#tma fanfiction

[ao3-shenanigans]

Award for best ao3 tag I’ve seen today

(Fic is Infinite by paperdream)

[risingflora]

If you could see our future - Post MAG200

I think I finally finished editing this! Thanks to @the-lantern-lights for creating this art from my commission, for the fic 🌟 as a note, I headcannon Jon in skirts and nothing can ever take that away from me. Anyway, enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Martin heard ringing in his ears as his vision settled around him. When he had opened his eyes, he was met with a familiar and far away memory of the sky as it had been so long ago, and he wondered if that could be the sun hanging in the sky overhead. As the voices continued to echo around him, he registered the heat on his face, and was certian it was sunlight. Sunlight! He blinked hard, his eyes watering, and the voices became more clear as his senses settled.

"Excuse me, hello?" The female voice sounded strained, breathy and anxious. A woman was hovering above Martin, her brows pushed together in concern as she called out to him. "Hello - are you alright? Do you need any help?"

Martin groaned finally, unable to muster a real response. He was grasping for words, but he could only form pictures. He was trying to sort out what was going on, replaying the last bits commited to his memory that he could recall. There was the panopticon, the explosion... Martin tried to sit up, but his muscles were so sore. When he opened his mouth to speak, he found collecting thoughts to turn into words nearly impossible.

"I'm alright," he mustered, shifting slightly. He squinted at the woman above him, who seemed to be speaking with another nearby. She looked by all means normal - compared to what Martin had gotten used to. Her face was slick with sweat, her eyes colored with confusion and concern. She was still trying to talk to him, but Martin was still struggling to recollect himself.

Martin planted his palms in the grass under him and pushed up, trying to rise. The stranger recognized this gesure and grabbed at his shoulders, helping Martin to a sitting position. Even with the slow motion of sitting up, Martin began to experience vertigo. He groaned again, wavering and holding his head in his hand.

"Please, are you going to be alright?" The woman repeated, leveling herself with Martin. His eyes were settling now, adjusting to the light, and he was now able to register the scene around him. There were around a dozen strangers, wandering what appeared to be a grassy field. Some appeared to be searching, while others simply... wandered. One man was looking up at the sky dreamily, searching the sky for eyes. A small group gathered and hugged and recollected. A young lady behind the woman speaking to Martin was at her feet, searching the scene in concern.

"London," Martin managed out of nowhere. "I was in London".

"Well, we're nowhere near there," the woman responded, and Martin only now realized she was speaking in a Scottish accent. Had the world never ended? Was it all a dream? Had he fallen asleep in... a field? Outside Daisy's safehouse?

"The sky- the world- what happened? Is everything- are we back to normal?"

The woman's gaze faltered and she looked away briefly, unsure how to answer.

"We... just came to ourselves, and we are just gathering who we find to see where we can help."

"I need some time," Martin stammered as he once again leaned his head into his hand. "I can't seem to gather myself."

She pushed herself to her feet. "We will be around, but please don't dally. We should get to the nearest town to figure out what is going to happen next... if anyone knows."

Martin muttered a thanks and she turned to her companion behind her. Martin was still staring into the distance, his memory dragging behind him as words were dropped into the forefront of thought.

End... end of the world. Panopticon. The eye... fear... Jon. Alias - Jonah. The beholding-

Jon. Jon?

"Jon!" Martin shouted, so suddenly that the vibration of the shout through his body shocked even himself. In a moment it all came pouring back to him. He felt the cold stale air of the Panopticon on his skin, the memory of Jon's warped face and green-glossy eyes dotting his body, the sound of everything echoing through the walls as he made the desicion to...

He looked down at his hands. No blood. Martin began furiously patting at the ground around him, looking for the knife that he used to - the thought kept pausing in his brain, the memory replaying and freezing at that point. His breath quickened as each replay got closer and closer to the moment where Jon tightened his hand around Martins, pointing the blade at himself. He remembered the cold words. He remembered tugging on Jon's olive sweater meekly, begging him for an alternative. The way his lips felt cold, the way Jon looked into Martins eyes with his many, terrible, beautiful eyes. Martin choked on air as tears began welling, and pouring down his cheeks. He kept calling to Jon, but his shouts became strained and choked. His sobs caught the name in his throat, stifing him as his head twisted every which way. Martin was so certain Jon was alive, he had to be. He couldn't leave Martin alone in the aftermath of it all. Martin whimpered Jons name over and over, trying to pull himself to his knees, then his feet, only to stagger and fall back to the grass in defeat.

Martin was weak, his body was shaking, and he could clearly see the moment in his memory when he sent a blade through his boyfriend. Jon was not alive, he couldn't be.

Martin's sobs wracked through his body, vision became blurry once more as he stared blankly at the horizon. For the first time in- however long it had been, the real sun was hanging in the real sky, like a promise, shining down on a complete and cured world. The grass was not broken, nor was it incorrect. The distance gave way to a small village of sorts, and the field was still dotted with those strangers, some of which paid cautionary glances at Martin. Martin did not care, nor did he mind that his mouth was hung open, caught words struggling to escape, nor that snot ran down his nose and tears poured over his cheeks. He kept searching, stammering Jons name over and over, like a prayer.

What was I even to do, Martin thought? Where do I go? Who is left? How do I go on? All these questions flooded his mind as he began to settle into the reality that Jon forced him to recreate. All he ever wanted was to confess to Jon, and they spent God knows how long living through hell in love, and all he wanted now was to cozy up in that cottage and grow old with Jonathan Sims. Martin had dreamed of it during their cross country escapades through the hellscapes. He dreamed of Jon coming home from work, wherever work was, and kissing Martin on the forehead. He dreamed of making dinner together, burning the food and still enjoying it as the activity and not the product. Watching movies on the couch over whiskey and tea, under a warm blanket. Getting tangled in a bed together, losing the hours of a weekend to love and laziness, simply enjoying the sound of each others voices as they talked about nothing and everything all at once.

Martin had known it could only be a dream. Somewhere in his gut he knew this would happen. He knew Jon couldn't - wouldn't- survive. But he had imagined it so clearly. He memorized the smell of Jons clothes, and played it into his fantasy of cuddling. He remembered Jon's drink of choice and worked it into the images, he listened when Jon would rant about struggling to learn to cook. He memorized all these details about the man he loved, so that he could live in this fantasy forever, even after... even after Jon was gone.

Martin let out a small wail of heartache as he pulled his knees to his chest and hugged them tightly. He buried his head into his knees and cried, hard, until his head was pounding and his mouth was dry. Martin sat there in the heat of the growing morning and cried and cried and cried, until the memories were messy and confusing and incomprehensible. He hated Jon, and loved Jon, and wanted to see him so badly, and wanted to have never met him in the first place. He wanted to die, but also wanted to be able to thrive. Martin was lovelorn, conflicted, broken, and scared. There was nothing in his mind, body, or soul he could think of to make him feel corredt again.

Finally, he ran out of tears to cry, and he hung is head back. He leaned forward and rocked onto his knees, and weakly stood. There he hesitated, feeling his feet on the ground. Part of him never thought he would see the world like this again. He wondered if their love could only exist in the hellscapes. Martin's mind was so busy, so loud he could not focus on any one thing. He looked around at the figures that continued to stagger around him, many of which had put distance between themselves and Martin. He recognized the woman some distance away, and even noticed that strange man in an olive sweater gazing up at the sky, unmoved. Martin stared at him for a long time, wondering what he was looking for. As Martin's heart slowed to a steady pace, and his breathing settled, he squinted at the strange man. Martin leaned in his direction, and his foot clumsily came forward to catch him. His body was still weak, but Martin pulled himself forward. After a few steps, he saw long, dark hair riding on the wind, and settling on the olive sweater. A few more steps, and he saw a familiar skirt flowing from his hips. Martin abandoned the fatigue in his muscles and committed instead to adrenaline as he quickened his pace, wiping his face on his sleeve.

"Jon," he stammered, far too quiet for the man to hear. "Jon!"

His head did not pivot from its cursory stare upwards, and Martin now was briskly walking. Martin would break into a straight sprint if his body would allow it. His heart began pounding as he inched closer and closer to the mirage of his lover, begging whatever powers may exist that this was in fact his Jon.

"For the love of - Jonathan!" Martin shouted with a crack in his voice, as he got close enough to recognize circular scars on his face.

Martin managed a few feet from Jon, and stood there. He was half waiting for Jon to meet him in the middle, and half afraid to go on in case he was wrong and this was a stranger, or even trauma playing tricks on him. But now that we was so close, he was sure this was in fact Jon, staring up at the sky with his mouth slightly agape. His arms hung loosely at his sides, and he so slightly swayed as the wind caught him. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Martin gave in and closed the distance between them.

Martin was inches away, and reached a hand out to touch him, but wavered. He reached for Jons arm, then his face, then his shoulders, but retracted as he felt the tears well up again. He sniffed, and mumbled his boyfriends name once more, stifled by a cry.

Finally, Jon lowered his chin with a jerk, and gasped. He turned his head, ever so slightly. He licked his lips, his mouth moving to form Martins name - but barely any sound came out.

It was now that Martin collected the features of Jon once more, breathing hard as he recognized Jonathan Sims. He drank in Jon's lithe figure, his long fingers and broad shoulders, his angular jawline and dark hair - with just enough gray. Jon's face was speckled with scars, and was collecting stubble that had ceased to grow during the end of the world. And his eyes were no longer a horrific, glossy green. Instead - why instead, they were -

"My god, Jon, your eyes-"

"Martin," Jon interrupted with a stammer, and what Martin could swear was a meek laugh. Jon moved his hands up, shaking, and searched for Martin, finding and resting on his forearm. Jon glided his fingers up, following the form of Martin until he made it to his neck, where his hands cupped Martin's face. "I'm... I'm blind."

Martin couldn't help but laugh at the irony. He immediately caught his breath, but before he could blurt out an apology, Jon laughed too, and it was a laugh indeed, a laugh like he had never heard from Jonathan Sims. His milky white eyes began to water as he laughed, and he brought his own hands to his face, feeling himself for the first time since the end of the world. Martin joined Jon, gently caressing Jon's face and reminding his fingertips of the feeling. They continued to laugh at nothing in particular, or maybe at everything, maybe even at each other - and Martin pulled Jon into his arms for a strong, needed hug.

"You're- thats my sweater," Martin cooed as Jon's laugh quieted. "You wore my sweater through all of that, you thief."

"It looks so much better on me, I think," Jon joked, then he paused and laughed once again at the irony. "I suppose I can only go on memory."

"I can assure you it fits me better, but I won't judge you as long as you wash it before giving it back."

Jon buried his face into Martin's chest, wiping his tears, and took a deep, long inhale through his nose. He paused, considering his next words carefully.

"You could just wash it, you know."

Martin stepped back, cocking his head and raising an eyebrow before remembering Jon's latest development. "And what do you suppose you mean by that?"

"We will be sharing a washer, I presume." Jon said in his very familiar, presumptuous voice, as he looked past Martin - but still cocked his own brow and smirked.

Martin's heart fluttered, his eyes lighting up as he, in an instant, dove into a domestic fantasy with Jon once again. He dreamed up the scenario of pulling the sweater off Jon to toss in the washer, and smiled big. Jon clumsily searched for Martin's face once again, tracing his form and holding his face. His fingers slid through Martin's hair slowly as he seemed to relish in the sensation, and he sighed in delight. His hands rested on the back of Martin's head, and he pulled Martin close, attempting to press their lips togeter and missing. Jon's kiss landed shy of Martin's lips by just a bit, and this caused them both to once again laugh.

"This is different, Jon." Martin said, listening to the song on Jon's laughter. "You are different."

Jon hesitated for a moment. "I'm not bound to anyone but myself anymore. I suppose I have freedom, finally." He sighed. "This is... I'm confused, and unsure of what I am without the Eye, or my own eyes."

"We can find out together, if you'd like."

Jon laughed out his nose, the corner of his lips curling. The way his eyes and eyelids moved, he appeared to be searching, but he was moreso considering- what Martin could not see, was Jon dreaming his own dreams in an instant. Dreams of holding hands, walking down cobbled streets, sitting on a patio listening to rain. Smelling spring and feeling winter. Feeling the warmth of Martin every night as they rest. The smile faded when he recalled his last sight, the last thing he will ever have committed to vision - a tear stricken Martin saying what he thought was goodbye. Then it returned when he realized the last person he saw, was the only one that mattered now.

"I think, I would very much like to see what our future holds, Martin." Jon said slowly, softly, and met his lips with Martin for a long, and eager, kiss.

[wordsintimeandspace]

making it better

Next to kidnappings, rituals and avatars, Jon still has to deal with the more mundane horrors: his migraines. Thankfully, Martin is there to take care of him. Jon/Martin, 4.4k words, rated T. Read on AO3! I'm posting this for the prompt "First Kiss" for @jonmartinweek :)

Martin tries hard to keep the grin off his face as he bounces down the stairs towards the Archives. This kind of cheeriness feels utterly inappropriate - not just because it’s a Monday morning, but especially after all the revelations of the last few months. He really shouldn’t be happy to be here in his miserable workplace that he can’t quit. And yet, he can’t help the excitement coursing through his veins.

He barges from the corridor into the office space. “Good morning,” he announces, his voice a pitch higher than usual. Basira looks up from the papers scattered across her desk, giving him an irritated look. Martin pays her no mind. Instead he quickly crosses the space towards Jon’s office and-

Abruptly, Martin comes to a stop. Jon’s office door has a little window set into it. Behind it, the room is dark. It’s not an unfamiliar sight, not after the last few months, but today of all days it was supposed to be different.

“Um. W-where’s Jon?” he asks, his voice faint.

“Not here,” Basira says. When Martin turns to her, she hasn’t even looked up from the papers. A burst of irritation rises in Martin’s throat, but he quickly swallows it down.

“Did- did he call, or…?”

At that, Basira finally looks up. “You know that he hasn’t been here in weeks.”

“Yeah, but-” Martin cuts himself off with a wince. Somehow, saying “but he said ‘see you on Monday’ in that soft voice of his when we last spoke on the phone two days ago” feels too much like baring his soul. He quickly shakes his head. “You know what, forget it.”

With that, he flees to the break room. He switches on the kettle, trying and failing not to fidget. With a grimace, he pulls out his phone and checks the screen. No calls, no messages. Not unusual for him, really, right until he and Jon started talking daily on the phone while Jon was in America. The only break in that pattern happened because Jon had been kidnapped, again.

Before Martin knows what he’s doing, he’s calling Jon’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. Martin’s heart sinks. With shaking hands he looks up Jon’s flight information. Maybe the flight was delayed. Or had to do an emergency stop in… well, Martin isn’t sure where a plane would do an emergency stop while crossing the Atlantic. Iceland, maybe?

But there it is, in small mocking letters on his screen: Jon’s plane landed right on time in Heathrow yesterday evening.

Just like that, Martin’s head swims with panic. He barely registers the roar of the boiling kettle in the background. Without any more hesitation, he rushes out of the breakroom and back towards the stairs.

Basira still doesn’t look at him.

~

Ten minutes later Martin is on the tube, panting for air. His ribs are still stinging after he ran all the way to the station, but it barely matters as long as he’s speeding towards Jon’s flat.

He’s only been there once, not too long ago, to help Jon home after he came back from the Circus. He’d been so scared, back then. Martin’s breath catches in his throat at the thought that the same thing might have happened again. Tears well in his eyes, but he quickly blinks them away.

The twenty minute trip to Jon’s place feels like an eternity. But finally Martin is there, standing in front of a wooden door in a nice but unassuming block of flats. With his heart in his throat, Martin knocks.

Nothing happens. There's only silence on the other side of the door. He knocks again, but gets the same response. And then he’s pounding on the door, shouting Jon’s name in his growing desperation.

Finally, the door swings open.

Jon glares at him. Or he tries to, at any rate. The effect is lost in the grimace of pain that is contorting his features.

Jon looks terrible. His face is ashen, the bags beneath his eyes even more pronounced than usual. His hair is a mess sticking up in all directions.

He’s still the most beautiful thing Martin has ever seen.

“Oh,” Martin breathes out. The wave of relief that Jon is here and not kidnapped by some kind of monster once again nearly knocks him off his feet.

Jon squints at him, and finally his face softens a little. “Martin?” he asks quietly, his voice hoarse from sleep.

“Hi, Jon.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I- I came into work this morning and you weren’t there and I just- I panicked, a little.” Martin winces, suddenly feeling very foolish. “Sorry. Are you alright?”

Jon groans, rubbing the space between his eyes with his thumb. “Migraine,” he hisses through clenched teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. The bright fluorescent lights of the hallway must be awful for the pain, Martin realises with a pang of guilt.

“God, I’m so sorry Jon. I woke you up, didn’t I? I just- I couldn’t reach your phone and I thought something had happened but I just- I’ll leave and let you get some rest.”

Jon quickly looks up at that. He darts forward, catching Martin’s hand in his. “No, it’s… it’s alright.” His voice softens to barely a whisper. “It’s very good to see you, Martin.”

Martin’s throat suddenly feels tight with emotion. He still isn’t used to Jon sounding so utterly affectionate. He never knows what to do with it. “It’s good to see you too,” he whispers, giving Jon’s hand a squeeze. “I missed you.”

Jon’s lips curl into a smile, despite the pain still shining in his eyes. He gently tugs Martin closer.

Martin could never resist his pull. He steps close, reaching out to cup Jon’s face. Gently, he brushes a thumb over his cheek. Jon leans into his touch, eyes fluttering closed, and Martin thinks that maybe this is it. This is the moment they have been orbiting for weeks now, the one where their feelings will finally be spelled out and-

All of a sudden, Jon wrenches his eyes open. The last bit of colour drains from his face. Before Martin can say anything Jon turns on his heels and darts toward the bathroom. He slams the door behind him, but Martin can still hear the unmistakable sound of retching a few moments later.

Martin winces, and silently curses himself for being so utterly foolish. As if this is the right time for his stupid emotions.

For just a moment he hesitates, and then he enters Jon’s flat and closes the door behind him. There’s only silence coming from the other side of the bathroom door now. Gently, Martin knocks on the wood. “Is everything okay?”

“Give me a moment,” Jon calls out, his voice hoarse. Martin lets out a long breath and moves toward the living room to wait.

Five minutes later Jon emerges, looking utterly miserable. “I’m sorry,” he croaks, hovering in the doorway. He sways on his feet.

Martin jumps up from the sofa and rushes to his side. “Don’t apologise. I’m sorry.” He hesitates for just a second, unsure if his touch would be welcome, but Jon looks like he’s two seconds from keeling over. Martin wraps an arm around his waist to steady him, relieved when Jon immediately burrows closer into his side, and gently steers him to where he suspects the bedroom to be. “Let’s get you back to bed, okay?”

Jon nods quietly, and lets Martin steer him down the hallway without any resistance.

In the bedroom heavy curtains are drawn across the windows, letting just a slither of light into the room. It’s enough for Martin to make out the unmade bed, numerous bookshelves, and the bucket conveniently placed next to the bedside table. Martin winces in sympathy.

Jon groans as he collapses back onto the bed. He immediately buries his face in the pillow. Martin hesitates for a moment before sitting on the edge of the bed. “D-do you need anything?”

Jon shakes his head. “Just sleep,” he mumbles.

“Are you sure? Do you need more medicine or anything?”

“I-I haven’t taken any.”

“Jon.”

Jon opens one eye in an attempt to glare at him. “I ran out a while ago, and with everything going on getting a renewal for my prescription wasn’t high on my priority list,” he snipes. “I got it renewed earlier this month, I just haven’t had time to pick it up at the pharmacy before leaving for America.”

“Oh. I- I’m sorry Jon.” Martin lets out a long breath. Of course Jon wouldn’t go to the doctor while he’s on the run from the police, or chased by other monsters. “It’s awful that you have to deal with all this on top of everything else.”

“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon says, in a voice that sounds very much not fine. “I really just need to sleep. It usually helps settle my stomach, at the very least. Enough to get some ibuprofen down.”

“Okay. You do that, then.”

Jon nods and closes his eyes, burrowing deeper under the blanket. Before Martin can get up and leave, he opens one eye again. “Will you be here when I wake up?” he asks, soft and quiet and hopeful, and Martin’s heart nearly leaps out of his chest, overflowing with affection.

“D-do you want me to?” he asks, equally quietly, as if a raised voice might burst the bubble around them.

“Yes. I would like that very much.”

“Okay,” Martin says, but he isn’t sure if Jon is still registering his answer. His eyes slip closed, his breathing growing slow and steady. The cease of pain between his brows smoothens, just a little. Martin watches him for a long moment, entranced by how soft Jon looks in sleep, despite the bags beneath his eyes and the scars littering his skin.

He finally pulls himself away and tiptoes out of Jon’s room. He leaves the door ajar and makes his way to the kitchen, suddenly restless. There’s got to be more he can do to help than just making sure he’s there when Jon wakes up.

First he finds Jon’s phone, the battery long dead, and plugs it in to charge. Next he finds Jon’s still unpacked suitcase, and starts a load of laundry. Then he checks the fridge and cupboards for something Jon could eat when he feels better, and quickly comes to the conclusion that Jon apparently also didn’t have time to pick up groceries before his flight.

Martin hesitates, biting his lip, but finally grabs Jon’s keys from the bowl in the hallway and quietly slips out of the flat. He’ll just have to be quick.

~

When Martin makes it back to Jon’s flat, he’s greeted by nothing but silence. He drops his grocery bags on the kitchen table, and sneaks towards Jon’s bedroom.

It doesn’t look like Jon has moved at all in the forty minutes or so it took Martin to scour the shops. Martin can’t help but let out a breath of relief. Jon needs all the rest he can get, and after he’d asked him to be there later, Martin really didn’t want him to wake up to an empty flat.

Satisfied with that, he goes to put away the groceries, takes a long time to poke through Jon’s bookshelves in the living room, and finally settles on the couch with a copy of Emma that looks barely read. He passes about an hour like this until Jon’s thin voice is coming from the bedroom.

“Martin?” he asks, sounding confused and disoriented, and Martin jumps up so quickly he nearly gets dizzy.

“Yeah. I’m here,” he says breathlessly as he barges into the bedroom.

Jon is sitting up in bed, his hair an even worse mess than before. There’s a little bit more colour in his cheeks, at the very least. He visibly relaxes, shoulders slumping in relief, when he spots Martin in the doorway.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “I- for a moment I thought I dreamed that you were here.”

“Nope,” Martin says, his throat tight at how vulnerable Jon sounds. “I’m here.” He quickly crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Jon rubs his eyes, considering for a while. “Better,” he finally says, albeit with a grimace. “Except for the pain. I’m not as nauseous, at least.”

“Okay. That’s good. Do you want to try some food?”

“I- I’m afraid I don’t have anything in.”

“I just went shopping.”

“Really?”

“Yep. And picked up your prescription, if you want to take it now. Although the package says it might be hard on the stomach, so I really think you should try to eat something first.”

“How- how did you even…” Jon trails off, gobsmacked. Martin flushes, heat rising in his cheeks.

“I- um, I found the paper slip from your doctor in the kitchen and took it to the pharmacy. Told them a lie that you’re my boyfriend and just forgot to call ahead that I would pick it up. Sorry. I don’t- maybe I should have asked first-”

Jon huffs out a laugh, interrupting Martin’s stream of apologies. He slumps forward, resting his head on Martin’s shoulder. “You’re a saint. I’ll take some in a moment, but I’m afraid you’re right about the food first.”

“O-okay,” Martin manages to stammer, dizzy with the sudden closeness. He just barely resists the urge to press a kiss into Jon’s unruly hair. “What would you like? I’ve got some saltines. Or oatmeal. Or toast, maybe?”

Jon hums, considering. “Toast sounds good. With a bit of butter.”

“Sure. Be right back.” Martin carefully extricates himself. Jon blinks his eyes open at the sudden movement, looking thoroughly affronted at being jostled for just a second before he slumps back into the pillows with a pitiful groan.

In the kitchen, Martin quickly prepares tea and toast for both of them before carefully carrying it all back into the bedroom.

Jon’s eyes are closed as he enters, but he rouses again when Martin sets the tray on the nightstand and, in a moment of unprecedented boldness, climbs into bed with Jon. He sits with his back against the headboard, heart pounding. But once again, Jon doesn't seem to mind the closeness. He sits up as well, so close that their shoulders are touching. He rubs his eyes and lets out a huff.

“I'm- not entirely sure if I can keep anything down,” he admits, voice faint.

“That’s okay. Do you still want to try?”

Jon grimaces. “I probably should.”

“Just go slow. And I made ginger tea that hopefully helps a little.”

Jon nods as he takes the steaming mug from Martin. He brings it to his lips and takes a careful sip. For a moment he hesitates, wrinkling his nose, before his features smooth out and he takes a larger gulp.

“Good?”

“I’m not very partial to the taste,” Jon admits, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But otherwise it’s fine.”

“Well, it’s supposed to make you feel better. Doesn’t all medicine taste bad?”

“Probably.” Jon takes another sip and rests the mug on the nightstand. Martin hands him a plate of buttered toast, already cut into small pieces. Although he takes it without protest Jon hesitates, staring down at it for so long that Martin begins to fidget and quickly checks that the bucket is still placed next to the bed, just in case.

“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t feel like it,” he rushes to say.

Jon shakes his head. “It’s- it’s not that,” he admits quietly. “I just… I don’t remember the last time someone took care of me like this.”

“Oh.” Jon’s voice sounds so small, so fragile. For a moment Martin feels like he can’t breathe, like the swell of emotion rising in his chest doesn’t leave enough space for the air in his lungs. “I- I’m sorry, Jon,” he finally says, a waver in his voice.

Jon lets out a shuddering breath, leaning closer into Martin’s side. “It’s just… well. Growing up my grandmother’s bedside manner left much to be desired, and it’s- it’s been so long since I had someone like Georgie.”

Martin wraps an arm around Jon’s shoulders, holding him close. He finally gives in to the temptation and drops a kiss to the crown of his head. “I’m glad I can do this for you now. You deserve this.”

“Thank you, Martin.”

“Of course. Now, you should really try to eat some of it.”

Jon lets out a hoarse laugh. “Yes, yes. I will.” He sits up a little, but doesn’t move out of Martin’s embrace. Martin gulps, and leaves his arm right where it is draped across Jon’s shoulders. Gingerly, Jon picks up a piece of toast and pops it into his mouth. He chews slowly, and to Martin’s immense relief he immediately reaches for the next one after swallowing.

They eat in comfortable silence for a moment. Jon makes it through half the mug of tea and an entire slice of toast before he starts flagging. When Martin offers him more toast, he quickly shakes his head. “No. I- I think that’s enough for now,” he says with a grimace.

“Okay.” Martin takes the plate from him, and watches with growing concern how Jon sinks back into the pillows, looking exhausted. “Do you want to take some of your medicine now?”

Jon just nods, and Martin quickly fetches him a glass of water and the bottle of pills from the kitchen. Jon immediately pops two pills into his mouth and flushes them down with a gulp of water.

“These usually take me out for a couple more hours,” he mumbles as he lies back down. His face is once again a grimace of pain, and Martin’s heart squeezes in his chest.

“Okay. Just get some rest, Jon.”

Martin starts to stand, but with surprising dexterity Jon reaches out and catches his wrist. He looks up at Martin, eyes wide and pleading. “Will you stay?”

“Of course. I told you I would, didn’t I?”

“No, I mean- will you stay? Here?” Jon tugs at his wrist, making his meaning clear even though every coherent thought scatters from Martin’s brain. He feels breathless, all of a sudden.

“Y-yeah,” he finally manages to get out. “If- if you want me to.”

When Jon tugs at his hand one more time, Martin immediately yields. As if he could ever resist when Jon is looking at him like that. He climbs into bed with him, lying down before taking Jon into his arms. Jon lets out a content sigh and burrows closer, until they’re pressed close from head to toe. He tucks his head beneath Martin’s chin, and after a little more wriggling to get comfortable, goes utterly still.

While Jon is out like a light, it takes Martin a long moment to calm his racing heart. This is all he had wanted for such a long time, and yet he can’t bring himself to fully enjoy it. He shouldn’t enjoy this; not when Jon is doing this just because he’s sick and needs some comfort.

Martin lets out a long sigh. Despite the guilt churning in his stomach, this is simply nice. It’s nice to hold Jon while he sleeps, to feel his warmth in his arms and the tickle of his breath against his neck. To offer that comfort he seeks.

At last, Martin closes his eyes and slowly relaxes. He might as well enjoy this while it lasts.

~

Martin isn’t sure what wakes him. A noise maybe, a movement, or the sudden lack of a warm body in his arms. He only knows that he wakes to an empty bed, confused and disoriented. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, and when he does, the spike of concern he feels over Jon’s sudden absence immediately dissipates his remaining grogginess. He sits up with a gasp, reaching out to the space next to him where Jon ought to be.

The sheets are still warm, so at the very least Jon can’t have been gone for long. Martin fumbles for his phone on the nightstand to check the time, but before he can get it into his hands the door clicks open and Jon quietly slips back into the room. He stills when he sees Martin awake, hovering in the doorway, and Martin freezes in return.

He can’t help but stare, taking in every little detail. Jon still looks exhausted, but otherwise much better. There’s some colour in his cheeks. His eyes are soft, without any trace of the previous pain and tension. He even tamed his unruly hair into a messy bun. Martin’s only concern is that Jon looks terribly unsure for a long moment, but even that dissipates as Jon’s lips split into a gentle smile. Whatever it is that he sees on Martin’s face, it spurs him back into motion, and moments later Jon climbs back into bed with him.

“Is- is this okay?” Jon asks, quiet and hopeful and-

Oh.

Maybe all of this wasn’t just because Jon was sick.

“Y-yeah,” Martin chokes, heart dancing in his chest as Jon once again curls close to him. He pulls him back into his arms, delighting at the content sound Jon makes. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better,” Jon murmurs. “Thanks to you.”

“Oh. I’m- I’m really glad, Jon.” Martin lets out a breath of relief, and boldly strokes a hand up and down Jon’s back. “How long were we asleep?”

“A couple of hours, I think? I’m not entirely sure when we fell asleep. I was pretty out of it.”

“Right.” Martin stills for a second, uncertainty creeping back into his thoughts. “You- you’re not still…?”

Jon pulls back a little, frowning at Martin. “What are you- oh.” His expression softens, and he lets out something between a huff and a laugh. “No, Martin. I’m perfectly lucid this time. I- I want this, I promise.”

“Oh.” Martin’s breath catches in his throat. “Okay.”

Jon smiles, and looks at him with such a fondness that Martin isn’t sure if his poor heart can take it. With bated breath he watches as Jon reaches out to cup his cheek and runs his thumb across his cheek.

“Can I kiss you?” Jon asks softly.

Martin doesn’t have the breath for a reply, or words for how much he wants this. He simply nods, hoping that Jon understands his dumbfounded silence as the enthusiastic consent that it is. If Jon’s grin is anything to go by, he knows exactly how thoroughly he just short-circuited Martin’s brain.

“Breathe, Martin” Jon whispers, voice dancing in amusement, and then his lips are on Martin’s and there’s simply no room for the nervous energy in his chest.

There’s only Jon, the softness of his lips, the gentleness of his touch, and the bright euphoria of being thoroughly kissed.

When Jon pulls away, Martin notices something else in the sweetness of that kiss. Something that tastes a lot like peppermint. He narrows his eyes at Jon, suddenly painfully aware that his mouth tastes terrible after the prolonged nap. “Did you brush your teeth?” Martin blurts out before he can think better of it.

Jon laughs. “I did throw up earlier.”

“Oh, you planned this, then?”

Jon grins, his thumb once again caressing Martin’s cheek. “I had an inkling that you might be amenable if I asked.”

“I am,” Martin bursts out. “Very, very amenable. Sorry that was- that was rude of me, wasn’t it? I should have led with that. It was very nice kissing you, Jon.”

“Good.” Jon’s face softens. “I was hoping you might want to do it again.”

“Y-yeah. Of course.” Martin smiles, unable to keep the sheer joy coursing through him off his face, and leans closer one more time.

Jon’s lips meet him in the middle, and just like that they’re kissing again. Jon lets out a breathy noise of pleasure against Martin’s lips that makes his heart race, and Martin pulls him closer, suddenly unable to stand the remaining distance between them.

By the time they break apart they’re both breathless, but still reluctant to let each other go. Jon stays close, arms wrapped around Martin’s neck while Martin’s hands rest on his waist, and rests his forehead against Martin’s. For a long moment they simply relish the closeness, but finally Jon pipes up again.

“I- I didn’t plan to do this,” he admits quietly, with a hint of a waver in his voice. “Not with the Unknowing coming up soon. But then you were here today and you made it so much better and I just-” He lets out a shuddering breath, eyes firmly pressed close. “I just want to be selfish, I suppose. I want you to make everything else better as well.”

Martin gulps hard, tightening his grip on Jon. “There’s nothing selfish about wanting some comfort,” he says.

“It’s- it’s more than that though, Martin.” Reluctantly Jon pulls away, enough to see Martin’s face. “I need you to know that. If- if all this would suddenly disappear tomorrow, I would still want this. I would still want you.”

“I know,” Martin says quietly, and somehow, despite his earlier insecurity, he does. Jon used to be so reversed, keeping his emotions close to his chest, but by now he’s wearing his heart on his sleeve. There’s no mistaking the affection shining bright in his eyes. “I feel the same.”

Jon lets out a long breath. “So what… um, w-what do we do now?” he asks, suddenly unsure.

Martin gulps, his throat tight. There’s a crease of concern between Jon’s brows, and Martin cannot stand it. He leans down one more time, kissing Jon slowly and thoroughly until he goes lax against him. “We do what we have to do,” Martin says quietly when they pull apart. Jon blinks up at him, looking a little dazed. “We deal with the Unknowing and Elias and- and whatever comes next. Together.”

Jon hesitates for a long moment, but finally he nods. “Y-yes,” he manages to get out, smiling a little. I- I’d like that.”

He curls back into Martin’s embrace, tucking his head beneath Martin’s chin, and Martin gladly holds him close.

And he hopes, desperately, that facing it all together will be enough.

[gerrydelano]

Sixth Installment of the Pharos By Right series

Title: DAYSTAR Rating: M Chapters: 7 / 7 Words: 7.3k Characters: Martin Blackwood, Danny Stoker, Tim Stoker, Peter Lukas, Melanie King, Gerry Keay, Jon Sims, Elias Bouchard (mentioned), The Contortionist (mentioned)

Relationships: Martin/Danny, Melanie & Gerry

Additional Tags: Archivist!Gerry, Canon Divergence, Mostly Morbid Humor, Angst, Action, Low Empathy Autistic Martin, Trans Martin, Stranger!Danny, End!Tim, The Stranger, The Lonely, The End, Non-Canonical Character Undeath, Addiction, Depression, Discussion of Suicide, Grief, Brief allusion to relationship abuse

Chapter Summary:

“I have a feeling, Danny! I still have a feeling. We need to call someone and tell them what happened.” There’s no way Danny doesn’t have the same feeling. For all Martin knows, he’s had it for days and has been pretending he didn’t. That he could handle it himself, that their trip hadn’t been compromised, that they really were on some sort of vacation.

Or: Martin and Danny make it to Greece, Tim has a word with Peter Lukas, and Melanie finds Gerry at Pinhole Books - again.

[beeistrying]

just thought of a specific way to write a tma archivist!sasha and not!jon au that is SO harmful to my own mental health

[rauchendesgnu]

Martin doesn’t have any freckles. Jon has watched him and the others for a while now, and he knows that everyone has freckles. Tim is absolutely covered in them, and he seems to get more and more every day as Sasha seems very determined to kiss every part of Tim that is not yet covered in tiny dark spots. Everyone has been loved by someone at some point. Everyone has been kissed, no matter if a platonic peck on the cheek or a heated kiss on the mouth. Everyone but Martin, it seems. Or: Jon realises Martin has never been kissed. He rectifies that right away.

I wrote another thing! idk where I heard about the AU or if it just popped into my head, but every freckle is a kiss a loved one gave you.

for @ialwayscomewhenyoucall

[rainbowchewynuggets]

TMA: Encore finally has a cover!

(Gonna slip this to the front of the order.)

If you haven’t read it yet and you’re a fan of The Magnus Archives, go ahead and check it out. I’m finally getting around to finishing it! Should be done before The Magnus Protocol comes out on Rusty Quill. Thanks! :)

Edit: The whole comic is finished! Go nuts!

Next

Index

[vastpotato]

One of my favorite things is that when ppl are writing a time fix for tma and Jon goes far enough back to be a kid again-

1st off, it’s always after A Guest for Mister Spider (so doomed from the start and we love that)

But the Very First Thing they ever do is: A, make Jon and Gerry be best friends (and I’m so here for it) and B, also make Mary Keay disappear in some way so she’s not involved with Gerry anymore (some of them are so funny for no reason. Like yes suffer queen)

Then Micheal Shelly is always saved in some way, some save him entirely so no distortion, or they make it so Micheal is in control of distortion but now just a little bit more spirally and I honestly can’t get enough of it.

But if it’s just a normal time fix and Jon goes back to season one (gonna say w/o Martin) the very first thing that happens is always that Jon immediately is just nice to Martin and un-assholafies himself (and it’s normally the funniest thing)

But I feel like that says a lot about this fandom and I fucking love it here

[cupioromantic-simp]

Jon x corruption avatar

Jon clicks the button on the tape recorder and the sound resides through out the room

“Statement of”

You state your full name and occupation

“-About entity driven events during my life time”

“Recorded direct from subject by Jonathan sims…” he looks disappointed in you maby that you didn’t tell him or maybe because you are telling him

You take a deep breath and sigh

“First things first I’m sorry for not making a statement after the Jane prentis attack I was worried you’d turn on me I’m sure you’ll see why…

My first experience with a deep internal fear was when I was six me and my mother where on a vacation at a motel near our house not really a vacation per say but it had a pool and and arcade so that’s really all that mattered to me

We had go to this one specific location multiple times but this time it was different it was about twenty years before they closed it up and they whet going through repairs changing out some stuff and adding things to make it more hip for the non-locals

We- me and my mother-where in the pool.. well I was my mother never really liked getting her hair wet and I decided to just float on my back in the pool because I was a shy kid I didn’t know how to interact with people even at six and as I was floating I looked up at the ceiling and.. one of the panels where gone and you could see pipes and wires and… so so much dust I was going to call out to my mom and tell her how dangerous I found it

B-but when I opened my mouth a string of dust fell from the open panel and.. and in to my mouth

I-I can still remember it I gagged so hard I threw up in the pool it was as thick as dryer lint and I- I think I passed out because I don’t remember most of what happened there I just remember that the blankets in our room where the deducting green-brown and that I had an allergic reaction to it ether that or a rash

The next I remember is more clusters of things like wanting to vomit every time I saw bare feet on tile, or that if you pop a pimple wrong it can get in to your blood and cause sepsis, or the fact there where always fruit flies in our house because my mom didn’t have time to clean and I was so forgetful that I whole only remember to bring my mugs down because there was a thick layer of twisting curling mold of top of whatever I was drinking ten days ago

I remember learning that penicillin was just apple mold so I left a slice out for a little over a year just to see what happened

Mold happened obviously

All things rot and decompose I’ve-

I’ve come to peace with that

Sounds like a weird thing to have to come to peace with

I’ve also come to peace with the fact that everything is dirty

Nothing is clean it’s just how it is

Everything touched by human hands is dirty and humans have the need to touch everything

Whether there supposed to or not

I think that’s why it got me the thing that’s corroding the iron in my blood, flaking my skin and molding my meat

And I mean it not in the meat in my fridge though it is in the food but the meat in my body if you can call it that

I am meat and my meat is moldy and crawling with rot and decay

That’s why I didn’t quite care about the worms I think…

Or that they didn’t care about me in the way they cared about Jane

You read her statement you know

‘I am a home for that which loves me’

No it’s not like that

‘I am consumed by that which wants and crawls in the dirt and the air and the ground and the halls and the food and the water it sinks in to my skin and in to my stomach and up my throat and in to the pool and in to the filters and in to the skin of the others who return it to me because I am it’s master and it owns me and I am so full and connected and so so scared’”

You and Jon stare at each other for al least thirty seconds

“S-… um.. s-statement ends…”

He moves his hand to the tape recorder but his hand trembles before he can touch anything

You can feel that he can feel it all around the dust, dead skin, the paper mold I mean who knows where that tape recorder has bean, how long, what kind of plastic mold crawls and hides and feasts you’ve really been touching that thing Jon? Who knows what bacteria you’ve spread with that thi-

“STOP!” Jon if visibly shaking “how-..what… why did you do that?!”

“Hmm? I’m not sure, I don’t know if it was even a conches decision, is it weird being on the receiving end of an avatar spell thing? Because i know it’s weird when you do your little statement suction thing”

“I um-“

“Oh you didn’t understand how horrific things like that are, you up set your self with the thought that you’ve been doing a similar thing to people”

You move you hand wanting to comfort him some how but quickly realize that holding his hand with your corrupted fungi filled strangely soft hands it would probably send him in to another fear fuelled panic so you just move your hand back in to your lap

“I’m.. sorry Jon, I… I think I’ll be going now, for awhile, you should um clean the apartment I think… I- I’m not sure what to say… goodbye Jon”

You click off the tape recorder for him before leaving

[brettanomycroft]

Part 2 of my first kiss 5+1 fic for @jonmartinweek!

Day 2: Outsider POV

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Crucible - a Magnus Archives fic

Martin's been having dreams.

He doesn't understand them.

Surely, if Jon had ever looked like that, with unreal wings and a crown of spinning eyes, he would have remembered.

But his memory isn't working as well as it should right now, and Jon never blinks.

Martin is afraid.

Inspired by The Watcher’s Crown by @raynecreates

Note: this is angst. Somewhere Else goes very, very wrong.

AO3

-------------

The dream again.

The same one he’d been having—vivid, rich, all senses engaged.

Impossible.

But maybe that was just because he’d had none in the apocalypse, right? Because Jon had protected him from them (or their memory, anyway), and who the hell knew how long it had taken to get across that mess, so his subconscious was just making up for it now.

Right?

“Did you dream again?” murmurs Jon in the morning light, so beautiful, the halo of his hair softening the side of his face visible above his pillow.

“Yeah,” says Martin, who feels sticky, who feels sweaty, who discovers the sheets are tangled around his legs as though he’d been ensnared. “Sucks.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon reaches, cups his face. “I could try to… prevent them. If you want.”

That touch is everything—warm and rough, scarred from gods-damned Perry, absolute perfection. Martin turns and kisses Jon’s palm. “No. No, it’s all right. We agreed. Normal. We try for normal.”

“Normal.” Jon repeats the word with no inflection, but he smiles, and that helps. “For whatever that word is worth to me, these days.”

“More than you think.” Martin catches Jon’s hand and pulls it closer so he can kiss each fingertip, then place them over his heart. “It’s been six months, Jon. They’re not coming after us. We’re free.”

“Then ‘normal’ wouldn’t be as big of a concern, would it?” Jon says, unblinking (but he never blinks), still smiling that way which he only ever does for Martin.

Martin has observed. That smile is his, and his alone, and he keeps it locked in the vault of his heart like his private, personal sun.

“I mean,” says Martin, “we don’t want anybody’s attention, right? So yeah. Under the radar. Normal.”

“Of course.” Jon tugs his hand loose from Martin’s, but only to caress his lips like the barest whisper, then finally gets out of bed.

Martin feels loved, and has never felt so loved.

Jon is… something in the light of dawn.

Still too thin (it seems impossible to fix that). Unexpectedly curvy, missing two ribs. Scarred here, there, everywhere, all over the place in unnecessary ways, his rich, brown skin a tapestry to the things that bit him.

He moves like a swan, Martin thinks, because he’s absurdly in love, and doesn’t give a fuck how silly it makes him.

“I have a meeting with the council today,” says Jon.

“Again?” Martin play-whines.

Brushing his long hair and tying it up, Jon smiles at him over his shoulder. “It’s every week, you know.”

“Sure,” says Martin, still play-whining. “I just get jealous of anybody taking your evenings. You know that.”

“I’ll be fantasizing about your pasta dish the whole time,” promises Jon, clean clothes in hand. “Did you name it yet?”

“Not yet? I want it to be poetic,” Martin says, because he’s very proud of his dish, because he’d figured it out via leftovers and stolen produce, because it wasn’t Spanish and wasn’t African and sure as hell wasn’t English, but somehow all of those things with a pinch of cream (but it wasn’t American or French, either) and too much pepper, and made them both sweat and laugh and mouth-breathe while chewing.

“You’ll find it, I’m sure.” And Jon is off to shower.

Martin watches until he’s gone.

The dream. He doesn’t want to remember the dream.

It was obviously a result of the damned eyepocalypse, because really.

Jon hadn’t looked like that in the apocalypse. Not even in those first, fraught minutes when Martin had run (fled staggered survived) back to the cabin and found him on the floor with glowing eyes in the air all around him, and glowing eyes all over his flesh that had torn when they opened and bled.

Martin had fallen to his knees and pulled Jon close (and the eyes felt disgusting, so horrible, but he did it anyway), and then the eyes had focused on him.

All of them, airborne and bloodied, focused on him.

Recognition.

Martin had felt it, as if the universe had sung his name.

Martin shakes it off. No, even then, he hadn’t looked like the dream.

Not that the dream was… bad, exactly? Scary as hell, sure, but Martin’s morning erection wasn’t just about shifting blood flow, and—

The shower is running.

Martin decides to push it all away and go wash his lover’s back.

#

Work is dull, but that’s expected, given the tasks at hand.

Construction doesn’t really suit? But Martin is strong, and it is not hard, though some of the more repetitive things do leave his mind to wander.

He’s a little jealous that Jon could just bluff his way into the local governing body with powers.

They all think they know who he is, and have for years. They all believe he has documentation, of course. Most of them even think they’ve seen it.

When in reality, Jon walked into one of those weekly meetings six months ago, informed them he was running for representative of the district of Eden, and… maybe there was a vote?

Martin’s not sure.

He’s also not sure how he feels about Jon doing that?

But it brought immediate income, which they needed, and immediate housing, which they needed even more, and—so Jon said—paperwork and identification for them would be coming soon.

Of course, that was six months ago.

They hadn’t really needed ID yet, living via cash, cheating via Jon’s powers.

It felt a little risky, but… how bad could it honestly be?

This was damn near close to their United Kingdom. No, not fully identical; there were some changes in the history of this place, and they still owned other people’s countries, like India, which was not so great, but that wasn’t what mattered.

No Fears. That was the biggie. So.

(Then why did Jon have powers?)

(Because he changed, and you know that, so shut up, Blackwood.)

The big gossip from Jon’s council right now was, of course, that the Eden District Council was supposed to be dissolved, their duties split between Westmorland and Furness authorities.

(Furnace! There’s an idea for a spicy pasta dish.)

Whatever. It didn’t seem like it would have a major effect on their lives.

Martin does his job, and laughs with his coworkers. He ensures his bosses like him all the way up the chain, and everyone who matters knows his name.

Sweaty and pleased, he goes home.

#

The dream.

The dream comes again, and as always, he cannot wake.

A dream of wings: two a dark and solid green, two flowing with eyes like rivers in ribbons of light.

And they drop translucent feathers that glow like those eyes, drop from those ribbons of green and lambent sight that knows and knows, and though all four wings shift as though breathing, Martin fears those glowing wings the most.

He fears so deeply what will happen should they unfurl.

#

“The dream again?” Jon’s hair is messier this morning, and Martin smooths it down, mindful of snags.

“Yeah,” says Martin.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

Martin sighs. “Jon, I said no. I meant it.”

“I know, I know. It’s just… hard to watch you suffer. Especially when I can…”

“What? Fix it?” Martin laughs a little. “I sure hope not, because if you’ve been bouncing around people’s dreams fixing things behind my back, we’ll have to have a little talk.”

Jon smiles as though Martin is joking, and Martin smiles as though he is joking, and instead of leaving the bed, Jon slides over him, and pins him down with hands and eyes and heat, and—

(They make love? Of course they make love, because Martin’s body still hums at work, and his thoughts keep slipping back to the sense of caressing, of joining, of fingertips teasing his nerves to wild, near-painful peak, and—)

And he can’t quite… remember?

But no, he does, he does, he remembers what happened, remembers that rarest of gifts that Jon gives, which Martin will not ask for because he knows Jon almost never wants, and he does remember what they did in their creaky bed in their borrowed house in Cumbria.

It’s fuzzy because he was fuzzy. From the dream. That’s all.

And work requires full attention, anyway, what with the power tools and I-beams and whatever.

He does remember. He does.

He focuses on the good and loving feelings, the sensation of being so deeply adored (seen, yet still wanted, still loved), and gets back to work.

#

“Council meeting tonight,” says Jon. “I think it’s tradition now to make your spicy pasta dish.”

Martin laughs. “Already? Sure, that’s fine. Oh—I was thinking of calling it the Furnace.”

Jon laughs. It’s such a delightful sound, so rare when he isn’t talking to Martin, so real. “The Furnace! Why?”

“Heat,” says Martin, simply.

“I think you’re very close,” says Jon, tapping his chin, then returns to straightening his tie and ensuring his braid is tight. “What about… Crucible?”

Martin startles. “Crucible?”

“Not the old morality play, of course. I meant a literal crucible.” Jon’s tie pin (which isn’t an eye, but somehow makes Martin think of one, and he chooses not to think about it) glints as he turns around.

“Huh,” says Martin, who doesn’t really get why that word. “Crucible?”

“It’s just an idea. The concept’s been on my mind, lately,” says Jon. “The changes and all.”

“Changes?”

“It’s not just Eden’s council that’s breaking up. The whole empire’s structure is changing,” says Jon like that’s absolutely nothing to be concerned about, and Martin stares at him.

“What?” Martin says.

“It won’t affect you at all,” says Jon.

“What do you mean, it won’t affect me?”

“Us,” says Jon. “It won’t affect us. Isn’t that what I said?”

“No, Jon, that’s not what you said.”

“Probably because I’m thinking of all the paperwork I’ll need to do,” says Jon.

Martin frowns.

“Hey.” Jon leans in, gives Martin a kiss, and all the fluttery sense-memories from a week ago flood back as richly as they have every day since, and Martin’s tension melts. “It’s going to be okay. Do you honestly think, even here, that I would let anything happen to you?”

Martin laughs. “Jon… things do happen to people. I work in construction, I mean… something could.”

And the next kiss is—

That kiss is—

Martin is on the tube, nearly arrived at his stop for work, and doesn’t recall how he got there.

Wow.

But he does remember?

Remembers the kiss, remembers Jon pushing him gently against the wall, remembers feeling devoured and weak-kneed and worshiped, and then… walking out, and…

He even said hi to the neighbor, Mrs. MacReady.

Hadn’t he?

He had.

Except… he hadn’t?

Of course I did, he thinks, and wonders, at last, if something truly has gone wrong.

#

He doesn’t tell Jon about the doctor’s appointment. No point in worrying him.

Though he almost does after, as the doctor goes over his scans and confirms conclusively that there is no brain tumor, or anything like that.

“You’re a remarkably healthy man, Mister Blackwood,” she says. “Absolutely every single test we ran came back completely optimal—practically textbook, ideal. Whatever you’re doing, by all means, keep doing it.”

I’m doing the Archivist, he thinks slightly hysterically. “But then what about these… blackout moments?”

“All I can say, Mister Blackwood, is it doesn’t seem likely to be… physical. Though you show no signs of stress, the mind can be a funny thing; are you under stress?”

Yes, he thinks, and doesn’t know why. “No.”

“Do you feel safe at home?”

No, he thinks, and doesn’t know why. “Yes.”

“Well, how about this? We can refer you. I really think you’re going to be all right; tests like these don’t lie. But it won’t do any harm to see someone, anyway.”

Martin thanks her, takes the info, and leaves without making a further appointment with anyone.

#

The dream.

Oh, the dream.

Is he seeing more? Or maybe remembering more in that instant before opening his eyes?

Seeing the four wings (two solid, two not), but standing between them now is Jon, and the wings aren’t attached to him but they are him, somehow, some balance between mortality and godhood (how does Martin know?), and Jon in between is—

Jon is—

Martin gasps awake.

“Martin?” says Jon, raised up on his arm, eyes wide and worried. “Are you all right?”

The image. The dream.

Jon, with a crown, but not a reasonable crown, some kind of spinning wheels, one within the other, and lined with fucking eyes. Jon with some kind of rising sun behind him that cuts as it illuminates, and Martin feels seen, and Martin feels eviscerated, and Martin feels burned.

“Martin?” Jon says, looking genuinely concerned.

Martin grabs him.

Holds him tight, maybe too tight, judging by the grunt, but he won’t let go.

Can’t let go.

“Martin,” Jon whispers, and holds him back, and kisses gently along his jaw, and tries to soothe with fingers in his hair. “Hey. Hey, look at me. What’s going on?”

“I don’t think I’m okay,” says Martin, softly.

Jon goes stiff. “You are. You have to be.”

“I… I don’t know that I am. Something’s been… I feel like I’m losing time. And I…”

Jon relaxes again, tension gone. “And that worries you,” he says, soft. “I understand. I’m sorry.”

Well, that’s not what he expected. “What?” says Martin.

Jon kisses him softly. “We’re both going to be late. Come on.”

“But—Jon, what the hell did you mean by that?”

Jon won’t tell him. He won’t, peeling off Martin’s pajamas (“Jon, really, we’ve got to talk about this,”) and pulling him into their walk-in shower.

It’s not making love, and it’s not even sexual, but it is intimate, and precious, to be cleaned by one who loves, who is loved, and Martin stops asking.

Not wondering. But asking.

He can ask later.

He will ask later.

And on the way out the door, Jon kisses his cheek. “It’s almost over. I promise, Martin—you’re safe.” And he goes, ignoring Martin’s new questions, headed toward the tube.

#

Martin can’t stop seeing dream-Jon’s eyes while he works.

They’re everywhere. (They’re nowhere.)

They’re watching him from just to the side, only gone when he turns to see. (They’re not there.)

Inhuman eyes.

Gleaming green magic star-eyes, brighter than the sun, burning without pain, looking inside without slicing him open.

Except he feels sliced open.

The wings. The falling feathers.

The wings in front were the not-human ones (which makes no sense because humans don’t have wings so why would solid green wings be human?).

Like… Jon’s making a choice, or… some balance is slipping out of hand, or… he’s being overrun, or…

“Look out!” he hears, and with the rest of his coworkers, looks up.

The crane at the top of this building has just fucked up.

They all see it happening.

See the I-beams, the bricks, the sacks of concrete—

See the crane itself, tipping over the edge of the roof and taking all the nearby materials with it.

Is there time to run?

Martin doesn’t know. He tries. They all try. Of course they try, but the ground beneath them shakes (does it?) hard enough to knock every last one of them off their feet, and there are screams and there is panic, and Martin clearly sees the swelling shadow of whatever is about to end his life all around him before his mind goes blank in crushing noise and terror.

#

Martin lives.

No one else does.

Somehow, the beams fell near and not on, and somehow, the bricks missed as if poorly aimed, and somehow, the crane—which had been about to land right fucking on him—hit hoist-first and angled just so, crashing down so he lay curled in the crux of its joint, miraculously uninjured.

He’s covered in dust. He cannot stop shaking.

There are sirens. Shouts. His ears ring. He’s dazed.

But before they drag him away—

Before they get him to medical personnel and begin the mad battery of tests demanded by lawyers to ensure he can’t sue—

He sees what’s left of the crane operator.

Sees the movement in the cab, the wriggling he would recognize anywhere, any time, and will to the end of his days.

The driver, who was crushed when the crane fell down, was filled to the brim with worms.

Everyone tells him his panic attack only makes sense, and nobody blames him for screaming, and he has no idea how long it is before he’s finally discharged to go home.

#

Jon is waiting for him there.

Martin knows Jon is there before he gets to the door, which makes no sense, because he should have come to the hospital.

There is no way Jon didn't know what happened. Why hadn't he come? (Because you were all right.)

No, that's not good enough, why hadn't he come? (Because something held him up.)

What could have done that? Martin knows damn well paperwork wouldn't have done that. Some stupid meeting wouldn't have done that. Only a big thing, the biggest thing, could have done that.

And he knew you were all right. (I am not all right.)

He knows Jon is waiting, feels him, sees green light emanating from every door and window when he closes his eyes, though it isn’t there when they’re open.

So, Martin reasons. Either he’s gone insane, or Jon is…

Jon is not okay?

Martin’s throat is tight as he opens their door, eyes burning, heart sinking.

Jon is okay. Jon has to be okay. (Are we going to have to kill John? he had asked himself, asked his other self in his own domain, and the answer had been yes.)

“Jon?”

“Come in, Martin.”

It’s a gentle tone, calming. Calm.

It shouldn’t be setting off alarm bells, but it is.

Martin pauses on his way to the living room. He gets a knife from the kitchen, tucks it into the back of his belt, and approaches.

Jon is waiting by the fireplace, which he’s got warm and crackling. He looks normal (no wings). In a suit with a day’s rumple, his tie untied, his top buttons unbuttoned (only two eyes).

He looks up and smiles, and Martin knows.

He’s seen that smile before.

Seen it, before he had to do the worst thing to save the whole world.

“Oh, Jon,” he says, breathing too fast. “What have you done?”

“Nothing terrible, I assure you,” says Jon, standing and approaching.

Martin reaches back and finds the knife gone. He stiffens.

“I let you do that last time because I thought it would help,” says Jon, sliding his arms around Martin’s waist. “But it didn’t. They all came with us, and it was all starting again. I know you don’t realize. You couldn’t feel it. Not like I could.”

“Jon, what have you done?” says Martin, louder, angered at the assertion that the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life had been allowed (no matter how true).

“Do you want me to show you?” Jon’s kiss is soft (it’s the same, how can there be terrible things when his kiss is the same).

“You’re going to, anyway,” says Martin, not as sharply as he wanted. (Are we going to have to kill John? and he’d had to, he’d had to, he—)

Jon smiles.

It’s like the rising sun.

It’s impossible to look away from, impossible to see in only three dimensions. Impossible.

Martin can feel himself… melting. Cracking? Changing?

(Are we going to have to—)

(No.)

And then Jon is the dream.

It is so much more than the dream.

And they are in the cottage but not, and they are on the ground but not, and the translucent eye-wings are around and through Martin and sliding everywhere, and he gasps, and stares, and he can see.

“I like ‘crucible,’ because that’s what I did,” says Jon, who is holy, who is too much, who would be melting Martin’s skin off his bones unless consciously choosing to not. “I made a deal with them. With the Web, primarily, but with them all. Either I would drag them to destruction… or we would do this right.”

“Right?” whispers Martin, and feels horrified, but vaguely, distantly, like he’s forgetting how.

And then, he sees it all.

Only for a moment. He can’t do more than that, or he’ll break, his mind snapping, but a moment is enough.

Of a power like a net or a blanket or a spill sliding smoothly out from Penrith, Cumbria, and it spreads like light and it spreads like oil, and Martin can see—

Can see that the members of the Eden Council were changed, each chosen by Jon to be marked as he wanted, and directed, and pointed like a gun—

Can see they were chosen to join him in a version of the mass ritual that was so much worse than Jonah’s because Jon learned from Jonah’s mistakes—

Can see the fear gripping one human after another, each of them freezing where they are, and then, crying, going about their day, continuing their lives, but choking on unending fear—

Can see that Jon has somehow forced the Entities to change.

“This is balanced,” Jon explains, and yes, it is too late, and Martin can see that killing him wouldn’t stop it, and he’d have to go on some kind of murder spree to take out the whole Council, and even then it might not stop it, because Jon learned from Jonah’s mistakes , and this cannot be undone.

And touching Jon back feels like taking handfuls of fire and want, and even as Martin is burned, and he shouts, he pulls him closer because Jon is what he needs.

There is nothing else. Maybe there never was.

He can’t even remember why he was upset a moment ago.

“You don’t need to be,” says Jon. “Never again. Nothing will ever hurt you. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Jon,” says Martin, and means it with all of himself, and feels the (oil light poison) power of Jon’s will washing over and around, but the fear doesn’t reach him, doesn’t touch him, and Martin remembers to be upset for the world for all of one second before it’s gone.

Martin loves Jon.

Jon loves Martin.

Everything is good.

Martin is safe.

Jon is safe.

Maybe… maybe everything works out, here, in somewhere else.

Together.

One way or another, together.

Martin settles against his god and closes his eyes, because Jon can see it all, and Martin doesn’t have to, that is the way things should be.

[riddlemethisjeremy]

Happy November guys I've been brainrotting about Gerry Keay and have decided to write a fanfiction about him heh its a bit silly, a bit sarcastic, and kinda horrifying, just like our favourite arsonist <3 Find the link below if you're interested

I Suffer No Fools - ThnksFrThGy - The Magnus Archives (Podcast) [Archive of Our Own]

Here's a small excerpt of the fic so y'all can get a taste of my style if you like:

I could feel it. Something was happening. My bones sang with it.

About halfway up the stairs, I could sense it. A surge of power roiled over my skin. I rolled my eyes, attempting to brace myself for the new flavour of horror my mother would be releasing now.

Somehow, I'd underestimated the woman.

When I entered the apartment over the bookstore my mother owned - Picken's Books - I'd expected to see some Eldritch entity of some kind. Maybe a Distortion come to visit, or some messed up mannequin. Maybe she wasn't quite bored of taunting Perry with that Leitner - the one that had tried to eat me when I'd tried to burn it, probably - or maybe she was talking to the End through the bones again. She had gotten pretty good at reading them since I'd found the book. Maybe she was actually getting somewhere with the whole "taking control of the entities one by one" thing. Who knew? Not me. She could very well have been doing anything, but what I came home to that day was a whole new level of fucked up.

Blood had spilled like a rich red oil over the floor. There was so much. Surely we weren't doing human sacrifice now. I mean, I knew she'd killed people before. I'd killed people before. That didn't mean I had to like it. I hated it when people died. Surely we shouldn't be feeding people to the monsters. It was all we could do to keep free of them ourselves.

"Gerard!" My mother called. Her voice was strangled with pain, and I must admit a shameful part of my heart swelled with something that wasn't panic when I heard it. Wouldn't it have been lovely to be free of her? Surely I'd simply let whatever it was eat her. Surely I could just walk out, come back in five when the deed was done.

[thehermitavatar]

Anyone have good fics about Jonah Magnus? Like...backstory stuff?

I can find a lot of polycule fics, but none that focus on him as a character (My bad for looking up the relationship tags, but it's very hard to search him and ACTUALLY get fics about him.)

[moonisthedoor]

and we're live! welcome to the mess that is my k-pop/music industry au.

as always, reblogs are appreciated! <3

[thegaynessarchives]

"But the Eye could go fuck itself and die in a hole"

-from my newest WIP

[fictionfixations]

where there's a will, we make a way | TMA Fic | Time Travel (Fic Rec)

its. so cool. i dont know what happens in what seasons but tags apparently say like around the middle of s5?? like. i think when hes in his coma (jon)

also oh my god the author put in a shit ton of work?? like so theres a thing where Jon's unable to say his own words, and is stuck saying things from other people's statements, (its literally in the first chapter so no actual spoil) AND THE NOTES INCLUDE WHAT EPISODES HAVE THE DIALOGUE HES USING?? like

im going to give you a part from chapter 8, partly because i really wanted to show you it compiled together instead of just strings of sentences at the beginning:

Growing frantic now, Jon shakes his head vehemently: No, no, no, no, no–

“Then what?”

“…chased me – deceit – follow me” – a skip backwards – “read it – tried to read me back–”  

“Jon, slow down,” Georgie says, sensing his onrush of panic – but he can’t.

“I’ve been tricked into–”  

“–unable to look away–”  

“–there was now a tragedy to it that flowed from the words–”  

“–nothing to do but fall into it – it felt right, like it was all I could do–”  

The words come in a halting staccato, his mind speeding through statement after statement without him like a microfiche machine caught on fast-forward.

“–even as I did so, in the back of my mind I hated myself–”  

“–I didn’t stop, though – didn’t know what to do, and my mind was swimming with – the collective horror of all the things that I had seen and felt–”  

“–I struggled and fought, but it was far stronger than I was, and I could barely keep its jagged teeth from finding my throat–”  

One hand finds his throat now. He can only distantly feel fingernails digging into his skin.

“–‘alien’ might be the best word for that presence – because what it made me feel was–”  

“–something in the back of my mind, a frantic, scuttling terror – didn’t do any good, though – no matter what I might feel about it – choice didn’t even come into it–”  

The Archive was born with a purpose, and it fulfilled its role eagerly, skillfully, instinctively. It felt good, it felt right, and even now, the instinct lingers. He misses it. He craves it. He wants it back. He –

“ –the agony of being opened and remade – to have your who torn bloody from your what, and another crudely lashed into its place–”   

There is a rushing noise in his ears, drowning everything out, and he stumbles –

“–I did what I did because it was what I was supposed to do – I’m not sure I really recognize who I became–”   

see what i mean????? its COOL. scroll down to end notes and you see (for chapter 8) "- SO, [deep breath] Jon's dialogue for Chapter 8 comes from the statements in the following episodes, in order: MAG 057; 125; 029; 138; 159; 161; 143; 143 (again); 135; 027; 088; 148; 114; 114/139; 011; 094; 063; 069; 124; 020; 067; 060; 141; 160; 147; 091; 072/009/007/004; 066/020/010; 106/059; 101; 059; 004; 102; 004; 147; 160; 020; 144; 138; 107; 048/007; 128/138; 126; 062/087/007/139/070/049; 123; 065; 092/145; 086/029; 044/012/049; 137/009/014; 091; 123; 148; 154; 154 (again); 098; 154; 129; 155; 167; 159; 057; 113; 124/057/009/143/011/017/005; 152; 152 (again); 097; 028; 023; 065; 155; 117; 117 (again); 155; 006; 113; 117 (x4); 128; 128 (again); 045/002; 016; 036/109/135; 048; 052/136/090; 124; 069; 098; 133; 058; 140; AAAAND FINALLY: 010." SO COOL???? AND OH MY GOD ALL THAT EFFORT.