Or is she hearing an echo of times past, an eternal chorus of ‘Send him right in’ or ‘We’ll need to reschedule.’ It would be fitting. 

She refuses them once again. Jon relents, drags Martin away. The Eye has a gift for him, one last statement before he sees what could be the face of his God made visible. He never thought much of Rosie, never really knew her.

But now he will.

Jon sees her- a woman fast approaching middle age with nothing but the ruins of a failed marriage and a need to start over guiding her hand. Elias, young but so very old, staring down with cold grey eyes. 

So why do you want this job, Ms. Zampano?

How strange. Even after all this time, Jon never knew her last name.

She needs money, she needs something to do, she instead says she’s curious and tells herself it’s a lie but is it, really? She’s always had a wild imagination. Her mind goes to the strangest of places and yet she does nothing, nothing about it. 

Jon watches as he enters the picture. So young, he thinks, but then again it had only been two years ago, hadn’t it? 

The things they said about him in the break room.

He knew of it peripherally, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Snickers when he passed by a room of former colleagues in an ill-fitting suit, hair gelled within an inch of its life. He remembers he bought new shoes when he got the promotion. They didn’t match any of his clothes. Everyone knew what a fool he was. Once, an email went around, forwarded to him by accident (or perhaps not). The first few replies left a sour taste in his mouth, and he deleted it before finishing. He buried his head in the sand, in more ways than one. 

The sort of things that passed across Mr. Bouchard’s desk about him. 

Jon wonders how many complaints Elias ignored. He only concerned himself with the most important ones, god forbid they anger the donors. But now he sees the stack filed away in a folder that will never be opened. In a strange, perverse sort of way, Elias was the only one on his side. The only one who wanted him. How sad.

Insecure, aggressive, desperate to be taken seriously.

I don’t want to hear this- but he does and he speaks it for his God to hear and perhaps Martin, only steps away. It sounds like a confession Jon doesn’t mean to make. He knows how pathetic he was, he can’t change it or take it back. Just a bark with no bite, Martin told him in those precious few weeks at the cottage.

He watches as Sasha- that’s Sasha, the real Sasha, scared but brave and angry as she rushed down the corridor. That’s her voice, not clouded by the static of a tape but just in the other room, if only Rosie would open the goddamn door he could finally see her-

But the Eye gives, and the Eye takes away. This is Rosie’s story; not his, not Sasha’s. The worms come, Sasha is gone, Daisy drags him past Rosie and he feels her pang of sympathy more than he sees it; Rosie keeps her face impassive, even when paralyzed with terror. Melanie and Tim- Tim, angry and whole- pass by for but a moment, and Rosie watches, waits, perfect servant of the Eye that she is, perfect backup plan. Nosy Rosie. 

Peter Lukas is here, smiling his empty smile but now Peter Lukas is dead, Jon made sure of that. He thinks he understands what Daisy felt; the call of the blood, the satisfaction behind a finished hunt. The thrill of his first kill soon replaced with fear and loathing and oh god, what have I done?

And now here they are. Rosie sits and waits for guests that never come until they do, now there’s two monsters on her doorstep side by unholy side. But Rosie knows monsters well.

Mr. Sims, was it?

Yes, yes! That’s his name. Sometimes he’s shocked to find he still has one. Martin’s Jon is not the same. Sims- that was his father’s name. His mother’s name. His grandmother’s. He can’t put a face to any of them anymore but he wants to hold on to that remnant of his childhood, lonely and sad as it was. His name is Jonathan Sims, and he’s here to see Jonah Magnus.

Jonah Magnus sees. Jonah Magnus can do nothing but see now, forever tangled in his own web of fear made manifest again and again and again, a perpetual cycle, an exquisite agony. It’s a sickness, like Jordan Kennedy said, but it’s a sickness that Jon would weep to have if only for a moment. Jonah got what he wanted, but for all of his Sight he could never know what the outcome of that desire would be. He’s one with the eye now.

He’s won.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29068671

#my writing #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #rosie zampano #elias bouchard #jonah magnus #jonmartin #tma spoilers #mag ep 192 spoilers

[ghostbustermelanieking]

If you're still doing microfics, 15 for JonMartin?

it's about time i wrote a post canon fix it au. warning for mentions of trauma/nightmares, and the events of s5

15. trembling hands

There are months of nightmares, after the world turns back. Months of sleepless nights, trembling as they hold onto each other in the night, months of waking up shouting or screaming, reaching for the other. They're reliving every horrible thing they saw in the apocalypse, every moment they thought they wouldn't be coming back. (Martin disappearing in the Lonely house, Martin with a blade at his throat, leaving behind a faint scar that matches Jon's. Daisy dragging Jon off by the leg. Jon trapped and floating at the top of the Panopticon, writhing there in Jonah's place. Martin suspended above the cavern between worlds. That horrible moment after it was all over, the Archives burning and Jonah dead, where they couldn't find each other; they'd thought the other was dead.)

It's worse for Jon, most of the time, Martin thinks. He saw so much of the torment every person in the world was facing, so much more than Martin ever did. They both have their moments, both taking the chance to comfort and lean on the other, but Jon seems to wake up screaming so much more often than Martin. 

(They are happy, otherwise, finally happy, as happy as they can be. They've gone back to Martin's flat—there isn't anywhere else to go, Jon doesn't have a place anymore—and they've been working on making it a home again, after months of the Lonely turning it into a hollow, impersonal place. Georgie and Melanie and Basira have all survived, have gone back home or found a new place, and they all see each other often as they can. Neither of them have a job yet, have even really thought about it; they'll find something eventually, Martin knows, but they have somehow been awarded severance pay by the Institute, and that should be enough to support them both for a while. For now, they can spend time doing all the things they loved to do during that brief time in the safehouse: going to bed early and sleeping late, drinking good tea, cooking breakfast and dinner, reading books and writing poetry, waking up together every single morning. It's more than Martin ever thought they'd get, towards the end, and he's unbelievably grateful for it. They are happy—although the trauma lingers anyway.)

Martin wakes up one night to find Jon's half of the bed empty. Panic seizes habitually in his chest and he starts to call out for Jon, reaching across the bed frantically and only touching empty sheets, until he sees the light on in the bathroom. Hears the shaking breaths coming from the other side of the door. 

Martin climbs out of bed quietly and pushes open the door, gently as he can. Jon's bent in front of the sink, gripping the edge of it with both hands, his head turned down so Martin can't see his face in the mirror. "Jon?" Martin whispers, voice gentle, in an attempt not to startle him. 

Jon jumps a little anyway, his head shooting up. His eyes are red in the mirror, tear tracks down his face. "Jon, are you all right?" says Martin, his stomach turning with worry. Jon usually doesn't leave when he has a nightmare, usually just reaches for Martin. He's almost nervous at finding Jon gone, finding him hiding here, wondering what in the world could have prompted that.

"Martin," says Jon, his voice breaking. "I-it's nothing. Go back to bed."

Martin hesitates, leaning against the bathroom door. "I-if you need to be alone, I'll leave you alone," he says, finally. "B-but, Jon, you… you don't seem like…" He doesn't know what to do, but he doesn't feel like he should leave Jon alone. He reaches out slowly, his hand trembling, to touch Jon's hip. The way Jon leans into the touch, in a panicked sort of way, confirms it; Martin steps a little closer and slips his arms slowly around Jon from behind, presses his face against Jon's back and kisses the crest of his shoulder. "I've got you," he whispers. 

Jon takes a sharp breath, lifts his hands to cover Martin’s. His hands are shaking, too. He says, "I'm sorry, Martin, I… I just…" 

"Don't apologize, Jon, please." Martin presses a kiss to the side of Jon's neck. 

"No, it's… it's silly, it was just a nightmare, I shouldn't have gotten so upset, it's just…" Jon takes another shaky breath, links their fingers and squeezes Martin's hands. "I-I don't want to lose you, Martin."

It's Martin's turn to take a sharp breath, to tense from where he's holding Jon. Jon turns in Martin's arms, reaching up to touch Martin's face. "I… I know we're here, and we're safe and we're happy, but I… th-there was times towards the end I thought we'd never have this. Th-that it wasn't possible to have this. I… I thought I wouldn't survive, I thought it was inevitable." Martin winces, his eyes shutting. Jon strokes a thumb over his cheek, the pads beneath his eyes, wiping tears away as they fall. "B-but Martin, I… I tried to tell myself all this time that it didn't matter if I died, t-to save the world, because it meant you'd live. If you were safe, it didn't… a-and towards the end there, I thought…" His voice breaks. A tear streaks down his cheek. 

"It's okay," Martin tries. "I-it's…"

Jon takes a sharp breath, rises on tiptoe to press his forehead to Martin’s. "It's silly. I know. I-I just… I don't want to lose you. I don't want to lose you, Martin, I…" 

Martin leans forward to kiss him; he can taste the salty wetness on both of their lips. He leans into Jon's shaking palm and says, "Y-you won't lose me, Jon. You won't. I-I promise… with everything in me, I—I promise you won't lose me."

Jon takes another unsteady breath and tries for a smile. Martin catches his hand (still shaking, both of their hands shaking) and says, "You won't," and presses a kiss to the base of his ring finger. It's as much of a promise as he can offer, right now, but it doesn't mean he means it any less. 

Jon's breathing goes sharp all over again, and he leans in to kiss Martin another time, their wet faces pressed together and their hands tangled, steadying each other, right there. 

#tma fic #jonmartin #the magnus archives #i wrote this #microfics #trauma tw

[toosicktoocare]

prompt:  if you are interested..! i’ve always been wondering what happened to jon once he was finally able to get treatment for his hand. burns get infected the most easily, is all i’m sayin, yknow? (love your work! have a great day)

I can finally write this because I finally got to that point in the podcast, lol

Set directly after episode 92, AKA the episode where the archives squad is finally reunited, Elias confesses, and general insane shit hits the fan that, as Tim so nicely puts, is the usual around here.

Little soft JonMartin just because 

Jon’s rummaging through the archives, briefly scanning statements he wants to take with him back to Georgie’s, the only distraction from his otherwise reeling mind. It’s almost funny, he thinks, how his mind has taken to an endless, internal monologue despite the very obvious pain drumming almost rhythmically against his temples. He’s lost in a whirlwind of how’s and what if’s, and the statements, he thinks... well, the statements may be the only drug that can temporarily take him away from himself.

“Jon?”

Jon jumps, not having heard the door open over the sound of his deep, frantic inner voice. He whips around, one file clutched a little too tightly to his chest, and sees Martin hovering in the doorway, almost as if he’s afraid to enter.

“Sorry,” Martin sputters softly. “I did knock.”

“It’s... fine,” Jon sighs out, the initial anger of being startled dissipating along a low breath. He studies Martin, eyes flicking all around for any sign of injury or distress, but Martin just looks hesitantly worried for him, and Jon finds that he has kind of missed that look.

“Are you alright?”

Though soft in tone, Jon can physically feel the weight behind each word in the short yet not so simple question. He debates on what he should tell Martin, or rather, if he should tell Martin anything, but his present, physical well-being comes back by a burning twinge across his burned hand from where he’s gripping the file too tightly. He hisses sharply between his teeth and lets the file fall from his hand.

“Jon! What’s wrong?” Martin’s already starting toward Jon, both hands reaching outward, and Jon quickly finds that his feet do not actually want to move, so, carefully, he extends his burned hand out away from where he’s had it cradled to his chest.

Martin’s fingers are incredibly gentle around Jon’s thin wrist, such a drastic contrast from the fear and worry so evident across his face.

“Oh, Jon... This... This doesn’t look good at all. Have you gone to get this looked over?” Martin’s careful as he twists Jon’s hand around, eyes sinking the more he takes in the angry red welts of what appears to be a rather aggressive burn.

“I haven’t had time,” Jon admits, detailing, to himself, the events of the last week that have taken up the time he should have been spending on looking after himself. “It’s been... Well, it’s been a week.” He laughs at this, small, bitter, yet alarmingly overwhelmed, and if not for Martin’s steady presence, he thinks he may just crumple to the floor. Still, his knees begin to shake, and Martin’s quick to catch on and guide him down into a chair.

“I’m going to get a first aid kit.”

“Martin,” Jon calls out, stopping Martin at the door.

Martin freezes and looks over his shoulder, his face an undistinguishable mess of emotions, and Jon swallows back the practiced words of “I’m fine,” saying instead, “thank you.”

The panic that flicks across Martin’s eyes doesn’t go unnoticed, and Jon quietly berates himself for always worrying his staff as Martin quickly disappears down the hall. He sinks back against his chair with a groan and cradles his hand to chest once more. For just a moment, he allows his head to tilt back against the chair until he’s starting at the dusty ceiling. He feels weak. He thought, considering Elias’s confession, that he would feel better now that he’s physically inside the archives, but he still feels relatively weak and slightly panicked. There’s a tightness pressing against his lungs, and he can only pin that on the apparent need to record statements.

“You’re still here, Jon.”

Jon musters up as much energy as he can to cast a sharp, dangerous gaze to Elias, who’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed casually.

“What do you want, Elias?”

“I didn’t see you leave. I was curious to know why you’re still here.”

“I’m-”

“He’s here for me.”

Jon’s jaw snaps shut, and he leans forward, eager, curious, for he’s never heard Martin speak with a tone of finality such as that. He watches, both brows raised, as Martin squeezes past Elias to get into the archives, and he’s unable to pry his eyes away as Martin drops to a crouch in front of him and opens the first aid kit.

“You’re hurt-”

“Will that be all, Elias?”

Martin looks over his shoulder toward Elias, and Jon can make out the tension tightening Martin’s muscles through the sudden defensive, stiffness of Martin’s back and shoulders. 

Jon holds his breath, almost afraid to see the scene play out, but Elias lets his arms fall to his side in a visble show of defeat.

“Of course. I’m sure you’ll see that Jon is tended to.” He disappears down the hall, and Jon swallows thickly, a lump forming in his throat. 

Martin’s uncharacteristically quiet as he pulls supplies out of the first aid kit, and he wordlessly holds his hand out, prompting Jon to drop his burned hand atop Martin’s outstretched palm.

“I’ll do what I can, but you should still probably go to a clinic.” Martin says, pulling out an antiseptic cream. “This is going to sting, but we need to try and prevent infection.”

Jon can only nod with eyes shut tight and grit his teeth as Martin begins smoothing the cream over his hand. It burns terribly, but, it’s an almost nice distraction from everything else that invading his thoughts. And, he thinks, at least the clear presence of pain means he’s still somewhat human. The bandaging that follows doesn’t hurt as bad, and Jon manages to pry his eyes open to watch Martin’s delicate yet thorough work.

When Martin’s sure he’s finished, after having studied every inch of Jon’s wrapped hand, Jon doesn’t pull his hand away, and Martin doesn’t let go.

“Are you alright?”

It’s the second time Martin’s uttered that single question, and Jon shakes his head, his hair slipping from where he’s had it tucked behind his ears to now frame darkly around his face. “Are you?” He asks, voice cracking slightly.

“Christ no,” Martin laughs, nervous, and his fingers thighten just a fraction around Jon’s hand. “We’ve been doing our best to get on without you here, but...” Martin drops his free hand atop Jon’s knee. “It’s just not the same without you here. Tim’s been absent more than he’s been here, Melanie... well, she’s great actually, but now she’s bound to this place like the rest of us. What’s with that anyway? Our hearts out now connected to this place?” He realizes, a breath too late, that he’s rambling and that Jon’s grimacing before him, and he stops himself with a low sigh. “Sorry, everything’s just really screwed up right now.”

“I know,” Jon manages, voice barely above a whisper. He shivers slightly, feeling suddenly cold, and Martin frowns at him for the umpteenth time in the fifteen minutes they’ve been together.

“Cold?”

Jon nods, feeling an odd chill washing over him, and Martin leans forward to brush the back of his hand to Jon’s cheek.

“You’re quite warm actually. I think you’re running a fever.”

“That would explain the splitting headache,” Jon mutters, wincing when Martin cups his palm over Jon’s injured hand once more, a little less gentle than he’s been thus far.

“Your hand is really hot. This may already be infected. Jon, you should-”

“Martin, it’s fine,” Jon says, though even he can’t quite believe himself. “I just haven’t been sleeping well. Every time I try, this overwhelming feeling of dread washes over me and constricts my lungs. I think...” He pauses, eyes dragging toward the pile of statements he’s handpicked so far. “I think having those nearby will help.”

“Jon, that’s not okay. You’ll work yourself to death.”

“I have to work, Martin,” Jon says, voice low, leaving little room for argument, and Martin nods and slowly gets to his feet.

“Fine, but promise you’ll sleep first. And that you’ll get yourself to a clinic for your hand. I’m not above following you to wherever you are staying and taking you to a clinic myself, you know.”

“I know,” Jon mumbles, a hint of a smile trying to creep at his lips. He grabs the files, careful of his hand, and starts toward the door, stopping when Martin calls out to him.

“Jon?”

He looks back, one brow raised in silent question.

“Could you... Well, do you think you could...”

“Go on, Martin,” Jon presses, voice sounding more demanding than he means for it to.

“Can you text me?” Martin flushes at the look Jon shoots him. “Not like that! Or... Well... It’s just... You disappeared, Jon, and I was really worried. Could you just text me every now and then so I’ll know you’re okay?”

Jon can feel a similar flush burning up his neck to his cheeks, and he looks away quickly and clears his throat. “Sure,” he stutters out. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

Jon forces himself out of the room, fleeing the weight of those two words that are threatening to squeeze his rapid heart into thousands of fragments. He keeps his eyes cast to the ground, moving on muscle memory alone, and he doesn’t look up, doesn’t even breathe, until he’s standing outside in the chilly air. He turns around and cranes his neck to view the building in its towering entirety, and as if it means anything or holds even the slightest inch of power, he mumbles quietly into the cold air.

“Don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt any of them.”

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #whump #whumpfic #sickfic #my writing #my tma writing #fanfic #tma fanfic #i meant for this to be soft #and it got a little more angsty then i meant #just a smidge #also i'm still in s3 so just roll with this okay? #loved this prompt!

[yellowocaballero]

Ok I’ve heard it but can I ask for the directors commentary on suckers bet bc if you could marry fanfic I’d be on the way to Las Vegas

You know, I filled out an application to University of Nevada, Las Vegas, today. You wanna do that? It's either the Irish Abbey or Vegas so pick one.

“Right. So, Jon, now that we’re all gathered here, I’d like to say something.” Melanie turned to Georgie, expression very intense. “Georgie, you’re a wonderful girlfriend and I love you. I, however, do not want to have sex anymore. It is now permanently off the table.”

Both Jon and Georgie were similarly shocked by this, but Georgie just ended up nodding dumbly. “Uh, alright? I love you too. That’s no problem.”

“Great.” Melanie turned back to Jon. “That was a totally made up scenario, and you obviously know that. But I’m like 99.9% sure that if I ever actually said that to Georgie, that’s exactly what she’d say. We’d have to talk about it like adults, but she’d never do anything that would make me uncomfortable. How do you think she’d feel if I didn’t want to have sex and we did sex anyway?”

“I’d feel terrible!” Georgie said heatedly. “I’d never forgive myself!”

And that entire convo, basically. You can tell I wrote that fic right after Solitaire because Melanie just kicks down the door and starts giving therapy lol.

But this scene in particular is actually a very direct commentary on a lot of things. I had some people surprised that Jon had never heard of asexuality before, which I do get - but I have met a lot of people who don't know what asexuality is, especially men around 30, so I do not think it's out of the realm of imagination. Gerry...Gerry would have probably known, lol, but...

I left it a little understated, but these characters live in a romcom universe. Many things in this fic happen because that is what happens in romcoms. There is only heterosexuality in romcoms, or at least in the main ship. There's the shovel talk, there's the dramatic reveal. These things not only narratively have to happen, but they practically railroad the characters into these events - and then the story breaks that down into seeing the effects. The fic is a deconstruction of romcoms, yeah, but it does still take place within that system. And the characters suffer for it.

Melanie breaks through all of that because of her role as an outsider - every character is written with a stock analogue except for Melanie. The last scene's burst the bubble, and she's dragged us into the real world. Jon has been completely stripped of all artifice, and all that he's left with is the ugly reality - the reality that, finally, has a place for him.

Now that Jon can no longer be perfect, he can be himself. That's pretty great to me!

#it was VERY important that Martin was not given this scene and this explanation #because Jon's inner life and Jon's sexuality is none of Martin's business and he doesn't own that lol #which is what Martin realizes at the end - oh this was just like a you problem huh! #my writing

[fakecrfan]

Tova McHugh could kill Martin. This could be his way out. I know we already discussed in detail how this could possibly be an End of Martin + Tapes... but I beg you... can you share with the world the End of the Tapes AU where this hellish sitcom gets an end? It's just so good (even tho the canon is that nothing ever gets better and Martin will suffer always)

Behold! The oldest martin+tapes ask I have in my inbox! For reference, this is referring to this old part of the series, where I mentioned Tova McHugh being a problem. Anontypewriter here actually listened to me talk about some of my half-assed ideas about how that go, and demanded I share them here--but as you can see on the thread I linked, I ended up liking boombutton’s ideas better and also the ideas I had there were very.... final.

So this can all be disregarded as Not Canon for the AU, I suppose, but here we go! My old ideas for what happens with Tova McHugh. Mild warning for suicidality and The End (That Waits For Us All And Cannot Be Denied)

The first problem is that Jon, even actualized as he is, cannot See or Known anything about Tova McHugh when he tries. He and the other archives crew go up to Elias, convinced that surely His powers will be able to detect something.

“Ah yes, Tova McHugh, I am aware of her. Let me just look really quick where--oh, hmm. Yes it seems she’s gone completely out of sight.”

(cue nervous Eye shrieking.)

So they have to find out where Tova is the old fashioned way. Reading up on her appearances. Doing field work to talk to her contacts and figure out what she’s been up to. They find out that she is... completely missing. Apparently took a sabbatical. Where to? No one knows!

(cue even More nervous Eye shrieking)

Sasha: Gosh this is even worse because Martin’s suicidal ideation has shot up 67% after we put the safety goggles on him! If Martin finds out, he might--

(Eye shrieking intensifies)

Elias, already dealing with a migraine: Sasha. Sasha please. Be Quiet.

Martin tries to go home after a work day only for Sasha to appear in the doorway, smiling, to Strongly Suggest he stay in and they have a Super Safe I MEAN FUN Work Sleepover Party. And then Tim jumps up from behind him and forcefully links arms with him and drags him back for Fun Time. Martin turns back and sees Sasha bolt the door shut and locks it.

Martin: ....What’s going on?

Tim: Nothing! Nothing’s going on at all. You know we love you more than anything that’s existed since the dawn of time, right?

Martin:....

Sasha: He’s doubting anyone could love him without mind control again :’( quick, hold his arms while I initiate Reassuring Eye Contact.

Martin: No WAIT, I mean--ahahaha yes, of course you guys! You’re... very upfront about it.

So of course, Martin realizes something is up, especially after being literally strong armed into Multiple Fun Work Sleepover Parties and noticing them starting to hide all traces of his existence from public record. So he does some digging, finds out about Tova, and...

Well, it’s this or have this whole situation continue and get increasingly restrictive for all of eternity, isn’t it? So he has to jump on it.

It’s a tricky move. He has to discreetly contact Melanie and Georgie on the downlow and ask them for help (he doesn’t tell them them Tova will kill him, just that she will be able to help him get away). Melanie and Georgie have to be able to piece together Tova’s location themselves--maybe by insinuating themselves in the Martin Fandom and getting some insider info. And then. Martin has to make a break for it, and travel with them to some isolated cottage in the mountains where Tova is staying.

I think he makes a break for it by manipulating Jon. Says he wants to just have some one on one time. Jon is over the moon excited, so he agrees and is so, so distracted the whole time. He doesn’t seem to suspect at all--and then he wakes up to a “sorry, we put sedatives in your food” note from Melanie and realizes that Martin is heading off to his death. Naturally, he loses his mind.

(Martin feels like the Worst Person In The Whole World for this.)

And then, against all odds, Martin makes it. He rides along with Georgie for blindspot purposes and gets to the little mountain cabin or whatever. Jon might be on their tail, but he can’t use his Eye powers so he’s at a disadvantage. He knocks, and then when there’s no answer just kicks his way in.

“Tova McHugh?” he asks. “I have a--”

And then he sees a corpse lying in the bed in the back room.

Tova, he finds out from reading some assorted journals and letters around the cabin, got increasingly disillusioned with her ability to do good in the world while extending her life span through evil, and decided it wasn’t worth it anymore. Hence, she came back to this little isolated cabin to die where she wouldn’t be tempted by seeing all the lives around her.

Martin buries his face in his hands, and he screams. This is it, it seems. Another cosmic joke, another dead end--except....

Except, it’s still a blind spot. Whatever Tova was, or whatever she did via cutting herself off from a Power, lingers in that cabin. It’s what made it so Jon couldn’t see there, after all. So if Jon, and the others, make it there, they charge in and suddenly the Eye’s pressure lifts and becomes distance.

And as Martin is sitting there, pressing his hands against his face and screaming, he notices his goggles slip--and then, when he grabs them, slip off entirely.

#now he just has to decide if he can really go through with it #and if Jon is there--Jon has to decide if he wants to stop him #and I have an idea in mind of what happens #but this is a communal au #so I'll leave it up to you guys :) #martin + tapes #the last martin + tapes ask in my askbox! #I'm gonna have to open things up again soon

[captaincravatthecapricious]

Psychosomatic- Prompt Fill

Soooo I forgot to fully read the prompt, so this isn’t season 2.  Sorry!  Have a bit of a follow up to my broken ribs fic!

cw nausea, vomiting (brief mentions), headaches, migraines, injury, anxiety, fever, oh and Jon is kind of gaslighting himself a little

And I have finished all my bingo prompts, but I plan on choosing another prompt list soon, so keep an eye out if you wanna make some requests! And the rest of the bingo fics will be out soon (I tend to post on Wednesdays, but I make no promises for consistency).  Thanks again to @celosiaa​ for the wonderful bingo card!

“Jon?  Are you sure about this?”

That’s Martin talking to him.  He ought to pay attention.  

Jon wonders if there is a correct answer to the question.  There probably is, if he can think through the headache.  

Think.  

He is at Martin’s flat, has been for about a week.  

Martin is finally going to let him back to work.  Partly because he is starting to heal, and even so there isn’t much you can do for broken ribs.  Partly because Jon needs to save the world, and he has been doing his all the convince Martin of this.  There is also that terrifying thing about needing Statements now.  Not that he really wants to share that with Martin.  Because Martin is the only one who actually cares anymore and he could ruin it if Martin were to… He doesn’t know.  His chest is tight.  Partly from the pain, partly from anxiety.  

Stress, that’s why he feels like shit.  

Stress.  All in his head.  

Christ he has to answer before Martin gets concerned.  

“Yes.  I’m fine, Martin.  You can stop fussing.”  Does that sound like him?  How brusque is he normally?  Does this fall under the typical Jon being an arse (which… he feels very badly about but at this point what does he even say?  They had a few moments …but he never knows what to say now or he’s in too much pain or under too much stress to really be a good conversationalist, and being rude is better than …no it isn’t.  He’s just afraid of letting Martin get too close?).

Christ his head is pounding, and it isn’t like he’s done anything.  

Just the stress.  

Probably.  

Stress or statements.  

He’s fine.  

“It’s just… are you sure?  You look a bit peaky.  And you do need to be gentle with your ribs so they heal, so you don’t, you know puncture a lung and die or something.”

Jon dodges Martin trying to feel his forehead and hisses with pain.  He batts Martin’s hand away instead, pressing his other to his rib cadge.  

If he’s running a fever…  It’s probably just the pain.  He’s been in a lot of pain.  Ribs and now this headache, witch, could easily become a migraine.  

He wonders if he has Excedrin in his office, or hidden in the stacks with what’s left of his belongings.  

“I’m fine.  Just… worried about the Unknowing.  I’m trying to save the world, but had to take some time off… a bit hard to relax with that over my head.  You’re no stranger to anxiety, I’m sure you know the feeling.”  Shit.  Is that too personal?  Was the insensitive?  It’s a bit difficult to ignore, even for Jon, that Martin struggles with anxiety.  He’s seen the prescriptions by the bed, and around the Archives when Martin was living there.  He wasn’t really invading.  Not like he had back….  No.  It’s fine.  He’s fine.  No the anxiety certainly isn’t twisting in his core now, sloshing his insides.  Just the stress.  It’s fine. 

Martin sighs.  “Yeah.  Yeah… I do.  And it isn’t going to get better if we sit around here, is it?  But, you’ll let me know if working doesn’t make you feel better, yeah?  You still need to take it easy.  You aren’t better yet.”  

Jon purses his lips.  Not sure how to answer without outright lying.  “I’ll do my best?  It’s all a bit muddled?  Ribs hurt so it’s hard to sleep.  Stress makes it harder to sleep.  Stress and not sleeping lead to a headache.  Which won’t get better until I sleep, which I can’t do until I can make some progress at work so we all don’t literally die.  Christ, I’m sorry.  Let’s just go.  I’ll have a lie down after I read a Statement and do a bit of research, how about?  I… appreciate what you’ve done for me, but I’m imposing and probably putting you in danger, and I’m not the easiest person to live with…”

“It’s no trouble.  It’s… nice having someone else here.  I’m glad you let me look after you.”

“Not really like I had much of a choice, but I’ve had worse kidnappings.”

Martin makes a face.  

Jon worries he’s gone too far with a joke that isn’t all that funny.  “Sorry.”

“Let’s just go.  Sooner we leave the sooner I can get you back here and resting.  Yes Jon, I am bringing you back here if you’ll let me.  It’s actually less stressful when I know where you are so I can be sure you haven’t been kidnapped again.”

Jon can’t really argue with that.  

The tube may have been a mistake.  

It’s crowded, and there aren’t any open seats, and no one seems to care that he’s carrying a cane.  And while he could probably ask… he won’t.  Martin tries to shield him from the worst of the crown, but it’s the lighting.  Scraping at the backs of his eyes, threatening him with a migraine.  It’s the jolting of the train between stops where he stumbles because he can’t lift his free hand high enough to grab one of the grips without it tugging painfully on his ribs.  Martin tries to hold him steady, but it isn’t enough.  And to make it worse, Jon is certain that every eye is on him.  He’s small but conspicuous.  Messy hair, cane, scars, limp.  

Is it just his paranoia?  Is it the eye?  Is he just tired?  He doesn’t know, but it makes him want to curl up as tightly as he can, ribs be damned, and get out of sight.  It makes him feel sick.  

Martin tuts gently when Jon almost whimpers at the next judder of the train.  “Should have called a cab.”

Jon shakes his head.  “I’d rather be jostled than carsick.”  

Martin glances at him in concern.  Probably assessing the likelihood of Jon getting sick in the carriage.  

Jon wishes that weren’t a valid concern.  

He’s fine.  

It’s the headache.  It’s the stress.  He’ll read a Statement, he’ll do some research, he’ll take a nap if he needs to, but he should be feeling better by then.  

Martin checks on him every half hour or so.  It’s… distracting.  

And concerning.  

The Statement didn’t help.  He still feels dizzy and sick, and the headache has only gotten worse.  He wants to turn off the lights, but sitting in one position, trying not to vomit from the pain has made his ribs stiff.  Stiff to the point that he isn’t sure he can move.  

He tries to do research, but the words start swimming on the page.  Shit.  Is this even stress?  Is he just having a shitty day?  Is he sick?  He can’t afford to be sick.  If he has to recover from an illness that puts him even farther behind.  No.  It’s just stress.  Stress migraine.  

Probably.  

The Statement didn’t help.  Not enough anyhow.  

He doesn’t want Martin to see just how badly off he is.  Can’t bear the disappointed look, the worrying.  Martin has worried enough.  Jon just wants to hide.  To be miserable in peace, just like has has done for years.  But he doesn’t have flat now.  He has a few clothes and a toothbrush at Martin’s flat now.  He has the same at Georgie’s.  And he has a shelf with some blankets and a few boxes of things from his flat in the stacks.  Far enough back, and semi covered by a tarp that he’s not yet been discovered there.  

He should go there, if he can.  Curl up in his nest of blankets and pillows, see if he can find some Excedrin, and hope that helps.  

He should eat something before the meds, but he’s nearly overcome with nausea when he leavers himself to standing.  Has to detour to expel what little Martin made him eat that morning.  He limps to his shelf.  And nearly cries when he has to try to get himself on in without hurting his ribs more.  

Sneaking off before Martin can notice just how sorry a state he is in.  

He manages to sleep.  Deeply.  Painkillers helping enough that he can pass out for a couple hours.  Probably.  His head still hurts too much to look at his phone.  Enough that he shouldn’t try moving, but he’s certain Martin must be out of his mind with worry.  But…

But he can’t move.  His ribs hurt too much.  And trying to sit up makes him nauseous enough to wonder if he has anything to be ill into should the need arise.  

He wants to sleep more.  He wants to sleep long enough to find the Tim of last year to find him.  He misses his friend.  He wants the old TIm.  He wants the old him.  He wants to be dragged upright at his Research desk by Tim and for Tim to demand to know why he’s at work in such a sorry state.  

He wants Martin to find him.  

He wants Sasha to.  

(He wants his mother to).  

He feels too poorly to pull the blanket up, so he shivers, whimpering a little when that jostles his ribs, jostles his migraine.  

He drifts.  Too nauseous, too achey to really sleep.  

He almost doesn’t hear Martin searching for him.  Sounding tired and worried.  Calling his name, and presumably checking all the rows, all the shelves for somewhere Jon might have tucked himself.  

Jon wants to call back, but the minimal noise Martin is making hurts too much to think about responding.  He’ll find him soon enough.  Probably.  Jon isn’t feeling well enough to disguise his hideaway.  Even if that makes him feel dreadfully exposed.  (Vulnerable to Daisy and Elias and even Melanie and Tim on their more aggressive days).  

He drifts more, as Martin draws closer.  

Jon wakes properly to Martin feeling his forehead.  Brushing a few stray tears away.  Tutting at the fever Jon presumes he is running.  “Oh Jon, why didn’t you say something?  I’ve been so worried.  Burning up, we ought to get you home.”

Jon is ashamed to say he whimpers at the thought of moving.  “Hurts.”  It’s slurred and pathetic.  

Martin shushes him gently.  “Is it alright if I lift you?”  

“Careful.”

“I will be,” Martin promises.  

And he is. 

It still hurts.  

And the cab ride makes him sick.  

But then it’s over and he’s back in Martin’s bed, and he can’t make himself worry about anything anymore.  

#the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #jonmartin #martin blackwood #fanficiton #cw nausea #cw vomiting #cw injury #cw fever #cw anxiety #fic #my fic #my writing #my words #art #my art

[pronouncingitwang]

jon, melanie, and georgie friendship | 1.5K words | basically just. how jon finds out melanie’s bi | for the @jonsimsbipride prompt “solidarity”

“Martin? Are you still there?” Georgie calls from the couch at a volume that makes Jon wince.

Martin’s fallen asleep on the loveseat, his face smushed into the arm of the chair as he snores. For the last few minutes, Jon has been looking at the rise and fall of his chest with something resembling awe. Even a year after the world began again, Jon finds it difficult to believe that they’re safe, that he can just watch Martin without needing to watch over him.

“Pretty sure those are his snores I’m hearing right now,” says Melanie, and Georgie whispers a quick apology.

Recovery has been hard, but being roommates with the Qing-Barkers helps, at least sometimes. Georgie described their shared living situation as “living in group therapy” on more than one occasion, which is true on hard days. Melanie described it as “being back in uni again, but mostly in a good way?” which is true on better days. Martin maintains that it’s worth it for The Admiral and Melanie’s service dog, Mothman, alone, which is true on every day.

Today is a good day. There’s been a lot of laughter, from when Georgie and Melanie had met him and Martin at the airport to telling them honeymoon stories over dinner to now, when they’re all lying around doing nothing, and jet lag has rendered Jon too tired to drag himself to bed.

“Come and cuddle with us instead, Jon,” Melanie stage-whispers from beside Georgie. After checking that Martin is comfortable one more time, Jon agrees.

Melanie is snuggled under a blanket with a pink, purple, and blue yarn mix. Martin had gifted the blanket to Georgie for her birthday, even though Jon, I swear everyone gives their friends pride stuff when they don’t know what else to get them; are you sure it’s not obvious that I didn’t have a better idea? It's warm and soft, and by now, practically a household staple.

Jon sits down on the couch and, after checking that she’s okay with it, rests his cheek against Melanie’s shoulder. At first contact, Melanie lets out a small noise of surprise. “You shaved,” she says. “Georgie, you’re supposed to tell me about major life changes like this! How stupid does he look?”

Georgie hums. “Not too bad. I’d say… no more stupid than usual?”

“Damn,” Melanie says. “Why the smooth face, Jon?”

Georgie opens her mouth, but stops herself to let Jon explain.

“Oh,” he shrugs, “I just tend to shave whenever I have to deal with airport security. Less likely to be stopped for suspected terrorism and all.”

“Ah.” Melanie clicks her tongue. “Makes sense. Sucks, though.” She shifts, resting her head on top of Jon’s. “I guess it’s a good thing that Big Heathrow”—Georgie giggles from the other side of the couch—“doesn’t know how the apocalypse came about, then.”

Jon laughs. The part of his mind that wonders if going along with this particular joke about the apocalypse is a sign of developing emotional distance or just a coping mechanism perks its ears up, but he ignores it. “No, I’d imagine the Daily Mail would have a field day with that one.”

“I wonder how they’d spin your evil boss’s involvement,” Georgie, who steadfastly refuses to use Elias’s name, muses. “Innocent bystander? Secret lover?”

Melanie makes a retching sound, which Jon makes back at her. Melanie repeats it at a slightly higher pitch. This continues for at least a minute, before they lapse back into laughter. It really is like uni again.

“Hey, Jon,” Georgie ventures after a spot of silence, mischief coloring her voice, “Kiss, marry, kill: Big Heathrow, Daily Mail, evil boss.”

“Georgina.” It’s difficult to have a staring contest with Georgie’s body pillow in the way, but Jon manages to aim his glare right at the space between Georgie’s eyes. Georgie doesn’t back down, just smiles sweetly and raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, Jonathan?”

“Fine,” he sighs, resting his head back down onto Melanie’s shoulder. “Fine. Kill Elias again. Marry… marry Heathrow? I think it would have a tolerable personality. Which leaves…” he sighs again, “kissing the Daily Mail. Christ.”

“Bad choice,” Melanie says. “They’re basically the definition of kiss and tell. Imagine the scandal!”

“Alright, fine.” Jon says, not awake enough to debate but curious enough to challenge. “Same options. What would you pick?”

“Easy,” Melanie says. “First, obviously, I’m stabbing Elias to death. Second, I’m pretty sure Heathrow sells toothpaste, so it would be the least unpleasant to kiss. Third, and most importantly, I’m going to use my marriage to the Daily Mail to edit the articles it publishes and slowly radicalize the old white women of the UK.”

Georgie gives a few snaps of approval, and even Jon has to admit she has some points.

“There aren’t many situations where I’d divorce you willingly, Melanie,” Georgie says, “but if it was for this, I would understand.”

Melanie laughs. “I appreciate your support, babe. Your turn.”

Georgie deliberates for a while, then winces. “Sorry, Melanie. I’m going to have to go with Jon on this one.”

“Ha!” Jon says.

“I just don’t think I could deal with being married to the Daily Mail.”

“Cowards, both of you!” Melanie exclaims loudly, but is quickly shushed by both Jon and Georgie with a “Martin!” She continues in a quieter voice, “And before you say anything, Georgie, I know that’s not actually possible for you, but I’m sticking by my words.” She shakes her head. “I can’t believe this. The heartbreak. The betrayal. From my own wife, and right after she said she would willingly divorce me…”

“Stop taking my words out of context!”

“Can’t, my new spouse Mx. Mail is a bad influence”(—“Which is exactly why it's better to marry Heathrow instead,” Georgie interjects—)“but at least it’d side with me against Jon.”

Jon grins. “It’s the biromanticism, Melanie. It gives me and Georgie the same taste.”

At this, Melanie sputters. “Nuh-uh. No way. Absolutely no way. Your bad choices are the results of your own bad opinions. Don’t bring me into it.”

Melanie continues to speak, but Jon is no longer listening. He feels, suddenly, like he’s missing something important. “What?” he asks, causing Melanie to pause. “How have I brought you into it?”

“Well… you said being bi makes you choose the worse option,” Melanie says, which just confuses Jon more. Then, “Wait, Jon, you do know I’m bisexual, right?”

Ah. That would do it.

“Not… not quite.”

“Oh my god,” Georgie says. “Seriously?”

“You—I’ve only ever heard you call yourself gay!” Jon cries, giving Melanie and Georgie the chance to shush him with “Martin!”

Melanie shakes her head mournfully. “I’ve been your friend—okay, not quite that, but I’ve known you—for years!”

“I was trying to save the world during most of those years!”

“You also had spooky all-knowing powers,” Georgie adds.

Jon feels his leg begin to bounce. “Well, yes, but I was actively trying not to use them on people. Checking someone’s sexuality would be a gross violation of—”

“It’s okay, Jon,” Melanie says soothingly, “I know you wouldn’t do that.” There is quiet for a few seconds as Jon takes a few deep breaths. Then, Melanie says in a wryer tone, “Jon. One of my sets of prosthetic eyes is literally the bi pride flag. I know I don’t wear it that often, but…”

“I’ve only seen it once, in bad lighting, and… I don't know, I thought maybe you were just being supportive!”

“Oh my god,” Georgie says again, her voice muffled by the pillow she’s buried her face in. Jon feels like burying his face into a pillow himself.

“This is awful,” Jon groans.

“Stop being biphobic, Jon,” Melanie says.

“Stop being bi-aced, Jon,” Georgie says, which is unfortunately quite good.

“Fine,” Jon says. “This isn’t awful. It is, instead, wonderful.” He means the last sentence to come out begrudging, but it sounds more sincere than anything else. Jon blames his emotions. Now that the initial surprise has worn off, warmth is beginning to replace it. It’s not that he’s particularly starved for bi friends, but it’s nice, having one more thing that ties him and Melanie together.

“Thank you.” Melanie gives Jon a haughty sniff, but she smiles as she does it.

Jon’s neck is beginning to strain, but Melanie is still resting her head on top of his, and he doesn’t want to bother her. He closes his eyes and tries to focus his attention elsewhere. He can take a few minutes more.

“I just realized something,” Melanie says. “Jon, I’m literally under a bi pride blanket right now.” Georgie starts to giggle again.

“I’m asleep,” says Jon.

“Yeah, under a bi pride blanket that I, too, am currently under. Because I’m bi.”

“I’m double asleep,” says Jon.

“And I’m bi,” says Melanie.

“I know it’s useless to ask, but is there any chance we can forget about this and pretend I’ve known all along?”

“No,” Melanie and Georgie say in unison.

“Great,” Jon replies, and hides his smile in his bisexual friend’s shoulder.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonathan sims #melanie king #georgie barker #melanie qing #fic

[mimosaeyes]

If things don’t work out and he loses Jon tomorrow, Martin wants to remember him happy.

Post-199. Jon and Martin reflect on what has and could have been. 1.4k

Thanks @emberidzae and @distortion-noodles for the quick beta!

As they emerge into the hallway, Georgie pokes her head out of what must be her and Melanie’s bedroom. “Blankets and such are down that way,” she says, pointing. “Help yourself, yeah?”

If Martin weren’t observing Jon so closely, he might have missed the way he jumps at the words. Jon recovers swiftly, though. “Right. Thanks, Georgie.”

Martin hasn’t yet closed the door behind them. He leans back into the room to relay the information to Basira, only to find her already nodding and waving him off without looking up. “I heard her.”

She’s leaning against the table they’d all stood around while arguing about the plan. In her hands are two flat metal discs on a chain. It takes Martin a moment to place where he’d last seen them: hanging around Daisy’s neck.

He was slipping too far into the Lonely at the time to really pay attention, but Martin did notice that the dog tags disappeared after Daisy swore to resist the Hunt. He’s always assumed she got rid of them, destroyed them in a bid to purge the memory of her work for Section 31 — and the less than legal things she did besides.

“Found them while tracking her,” Basira explains, clearly guessing his train of thought. “She stopped wearing them, but she still carried them around. As a reminder, you know? Until…”

Until she gave in to the Entity calling her name. Until she left her humanity behind to protect her friends.

Martin swallows past a sudden lump in his throat. “If you need to talk, Basira—”

“I’m good,” she cuts him off. “I’m managing.”

He knows it’s the truth; they’d had plenty of time to catch up at the base of the cliff while Jon was recording. So he nods and leaves it at that, saying only, “Come find us anyway, if you change your mind.”

Her expression softens even as her voice takes on a wry edge. “Go on,” she chivvies, “go be soppy with your boyfriend somewhere else.”

“Somewhere far away from you, you mean?”

Basira snaps her fingers. “Got it in one. Always knew you were the smart one.”

The bedding Georgie mentioned turns out to be a huge pile of unrolled sleeping bags and unfolded blankets. The sight is amusingly incongruous for the three seconds it takes Martin to realise that these used to belong to the cult members, who have since been dragged back to their domains.

Gingerly, he steps forward to take what they need. Jon helps, his face stony.

They duck into the first empty room they come across and lay down enough padding to save their backs from the hard floor. Martin fusses with the makeshift bed while Jon stands and starts pacing.

Everything in Martin is saying to go to him and wrap him up in another hug, make up for the one Jon had pulled out of while his hands were still shaking and his cheeks still wet with tears. But he watches the tense lines of his body and thinks that Jon would only flinch away from comfort if he offered it again. So he sits down, leaving some space for Jon to join him when he’s ready, and waits.

It takes several minutes for Jon to look up at him. When he does, he bites his lip and says, “I’m sorry. It’s already been decided, I know, and I’m sick of rehashing the same old arguments with you.”

Martin lets out a short exhale. “I know. If the plan doesn’t work — I don’t want to spend our last hours together fighting.”

Jon blanches a little. “Hours,” he repeats softly, starting to shake his head. “I wish we had more time.”

“You don’t mean, uh… put it off, do you?” Martin doesn’t think he does, but it’s worth clarifying.

“What? Oh, no. Of course not.”

The huff of laughter that accompanies Jon’s words is gratifying. Martin decides to lean into it. “Because that would be a truly record-breaking act of procrastination,” he points out.

Jon smiles lopsidedly. “Speak for yourself. You haven’t seen me try to start writing an essay in university.”

“Fair enough,” Martin concedes, smiling back at him.

After a moment, Jon sobers again. “I mean, maybe we wouldn’t have been together, if not for all this, but — if I had to do it all over again, I think I’d waste less time. I’d… I don’t know, I’d tell you I’d missed you while I was abroad. Maybe admit that there were a couple of times when I didn’t really need your help looking something up, but called you anyway, so I could hear your voice.”

Martin blinks, momentarily surprised. Then he crows, “I knew it! I knew there wasn’t really a place called Desert Bluffs. I looked for mentions of it in statements for days, and the whole time you were — ha, you were bluffing.”

Good-naturedly, Jon rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m terrible at coming up with fake names on the spot.”

“But that would mean…” Martin furrows his brow at Jon. “That was when you were in America. And you already…”

Jon has been gradually closing the distance between them as they’ve talked. Now he eases himself down next to Martin, as always favouring the leg Sasha had once dug a worm out of with a corkscrew, and says simply, “Yes. I already knew I loved you. Maybe I wasn’t in love with you, not yet, but… yes.”

Martin will never get used to hearing Jon say he loves him. He knows he does, and it still takes his breath away every time. But right now, with a handful of hours until the morning, it makes him feel like the air has been punched out of his chest.

“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I wish we’d gotten our act together sooner.”

Beside him, Jon pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping one arm around his legs and extending his other hand in Martin’s direction. Martin holds onto his hand, and they stay like that for a spell.

They’ve made an unspoken compact to not only avoid fighting on this last night, but also to keep things light. They’ve had so few wholly good days together, Martin reflects. If things don’t work out and he loses Jon tomorrow, he wants to remember him happy. He wants to make the time they have count.

He nudges Jon, letting his voice grow teasing again. “Hey. If I got to do it all over again, I’d ask you out on a kayaking date.”

“That’s... pretty specific,” Jon remarks.

“Tim gave me the idea. Early, early on, when he would make fun of me for having a crush on the boss. I’d bring you some tea and come back to my desk to find he’d texted me a link to a nearby kayak rental service. It was a different one each time, too.”

“You have to admire the commitment.” Jon pauses. “Can two people even fit in the same kayak?”

“I thought of that. There are tandem kayaks. I was going to win you over with my superior rowing skills.”

Jon laughs. “I think it would’ve worked.”

From just outside the door comes a rustling noise. Basira, probably, holding an armful of sleeping bag and looking for a place to bed down for the night.

After she goes past, Jon says ruefully, “We should probably get some rest.”

He looks about as tired as Martin feels. But everything now seems tinged with an air of finality. If they go to sleep, it might be the last time they curl up together. And it’ll make the morning come sooner.

It’s irrational, but he blurts out, “Not yet. I… I’m not ready.”

To say goodnight. To say goodbye.

Jon cants his head at him, and Martin wonders how transparent his thoughts are, playing across his features.

“Me neither,” Jon murmurs. He leans in closer and presses a kiss to Martin’s forehead. “Me neither.”

They stay up and talk, facing each other in bed. Neither of them has ever had a sleepover at a friend’s place, they discover, and yet this feels like that. Jon tells him about the lake he and Basira traversed, making it sound absolutely dreadful without Martin there to help with rowing. Martin starts describing Life of Pi and other movies Jon may never get to watch. Several times, he asks if Jon is sleeping with his eyes open, then laughs as he denies it.

In the end, Martin doesn’t even remember falling asleep — only that Jon is there with him, and that’s almost enough.

[also available on AO3 here]

[my TMA fic on AO3]

#the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #mimofic #basira hussain #daisy | alice tonner

[theartistichuman]

Tma 200 spoilers

I might post this to my ao3. This is a rough draft so please ignore the subpar writing.

Summary-

Melanie and Georgie heal.

They never did find the bodies in the end. That’s not for lack of trying; they scoured every inch of what used to be The Magnus Institute. They found a plethora of tapes, and some preserved Leitners (Georgie insisted on throwing them out, despite Melanie insisting that they were safe, and even if they weren’t they couldn’t hurt her anyways) but not a single body. Not even of the previous archivists.

Neither of them knew exactly what that meant. Georgie stayed stubbornly optimistic, but Melanie knew better. Georgie may have had her encounters, but Melanie almost was an encounter. She knew what it felt like to be afraid of what you’re becoming, but to want to hurt people anyways. She knew what it felt like to want to burn the world around you, and just keep walking. Melanie wanted to believe what Georgie did- that those two were dead and at rest- but she didn’t have the hope to keep it up. Not like Georgie did.

It takes time to make a new normal. Most days it felt like the world was holding its breath; waiting for the moment that their rest would be interrupted and they would be dragged back into their fear. Georgie started going to therapy, and seemed all the better for it. Melanie saw a psychiatrist every month or so for a check up, but after spending so long with Laverne worshipping her, she knew she needed a bit more time. It wasn’t good to put it off, but Georgie (and, by proxy, Georgie’s therapist) insist she take her time.

Georgie starts her podcast up after Melanie scolds her for getting stir crazy (employment was still fickle). She changed the theme, citing t that people probably wouldn’t want to speculate about the supernatural after they lived it. Instead she starts inviting people to send in her stories.

“Community counseling”Georgie told her over their celebratory dinner (dinosaur chicken nuggets and boxed wine) “people might feel better if they get their stories out there.”

Melanie highly doubted that, but she was the first guest on the newly rebranded ‘What the Apocalypse’ anyways. (It did make her feel better, but she suspects Georgie knows without her admitting it.)

The Admiral is different from how he was before. He didn’t pounce on things and his separation anxiety got so bad the vet put him on meds. The Admiral didn’t seem to like the dark much either, but according to Georgie that might not be because of the end of the world.

Every morning they take their meds together at breakfast. Melanie (with the assistance of her Scanmarker Air, that she refers to as her “sketchmarker air” to Georgie’s dismay) gets The Admiral his tuna, as Georgie makes them cereal.

Every evening they sit together and listen to their favorite books. Georgie will order them Hungarian on Fridays, and Melanie buys a cat carrier for The Admiral for Tuesday walks. It feels like family, and Melanie loves it so much it hurts.

Basira wanders in an out of their lives. Melanie isn’t sure what she’s up to, but she seems lost. Before she always seemed headstrong and powerful: like she knew where she was going and why. But now, without the pressure of the world on her shoulders, Basira seemed... timid almost.

Whenever Basira came over Georgie and Melanie would bring out their board games. They would drink an obscene amount of apple juice, and laugh until the sun came up. Basira never stayed past that, and they never asked her to.

One day Georgie interrupts their newfound evening “Melanie, we should talk.”

“About.....?” Melanie tries to point her face at where she approximates Georgie’s is. Georgie gently touches Melanie’s chin and guides her face up.

“Up here babe,” she says, fondly, “but I’ve told you that you don’t need to do that.”

Melanie knows she doesn’t need to do it, but the hand on her skin makes it worth it.

“I know.” She says back. “But I’m being polite.”

Georgie snorts. “Polite? You? You made Martin cry in your first week of work.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Melanie takes the hand on chin, and rubs her thumb across the knuckles. She ignores the small pang of loss she feels at his name. She thinks that in a different life they would’ve gotten along, maybe even been friends. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Martin, actually. Well, Martin and Jon.” Georgie said. “I was thinking, and I understand if you disagree, that maybe we could... do something for them? Like a funeral or memorial or something? Maybe even just a headstone or something.”

Melanie opens her mouth to respond, but Georgie rushes in before she speaks.

“And I know you and Jon never got along, but I just think that after everything he deserves it. And even if he doesn’t , Martin certainly does. Even if neither of them deserve it I think it would help. My therapist told me I need closure, and I just thought-“

“Babe, babe, slow down,”Melanie interrupts, “I’d love to. Even if Jon and I... even if he was a bit of a wanker, he did sacrifice himself to end the apocalypse. And. Well, I just think t-that-“

Melanie stutters to stop for a moment to think. Georgie seems to understand that she’s not done, and squeezes her hand. Melanie takes a deep breath before continuing.

“I didn’t have a lot of friends growing up. Or after that. It was just me and my dad. When he died, they told me- they told me I couldn’t bury him. I couldn’t even have the ashes. Some bullshit about how he was part of a crime scene, which, looking now, didn’t make any sense. Not that I had enough money or time for a funeral, but... well, any closure would have been nice. I just- I just- I just don’t think I could let anyone close to me go un-un- I don’t know it’s just... it’s just bad.” Melanie winces a bit at her ending.

Georgie doesn’t say anything. Her hand stills from where she was playing with Melanie’s fingers. Melanie realizes a little belatedly, that she’d never talked about her father’s death with Georgie. After all they’d been through it seemed almost silly that Georgie didn’t know.

“And even if Jon was a wanker, Martin certainly wasn’t.” She tacks on in attempt to lighten the mood.

Georgie snorts at that. “Jon was... an acquired taste. He was a lot less uptight in University, but good god sometimes you could actually see the rod in his ass.”

“Hey!” Melanie says in mock offense “don’t speak ill of the dead!”

“You literally just called him a wanker!” Georgie retorts.

“Yeah but I’m allowed to! I don’t like him!” Melanie smacks her arm.

“Anyways. What do you want to do for them?” Georgie says once she stops giggling. “I was thinking a headstone, but that might be too much upkeep.”

“And people may not take kindly to a memorial to ‘The Archivist’ and his plus one.”

“Exactly,” Georgie agrees, “ so out with it. Give me an idea, oh wise prophet.”

Melanie pinches her hand. “Shut it, you. Maybe- maybe like a... bench or something?”

“A bench?” Georgie says teasingly, “that’s the best you’ve got? Not so wise after all.”

“Okay prophet, what have you got?”

“Maybe we could do something here? Like a photo album or something.”

“We don’t have any photos of them.”

“We could, like, write a heartfelt letter and burn it.”

“Maybe.” Melanie says with no small amount of suspicion.

“Okay, fiiiine maybe I don’t have any ideas.” Georgie relents.

They sit in silence for a bit after that. It should be uncomfortable, and probably would have been if it wasn’t Georgie and Melanie. Eventually Georgie gets up to find her phone so they can listen to the next chapter of their book. Melanie tries to lie down in the warm spot Georgie vacated, but The Admiral had already taken up the vacancy.

Melanie’s head lands in his soft fur, and he chirps inquisitively before curling around her head. Melanie buries a hand in his fur, and he rewards her with a content purr.

“Comfortable?” Georgie says when she re-enters the room. Melanie groans.

“Yes yes you fuss pot. Ready for our next chapter?” Georgie sits on the edge of the couch by Melanie’s head, and when she starts to pet her head, Melanie wishes she could purr like The Admiral.

Georgie snorts. “I think I might have a type.”

“And whats that?” Melanie nuzzles further into Georgie’s hand.

“Yeah,” Georgie pokes her cheek, “my type is ‘cats re-incarnated as people’. You can’t tell by looking at him, but Jon would absolutely melt at the slightest hair petting.”

Melanie is just about to protest being compared to Jon when an idea hits her. She sits up abruptly, and she hears Georgie give a little gasp in response.

“That’s it!” Melanie shouts.

“What’s it?” Georgie says, almost as loud.

“I’ve just had a great idea.”

Melanie gives her proposal, and even though she can’t see it, she knows Georgie is smiling the rest of the night.

—————

A week later, Georgie and Melanie walk into their apartment with two boxes. They would have just used one, but they were nervous the little ones would fight in the car ride that Rosie graciously provides them (with the payment of demanding photos).

And so Jon and Martin entered their lives.

One of the kittens is sleek black with golden amber eyes and short hair, and the other is white with blue eyes and so much fluff that he looks three times the size he really is. There were more kittens in the running, but these two were at the top (according to Georgie, they were basically photo copies of their namesakes), but Melanie decided these were the two when the woman at the desk told her they were inseparable.

They were worried about how The Admiral would react to their new additions, but it was proved irrational within three hours. The Admiral seemed to take a liking to them immediately.

“Maybe it really is Jon.” Georgie jokes when she stumbles on the three cuddled together. “Sometimes I thought The Admiral liked him more.”

(That was obviously false; anyone with -or with damaged- eyes could tell The Admiral adored her.)

They barely had to make an adjustment to their routine- the only real difference was the number of bowls during breakfast, and the number of feet that pattered in the halls.

Basira didn’t know what to make of it at first, but Georgie later told her that she stumbled in on Basira apologizing to Jon. Neither of them judge her for it; both of them did the same thing when they got him.

The days stretch to weeks, and the weeks stretch into months. Melanie goes to therapy, and attempts to keep houseplants. Georgie records her podcasts and teases Melanie when she fails to keep a cactus alive. Together they make their home with new cat toys (that The Admiral still refuses to play with), a cat tree (which the Admiral is more than interested in), crotchet throws from Rosie and the occasional mug from Basira.

One morning Melanie wakes to find the last bit of residual anger in her gone, and when she cries Georgie holds her tight.

Melanie loves it so much it hurts, and she wouldn’t trade it for the world.

#the magnus archives #the magnus pod #tma #what the gfs #what the ghost #fanfic #jonmartin #wtgfs #Georgie barker #Melanie king #Melanie is trans #just assume she’s always trans in my fics #this is my first Magnus fic #I didn’t edit this at all #what the girlfriends #Melanie/Georgie