#Peter lukas tickles

[tickled-2-death]

I saw your post about tma tickle requests and I have literally never thought about lonelyeyes tickles, but now I need to see Elias brought down a peg or six by his ex-ex-ex husband(soon to add another ex) who's probably at least semi-transparent and covered in fog. Bonus points for all the sass!

Attitude Adjustment

Content warnings: unhealthy relationship, dubious consent(?), tickle torture, begging, feet content specifically, not necessarily sexual but sexual acts are mentioned.

This is a tickle fic.

“Peter, I have told you this several times before, and I will only repeat myself this once. I am not going anywhere near that pathetic boat.”

Elias just can’t seem to catch a fucking break today. First it was some shipment issue at the Archives, namely involving those two identical circus freaks with some mysterious box. Then, once they finally convinced him to sign off on it (he’ll just replace whoever dies in artifact storage, no big deal), there was some petty little catfight in the archives itself. One that he, despite all the paperwork that needed to be sorted, had to go downstairs and tell Jonathan off about. That’s not to mention that his coffee was cold by the time he got back, and-

“Darling, my love, my light. You’re thinking too hard.”

… and his husband, one Mr. Peter “just fuck off out to sea and forget it all” Lukas, simply will not shut up.

Elias pinches the bridge of his nose, propped up in their lavish bed in his silk pajamas, by all means in a position to relax that he intends not to spoil.

“I can’t stand the smell”, he begins to explain, “I cant stand the Lonely, and honestly the thought of being trapped on a giant metal hunk of rubbish with you for several months on end makes me want to disappear already.”

Peter, despite his patron and what you’d expect as a result of it, nearly never stops smiling. It’s a smug little shit sort of smile, mind you, but it hardly ever leaves his face. As of now, it droops into a frown.

“Elias, if we’re going to beat our record of staying married for four months-“

“Five months. Five months is the record.”

The captain sighs.

“If we’re going to make this work for more than five months, we’ve got to accept one another’s help! I’m just trying to think of a way to cheer you up, to get some of that tension out of you, in the only way I know how!”

Elias considers this, and ultimately decides that his husband is right. He’s a snarky bastard, even worse than Elias himself at times, but he’s trying to do the right thing. It’s the thought that counts? Right???

It doesn’t really matter. 200 years and counting, and he’s never been interested in admitting his own faults. Why start now? Especially for Peter goddamn Lukas.

So the shrewish little Beholder pulls out his bitchiest of bitch voices, and simply replies; “Well, you’d hardly like it if I recommended you to take someone’s statement, or delve into someone’s personal life for an ounce of fear, now would you?”, before rolling over and turning off his bedside lamp.

Something within Peter snaps just then. Not genuine anger, or at least not the violent sort. No, it’s simply the sudden and undeniable urge to teach someone a lesson. Elias’ eyes go wide, having Known what was about to happen, but it’s too late.

Peter roughly digs his fingers into his husband’s ribs, and vibrates them between the bones with all his might.

“OH FUCK-“ is all the poor, helpless man can manage before descending into mad cackles against his will. His dignity would never allow such a boisterous display of emotion, but there’s hardly a chance to suppress it in this position.

Instinctively, he rolls onto his stomach to escape the horrific sensation at his side. However, this proves to be the worst thing he could’ve possibly done, because Peter takes the opportunity to straddle his ass and get both sides at once.

“PEHEHETER! YOU- STOHAHAP THIS AT OHAHANCE! NOW!” Elias demands through several squeals, drumming his bare feet against the mattress behind them. Hands desperately grabbing for purchase or perhaps Peter’s dastardly wrists.

He doesn’t let up, of course, and that smile is back with a vengeance.

“Hmm- what was that kinky sex term you told me about? Where you punish someone for talking back?” Peter asks, tone jovial and unclear as to whether the question is genuine or rhetorical.

Elias, in turn, accidentally projects the answer into his mind. Mouth otherwise occupied with screams of ticklish agony.

“Brat taming, that’s right! Are you going to stop being a brat, Elias? Or is your significantly larger, stronger husband going to have to tickle you until you cry? We both know I’m well trained in regards to tying knots, so you’d better keep that in mind.”

Deciding to give the ribs a bit of a break, lest he accidentally bruise them, Peter jams his fingers into Elias’ sensitive underarms. It’s absolutely delightful, the way he screams even louder and clamps his arms to his sides. As if that will help, now that the offending digits are trapped exactly where they shouldn’t be.

“NOW! YOUHOHOHOL STOP RIHIGHT NOW! I DEHEHEE- DEMAHAHAND IT!!!” Elias tries to compel, but the concentration required to do so simply isn’t there.

Peter continues to burrow his fingertips into Elias’ armpits, wiggling and scritching across the ultra sensitive skin like worms trying to dig into the earth. He flails as much as humanly possible, twisting and snorting up a storm all the while, but Peter’s legs hold firm to his hips. He’s stuck, and completely at the other avatar’s mercy.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to keep on like this, love. That is, until you apologize, and whatever comes out of your mouth even now can and will be held against you. So let’s fix that attitude, yeah?”

Elias’ laugh goes silent, eyes screwed shut rendering his powers completely useless. Not that they weren’t already, but now he can’t even read Peter’s thoughts.

Mercifully, the tickling comes to a stop after about five straight minutes of torture. Elias takes the opportunity to breath, and to pout, while Peter continues to ramble on.

“Not going to say anything, then? That’s alright, I’ve got another place in mind. Remember that one time you asked for a foot massage, and every time I pressed too light you’d kick and tell me to do better? Well, if you can’t handle a massage I’d hate to see how you’ll handle ten fingers intentionally tickling you.”

Elias uses what little of his strength he’s got left to buck his hips. Nothing happens, so he begins to thrash any way he can, kicking and babbling out a mantra of “nononono”-

But Peter is quick, and built tough like the boat that stared this whole argument. It takes about two seconds for him to turn around, placing all his weight on the trapped ankles of his smart-mouthed partner. He cracks his knuckles, gives a quick wink in Elias’ direction, and scribbles his fingers up two shaking soles.

Elias cries out, pounding his fists against the mattress. “NNOOHOHO! PETERPETERPETER- GEHEET OOHOFF- I CAHANT!”

“Are you pleading with me?” He responds, otherwise uncaring and unwavering in his assault. He wiggles his nails against the soles of one foot, and digs in between the toes of the other.

Even now, there is the slightest hesitation. But when he adjusts his position so that he can rub his beard against Elias’ trapped feet, all remaining pride goes out the window and into the endless Vast.

“PLEHEHASEPLEASEPLEASE- SOHAHA- SORRY! DAHARLINGPLEASE-“

“Trying to appeal to my humanity, darling? I should be offended you’d use such language just to get away from me and my glorious facial hair”.

Tears stream down Elias’ face. The scruffy hairs rubbing against his soles is just too much to handle. So he does the unthinkable and gives up.

“PEHEHEETEERRRR-“ is all he can manage, all he can think in the midst of this hell, and somehow it’s enough for him to get the message.

“Alright, alright. Calm down, love, let me help.” Peter soothes, giggling at the little twitches he evokes by firmly rubbing Elias’ feet of residual tingles.

Elias, on the other hand, is utterly spent. He feels heavy as a sack of bricks, completely limp and hiccuping like a maniac. Once his awful, evil husband has decided that his feet can be left alone, he starts to rub his back.

“Poor, mean little thing you are. So sensitive for such a powerful man.” Peter coos, and despite himself Elias falls asleep to the sound of his voice and comforting feel of his hands.

[1awkwardpotofsoup]

Dating Peter Lukas HCs

It’s not even funny, I need him so badly like Jesus Christ

Content Warnings: mild angst, drug use at the end

“Dating” an avatar of the lonely fucking sucks, sorry Peter simps(myself included)

Loneliness in itself only works if you’ve had the knowledge of company

All the spooky singles who end up entangled with the Lukas’ know this

And you're no different

You’re basically his glorified sugar baby wearing the branding of “partner” and you’re made to want for nothing

Except, of course, his company

You’re so deliciously lonely every time he comes back from one of his “expeditions” that he can savor you for weeks on end like a succulent slow-cooked meal

And then he leaves again, and somehow it still hurts every time

But the few times he is around he genuinely seems to enjoy your company, and you unfortunately enjoy his

His gentle tones, soft and far more disarming than they had any right to be, all carried by dry wit and superficial charm always made something inside you melt

He’ll occupy your time together with basic conversation and engage with whatever you try to talk to him about but in the end, you will always leave you feeling cold like you’ve been speaking to an empty room

He would be the epitome of the perfect partner if it weren’t for all his time at sea, or the hollowness of his company

He dotes on you with pretty little trinkets, expensive dinners, cars, and all the like having a rotation of staff care for your every whim

But it’s all unsatisfying, every new gift only serving to highlight further how big the house was and how lonely you were when in it

Despite the endless cycle new things to occupy the time you know he’ll never once think about you while in the solace of the seas

No matter how you try to push for a connection you’ll always end up alone, it’s simply his nature

Still, you cling to him like he’s your only anchor in an unending storm

And he lets you

Let’s you take his much larger hand into your own and squeeze to remind yourself he’s truly there

Occasionally he’ll place a chaste kiss on the back of your hand like some kind of gentleman

And you’ll giggle to yourself as fluffy curls of his beard tickle your skin

Other times you’ll sit on the lounge with him and listen to his tales of the sea while the two of you share one of his stupidly expensive cigars

For someone who spends so much time alone, he sure likes to hear himself talk

And talk he does, so lost in his words he sometimes even forgets you’re there

You’re not offended, to make him feel alone even in your company is somehow the best compliment you can ask for

He’ll regale you with tales of the sea, his eyes soft and distant, like he’s reminiscing over an old lover he can’t wait to see again

And you’ll draw in a long breath of the aromatic cigar

Then you’ll pass it to him and he’ll slot it between his lips so perfectly you’ll end up wishing it was your own mouth

So you’ll straddle his lap as he cocks a graying brow, pretending not to know what you want

But he doesn’t stop you from taking the cigar from his lips and letting you share in the exhale of smoke as you lean in to kiss him

He’ll kiss you back, of course, so achingly gentle it’ll almost feel like he loves you

He doesn’t, of course, but he likes to indulge your little fantasy. It makes your loneliness much more appetizing

And you don’t want him to love you, he wouldn’t be your Peter if he did, and you wouldn’t have him any other way

[kurjakani]

No but for valentines day id like for someone with a beard (peter lukas) to feather kisses on my face and tickle my face along w it... gently..... looks off into the distance soooo yearnfully

[andhumanslovedstories]

I was going to say something like “Peter Lukas did nothing wrong and he deserved better” but both of those statements are so self-evidently fucking wrong that I guess the most accurate version of this post is “Peter Lukas did literally everything wrong, both in execution and in morals, but dang that ole son of a gun coulda hung around in the background for the rest of the show and I’d tickled pink to see him whenever he deigned show up” 

[atlas-of-galaxies]

i’ve had a couple people comment on the killing kind that they’ve never seen peter lukas’s death depicted as bloody before and it tickles me cuz like. do i really believe that it was that gory? nah not really. but will i take any chance i have to envy the gender of a blood-splattered jon?? absolutely

[bluejayblueskies]

flour, sugar, salt

Words: 3.6k

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims

Additional Tags: Domestic Fluff, Baking, Gentle Kissing, Light Angst, Safehouse Period, No Apocalypse, cooking and baking as love languages

Summary:

It had gone like this:

They’d been sitting on the couch, the flames of the fire licking at the brick edges of the fireplace as it eagerly consumed the new wood Martin had topped it off with just minutes earlier. The moment Martin had settled back onto the couch, Jon had resumed his position curled into his side, breathing a small sigh of satisfaction as warmth began to radiate throughout his body once again.

“Tell me something,” Jon said, leaning his head against the curve of Martin’s shoulder.

 After a moment, Martin laced their fingers together and gave a gentle squeeze. “I’ve never had a birthday cake.”

----

Jon’s never baked before, but how much harder than cooking can it possibly be?

Things do not go well.

Read on Ao3

Or read below:

The cake is awful. There’s no getting around that, Jon thinks as he scowls at the misshapen lump of frosting in front of him, adorned with little yellow and blue candles that he’d found tucked in the meagre baking section of the village’s shop, right next to the boxed cake mix that Jon had hesitated in front of, his hand stalled halfway to the candles. Just add water! it had proclaimed cheerily, which in no way assured Jon that the resulting product would be anything close to edible. So, he’d retrieved the candles and moved on, collecting flour, sugar, baking powder, and the rest of the ingredients for the recipe. For beginners, it had said, and Jon had felt like a child, but he’d followed the steps anyway, doing everything exactly right.

 Perhaps he should have just gone with the boxed mix. At least then the final product would have at least looked edible and not like something one would immediately toss into the bin, like Jon has half a mind to do. But the idea of not having a cake makes Jon’s stomach twist into knots, because he needs the cake. This whole thing is- is pointless without the cake, but the cake looks horrible, and—

 And he’s completely forgotten to put the gołąbki in the oven. He does so now, trying to calm the shaking of his hands that is born more of frustration than anything. It really wouldn’t do to drop the main dish all over the lino, after all. Best not to ruin it more than he already has.

 It had gone like this:

 They’d been sitting on the couch, the flames of the fire licking at the brick edges of the fireplace as it eagerly consumed the new wood Martin had topped it off with just minutes earlier. The moment Martin had settled back onto the couch, Jon had resumed his position curled into his side, breathing a small sigh of satisfaction as warmth began to radiate throughout his body once again. Martin ran hot—hotter than Jon, anyway, whose fingers had a tendency to get so cold they burned when warmed between Martin’s hands—and the slight guilt at using Martin as his personal space heater had dissipated entirely at the small, contented noise Martin had made as he’d wrapped his arm around Jon’s shoulders and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of his head.

 It had been months since the Lonely, since those first few awkward weeks in the safehouse tucked away in the Scottish highlands where Jon hadn’t been sure if loved was to be taken at face value and Martin wasn’t sure if the little touches Jon gave him were just to stave off that creeping fog that still lingered in the blue-grey of his eyes and the white-streaked curls that mirrored Jon’s own. It had been even less time since Martin had opened the front door, an excuse about needing ‘a much thicker coat, it’s bloody freezing out there’ on his tongue, to find Jon gripping a sheet of official Institute paper in a white-knuckled grip. The words calmly spilling free from his lips were silenced only once he’d slumped bonelessly in Martin’s arms, Martin’s hand still clamped firmly over his mouth and twin tear tracks streaking down both of their faces.

 The statement had gone up in flames easily and without fanfare, the small strands of smoke tickling the still-blue sky that, to Jon, seemed like the second most beautiful thing in the world.

 Now, there’s just this: sitting curled next to the fire, and taking long walks even as the cold of February nips at the tips of their ears, and getting to know each other through fragments of stories and brushes of pinkies and whispered confessions.

 “Tell me something,” Jon said, leaning his head against the curve of Martin’s shoulder and letting his eyes fall on Martin’s hands where they gripped the edges of a notebook, curling script decorating the pages in starts and stops and marred in places with crossed-out lines. They’d established a routine after Jon had admitted one night as they lay in bed, knees curled into his chest protectively, that sometimes what Peter Lukas had said in the Lonely still played on his mind. That they barely knew each other, and that the love Jon felt so potently in his chest and his lungs and his bones was based on nothing more than a construct, something he’d tricked himself into believing was real. It had been hard to think, even harder to say; Jon had squeezed his eyes tightly shut and had held his breath.

 Martin’s hand had found his and squeezed it tight. “Tell me something, then,” Martin had said, a tentative smile on his lips. And so, Jon had.

 Now, Jon’s hands were relaxed as he played absently with the cuff of Martin’s jumper sleeve. It was one of his favourites, a mustard-yellow one that was slightly oversized on Martin and consumed Jon entirely every time he managed to steal it from Martin’s side of the closet. Martin hummed and closed the notebook, turning his hand over and letting Jon’s hand rest against his palm; after a moment, he laced their fingers together and gave a gentle squeeze.

 “I’ve never had a birthday cake,” Martin said, sounding a bit wistful as he said it, and Jon leaned back slightly so he could see his face. Martin’s eyes were trained on the fire, and though his lips were still curled into a hint of a smile, his eyebrows folded inward in that way they did when an old wound itched just below the surface, stitched messily shut and stubbornly ignored even as it healed crooked and wrong. “At- at least not one of my own, that is, or- or that I can remember. I don’t know why I didn’t when I was younger, not really, but after Mum got sick, and my dad… well, birthdays just never really seemed all that important anymore, I guess? At least, Mum never seemed to want to celebrate.”

 Martin let out a small laugh, the kind born from reflecting on a memory that was quite the opposite of humorous. “And by the time I was old enough to make one for myself, it all just seemed so… pointless, I suppose. You know, that time we went out for ice cream was the first time I’d even celebrated my birthday since I turned 21?” Under his breath, Martin said, “Though I’m not sure you could call buying myself a bottle of Moscato and drinking alone in my flat celebrating.” He drew in a shaky breath before giving Jon a small, embarrassed smile. Not too long ago, he probably would have stuttered out some sort of apology, like it was shameful for him to show the vulnerable parts of himself. Now, he simply said, “It was nice, I suppose. To have people who cared, even if it didn’t seem like it meant all that much at the time.”

 Martin had that quietly sad look on his face, the one they both shared when thinking of the easy comfort of those first months in the archives, with Tim bright-eyed and smiling and telling jokes that Jon only understood half of the time and Sasha looking the way she had in the Polaroid Jon had found tucked away in the box of statements and cassette tapes Basira had delivered, clearly meant to be more salt in a wound that had been stitched closed before it had the chance to bleed. Jon squeezed Martin’s hand tighter, and when that didn’t seem enough, brought it to his lips and laid a soft kiss across the knuckles. “Yes,” Jon said softly, feeling that same sadness curling within his stomach and mingling with the beginnings of determination, a plan half-forming in his mind. “It suppose it was.”

 It was going to be perfect. Martin had left some time ago to make the longer trip into Inverness to pick up the supplies they couldn’t get in the village, forehead creasing slightly at Jon’s fabricated excuse of ‘not feeling well’ and Jon’s subsequent refusal of Martin’s offer to stay behind and reschedule their trip to a time when Jon was feeling more up to it. Jon had practically pushed Martin out the front door, letting out a small breath of relief when he saw Daisy’s car—now ostensibly their car—trundle down the cratered dirt road and out of sight. He’d had all of the ingredients; he’d followed all of the instructions. It was supposed to be perfect.

 At least the gołąbki turned out well, he thinks with a resigned sigh as he extracts the glass dish from the oven, setting it atop one of the electric hobs to cool. The cake sits in his periphery, almost mockingly; some of the frosting has sloughed off the top, leaving the chocolate pastry underneath starkly exposed.

 It… it wouldn’t hurt to try to fix it, right? Just a little more frosting to patch up the hole.

 Somehow, the middle of the cake ends up collapsing inward, taking a good portion of the candles with it. Christ, Jon can just picture his grandmother’s expression, the stern tilt of her eyebrows and the press of her mouth into a thin line that, thinking back on it, was really more amused than anything as she told him that no, five minutes was not long enough to properly cook chicken breasts in the oven, and no, he could not set the temperature to 260 degrees just to speed things along. She’d taught him how to mince garlic and to make Desi Ghee and to spice dishes without the need for measuring spoons, saying that he may as well put some of his anxious, restless energy to use and that the kitchen was as good a place as any.

 The first time he’d cooked in the safehouse, a few days after they’d arrived, when Martin had sat shivering on the couch with his eyes iced over with fog, his stomach had knotted in worry that he wouldn’t remember how—that he’d neglected it for so long, subsisting off of ready meals and tea in the beginning and then mostly statements after a while, and that this knowledge was the kind of nice, wonderful thing he wouldn’t be allowed to keep. But the knife strokes had come easily, almost mindlessly, and he’d filled the kitchen with mindless chatter as he’d worked in the hopes that it would give Martin something to cling to until he could press a bowl of chicken dumpling soup into his hands and gently coax him to eat.

 After that, Jon had taken to cooking most of their meals while Martin sat at the table and wrote with his tongue stuck out between his lips in concentration, or stood behind Jon and wrapped his arms around his waist and rested his chin against Jon’s shoulder as he watched him work, or formed a pile of flour and sugar and spices into a bread or a pastry or some other lovely, doughy concoction that Jon just couldn’t understand. Because Martin could cook, yes, but he’d never really liked it, he’d mumbled into his pillow one night after Jon had whispered, “Tell me something.”

 “It just reminds me of my Mum,” he’d said, voice small and quiet, and Jon had understood.

 But baking seemed to come so easily to Martin, lighting up his face with a radiant joy that captivated Jon to the point where he’d burned several meals just staring at Martin while he worked, transforming the same ingredients into a myriad of different desserts that all tasted light and lovely on Jon’s tongue, even though he’d never been a fan of sweets. At least, not until Martin had pressed a raspberry-filled Paczki into his hand with a tentative smile. He’d made it seem so easy, and Jon had been sure that, at the very least, he could manage a birthday cake.

 Clearly, he’d been wrong.

 He’s halfway to the bin, having decided that having no cake at all is distinctly better than having the monstrosity of a cake that’s currently balanced precariously in his hands, when the front door swings open, bringing with it a rush of winter air that prickles goosebumps onto Jon’s skin and sends a flush to his cheeks. Though that may be only partly due to the chill.

 “Hey,” Martin says, kicking the door closed behind him. His arms are laden with canvas bags of various patterns and designs, collected from a myriad of different shops over the past months, and he’s looking at the floor as he kicks off his boots so he doesn’t see the way Jon freezes halfway to the bin, the offending cake still suspended in front of him in the way one might hold a particularly offensive-smelling bag of rubbish. His muscles lock in indecision, and his mind is a mess of do I throw it away do I hide it oh Christ what do I do he’s going to hate it I have to get rid of it, and then Martin’s looking up from the floor and saying, “Are you feeling any—?”

 His eyes alight on the cake, on the stricken expression on Jon’s face, and his sentence trails off into a small, “Oh.” He takes in the kitchen, which is still in a state of disarray because Jon thought he had more time, surely Martin said he’d be out until six. He says as much, because he’s really not sure what else to do.

 “It’s quarter past,” Martin says, still staring at Jon with an unreadable expression that’s sending Jon’s stomach into a chaotic mess of nervous butterflies, and Jon’s eyes flick over to the clock above the oven. It does, in fact, read 18:14, and Jon feels his cheeks heat further.

 “Ah.” He’s still holding the cake awkwardly in front of him, he realizes, so he pulls it closer to his chest, almost protectively. Martin’s eyes track its movement, and on reflex, Jon says, “I- ah, I made dinner? And, er. A cake as well.”

 “Oh,” Martin says again, and Jon still can’t tell what he’s feeling. Not that he’s ever been good at that, but Martin has a tendency to wear his heart on his sleeve, which usually makes it easier.

 Nerves loosen his tongue, and he begins to ramble. “I- I know we hadn’t really discussed it, and I- I didn’t want you to think that I forgot about your birthday—which is, ah, tomorrow, I know, but I- I suppose I thought it would be more of a surprise today, and we did make plans for tomorrow already, and you- you said you’d never had a birthday cake of your own, and you’re always baking for me, so I- I thought it might be nice to make something for you, and you always make it seem so easy, but it, ah, it didn’t quite—”

 He shrugs helplessly and nods down at the cake, which is looking significantly more pathetic now that it’s under Martin’s scrutiny. “It’s a bit ruined,” he says, trying to convey within his words the entirety of the apologetic mess that’s been tying his stomach into knots. He stares at the floor, eyes fixating on Martin’s boots and the small puddle of water accumulating beneath them as the snow caked on the sides of them melts. The hot embarrassment that’s rapidly consuming him keeps his eyes cast firmly downward.

 “Oh,” Martin says once more, and it’s a soft, tender noise that makes Jon’s gaze twitch upward. His breath catches in his throat when he sees the wet shine to Martin’s eyes, the open, vulnerable look on his face where the stunned mask has finally cracked. “Oh, Jon.”

 Martin sets the bags on the floor and quickly crosses the room to where Jon’s stood. He takes the cake carefully out of Jon’s hands, despite Jon’s protests, and sets it on the counter like it’s something precious instead of the worst baking monstrosity Jon’s ever laid eyes on.

 “Martin, what—?”

 One of Martin’s hands is on Jon’s shoulder, the other carefully cupping his face. He pauses there for a moment, like he always does, giving Jon a chance to pull back. When Jon doesn’t, Martin leans in and kisses him.

 It’s more insistent than usual, both of Martin’s hands coming up to rest on Jon’s face and thumbs running soft circles over the tops of his cheeks as he presses into him, swallowing Jon’s soft gasp as he pushes him back against the kitchen counter, narrowly avoiding the cake as he kisses him soundly. Jon’s arms come up to loop around Martin’s neck loosely, his fingers brushing against the curls at the nape of Martin’s neck, and the tension he’s been holding in his body for the last hour melts away under the gentle, rhythmic motion of Martin’s thumbs against his face and the little noises Martin’s making against his mouth.

 When Martin pulls back some time later, his face is flushed a lovely shade of pink, and Jon realizes with a start that there are tear tracks running down his cheeks. He brings a hand to Martin’s face and rubs gently at the tears, his stomach twisting again ever so slightly in concern. “What’s wrong?” he says quietly, still breathless from the kissing.

 Martin hiccups a laugh, small and disbelieving. “Nothing’s wrong, Jon. I- Christ, I’m just so- so happy.” He brings a hand up to grasp at the one Jon has on his face, squeezing it tightly before bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to the inside of Jon’s palm. “You made this for me?”

 Jon blinks, once, before remembering the cake. His forehead creases in disappointment, directed entirely at himself. “Ah. Yes, that.” He glances at the cake, which looks just as appalling as it did before—possibly more so due to the fact that Jon’s elbow seems to have, at some point, jostled the cake after all, dislodging another section of frosting and quite a few candles along with it. “It was meant to look significantly more… edible.”

 Martin lets out another laugh, this one with a bit more substance. “Jon, did you try it?”

 Jon’s frown deepens. “I don’t follow.”

 Martin disentangles himself from Jon, despite Jon’s small noise of protest, opens the cutlery drawer, and retrieves a fork. “How will we know if it’s edible or not until we try it?” he says with a smile that’s entirely too wide and excited at the prospect of eating a cake that looks like it was run over by a car.

 “I really don’t think that’s—Martin!”

 Martin carves off a section of cake, ignoring Jon’s protests to, “At least wait until after we eat.” He puts it in his mouth, and Jon braces himself for the inevitable disgust.

 Martin hums, his eyes still crinkled with a hint of a smile even as he swallows and says, “It’s really not that bad, Jon.”

 “Not that bad,” Jon echoes, glaring at the offending pastry and pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Christ, this- this was supposed to be romantic.”

 Martin’s hand finds Jon’s face again, turning his head gently until Jon meets his eyes. “It is,” Martin says softly, eyes full of something so tender it makes Jon melt. “It’s- Christ, I’m going to start crying again. In a good way,” he adds quickly, at Jon’s stricken expression. “You- you just—”

 Martin pinches his bottom lip between his teeth, his eyes shining again with unshed tears, and he says in a small voice, “I love you so much, Jon. And I love that you did this for me. I know you hate it when people say that it’s the thought that counts, but—no, don’t give me that look, it really is. I’m not using it as an excuse to- to soften a criticism or anything, or to subtly say that I hate it. I love the cake, Jon, because I love you, and so it really doesn’t matter that it kind of looks like somebody stepped on it.”

 That pulls a small giggle from Jon, entirely against his will and born mostly from the release of the knot of nerves that had reformed in the pit of his stomach. “God, it really does, doesn’t it?” He laughs again, more intentionally this time, and takes Martin’s hand in his, squeezing it tightly. “Well, I promise that the main course is significantly more palatable. It’s from that little recipe book you gave me—the one you picked up at the bookstore?”

 “Oh!” Martin’s eyes brighten as they alight upon the glass dish still sitting on the hob. “You made gołąbki! Christ, I haven’t had that since I was a kid. My grandmother used to make it for holidays before she passed.” When Martin’s eyes meet Jon’s again, they’re full of such fondness that the Jon of a few months ago would have squirmed under the weight of it. Instead, he lets himself lean into it, feeling the flutter of his heart against his ribcage as Martin places another warm, achingly soft kiss against his lips. “Thank you, Jon,” he says, pulling back just enough that the words tickle against Jon’s skin. “I… just, thank you.”

 Jon’s I love you is interrupted by the rumbling of Martin’s stomach, loud and insistent. Laughter splits Martin’s face into a wide smile, and he says, “I suppose we should eat, then.”

 “I suppose so,” Jon says, feeling his own smile grow softer as Martin turns to the glass dish and begins to portion out the gołąbki.

 Maybe they could bake together, he thinks as he sits across from Martin at the table, Martin’s foot reaching underneath and hooking around Jon’s ankle. Yes, that… that might be nice.

 The cake ends up going into the bin after all. Though neither of them really seem to mind.

[agerefandom]

Magnus Archives Regression Headcanons

requested by @cathasdepression​ about a century ago, sorry for the delay! I decided I had to relisten to the podcast before I made this post >-<

Jonathan Sims

involuntary regressor

owns a fair amount of regression gear and keeps it hidden 

needs to take better care of himself

only cries when he’s regressed, and tends to cry a lot

jumpy as heck

regresses out of exhaustion, fear, or sensory overload 

he’s good at hiding his regression, but only by getting super stiff and distant: anyone who knows him well can tell when he’s pretending to be big 

regresses to infant age, but still has a lot of verbal ability 

does a lot better when he’s volunarily regressing on the regular, but can’t voluntarily regress without a caregiver usually 

Martin Blackwood

mainly a caregiver 

enjoys babysitting kiddos online

but he really thrives on being able to touch, dress, and cradle a regressor: to witness the concrete effects of his love and care 

has hard limits and things that remind him of his mother: helping with baths, for example, is a trigger for him 

overall, though, caregiving is a way for Martin to feel valued (rather than his mother who took his aid for granted) 

silly caregiver, lots of boops and silly nicknames and tickles 

gets very excited at the zoo 

(regresses once in a blue moon, usually with tantrums: Martin’s regression happens when he’s pushed to his limits and needs emotional release. he crashes hard after the tantrum and needs a few days to build himself back up.) 

Sasha James 

full headcanon set can be found here! 

a responsible regressor who knows her limits: takes care of herself with voluntary regression, but also fields involuntary regression on her bad days 

Georgie Barker

an enthusiastic caregiver 

she doesn’t seek out regressors to take care of, but she learned about regression through Jon and really valued that part of their relationship

when Jon moves in with her, she automatically falls into caregiving patterns, but Jon asks her to please back off and she listens (even though she’s worried about him) 

enjoys cooking for people

big on communication and having conversations

gives the Best Hugs 

Melanie King

she does not like regressing

it makes her feel out of control, but it’s just one of her natural defense mechanisms 

very protective of her regression and doesn’t talk about it with people

she was planning to bring it up in therapy 

Georgie helps her figure it out and feel more comfortable about it 

(Under the cut: headcanons for Gerard Keay, Michael Shelley, Jane Prentiss, Peter Lukas, and Simon Fairchild) 

Gerard Keay

teen/big kid regressor

mostly a voluntary regressor, but sometimes he regresses by accident and then pretends he meant to

insists he can’t read when he’s regressed (he’s lying)

externally doesn’t change much when he regresses: more accepting of and seeking physical contact

Gerry uses all of his ‘weird stuff’ as defense mechanisms, and regression is no different; he pushes his gender nonconformity, his queerness, his stims, and his regression in people’s faces to test them or to make them uncomfortable

enjoys settling in with a handheld game console from before they all had cameras (before they were always Watching)

definitely runs a 2000s web nostalgia blog on tumblr

Michael Shelley 

was a regressor before he was Distorted 

the Spiral just made it worse: Shelley was a toddler-age regressor, but now he can’t remember what ages are supposed to feel like 

Michael is a mirror: he enjoys spending time around children, taking on their innocence and their form, but he doesn’t relish the effects he has on the minds of children

regressors touched by other Entities are the safest spaces for Michael to experience age: regression isn’t a linear experience, so it isn’t antithetical to the Spiral. (and their patron Entities will protect them from the worst effects of Michael’s presence while they’re vulnerable... unless it serves them otherwise) 

children don’t worry about reality, or identity, or anything like that. they’re blindly accepting of Michael, and in regression Michael can blindly accept himself in a way that his (adult?) mind cannot

Jane Prentiss

 full headcanons can be found here (in story form) 

was a regressor before she became a host for the Corruption

doesn’t have enough personhood left to regress, but part of her feels small and loved in the community of the Hive that consumes her 

Peter Lukas 

Peter will swear up and down that the Lonely is a blessing, that he never wants to be anywhere else 

but sometimes the fog twists into the rooms of his childhood home

sometimes the blankness of the crowd around him reminds him that any one of them could be his mother, whose face he’s forgotten 

sometimes Peter remembers his childhood days, how no one his parents hired would look at him, how he would stare into the mirror and try to imagine a face other than his own 

(the Lonely has given Peter many gifts, but it is still hungry) 

sometimes Peter is a boy who does not understand why no one can see him 

sometimes Peter will cry, and the taste of the tears will turn into the saltwater of the sea spray at the docks, and he knows it’s time to take the Tundra out again 

Simon Fairchild

quite enjoys finger painting 

goes on rollarcoasters (and tends to be the only person who survives the ride) 

absolutely loves throwing people to the Vast when he’s regressed, just runs around pushing people off rooves with reckless abandon and glee 

have you ever seen a very old man dressed in yellow overalls perform a triple backflip? then you haven’t seen Simon Fairchild regress 

pops in to annoy other Avatars by standing on their heads or shoulders 

[wenttworth]

5 times martin used a pet name and 1 time jon did

The first time was on the train to Scotland, hastily-packed bags at their feet and hands clasped tightly together. Jon was sitting perfectly still, eyes closed and concentrating on their surroundings, Knowing everything that he could. There was nothing suspicious, but it wasn’t like the Beholding didn’t often let him know of danger seconds before it happened. Peter Lukas might be gone, torn apart and cast… somewhere far away, but he had never been the biggest danger. He was even useful, right now. The statement of an Avatar was more nourishing than a normal human. He could push further without risking quite so quick an onset of starvation. Even if he would have risked that and more to keep Martin safe.

Martin was sleeping, a dreamless sleep that Jon hoped would dissipate the vestiges of the fog that still clung to his mind. Even out of the Lonely, he’d still been a little faded, quieter. Like he was trying to fold himself smaller. His eyes weren’t yet back to the shining brown they usually were.

Martin stirred, and Jon rubbed his thumb over his knuckles.

“Jon?” His voice was quiet. Subdued. Everything Martin shouldn’t have to be.

He let go of the Beholding. They were safe. Only Basira knew where they were, and she knew how to keep a secret. For now, they didn’t need to worry. He leant against Martin’s shoulder. “I’m here,” he reassured him.

Martin kissed the top of his head. “You should sleep, love.”

If he’d been standing, Jon was sure he would have fallen over. Love. Love, love, love. He knew that Martin loved him—Knew and knew—but such a casual affirmation. Something present and coming directly from Martin. No vague, cut off sentences or rumours. No past tense, as if he were resigning that feeling to the fog.

What could he say to that? What could he say to the one person who had always trusted and believed in him? Who had loved him so unconditionally?

He raised their entwined hands and pressed a kiss to Martin’s knuckles. Martin’s breath audibly caught in his throat at the gesture, cupping Jon’s cheek with his free hand. Jon’s pulse was pounding in his throat when he tilted up his chin. His eyes were bright, the dull grey finally gone to reveal the warm brown Jon had missed so much over the past few months.

Martin was only a hairbreadth’s away when the elderly lady sat in front of them coughed pointedly.

They pulled away hurriedly, Martin biting his lip against a smile that made Jon’s chest fill with light bubbles.

  The only food available at the cabin was instant noodles and canned vegetables, which Martin threw into a pot with a distinct look of disgust as Jon cleaned some plates he found in his hunt through the cupboards. He’d found a map of the area in one of them, and measured the distance to the nearest town—3 km by footpaths. “We probably have time to go to the supermarket today,” he said.

Martin twisted some noodles around his fork and prodded at the very English boiled vegetables. “Let’s do that.”

The sun was setting when they left, Martin easily slipping his hand into Jon’s. It was bracing, the wind through the highlands, the emptiness of their surroundings. London was always so crowded and claustrophobic.

“If it wasn’t for the vertigo I think I’d like the Vast,” he said. Thoughtlessly.

Martin flinched, and Jon squeezed his hand. “Sorry,” he said.

“No, it’s… it’s fine. I just don’t want to think about…” He sighed. “It’s just that we have a chance to leave that behind, maybe.”

Jon held his tongue. He could feel the vague hunger pulling at his mind. Still easy enough to ignore for now, but it would only get worse. He would never be able to leave it behind. Still, if Martin wanted to… leave it. To start over. Jon would be the last person to stop him. Not that he was brave enough to bring it up now. “Okay,” he said, leaning his head against Martin’s shoulder.

“It is beautiful,” Martin said. “I always missed spaces like this in London.”

The supermarket was well-stocked enough with spices and vegetables that Jon was suitably inspired. He wouldn’t be butchering his grandmother’s recipes, at least. Martin made himself… well, useful in getting things from the higher shelves that Jon had no hope in reaching, having to hide a smirk the entire time.

Jon was comparing a couple of bags of chickpeas when he asked: “How is your cooking, Jon?”

Jon blinked. “Fine? Why?”

“Well, you… you set the microwave in the staff room on fire the last time you used it.”

The only time he’d used it. He wrinkled his nose. “I’d never used a microwave before. My grandmother was…” he considered. “Traditional. She didn’t grow up with a microwave so she didn’t see why I would need one. I think my parents had one, though.”

That seemed to satisfy him. “I’ll go get some meat. Did you want any in particular?”

Jon decided on the locally sourced chickpeas, if only to see if chickpeas grown in Scotland were any different. He dropped the bag in the trolley. “Chicken. Lamb if they have any.”

“Okay, sweetheart,” Martin said, dropping a kiss on the top of his head.

Jon dropped the other bag of chickpeas and stared in disbelief as the bag split and the runaway legumes covered the floor. “Oh,” he said.

At least his skin was dark enough that it was difficult to tell when he blushed.

“I’ll go get the meat,” Martin said, obviously holding back a laugh.

Jon made a vague noise of agreement and braced himself when a shop assistant approached.

  They’d settled into a sort-of routine within the week. Jon would wake before Martin, press a kiss to his forehead as he grumbled and rolled away, and be halfway through making breakfast by the time Martin joined him. It took him much longer to wake up than Jon, as he wrapped his arms around Jon’s waist and yawned against his hair. He always seemed fascinated with his shoulders, where the tops Jon stole from Martin were falling off them. He never even avoided the scars, kissing them just the same as the scant clear skin.

The kitchen smelled like home, the freshly crushed garlic, the pitta bread in the oven, the cumin, the slightly sour yoghurt. And it was even better with Martin’s arms around him, the warmth and softness pressed against his back.

“Awake?” Jon asked.

“Almost,” he said, before pulling away and rooting through the cupboard for the tea. “Could you fill the kettle, darling?” he continued.

Jon dropped the wooden spoon into the saucepan, making Martin jump with the noise.

“Are you—?”

“Okay! Good. I’m… fine,” Jon said, throwing tahini and garlic into the pot haphazardly. His grandmother would be horrified. It took another couple of seconds of Martin watching him in amusement before he remembered the kettle.

  The hunger was starting to hit him harder, and although he did his best to keep it from Martin, it was within a few days that he brought it up.

Jon had climbed onto Martin where he’d been lounging on the sofa, overcome with a fatigue that he knew wouldn’t fade until he found another statement. The TV was playing a documentary, and Jon idly corrected the information until he drifted off with Martin gently stroking his hair.

He barely remembered his dreams, but he didn’t feel any more rested when he woke up.

“I’ll call Basira and ask her to send some statements, okay?” Martin said when Jon shifted.

“Okay,” he mumbled, muffled against Martin’s chest.

“How bad is it now?”

Jon sat up. “Bearable. I can wait another couple of days before I use the one Basira managed to sneak out. Then it will give her time to send more.”

Martin’s hands had settled on his thighs, rubbing gentle circles with his thumbs. “Do you think a blindfold might help?”

“A blindfold?”

“I was thinking about the, uh… quitting method, and maybe it could help? Short-term, obviously.”

It would be vulnerable, definitely. But it was Martin. He could trust no one if he couldn’t trust Martin.

Jon leant down to kiss him, smiling at the surprised hitch in his breath. “Couldn’t hurt,” he answered. “Do you have anything I can use?”

He did, in fact, and before long he’d fetched a length of soft, black fabric. Jon was sat between his legs, and remained perfectly still as Martin gently tied it around his eyes. He was even careful of his hair, smoothing it down so it wouldn’t catch in the knot.

It was… uncomfortable, frankly. Something so foreign and against what his patron was. Everything inside him fought against it for a long moment, which peaked when Martin’s hands left him.

He jolted, fear flooding him. Fear of the unknown, urging him to rip off the blindfold, to make sure that Martin was still with him, that Martin was safe. He couldn’t lose him, not now, not ever. “Martin,” he exclaimed, and Martin immediately took hold of his shoulders. Jon pushed back, clumsily grabbing his wrists to guide his arms around him. “Don’t let go,” he insisted.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Martin repeated, pressing kiss after kiss to every part of exposed skin he could reach. He was squeezing tighter now, almost enough for Jon to be breathless.

The hunger didn’t go away. He could still… Know if he wanted. But without that constant barrage of information that came from humankind’s most important sense, it was easier to focus on something else. Like touch, the way the soft, stretchy fabric felt against his eyes, his hair tickling the exposed skin of his shoulder, and… Martin. Around him, holding him with a strength that took Jon’s breath away, the gentle but desperate way he was kissing his neck, that spot just behind his ear that always had been way too sensitive, his thighs pressed tight around Jon’s hips.

“Breathe, love,” Martin whispered against his shoulder, and Jon obeyed, letting himself sink into Martin’s chest.

He didn’t know what it was, the effect that those little endearments had on him. He’d always assumed he’d had a general hatred for being called anything except his name, still shuddered uncomfortably when he remembered the only time Georgie had called him a pet name. But with Martin, it was somehow different. Maybe it was just how absolutely he trusted Martin. Maybe everything he’d avoided with Georgie would be different with Martin. It was a trust that he’d had to purposefully choose in the beginning, of course, but now was easy as breathing.

“Okay?” Martin asked softly.

“Y-yes,” Jon replied, barely able to remember how mouths worked.

“Better?”

“Easier to focus on something else. So yes. Just… just don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” Martin vowed.

  Martin was, as Jon had discovered much too late, far from an idiot.

He was more observant than Jon, for one—Ceaseless Watcher be damned—sharp and quick to pick up on clues that others overlooked, and brilliant at weaving lies that were close enough to truth that they could barely be distinguished.

“So… we had three dogs when I was growing up, I never came out to my mother, the reason I like spiders so much is because they were the subject of the first documentary I ever watched, and I…” He bit his lip against a laugh that threatened to bubble out. “I was suspended from high school for smoking behind the bike sheds.”

Jon snorted. “Well, the last one is the most typically British high school experience, so I’m thinking that’s true.”

Martin grinned.  

“You’re not really a dog person, though,” Jon continued.

“Spider person,” Martin joked.

“Oh, don’t,” Jon said with a shudder. “So, is that the lie?”

Martin shook his head. “I never came out to my mother.”

Jon was quiet for a moment, then reached to pull the blindfold away from his eyes. “Why not?” he asked softly.

“I didn’t have to,” he answered. “She, uh… walked in on me and my first boyfriend.”

Jon blinked, before laughing. “Well that must have been a bit awkward.”

Martin’s skin, being a couple of shades lighter than Jon’s, was therefore a lot easier to tell when he was blushing. Especially with how close they were to each other. “She was not… impressed,” he said carefully.

Jon pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Okay, honey. Your turn.”

Jon had been on his knees to easier reach Martin’s mouth, and when his strength gave way he collapsed awkwardly on his side. Martin patted his cheek. “Do you… would you prefer if I didn’t call you l-like that? You always react quite…” he trailed off and pulled his hand away from Jon’s cheek.

Jon caught it, kissed the knuckles. “I don’t want you to stop,” he admitted. “I just… I’m not used to it. I’ve been… I’ve been alone for a while.”

Martin watched him, picked up one of the curls that were lying haphazardly on the bedsheets. He twisted it around his finger before lying down next to him, easily shifting to accommodate Jon as he settled more comfortably in his arms.

There was hope bubbling in his chest. He’d spent the last couple of weeks trying to quash it, surely something would go disastrously wrong today, or the next day, or the next, but he couldn’t help it. Martin’s easy optimism was rubbing off on him, that simple but powerful wish of happiness.

“We should probably start thinking of getting jobs,” Jon said. He twined their fingers together, tracing the lines on his palms. He paused at Martin’s ring finger but shook off the idea. Too soon.

“I think the library’s hiring,” Martin said. “And the supermarket is probably hiring.” He pulled a face at that but sighed, tucking his face against Jon’s neck.

It was exhilarating to plan something not about the Institute, for once. He hadn’t even tried Knowing anything for days. Maybe the Eye’s hold on him was weakening. Maybe Eli—Jonah had found someone else to torture.

“Let’s try the library first,” Jon said.

    Jon sang more, these days.

It was a small thing that Martin had noticed within the first couple of days. When Jon was relaxed, he was always singing something quietly. Everything from classic rock to whatever they were listening to on the radio. He’d sang Lacrimosa in the shower the other day. More than that, he was good. All the control and sweetness of someone who had grown up singing in a choir.

Martin tried to concentrate on the book he’d bought the day previously, but his eye was continuously drawn to the sliver of the kitchen he could see through the open door. Jon was dancing in and out of view as he rummaged around the kitchen. The kettle boiled a couple of times and his voice was louder as he fought with the noise. The smell of cumin and lemon and tahini and garlic spilled from the kitchen, a smell Martin was quickly coming to associate with home. With comfort and love and everything he’d barely let himself dream to hope for.

It wouldn’t last. But it could.

A steaming cup of tea appeared in his peripheral and Jon dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “Here you go, darling,” he said.

He’d finally been the first to wake this morning. Jon was beautiful in the early morning light falling across the bed, wearing another of Martin’s t-shirts that he’d managed to squirrel away. He’d been curled towards Martin as if even in his sleep he was seeking that warmth.

He hadn’t been able to bear pulling away or moving, in case he woke him and shattered the moment.

Martin took the tea on autopilot, and his mouth went dry when he registered Jon’s words. His eyes were welling up with tears. He never could have expected this, from Jon or anyone. Jon was always so gentle with him now. Not walking on eggshells or anything like that. Just… loving. In a way that Martin had never experienced before.

“So, there’s that new café opening up in town,” Jon started. “I thought we…” he trailed off when he saw Martin’s face. “Martin?” he asked.

That was another thing. He’d always loved how Jon had said his name, the way his voice curled around the first syllable. When they’d first met just that was enough to send shivers crawling up his spine. But now when it was said so gently, so affectionately, it was almost unbearable.

Martin gave a short laugh as Jon scrambled to get both their tea safe on the low wooden table and climb into Martin’s lap at the same time, pushing his hair back from his forehead to kiss it. “What’s wrong?” he asked desperately, brushing tears away with his thumb where they were falling over his cheeks. Miraculously none of the tea had spilled.

Martin laughed again, pressing his face into Jon’s thin chest as Jon tightened his grip around him. Like he was afraid Martin would fade away.

It had been tempting even nowadays to fade, to give up on this happiness that he wanted to deserve but couldn’t. There was still a chance it wouldn’t work, but that was life, right? Didn’t mean he couldn’t love with everything he could muster whilst it did last.

“I’m fine, I just didn’t expect it,” he explained.

Jon chuckled, worry still warm in his eyes. God, he was beautiful like this, hair loose and falling over his shoulders, still mussed from where Martin had been clutching it earlier. He pushed his hair aside so he could press a kiss there. He never wore his own clothes around the house, and it satisfied some jealous part of Martin that he didn’t like to acknowledge. Well, he’d never claimed to be perfect.

“And you thought you should stop using pet names,” Jon scolded, still stroking his hair, dotting kisses on his forehead. Generally acting like a fussy mother hen. “Hypocrite,” he continued fondly.

It just felt so good to be held, to have someone who was just as happy to take care of him as Martin was. He hadn’t realised until their first night here, Jon lying on his chest, just how much he craved someone’s touch. It had almost been uncomfortable, the way his skin tingled wherever they touched. Some parts of him had constantly been urging him to back away and put more distance between them, but Jon had looked so exhausted on their journey and in the end he couldn’t bear to wake him. Even now a hateful part in the back of his mind was encouraging him to reject Jon’s caresses. He flinched away sometimes, when Jon caught him off-guard, but it was becoming easier to accept.

“Okay?” Jon asked.

“Yes,” Martin said.

[elysianrey]

Because of Julie

a/n: Basically Julie and Luke spend the evening alone talking about life, love, and some sparkly vampires in her bedroom.

Word Count: 1,483

Pairing: Julie/Luke

8:46 pm

Julie giggled as she tossed another piece of popcorn into the air and watched as an open mouthed Luke dove chin first to catch it, clumsily rolling off her bed in his attempt, and landing with an ungraceful ‘thump’ on the floor. The girl quickly slapped a hand over her mouth to contain the laughter that was about to burst forth from deep inside her chest.

All of a sudden, the too-familiar sound of her tia rang up the stairs, “Julie! Julie what was that?”

She looked around in alarm, wishing nothing more than for him to poof out at this exact moment, but she only heard his light chuckle.

Typical Luke. Infuriatingly delightful. Charmingly annoying.

“Uhhhh nothing Tia! Just--dropped my book. Studying you know.” Julie eyed the door in anticipation. No knock. Phew.

“Alright, mija! Try being more careful. We don’t want you hurting those dancing toes.”

“Yep! I’ll just get back to it then.”

She paused for a reply, however, she received only silence, and a sigh of relief she didn’t realize she was holding in came rushing out all at once.

The culprit of the noise continued to remain silent enough for alarm.

“Luuuuuke,” she hissed his name, crawling over the bed to peer at the human heap on her floor. “Just because you have gained some sense of--errr---solidity--doesn’t mean you need to announce it to my whole fam---”

Her desire to let him have a piece of her mind only multiplied times one thousand when she caught sight of him rolling back in forth, doubled over in soundless laughter.

“Lukas Peter---” she began, unable to contain a smile that was threatening to ruin her attempt at reprimanding him. Her hand reached for a pillow on her bed.

The weapon did nothing to disarm the flawless grin flashing back at her as he caught it.

9:51 pm

“What does he mean, he’s leaving?” Luke whispered loudly, throwing a piece of popcorn at her laptop screen. The kernel landed on Edward Cullen’s face as the vampire dramatically turned away from Bella Swan and disappeared into the darkness of the forest.

Julie picked up the forsaken kernel and popped it into her mouth as she turned to him. “He has to keep her safe, remember? He’s afraid he’s endangering her life.”

He scoffed and she watched as he bit his lip in thought. Her heart skipped a violent beat in her chest when he seemed to take notice of her gaze.

“Julie.” He said her name so softly she practically had to lean into him to catch the rest of his words. “If he really had wanted to keep her safe--,” he continued slowly, “--he would have stayed.”

The girl was almost certain that besides ghosts existing, magic did too, because everything about the moment was enchanting in a way she couldn’t fully make sense of in her brain.

A pounding on the door broke the two out of their reverie and they jolted feet apart.

“Julie! Dad’s home! G’night!” Carlos called from the other side.

Julie and Luke looked at each other nervously. He started doing that thing where he bit his lip again and she knew that she wasn’t ready to kick him out to the garage just yet.

“Jules--I should--” Luke started, motioning toward the window.

“No---” came her quick response, surprising both of them. It sounded a little too demanding in her opinion so she swiftly backtracked by adding, “I mean--if you have to--”

“C’mere,” he grinned, grabbing her laptop and readjusting the pillows on her bed where they had been sharing---something---minutes ago.

11:30 pm

“Did I ever tell you about the time Alex, Reggie, and I ditched school and sang down at the metro?” Luke asked, staring up at the LED lights along the edges of her bedroom ceiling. The colors flickered between blue, to red, to yellow. His hands rested gently atop his chest.

Julie laid next to him on her stomach, her arms on either side of her head. The curly mess of a halo sprawled out in an uncontainable way around her. She was close enough to him that pieces tickled his exposed bicep. The times the ghost boy actually wore a long-sleeved shirt were few and far between.

“I don’t think so.”

She listened closely as he quietly recanted the tale from his former life, laughing at the part where they were almost caught by the police for skipping school, but getting out of trouble with their fake IDs.

“Such a rebel,” she affirmed, reaching to poke him.

He caught her eye just as she was about to touch him.

Touch.

Such a foreign concept to both of them. An area she purposely tried to avoid if she could help it. Intentionally hurting herself, but what else was she supposed to do?

Despite Flynn approving of their ‘relationship’, she also made certain to remind Julie of the reality of her situation at least once every day.

Luke was still dead.

The less they crossed that bridge, the less heartbreak she would feel when this whole thing ended. Which it would someday, right?

She slowly retracted her hand and her heart twinged as he turned to look back at her ceiling lights.

1:00 am

“Were you ever in love?” Julie had suppressed the question for long enough, and at this point in the night, her prime brain functionality was beginning to dwindle. She sat above him now, peering down at his face to try and catch his reaction.

Luke gazed back at her, a sense of vulnerability creeping into his expression. “Nah. I dated a couple of girls back in the day. I wouldn’t say I was really in love with any of them though.”

Relief selfishly flooded her chest. She decided to press on. “How many of them did you kiss?” she teased, inching down toward him ever so slightly.

He smiled, his perfect dazzling white gleam, and she was sure that he would be her cause of death if he kept making her stomach feel like it was drowning in butterflies.

“Jules, I’m a gentleman. I don’t kiss and tell,” came his equally devilish reply, his head craning to close the gap between them.

One second.

Three seconds.

Ten seconds.

An eternity.

“Please Julie,” he practically begged, sensing her hesitation to give into the culmination of every little thing that had been building up between them since they met.

His plea was enough to break her into a million little pieces and her lips suddenly met his with an unexpected fervor.

She loved Luke.

God---she loved, loved Luke. She loved the taste of his lips--cold with a hint of butter from the popcorn. She loved how her curls felt intertwined between his fingers---pulling her even closer to him---if that was possible. She loved how easy it was to talk to him, to be herself with him. She loved his passion and loyalty to his friends and to her.

As she was easing back into reality, she really loved the way he was peppering gentle kisses all over her face that made her nose crinkle in pure happiness.

Julie couldn’t bear the thought of parting from him tonight.

Or ever.

4:50 am

As she breathed almost a melodious rhythm, Luke watched the steady rise and fall of her chest, his hand loosening the grip of the pencil between his fingers. She was mesmerizing to him. A work of art. Everything he didn’t know he needed, however, knew he could no longer live without. Is live even the right word to use?

Julie was his oxygen. His lifeline. The blood that refused to flow through his veins these days.

He knew that he should let her continue her slumber without him. In fact, his mind reminded him of that scene in the vampire movie they watched together earlier where Edward would creepily watch over Bella every night. He physically shivered in disgust.

But the words were flowing at rapid pace from his brain onto the pages of their songwriting book and Luke could only imagine how disappointed Julie would be if he told her he stopped writing right when the song was turning into a new hit ballad.

Julie was somehow making him feel more alive than he had even felt before the hotdog. He could now touch her with ease, he was able to eat certain foods, and if he wasn’t mistaken, as the sun rose, he could have sworn his eyes were growing heavy with sleep. He had not slept for 25 years.

His head fell against the pillow next to the sleepy girl and the book slowly slipped from his grasp onto the carpeted floor.

Ghosts didn’t sleep.

But he wasn’t certain if he was fully a ghost anymore.

Because of Julie.

find it on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26573689

[nyctolovian]

(this is my first tma fic so i struggled a bit haha) Inspired by this amazing fancomic by @mod2amaryllis. I borrowed some of ur stuff cos it’s really just ;-; 

Summary: TMA 170 from Jon's perspective

Even as he stood outside the looming mansion, Jon could already hear the despair-brimmed tears of its victims drip upon its creaky oak floorboards. He also instantly Knew that this house expanded far beyond its original physical form, dipping far into the reaches of existential emptiness. As Jon lightly encircled his fingers around the metal of the door handle, its frigid seeped into his bones. He glanced to his side. The way Martin was steadying himself with deep controlled breaths as he worried at his lower lip sent a pang through Jon.

This was The Lonely’s domain after all.

However, Martin’s chestnut eyes also held steely determination. His voice, too, was firm when he said, “Let’s go in.”

“B-But are you going to be okay?” Jon asked, placing a gentle hand on Martin’s forearm. 

The huff Martin let out was resigned and he pursed his lips for a second. “It’s not like we can just – I don't know – saunter round the building now, can we?”

“I- Well, no, we can’t,” he mumbled, “but I still don’t want to force you through this.”

“I’ve come this far, Jon. I’m not letting you go on by yourself."

"Um, a break perhaps?"

"It's really fine," Martin assured. "I'm ready."

Gripping the strap of his bag, Jon nodded. “Alright. Remember to stay close then. I know the route.” He clenched his jaw and pushed the heavy door, which opened with a hollow groan. 

A long corridor stretched before them, but they couldn’t see much beyond several doors along it. There was a thick fog obscuring the rest of the house. Martin flinched as white mist extended through the doorway and curled slowly, like a thin finger beckoning him in. However, when Jon looked at Martin again, he was met with an adamant glare, so he licked his lips and faced the corridors again. 

As soon as he took the first step into the domain, he was enveloped in coldness. The shiver that ran through Martin as he followed told Jon that it wasn’t just him. 

A statement tickled the back of his throat but he pushed it down in the interest of safety. He didn’t want to lose himself in the statement as he had in the burning building. Leaving Martin stranded here would have worse consequences than a wake-up slap across his face.

Jon stood at the entrance, assessing the domain as best as he could.

Unlike Peter Lukas’ Lonely, which had strong winds that smelled of salt, this coldness was still and smelled like an immaculately sterilised ward. The fog here, unlike the moving clouds of the seas, snaked lazily around the house. Not to mention, there was an incessant tick-tock surrounding them but none of the clocks in sight had hands, as though time was simultaneously passing and standing still. He could also hear the muffled creaks all around the house, even above him. It was unnerving.

As he slowly and tentatively moved forward, Jon spotted several silhouettes shuffling around in the fog, but they didn’t see anyone as they passed each other by. He peered into the nearest room and saw a little girl shivering as she sat hunched on a green metal foldable chair. Tears dripped from her small chin as she hiccuped silently. Jon tore his gaze from her. 

Other than what was in his immediate surroundings, however, he couldn’t Know much else, other than the fact that a miasma of loneliness poisoned the air of this domain. With a hum, he said, “ How strange. I think The Eye can’t see much in this fog either.” He swung his hand backwards for Martin to take. “Let’s stay together until I can figure this…” His heart leapt to his throat.

He spun around. “Martin?”

Gone.

Only fog.

Frantically, Jon looked around. His breaths grew short and shallow. “Martin?!” he cried.

Gone.

He dashed through the corridor, searching, leaving no room spared. His voice broke as he called, “Martin!”

Gone. Gone. Gone.

Dread swallowed him whole as he scrambled around the mansion, passing by Lonely person after Lonely person. But Martin still couldn't be found.

“Martin! Where are you?!”

How could Jon just lose him? He was just behind! There wasn’t any logical way he could simply disappear from sight like this.

No, no. This distorted reality didn’t work logically anymore. People could very well up and vanish now. He shouldn’t have gotten distracted. 

“Shit.” Jon ran his fingers through his hair. “Wh-where would Martin– Should– Shit shit shit. I don't–" He took in a long shuddering gasp and licked his lips. "I need to look for him. I need…" 

Words that were not his bubbled in his chest, along with his swelling panic. His face was numb and his fingers tingled with terror.

"Wh-Where is he…" 

It was hard to breathe at all, as though the fog was stuffing his lungs. He felt the beginnings of a sob.

He took another deep breath. Then, the words spilled out of The Archivist's lips. "One might assume that because he smiled often, he was free of worries, " he began, his features growing slack. “ What nobody sees are the tendrils of mist that enlace, encase and entrap him. However, that does not matter now. For he sits in the Moorland House, and there is no more illusion. He is truly and perfectly a-alone .” The Archivist choked. “Th-There is n- not … No… No! H-he isn’t–” 

Jon slapped a hand over his mouth and fell to his knees. He gagged upon unspoken words, but he shoved them further downwards. Digging his fingers into the flesh of his arm, Jon forced himself to get out of his trance. Five seconds in, hold, five seconds out… Repeat. 

His heart was still racing as he pushed himself to his feet again, leaning against the white walls for support. “I will not take that from him! Never from him!” Jon spat, raising his head to The Eye that was surely staring back. “And we don’t need you to find each other!” 

He pulled a final defiant scowl at the entity before breaking into a run. “Martin!” he shouted. “Martin, where are you?”

God knows how long he had been running before he felt a familiar something flicker amidst the fog. Jon stopped in his tracks. His chest heaved as he strained his senses. 

… There!

He followed the wavering presence. It was a mere dim spot of light in the thick haze. But it was light nonetheless.

Occasionally, it would fizzle out like a feeble flame. When it did, it would send a shot of alarm through Jon, and he willed it to come back (“please, please, please”). Time and again, it listened to Jon's desperate prayers and returned. Sometimes, it gradually grew into a shimmer. Sometimes, it would sputter alight. Each time it came back though, it felt ever-so-slightly closer.

And Jon chased this distant lighthouse with all his might. 

Then, came a time when the light, after dying out for a while, crackled to life. It settled into a quivering glow and stabilised. 

Then, it grew. 

Jon gasped. “Martin!”

In the distance, he heard Martin’s voice, muffled but very much there.

"Martin!” he called.

A familiar silhouette moved from within the white heavy curtains of mist.

“Martin?”

The voice that responded pulled the weight off his chest. “Jon! Jon, over here!” Martin shouted, blessedly closer. 

“Oh! Martin, hold on. I-I’m coming. I just–”

Bursting through the fog, he spotted Martin, in the middle of the room, clutching a tape recorder to his chest. A wide smile broke across Jon’s face and he sprinted harder. “Oh, Martin," he breathed.

Tension melted from Martin's shoulders at the sight and he made his way over.

Jon shook his head. “Thank god. I-I was–” A wheeze of relief escaped him as they met in a tight embrace. He was practically enveloped by Martin, and the sensation calmed him as he rested his forehead against Martin’s firm shoulder. Eyes sliding shut, Jon drank in the scent of warm tea and comfort. “I-I thought you were behind me.”

“I thought you’d left me behind,” Martin admitted, arms trembling around Jon’s thin body. “Gone on without me.” 

Jon felt a shaky huff against his hair as worry returned to his features. “No, never! N-Never. I-I just-” he managed, pulling Martin closer. He couldn’t really register what he was even saying at this point; words fell out and tripped over themselves while Jon tried to explain, and tried to apologise. 

“It’s okay,” said Martin. Running cool fingertips against the nape of Jon's neck, he pressed a kiss to the top of his greying hair in what Jon could tell was a silent assurance that he was here. 

He was here.

[cornholio4]

Left Behind

Note: Based on a prompt left on the Tumblr of Miraculous-Of-Salt but not Daminette. Sorry but personal opinion and you are free to like the ship if you do but I don't left Marinette X Damien. My fave crossover ship of Marinette is with the Peter Parker Spider-Man. It's mostly due to not liking Damian from the comics and media I have seen with him as a murderous brat. I don't see Marinette actually tolerating him. That's just my view and I have liked Daminette fics I have read (though for the salt) and they are fine.

Ms Caline Bustier had gotten her class back from the long flight home; she had the class on a weeklong field trip to check out Gotham Academy, all the way in Gotham City in the US! It was also funded by none other than Wayne Enterprises as well.

It had taken a lot of work to do and set up along with the permission slips and not everyone was allowed to go, especially not Adrien Agreste due to his strict overprotective father. She never thought she was allowed to directly criticise parenting but Gabriel Agreste was too strict a parent to Adrien, it had only been recently that he even allowed him to go to school like a normal child.

Most of the School Board needed to be convinced and she along with Principal Damocles was sternly warned that anything that goes wrong will be on their heads.

It was mostly due to the infamous status that Gotham had; corrupt politicians and police officers that were replaced by dangerous Villains and insane criminals. She swore she had everything under control.

She was happy to report that everything went off without a hitch; nothing happened. The only disappointment was that Marinette seemed to be distant from her classmates and especially when Lila was nearby. She seemed to go out of her way to talk to the Gotham Academy students instead of joining any conversations that Lila was involved in.

She frowned at this and decided when they got back she needed to have a small little talk with Marinette; she noticed she was becoming more distant from her classmates and it couldn’t be good for her. She had been hoping she could reconnect with her friends which was why she insisted to her parents that she go.

It didn’t work so she would have to do more.

She made sure to check all the names on the list before leaving but there was one that was crossed out weirdly with a pen but she guessed it was a name that cancelled at the last minute.

She made sure everyone was sent home that Friday afternoon when they got back. However on Monday morning she got an urgent email from Principal Damocles that she was to report to his office immediately after arriving. She was stunned but rationalised that he must just want a report on what happened.

However she was met with a unhappy Principal Damocles; several people she did not recognise, Marinette’s parents who looked uncharacteristically furious and several representatives of the School Board. The representative’s fury was only overridden by the Dupain-Cheng couple’.

She could not even begin to ask what wrong before Sabine Cheng went on a tirade about how she left her daughter alone in one of the most dangerous cities on the planet when she assured them she would be totally safe.

She was in the middle of asking what they meant before her brain frozen when she realised something: she did not remember seeing Marinette on the line to come back at the airport or on the plane.

Marinette had phoned them home saying no one had told her when they were leaving so she was waiting at the meeting place at the hotel having been unable to find any of them. She had been found by Bruce Wayne who had to contact her parents arrange for her to be flown back in a private plane.

Ms Bustier was relieved that Marinette had gotten back safely then but one of the representatives passed her a tablet and saw it was the Gotham Gazette website. Ms Bustier was asking why she was being shown it and was about to get back on the topic of Marinette but she was harshly told to read it.

She saw it was about something that happened on the Friday Night after their flight left, the hotel they were staying at was attacked by criminals after a VIP guest who was in a luxury suite. The photo showed several criminals being handcuffed by GCPD police officers, she could make out the dark vigilante of Gotham ‘the Batman’ (a pretty bleak figure if you asked her) and next to her were the superheroine Starfire and the Bludhaven vigilante Nightwing. The two were comforting a teenage girl.

A teenage girl who looked a lot like Marinette....

Oh no..........

The backlash had been enormous and school was cancelled indefinitely for the students; the School Board and Marinette’s parents were furious that not only was Marinette left behind in a different country but it was in one of the most dangerous cities ever with her life at risk by an attack by criminals.

It was a miracle it was not someone like the Joker, the Batman Who Laughs, Killer Croc, the Scarecrow, King Tut or even the Bookworm who was involved. The criminals were being personally led by someone called the Ventriloquist and what had happened was that they were not willing to harm a teenage girl so they let her get to saftey just before the Superheroes had come.

Of course that was the official story; the one Batman had told the GCPD who related it to the Gotham reporters. The criminals were not contradicting the story due to their embarrassment of what had actually happened:

Batman, Nightwing and Starfire had arrived to see the criminals all tied up to a pole with a Yoyo, there was Ladybug there. Tied up was Arnold Wesker a middle aged grey haired balding man with glasses and was tie up along with Scarface his mobster ventriloquist dummy who he still had his hand in.

Ladybug was actually tickling his cheek asking who was a cute mob boss and Scarface was shouting to his men that anyone who lets this go out will be a dead man walking.

The story became everywhere in Paris; Nadja Chamack made sure to get it out through the news media. She was angry that the daughter of her friends had her life endanger by being left behind in a different country.

Marinette was interviewed about it in the investigation and was asked about the record of her having been bullied by the mayor’s daughter for years at the school. She related what had happened and asked about what Ms Bustier had done about it. She had to say that she didn’t do a whole lot and had taken her aside to encourage just be a good example for Chloe after she had ruined a birthday present she had made for the teacher.

That did not look good at all.          

It turned out that when the classmates were asked they said that Lila Rossi promised she would tell Marinette when they were going and didn’t. There were apparently some beef between them and looking into their file they found claims of disabilities, diseases and absences that didn’t have notes.

Her mother was called in for a talk.......

Ms Bustier was on indefinitely suspension but knew she could not count on keeping a teaching profession and didn’t know if Principal Damocles would survive the ordeal. Ms Bustier came to the bakery and gave a well deserved apology Marinette and their parents even knowing it would not do much. Marinette looked apologetic but her parents just said they didn’t have anything to say to her.

She felt that even the look Marinette had given her was more than she deserved.

Marinette had gotten home and despite what happened did enjoy her time in Gotham. She had a few souvenirs including a communication device with a T on it, it seemed like Ladybug was now an honorary Titan.

Her classmates had come to the bakery and given her apologies for what happened along with her parents. She accepted them but was upset about what happened.

She was more than happy with the other classmates (the ones who didn’t go) who wanted to make sure she was okay along with other students. Juleka and Rose had come to make sure she was alright along with Luka.

When she next saw Alya she was enveloped her into a hug that seemed to last forever and tearfully told her that she was glad she was okay. She hugged back. Alya was vehemently refused permission to go by her parents; they knew what she was like in wanting to get Superhero footage in the Ladyblog and the lengths she went.

They did not trust her to do the same in a city like Gotham.

On social media and TV interviews Bruce Wayne talked about making sure the visiting Marinette had gotten home safely and criticised the French school officials who allowed it to happen. Former GCPD commissioner and current Gotham City Mayor James Gordon shared the sentiment.

There were tweets and interviews from Bruce Wayne’s foster son Dick Grayson and his fiancé Kory Anders (a beautiful young woman who most people swore that she did not come from this world) who talked of making sure the poor girl was consoled until they were able to send her home.

Marinette was asked what it was like meeting Bruce Wayne by her friends but she was being humble about it and didn’t like saying anything. It was not like her classmate Lila.

Said girl was angry about the attention her hated rival was getting and the enormous trouble she was in. If she came back to school she knew she would have to face tougher and sharper personnel.

Why did she decide to make sure Marinette was left behind again?

[liluwrites]

Auld Lang Syne

Three couples ring in the New Year. (DenNor, SuFin, HongIce) (2k)

I

Lukas turns his marshmallow slowly over the fire, and watches the sides burn golden.

Beside him, Matthias curses under his breath as his own marshmallow melts off the stick and falls into the fire. “Oh no,” he says as it disintegrates amongst the flames. “That was my last one.”

Lukas laughs quietly. “Here, you idiot. You can have mine.” He extends the stick and Matthias bites clumsily at it. “Good?”

“Mmm. Positively orgasmic.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Never say that again.”

“Why not?” He presses his face close to Lukas’ and presses tiny kisses along his jawline. “Am I embarrassing you?”

Blushing, Lukas pushes him away. “No, you’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Aww. You’re so mean to me.”

Still grinning, Matthias turns back to the fire. Lukas watches him; the way his face is lit golden by the firelight, the amber flames dancing in his eyes, the sparks floating around him like winter fireflies. His love for Matthias hits him like a freight train – a sudden blow to the chest that leaves him reeling and breathless. 

“Hey…” He says. It’s quiet, so quiet he thinks Matthias might not have heard, but of course he has.

“Yes?” He turns to him, his face aglow, and Lukas struggles to find his voice.

“I…I know I don’t say this a lot, not as much as I should, not as much as I want to, but…” he stares into the flickering flames. “I just…I love you a lot. I want you to know that.”

“Oh, Lukas…”

“Wait. Wait, I’m not finished.” He takes a deep breath. “You’re just…you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. So many people have given up on me, but you haven’t - you’ve never doubted me, even when I’ve given you so little in return – “

“Lukas – “

“And I want to say I’m sorry, and thank you. I never thought I would end up with someone like you, someone I could love so deeply with my whole heart, but then you showed up and – I love you. So, so much.”

He lowers his head, shy and nervous and fearing with every second the silence lasts that Matthias is going to laugh, that he doesn’t feel the same. Then, he hears a quiet sniffle, and a moment later, Matthias’ arms are around him.

“Lukas, you’ve given me so much. I love you the way you are. I can feel your love for me every day in the little things – the way you make treats for me just because you want to, when you let me talk to you about things you don’t know about because you know how important it is to me, the way you’ll cuddle with me in bed and give me little kisses, and keep kissing my hair even when you think I’m asleep. The way you gave me your marshmallow, even though they’re your favourite sweet! Never, ever apologise for the way you love me.”

Lukas can feel the tears prickling at his eyes, and he presses his face into Matthias’ jacket and clutches him so tightly he feels like his heart could burst. Matthias clings to him, kisses the top of his head and breathes him in deeply.

In the distance, a church bell chimes.

Matthias lifts his head. “That’s it. That’s the new year.”

Lukas wipes his eyes and smiles at him. “I’m glad I’m spending it here, with you.”

“Me, too.” Matthias’ arm tightens around him, and he leans into the embrace as, in the city below them, the first fireworks shoot into the sky. 

II

Tino smiles as he watches his children run shrieking around the yard.

It’s almost midnight, and usually he would have sent them to bed hours ago, after a story and a kiss on the forehead – but tonight is New Year’s Eve, the end of a decade, and everything is different. He has laid out a blanket on the grass so the family can all sit together and watch the nearby fireworks display.

“Ahh! Papa, no, stop!” Peter falls to the ground squealing as Berwald tickles him, growling like a bear. “Erland, help me!”

Erland leaps onto Berwald’s back in counterattack, and Berwald shakes him off and starts to tickle him as well. Hana runs around them in erratic circles, yapping excitedly.

Tino smiles at the sight of his husband and children playing – even after their ten years of marriage, he has never once regretted his decision. He and Berwald have their quarrels, but he could never love another person the way he loves Berwald, and they’ve raised a perfect family together; two adorable, happy young sons and and a dog, all in a sweet suburban house with a good school nearby.

As a teenager, he never thought he’d make it this far – but he has, and every year, he is always so, so thankful for the way his life has turned out.

“Papa, look, look! Fireworks!” Both children cease their game and crowd at the fence to see the fireworks shoot into the sky and shimmer back down to earth. Tino watches them too, entranced, until an arm falls around his shoulders.

“Hey,” Berwald says.

“Hi.” Tino raises into the tips of his toes to kiss his husband on the lips. He pouts. “Why are you so tall?”

“Why are you so small?” Berwald gives him the tiny, playful smirk he has grown to love.

“So I can do this!” He jumps into Berwald’s arms, wrapping his arms around his neck and his legs around his waist. Berwald catches him easily and holds him close, lowering his chin so their noses brush and their eyes connect. “I can kiss you better up here.”

“Oh, really?” Berwald’s eyes, darkened in the twilight, are sparkling with mischief.

“Yes.” He connects their lips briefly, then pulls away. “See?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Mm-hm,” Tino mimics, and kisses him again.

He feels Berwald smile against his lips, then the next moment, he is being spun in the air. Tino squeals and clings to him tightly. “Ahh, what are you doing?”

Berwald doesn’t answer, just spins him even faster. When he finally stops, Tino can feel his chest rising and falling from exertion, and the world is a multicolour blur of Christmas lights and fireworks. Tino gently hits a fist against Berwald’s chest. “You’re crazy,” he laughs breathlessly. “You know that?”

Berwald meets his eyes intensely. “I’m crazy about you.”

From the park beyond the fence, the crowd begins chanting. Five…four…three…two…one…

The joyous whistles and cheers erupt – and a moment later, Erland and Peter come barrelling into them, Hana yapping at their ankles. Berwald stumbles and releases Tino onto his feet. He stays in Berwald’s embrace, but opens his arms wide enough that their children can join.

Tino gazes around at his little family in the moonlight, and his heart is full.

III

Emil cringes as another body pushes past him. The Main Street is swarming with people waiting excitedly to ring in the new year, their bodies packed so closely it’s almost impossible to move past. But Leon’s grip on his hand is firm, pulling him steadily onwards through the crowd, and he clings to it like a lifeline.

“Not far now,” Leon calls over his shoulder. “It’s worth it, you’ll see.”

Usually, Emil would be at home on New Year’s Eve, drinking sparkling cider and watching the ball drop on television. But this year, when his boyfriend had messaged him asking to meet at the marketplace before midnight, he had accepted immediately.

He doesn’t like crowds, or noise, or being out after dark – but it’s worth it to spend time with Leon.

Finally, they reach the bridge, and Leon pulls him aside against the railings. The crowd is thinner here, and they finally have enough space to breathe and look each other in the eye.

“Hey,” Leon says, his eyes glittering golden-brown in the lamplight.

Emil can’t help but smile. “Hi.” He blushes. “I missed you.”

Leon laughs and wraps a warm arm around him. “It’s not been that long! I saw you on Christmas Eve.”

“Too long.”

“You’re adorable.” Leon pinches his cheek. “You’re the cutest boyfriend ever.”

Emil buries his face in Leon’s chest, embarrassed. “M’not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“No, you are.”

“No, you.”

“No – “ Leon ducks his head and silences him with a kiss. Emil closes his eyes and presses closer, deepens the kiss, and Leon responds with equal pressure – and the world shrinks to just the two of them, the warmth of their bodies pressed together and the electricity of their embrace.

Suddenly, a ripple of excitement runs through the crowd. Emil draws back, slightly dazed, and looks around. “What’s happening?”

Leon looks at his watch. “It’s almost time. Ten seconds.”

As if on cue, the crowd begins the countdown in unison. Emil catches Leon’s eye, sees the sparkle of anticipation, and they join in, their voices carried away by the energy of the people around them. In that moment, Emil suddenly feels a strange connection to all these people; all these strangers with whom he has nothing in common, except that they’re all moving into the new year, the new decade, together.

“Three…two…one…”

The moment the bell chimes, Emil feels Leon’s arm fling around his shoulders and the click of his phone camera. It’s so unexpected, he doesn’t have time to put on his usual shy scowl for the camera – instead, Leon captures him in his raw happiness, grinning and laughing in the first second of the new year.

As the crowd begins to scatter around them, Leon lowers his phone and shows Emil the photograph.

Behind them, the dark river glows with the reflections of fireworks bursting above it, and their faces are lit golden by the lights around them. They’re both grinning, faces pressed close together, eyes scrunched up with pure unfiltered joy.

Emil blinks. He’s always thought he was ugly in photographs, so it’s strange to see himself looking so radiant; but it’s strange in a good way, he thinks. It’s like a new version of himself, a version he hasn’t met yet.

“Do you like it?” Leon asks.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah, I do. Can you send it to me?”

“Sure.”

Leon types on his screen, and, a second later, Emil’s phone lights up. He taps in his passcode and clicks on the message, and smiles as the photograph fills his screen – their joyful, glowing faces, alight with the promise of a new start.

His eyes travel to the bottom of the picture, where Leon has added a simple caption:

Happy New Year!

[ao3feed-themagnusarchives]

every step of the way

by bee_bro

It's very difficult to Know so much when you Understand so little.

Martin argues that it's a slow process and shows Jon coin tricks.

Words: 1817, Chapters: 1/6, Language: English

Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Mentions of Peter Lukas - Character

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Additional Tags: Comfort, Post MAG160, i ignore season 5 though, domestic!, in the apocalypse!, Jon's being a little existential so Martin provides exceptional comfort, Fluff, Tickles, Misuse of Entity Powers To Impress Your Boyfriend, Boyfriend Is Impressed, Asexual Jonathan Sims, jon...small...can be carried....., More tags to be added, warning for mild swearing

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598979

[fearfearer]

more thoughts about the magnus archives as i reread the transcripts

i was thinking about how gertrude robinson was really an extraordinary person (not extraordinarily Morally Sound, but extraordinary) just because of who she was, whereas the only extraordinary things about jonathan sims are things that have been arranged for him (i.e. his role). i don't mean this as a diss for jonathan, as i'm not extraordinary either. it's just striking that gertrude was so driven and confident compared to jon. of course, now we know that basically everything she did was in the pursuit of a moot goal (i.e. killing people in order to stop rituals that were already doomed to fail) so maybe my point is somewhat moot as well.

i've been doing some rereading of episodes on my phone (i.e. away from this text document on my computer) and i'll have a realization like "right, i should note that down when i get back to my computer" and i have forgotten all of them now that i am back at my computer. suffice it to say there are quite a few things i misheard/misunderstood on the first listen, unsurprisingly.

reading through the first 20 or so episodes i'm surprised by how well i remember each of them, considering i was listening like 4 episodes a day when i started. then again, it was only a month or two ago that i even listened to them, so one should hope my memory is at least this good. anyway the first episode i'm re-listening instead of rereading is 22 bc that's the first one where we hear martin's voice, i'm pretty sure

i've also noticed some errors in the official transcripts, which aren't a big deal because obviously what matters most is the audio, but still... some of them have been simple typos. magnus archives hire me as your official transcriptionist and i'll make all your transcripts 100% error-free bc im smatr

(reading through the rest of the transcripts and my standards went way down in terms of grammar/stylistic consistency, as most of the later ones are fan transcripts by several different people. i found quite a few mistakes, but obviously i have no particular way to help fix them short of sending an email to the tma transcripts fansite person like “hey there’s all these mistakes. upload my good version instead?” bc i’m not that much of a dick)

the whole reason martin went to the spider guy's building was because he didn't want jon to be disappointed in him for not doing Due Diligence. he says so twice. then he went back for the same reason. it seems the fandom joke is "jon asks his assistants to do crimes for him" but in this case martin is like "oh no maybe i didn't do enough crimes to satisfy jon"

jon was doing his archivist voice HEAVILY in season 1, huh?

tim's first appearance is so jovial compared to how he ends up...

if this boat lady is speaking spanish in brazil, then it doesn't matter if it was "bad spanish" or not. anyway now i understand why we already knew peter lukas was serving the lonely by the time jon mentioned offhand that peter lukas was serving the lonely. it was my whole “let’s not bother noting down any FREQUENTLY RECURRING names”

well i guess robert smirke was a real person. should i feel dumb about this? idk. it’s such a fictional-sounding name, to be fair. but i guess that set the precedent of using a real person as an important historical figure in the fiction that we see happening again when edmund halley is referenced later on. also episode 35 has foreshadowing for the separation of 14 powers, and people thought it was 13 because they mention 13 halls PLUS the one they came through.

totally forgot about tim goofing around in episode 39... he was really not having the worst time at this job before bad things started happening and he realized he was trapped, huh

the worms were trying to make a doorway into the Worm Wealm

ep 40 jon's like "I need to hear it. I need to record it. Or else I can't finish." (lightly abridged)

listening to the season 1 Q&A for the first time and EARL BIGMAC

also good to know there's only going to be 5 seasons. very good to know. this seems like a good kind of series to write with a fixed endpoint in mind, as it's very easy to do an episode that has effectively no bearing on the MetaPlot but which is still a short story in itself and therefore doesn't count as "filler"

jonathan sims performs with a mythical space pirate music cabaret. so he IS a ham

jonny says, "no rude words. i could say bums, maybe..." (alexander j newall does a laugh while i do the exact same laugh irl) "...but i won't."

some dumbass writing into the Q&A to ask if the background music is diegetic... get a podcast brain, ya fool. though for my part, i have to say that one of the most striking things about this podcast when i first started listening (though i never made a note of it before) was the Too Spooky Music, and i didn't like it at all. the reason was that i am, and have been, vulnerable to Getting Spooked about irrational things at night, such that it becomes really hard to fall asleep... and one of the things that has an outsize effect on my level of Spookédness is spooky audio. so if i was watching a video at night and i was worried it would Get Me Spooked, i would just turn the sound off, and it would turn out fine. but obviously you can't turn the sound off on a podcast. and i've been listening to podcasts after work, i.e. after 5pm, and i go to bed at like 8 or 9pm because i'm old. so the way it turned out was that even if the actual subject of the podcast wasn't that scary to me, the music would amplify it in an unpleasant way and make me more likely to have trouble sleeping. also i think most of the episodes would have been fine without the music, or maybe with some less intentionally-disconcerting background music.

this just in: i seem to have totally missed episode 50 on my first listen-through, despite having gone in linear order. bc i'm listening to it now and i've definitely never heard this before. fortunately it doesn't seem to have much of a bearing on the rest of the series, so it's not like i missed any crucial information. tbh the only worthwhile bit was a brief moment of tim being a ham, which was good. i hope i didn't miss any other episodes the first time... still don't know how i managed to miss this one.

the official transcript said [EXTENDED SOUNDS OF BRUTAL PIPE MURDER] ...

so gertrude and leitner WERE played by jonny's parents <:3c i'd thought as much when i saw the cast names but i like that it's confirmed. his mom is a really good actress too. i always find the gertrude episodes to be striking in a certain way

"it's Fine working with your parents. it's Fine." as someone who worked with my mom for like a year i can confirm this

i'm tickled to find that the official transcripts have a sense of humor. i wonder who is behind them. i also wonder, what is the excuse for not having a full set of official transcripts when it is a script-based show? surely you know what is going to be said beforehand, and you have it written down, and if someone ends up saying something different in the final recording, surely it wouldn’t be too hard to give the original script a little edit, and bam! that’s a transcript. i wonder if this approach is not feasible for some reason.

whenever martin reads statements, he says something about jon... whenever he talks to someone, he says something about jon

i think episode 110 is an instance of the tape recorder turning ITSELF off... at the end of the episode. because they walk away, and they say something distantly, and then it turns off. lots of other times, there had to be a diegetic reason for the tape recorder to turn off at the end.

i noticed something which i missed last time, which was that there is a rumor between melanie and georgie and basira that implies that jonathan is asexual. worth noting, i think. [side note added in later: yeah it’s canon. cool]

also i listened to episode 103 again and yes. i had thought-- i had been SURE-- that the person interrogating the traffic cop (using the asky ability) was martin. but it was actually jon. how did i possibly manage that mistake? i'm not great at distinguishing voices, but i'm not THAT bad. the only possible answer: when i was listening to the episode for the first time... i must have been eating a crunchy snack.

"it doesn't have to make sense! alex has to make it sense." (jonny sims re: writing the spiral)

glad to know that jonny sims regrets using his own name for the protagonist. doesn't make a difference either way at this point but yeah

YES i knew episode 100 was improvised. and i see, all the statementers had actually had supernatural experiences, but because the archivist was absent, their statements didn't have the coherence and clarity normally lent to them by the eye (in exchange for becoming cursed). i think melanie or basira actually said pretty much that in the episode itself, but i still couldn't be sure that all of those people had something real to talk about.

"in the same way that tim is dead, michael is helen." good shit

the archivist is canon a bit of a drama queen. the first bullet point in my first tma notes document is vindicated

jonny sims mentions another podcast (apocrypals) that sounds 100% up my alley, so that is appreciated, i will add that to my list i think. (listened to episodes 0 and 1 of apocrypals and i'm heavily struck by how VERY clearly i can hear the smiles in chris sims's voice. i did not know smiling could be so audible, truly.) (listened to quite a few more episodes of apocrypals and it’s certainly entertaining at times. i should’ve been reading along though. maybe some other time)

I DIDN'T LISTEN TO THE SEASON 4 TEASER THE FIRST TIME AROUND.........................................

i must confess something that people who know me well may already know: i hate when stories have a bad ending. an unhappy ending. a painful ending. a hopeless ending. bittersweet is the furthest in that direction i can tolerate. my perspective, which is pretty deep-seated, is that there's no point in getting to know and love characters if you're only going to be hurt by that connection to them when the end turns out to be bad. if i have even a mild inkling that a story is heading toward a bad ending, i make a conscious effort to regard all characters from afar and not develop any strong attachments. this is not so much "how i think all stories need to be," but rather, "the characteristics a story needs to have to appeal to me personally." so i understand that my view is very subjective and mostly based on my own mental weakness. but i can't help but apply it to the media i consume. and the idea that someone would do something like "make characters very human and strongly developed" IN COMBINATION WITH "heading toward a bad end" makes me upset. like, picture a horror movie. think about the characters in a horror movie. with the exception of a main character, if there is one, there's no guarantee that anyone is going to survive to the end of the film... BUT... the characters generally aren't fleshed out and very sympathetic. i wouldn't go so far as to say they're disposable, but you're not SUPPOSED to cry when they die; you're just supposed to get scared. their purpose is as objects of fear, and you never expect or even hope for a happy ending. but in the magnus archives... all i'm saying... is that i would cry if any of the remaining members of the main cast died. and it seems clear that we're not heading to a happy ending. so i'm somewhat afraid, and not in a good way. i don't know how much i can trust jonny sims to give me the story i want, and obviously, i'm not entitled to it.

if your name is jonathan and you want to shorten it, the short form is jon. it ain't john, no matter what the official transcripts say. where'd you get that h, huh? stole it from someone else's name? are you shortening it like JOnatHaN? you can’t just be that sneaky!

i listened to scrutiny again and it hits so hard. now, in heart of darkness, when manuela begs jon not to force her statement, it's really heavy given the direct context of the previous two episodes where we see how compulsion works and how it hurts.

also when jon was talking about how to destroy the dark sun and he was like "i just need to see it," when i first heard it, i assumed he meant something along the lines of, "by seeing it, i will learn how to destroy it." but now i understand that the mere act of the eye seeing it destroys it, because being known is what the darkness is weakest to.

the magnus employees who work in the library probably at least have a LITTLE BIT of a feeling that they work in an almost normal place, given that jon and all his assistants were able to have that impression before transferring to the archives. so i wonder how the magnus library people feel about their institute's director getting arrested for double murder and now the big boss is a completely unrelated ship captain who seems to want nothing to do with the place but simultaneously is trying to continue business as usual

on second listen, listening to jon ask helen when the guilt stops (wrt hurting people in order to feed one's patron fear) is pretty chilling. because it seems like he's definitely accepting that he will have to hurt people, and what he's concerned about is how bad it makes HIM feel. of course, helen then answers with precisely what i just wrote, so...

i should've read the transcript for episode 159 instead of relistening because i forgot that peter lukas's actor got so gravelly and hard to listen to in this one. anyway, time to re-listen to the season 4 finale... then i'll listen to the season 4 Q&As and stuff... and then the new episode. (DOKI DOKI DOKI DOKI DOKI)

i heard in the Q&A that the voice of peter lukas did multiple takes for episode 159?! but it was because of technical difficulties. right. because i can’t imagine the way it turned out being deemed the best take. sorry

ok, things i missed last time i listened to 160: daisy and the other two hunters are missing. also jon mentioned "magnus's body" and martin mentioned "an old man's corpse" and at the time i took this to mean (somewhat unthinkingly) that when jon and martin returned from the lonely, they killed elias/jonah's body. which would be a weird thing to happen "off-camera," so to speak. so i think i must have been wrong? slightly confused. ok, no, i'm now sure that elias survived, so i must have misunderstood. definitely alive.

as martin leaves and jon is about to begin the statement, he sounds so peaceful and satisfied. that's good acting.

by the way, in one of the previous few episodes, i noticed that jonah seems to have body-swapped by switching out his eyes into his preferred body, which i'm pretty sure i missed the first time.

i like that jonny sims checks reddit to see whether people have solved the mystery. that's just a really funny way to do things, sneaking a peek like "hmm how mysterious is my mystery? let's see who has figured it out..." and for the record, i wasn't even close to figuring it out. but to be fair to myself, i didn't try. like i said from the beginning, i started listening with the intent of going along for the ride. plus the mystery had already been solved before i started listening to the series, so it's not like i had a lot of time in between updates to contemplate whether elias was jonah, etc.

JON'S AMERICAN ACCENT FOR THE IONIZED YEAST AD

ALEX WAS THE VOICE OF JARED HOPWORTH?! i mean it was so messed up it could have been anybody but god

ALEX DIDN'T LET GERTUDE CACKLE

i've listened to the bloopers (including a gertrude cackle?) and the season 5 trailer (martin seems slightly cavalier about the end of the world but maybe he's just trying to keep his shit together for jon) and i'm going to listen to the new episode Soon.

final conclusion on rereads/relistens: i had pretty poor comprehension of some important happenings. i’m realizing just how easy it is to mishear/fail to hear exactly what is happening in a podcast when you’re doing other stuff at the same time. there are still a couple things i don’t quite understand, but i think i’ll have a look around the wiki one of these days.

[mellowgirl01]

Answer 21, Tag 21

{{Like I said I'm really not all that interesting but I'll try}}

Nicknames: Luka, Mellow, Mel, girli, chika, bitch {{cause why the fuck not anymore}}

Zodiac sun sign: Scorpio- {{I’m not mean but I do have trust issues and am mysterious. Or so i’ve been told. I just really talk about things unless They are really bothering me}}

Height: 5’4 or 5’5

Hogwarts House: {{ I tried to get into the harry potter fandom but I don't think I can. I respect it though}} but if you wanna know, i’m a hufflepuff but I wanna be in slytherin.

Last thing I googled: Bedtime Care Bear {{I fucking love that sleepy little guy}}

Favorite musicians: Bon iver, Avril lavigne, The Muffs, Billie Eilish, Big Bang, BTS, Girli, Marina and the diamonds, Lana Del Rey, MCR {{I can go on for a really long time because I just love music.}}

Song stuck in my head: Billie Eilish- My strange Addiction and Tame Impala- Yes i’m changing {{i’m weird and emo all the time}}

Following: {{way to many fuckers but i’m too lazy to unfollow so..}}

Followers: 92 {{you win this round @ladyfluff}}

Do I get Asks: {{i’m new to the FF scene so yes but no. I just finished one not too long ago.}}

Amount of sleep I get: 6-6 ½ {{I hate oversleeping it makes me even more tired or like i’m floating in water. It’s not a good feeling}}

Lucky number: 17. {{ but I like to think my lucky # is whatever my age is}}

What am I wearing: uh..khakis..

Dream job: illustrator for Louis Vuitton, or Italian Vogue

Dream trip: Asia. I don’t care where just Asia in general. {{But I also want to go see the world}}

Fave food: strawberries. {{cause pink}}

Instruments: I own a guitar but I stopped practicing cause of how long my claws got. {{sorry not sorry Ghibli}} - {{that’s his name}}

Languages: {{I did spanish but nothing serious. I want to really learn Korean. But ever since i started learning languages I find that i can just understand everyone by just seeing what they’re gesturing to. sometimes}}

Favorite song: {{Don’t have one I like too many songs}}

Random fact: My hormones are fucked up. {{I feel innocent at one second then sexual the next.}}

Aesthetic: Boho, Alternative, Goth, pastel, bleh, eh, sparkly, weird, 80’s rock, grunge, sugar spice and bitch fuck you i’m nice

This or That

Fuck you; Emotional; trying too hard to try too hard; don’t be a drag just be a queen; 8; kitten voice; pale redhead with big tits is my ideal wife; crying; sugar; dark chocolate is BETTER THAN ANY OTHER CHOCOLATE!! FIGHT ME!!; to the books i’ll never read; sweetful; sweetness; Mellow; feed me; make love to me; hold me; autumn forest is me; peter pan; i’m afraid of taxes; stitches are cool but sad; missing someone; boop my toot; hugs; daisies; babies breath; time to dance; make that bitch your wife; idiot; Melancholy; i can’t go a month without changing something and I don’t know a lot of people who do; 3 dimensional black is my soul; kiss my feet tops cause their cute not cause your weird; head tickles; fingers in my hair; a BLUE SKY WITHOUT CLOUDS IS BORING FIGHT ME NOWWWW!!; Illy doe

Well that's me my darlings, have a nice day and remember !!

Xoxo- Mellow

@lokispettigerr @ohhhmyloki {{idk 21 people}}

[saintbleeding]

i am tickled by how susceptible to the lonely™ i would be

like peter lukas could phase thru a wall next to me right now and say “nobody would really face long term ill effects from your permanent absence!” all cheerfully and i would probably be like “aye aye captain sign me up”