A Kink Meme for The Magnus Archives and Rusty Quil

I’m outside. I’m not going to push you into talking about this or anything. I don’t expect you to process things the same way I do. After all, you’re not as fully a monster as I am.

I think this will work better. You can always put this down if it’s too much, and it’ll never demand anything from you. It will always be here when you’re ready.

I don’t blame you for what happened.

I’m probably going to repeat that a lot throughout this letter. If nothing else, I want you to know that I consider you as much a victim of what happened as I was. Maybe more so, because I can think of multiple opportunities I had to make you stop, and I didn’t. I’m sorry for that. I should have, I was just I was an idiot and I thought it was actually you. I was so busy asking what I’d done wrong that you would do such a thing that it didn’t bother to realize that you would never. You would never, Martin. I know that.

I’ve read hundreds of statements, and I’ve never come across sexual assault. Sure, there were the occasional ghost sex stories, but those were usually debunked easily enough and more the domain of ‘paranormal investigators’ than The Magnus Institute. But The Web, The Spiral, The Stranger… so many powers seem to be made for such terrors. The only ones that came close was The Corruption twisting the desire for love into a sort of hive thing. I think I know why.

I need to you remember that I don’t blame you for what happened.

People expect rape from other people.

Even Father Burroughs’s story wouldn’t have been as sensational if he’d just raped his parishioners. No one would have even questioned it. But he ate them, and that’s so much worse that it caught Gertrude’s attention. Trevor mentioned people leaving a warm shelter to wander through a cold, wet night. How much easier would it be for The Web to find the part of their victim that wants to be touched, to have them spread their legs and think that they were willing? And The Stranger… if Danny truly was a more attractive version of Tim, he wouldn’t have even had to fool most people.

If any of the above happened, however, no one would come to The Magnus Institute. Most people wouldn’t even go to the police. If their machinations were discovered, people would cluck their tongues and talk about how they’d never have expected it, and no one would even consider eldritch powers. I don’t think we were the first, Martin. I think we were just more aware.

I have enclosed a transcript of our conversation, as I heard it. You can read it if you like, if you think it might help. I lo I’m not going to write it out here. You deserve to hear it yourself. I don’t blame you for what happened. It doesn’t change how I feel.

It might be difficult, though. I’m certain I won’t be able to sleep in that bed, with or without you. I think I might flinch from you sometimes. I might need some space for a bit, but I’ll come back. I’d hoped we could grow closer here, that we could become… more. Now, I’m just looking forward to regaining what we’d had before Peter Lukas came into our lives. Once we get that back, I hope we can talk about next steps. I want to know you, Martin.

I don’t blame you AT ALL for what happened.

Tell me what you need. If I can, I’ll give it to you. If it’s too much, I’ll tell you. As for what I need: I’m outside, not drinking my tea, and fretting. Once you feel up to it, I’d appreciate if you could join me. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk. Just… come see me. I’ll wait until you’re ready.

This might have been the worse thing Jon could have done. Martin can’t yell at a piece of paper, can’t tell it that Martin had enjoyed what he’d done, that Jon shouldn’t have even had to try to stop him. He can’t stop reading either. This is from Jon, and Martin can’t disappoint him, even when the words hurt his chest so much it felt like being stabbed.

He turns the page, and reads the conversation Jon had thought they’d had.

Jon: “Sex always seems like it could be a deal-breaker.”
Martin: “Not for me.”
Jon: “I… yes. I suppose I underestimated you again.”
Martin: “I’ve loved you for years without sex, Jon.”
Jon: “I know. And I haven’t exactly deserved it for many of them. I want to give you what you need, but I can’t offer you…”
Martin: “I don’t need anything you’re not willing to give.”
Jon: “I can… there are some things. I like little things, cuddling, kisses. If it gets too much, I might have to leave, but I can give you closeness, at least.”
Martin: “That’s more than enough.”
Jon: “Is it really? I know that sex is important for a lot of people. I might be able to do some things. Like, maybe kiss you while you touch yourself? I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep, but I can try with you, Martin. I want to make you happy.”
Martin: “Just being with you makes me happy.”
Jon: “Me too. Being with you, I mean. You make me happy, Martin. It’s terrible, but I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than right now.”
Martin: “I know what you mean. We should be scared, but instead…”
Jon: “Oh, I’m plenty scared. But I can be both. It’s nice, being both, rather than just afraid.”
Martin: “Can I think about you? When I’m touching myself?”
Jon: “Sure.”
Martin: “Thanks.”
Jon: “I love you.”
Martin: “I love you, too.”
Jon: “This might actually work.”
Martin: “I hope so.”
Jon: “We can’t go back, not for a long time. We’re stuck here together with nothing to do, no plan, and a list of enemies who want me dead as long as my arm. But I feel safer here than I did in The Archives, my supposed place of power. Because I’m with you. Is that crazy?”
Martin: “Maybe. But I feel the same.”
Jon: “I won’t let anything happen to you, Martin. I… we have enough power now, between the two of us, that we can keep ourselves safe. We’re as far removed for the horrors as we can get and we have each other.”
Martin: “I won’t go into The Lonely unless there’s no other choice.”
Jon: “But it’s an option. Keep yourself safe, and trust me to keep myself safe if anything happens, alright?”
Martin: “Alright.”
Jon: “Okay. We can do this. We can do this. Together. You and me. Thank you, Martin.”
Martin: “Of course, Jon. Anything for you.”

The papers are stained with Martin’s tears now. He wishes that they’d had that conversation. It was perfect, almost exactly what Martin would have said. Promises he wouldn’t have had any trouble keeping. He remembers the first night they’d slept together, when he could feel the warmth from Jon’s body even if they hadn’t touched. He could have had that. If they’d had this conversation, he would still have that.

The tea has long gone cold, but Martin drinks it anyway. He can’t taste anything through the snot and tears, and he’s drained from everything that’s happened and everything that’s about to happen. He checks the wall where the yellow door and been, and finds it empty. He shudders and looks away, wishing that had been at all comforting.

Jon’s outside. It’s late enough that the sun is starting to set. Martin gathers up the papers and goes outside.

The bench Jon is sitting on has enough room for two. He watches Martin approach, his expression neutral. Martin sits down and passes him the tear-stained papers. “Thank you.”

“Are you alright?”

After everything that happened, that’s the first thing Jon asks, the most important thing, the thing he cares about the most. Martin bursts into heavy, painful sobs.

He can faintly hear Jon cursing to himself, feel the gentle there-and-gone touches as Jon tries to comfort him. He’s bad at it. The thought is so ungrateful that Martin somehow finds a way to become more miserable. He curls up on himself, trying to make himself small and quiet like when he was a child. He clamps his mouth tight against the sobs, but now his body is shaking with them.

Jon gets up and leaves and Martin tries to be grateful for it, tries to get himself together so that he won’t be such a burden on Jon. But it feels like abandonment, and Martin feels himself fading with something like gratitude. The Lonely’s misery is quiet and calm. He misses it.

Jon comes back before The Lonely fully sets in, with a quilt and with eyes that can pierce through Martin’s half-hearted escape attempt. “Oh, no you don’t,” Jon mutters, wrapping Martin in the blanket, then plopping down on the ground in front of him and forcing him to meet Jon’s gaze.

Martin remembers the quilt. He remembers putting it aside before tying Jon up, worried that it might get dirty and would be harder to clean than the sheets. He’s not sure if that makes it more or less tolerable.

“Stay with me,” Jon murmurs, taking Martin’s hands. “Cry if you have to, scream if you have to, but stay here.”

The sun has set by the time Martin stops crying. Jon is still holding his hands. Martin loves him. He’s not sure what that means now.

When they head into the house, Jon maneuvers Martin onto the couch, lying him down with the quilt still wrapped around him. “Go to sleep,” he says. The couch is just as uncomfortable as Martin had expected the first night they’d slept here. He still goes to sleep.

He wakes up sometime before dawn. Jon is sitting in a chair, one leg drawn up so he can rest his head against his knee, watching Martin sleep. Martin meets his gaze and neither of them says anything or moves. Martin wants to tell Jon to get some sleep himself, that he looks uncomfortable sitting there, he’ll get a sore back and neck. Jon’s lips curl up in a small smile and he unfurls himself, standing and walking towards Martin, bending down just long enough to gently run his fingers through Martin’s hair and press a tape recorder into his hand before moving to the kitchen.

Martin presses play, because that’s what they do now.

“Good morning. I’m watching you sleep. I hope that’s okay, it’s something I very much want to keep doing.” A soft sigh. “I wish I were better at this. At making people feel better. You’re the one who’s good at that. I’m almost sorry I don’t need it right now. If you were taking care of me, I think you’d be doing a better job.

“I can wait until you’re comfortable with me again. Until I stop making you cry. But I can’t leave you alone while I wait, so you’ll be getting a lot of these. I think I made… seven? While you slept. I’ll probably make more.

“I want to compel you into telling me what I can do to make you feel better. That would be such a violation, but I feel so helpless. I want to ask you and get simple directions that I can follow. If you’ll let me, I actually will, but I’d understand if you don’t want me to.

“I’m going to practice touching you, if that’s okay. I want you to touch me too, but telegraph your movements to give me warning and room to retreat. I held your hand as we left The Lonely together. I remember how warm and nice that felt. I want that again.

“As soon as you’re awake, I’ll start getting breakfast ready. If you hurry, you can stop me from making the tea.”

The serious tone turns teasing at the end, and Martin feels himself smiling. He knows how much endurance he has for misery – he can spend weeks exhausting himself with it, or years functioning with it as a backdrop to everything. It’s been a day, and the moment he heard a smile in Jon’s voice, he lost it. The domestic sounds from the kitchen push it even further back. He stands and makes his way to the kitchen, eying the tape recorder on the table as he passes.

The kettle is getting close to boiling, and Jon is frying up eggs. Martin takes out two mugs and the teapot and starts setting up. He pours the tea as the last toast pops out of the toaster and Jon butters it, and they head to the table. Neither has said a word yet.

Martin manages two bites of his toast before he grabs the tape recorder and presses play.

“To be fair, sometimes it’s The Web. I mean, it obviously wasn’t this time, so perhaps I was wrong in this one instance. But it could have been The Web.” Jon huffs a self-deprecating laugh. “The next time I blame anything on The Web, though, please feel free to remind me that there are multiple other things that want us scared or hurt or dead. I seem to have tunnel-vision somewhat when it comes to The Spider.”

Martin snickers and looks up to see Jon smiling fondly at him. They finish their breakfast, and Jon takes his plate, replacing it with another tape recorder.

“Some of the things I heard you say, afterwards, were quite hurtful. They weren’t effective, because I knew you’d never say them, but they did hurt. I imagine that you went through the same, but that it was more believable coming from me. I’d been so cruel to you in the past, and I tend to lash out when I’m scared or hurting. I’m sorry you had reason to believe I meant any of them, while I had the security of knowing you didn’t.”

Jon is washing the dishes, so Martin lets himself cry silently for a few minutes. It’s not the uncontrollable sadness and guilt that it had been yesterday, but it’s still painful. Still, at least now he can get himself together and wipe his eyes and move forward. He’s had enough practice at this that it comes naturally enough.

There’s another tape recorder on the counter when Martin walks into the kitchen.

“Would you like to go for a walk? Or we could sift through Daisy’s rather pitiful library and find something to read. Whatever you like.”

Martin gets dressed to go outside. The sun has just risen, and there’s a heavy mist rolling over the ground. Jon joins him a moment later and they head out, wordlessly. They’re still within sight of the safehouse when Jon slips his hand into Martin’s. His fingers are cold and Martin wraps as much of his hand around them as he can to warm them up. He hears Jon give a satisfied sigh. They walk on.

The mist dissipates just as clouds start rolling in. Neither of them is any good at predicting Scottish weather, so they head back. Jon hasn’t released Martin’s hand, and Martin’s heart sings with hope.

He pauses at the front door and Jon turns to him, an unspoken question in his eyes.

Martin takes a deep breath. “I think we need to talk.”

The smile that lights up Jon’s face is hopeful and bright. “Alright.” He hesitates, then presses his lips to Martin’s cheek. “Before we do, I need to tell you and make sure you hear it.” He finally releases Martin’s hand, only so he has both hands free to cup Martin’s face. “I love you.”

This is when Martin should cry – happy tears or guilty tears or regretful tears. But he feels like he’s cried enough over Jon’s olive branches. Crying doesn’t help. Instead he smiles and slowly, carefully, giving Jon as much time and space as he might need to retreat, he leans in and kisses him.

Jon kisses him back.