#jon asking martin if he needs some of the water

[grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks]

Does the world need more pre-Unknowing Jmart content? The answer is probably no, but have some anyway! You can read it on AO3, or check it out below:

Martin’s hands were shaking. He noticed that as he filled the kettle, heard the way the slight tremor made the water splash and slosh against the smooth metal.

He wished they weren’t. He wished for once he could maintain some sort of composure without his body betraying him with a tremor, or a stammer, or a blush. He wished it wasn’t so very obvious that he was terrified, but that was probably a lost cause. Jon was sitting just on the other side of the wall listening to the tape Martin had recorded, describing, at Jon’s insistence, all the things he thought and felt on the eve of the Unknowing, and there were quite a few things, really, that were probably far too obvious.

I need them to be safe. I need him to be okay.

Just don’t die, Jon. Or– or Tim, or Basira, or… Daisy, I guess.

He hadn’t meant to make the others sound like such an afterthought (or, not Tim and Basira, rather. Daisy he could take or leave; he’d never quite forgiven her for the whole attempted-murder thing) but, well, Jon had been on his mind recently. Jon, who was listening to that mortifying tape at this very moment. Jon, who had stayed in the Archives far too late on a night when he really ought to be getting some sleep. Jon, who Martin hadn’t said goodbye to, yet, because he didn’t know how. Jon, who Martin was making a cup of tea for, even though he hadn’t asked and probably didn’t want it, because he was desperate for an excuse to sit with him in the Archives for just a little while longer.

Jon, who might die tomorrow.

Martin’s hands were shaking again. He hardly noticed.

He took the tea bag out, tossed it into the bin, stirred in the sugar, added the milk. It was muscle memory by now. He didn’t have to think about it, which was usually a good thing, but today it just meant his thoughts were free to spiral.

There was nothing he could do. He knew that. The plans had all been made, the only thing left to do was wait for tomorrow, play his part, and hope for the best. That was all any of them could do. Fretting wasn’t going to help. But his mind kept turning, against his will, to the same fact: tomorrow, the last two friends he had in the world (or, if one were being very generous and assumed a level of amity from Melanie and Basira that he wasn’t sure he’d earned, three of the last four friends he had in the world) were going to drive to Great Yarmouth, and he didn’t know if they were ever coming back. In some ways, the end of the world was easier to think about.

He picked up the mug, but his hands were still shaking, and it slipped from his trembling fingers and shattered on the floor.

Martin felt something in him break as he stared down at the shards of ceramic – like tectonic plates shifting apart, leaving something yawning and empty and aching across the fault line of his chest. He’d thought he could do this one thing – this one tiny, pointless gesture – but he couldn’t even get that right.

He dropped to his knees without thinking and began picking the shards off the ground. There was a broom in the supply closet that he could have used if he'd stopped to consider his options, but that empty, cavernous space in his chest was quickly getting filled by panic, and his only thought was to clean up his mess as quickly as possible. He needed to fix this, needed to make things right, needed to at least hide the evidence of his failure.

“Martin? Are you alright?” Jon appeared in the doorway to the breakroom, eyes wide, looking as though he expected to be met with a supernatural horror and was prepared to fight it. His posture relaxed just slightly when he saw Martin, alone and unharmed, in the center of the room, though the alarm didn’t quite leave his face.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Martin said, and he hated the wobble in his voice, the high, tremulous note that made it sound like he was going to cry. “I, uh, I-I-I was going to bring you some tea, but well…”

“Here, let me help,” Jon started, taking a step toward Martin, and Martin scrambled to pick up the pieces.

“No, no, I’ve got it, I–” He caught his thumb on one of the sharp edges, and sucked in an involuntary breath. A bead of blood bloomed, small but startlingly red, across the cut.

Jon was on the floor beside him in an instant. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine,” he said, “it’s not that bad.” And it really wasn’t. It was a shallow thing that looked worse than it was, but Jon had taken Martin’s hand in both of his own and was looking over the cut with wide, dark, overserious eyes.

“I’ll get the first aid kit.”

“You really don’t need–” Martin started, but Jon was already on his feet.

“It’ll only take a second.” When he saw that Martin had opened his mouth to protest further, he added, “Humour me.”

Then he was off, leaving Martin alone on the floor of the breakroom.

Martin sighed. He stood up, walked over to the bin, and carefully tipped the shards of mug he had picked up into it.

Jon returned a moment later holding a broom and dustpan, with the office’s first aid kit tucked under one arm. He carefully toed around the remaining splatter of spilled tea and broken ceramic on the floor to lean the broom against the counter and set the first aid kit down before leading Martin to the sink and turning on the tap.

Jon guided his hand under the cool water, which is something Martin definitely could have done himself, but he didn’t argue this time. He was too distracted by once again having his injured hand cupped by both of Jon’s, Jon’s thin, calloused fingertips pressing gently but firmly into his palm. When the cut had been cleaned, Jon shut off the water and began rummaging through the first aid kit for a plaster of the right size.

Martin could only watch helplessly as Jon peeled the plastic off and discarded it. When he gestured for Martin to hold out his hand, Martin offered it up. He should have been embarrassed. It was embarrassing, the fuss Jon was making over a tiny little cut, but Jon was still handling his injury with such care, and staring at him with such concentration, as though Martin was the most important thing in the world, and he couldn’t find it in himself to mind.

He pressed the gauze to the soft pad of Martin’s thumb and took care not to hinder the motion of his knuckle when he wrapped the sides around it. His fingers lingered for a moment longer, smoothing out the bandage, before he finally dropped Martin’s hand.

“There,” he whispered.

“Thanks.”

Jon cleared his throat. “I thought you might have gone home.” He scratched delicately at the back of his neck, then added in a quiet murmur, “I, um. I’m glad you didn’t.”

“I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

There was a moment of silence, during which neither of them took the opportunity to say goodbye.

Martin was the one to break the silence. “I should, uh, I should really…” he stammered, grabbing the broom.

“R-Right.”

Martin swept up the remaining pieces of the mug and threw them away. When he turned around, Jon had grabbed a tea towel from beside the sink and was knelt on the floor mopping up the puddle of tea.

“You really don’t have to do that,” Martin said. He was beginning to feel like a broken record, but it was true. He didn’t want to spend these last precious moments before everything changed with Jon cleaning up his mess. 

“I don’t mind.” 

Martin thought about grabbing another towel and joining him, but he’d already gotten most of it. Jon gave the floor one last swipe, then looked down at the linoleum with a contemplative frown. “That’s probably good enough. I really should have mopped it up instead of just drying it, but, well… If tomorrow, the worst thing we can say is that there’s a sticky patch on the break room floor, I think we’ll consider ourselves lucky.” He huffed a quiet little laugh, but there was no real humour in it.

Martin hesitated. They were toeing dangerously close to the topic they’d been avoiding all night.

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

“Probably best if we don’t,” Jon whispered. “I might lose my courage, and, well… there’s little enough of that to go around.” He flashed Martin a sad, brave, lopsided smile.

It was the smile that did it. Martin knelt down beside Jon, ignoring the way the damp patch on the floor soaked through the knees of his trousers, and pulled him into a tight hug. Jon stiffened for a moment, surprised, before melting into the contact. His shoulders began to shake. Martin wasn’t sure if he was crying or simply shaking, but he squeezed him tighter nonetheless. He stroked a soothing hand down Jon’s spine, and Jon’s breath caught in his throat. Martin wondered for a second if he’d overstepped, but then Jon shifted, burying his face in Martin’s neck and taking long, deep, shuddering breaths.

Martin wanted to say something, but his words died on his lips. What was there to say? “It’s alright?” “Everything’s going to be okay?” It would be a hollow sentiment, and they’d both know it. “I’m worried, too,” would be more honest, but Jon knew that already. He’d listened to the tape.

Eventually, they had to pull apart. It was a slow, awkward affair, but when they’d finally extricated themselves from the tight tangle of limbs, they once again found themselves sat across from each other on the cold break room floor. Jon looked a mess. His glasses were askew, his collar was rumpled, and his hair was falling in his face in tousled waves.

Martin couldn’t help himself. He reached out with both hands and tucked Jon’s hair back behind his ears. For just a fraction of a second, Jon flashed him another lopsided smile. Martin knew he ought to pull away, but he let his hands linger, gently cupping the corners of Jon’s face, for a few moments longer. Jon’s eyes slipped closed, and he sighed. His brow was furrowed, his expression cloudy, but the sigh was one of the most contented sounds Martin had ever heard.

When Martin dropped his hands, Jon opened his eyes and studied Martin’s face. He seemed to struggle with himself, opening and closing his mouth several times as though beginning to say something before thinking better of it. Finally, he whispered, “Why me?”

“What?”

“Why am I the one you… make tea for, and invite out to lunch, and…” he trailed off, before repeating, more insistently, “Why me? When I thought you might have killed Gertrude, I could make sense of it. Y-You were throwing suspicion off yourself, trying to get me to let my guard down so you could kill me,” he said. “But now, I’m fairly sure you aren’t going to murder me, so why?”

“I like making tea.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” Martin said, because he did. “But… it sort of is, though. I like making you tea, and I like having lunch with you, I just– I like spending time with you! I care about you, Jon. You make it sound like I’m making some big sacrifice by loving you, but–” Martin realized what he said half a second after he said it. “Sorry, that’s not– I didn’t mean– that isn’t what I meant to–” he corrected, frantically, before giving up. He sighed, and dropped his gaze so he wouldn’t have to look Jon in the eye as he muttered, “I mean, I’m sure you’ve figured it out by now. Everyone else has.”

“I… suspected,” Jon admitted softly. “But I wasn’t sure. I thought it might have been wishful thinking on my part.”

Martin risked a glance at Jon. He expected to see embarrassment in his face, or pity, or even scorn. Instead, he saw only the satisfaction of someone who had just come to a decision.

Jon reached out and put a hand on Martin’s jaw, gently pulling him closer, and leaned forward, tilting his face up towards Martin’s. He moved slowly, as though waiting for Martin to pull away, or to lean in. Martin did neither.

“Don’t,” he whispered instead. Their faces were so close that his lips nearly brushed against Jon’s as he spoke. “Don’t do this just because the world might end.”

Jon pulled back slightly, and blinked at him. “Is that what you think?”

Martin didn’t respond. “Yes,” was the answer, but it would have sounded like an accusation. And Martin knew that Jon wasn’t trying to be cruel. He probably thought it was a kindness, to give Martin the one thing they both knew he wanted before everything went wrong, and to find some comfort himself in the process. 

“Martin, I… I care about you, too,” Jon whispered. “I’m not very good at showing it – well, no, I’m terrible at showing it – but I do care. I think about you all the time. Even when I was kidnapped. Even when I thought you were trying to kill me. I…” he swallowed, and his fingers moved to tangle in Martin’s hair. “I’ve wanted to do this for such a long time,” he whispered, face still so close to Martin’s, “but only if you want it, too.”

Martin leaned forward, and their lips met.

The kiss was chaste at first, cautious, but it didn’t take long before it grew heated. Jon’s lips were feverish, hungry, and fierce, and Martin could feel an answering hunger awaken in him. He brought his hands to the back of Jon’s head to give himself some leverage as he pressed deeper into the kiss, and Jon tightened his grip on Martin’s hair, tugging lightly on the shaggy locks that curled behind his ear. Jon nipped at his bottom lip, and Martin let out a noise that really should have been embarrassing. He couldn’t quite remember what embarrassment was meant to feel like, though.

For a moment, the Circus didn’t exist. The Unknowing didn’t exist. The damp patch on the knees of Martin’s trousers, and the shattered mug in the bin, and the cut on Martin’s hand didn’t exist. Nothing existed but Jon – Jon’s hand in his hair, Jon’s breath against his cheek, Jon’s lips, migrating from Martin’s mouth down to his jaw and then down further to press, eager and hot, against his throat.

“Jon,” he whispered, the only thing he could think to say, the only word in the universe at that moment.

And Jon whispered back, desperate and dear, “Martin.”

Martin wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that. Long enough that his knees began to grow sore from being pressed against the cold, hard floor. 

“I love you,” Jon murmured when they finally pulled apart.

“You don’t have to say that just because I said–”

“I know I don’t,” Jon said. “But it’s true.”

“Oh.” Martin didn’t know what to say to that. He pressed a kiss to Jon’s hairline in lieu of a response, and because he could. When he did find his voice, what he said was, “You have to come back tomorrow. You don’t get to say all this to me and then die.”

Jon huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, if you insist…”

“I mean it.”

Martin looked down at his hands, and found that they were shaking again. Jon followed his gaze, and wrapped Martin’s trembling hands in his own.

“I’ll try. I promise.”

And that was, as much as Martin wished it wasn’t, all either of them could do.

#tma fanfic #tma fic #jonmartin fic #do not archive #jmart fic

[jonahfagnus]

Jon re-ends the world. Destroys most of it, really, after he consumes the entities/becomes them/Becomes. Then he rebuilds. He intends to make the people he cares for happy, which includes himself, so he does not bring Peter Lukas back. Martin's mother does not get sick, and she is good enough. Mary Keay unexpectedly dies during the birth of her son, and Eric Delano raises him. Michael Shelley and Helen Richardson remain themselves, untwisted. He makes many changes, but mostly keeps things the same.

As for himself, he creates a hidden place. Hidden from ordinary eyes, anyways; he can See everything now.

This place he creates is a field, and a forest, with a river in it. It's nice. He relaxes, Knowing nothing will sneak up on him, Knowing nothing unexpected will ever happen again. He Knows everything, and everything is as it should be.

Well.

There is one problem, he thinks, curled up on his 'bed', a mostly flat area of the cave he deigns as his home, covered in created furs and blankets and long scrawls of paper that he summons when he sleeps and cannot suppress the instinct to write down everything.

He has no anchors. This has rendered him some sort of beast-thing, solid to the touch but rendered out of infinitely dark ink, all fur, antlers, strong paws and sharp claws and fangs, and Eyes like storms and fires and death and webs, on him and around him. One night (one of the 3.675 hours of sleep he has gotten since he reincarnated himself), he was startled awake by a sudden sound, and had opened every Eye he had, giving himself a painful migraine for what was just a branch falling from a tree during high winds.

There are very few solutions to this problem. Martin is not the Martin he knew, and besides he does not want to drag him into this. Nobody on this Earth has been touched by the Fears, and if he can help it, nobody ever will be. Passive fear of being watched and spiders and death is more than enough for him. He would love a statement, but nobody alive remembers enough to give him one.

Of course, there is always Jonah.

Jon has Known since he began reshaping the world that Jonah would not be bested by his efforts to remove the memories of the apocalypse. Besides, he much prefers a world without Jonah in it (and when the parts of himself that are very firmly Beholding and Archives tell him this is a Lie, he vehemently refuses it.)

Although, for all he'd done to Jon, he also Knows that Jonah would be the only one who could truly understand him.

Those are his second and third problems with finding someone he used to know and asking them to help him. They would never understand; and they would not be Jonah. They wouldn't be the Pupil, the Heart - arguably Jon's Heart now that he's also the Eye. That thought in particular both calms him and furthers the storm in his mind.

He Knows he needs an anchor, much as he tries to deny it. He doesn't know how to handle this much power, and every day he grows more unstable, his internal Archive growing disorganised and himself unstable. Jonah - even if Jon only talks to him once, to gain this information, even if Jon kills him again after - Jonah is the only one who can tell him. Jonah made him, even if he didn't make him this. Jonah is the only one.

Ultimately he/the Eye/the Archive lasts a month and a half without him.

On the edges of the forest he situates a cabin. He doesn't care about how there is electricity or running water or heating; he orders it to be so, and it is.

Then he presses into his/the Eye's memory and Looks for Jonah. Every single scrap he can find, coalescing it into a concept, and turning this concept into a mindscape, and he/the Flesh creates a body for this mindscape, and he puts the concept/mindscape/body/Jonah in the living room, lying on the sofa, and he waits. Observes.

Jonah (and it is Jonah, Jon made sure to give him his original body) is asleep, at first. This is fine. Jon can tell the body he/the Flesh made is alive. Heart beats. Breathing, rhythmic, calm. Muscle twitch, reflexive. Neuron fires once, twice, millions, as the concept/mindscape/Jonah settles into his new body, becomes familiar. Chemical flickers, transports. Anxious, confused, groggy. Awake. Hands, arms, tense, sitting up. Jonah blinks, and rubs his eyes, and says "Jon?"

Jon doesn't stop Looking, because he doesn't see a reason to, but he stands and begins to make his way towards the cottage before remembering that he can simply Lie to the world, tell it he is already there, and make that True. He stands on his hind legs, uncomfortable, pushes open the front door, pun in that.

Jonah startles. Confused, curious at his Archive's new form, anxious, did he die, did Jon kill him?

"Yes." Jon says from a tape recorder on the table. There is no point clarifying Jonah's question; they both Know.

Jonah attempts to push into his mind. Jon stops him, effortless. He does not explain that there is far too much information for him to handle, far too much information for Jon, does not explain that he needs Jonah's help. Jonah doesn't ask. Jon approaches him.

Chemical fire. Sympathetic nervous system activates, fight or flight, as Jonah notices Jon's teeth. Jon smiles, although it mostly looks like he/the Hunt is baring his teeth, ready for a fight. Muscles tense. Heartrate increases. Breathing speeds up. Jon does not stop approaching. Jonah does not ask him to; he wants to, Jon Knows this without even trying, but he does not.

Jon climbs onto the sofa and carefully places his head on Jonah's lap. Mostly soft fabric against his cheek. The Heart blinks a little, surprise, confusion. Chemical response; endorphin release, feels like fondness. Likens Jon to a cat. Jon laughs; Jonah is "privately" amused. Jonah moves his hand down to pet him.

The moment they make skin on skin contact Jon's mind goes completely silent. He doesn't know how Jonah's done that, and isn't sure he needs to right now.

"Oh," he says, from the tape recorder still. And then "oh," again, quieter, now that he has the space to feel relief, feel the migraine he didn't realise he had fading.

There is no more rapid information intake, no more constant attempts to discard useless information and primarily failing due to his purpose/existence as the Archive/the Beholding. Jon does not Notice the way he begins purring, the way his tail begins flicking in a happy way, the way Jonah is even more fond of him for all of these things. He observes them, independent from his nature as the Archive, and catalogues them easily. He sighs, relaxes. Jonah kisses him on the forehead and it's so soft, so affectionate, that Jon doesn't even notice that that's what he did, simply cataloguing it away with everything else until a couple seconds after the fact. He frowns, a little.

"You need to relax, Jon. It's okay. You've done very well for us."

It is so nice to be told that. Jon whines in the back of his throat. Something feels painful. His stomach? He briefly checks but no, his body is fine. Jonah laughs, and wipes away Jon's unnoticed tears, not necessarily joy or sadness, just emotion. Then, almost polite in the way he sticks to the edges of Jon's frayed and tired mind/Archive, informs him that his tears look like streams of stars.

Jon shifts so that he can bury his face into Jonah's chest. He catalogues it all; the way the fabric feels against his face, the way that Jonah smells, the way his hands run through Jon's fur, the way Jonah smiles, the way that Jonah presses their foreheads together so that he can give full clarity to the Knowledge that Jonah is so, so proud of him. Jon sobs.

"I killed you," he whispers. His voice is hoarse with tears and static.

"I know." Jonah says, and there is fear in that, and Jon takes it without really thinking. Jonah seems happy about it, though. "But you brought me back."

"I-" Jon doesn't want to admit it. He really doesn't. Jonah doesn't make him say it, either, doesn't Look in Jon's internal Archive for it. He just waits. "I needed you."

"Why?" Jonah says, quiet and gentle. It's not cruel, not asked to push Jon, and it soothes Jon's tears. Jonah genuinely doesn't understand why Jon would need him, now that Jon is Truly all powerful. It is a rare moment, and Jon takes a moment to Archive it properly.

"You're the only one who understands me. The-" Jon takes a deep breath, not wanting to start crying again. "Nobody I knew, before, would've wanted me, like this. But, you…"

Jonah doesn't say anything. He just keeps petting Jon, and it is quiet, a cool balm to his exhausted mind after the storm that was Knowing everything. Jon closes his eyes, and his Eyes, and finally, finally falls asleep.

(When Jon wakes up, he is in bed. He opens some Eyes and finds Jonah in the kitchen, making breakfast, humming a song Jon could identify but doesn't. When he checks his Archives for any pertinent information from his dreams, he instead finds some well filed Information, detailing how, exactly, he should get used to Seeing everything, and some hypotheses on how, if he intends to, to return to his human form.

"Thank you." he says from a tape recorder spawned onto the kitchen side. Jonah smiles.

"I love you too, Jon," all gentle and fond. Jon doesn't bother examining what it means that Jonah has responded with that, as though there's any need, as though they don't both already Know, as though Jon won't keep ignoring it and Jonah won't keep making him confront it. He just closes his Eyes and goes back to sleep.)

#jonelias #👁️ | my writing #i was NOT expecting this to be so long god damn i was expecting to get up to #'there is one problem' #anyway i haven't edited this at all. #uhh am i maintagging this? hm #no #but i will character tag #elias bouchard #jonathan sims #jon sims #the archivist #jonah magnus

[lostonehero]

My first fic for this Fandom I know I just finished season 3 but I hope you guys like it

JonMartian romance obviously

Web avatar Martin

:)

A voice if you could call it that sounded as if metal was grinding on metal combined with nails on a chalkboard. It wasn't loud, more so quiet, barely a whisper for one listener. "Gifts for you."

Martin yawns as he puts his book down, leaving a bookmark to mark his page. He rubs his eyes. "I keep telling them to leave, but they never stop." He stretches. "I'm not starting a cult in your name."

The voice makes what seems to be a noise of agreement.

"Do you want to share?" Martin hums, looking to a dark corner that seems to grow darker, and he knew that meant yes. "Alright, hopefully they brought tea and biscuits, and maybe enough I can share with my coworkers."

The voice lingers in the air. "Jon?"

Martin stiffens as he closes the front door. "No, I haven't asked yet. Things are not exactly good since everything. I also have to keep things distance due to Peter."

"Martin." The voice hisses louder.

"Right, sorry, rambling." Martin knew that isn't what he meant, but it was a reflex from his childhood.

"Tea?" The voice sounded lighter as if it was trying to comfort Martin.

"Oh yes, I think they brought over some fruit ones. Oh, they brought your favorite peach. Uh want... no, I know you don't like sweets." Martin frowns. "Do you mind if I close the blinds? My back is getting itchy, and my eyes are watering."

"Remeber your shirt." The voice hums, and the tea Martin holds vanishing and the sound of his kettle turning on filled the soft quiet.

"Oh right, thanks. I don't want to ruin this one." Martin removes his shirt and folds it neatly on the back of a chair. Soft creaks of bones stretching as he seems to grow taller as spider legs erupt from his back. His eyes multiply as he has eight on his face. His mouth stretches, and a pair of mandible grows and drips a green liquid. His hands closed, and a scale like armor is on his hands and in random splotches of his body. He returns to his human feet and sighs. "Forgot my socks, but they are easy to remake. Oh, thank you." He quietly walks back over to the table where a hot cup of tea rests at his spot on the table.

"Molting, you need vacation." The voice seems less harsh as the sound of sipping is heard.

"I have to ask Mr. Lucas for that, but I don't know if he'll approve it. I don't know if he figured out what I am. Things have been uh tense at work." Martin hums opening a tin of biscuit.

The voice pauses as another phantom sip is heard. "The beholder thinks you are a human. Not that it matters. They should be happy to have you on their side."

Martin blushes a grey against his pale skin. "Thank you, mom. I know you're neutral in this, but I'm glad you're with me."

The voice chitters happily. "Tell the archivist your story."

Martin huffs. "Mom, we've been over this." He relaxes and taps his legs against the floor. An empty mug appears in front of Marvin. "Oh, do you want another?"

The voice is quiet. Marvin knows this means his father has gone back.

........

It's been a while since Martin knew normalcy. He was 8 when he met the being, the god, the spider. He was a lonely child he liked spiders, and his mom seemed to always be sick, and he didn't know his father. He was curious he followed a thread to a place that seemed like it shouldn't exist, but he was a curious thing.

"Wow!" Martin was full of awe and curiosity. "You're very pretty."

There was a creature a spider like being. They were just going to eat their newest prey caught in their web, but they've never heard anything like that. A human willingly touched them. Small for a human as well.

The first meeting went well in Martin's mind he tried to tell other kids about his new friend, but that didn't go well. Bullys picked him, outed him out of everyone.

Martin led food to his better mother figure, but that was never their relationship. They never wanted to say that he didn't want a follower. He grew close to this human and gave him a gift. The boy grew into his gift.

Martin grew up, and he had to leave schooling for his mother. He didn't mind that, but they knew he did. When he got the job he was so excited and they applauded him for it was a highly regarded place to them.

The incident with the living hive, they were worried. If their little favorite being was killed, and then they weren't going to be neutral after that. They used their minions to find him, not the worms were an issue, but they took care of it to get in. The archivist did destroy his minon, but they couldn't fault him. He wasn't his Martin.

Martin was alive he came back. They understood why the beholder was enamored with stories as they listened to Martin rattle on about his adventures. There deaths seemed to concern their Martin, but they were able to soothe him.

Jon he was the new archivist, the new eye. They didn't have strong feelings about that, but they knew Martin was what mortals called love or a crush they didn't exactly know the correct term. However, they knew Martin just needed a push, so they tried to convince him to tell his story and reveal himself. If it meant they would have to take a side, so be it. They didn't like to see Martin struggle with his emotions it made them think about how his mother drained him.

Things were on edge, and they had been trying to convince Martin to push him to reveal himself to protect the object of his love. The beholder doesn't exactly protect as well as they do, so extra help would be for the best. Martin still isn't convinced, but to be fair, they haven't explained. Maybe they are being selfish keeping their Martin safe like a mother protecting its young. They didn't know when they became so protective but they don't think they want it to change.

.....

"Don't look at me like that. I tried! I don't like lying, you know that." Martin frowns, scratching at his arm. There's banging on the front door. "Oh.... I don't want to entertain..."

The door opens, well it's kicked open by two young adults dressed in pure black and has spider webs all over their bodies.

Martin sighs. "I told you guys to stop breaking my door down."

The two young adults bow in respect.

A voice creaks out. "Fix my Martin's door."

Martin frowns. "Don't scare them. Come on, I'll make some tea."

The two young adults are frozen in fear until Martin taps them.

"Come on. I'll get some water boiling. You two must be new, but I don't want a cult following me around, neither does... er Spider. However you two have to fix my door. I don't exactly have sick days I can use at work to stay and fix it myself. Oh, right, as I tell the others, I can make you each a sweater with silk and spider like peach things like flavored things that are peach. However, I like chocolate or coconut or like little sweets. I don't expect anything though, just relax." He turns on his kettle.

"Avatar Web." One speaks up.

"My name is Martin, I don't go by my title." Martin smiles. "I just want you guys to do nice things like charity or public services. However, sweets and teas are also nice, and please tell the higher-ups in your group, er cult, to stop sending you guys over here like this. I didn't mean to frighten you guys."

The two stare up in awe.

"Thank you for your mercy." The two say as they head to fix the door.

Martin groans. "No, I'm not.... do you want tea too?"

The corners grow dark as a yes.

"Ok." Martin smiles and picks up the boiling kettle. "Oh shoot, almost forgot I need to get new towels molting is annoying. You promised to remind me."

"Forgot list." The voice echos like rusted metal.

"Ah, I guess you're right. I could just make new ones, but they are never rough enough. Oh, right, I should ask what kind of tea they like as well." Martin hums but stops his door is fixed, and the two are gone. "It's a shame they never stay. I always offer."

The voice sighs like grinding metal and shattering glass.

"Oh well, I think I still have some preserved peaches for you." Martin hums going through the cabinets.

.......

His body felt wrong. He knew he shouldn't be here, and he knew well enough whatever brought him back... no, that thing that wretched thing grabbed him from his peace. He knew how he died it was that explosion. Did they win? Probably not since he's been dragged back. Was he still him?

The sound of the door opening pulled the man out of his thoughts, and he opened his eyes, and the bright sunlight burned his eyes. He didn't even look at himself till he heard a voice, a kind voice he knew all too well.

"I'm back." The cheery male voice seemed to echo in the quiet home. "The cult left some gifts but don't know how they know what today is, but I assume you have something to do with it. Granted, it's been decades now, so I really should be used to it."

He could hear the shuffling of feet until the voice he knew attached to the body came into view. He didn't know if he could talk, but he could move. He didn't have a chance to test his voice.

".... Tim?" The cheery voice seems to faulter.

A voice rough and screeching. "Happy birthday, Martin."

Martin groans and covers his face. "We talked about this. Tim, I'm so sorry." He sighs and smiles. "I uh I have a lot to explain. I should get your clothes first."

"Mar...tin?" Tim stopped his voice was the same he felt normal his body looked normal except for the tattoos the designs looked forgein and familiar at the same time.

Martin rushed out up the stairs.

"Martin, wait!" Tim got up his legs shaky and full of pins and needles like he sat on them too long. He stumbles forward but easily composes himself. He jumps back as Martin is suddenly back in front of him. "How?"

"It's a long story." Martin gives a nervous smile. "But uh, this will be complicated. It's been six months, give or take, Jon's been in a coma, but he's fine now, and uh, your funeral was nice."

"How? Are you one of them?" Tim cautiously takes the clothes they were big on his frame the belt helped.

"Well, I mean, I am an avatar. Uh, avatar of the spider or the web, but they prefer spider over web even though web is the term people cling to. I uh was 8 when I found them, and I guess we both got attached. It's not exactly important, but uh, my so-called god is neutral like really neutral so they don't enjoy a cult even if one exists and they prefer to enjoy peach things and uh watching over me I guess. I don't mean to be self-centered, but I guess they got attached when I was a child." Martin shifts and can hear the kettle being turned on. "Uh, well, you're not human anymore, uh The End owes the spider a lot never understood how or why, but uh, they have done this before for my birthday after my mother finally passed." He shakes his head. "Not important again, are you ok?"

"I was brought back from the dead, and you're not human. How do you think I feel?" Tim hugs his chest. "What now do I have to eat bugs and serve her?"

"N-no!" Martin motions to the table where three hot glasses of tea now sits. "Well, I mean you can eat live and do whatever you want. Fire will permanently destroy you if you want that. It is nice to see you again, but I won't force you to stay. I do have a spare room, and I maybe could get you some new papers if you want to leave that way."

Tim sits at the table, staring at the cup.

"It's not poisoned, but that wouldn't hurt you now anyway." Martin sits down as well. "I never wanted to tell any of you guys about this. Elias never looked into me beyond the surface level, so I don't actually know if he knows, but he's in jail now. I wanted to tell Jon since he's becoming an avatar of the eye, but he's been in a coma, and then things happened. He also doesn't like spiders. We have a new overseer since Elisa is in jail, but you probably don't care." He frowns. "I apologize. I'm rambling."

Tim shakes his head. "I don't know what I will do." He pauses, taking a sip of tea. The fruity drink was soothing his confused nerves. "Do you think I could go back to the archives? I don't think I could work any normal job again. It's not like I would be killed again."

"Fire would kill you." Martin pauses. "I can ask. I might as well reveal myself. Oh, the new director is Peter Lucas he's not so bad." He seems to wince at the last comment.

"Bring me in with you." Tim was smiling at Martin's surprise expression.

"W-what?" Martin could hear eerie laughter like nails on a chalkboard.

"I want to make a grand entrance on my accord. I would like to see a look of shock on Elias's face, but he's in jail. I will accept the shock on everyone else, however." Tim smiles. "Besides, think of it as payback from you being too happy."

Martin huffs.

.......

A loud scream, well Tim wouldn't call it a scream that wouldn't be a proper word for it, but he did yell in shock and slight fear. "What did... who... i"

The spider creature humanoid seemed to step back. He seemed hurt by his reaction. "Tim...." That voice.

Tim swallows. "Martin?"

"I uh forgot you were here..." Martin hugs his chest. "I uh well uh... I told you I wasn't exactly human anymore." The spider legs seem to suck back in slowly, and the inhuman features melted from his features till he looked normal. "I have blackout curtains for a reason. I uh sorry I didn't mean to scare you."

Tim rubs the back of his neck he had a feeling of guilt in his chest bloom from embassment. "Well, I should apologize. I didn't mean to shout. I should have expected something like this, is uh will Jon be different?"

Martin shrugs. "I don't know. I haven't been with a full avatar of the eye, and Spider won't tell me." He sighs. "I uh, can I go back to that form? I'm uh molting, and it gets itchy until the skin flakes off."

"It's your home, and I am a guest. Go ahead." Tim shrugs. "I do have a question."

"Oh?" Martin stretches back out and rubs his now eight eyes. "I don't like lying."

Tim snickers. "That hasn't changed. Uh, right, does it hurt?"

"At first, but I was really young when I was given this. I didn't really know what was normal in my body or around me. My mother didn't help she was sick and didn't like that she could see my father in my face. I knew she resented me even if I cared for her until she checked herself into a home. Spider was kind to me even if I didn't understand that they shouldn't exist or that I should be scared. I loved spiders I still do. The molting doesn't hurt it just itches, and when I do go to this for long periods, my eyes get watery, and I get very itchy. I can't really explain it since it happens once a month, and explaining that I'm not Trans is kind of more frustrating than anything." Martin looks away. "Sorry, I tend to ramble."

Tim shakes his head, seemingly feeling more comfortable in his situation. It's only been a week, and he hasn't reintroduced himself, and this spider was unnerving but means no harm. Martin hasn't changed, or he has, but he feels normal like he has always been him. "I also have to ask why you get things delivered to your home so often."

"I don't actually order things. Spider has a cult even if they don't want one. I know I don't want it, but it's better than dead things, and spiders likes peach anything." Martin chuckles. "Don't mind them they are kind. It's the newbies that are the trouble." He sighs, looking at the growing pile. "You can take whatever you like they always give too much. Only can donate so much."

Tim frowns. "You don't encourage it?"

Martin shakes his head. "They started when I was 9. I was too frightened to say anything. I wasn't a brave child, and my mother didn't exactly help or know." He clicks his tongue. "No, that's enough of that. I'm sure you need rest or more time. I'll be in the bath helps with the molt."

Tim nods, realizing Martin always spoke more than he needed as if he was testing the person he was talking to. He didn't understand why, but he wanted to comfort him.

......

"Do they know?" Tim asks one day the question eating at his mind as he tries to grow more confident to send a letter to his parents.

Martin sighs. "The web is made for secrets unlike the beholder they have connections everywhere hidden and tucked away. Nobody notices the small spider in the corner." A mask seems to lift on his face. "Elias never figured it out he clung to my thoughts about my mother and underestimated me. Peter also doesn't realize he is trying to make me like him, but you can not change an avatar to another god. Like Jon, I do have other abilities that aren't just physical. Spider calls them commands, I don't use them. You've noticed how I have never told others what to do for the most part. Jon still hasn't entirely accepted his status yet, which is good for me because he doesn't know."

Tim swallows and looks away. "Are you keeping me here?"

The mask back on Martin looked offended and panicked. "No, never! I like you as a roommate. You're much more talkative than Spider, but I just thought you wanted to do this on your own time." He sighs.

Tim snickers. "I'm just fucking with you." He hums. "I'll come back on my own time, as you said. You're still pretending with Peter, so I think I'll rejoin after that. Or I will come back when I think it's the funniest."

Martin huffs. "Tim, be serious."

"I'm dead serious." Tim smirks

Martin groans. "I'm leaving."

......

"Martin!" It Jon, the smaller man, managed to corner him, it seems.

Martin looks down at the smaller man. "J-Jon I uh I told you not to find me." He swears he could hear his mom laugh in his head and see spiderwebs attached to himself to Jon. He knew she was getting annoyed with his slow behavior and complaints about Peter. However, the ability to affect the eye well their avatar to this extant, did she make a deal with the beholder?

"Martin, what..." Jon stops himself. Martin, of course, knew why.

"I'm Peter's assistant. I can't talk tight now." Martin stops he glances over to the corner. A spider sits in a fresh web in the shape of an eye. That confirms his suspicions, the Web and the Beholder have formed a bond or an alliance. He isn't surprised the Web is secrets and the Beholder wants all the knowledge like the hidden stuff. He didn't exactly know what it meant for the two of them. "I uh well tea!" He stutters out. "Tomorrow?"

Jon looks back surprised. "Tea... of course, yes, tomorrow."

"After work, Cafe by my home." Martin says too quickly as he rushes out.

.......

"Martin." There is static in the air as Peter comes up from behind.

Martin can feel his body move without his control. Shifting and contorting as he towers over Peter. He honestly never liked this form it's too big, and he feels bad about towering over everyone, but the best he can describe it as a spider centaur. He still has the extra eyes clawed hands and webs that flow like a cape behind him he tries his best to use as a shirt when he is like this. The extra arms aren't bad, persay he just thinks it's odd. He turns and faces Peter. "I think our game is over." His voice was not his own.

Peter steps back, startled and surprised. "You're the web?"

"We never liked the name. It's always a bit on the nose. Isolation, the money never liked your kind, but we mean no harm to you, unlike you to us." Not Martin hums. "I would tell you to stop, but unlike you, we like to keep to our shadows listening and collecting. We never needed anything like yours. We overindulge already in this world the way it is. However, I will keep this short. We've come to an understanding with the Beholder." They laugh like they knew a joke nobody else knew. "Leave our Martin alone they aren't your pawn."

Peter nods and vanishes. The Web and the Beholder formed an alliance he needed to figure this out. Did Elias even know that would happen?

.....

Martin groans and rubs his legs. The pins and needles are always a thing every time he fully transforms. He was tapping against the table in his home and nearly jumps when he hears someone behind him.

"Martin, we've been living together for three months at this point. Haven't you gotten used to the dead lingering." Tim snickers at his own joke.

Martin sighs. "Sorry, Tim. I did some er avatar things today, and uh, I think I asked Jon on a date."

"Did you kill someone?" Tim's voice now lacks the humor.

"No, Spider doesn't enjoy death. It doesn't get anything out of it unless it's a secret or other stuff. We aren't the end." Martin sighs. "They didn't like me working with Peter he's one of the lonely and well they stepped in. I'm sure Peter already told Elias."

"Ok, that makes me less concerned." Tim has his smirk back. "So a date with Jon? Fucking finally."

Martin huffs. "Oh shut it. I panicked, and I don't know it just happened." He frowns. "I should probably ask if Jon's ok with that. If he's ok in general."

"Alright." Tim pauses. "Could I ask something about this Web?"

"If you want, again, I don't like lying." Martin rubs the back of his neck.

"Do they get along with... uh, why the cult?" Tim switches his question quickly, and Martin knows, but he doesn't understand why.

"We don't actually need the cult, but they told me it always happens. The web has weved throughout the world. Secrets are easy to consume when you are everywhere and nobody notices. There's other stuff, but again, I really don't like commanding others." Martin sighs.

"Show me." Tim crossed his arms. "Show me what you can do. What do you even mean by commands?"

"I can show you my spider powers." Martin tries his best to derail Tim, but he knows it doesn't land. "Ok, fine. Tim, go to the kitchen and get me a jar of jam." He watches Tim's eyes glaze over as he heads to the kitchen and returns with a jar of jam.

"I..." Tim swallows. "I see."

Martin frowns. "Sorry. I don't like doing it when it isn't needed. I try not to do it at all."

"I get it." Tim pulls out a chair next to Martin. "So this date."

Martin gives a heavy sigh. "It's just tea. I mean, actually, do you mind if I tell you something regarding the beings?"

"I mean, I do plan on going back to the archives, so I might as well know." Tim raised his brow. "Does it have to do with the eyes in the webs around your home?"

"Eh?" Martin looks around at the cobwebs. "Y-yeah uh the beholder the one Jon is becoming an avatar for... I should check on him. I don't think he's ready for the body changes. The wait date we have a date. Uh, right off track. The Beholder has agreed to the Web, and they seemed to have an alliance, but I don't think that's the right term. Uh, maybe partnership that's closer, but I don't know. A pact of protection? I don't know, but we have come out of hiding. I don't know what that means for the future, but uh, yeah."

"So they want you to get freaky with Jon?" Tim wiggles his brows.

Martin groans. "No! I mean, I don't know. I hope not. I don't want our relationship built on er false pretenses."

"I can understand that, but would you consider soulmates like that?" Tim hums.

"I... I don't know." Martin has a puzzled look on his face.

.......

Georgie paused, staring at her ex blankly. "If you wanted to see the admiral, you could ask not just show up with... why is Melanie here?"

"The man has a date." Melanie chuckles. "The man has a date, and he panicked because he has no social skills."

A laugh rushed out of Georgie's mouth as she ushered the two inside. "So you came here."

"I know..." Jon covers his face. "I just I don't know I look awful and I know you're good at makeup and I don't want to frighten him off. I'm already not exactly entirely human anymore."

"Don't sell yourself short, Jon. Our time wasn't the worst." Georgie smiles, brushing his long hair back and frowns. "Did you develop a new allergy because of this watcher?"

"I don't think... I don't think so. Why?" Jon covers his mouth with an apologetic gaze.

"You have blisters on your neck and shoulders." Georgie walks around and pulls down his sweater. "There on your back, too."

"They don't look like an allergy. It kind of reminds me of burns but also like a bug bite." Melanie pauses. "Does it hurt?"

"No?" Jon frowns. "I mean, maybe, but I just thought it was from lack of sleep, I think. I haven't been eating great either, so I guess it's normal to ache and have pain."

"Ok, you need major help." Georgie sighs. "Makeup will help, but you seriously need a vacation."

"I don't know if that's possible." Jon jumps when Melanie grabs his shoulders.

"Ew, they feel gross. But I'm sure with enough concealer you can hide anything." Melanie wasn't confident, but she wanted to help him.

......

Martin raised his brow, staring at Tim. He got off early since Peter told him to. He knows they ruined whatever the lonely was planning to use him for. "Why are you here?"

"Undead support." Tim hums. "Also, I work here part time. Your patron helped me get paperwork, and I got bored of sitting around."

"Oh right... I didn't think I was keeping you." Martin pauses. "I uh sorry."

"Martin, you weren't, and neither was that. I told you I got bored and I don't exactly think going back suddenly would be good." Tim shrugs. "What are you looking to get?"

"I think I'll wait for Jon." Martin smiles softly. "Thank you, Tim."

"Don't, you've done for me then I could ever repay." Tim hums. "I'll be behind the counter."

Martin nods and smiles.

......

Jon walks in, pulling up his turtleneck. Even with the extra rest, he felt awful. The so-called blisters have started to hurt and felt like pressure was building, and he wanted to take a knife to his skin. He also had a new hunger. He knows he doesn't eat enough, but he never felt hunger like this he's craving meat. He's craving more statements. He wanted to ignore it he wanted to pretend it didn't bother him. He knew it had to do with the thing that owned him now. He knows it's turning him into a monster. He couldn't stop it, and it scared him. Makeup barely covered anything he probably looked awful.

"Oh Jon!" Martin waves from his seat.

Jon is pulled from his thoughts like a life preserver was thrown to him. "Martin, it's nice to see you."

"Come sit, they do lovely fruit teas here if you want to try one. You uh you look nice. I like your hair tied up." Martin rubs the back of his neck as a red blush goes across his features seemingly to highlight his freckles.

Jon shares his blush, and even if he felt awful, Martin was a glimmer of the safety of something happy. He pulls a chair out across from Martin and smiles. "I uh thank you for asking me on a date. I missed you."

Martin's smiles fade as he stares at Jon. He knows what is happening, and he knows Gertrude never did get this far in her own transformation even if she was considered by Elias as better suited. "Jon, are you alright?" He knew he would lie.

"I'm fine Martin, just a long day in the office." Jon smiles again, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Martin remembers that when it happened to him, it took years his bones twisting and breaking to reform. Growing new organs was the worst. It started only a month after he met them bonded to them. He was the perfect fit, he guessed. The previous avatar tried to kill him as they were torn away from their purpose. They didn't like that. He frowns. "Jon, please don't..." He bites his tongue. "Jon, you have to sleep now."

Jon felt something, something pulled at his mind as if it flicked a switch. He couldn't fight it as the world went black.

......

"Why did you think this was a good idea?" A voice Jon knew was impossible to hear unless he was finally dead.

"He's changing, and we- I know he isn't taking care of himself enough to survive it. He's so thin, and I don't think uh." The voice Jon knew was Martin was speaking. "I covered him. They need to form, and it's a bit of a sensory overload having them all open at the same time."

"I was going to ask how you knew, but then again, that's a dead brained question."

"Tim, please." Martin sighs.

"....Tim?" Jon croaked out.

"Didn't you uh do your command thing?" Tim paused.

"Tim, it doesn't last forever it lasts as long as he needs to be asleep." Martin takes a breath. "Jon, don't take off the towels on your face."

Jon freezes his arms now stuck at his side. "Martin, what.... are you still Martin?"

"Of course I am." Martin groans. "I accidently commanded you. I'm sorry. I uh do the thing I can feed you, er you don't really understand that yet uhhhhh ask me for my statement." He winced another command.

"Martin, tell me what happened. What are you?" Jon spoke before he knew what he was saying what he was doing.

......

"I was 8, my father just left at the news of my mother getting sick. I, of course, didn't know at the time I don't really recall him either. I was a small kid who always looked Ober or bullied when noticed. My mother, well, she never helped or cared truly. So nobody noticed when I wandered off to somewhere that shouldn't exist."

"It was a room, I think, to a home covered in webs. A woman welcomed me as if I were a sacrificial lamb. I was elated. I always loved spiders, and they were everywhere, and I know I made it known. She listened to me she listened to me a kid who just loved spiders, and for some reason, she let me go. I know why now, the Web, as you know, it took a liking to me. They made me an avatar. Like you're becoming. It was so painful, but I was young, and I didn't know any different. Nobody helped me. My mother didn't care, and the Web was like a new better mother who listened and cared they even helped feed me when mom tried to hurt me by not feeding me. I don't know why they care for me or why it's me, but it is. I was never scared, and that's probably why they were curious and eventually grew attached."

"Now I actually have three forms: human, obviously, the spider legs and eyes, and fully. I'm kind of like a spider centaur with extra eyes and arms. You'll have another form, too, but you're in that weird teenage phase kind of where your body is just getting used to change. I'll be here to help. The Beholder and the Web have formed a kin bond thing I don't know, but I'm here for you and again sorry about the commands. It's like how you ask questions, kind of, I guess."

......

Jon swallows. He feels full. He doesn't understand why he didn't eat, and he still feels hungry for actual food, but his mind feels calmer. "You're not human."

"Not anymore." Martin sighs. "Haven't been for a long time, but I'm still me."

Jon pauses. "Will I still be me?"

"You are you." Martin hums. "Extra bits and powers don't really mean much unless you reject it. That would kill you outright. However you did accept it, you came out of the coma. Can't stop it now." He pauses. "I uh can answer more questions, but I should make you something filling first, and no, I don't eat bugs. I'm actually allergic to crickets kind of weird considering. Anyway, you need statements old or new to sustain yourself and then actual food for your body, especially now with the changing. Don't worry. Your voice won't crack."

Jon actually smiles. He felt more at ease. Martin seemed to do that to him. "Can request something warm?"

"I will happily make that." Martin smiles, and somehow Jon knew he was smiling.

"Can I say something now?" Tim interrupts.

"You're dead." Jon swallows as a fear claws at him.

"Dead tired from work." Tim chuckles. "No, actually, this web patron pulls some web strings and brought me back. All joking aside, it's been three months since I came back. I'm free to do whatever I please with this second chance, but I'm aimless. I'm glad we won, and I'm glad I'm back, but I don't exactly have a plan yet."

"He keeps claiming he'll come back to the archive when it's the funniest." Martin sighs, and Jon can hear him walk off.

"And I will." Tim huffs.

Jon felt his fear drain, with a new one taking its place. How powerful is the Web? "...right."

"Glad to see you're still a downer, former boss man." Tim sighs. "Seriously, get some rest. You look like shit."

"I can't see that." Jon mumbles.

......

There was a soft knock followed by a rougher one. Martin got up and headed over. "Oh, hello, Daisy, Batista, and Melanie. Well, I guess you're coming in. Welcome."

"What did you do?" Batista scowls and spots Jon, who was nursing a cup of tea and had a blanket on.

"I didn't do anything." Martin frowns.

Jon sighs. "He's helping me with some changes."

Daisy grimaced. "You look awful."

Melanie frowns. "The blisters aren't blisters are they."

"I suppose not." Jon huffs, putting his cup aside.

"It's gross if you ask me." Tim sips his drink from his mug.

The three stare st the walking deadman.

Martin pinches his brow. "I can explain."

.......

The tension in the room is thick. Jon stared into his cup of tea as if it was the most amazing thing he had ever seen.

Martin clears his throat. "I mean, that's about it, I guess. I would rather not speak of my childhood before the Web."

Melanie speaks up first. "So Tim's back because your god wanted to wish you happy birthday?"

"I mean, they did it before with my mother." Martin looks away. "The End owes them many favors. Never asked why, nor do I want to know why."

"To be fair, Martin did give me a way out he explained how I would be gone for good with fire. I don't want to, but the choice is there." Tim shrugs. "Anyway, I have a shift at the cafe, and I really don't want to deal with any more well this."

Now, there were five left in the apartment. Martin hugged his chest. "Look, I'm just trying to stop Jon from dying through this. If he does, then another will take his place."

"What about the one before you?" Baisa glared at him.

"The Web took care of her." Martin frowns. "I really would not like to discuss what that did and what I had to do."

Melanie sighs. "Look, are you still that Martin? Are you still you?"

"I mean, I think I am." Martin shrugs. "I've been like this for so long I don't know different."

"Right." Daisy sighs. "Ok, I believe you, but you better hold your promise to keep that man alive."

Martin nods. "Of course I will."

Jon swallows. "Do I get a say?"

A glare answers that question.

#the magnus archives #tma #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jonmartin #tim stoker

[lycanlovingvampyre]

MAG 182 Relisten

Activity on my first listen: cutting the French tamarisk in my garden and moving to the jasmine.

MARTIN: "We stayed in Salesa’s as long as you could." JON: "A bit longer, actually. I was, er… not really holding it together by the end." MARTIN: "Why didn’t you say something?" JON: "It’s fine. I’m fine." MARTIN: "Yeah, now." JON: "I just thought, what with Daisy and Basira, and… You needed a break. Some time to process." MARTIN: "We both did. But apparently I’m the only one who got to." Aw, it's good to hear them talk about it and both being so understanding. Also yeah, Jon was sooo disorientated in the last scene at Upton House. Compared to when they first woke up and he seemed rather okay.

JON: "It’s okay. I deal with things differently these days. I just wanted to make sure that you were doing okay. Was I wrong? To hold off?" MARTIN: "… No. No you weren’t. Just getting the chance to sleep again was…" Hmmm, even if you don't need something, it's still nice to have it and be able to enjoy it. Why is something, we are almost totally unaware of, so good? Comfy bed and sleep, I love you, but I hate you XD

MARTIN: "Okay… could be worse…" [THE SOUND OF BLADES, LIKE KNIVES BEING SHARPENED OR UNOILED SCISSORS WORKING] DR DOE: "Good!" Is, calling something bad you like "good" not a bit of a paradox? XD

DR DOE: "You have come here to over-observe yes? To inspector?" I mean, given how little sense Dr. Doe makes, paradoxes do make... sense for this domain? Oh this is starting to hurt my brain...

MARTIN: [Nervously] "It’s a… Beautiful building." DR DOE: "Do not insult me." lol xD

DR DOE: "You must look in here to see one of our four hundred operating theatres where we ensure any wellbeing is swiftly and awfully dispatched." A Cure for Wellness?^^

DR DOE: "We have a canteen." JON: [Hushed] "Don’t ask about the canteen" MARTIN: [Hushed] "I wasn’t going to ask about the canteen!" Tbf, Martin is quite talkative here and he did ask questions. I can feel Jon a bit there, sometimes when I'm super uncomfortable with someone and my spouse keeps engaging I'm also like "Oh god pls, stop giving them fuel, let the conversation die and let's get out of here!!!"

"She didn’t see what they did with it, but in its place they put a cold and glassy thing, a frozen tube that beats and pumps out ice water that makes her shiver all through the deepest parts of herself." This does remind me a bit of the German fairy tale Heart of Stone. Just the cold heart bit though.

"What if the doctors are finished? What if she is treated, and this is all that there is now? What if she is well?" The hopelessness... A lot of the time we assume there is a cure or a very efficient treatment and the thing’s gonna go away again. But what if it doesn't.

I don't really understand this statement except for that last patient a bit. But the other two? Everything I fear about doctors/health care was mentioned in MAG 177, sooo...

BREEKON: "‘scuse me, Doctor. Just cleanin’ up." Breekooooon! <3

BREEKON: "Wait, so does that mean, in there… The Archivist?" MARTIN: "That’s right." BREEKON: "… I’ll wait with you." Awww, he's so cute...

MARTIN: "But, but like, why would you want him to? Isn’t this whole thing like a dream come true for all of you… monsters?" BREEKON: "You think I dream of mopping floors? No. We’re – I’m a delivery man." Breekon did end up in a dead end, bullshit job. This could be a hellscape all on its own...

I'm baffled how much TMA can make you feel for a monster with almost no screen time... And still, Jon's suggestion of "Maybe we don’t have to feel any way at all." also speaks to me. Breekon & Hope did horrible things. In the end, about him being smote though I don't really feel anything in particular in one way or the other. Funny, feeling for him, but also not. I've come full circle to paradoxes again.

@a-mag-a-day

#a-mag-a-day #mag 182 #tma #tma spoilers

[literalliterature]

[ID: A red-tinted photo showing the silhouette of a raven on a stump with its beak open. There is a small red sun in the sky, positioned so that it looks like the raven is holding it in its mouth. End ID.]

a little faith for hire: a yonder playlist

(yes this is for another D&D PC. Spotify)

01) Ain't No Grave -- Crooked Still

i'm gonna get up out of the ground

02) Rainmaker -- Bruce Springsteen

sometimes folks need to believe in something so bad

03) You Worry Me -- Nathaniel Rateliff & the Night Sweats

i'm on fire today/ain't no water here to calm or even put me out

04) Two Birds -- Regina Spektor

i'll believe it all/there's nothing i won't understand/i'll believe it all/i won't let go of your hand

05) The Weight -- The Band

"hey, mister, can you tell me/where a man might find a bed?"/he just grinned and shook my hand/and "no" was all he said

06) Hey Brother -- Avicii

oh, if the sky came falling down for you/there's nothing in this world i wouldn't do

07) Farmhouse -- Phish

each betrayal begins with trust/every man returns to dust

08) Millstone -- Eisley

i can't find the secret to survive/to grow old safe and sound/life is sifting through like the sand in the hourglass

09) Devils & Dust -- Bruce Springsteen

tonight, faith just ain't enough

10) Cotton -- The Mountain Goats

this song is for the soil/that's toxic clear down to the bedrock/where no thing of consequence can grow

11) Broken Crown -- Mumford & Sons

i took the road and i fucked it all away/now in this twilight, how dare you speak of grace?

12) Wayfaring Stranger -- Jack White

i know dark clouds may hover o'er me/i know my pathway is rough and steep/but golden fields lie out before me/where weary eyes no more will weep

13) Hard Times Come Again No More -- Stephen C. Foster

many days you have lingered around my cabin door/oh, hard times, come again no more

14) Empty Sky -- Bruce Springsteen

blood on the street, yeah, blood flowing down/i hear the blood of my blood crying from the ground

15) The Last Pale Light In The West -- Ben Nichols

and i ask for no redemption/in this cold and barren place/still i see a faint reflection

16) American Pie -- Don McLean

i met a girl who sang the blues/and i asked her for some happy news/but she just smiled and turned away

17) This Was A Home Once -- Bad Suns

can i say something to change your mind?

18) O Death -- Shakey Graves, Monica Martin

o death/o death/won't you spare me over 'til another year?

19) Saint Bernard -- Lincoln

hung pictures of patron saints up on my wall/to remind me that i am a fool

20) Hand of God - Outro -- Jon Bellion

your whole life's in the hand of god/(nothing has changed, he is the same)

#kenku #dungeons & dragons #folk music #bruce springsteen #the mountain goats #john bellion #don mclean #shakey graves #bad suns #mumford & sons #phish #eisley #the band #lincoln #crooked still #dnd #dungos & drangies #yonder #ravenloft #d&d #captioned #accessible

[karuvapatta]

More Jon/Elias nonsense. Enjoy!

Many, many thanks to everyone still reading this thing <3 I'd love to know your thoughts, if you care to share them!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

***

“Statement ends.”

It takes a few seconds for Jon to come back to his senses. The tape recorder in his hand is still whirling, hungry for more words. But Jon is done for now. Sated.

He tells himself it isn’t relief he is feeling. It shouldn’t be. But he is tired of lying, so he lets the thought go with a deep sigh.

Elias is watching him. At some point he must have let go of Jon. There is space between them, on the couch; not enough space for propriety, with their thighs almost touching, and Elias sprawled back, his arm resting on the couch, behind Jon’s back. Certainly there is nothing innocent or proper about the way he watches Jon right now, intent and pleased and hungry.

“You had your fun, then?” Jon asks.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better,” Elias says simply. “Am I not allowed to be?”

Jon is, in fact, feeling a lot better. So much so he is beginning to question his decision to invite Elias into his home. It’s supposed to be his space; he is meant to be safe here. And the man next to him is everything except safe.

Belatedly, Jon switches off the recorder. Habit has him retrieve the cassette and sign it with the case number. He will have to file it away on Monday, and he doesn’t want it to get lost or mixed up in the meantime.

“I’m going to make tea,” he says. Mostly he needs to be alone right now. “Would you like some?”

“Please,” Elias says.

It’s still raining. Jon pours water into the kettle and sets it down on the stove to boil. He prepares two cups. There’s a carton of milk in his fridge, long past its expiry date; he sniffs it and recoils at the smell, before pouring the whole lot of it down the kitchen sink. There isn’t much left in his fridge that’s actually edible, which is a shame. He’s hungry now, in a normal, human way. Maybe they can order take-out, if Elias decides to stay over.

The kettle whistles. Jon waits a bit – Martin claims you cannot pour boiling water on the tea leaves – before remembering that he hasn’t actually prepared them yet.

The tea needs to seep for three minutes. Jon grabs the ice-pack from the freezer and touches it to his face. Hopefully the heat and swelling will leech away before Monday rolls around.

He brings the mugs and a small jar of honey back to the living room.

“Sorry,” he says. “I don’t have any milk.”

“That’s fine,” Elias says mildly.

He is standing by the bookshelves, examining Jon’s collection. It’s—definitely odd, for him to be here. Jon watches, warily, as Elias pulls out Jon’s binder on the Magnus Institute. It’s mostly articles, newspaper clippings, some bits printed out from the official website and any other place he found it mentioned. There is a section on Jonah Magnus himself, as well, although the information there was sparse.

“This is quite thorough,” Elias says, with evident amusement.

“I wanted to be prepared before I started working there,” Jon says. “Sadly, my research omitted a few key details.”

Opinions on the Institute vary. It’s not like there aren’t any conspiracy theories floating around the web or within Oxford academic circles – it’s just that the truth is much worse than any of them. But, of course, younger Jonathan Sims dismissed them all as nonsensical and flung himself face-first into the Devil’s waiting embrace.

Elias doesn’t respond. He puts the binder away and checks the other titles. Some newer additions, like a book on Smirke’s architecture that Jon borrowed from Tim, or the one on basics of cybersecurity Jon’s been trying to figure out with Sasha’s help. There’s novels and historical non-fiction, some that Jon has already read, some that he plans on reading in the future. Elias pauses on the House of Leaves, considering it.

“Have you read it?” Jon asks.

Elias shakes his head. “No. It’s fairly new, isn’t it? I’m still working my way through the 1940s and 1950s.”

“You’re reading books according to the date of publication?” Jon asks.

“It’s a pretty efficient system,” Elias says, somewhat defensively. “I make occasional exceptions for contemporary literature, if it warrants it. And I keep up to date on anything overtly occult. But novels are just a hobby.”

Jon can’t help but smile at that. His own approach to book selection is less methodical and more haphazard, boiling down to whatever catches his attention in the moment. It’s always been that way.

“Well, you should read this one. You’ll like it.”

Elias looks at him, eyebrows raised. But he picks it up nonetheless, skimming his fingers over the cover.

“I made tea,” Jon reminds him.

“Mhmm.” Elias barely acknowledges him. He’s opened it now, and Jon recognizes the look of a man who’d be content to stand still for hours and devour the book in his hands until something managed to distract him. It’s—it’s actually quite endearing.

Luckily Jon’s phone rings, so he doesn’t have to stand there and watch his boss like a creep. It’s still on the kitchen table, ringing its generic little tune. Who on Earth would be calling him on a Saturday?

Martin Blackwood, the phone proclaims. Of course. The heavy, anxious feeling returns to Jon’s stomach.

“Hello?” he asks.

“Jon?” Martin says, surprised.

“Who did you expect?” Jon asks, perhaps a touch too aggressive.

“Oh. I, uh,” Martin stammers. “I just wasn’t sure if you were going to pick up.”

Jon can feel his cheeks flush with shame and anger. He isn’t quite sure if he’s angry at Martin or at himself, but it doesn’t stop him from snapping back: “Well, I did. Was there anything you needed?”

Martin is quiet for a moment. “I wanted to ask if you’re okay,” he says softly.

Soft, always so damn soft. Jon cannot deal with soft, not now. He knows what he is, Martin knows what he is, so why this entire charade?

“I’m fine,” he says.

“And—your face? Tim was really worried…”

“My face is also fine,” Jon says. Then, because it would nag at him otherwise: “How’s Tim’s hand?”

“It’s fine,” Martin says. “Apparently he took boxing classes at some point? He says it’s really easy to break your fingers when punching someone, but they taught him how to do it properly.”

“Yes, I can attest to his skill in the area,” Jon says. He touches his cheek and winces. “Was there anything else?”

“You said—well, you said you haven’t been sleeping, so I wanted to ask…”

“I’m fine, Martin,” Jon says, louder than he intended. “You don’t need to worry about me. I appreciate it, but it really isn’t necessary.” Just leave me alone, he doesn’t say. Leave me alone, because I’d rather it happen right now than in the future, after I forget how to live without you. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Are you sure you want to go back to the Archives?” Martin asks, something like panic lacing his tone. “This place—it isn’t good for you, Jon. I’m sure Elias will give you a few days off…”

“No!” Jon says. The thought of leaving the Archives for an extended period of time is unpleasant and wrong; he shudders at the mere idea. “No,” he repeats. “I have to—I have to go back. You don’t understand…”

“I’m trying to,” Martin says. “I want to help you, but—”

“Well then stop pestering me about it,” Jon says sharply. “Goodbye Martin.”

There’s a beat of tense silence, before Martin sighs, defeated. “Bye, Jon.”

Jon jabs at the screen to end the call.

He was too harsh on Martin. He knows that. He’s always been too harsh on Martin. And yet Martin continues to worry about him, and bring him tea, and is so damn kind—

Jon draws in a shuddering breath. He cannot, will not think about Martin right now. Elias is here, and Jon needs to learn to keep his powers under control before he faces his assistants again. Or any other human being, for that matter.

Elias has sat down in the meantime, on the couch beneath the lamp, where the light is better. He’s sipping the tea Jon made for him, and reading the book Jon recommended. It is weirdly, shockingly domestic. He hasn’t often thought about Elias in this manner. First he was simply a rather eccentric boss, and an authority on the paranormal; then an actual murderer; finally an agent of an eldritch entity, capable of reading and influencing the minds of others. What else is there to Elias Bouchard that Jon has yet to learn? And why is the thought enticing?

He should be horrified. He knows that. So why isn’t he?

“Elias?” Jon asks.

“Hmm?”

Jon takes in a deep breath.

“Can you stop what’s happening to me?” he asks.

Elias doesn’t even look up from the page. “Do you honestly want me to?”

“I—” The answer is yes. It should be. He knows it should be.

He can’t bring himself to say it.

Finally, Elias looks up. His features soften a little once he sees the state Jon has worked himself into.

“No,” he says. “I cannot stop it. You’re the Archivist, Jon. You belong to the Beholding. And to me.”

“Fuck you,” Jon says, but there’s no bite to it.

Elias looks around for something – a bookmark, Jon assumes. He picks up a sticky note and carefully inserts it before closing the book and setting it down on the table.

“You wanted to learn more about your powers,” he says. He is in full business mode now, sitting straight in the chair, his fingers steepled together. “Use them. Ask me a question.”

Jon shivers. He tries to recall that buzzing sensation on his tongue, the need to know.

Except his head is mostly empty right now, so he just blurts out the first question that comes to mind.

“What’s between you and Peter Lukas?”

Elias, damn him, laughs. It’s a nice laugh, full of surprise and genuine amusement.

“Ask me a simpler question, Archivist,” he says. “There’s quite a long history there.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles, the crow’s feet becoming more pronounced. And there’s something about the way he watches Jon that makes Jon’s heartrate pick up; a certain weight, attentive and considering. He wonders if it’s the Eye or Elias himself.

“Who is he, then?” Jon asks.

“Captain of the Tundra. Prominent member of the Lukas family. A crucial benefactor of the Institute. Avatar of the Lonely.” Elias smiles. “My ex-husband.”

“What?”

Jon sits back, dumbfounded. He—well, he should have expected something like this. They did seem awfully close. And Peter was willing to kidnap Jon just to annoy Elias, which in retrospect might have been part of some sick power-play between the two of them. But the thought of Elias and that silent, cold, distant man? Married?

Elias looks entirely too satisfied with himself when he regards Jon through narrowed eyes. “Are you jealous, Archivist?”

“No!” Jon says quickly. Too quickly.

Well, this is what he gets for asking personal questions. And he isn’t even actually sure if Elias is answering them of his own volition, or if it’s because Jon compelled him to. He isn’t sure if Elias isn’t lying.

He isn’t.

The knowledge arrives in his head, unbidden. He shivers, feeling the weight of the Eye’s presence. Is it watching them, now?

“You feel it, then?” Elias asks.

“I—yes. I think so.” He doesn’t need to ask for clarification. Cold sweat is beading on his forehead, that persistent sensation of being observed prickling in the back of his neck. He thought it was just his paranoia, but, well.

God, he wishes it was just paranoia. Something he might treat with therapy and medication, not that persistent dread…

“When did you learn about the paranormal?” he asks. “When did you believe it was real?”

Again, Elias smiles.

“I cannot give you the exact date,” he says. “But I was seventeen years old.”

Jon shakes his head. His mind is still foggy, swirling with thoughts of Peter Lukas, of the Eye.

“If Peter managed to trap me, would you have saved me from the Lonely?”

This time, it takes a moment for Elias to answer. “No.”

Jon laughs, weakly.

“Great,” he says. “That’s just great.”

“I had every faith you’d manage to get out on your own,” Elias says coolly. “And, as a general rule: do not expect me to save you, Archivist. The point is for you to learn.”

“Yes, I can tell as much,” Jon says. Then, he asks: “I cannot compel you at all, can I? You’re just humouring me.”

Elias is watching, always watching. Assessing Jon from afar. And damn if Jon doesn’t want to bask in the feeling of his approval; if he doesn’t want to make Elias proud. It’s an absurd, toxic impulse, one that he wouldn’t admit to unless someone compelled him to answer. Except Elias doesn’t even need to do that; he can pick the knowledge from Jon’s brain, can look right through his feeble defences. No doubt he knows what he’s doing to Jon right now, when he smiles at him, when he nods his head, and says:

“Very good. You’re paying attention.”

Jon shivers. He can still taste static on his tongue, he can feel the Eye, looking through him. Jon is nothing but a vessel for the Powers, and the idea that he can control it is—laughable. He feels like a child on a playground, being given just enough freedom to swing on the swings or dig through the sandbox, but knowing that someone else brought him here, and someone else will take him home once they decide it’s time for Jon to go.

You can run, says a voice in his head. You can even try to hide. But you cannot hide forever, Archivist. Sooner or later, you’ll have to come back to me.

“I don’t have any choice at all, then?” Jon asks. He knows Elias is reading his thoughts right now; he can almost feel his presence. He closes his eyes and shivers, tries to commit this elusive feeling to memory. If he learns to recognize it, he may learn how to fight it.

“Did you have a choice when it came to attending school, or paying rent, or participating in society?” Elias asks. “When you’re hungry or tired, is it your own choice to eat or sleep? Are you choosing to breathe right now? Your freedom is limited by a number of outside forces. It always has been.” He pauses and considers Jon for a long moment. “You’re taking this relatively well, mind you. Better than I have.”

“Breathing is an involuntary reflex of my own nervous system,” Jon says. “I don’t think it qualifies as an “outside force”.”

Elias glares at him. “It was a figure of speech.”

Jon shrugs. It isn’t actually important. He just felt like saying something to fill in the silence. But Peter Lukas had a point, even if Jon wishes he hasn’t attempted a kidnapping to make it: it is fun to annoy Elias.

“Even so,” Elias says. “Like I told you before: your will is still your own.”

“For the most part.”

“For the most part,” Elias agrees. “There are boundaries, which you must learn to recognize. But within them, you’re free to do as you please.”

His tea’s gone cold. Jon sips it anyway, and tries to take some comfort from its bitter taste.

“This isn’t how I hoped this conversation would go,” he says.

“No, I can’t imagine that it is,” Elias says, infuriatingly calm. His phone chimes; Elias glances at the screen and then checks his watch. He sighs. “Regrettably, I have another meeting scheduled for today. If you’ll excuse me?”

“Yes, of course,” Jon says. Is it another employee having a mental breakdown? He doubts Elias often deals with those, even though, logically, it should be quite common in their line of work. A meeting with sponsors? A follow-up to yesterday’s gala? Some dangerous artifact to move into storage?

“May I?” Elias asks, picking up the House of Leaves from the table.

Jon just shrugs his assent. Let Elias borrow the book. It’s not like Jon has much left he hasn’t taken.  

Elias is fussy with his appearance; that isn’t new. He complains about the lack of mirrors in Jon’s apartment. He takes an awfully long time to re-style his hair, even though it looked perfectly fine to Jon. He smooths each crease in his suit jacket and fiddles with his tie until it lies perfectly symmetrical. It makes Jon feel extra self-conscious about his own casual outfit, and the mess of his too-long hair. Worryingly, it also makes him smile.

Finally, Elias puts on his fancy coat, making sure it lies evenly across his shoulders. Jon follows him to the doorstep. He wants to say something, but the words can’t make it past his lips; not until Elias has his hand on the doorknob, ready to leave.

“Elias?”

“Yes?”

Jon drops his gaze, unable to look Elias in the eyes. He says, “I, uh. Thank you. For coming here today.”

He shouldn’t be doing this. Elias is the reason they are all in this mess. And here Jon stands, thanking him for the courtesy of making sure Jon doesn’t starve to death. He made Jon a monster; Jon shouldn’t be grateful that he’s now trying to ease the transition. Jon’s having many feelings he shouldn’t be feeling, and this is perhaps the worst of them.

Jesus. Martin would hate him right now. And he’d be right to do so. Jon desperately wants to hear his voice again; he’d like to be half the man Martin believes him to be.

“Jon.”

Elias is—Elias is so close. Jon forces himself to look up, to meet his gaze. He takes in a deep, unsteady breath.

He’ll talk to him. He will have to talk to Martin. Explain as best as he can. Maybe—maybe Martin can actually figure it out…

Elias is closer still, his hands cupping Jon’s face. He hesitates—Elias never hesitates. It isn’t in his character. And he is afraid—of what? Of Jon? What could Jon possibly do to him?

His mouth is dry. Jon wets his lips, breathing shakily. Elias’s cologne is all he can smell right now; his grey eyes are all he can see. And he’s being stupid, so fucking stupid, this isn’t right—

Elias kisses him.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise. It doesn’t, not really. What’s surprising is this: Elias’s lips, warm, and soft. Elias’s fingers on his face, gentle, handling him like something breakable. Elias’s unsteady exhale, his hesitation before he deepens the kiss. Jon’s own racing heartbeat, his hands on the lapels of Elias’s coat, pulling him closer, until he is trapped, caught between the wall at his back and Elias’s steady form.

It feels safe. It shouldn’t, but it does.

There’s a hand on his waist, on his hip. It slides upwards, beneath the fabric of his hoodie, his shirt. The touch of it on his bare skin is electric, sending shivers down his spine. Jon gasps; he can feel Elias tightening his hold, pushing deeper into his mouth, until there is no space between them at all.

They part, breathless. Jon is looking now, incapable of tearing his gaze away: Elias’s face is flushed, his lips red and swollen, his pupils widened, only a thin ring of silver framing them; it feels like they could swallow him whole. He thinks he may want them to.

His fingers are trembling, ever so slightly; he presses them to Elias’s cheek. He wants to feel the warmth of his skin, the texture of it. The soft flesh and solid bone underneath. That, too, he wants to commit to memory. He could fill in an entire room in his Archives with everything he’s learned about Elias.

“Your, uh,” he says. “Your meeting?”

Elias blinks, as if he had forgotten. As if Jon occupied all of his attention right now.

“Right,” he says. He makes no move to leave; he kisses Jon again, both his hands on Jon’s waist now, working their way under his shirt.

The damn phone chimes again. Elias pauses, ragged breaths hot and damp on Jon’s lips.

“Fuck,” he says, quietly.

He steps away. Jon makes no such attempts, content to hold onto the wall behind his back and just breathe.

“This was—” Elias begins.

“Highly inappropriate,” Jon says.

“And won’t happen again.”

“No. It won’t.”

“Right,” Elias says. “Goodbye, Jonathan.”

And then he’s gone.

#jonelias #jonathan sims #elias bouchard #the beholding ships it btw #its servants are having tasty new feelings and also look very cute together

[esther-dot]

You’ve peaked my interest… and I agree, I think there is a bit of a disconnect between how we might view Jon (his character, choices, relationships etc) and how Kit does. And I guess that’s a fault of the show, because being so involved in that as an actor would have had an impact, but are there any other glaring differences in perception for you? Things that make you apprehensive for his continued version? Thanks :)

(about this ask)

Oh, I studiously avoided all interviews and news related to GoT until right before s8, so I'm not filled in on Kit's perspective the way other fans are, and obviously, s8 was such a mess I was gonna hate everything he said after the fact because he had to be unprofessional or defend crappy writing. Also, I don't think interviews are necessarily a writer/actor/director's honest opinion. They have to sell their product, that’s the priority, and if they’re totally honest, as amusing as that can be, it can just confuse the issue. I know EC said a lot of things post finale that were expressing her feelings about what happened, but they didn’t make sense with what we watched happen on screen. So, sometimes the interviews just muddy the water, and in that way, it may be best to stick to the party line. And another issue is that what we hear them talk about is not only guided by what the interviewer is interested in but sometimes further curated so I don’t know what is a sincere thought on Kit’s part, I didn’t listen to his thoughts over the years so I’m unaware of how they evolved, and I don’t want to claim I know things I don’t. I mean, I’m still gonna chat about this but caveat caveat caveat.

After s8 Kit said something about Jon belonging with the FF, and I simply don’t see how someone who has read the books thinks that Jon belongs with them. I know people do, but I don’t understand it at all. I don’t even buy that for show Jon although it isn’t quite as weird to me that show watchers think that. Thinking that he may end up in exile is one thing, but to assert that he’s happy/happier there? It’s implying he’s at peace with their lifestyle when in the books he is clearly disapproving, so I just don’t buy the idea he’d ever embrace it, nor should we want him to? Jon’s view needed to be challenged and developed, but we aren’t mean to think killing kids or kidnapping women is ok.

One quote from Jon’s time with the FF that I always found jarring is when he thinks of himself as a dog when having sex with Ygritte. The fact that he feels dehumanized was disturbing to me, and made the revelation of what he truly wanted, to be a lord with a lady wife, all the more heartbreaking. Jon doesn’t want to just find a rando to fuck, he wants the life he’s been denied through no fault of his own. So even if to the reader his time with Ygritte sounds like fun, Jon’s internalization of it isn’t positive because of his upbrigning. Jon fans should respect that. Now, of course, the show diminished the cultural differences and barriers that prevent Jon from assimilating post canon, but if we’re thinking of book Jon, sympathy and caring for some of the FF doesn’t eliminate them.

I defended (a lil bit) Kit’s thoughts about show Jongritte (link) because D&D changed it from the books, and I don’t want to assume that’s his answer if asked about book Jongritte. But, if we conflate it all, or just combined that with his comment about show Jon belonging with the FF, I worry. How sincerely did he mean that? Book Jon wasn’t truly happy with Ygritte, he didn’t choose her. He resisted her, was coerced into having sex with her, and she was continually forceful and demanding with him. The entire time that Jon is with her, he’s tortured because he always intended to betray her. He feels bad because he’s a good person and comes to care for her and others, but to me the point wasn’t that he ever wavered, it was simply to highlight how difficult it was for him to remain steadfast. I think Martin’s a writer who never wants it to be too easy for his characters, and I admire that. But to take that, to take Jon seeing these people as people, and miss the fact that he has much greater loyalty and love for his family, for the North as a whole, for his brothers of the Watch (and this is big considering what later happens to him), and to himself….uh, well, I think that means misunderstanding him in a major way.

Again, I don’t know that Kit missed that. He was speaking in the context of the show, but I think D&D missed the purpose the J/Y relationship served in the book, and I worry that Kit followed their lead there and applied that to Jon and the FF too. Jon is very much a product of his culture and his upbringing by Ned. He wants to have honor, he wants to adhere to his vows, he wants to be worthy, he has certain values, none of which the FF or Ygritte understand or respect. It bothers me that even in the show Ygritte says it’s time to break his vow and that’s presented as romantic because these two gorgeous people have chemistry, rather than yet another burden poor Jon will have to carry that he must do something that will add to his shame. And yeah, Kit later talked about Dany being Jon’s love and we all saw how he acted that, so everything he says in interviews is suspect, especially when he had to at times outright lie to us (regarding Jon being dead, for instance), so this stuff doesn’t bother me too much, it just makes me hhhhmmm.

 I understand why Kit would want to believe that Jon’s ending is good, that Jon will be ok, but what if he truly believes that Jon belongs with the FF? What does that say about how he read Jon’s struggle with honor/duty/love? What does that say about how he read Jon’s relationship with the Starks? What does that say about how he took the line Jon gives a dying Ygritte? Does he think Jon should have been a turn cloak? Should have stayed in the cave? Does he think Jon should have fucked Ygritte, rethought all his convictions and giving a shit about his family and the North and sided with the FF? I mean, I doubt it, but I’m not sure what he thinks. Even if he meant Jon belongs with the FF now, when they’re seemingly at peace, he belongs with them because he’s done with politics and just wants to live without those games impacting him, that’s still ignoring the child killing and the rape culture that book Jon specifically objects to. Life South of the Wall has been cruel to Jon, there are all sorts of machinations, women and children suffer even a society that considers itself so much more cultured, but he finds those two aspects of FF life wrong, and considering his habit of wanting to protect the helpless, he’d never be able to ignore it. He would never be at peace with it. SO, how can we think Jon is happy to live in that world?

Also, I was concerned by the fact that Kit spoke about how annoying Sansa was and how he didn’t understand her etc. Now, I always thought the way he talked about it (blushing, laughing) was very cute and that he was speaking more in the context of his friendship with Sophie than anything too serious about Jon’s feelings regarding Sansa because of how he played Jon in their scenes, but I was concerned because even though he said that, there seemed to be a weird absence of equal judgment of Jon and Dany. If Sansa is annoying for begging Jon to consider another perspective, what does that say about Dany who says if you don’t kneel I’ll let everyone die? On any moral scale that Sansa registers, Dany is off the charts and that’s in s7, way before she starts randomly threatening the lives of her bf’s family or burning kids for funsies.

Again, I tried to avoid interviews so I’m not trying to say I know what Kit thinks, I’ve definitely heard contradictory soundbites, and at one point he said he would never understand Jon, but while there were some (joking imo) complaints about Sansa, I never heard him acknowledge that in the story they ended up giving us, Sansa was far too trusting of Jon because Jon betrayed her by bending the knee, giving away her freedom, unnecessarily. I never heard him defend Sansa and point out how loyal she was to Jon. I never heard him talk about how accepting of Jon she was. That may have happened, and I think there were some interviews around s6 in which he said Jon should listen to Sansa, but I didn’t think, putting all shipping aside, he acknowledged what Sansa’s actions (giving Jon a cloak like Ned’s, telling him he’s a Stark to her, wanting him to take the Lord’s chamber, supporting him as KitN...) meant to Jon, and I think that meant the world to show Jon and would mean even more to book Jon.

Even Sophie was guided into some Sansa critical comments at times, so I don’t get offended by that stuff, but it makes me squint because Kit continued to talk about Jon’s honor and honesty in s7-8, even then it looks like he lied to his lords and the Starks about that. So it appears Jon felt like he needed to be honest with Cersei in s7 and Dany in s8 but he didn’t owe that to his family or the people who made him king? Now, obviously, that’s shit writing, Kit isn’t responsible, but why isn’t there recognition of what that means about Jon? And what that means about Sansa’s behavior? The context of Sansa’s behavior is Jon’s, and Jon’s is so so much worse then hers. So, what gives? I don’t like Jon bashing but between Jon and Sansa, Jon is the one who sided with a mass murderer. Why wasn’t that brought into focus?

This is probably what gives me the most concern about a sequel. If he doesn’t look at Jon s7-8 and think “boy, you fucked up.” (and I haven’t heard anything that makes me think that’s how he views things), I can’t see how this show will have anything to say that I want to hear. I remember him saying when they go into KL and the massacre starts that Jon realizes there’s no honor in that fight and that did annoy me because Jon hadn’t had honor all season, not after he lied to his family and forced Sansa to keep a secret she shouldn’t have and refused to listen to any warnings about Dany even though he knew even better than Sansa that all her concerns about Dany were justified, and he then refused to even entertain the idea that Dany needed to be stopped, stood by as Dany burned a man alive, went ahead and dragged his men into KL even thought he knew Dany wouldn’t stop after the bells rang...like, caveat caveat caveat but also wtf wtf wtf.

He spoke about how it broke Jon’s heart to kill Dany, and that’s fine, he has to say what he has to say as part of his job, but what about Jon’s feelings of complicity in the massacre? What about the fact that his choices meant bringing a woman into Sansa’s home (where she had been raped and tortured) who immediately started threatening Sansa’s life? What about his feelings that Ned Stark abandoned his sacred honor and lied to his best friend/committed treason against the king he fought for to protect Jon, only for Jon to side against Ned’s daughters and with a Targaryen conqueror, until the last possible minute? Where is his shame? Where is his guilt?

For book Jon, no matter how fucked up he is post assassination, being embroiled in any of this mess, all I can think of is the self-recrimination he would have and how the kid would never have peace unless the entire time he had remained faithful to the Starks and the North and been serving their interests. Even for show Jon, I found this all untenable. But I never saw anything that made me think Kit felt that way. Hence my misgivings.

#ask dot #jon show

[squeeneyart]

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 28

AO3

Sometimes you lose the argument.

Jon tells the truth.

Jon’s grip stayed firm on Martin’s arm up until they’d reached the stairs to the next floor, his words as scattered as Martin’s thoughts. Martin caught some of his mutterings, things like hospital and unnatural and shit shit shit, but he couldn’t quite follow with how sharp the light stung his eyes and kept him squinting. Without Jon’s guiding hand he would’ve careened right into a wall on his way to wherever he was going.

That hand released him, slow and hesitant, ready to grab onto him if necessary. Did Martin look like he was about to fall over? Despite his muddled senses he stood firm, solid. The cold placed its own sort of ache in his bones, but his eyes didn’t fall shut from exhaustion. If the bloody lights weren’t so bright he would’ve been able to see just fine. He was a normal amount of tired from a long day, the kind of tired that made it hard to focus unless he tried very hard. Whatever Jon was saying, he could piece together later when he wasn’t so cold-

Bathroom. That was where he was supposed to go next. Take a shower, warm up. That would clear his head. Without support he managed to walk up the stairs into the blessed darkness of the upper floor.

Before he made the turn towards the upstairs toilet he glanced down at Jon, but the lights flooded his senses and blocked out whatever movement or expression Jon could’ve been making. Probably the same one he’d had since he found Martin on the steps, a tight sort of concern that Martin didn’t need to see again lest his stomach flip from the guilt. 

He almost didn’t turn the light on. There wasn’t yet a migraine, but the potential of one pushed behind his eyes. Recognizing the hazard he settled on looking away from direct sources of light while stumbling to the shower, shedding his wet clothes. Then hot water hit his back, battering the cold out of his skin. After a time the dim light filtering through the shower curtain ceased to sting, and once dry he dressed in the warmest pyjamas he had on hand. 

In the dark of his bedroom Martin felt that he should cry. Embarrassment alone should’ve done him in. Or fear.

Instead he sifted through his closet for a relatively dust-free duvet and folded it under his arm. He wasn’t particularly cold, but it felt like the right thing to take with him.

When he wandered downstairs, still dazed but able to feel the passage of time, the sound of tap water cut off sharply to his left. Jon burst through the door of the downstairs toilet with wet hair slicked back from his forehead.

It was a good look, all things considered. If Martin was less exhausted he might’ve reprimanded himself for the thought, but he could look around without getting a splitting headache and would take the win.

They stood there for a moment, Jon’s hand still on the door knob. “You… How are you feeling?” His voice pitched up just a little too high at the end, as if to ask Is this a stupid thing to say?

“Um. Fine, I guess,” Martin said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tired, mostly.”

“Tired.” Jon pressed his fingers into his cheek, dragging down the skin under his eye. With a sigh, he said, “Go wait on the couch. I made something quick since clearly neither of us have eaten.”

“Er-”

“And don’t apologize for not making anything. I promise I’m putting in the least amount of effort. Uni level stuff.” Jon walked past him into the kitchen.

“I wasn’t- Right. Okay.”

Martin did what he was told, settling into his side of the couch and resting the duvet squarely in the middle. In a few minutes he was holding a plate of rice and beans with leftover veggies, simple as promised but still good to fill up the stomach. On the other side, Jon set his own plate on the side table and ignored it completely.

“Martin?”

“Hm?” he said, mouth full of food.

“I think your town is cursed.”

Martin choked on some broccoli and reached for the glass of water Jon had set out for him. “That- That seems like a bit of a reach? I know I zoned out a bit, but-”

“One, I would not consider that ‘zoning out’.” Jon looked at him, then frowned and looked ahead as if in embarrassment. “Two, this is definitely bigger than a single building. Case in point, I just spent several hours swimming in circles, past sundown, and only got back through a wall of fog through pure luck.”

Martin’s brows shot up. “Wait, you got lost?”

All at once Jon came into focus. The heavy bags under his eyes, the way he pressed into the back of the couch like all the world’s gravity weight on his limbs, his fingers digging into the fabric underneath like a lifeline. And one of his arms wrapped tight around him in a desperate bid against the cold. 

“When did you leave to- to go out today?” Martin set his plate on his own side table and shoved the duvet closer to Jon. “And throw this on, before you get yourself sick.”

Jon looked to protest, then shut his mouth and reached for the offering. With a languid effort he dragged the duvet across his lap. “Thank you. And sometime after lunch. I’d prepared for a moderate swim, but then the fog rolled in and there was no way to tell which way was which.” 

“Fuck.”

A smile managed to slip its way onto Jon’s face. “Agreed.”

“Well…I appreciate dinner, but it would make me feel better if you ate some of it yourself,” Martin said. 

“I think I’ve looped back to not feeling hungry, but I get your point.” He grabbed the plate and poked at his own meal. Glancing sidelong at Martin, he said “Hope it didn’t seem like I was kidnapped.”

“Can’t say it didn’t cross my mind? But, no, things were too neat and I saw the footprints. It’s not like you have a curfew,” Martin said. He tried to smile, to laugh a little, but it rang hollow. The frown lines only grew deeper on Jon’s face. Martin’s stomach twisted. “Are you… do you want to talk about it?” 

“What else is there to say? I got lost in the fog, then found my way back,” Jon said. With a hard look, turned toward Martin. “I could ask you the same thing. Do you want to talk about what it was you were doing out there? If it wasn’t for everything else I’d have assumed a stroke.”

Wincing, Martin said, “Sorry.”

“That’s not-” Jon rubbed the bridge of his nose, then pinned him with a sincere look. “Okay. What do you remember from your… experience?”

This felt familiar. He could almost hear the tape recorder whirring. “I… I remember coming home. You were gone, so I checked outside and saw the footprints. Then I sat down and just… thought about stuff.” No need to explain further. “Next thing I knew I was sopping wet and you were there shaking me out of it.”

“And you didn’t notice the freezing rain? Without a coat?”

“No,” he said, heat creeping up his neck. He tried a laugh again, with more success. “Guess I can’t bother you about wearing a jacket anymore?”

“I’m sure you’ll slip up and do it anyway.” Jon placed his plate back on the side table, ignoring Martin’s look of disapproval. “But the matter at hand. Your town, something is wrong with it. Or, if the lighthouse is the root cause, it’s not confined to that space.”

“Or to the top of the cliffs.” As if that was a meaningful distinction. Why would some unknowable force stop at a legal boundary? Yet he’d felt safer with the distance. “What can we do, then? I can’t say for certain what happened, but you-”

“Returned in spite of the weather making a hard case against me. Might have to let it win the argument and stay inside for the time being.” Jon squeezed his eyes shut, letting his head drop against the back of the couch. 

Something sank in Martin’s chest. “I don’t think- I mean, wouldn’t it be the other way around?”

Jon’s brows scrunched together, eyes still closed. “How so?”

Shit. Okay, well, he was doing this now, notes be damned. Taking a break and staring hard at the wall ahead, he began, “I mean… Well, if there’s weird stuff going on, wouldn’t it make more sense to get ahead of it rather than-”

Jon warned, “Martin-”

“I mean it!” Martin said rather forcefully. He sighed and lowered his voice. “If there’s some sort of weird line of fog that makes it hard to get into town from the sea, maybe it works the other way and could stop you from leaving. You’d end up stuck, right? Stuck where someone like Peter could find you, where he might be looking for you under Elias’ orders right now.”

There, opening arguments. It hadn’t been too difficult. But when he finally chanced a look, he was met with such a look of stubborn indignation that he recoiled. 

With some great amount of restraint, Jon breathed out and said stiffly, “The concern is appreciated, but I’m not going anywhere.”

He tried to choke out a “But-”

“That’s the end of it. If I have to avoid the water for a while longer it’ll honestly be a blessing. Besides, the way I found you-”

“You shouldn’t force yourself to stay here for my sake. Or anyone else. I know, I know, you promised, but that was before Elias tried to- It’s not fair for you to be stuck here when-”

A hand landed firmly on Martin’s arm, gripping him just below the elbow and stopping his tongue. With an insistent tug Jon spat, “I’m not stuck here.”

Despite all of the reasons Jon was horribly wrong, Martin wanted to forfeit then and there. Of course Jon was stuck there. No one could want to be in that house, in that bleak little town with nowhere to go. Jon was either lying to himself or trying to make Martin feel better or both, and Martin wanted it to work. 

So he kept his mouth shut and let Jon talk.

“I’m also not the only person putting himself at risk being here,” Jon continued, relaxing his grip and bringing his voice down to that softer register that made Martin squirm. “I hope you understand that by now.”

“Of course I do,” Martin muttered. “Even if I’m a bystander in some weird scheme, something’s… happening. To me. Has been, I think, for a while now.”

A sudden rush of pain ran up his chest and throat, but he greeted it only with a clench to his jaw. Saying it aloud was no great relief.

Martin kept on, swallowing hard. “But it’s not your responsibility to fix it.”

“I…” Jon removed his hand, leaving a cold space on Martin’s skin. He threaded his fingers together. “I’m not going to lie to you, or make more promises I can’t keep. Whatever is happening in this place, I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Then why not go?”

“Because I’m not dying to wander around in the abyss?” Jon said, clearly more spiteful than he’d intended. He breathed in through his nose, a calm, centering act, but something cracked in his expression. “Martin, I… don’t have a good answer for you. I want to believe I can be of more use here, but if I’m being honest, the research side of things has not been going well.”

Martin frowned. “That’s not your fault? I mean, you… you don’t have a lot to work with.”

“But with years of experience I should be able to come up with something.” Jon gestured in front of him sharply, empty air between his hands. “But all I found were useless documentaries better suited for- for social time than facing down a supernatural threat. And now that I’ve decided to use my one remaining ability, that’s blocked off as well.”

“What, swimming?” Martin asked. “I mean, you can do that still-”

“But I can’t make my way back freely, not for sure. What’s the point of any of it if I get lost?”

Wherever the thread was, Martin had certainly lost it. “Isn’t the point to be out there? You know, in the sea? Get out of the house?” 

“Not if I can’t keep track of where I’ve been.” Jon clenched his jaw as if holding words back, but it didn’t last long. “I’m not just swimming for the fun of it. I have a purpose.”

Deep down in Martin’s chest a hollow pit opened, and he refused to ask the obvious question for fear of it being answered. But Jon was very good at filling the space.

“It wasn’t something I wanted to bring up until I had concrete results, but I thought… I thought since it hadn’t been long since she departed, that I could find your mother and- and speak with her. Like I’d planned to.”

Martin deflated then. He slumped against his armrest and muttered, “My mum?”

Jon put his hands in front of himself in a placating gesture. “I thought if I could speak to her, that maybe she could help me- help us understand-”

Hands shaking, Martin folded them on his lap. “So that’s still the plan?” he asked, pushing through the pain in his throat. 

“Yes, I… I’m sorry. I know what you said, family business, but you can’t go out there and I can, so I thought…”

A wave of calm came over Martin, soothing the panicked buzzing of his mind. “Jon.” 

Like a child caught in the act of stealing from the kitchen, Jon shrunk back. “Martin?”

“Jon, she’s been gone for days. You’re not going to find her if you end up looping back here after a few hours.”

Jon’s shoulders sank. “But if she-”

“I know my mum, Jon,” Martin said, folding his arms and sliding down a little in his seat. “If you’re looking for answers or information on where she’s gone off to, you won’t find it by staying here.”

With no response from his right, Martin sighed. He looked ahead at the television and felt a pang of petty satisfaction above the disappointment. Jon had come there looking to speak to Martin’s mother, and that goal hadn’t changed. The argument was won. 

And then he heard Jon laugh, humorless and muffled. Martin glanced over and saw Jon, running his hands up and down his face. Too tired to question the fit, Martin sat and waited for the other man to concede.

“Then what else can I do?” He asked. The word lost again came to mind. “If I can’t find her, then how do I fix this?”

With a renewed confusion Martin looked to the side and was met with eyes that begged for an answer. But there was nothing he could give.

Jon looked at him sharply, jaw clenched as if keeping words at bay. “Don’t give me that look. You know what I mean. It’s been written all over your face since you found my coat in that closet.”

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stumbled through the lie and knew it couldn’t be saved.

“Yes you do, Martin.” A wet lock of hair swung down onto his forehead as he spoke. “At first I thought it was in response to me, my behavior, my squirreling it away. I thought that if I could keep my coat around more often, try to push past my own anxieties about it being seen, that I could prove my trust in you. But I know now that it’s not enough, so I’ve been swimming out to the middle of nowhere to- to fix things. To get answers, understanding, closure. To get us back to where we were before everything went to absolute shit.”

For the first time that evening, Martin heard the rain tapping on the window panes as it filled the thick, awful silence. He wanted to be angry, to spit out nonsense about privacy and family business, but instead in front of him sat a good guy who desperately wanted to help and kept being blocked off at every turn. 

He thought he had done the bare minimum of keeping up appearances, keeping his stupid emotions contained. He was supposed to be better at lying. And all Jon got was a housemate who plotted to get him out of his hair as soon as possible. Jon had been going out on his account all because he thought Martin… hated him? Resented him? 

Did he?

“I-I didn’t realize.” He should’ve known better than to open his mouth, but there had to be a way to turn things around. “You… shouldn’t go looking for her, unless it’s for yourself. Anything she had for me, she left behind. It’s done.”

His voice didn’t crack once under the strain on his throat. In the moment he was proud of himself for not flinching.

Another laugh, sudden and full of relief. “Okay.”

Here it was, after all this talking in circles. After his hours of pointless plotting, this was the part he knew he could handle. 

“I won’t, then.”

And in his utter lack of preparation for this, Martin could only sputter out another ridiculous, “But-”

Jon gripped Martin’s shoulder, and for the first time that night he looked awake. “Listen to me. Your mother… she had every right to do what she did. And you, you did everything right, and you didn’t deserve to get hurt, but you did get hurt and I’m sorry.” 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit-

“And you’re right. I won’t find her if I stay here. She’s out there, the one person who might be able to give me a sense of direction about myself, and here I am going out for a few hours each day and then running back here to sleep on your couch. I take up space, trying and failing to make myself useful but unwilling to do the hard part.” Near the end was an almost hysterical lilt to his speech, laughter bubbling up through his words. He leaned forward and butted the top of his head into Martin’s shoulder. “In all respects I’ve failed to make things better.”

Frozen, confused, and unable to voice his disagreement, Martin begged that by some grace Jon wouldn’t feel the thundering of his heart.

Jon sat up and snatched Martin’s gaze, speaking faster as he went on. “I’ve been flailing about trying to keep my promises when I can’t, and I threw myself into the sea hoping that maybe I could find something to give you closure, to make things hurt less, to salvage whatever goodwill you had for me before I left you to deal with things on your own. At this point I’m banking on Sasha and Tim to swoop in with a plan because I certainly don’t have one.” 

All this man did was try and try and try-

“So with all avenues of being helpful closed off, the only argument I have left for staying is that I want to.”

Mouth twitching at the corners, up or down Martin couldn’t tell, Jon lifted a shaking hand toward Martin’s face. Martin leaned into it without thinking, without saying a thing through the fire in his ribs. Why bother when one sentence beat him so thoroughly?

So he melted into the hand that held him, dipping his head forward, and Jon met him in the motion, pressing his mouth to Martin’s and eliciting an embarrassing squeak. Pulling back, Jon looked for something in Martin’s face with such a painfully hopeful expression that Martin was ready to toss his whole book of notes into the sea, all evidence of his crime destroyed in the spray.

Whatever Jon was looking for he found and surged forward to take. He pressed Martin into the armrest, threading fingers through still-wet hair and bracing an elbow against the couch cushion while he made himself familiar with Martin’s mouth. It was already enough to make Martin dizzy, and he placed a hand on the back of Jon’s neck to regain some semblance of control, of balance, brushing his fingers against the soft ends of his hair.

For a moment Jon broke off the kiss, adjusting his bony legs so they weren’t digging right into Martin’s thighs, and then diving back down to resume his business of driving Martin absolutely mad. He grabbed Martin’s free arm and dragged it behind him until Martin got the hint and wrapped it around Jon’s waist, then pressed kisses to the corner of his mouth, brushing his way up the line of stubble right to his ear and finally pausing against Martin’s cheek. 

“So I, ah-” Jon’s voice was giddiness laced with nerves, breath hot against Martin’s skin. “I hope this is a good enough excuse?”

Unable to get a single word out of his stupid throat, Martin nodded.

“Good,” and he took Martin’s lips again, slower this time, lifting both hands to hold Martin’s face nice and still. A sigh of satisfaction escaped him, slipping into Martin’s mouth and down into his ribcage. 

It was unfair, seeing up close how long Jon’s lashes were, how deep and dark his eyes. It was unfair for this to happen now of all times, when things already felt so temporary. Unfair, unfair, his mind cried as the rest of him happily surrendered all of his arguments of safety and sense. He was being kissed, and kissed well, by someone who knew better than he did.

Jon pulled away again after a few minutes of deliberately slow kisses that had Martin close to whining. “I mean this in the most innocent way possible, but would you mind if we moved from the couch to your room? For my back’s sake?”

“W-what?” Martin said, breathlessly. He laughed without thinking. “Was that the plan, kiss me into submission and then steal my bed?”

With a paper-thin glare Jon kissed him again and bumped their foreheads together. “It’s not stealing if we’re both there.”

Martin opened his mouth to reply and found nothing at all. He simply couldn’t keep up and had lost grip of the situation several minutes ago. “Um-”

“Sorry, too much?’ 

Jon pulled back and Martin could look at him properly. The man looked a mess, an incredibly endearing mess with a worried forehead that Martin wanted to smooth out as soon as possible. 

Oh. Oh, fuck it. “No, no, that’s… fine. If you want? It’s not that big.”

That got a smile. Jon went limp against Martin’s chest, squeezing him around his middle. “As long as you’re fine with my bony elbows getting in the way.”

Martin leaned his head back and looked up at the ceiling, chest burning, dizzy and confused. His tongue moved on its own with the familiar eb-and-flow of their evenings. “And all of my warmth being stolen?” 

“Naturally. As everyone loves to remind me, I need to be better equipped for the cold.” As Jon leaned in again, his stomach loudly protested and he froze. “Hm.”

Martin forced them both upright, half-heartedly untangling their limbs. “You also need to eat something.” And he needed time for his face to regain its normal color.

Rolling his eyes, Jon reached for his plate while moving as little as possible from his new spot on the couch. “Trading one scolding for another, then?” He was clearly going for deadpan but was too tired to stop the grin from spreading across his face.

“Shut up and eat your beans.” 

He did, quite comfortably in his newly-acquired space against Martin’s side. Quickly, too, as both found their appetites much easier to wrangle after that unprecedented level of emotional honesty. Perhaps too quickly. Once they were both fed Martin stood up and stretched without much thought at all, then turned to see Jon reaching out a hand.

So he pulled Jon up, letting out a small ‘oof’ when Jon leaned into him like it was wholly normal for him to do so. And he supposed it was if he chose to see it that way.

Martin could’ve felt something more like embarrassment, or bashfulness, but he was tired, and 29 years old, and it was easy to follow Jon’s lead in skipping to the part where they’d always been like this.

By the time they collapsed onto the bed, run ragged from forces unknowable, it was no surprise when Jon threw a skinny arm around Martin’s torso and immediately fell asleep, Martin not far behind.

--

Alternative spoiler synopsis:

#breathe in the salt #tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #fanfic #selkie au

[pooks]

so i'm on a Callum being happily adopted brainrot and the WTSE au gives such cute scenarios, so here is my hot takes aka imaginations

first off: Cecil

Cecil is the first one Callum learns to trust. first off, Cecil saved Cal when they first met. which is the disasterous intern job interview and Callum fainted because he was nearly starving to death (he had previously on, since his arrival to night vale, been living on granola bars until he ran out for a half week ago). Cecil just decided "nope, this poor boy needs help", took him home and him along with Carlos, Jon and Martin nursed Cal back to health. and then he got attached.

it also helps that Cal has purple eyes (a permanent result from the apocalypse) which Cecil instantly took as a sign that Cal was destinted to come to Night Vale (don't ask why, cause no one understands how Cecil reasons with that)

oh and let's not forget Callum have still untreated trauma from the whole Maxwell Rayner and the dark business, which made him lash out during the apocalypse. now, Cal refuses to stay in any room/place where he can't see anything, he has a crippling fear of the dark now for two reasons.

1, he was traumatized. he's genuinely scared of what hides in the dark. 2. he's scared of relapsing into a monster again.

avoiding the dark isn't an easy thing in Night Vale, but then Cecil gives him a night light (it's a really cute one, it projects space images) so Cal can sleep at nights. it also comforts him and makes him feel safe. Callum nearly cries because he can't remember the last time any adult has cared for him like this. then Cecil decided "yeah i'm adopting this lil lad".

next up: Martin

we all know that Martin has excellent skills in caretaking, so taking care of Callum wasn't a hard job for him. i mean, this funky ex-archival assistant succeeded in taking care of Jon and that says something.

Martin re-meets Callum when he's starving and sick, so naturally Martin took charge of nursing him back to health. he made extra sure that Cal wouldn't throw up because he ate too much and Martin knows well enough that you can't just give a big plate of food for a kid who's starving, that will result in diarrhea and abdominal pain. so he cooks gentle food, in small plates and works up Cal's appetite in a slow pace, but it works. he also makes sure Callum hydrates with water and takes him out for small walks, so he can get some exercise.

none of they haven't exactly forgotten about the apocalypse or night street, but Cal hates thinking about it and Martin is respectful of his boundaries. until Cal breaks down about it and reveals he never really intended to become a bully in the apocalypse.

we then get the full story from Callum. post-kidnapping and pre-apocalypse, Callum was bullied by his peers relentlessly for being scared of small spaces and the dark. he was traumatized and he got no therapy, nothing. and when the apocalypse hits, he just snaps and turned on the table of his bullies, letting them experience what he felt. it just kept going on, towards innocent kids because being an avatar and using fear powers was like a drug, it was impossible for Callum to stop, even if he wanted to.

maybe Martin don't fully understand what Cal feels because he doesn't have his experience, but he is here for Cal if he needs it.

third up: Carlos

Carlos takes on a more mentor role to Cal. he manages to capture his interest in science and he teachers Callum what to expect of Night Vale

it also turns out Callum has a hidden interest in science, so he listens eagerly when Carlos goes into science infodumps and just drinks in the information. as expected, Carlos is very excited to have a young little science buddy and encourages him to chase his interests. they also bond a little over music (especially iconic 80s music)

Carlos also made a map for Cal when he felt ready to explore Night Vale on his own, so he won't get lost and a phone so he can call them, if he needs anything.

something that Callum never agreed on, but begrudgingly accepts is Carlos has "adorable" nicknames for him. Cal is the type to pretend he don't like cute nicknames from parents, but he totally likes it. and like Martin, Carlos gives great hugs.

last one...Jon

there was too much friction between Cal and Jon. they recognized too many similarities. both are traumatized by eldritch horror powers at young age, they both reacted differently to it.

Callum is reluctant about listening to Jon at anytime, Jon feels constantly irritated over how rude Cal is. his reasons why he doesn't open up to Jon are unknown until he reveals how he knew Jon was coming to Night Street

turns out, Helen had been riding around with its yellow door and telling all avatars that the Archivist was coming to smite all. imagine you are a thirteen year old, you are a new avatar and ruling your own place in darkness. then you get told that the Archivist, practically the lord of the apocalypse and the anti-christ, is coming to your house and will possibly kill you. hence Cal being very on edge and defensive.

what Jon and Callum needed was to sit down and actually talk to each other about this. while it didn't began great, it ended with Jon embracing Cal, comforting him with unconditional love like a true parent.

afterwards from this point, Jon and Cal has a very warm parent-child relationship, even when Cal tries to be a rebellious teenager and tests the rules. Jon is the one who enforces rules and curfew for their teen son, especially when he starts to date (which he argued 14 was too early to date and Cal responded by slamming doors)

but they have soft moments, like when Jon suffers from post-partum depression. Cal sees this and while he don't have any more wikipedia to get advice (damn it Sheriff's Secret Police, he just wants to help his dad), he does little things to cheer him up. like cooking and bringing breakfast in bed,

bottom line? Callum loves all his new dads unconditionally, because they were the first adults who actually listened to him. it was a team effort, but Jon, Cecil, Carlos and Martin gave exactly what a traumatized kid needs; unconditional love, support, comfort and protection.

i care them so much... 🥰🥰

(i don't own anything. the WTSE au belongs to @sm0kebreaks @kerink and game-warden)

#tma #wtnv #wtse #the magnus archives #welcome to night vale #welcome to somewhere else #callum brodie #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #cecil gershwin palmer #carlos the scientist

[voidselfshipp]

Happily Ever Afters In The Apocalypse

Cw: none that im aware of.

->Only mutuals allowed to reblog.

Summary: walking through the barren,demolished Lands of the apocalypse, Martin asks for something to lighten up the mood,jerico has just the thing.

[Happends after the tape recording of episode 167]

The three of them Walked along that barren,sullied earth where the clouds looked like eyes and the air was thick with iron.

In all this disaster,They still found comfort amongst eachother. Jerico seemed the one  to have the most optimism of the three,either by her natural sunny disposition or otherwise.

--So...jer-- says Martin,looking at the earth he steps on-- since Jon made this whole monologue about gertrude...can you tell us a story?

Jerico lets out a soft "hmph" filled with pride. she was,after all, a being of stories-- absolutely-- she answers,hands in her pockets of her beaten up jeans,heavy boots sinking slightly on the soft earth,though no tracks are left in her wake.-- what kind?

Thats when he looks away, a little flustered. Suddenly very aware of how childish hes request sounded.

--Ah youre going to think its silly-- he says,the corner of his eye catching how her teal scarf,draped Across her shoulders and held to her person with an old clasp made of gold, flailed with the wind

Then a brief silence, a clear signal that Martin had forgotten once again that Jer wouldnt judge him. Still,she talks

--Nonsense-- She reassured with a smile.-- what kind?

--The kind that has....a happy ending?--He was prepared to hear Jon scoff, but he doesnt,clearly in need of some good vibes.

She smiles,still warm as the sun they have seldomed in apocalypse-- of those I know a plenty. Anything specific?

And its Jon who catches them off guard with a most out of character response-- romantic--Both turn to look at him in surprise-- what?! You two cant judge me for it

Jer only shook her head between chuckles-- surprised me,thats all

--Youre not the most romantic person-- Martin agreed-- we love you for it though

--Yeah yeah,thank you-- the archivist dismissed with his face a Darker color than before-- let the Lady talk

--Well, here goes--Jerico says,excitement bubbling up in her chest,rubbing her hands together.

Her childlike joy is a nice change of pace for both of them,which helps them relax and ease into the story as the air still smells of iron and desolation.

--Once upon a time there were two sailors-- she starts, her palm raising to her chest to show the image of two sailors made of water without any visible characteristic other than one of them had short hair and the other long hair-- they worked at the same ship, the name long lost to the ages.

They worked hard to Keep the ship afloat,both were dedicated and passionate but different in their own ways.

One had long hair and beautiful green eyes, sharpest mind and witt. The other had short hair and deep brown eyes, of the Kindest heart of the most purest gold, that guided hin like a compass.

Despite the fact that their ways of keeping the clear difference in their methods. But both were bound by a deep love,one they hadnt realized was there for the time being.

The night that would change their lives was much like any other,cloudy skies, gloomy... it was boring,not much to see or do other than check that the ship,now Docked,didnt float away.

But again, it was a boring unremarkable night,so they both went to sleep.

Yet when they awoke, they found themselves in the middle of the Ocean .

Jericos palm shows a small old timey boat lost in the middle of an Ocean that encompases her whole hand

-- the two sailors bickered over whose fault was it.  "Didnt you moore the ship properly?" The one with the long hair asked, bitter indignation in his lips-- they notice jer changes her voice for the dialogues,which is just the level of dramaticisim they expected from her-- "of course I did, didnt you drop the anchor?!" The one with the black hair protested.

Amongst their bicering over the sea breeze, they hear a soft gentle melody being hummed, they follow it with their eyes to a faraway island that looked more like a dot on the horizon than anything else

But,it was a destination.

So our intrepid sailors put the mast on full sail, the wind pushing them to the ever faraway island. With hope in their hearts of returning home.

Jer makes water hang above the small ship on her palm, it takes the form of a small moon and stars. Martín smiles with that same childish delight and Jon seems to relax in his posture,walking a little slower to Keep up with the story

--during the night,when they couldnt sleep for fear of floating away, they would hear that same melody that originally guided their eyes to see the island that they were heading towards.

Now closer to It, the melody was louder,not enough to discern words but louder.

They'd spend the whole night discussing what the source was, "an opera singer?" Wondered the sailor with the long hair and the Smart green eyes

"Or a choir?" The sailor with the warm brown eyes said.

By the time they reached the conclusion of it being a siren or anything of the supernatual,they'd both chuckle and find something to busy themselves with,all the while accompanied by that sweet melody

Then,the small moon and stars turn into a small heavy rainstorm. The small boat rocks widly in the sea and even if both men were promised a happy ending,they both stared intently at the fake ship.

Jerico laughs and continued her story-- one night, a storm loomed over the ship. A strong,raging one with the fury of the water goddess herself, but being so low staffed,the ship crashes into the rocky  archipelagos that lined that mysterious island they headed towards.

Both sailors managed to hold eachother as they fell into the black,unforgiving sea..-- her hand covers her little water mademiniature, crushing the boat.

--Now Hold on a minute!--Martin protested with his pointer finger up-- I was promised a happy ending!

--Yes! Thats nothing close to it!--Jon said-- we dont know what the island is or who was singing!

Jerico is in a fit of hysterical laughter at their demeanor,its as if the world hadnt ended at all-- Well if you dont shut up and let me finish....!-- she exclaimed,trailing off to drive the point home.

--Fine fine,get on with it-- Martin complains-- dont take too long

--Good stories take their time....-- she answers.

--Time isnt really a thing anymore so...--Jon adds, obviously insisting to speed things up.

--fine fine-- she rolls her eyes-- the long haired sailor woke up within a cavern,decorated with gold and jewelry,glinting Stones that refracted the lights from the small torches.

He finds himself alone,but that melody hangs in the air, the words are a little fuzzy but theres two voices singing them,one female and one male

Our sailor ran to the source of the singing,he knew that male voice very well for he had spoken with its owner for Many days and nights...

There at the entrance of the cavern sat his jolly companion, singing with a most beautiful woman,half of her body hid underneath the ebbing shore.

For a moment the world doesnt exist to our long haired sailor, his eyes fixated on his sweet companion. He hugs his comrade and holds him to his chest,and he gets his gesture returned.

His friend of the black hair and soft eyes tells him that this mysterious woman is the source of that singing theyve heard,and that she rescued them.

"So you see,the gods are laughing at us" said the black haired man" our savior is..."

--a siren!-- Jon exclaimed,obviously invested.

Jer smirked-- yes, a siren -- she fixes her teal scarf and pushes away some of the hairs falling on her face-- to thank the kind siren, they would return each year with gifts, and they'd spend days together,catching up.

And the siren,of beautiful porcelain skin and agile green eyes, noticed the fondness of the sailors for eachother. She yearned for both of the sailors love and touch

So on one of their visits,she confessed that she had Fallen for them harder than any anchor could ever fall for the Ocean. She wept her mother of pearl tears and Begged for them to understand

The sailors had,funnily enough,fallen for the siren. And this point of connection led both sea men to finally admit their feelings for eachother,but deep down they both felt like they already knew.

And so, when the sailors retired,they went to live with their siren lover,and lived happily ever after

--Thats actually really cute-- Said Martin,taking Jers hand.

--yes,its a nice change of air-- Agreed Jon,taking Jericos arm-- thank you

Jerico smirked with that playfullness she always had when she pulled a sneaky trick. In her head she counts the moment until they realize what she had done.

--WAIT A GODDAMN MINUTE-- Martin yells-- THAT STORY WAS ABOUT US,WASNT IT?

--ding ding ding! Weee got a winner!--she exclaimed,feeling very proud of herself.

--How didnt I realize That?!--Jon whined.

--Surprises me that you didnt put that together sooner,Jon-- She admitted with a smirk.

--I...do gotta admit it was nice not knowing the end of something...

Jer smiles--good, im happy it helped

Martin walks closer to her,hugging her waist with one arm--so If this story is about us...do you think we'll get a happy ending?

The eldritch being nodded,pulling Jon for a hug too-- Absolutely, ill make sure we do. After all,stories with a happy ending are my favorite-- she gives them both a loving look with her beautiful green eyes-- and I Belive there is no other way to close this odessy of ours but "and they lived happily ever after".

Jon allowed himself a moment of hope and clung on to his lovers words,so did Martin.

There was no other way to end their story than "And they lived happily ever after".

#tma s/I #martin tag pending #jon tag pending

[ferni-mothofprophecy]

DISTORTED THREADS

Chapter 4

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Character Designs

Ao3 Link

Today was an important day.

This was because, if Martin remembered correctly, it was the day Jon had asked him to follow up on Carlos Vittery’s statement.

Everyone slowly filed into the archives that morning and work began. Martin was on edge most of the day. He felt it was certainly natural to be, considering this was the first big step he had taken towards steering the future down a different path. Jon would ask him to investigate the statement, he would pack a ton of fire extinguishers and then kill Jane Prentiss before any harm could be done. He would retreat back to his old flat (still stocked up with fire extinguishers) for the night, just in case Prentiss hadn’t been killed on the first attempt. That way she wouldn’t need to be anywhere near the archives. That reminded him, he should go down the tunnels at some point. Leitner was still alive, and probably had some use, even though he detested the man.

Sasha interrupted his thoughts.

“What’s everyone’s favourite animals?” She asked, “I’m thinking of putting up a calendar in the archives to mark important dates on and thought we should get one with cute animal pictures.”

“I like cows,” Martin said, thinking back to the time he had spent with Jon in the safe-house.

“Particularly fluffy northern ones.”

The door to Jon’s office creaked open and he strutted into the archives.

“What’re you all talking about?” He asked.

“Sasha’s getting an archive calendar and wanted to know what types of animals we all like for it,” Martin answered, “I said cows.”

He watched Jon’s face carefully. Not a flicker of recognition crossed it. Martin sighed, the last hopes that Jon might have come back with him fading.

“I think cows are a great idea!” Sasha smiled, “I personally happen to like them a lot too.”

“I like the ones with the curly horns,” Tim added.

“Cows sound acceptable,” Jon nodded, “However I am here to request follow up on a statement, not make idle chatter about cows.”

Martin drew in a breath, here it came.

“Here’s the statement,” Jon said, passing a completely unfamiliar statement to him. Martin stared at it.

“Are you sure this is the statement you want me to investigate?” Martin asked.

“Yes, why?” Jon said curiously.

“Nothing,” Martin said, taking the statement from Jon. He hadn’t meant to mess up the timeline this much already. He theorised that fact Jon had a better opinion of him had led to him not wanting Martin in as much danger, or something like that. There were too many possibilities to be certain.

It didn’t matter in the long run that Jon hadn’t given him the statement though. It would’ve given him a valid excuse to be at the house but he could still go there. There was no reason anyone else would be there. The whole reason he had been trapped in his flat before was because they didn’t know what he had found or if he was in danger.

Martin went back to his desk to look at the statement. It was obviously a fake one: something about a man being stalked by killer watermelon. Not the usual style of the entities.

He sighed and put it to one side, planning to go into the small archive kitchen to make tea.

“Any tea requests?” He called out.

“Ooh yes please,” Sasha smiled.

“I’ll have some too Marto,” Tim said, “Thank you!”

Jon briefly poked his head out of his office to ask for some as well and Martin headed for the kitchen. He had mastered what seemed to be Jon’s favourite tea at this point in time a couple of days after what Tim had been referring to as the ‘terrible tea tragedy’ and had been bringing Jon tea every day since. He knew Jon enjoyed it.

He opened the kitchen door.

A tall figure with long blond hair was pouring steaming water from a kettle into a teacup patterned with pretty flowers.

“Michael?” Martin asked incredulously.

“Oh hello,” Michael said, his laugh echoing around the small room, “You must be one of the assistants!”

“What are you doing in the archives?” Martin gritted his teeth, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Am I not allowed to go where I please?” Michael asked with a giggle, “I’m sure the Archivist wouldn’t mind.”

“Shall I go get him then?” Martin asked coldly.

Michael’s laugh increased in pitch and volume, as if Martin had said the funniest thing in the world.

It was starting to give him a headache.

“There will be no need for that!” Michael said, draining the cup in one gulp.

“I’m just leaving.”

A door appeared on the far wall.

“Wait,” Martin said, “Why have you been hanging around the archives. I saw one of your doors the other day.”

“Maybe I’m interested in what’s in the archives?” Michael took a bite of the teacup, sharp teeth effortlessly shearing through the ceramic. Martin winced. He had liked that cup.

Martin sighed.

“I’ll let you off this time but if I see you around here again I’ll have to report you to Jon.”

“Oh is the he the one you call Archivist?” Michael laughed. It set the half eaten teacup down on the table and waved at Martin with a long fingered hand, then open its door and disappeared through it. The door closed as soon as he had left.

Martin was confused, but that was probably Michael’s aim. He picked up the now unusable teacup and stared at it.

He had been making tea so he put the kettle on and set out three new teacups. He put Michael’s one in the dishwasher, maybe he could repair it later.

****

Martin had rented a van.

He hadn’t intended to originally but he couldn’t be too stingy with the amount of fire extinguishers he took with him to kill Prentiss. 15 should be enough? Perhaps overkill, but perhaps not. He had another 10 stashed at his flat and 5 in his room in the archives just in case.

He ran through his plan once again. Turn up at Carlos Vittery’s house and enter his basement. Then find Jane Prentiss (he was hoping that she would still be there, he didn’t think he had scrambled the timeline that much) and then douse her and her worms with fire extinguishers. Then he would make sure every part of her was dead, scoop some of the lifeless worms into a jar and then retreat to his flat, where he would spend the night waiting with his fire extinguishers to see if she arose and came for him. If she didn’t, he would assume the matter was sorted and deliver the jar of worms to Jon with an, admittedly abridged, version of what had happened.

After that it should be several months before anything happened that required him to intervene and he could get a rest.

A rest.

When had he last had a time where nothing bad was going to happen? A long while ago, or, he supposed, a little while in the future.

He finished loading the fire extinguishers into the van and climbed into the drivers seat, starting the journey to Carlos Vittery’s house.

It was easier to get in than expected. He knew where the window was so it was just a matter of unloading his fire extinguishers and climbing in with them.

It was pretty dark inside, but the natural kind. He flicked on the torch he had brought with him and looked around.

The ground was littered with worms, but they were very dead. There was no sign of Jane Prentiss other than the worm corpses.

He scanned the area. Nothing. No one was there.

A clatter behind him made him spin around. He pulled the trigger on the fire extinguisher and it sprayed a stream of gas into the face of-

“Sasha?!” Martin exclaimed, shutting off the fire extinguisher, “Oh I am so sorry, are you okay?”

“Just peachy,” Sasha said between coughs, “What are you doing here?”

“Following up on a statement,” Martin said, “It was like this when I found it.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Why are you here?”

Sasha was looking at him weirdly.

“That isn’t why you’re here.”

Martin felt a wave of cold rush over him.

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you here?” Sasha asked.

Martin felt static build up in his throat and he startled.

“I was planning to kill Jane Prentiss here because last time Jon sent me to investigate Carlos Vittery’s statement I got trapped in my flat for a week and I don’t want that to happen again so I bought a ton of fire extinguishers and rented a truck and I’m going to kill Jane Prentiss now instead so she doesn’t trap me again.”

He took a deep breath and stared at Sasha. Fuck, he hadn’t meant to say that. He recognised the static feeling.

“What’s going on?”

“You came back from the future as well,” Sasha stated simply. It wasn’t a question, she already Knew the answer.

“As well?” Martin asked, then gasped, “Wait you too?!”

He thought a moment, “And how do you have Eye powers?”

Sasha blinked.

“Why would I not?”

Martin waved his hands around, “As far as I know, you had pretty much nothing to do with the eye before you died apart from being an assistant, and yet here you are, as what seems like a full blown avatar.”

Sasha’s eyes narrowed, “Assistant?”

She sighed.

“Martin, could I look into your mind to see what’s going on?”

“Thank you for asking,” Martin said, “and I guess you could. As long as you explain yourself afterwards.”

The static sound around them increased to an almost unbearable amount and then suddenly lifted.

“We came back from different dimensions,” Sasha said simply.

“That. That makes sense,” Martin said. The idea of dimensional travel didn’t seem like that much after both time travel and everything he had seen in the eyepocalypse.

“So what happened in your dimension?” Martin asked, “considering you already know what happened in mine. Who are, no, who were you?”

“I think you’ve already guessed,” Sasha smiled sadly, “I’m going to make a statement, it should be easier that way.”

She took a deep breath.

“Statement of Sasha James, The Archivist.”

#tma #ferni.scribbles #distorted threads au #tma au #tma fic #martin blackwood #jon sims #sasha james #tim stoker

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

I Prefer My Heart To Be Broken, Chapter Nine: Blood

Some tough realizations. The choice to address trauma. A much needed shower.

AO3 | Playlist | Masterpost

-----

CHAPTER NINE: BLOOD

While John reads, Martin cleans Jon’s blood.

He cries a little; tries to keep it quiet, and is grateful Arthur doesn’t offer to help, or say anything about it.

Jon. Jon, going through that.

Jon, weeping, naked, misery etched in every angle.

Jon, silently screaming, curled on the floor and seizing like he’s being electrocuted.

And part of the thing responsible for it is sitting in the living room.

Part of the King in Yellow, inside this blind man. Part of the King in Yellow, naming himself John. Part of the King in Yellow, finding redemption.

The whole situation is….

Martin doesn’t have words for it, but thinks maybe it would help him if he found some. He finishes cleaning the blood, finally sets the blood-stained sheets and Jon’s clothes to soak, takes his own shower, then finally reaches for his notebook.

Here, the blind man who guides me now Through painful memories, incomplete Toward him who fills my heart with much Too much to say—too big a feat

There, my Sighted man I need Who never meant me to betray Who loves and is loved in return We never said what we should say

He sighs at it. “It’s not even going anywhere,” he mutters.

“What?” says Arthur.

“Sorry. Trying to write. Poetry.”

“Oh! I like poetry,” says Arthur. “I—sorry, John.” He turns his face back to the book. “My favorite has to be Invictus, by Will Henley.”

“Yeah, that tracks,” says Martin. “‘Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody, but unbowed.’”

“‘Beyond this place of wrath and tears looms but the horror of the shade, and yet the menace of the years finds and shall find me unafraid,’” Arthur says in a low, fervent murmur, like a prayer. “‘It matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll—’”

“‘I am the master of my fate,’” Martin whispers. “‘I am the captain of my soul.’”

Now, I come, and find myself changed Revealed—my hidden hardness shown I love, I take, I demand more Last shreds of protest long gone, flown

He sighs. “Even bad poetry is very revealing.”

“That’s why I love it so much,” says Arthur. “Truthfully, it’s poetry that got me into music, rather than the other way around.”

“You said you were a musician?”

“I was. Then… something happened, and I couldn’t do it anymore. So now I’m a private investigator.”

“That’s a leap. At least it explains your brilliant ‘simple deduction.’”

Arthur goes red. “Anyone could have figured that out, honestly.”

“It would’ve taken me a lot longer.” Martin starts pacing. “Shower’s clean, whenever you want—though the electricity cuts off in another couple of hours, so I’d say go now, or the water will be cold.”

“Like a blackout?”

Martin pauses. “Not like wartime, no. It just shuts off. I think maybe it has something to do with the strict control the King has in this place—everybody goes to bed at the same time. No need for power if you’re all obediently asleep.”

“Like they’re children,” Arthur murmurs.

“Worse. Jon said it’s like half of them is missing. Nobody can be unhappy, but they can’t really be happy, either.” They’d seemed happy to him. At least, until everything about Elise came out.

“Are you sure they didn’t have an apocalypse here?” says Arthur. “Because this sounds like hell to me.” Then he pauses. “Very funny.”

Martin is getting better at knowing when Arthur is talking to Doe. “What’s funny?”

“Oh, he's just being clever and asking what the crime rate is.”

“It… there isn’t any.”

“None?” Arthur looks surprised. “Sorry, sorry.” And turns back to the book.

“Yeah. None. Of course, they also murder anyone who’s too smart, and it’s considered worship. Oh, and there’s barely any education, and they can barely read, and there’s no new art or anything else, but sure. No crime rate. Yay, he did it.”

Arthur looks grim. “They murder smart people?”

“Anyone who asks questions. The King thinks it’s rebellion. Jon got to be a teacher here, for a while, before it all went bad. Guess what? He did a good job, his students learned, so the King murdered all of them. It’s great here.” Wow, I sound bitter, Martin thinks, because he is.

They didn’t deserve this. Nobody deserves this.

“I don’t know, John,” says Arthur after a moment. “I have no idea why he’d do that.” A pause. “John says the King in Yellow is a proud being; it makes him look bad to just… halt progress like this. It makes no sense.”

“Yeah, my Jon didn’t think it made sense, either.” Martin rubs his face. “Look, has your John found anything?”

A beat while Arthur listens.

Martin can’t imagine what that must be like—your person, inside your head. He wonders how things will change for these two if John does, indeed, get a body.

He wonders if Arthur really, truly realizes how much this John is his person.

It hardly has to be romantic. But Martin also has the language to express such things—queer, platonic, etc. He doubts Arthur does, and without the words for it, it remains runny, unbaked.

He thinks their friendship will survive separation. After all, his love survived Jon’s ability to read his mind, so surely, these two will manage losing their shared space.

Arthur licks his lips. “Right. I don’t know how to—well, it’s not an easy question, is it? Oh, hush. Martin—your Jon. Is he… human? I’m sorry. I don’t know another way to ask that.”

Martin hesitates. “I honestly don’t know. He was. I’m not sure he is now, if I’m honest.”

“If he’s not, John says there’s something we can do if… damn it, John, he just cleaned up.” Arthur sighs. “If you have any of his blood. I’m sorry. There’s simply no way to deliver these requests without sounding macabre.”

Martin swallows.

A moment passes.

“I’m sorry,” says Arthur. “We shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, there… does it have to be fresh?”

Arthur listens. “No.”

“Then there is something.” Martin doesn’t move.

Arthur may not be able to see his face, but he’s not stupid. “I’m sorry, forget we asked. John, there has to be something else.”

“No. No, I can get it.” Martin feels almost robotic as he heads to the kitchen and opens the trap door to the root cellar.

It’s startlingly cold down here, deep wooden stairs plummeting into a space so narrow that Martin must turn sideways to descend. The cellar opens up a little past the stairs, but not by much.

It’s lined with shelves, laden with food, ready in neat glass jars for winter.

The candle he brings is the only light, and he’s fine with that. Down here is always, always filled with webs.

No, that isn’t true. It’s not filled with webs. They’re just rife where the stuff from Earth lies.

Martin stares at the very back of the cellar—two backpacks, seemingly innocent but for being wound in white and wisp.

He’d stopped clearing the webs off after the first month. When Jon asked if he could see them, he… lied.

There really wasn’t any point to it. He just did.

He hadn’t wanted to worry Jon.

I’m as bad as he is, Martin thinks, staring.

His heart races.

For Jon, he tells himself, and walks toward them.

The smell hits him first, and it is so strange.

These bags carry an electrical smell for reasons unknown, a scent that just doesn’t exist here—an atmosphere of power lines and ozone, the odor of busy power stations, the strangely charged air of the apocalypse.

Martin has no idea if the bags look weird on some level, too. He never asked.

He should have asked how they looked to Jon, but there’s no point in castigating himself now. He kneels and opens the bag on the left.

The thing he needs isn’t in there. He just wants to feel these clothes. To press the factory-made cloth between his fingers, to remember them draped on Jon’s too-thin body, to marvel at the uniformity of industrial stitches.

He reaches into the right-hand bag next, though what he needs isn’t in there, either. It holds his own clothes, and it’s harder to look at those. To remember them on his skin, remember them hiding his skin, remember how he thought it was normal to dislike his body so much.

He didn’t feel strong, then. He’d just accepted his mother’s caustic comments and Elias’ paternal parallel.

What a contrast to remember the first time he and Jon made love, and the way Jon made him feel. Manly and sexy and desired. Worthy and seen and strong. So weird, to touch these clothes, and remember.

For Jon. Who didn't even like sex that much, but initiated making love for him, to his wonder.

Martin lifts his backpack and puts it aside.

Behind it lies a knife. It is a serious knife; a Ministry of Defense “survival” knife with a sheepsfoot blade, Jon had told him, and a thick, black grip perfect for Martin’s hand. He liked the way it had felt when they were traveling through the wastes, liked how it seemed to fit him, as if it had been designed for his palm.

Funny, that he cannot now recall where he got the thing.

Daisy’s place, probably. But he doesn’t remember packing it.

He just remembers having it, being comforted (pointlessly) by its existence—and also remembers the horror when he found it gone and knew where it had to be.

The Web. That was the most likely explanation for its provenance.

Which meant She had known he was going to have to…

He had known Jon was going to do something crazy. He had known; or had he?

He tells himself he did.

He’d certainly thrown that accusation at Jon like he did.

He’d gone to Melanie and Georgie, trying to hurry things along, on the claim that he did. But to what end? What, exactly had that been going to achieve?

Down here, in the quiet of the cellar, in another world, planning a rescue mission from a god, alongside a blind man with a piece of said god inside him, Martin can admit the truth.

He’d been afraid Jon was going to use the knife on himself, and thought that by somehow harming Jonah first, he could prevent it.

Why didn’t I say anything? he thinks, staring at it, unwilling to pick it up. If I really thought he had suicidal ideation, why did I act like everything was fine? Why did I even let him out of my sight for a moment?

Because he’d wanted to be wrong.

Much like the way he should have known how low Jon was, and hadn’t listened because he didn’t want it to be true.

Much like the way he’d literally warned himself, in his spooky domain, that there would be no magic button to press in the Panopticon—and he hadn’t listened to that, either. The second Annabelle offered a magical, pain-free way, he’d gone for it.

Kayne was right. Martin’s ability to lie to himself would fool any mind reader.

Martin had been wrong, though. Jon hadn’t used the knife on himself, had he?

Though, in a way, he had.

“Okay, Blackwood, you’re done,” he mutters, flexing his hand a few times. “Sat in your head for a minute, had your little cry, and now it’s time to get to work.” He swallows hard and reaches.

He’d never cleaned it off.

Drawing it from Jon’s side when they arrived here—the slight suction of Jon’s flesh when he pulled it free—had been the worst thing he’d ever felt, in his entire life.

He’d thrown it to the ground, focused and desperate to keep Jon alive.

Jon, who had not been breathing.

Jon, who had hung in his arms, limp—

But he’d been bleeding heavily, and that got Martin moving because that meant a heartbeat, meant Jon still lived.

He hadn’t recalled the knife for two solid days, and even then, had only gone outside, looked at it, walked a few feet away to throw up, and left it there in the dirt.

Two weeks passed before he’d had the courage to retrieve it from the neglected garden.

The blood had long since dried. No insects or animals had messed with it at all—an unnerving detail, but Martin, at that point, lacked the wherewithal to wrestle with that weirdness, and he’d just taken it inside and thrown it into the unused root cellar to get it out of his sight.

It still bore Jon’s blood. A lot of blood. All over the blade, all over the handle, all over the guard.

The blood doesn’t feel like anything as he carries it upstairs. Gritty, a little. Like old, slightly tacky dirt.

“No, that won’t work,” Arthur is saying as Martin returns. “I mean, you could do that, but it would be quite hard to take on clients if they were busy being spooked that you had so many arms.”

What an image.

John Doe, thinks Martin in a moment of intuition, might actually be cute. Endearing, at least—in spite of his origin.

He decides not to comment on that. “I have it.”

Arthur turns his face toward Martin.

It’s a good face, Martin thinks—clearly worn and weary, but there’s a stubbornness in it he finds oddly refreshing.

Oh, Arthur hides that stubbornness with smiles and a lovely, pleasant voice, but Martin knows what he sees. That stubbornness is something he understands.

“So?” Martin says. “Is this usable?” And he holds out the knife.

Arthur listens. “Calm down.”

“You’ve got to tell me what he’s saying.”

Arthur sighs. “John says it’s reactive. He says it’s responding to us.”

Martin looks at it. “What does he mean, responding?”

A pause. “Resonating to the Lonely in both of us, and to the Eye in you. And to something he calls the Web, as well. We haven’t discussed that one, John. What is it?”

So Jon’s blood, even old and dried, still resonated to the Fears. Great. Just great. Fucking tuning fork logic. “What, I’m marked by all of them?” he blurts.

“He says you’re marked by the Eye and the Lonely, but the Web is… touching you? I don’t know what he means. He won’t explain it, for some reason.”

“He’s probably afraid,” Martin says without thinking. “I don’t blame him. I thought I wasn’t… you know what? Never mind. We’re off-topic. How do we use this?”

Arthur makes a face. “This doesn’t seem like the best idea, on reflection.”

“What, do we have to lick it, or something?” says Martin.

“No, we….” He listens. “He says he can use it to cut a hole in the air.”

“Whoa. How?”

“He’ll do an incantation, and we’ll make a hole between us and there. Blood calls to blood. It’ll get us close to your Jon.”

Martin is suddenly worried for Peter, Mark, and Julia. “Can anything come through that hole?”

“No. They have to have the knife, or be in contact with the person who does. He says without the knife, the portal will close on you, cutting you in half.”

“Ugh. Okay. But if we get separated—” And Martin considers the ripcord option. “I’m trapped.”

“You—if we keep hold of the knife and we’re separated, yes.”

“How quick is it? Is this your exit?”

Arthur listens. Makes a face. Sighs. “It’s an exit, anyway. It should be quick—though it sounds like I need to spill some blood here, too, with this knife, mixing our blood with your Jon’s, so my John can use it to bring us back here quickly. Blood calls to blood, John, I said it already.”

“That can’t be sanitary,” says Martin.

“What’s one more scar?” Arthur mutters.

A frisson races up Martin's spine. He could swear Jon said that, at some point in the past. He sighs. “We’re going to have so many discussions when he gets back.”

Arthur blinks at him. “With your Jon? All right, so sorry, calm down.” He turns his face toward the book again.

Martin smiles a little. John Doe is definitely cute, though he’s not sure why. It’s part of the King in Yellow, for fuck’s sake.

“Discussions,” repeats Arthur, slowly. “About what?”

“The hard things,” says Martin. “Things we should’ve said.”

“Why?” says Arthur, and sounds utterly baffled.

It strikes Martin that this man is from 1934. Arthur wouldn’t know much about psychology. About processing grief. About all the developments born from the generational trauma of World Wars one and two.

He wants to be careful how he answers. “Well… it’s important to speak the things that hurt you. It takes power away from them, and it gives everyone the chance to heal. And I’ve been really bad about it, since we got here.” He can be honest, if it’s to help someone else. “What we went through at the end of the apocalypse wasn’t healthy, and it wasn’t good, and it would have been so much better if we’d just talked more. But I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” says Arthur.

“Losing him. Hurting him. Saying something wrong and stupid and showing myself to be weak, or an idiot, or….” Oliver Banks comes to mind. “Or less than what Jon needed, and I was… I was terrified Jon would see that, and not love me anymore.”

Martin has never verbalized that before. It’s amazing how ridiculous it sounds when he says it out loud.

And he thinks Arthur needs it, so he keeps going. “And really, it’s a stupid thing,” Martin says. “I mean, Jon reads minds. What, I thought I was going to surprise him? Really? I don’t know. It wasn’t mature of me. Or logical.”

“But it was logical. You… why would you ever want to bring those things up?” says Arthur, struggling.

“Because that’s how they heal,” Martin says again. “It’s like cleaning infected wounds. You have to open them so they can drain out. It isn’t fun, but it won’t get better if you don’t, you know?”

Arthur is so pale that all his scars, big and small, stand out like lightning. “So that’s, uh. That’s how you deal with conflict in the twenty-first century.”

“If you’re thinking clearly, yeah,” says Martin. “It’s not easy. It hurts. But it works.” He sighs. “I left way too many things unsaid, and now, I regret that. I won’t make that mistake twice.”

Arthur does that face, the one that Martin now knows means he’s listening to John Doe.

Martin would give a lot to know what Doe was saying.

“I can’t do that,” says Arthur, so quietly.

Martin wisely stays quiet.

Arthur closes his eyes. “Well, you just have to deal with it for the moment.”

Martin can’t imagine what this information sounds like to a man in the midst of the literal heyday of toxic masculinity.

But Arthur at least seems like he’s trying.

He’s a lot… harder than Jon. Martin knows he’s more feral; he’s seen the expression, observed the effort not to immediately turn to violence whenever he’s surprised.

But there’s something about Arthur that reminds him of Jon, anyway.

Scrawny and scarred, he thinks, amused at himself. Stubborn and smooshed. Wet paper bag of a man.

Arthur sighs. “Anyway. The knife will work. So. Have you figured out a plan yet?”

“I’ve got fuck-all, and I don’t care,” says Martin. “I can’t fight a god. I don’t know how to save Jon. But I don’t care. I need to reach him. That’s what matters. Besides, it’s not like it would do any good to bring Jon back here. The King would just take him again.”

Arthur listens. “Wait. The King can travel easily between worlds?”

“Yes.”

“That’s new,” Arthur mutters. “No, I don’t know. It must have something to do with whatever started all these changes. Fuck, what happened three hundred years ago, anyway?”

“It must’ve been something wild,” says Martin. “Unfortunately, since this is a different timeline, or whatever, I can’t begin to guess. I mean, I don’t think the English Civil War or whatever was going on then is at fault.”

“We’re still missing something.” Arthur frowns.

“Does it matter?” says Martin. “Kayne’s giving you an out, right? And I can get to Jon. I’ll figure it out from there.”

“The King….”

“He can’t touch me.” Martin realizes he hasn’t shared this bit. “Kayne can’t touch Jon, either, which is good, because he absolutely hates him for no reason he’s ever explained.”

Arthur’s face twists. “What? How? Since when is he limited like that?”

“Since they made some sort of deal? I don’t know, but it’s true. The King can’t touch me. Kayne can’t touch Jon. So maybe, if I can just reach him, maybe… I don’t know. Maybe I can do something.”

Arthur sits in silence for a moment, processing. Listening. Finally, he nods. “This could be your only chance. Are you sure you’re ready?”

Martin looks inside himself and knows he cannot wait. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“All right. Then we’ll do it.” Arthur changes the knife to his left hand with the weird pinky, then looks down at himself. “When this is done, I’ll take you up on that offer of a shower and clothes. Be careful, John. Nothing I need to use.”

Martin blinks.

Then Arthur cuts himself.

It’s not a deep cut; right across the meaty part of his left pec, which bleeds instantly and badly, right into his folded-down bedsheet.

“Shit!” says Martin.

“Not where I would’ve done it,” Arthur mutters. “Is that good enough?” A pause. “Right. He’s going to do the incantation when we get back.” And Arthur stands like this was no big deal and places the knife on the little table.

“Let me at least put a plate under that, for fuck’s sake,” says Martin. “Look, that’s a long cut. It’s not deep, but let me stitch it, okay?”

“Sure, if you’re willing,” says Arthur. Then John must say something, because Arthur rolls his eyes. “Don’t be jealous,” he adds.

Martin has no idea what that’s about. “Anyway. Let me grab some supplies.”

The trunk at the foot of their bed contains toiletries, spare towels, clothes, and his sewing kit. Martin grabs what he thinks might be useful.

Arthur is stripping with the era-appropriate lack of body-shame that always amazed Martin in the history books. “Let me shower, then we’ll stitch. All right?”

Martin does him the decency of looking away. “Sure. Uh. Do you want to keep the sheet?”

“No. Burn it, for all I care.”

“Good enough.” Into strips for kindling it will go.

Martin’s heart won’t stop racing. They’re doing this.

He’s going to see Jon. What will happen then? Not a clue. How will he get Jon out of there? Also not a clue.

Could the King just take Jon back?

Is it really wise to leap into this without a plan?

Oddly, Martin’s thoughts drift back to the end of the apocalypse.

Jon had struggled with agency a lot by the time they reached the Panopticon. It hadn’t resonated with Martin, then. Of course, Jon was only doing what he wanted. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s all choices.

Now, he isn’t so sure.

How much of this is going according to some plan, to an agreement, to maybe a bet (again) between powerful beings with Jon and Martin as collateral?

Is it really your free will if all of your options have been reduced to a single path? To one broken window? To the only brick you have in your hand?

It had been a lot easier to be the antichrist’s plus-one rather than the antichrist. Easier to be the one who got to speak on and judge the decisions—not make them.

Martin sighs. Yet another thing they needed to talk about.

Martin listens to the shower, contemplates Kayne’s weird book, and wonders if he’s not following some awful god’s desires like Jon used to, after all.

(part ten)

NOTES

I always felt Elias's "You want to know what [your mother] sees when she looks at you?" was one of the cruelest things in the whole of The Magnus Archives.

[thezolblade]

What would this Jon be interested in, sexually? He seems to value getting off himself, but he also gets Martin off, and it feels like Jon did it partially because he wanted to for its own sake, that he simply wanted to touch Martin. Well, that's sort of how I interpreted it, could be totally wrong! How do you see him?

Well, he likes a lot of stuff (including all of this, in the ask). Some of the stuff he likes is so contradictory that he can't have it both ways, even if he doesn't realize that. I think there's too much going on in his head, usually, even while some of the things that ought to occur to him don't. And hopefully that creates space for both meta like this, and fic where there's still some space for interpretation about the particular state of the turbulence at any given moment, in that storm behind his eyes.

Now that Jon's fallen for Martin, he thinks he's hot when he's happy and sweet, and when he's malleable and obedient, and when he's turned on too, and when he's giving Jon 100% of his attention, and when he's blissed out, and when he's dozing and held close. He likes touching Martin because he's hot, and because skin contact is nice even beyond sex, and it satisfies his possessive urges and his desire for the two of them to bond and be all over each other. He likes feeling powerful by manhandling Martin, and by making him feel good, and by (thinking he's) teasing him and kissing it better, and by (thinking he's) taking him apart and putting him back together, while Martin's hurting and wanting him anyway and submitting to anything Jon wants to do. It's not hot when Martin's disobedient, but it is hot when he gives in and takes a punishment, and cries about it, and surely that's cathartic in some way for Martin too, or he wouldn't be here, right?

He wants to get a kick out of pushing Martin around, even when he's scaring him, but doesn't want to admit that that'll undermine the relationship. If they actually properly negotiated a consent play scene, that'd be fun in some of the same ways. But it wouldn't be as much of a power trip as feeling like he's really in charge and he can do absolutely whatever he likes, and Martin will come around to his every whim, just because he loves and needs him so much.

Jon does feel there's a difference between 'sexy distress' and 'unsexy distress', in terms of what he wants to watch. If he analysed that feeling and talked it over before he was too far gone, then he'd have to admit that it's based on his own boundaries (is he worried that Martin's in real danger with other people, or does he know that Martin's safe with him?), and he's not paying the same attention to Martin's boundaries and whether he actually feels safe with Jon. Then hypothetically he could work on that issue, though he wouldn't 100% improve instantly.

(He was kinda playing it cool with that 'maybe we can make it a habit' line, when he was already too invested to be casual about it, though he didn't quite yet want to admit that to himself.)

As for particular ways of getting off (without repeating too much of what's in the bdsm answer), he likes things that have a high feelgood payoff proportional to the effort required, partly because he's impatient, and partly because he's not fit enough to have high stamina, at least while he's still 99% human. He likes positions that feel dominant, involve a good amount of skin contact, and offer a good view. And he went for activities that seemed like a good way of testing the water, instead of needing more preparation or equipment.

While single, he owned a few toys (a vibrating cock ring and a fleshlight that he barely uses because they're a pain to clean), no condoms, and no porn (it's generally boring). He'll buy more toys and stuff for Martin, and he'll very much like the idea of trying out activities that are more time consuming and complicated, but in practice he'll need to figure out what they can do while he's still working long hours, not getting much sleep, and not up to fucking for hours or doing anything too acrobatic. >.>

E.g. if he wants to try edging Martin, he'd probably get comfortable in bed and use toys most of the way. If he wanted to try orgasm denial / chastity play, they might hold a scene that lasts a few hours, and he'd enjoy the sense of control for its duration, but he wouldn't really want to micromanage what Martin does when he's alone the rest of the time. (Jon wants to think that once they're an item, Martin will only think of him, or think about nothing in particular. Martin will have enough sense not to mention masturbating to the thought of any celebrity crushes, so he won't burst that bubble.)

Oh, and since Martin is now the only person in the world who's actually hot in Jon's eyes, he'll want to take some photos to keep him company while they're apart during the day. They won't spend more than a few minutes apart anyway, most days, but he'll still enjoy building up a collection on his phone.

#heart of the disaster #tma thoughts #rozzlynn's fanfic

[kokohamstar]

Surprise pt 2 (A/B/O JMart fic)

Part 1/Part 3/Part 4/Part 5

A/N: Still no sex, but very heated. Not recommended for minors.

The rest of the battle threw the strangeness of it all from Jon's mind. Whatever hormones Martin had stirred up in him had settled beneath the fear, adrenaline, and pain that came from running, covered in worms, with an open wound in his thigh.

Afterwards, Jon did what he could to finish gathering statements, deal with the new information, and make it back to his flat in one piece. Both physically and mentally. His body ached, his head was pounding, and for some reason, he felt as though his skin was on fire. What the hell had Martin done to him?

He'd been scented before by previous partners. It was always comforting, yes. But nothing like this. Nothing so invasive. Nothing so...intimate. He could tell the scent was fading from his skin and it made him ache for more. He almost felt sick.

He locked his door behind him, dropping his bag roughly to the floor before limping to the shower. He needed the cold water to relieve the heat. He needed anything that would calm him down. The danger had passed, and now all that was left was the want.

As soon as he left the shower, pulling on no more than a shirt and briefs, he grabbed his phone and went to bed, limping cautiously on his hurt leg, careful of the bandages along his side. He laid down on his back, staring at the screen of his cell.

There was a missed call from Martin. It was from hours before, when they'd been separated. He'd already spoken to him since that call, but he lingered on the name. He could call him, but what would be the reason? His stomach begun to ache again, twisting inside him. There was a need, and a call just wasn't going to do. But like hell was he asking Martin over at that time of night, after a day like that, for no good reason. Instead, he turned over, ignoring the pain in his leg as he curled in on himself.

Jon did his best to even out his breathing until sleep... or rather pure exhaustion overcame him.

Georgie was the first to notice. "You smell different." She told him, that weekend over tea. "I mean...by that I mean you smell."

"I'm sorry?" Jon wrinkled his nose, sniffing at his clothing with offense.

No not you-you. I mean your scent. You don't smell like a beta. You smell like...well honestly like an omega." Georgie sipped her tea slowly. "Unless my oolong has started to smell like cinnamon and honey."

"Cinnamon and--" Jon blinked quickly. "What?"

"Don't ask me, it's your body." She shrugged. "You told me you were a beta, but I don't know how anyone would be able to hide their scent that well."

"I wasn't. I don't... I wasn't hiding anything."

"Well you aren't a beta with that scent. Maybe you should talk to someone. A specialist. Not me."

Jon was suddenly grateful for the week off from work. Tim would have smelled him... Elias. Martin. Martin would have smelled him. He went to a nearby clinic to be tested. It wasn't a very long appointment. A simple test.

Yes. He was an omega.

Yes, it was uncommon but, no. Late bloomers aren't unheard of.

Apparently they can be triggered by extreme stress. And most likely his naturally low sex drive stifled any earlier presentation.

Everything made sense. And Jon hated that it did. This was just one more thing to worry about on his growing plate of horrors.

But, he thought, it wasn't Martin. He didn't change genders, or awaken to his second gender, for Martin. It was a stress response. That was all. It wasn't Martin.

He went back to work on Monday, wearing a scent patch for the first time. He tried not to notice the stares, but...well it was hard. Tim did well not to look territorial. He was never the type anyways. Sasha just looked surprised. Martin... Jon tried not to look at Martin. However, when he did happen to catch the alpha's eyes, he looked...stunned. Not like a shock, no. Not like it was some unexpectedly loud shirt Jon was wearing. But surprised. Like Jon had gotten a new hair cut and it looked...Good. Really good. And Martin was distracted by how good.

Then Jon felt that heat again, and he couldn't help but hate the alpha for it.

Presenting might not be Martin's fault, but the heat, the fuzziness in his mind. That was because of Martin. That was his fault. And he hated it. He hated losing control of his own body. Jon wanted to be able to turn it all off. He didn't want to feel this. He didn't want the hormones and the need and the slick and the ache. He wanted to be the beta who didn't have all of that. He wanted to be the nothing that didn't need it. Without Martin maybe he could at least pretend. But no. Martin was there. And the scent of paperback books and forest was calling out to his very core and he knew exactly why Tim wanted to do everything fore him. Because now Jon wanted to do everything for him. And Jon hated him for it. Jon hated himself for it. He hated his second gender.

So he locked himself away, focusing on his work, trying to forget what for as long as he could. Even in his heats, he dealt with it alone. Painfully alone. The first one was the worst. He didn't have enough blankets or pillows. He didn't have anything of any comforting scent. He didn't even know what he needed. All he had was what was in the starter kit given to him by the clinic, normally used by teenagers. The next time, he'd finally asked Georgie for some of her clothes, and she'd given him some without hesitation. Time, out of pity, he was sure, "accidentally" left a scarf on his desk. Despite their arguments.

And Martin... Martin kept his distance. But, unfortunately Jon knew what to do for his scent. Jon knew that no one had laundered the sheets that had been stored away with his cot. Jon knew they smelled like him, and no one would notice they were gone.

So his nest was made. He bought nesting pillows, large comforters. He surrounded himself in his friends. He couldn't get a hold of anything from Sasha, but he would the next time. That alone soothed much of the ache. He allowed himself to let go of the shame during those few days as he wrapped himself in the sheets of the alpha's scent. He still hated the lack of control over his body.

He still hated that this wasn't a feeling that he wanted, but a feeling that he needed. This was only and urge that he had to satiate, like in some primal trance. But as he breathed in the alpha's scent, he allowed the pleasure to take over him. More than Georgie's scent, this was the one he felt drunk to. This was the one that made him feel safe. This was the one that he needed.

He'd been lucky. He'd always felt his heat coming on a few days before, given Elias notice, and, as any decent boss would, Elias gave him the time off. He'd heard of stress heats coming on all of the sudden, but stress was just his way of life. It couldn't surprise him anymore.

So when he'd returned to work after his stint of running from the cops, he thought he'd just fallen back into the routing. Living with Georgie was...difficult. She was nice enough to respect his boundaries, leaving him alone during his heats and spending her ruts away. The temptation was there, but they both knew their relationship. She knew his feelings. So they kept their boundaries firm. Jon was glad to be back in his flat...and back in his nest. Though the scent was quickly fading.

AS soon as he stepped into the archives, the smell of his back...as he'd soon decided they'd become, overcame him. Tim, though still bitter, seemed comforted to see him. And Martin...Martin's relief washed over him in a wave so large Jon thought he might drown in it.

Jon quickly said his hellos, not one for speeches, of course. He felt that pull again. The need for the alpha. He bit back the whimper in his throat and took a deep breath instead. He gripped the strap of his satchel before turning away, all but running to his office.

He collapsed in his chair, feeling the slick pooling behind him as he caught his breath. "Dammit Martin..." he muttered to himself. Why was it only him? It wasn't the many alpha police officers he spoke to. It wasn't Georgie who he once thought he loved. It wasn't any of ther other alpha's he'd ever met in his life. It was just him. Just the bashful, tea loving, mediocre poet that he saw each day. That's the only one he wanted. And it wasn't like all the other omega's said. He didn't ache to be filled. Sure, when he was in heat, he had that need that they all had, but all other times it was different. No even then he felt it. All the time, he felt it. He wanted to be scented again. He wanted to be protected by this alpha. He wanted to be covered by him.

Jon leaned over his desk, messaging his scent glands slowly. It was a comfort, giving him mild relief to the ache inside. His eyes closed and he curled up, breathing slowly as he pressed his fingers gently into those sensitive areas.

He started feeling hot. He could feel himself harden in his slacks, but he didn't stop massaging those spots. His breath quickened and he pressed his fingers harder. He whined low in his throat.

"Jon?"

Jon didn't move other than his body going slack against the table. He didn't move beyond his body going slack against the table. He didn't even bother turning to look at the alpha. "Martin..." His voice was soft and low. "I need you to do something for me."

"I-I'm sorry Jon, I shouldn't have come in but I did knock this time!" Martin grabbed the door, as if to shut it quickly. "I didn't know you were in heat and..and.." he glared a bit "And why are you here?"

"Don't go." Jon mumbled, finally turning to look at him. "Please. I just need you to do something."

"Jon please don't ask me that." He sounded pained. "It's going to be hard to say not to you. But I don't want you to hate me later."

"Martin please...just let me ask." His scent became one of desperation. He pleaded once more with the alpha before him. "Let me just ask before you refuse me."

Martin took a deep breath and stepped fully through the door, closing it and locking it behind him. "Okay, Jon. Ask me."

Jon could smell his hesitation, but it was still Martin. It was still the man he needed. He stood, stepping toward him slowly. Jon was nervous, but he was sure this is what he had to doo. He took both of Martin's hands in each of his own. "Scent me, Martin...Please."

To give me a tip for my work, leave me a ko-fi! https://ko-fi.com/kokohamstar

[an-aura-about-you]

September 12th, 1997

Crossing the Bridge

Somewhere Else Under the King

In today's entry, Trilby finds out he's not the only one that's part of the Books of CHZO and Martin leaves the Lovelace estate to move in with Jon:

Trilby feels a migraine coming on.

He reaches for his desk drawer before remembering a.) the only pills he had been keeping on him lately were the tranquilizers and b.) he hasn’t had those since Lydia took them. Which, he can accept that, better to break it now so it doesn’t grow into full blown addiction. Still, the words in the book are blurring together from the pain, and he won’t be able to work if he doesn’t do something.

He turns off his lights, jumps on the computer, turns the brightness of the screen down as far as it goes, and asks Claire if she has any pain medicine.

Claire is there in seconds, letting herself in and already opening a bottle of migraine pills. “Geez, it’s that bad already?”

Trilby nods. “Thanks, Claire.”

“Got any water?” she asks as she sets two pills on the desk for him. “You’re going to burn your throat if you just dry swallow.”

“Ah, yeah, I think I’ve got something,” Trilby says, checking his desk and finding a previously abandoned water bottle. It’s enough to make it better than taking them dry.

“Any idea what brought this on?” Claire asks him.

“Probably reading about myself in a pain cult’s scripture,” he answers. “But I guess if I’m going to be in a family of thieves, at least I get to be the Cunning Thief.”

Claire shrugs and goes, “Yeah, that sounds like you. Any new insights we need to know about?”

Trilby groans. “Not yet. I’ve almost reached the end of the Book of the Bridge, and about all I’ve really learned is that ‘know the name of the King’ doesn’t necessarily mean a person’s died. Might as well most of the time, but there are some exceptions.”

“So what does it mean?”

“That someone’s experiencing agony.”

“Fun. Anything else you need, Trilby?”

He flicks one of the pages up. “Another set of eyes until the meds kick in?”

Claire turns the book around so she can read it right side up. “The Lovers’ Bridge? Seems a bit out of place.”

“The notes indicate it’s often left out of other editions.”

Claire begins reading it in the office’s dim natural light but recoils just as quickly. “What the fuck?!”

“Not so loud,” Trilby whispers.

“Trilby, this is about the Entities!” she whisper-shouts. “About Jon and Martin!”

Trilby stares at her, doing his best not to gawk. “What?”

She points to the page. “Okay, I didn’t give you everything on Jon’s projection because I thought the main parts you needed were Jon and Martin going to the Ethereal Realm and how Jon received his injuries. But then Jon told me about the Entities, and these are the ones he and Martin were tied to.” She traces her finger along the lines. “Watchful Lover tied to Beholding, that’s Jon. Lonely Lover tied to Forsaken, that’s Martin.”

Trilby looks down at the book, not able to read it from this angle and not sure what he’d think if he could. He utters a soft, disbelieving, “Get the fuck out.”

“I’m serious,” Claire tells him.

Trilby props his arms up on his desk and leans his head into his hands. “I think my headache’s only going to get worse.”

-

Jon rings the bell at the Lovelace estate.

It’s the first time he’s been to the mansion, and he wasn’t sure what he expected, but it wasn’t Jackson Lovelace himself answering the door.

Jackson stands and stares at him a moment, not saying anything, just looking at Jon with a big smile and a soft huff of a laugh. He seems to come to himself and says, “Jon! So glad to finally meet you. Jackson Lovelace.” He offers Jon his hand.

“Yes,” Jon replies, hesitating just a second before accepting the handshake. If Jackson notices the scarring, he doesn’t mention it. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for Martin.”

“Of course,” Jackson says, letting go and stepping back to give him room. “Please, come in. Have a drink. I believe Martin’s getting the last of his things together.”

Jon nods a little and goes, “Thank you.”

Jackson leads him to a parlor by the kitchen and asks, “What will you have? If it’s alcohol, I’ve got it. If you like tea, I can try but can’t guarantee it’ll be as good as Martin’s.”

Jon shrugs. “Anything’s fine.”

Jackson looks over his wines and picks a red. “Have you ever had Pinotage?”

“No.”

“It’s from South Africa. It recently became a darling in the wine world,” Jackson says as he pours two glasses, already helping himself to a sip. “It can be hard to find a good one, so I’m happy that I managed.”

Jon accepts his glass and takes in the sweet, smoky notes of the bouquet. He takes a sip, the flavor just as promised and the body smooth, definitely an excellent wine. He sees Jackson waiting for his reaction, so he nods his approval.

Jackson smiles and takes another sip. “So, do you like poetry as well?”

“Not particularly. What Martin writes for me is the exception.”

Jackson laughs and goes, “Good to know you won’t try buttering me up with that, then. So what are you up to?”

Jon shrugs and answers, “Started a back office job at a bank.”

“Oh? And how are you finding it?”

“It’s actually more interesting than I would have guessed,” Jon says. “Though I’m still at the point where I’m learning all the relevant laws and regulations. How to look for fraud, money laundering, that sort of thing.”

Jackson chuckles. “I take it Martin is the romantic one?”

Jon ends up smiling more than he means to. “I won’t argue against that.”

“Speaking of, I’ll go see if he’s got everything,” Jackson says, turning to leave.

Jon can hear Martin and Jackson talk as they approach. He doesn’t strain to listen, but he doesn’t do anything to tune it out.

“I think I know the answer, but I’ll ask anyway: are you happy?” Jackson asks.

There’s a tiny pause before Martin answers, “Yeah. I mean, we’re still working on it, but can’t really remember the last time I’ve been this happy, to be honest.”

Jackson hums and says, “Hold on to that, okay? The Order, if they find you, they’ll try to tell you it’s not real. That it’s somehow wrong. And it’s easy to buy into that if you’re not used to it. But this is real. Jon is here for you.”

Martin laughs and goes, “Okay, I know what you’re getting at, but it sounds weird coming from you. Didn’t exactly expect you to be on the list of people willing to wingman for Jon.”

“Oh come on, surely I’ve been on the list since day one,” Jackson playfully argues just as he and Martin enter the room. “Well, I’ve talked you up, Jon. Not that I needed to.”

“Considering I’m already moving in with Jon, I think you’re a little late with your sales pitch,” Martin says as he goes over to Jon. He gives him a kiss and greets him with, “Hello, love.”

“Hello, love,” Jon greets back. “Ready to go home?”

Martin smiles at him, so warm and sweet that Jon can feel himself melting. Even if Jackson’s right about him not being the romantic one, it doesn’t matter when Martin looks at him like that.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Martin answers, holding his hand and knitting their fingers together.

Jon snickers at the cliché of it, but he can’t deny that it feels so good.

Martin turns to Jackson and says, “Thank you for everything. I’ll see you for work?”

“Certainly,” Jackson answers, giving the pair the same look he had when he greeted Jon.

For whatever reason, it puts Jon in mind of a person who just received absolution, like Jackson was waiting for this. He’s not sure what to make of it now and resolves to turn it over later.

“Well, thank you, Jackson,” Jon says. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Jackson replies as he shows the two out.

#tma #chzo mythos #aura's fanfiction #on this day in aura's tma/chzo mythos fanfiction

[cuttoothed]

A little fic for @jonsimsandcats and also inspired by some adorable art on discord! Featuring notes on kitten rearing, and of course some Jmart because it’s me.

Jon works at the Institute here, but a non-spooky version of it!

*

Martin is doing a final check on the fish tanks when he hears the bell above the front door jingle. He sighs; he knew he should have locked up first. Just his luck.

“This is your fault,” he tells the angelfish balefully. They don’t seem contrite, too busy nosing in the fine gravel for any food they’ve missed. Martin walks out to the front of the shop, preparing his best customer service smile to tell whoever’s come in at—he glances at his watch—three minutes past eight that they’re closed, and no, they can’t just wander around for a few minutes to look at the animals. Honestly, some people seem to think there’s no difference between a pet shop and an art gallery.

There’s a man standing at the front counter, looking around anxiously, a bundled up jumper clutched against his chest.

“Sorry, we’re—” Martin begins, and that’s as far as he gets before the man unleashes a frantic tirade.

“Please!” the man says, “I need your help, I-I’m not sure they’re breathing and they were out there for hours on their own, I know you’re not supposed to move them in case their mother comes back but I couldn’t just—just leave knowing they were still there, and all the vet offices nearby are closed, this was the only place I could think of!”

The man is wild eyed, almost panicked, and Martin lifts both hands in an appeasing gesture.

“Woah,” he says, “Uh, maybe start from the beginning again? Slowly?”

“Right, ah, sorry. Sorry. I spotted them this morning, under a bush just outside my work.” The man sets the bundle of jumper down on the counter, and unfolds it to reveal two tiny scraps of fur: one gray, one black. Kittens, Martin realizes, so small they can only be a week or so old; certainly not old enough to be without their mother.

“I left them alone, because I’ve heard that the mother usually comes back after a little while. A-and I meant to go and check on them again during the day, make sure.” The man sounds anguished now, his face miserable. “But I—I got caught up in work, forgot about it. It was only when I was leaving that I remembered. And they were still there, on their own. Barely moving. Please—is there anything we can do?”

Martin looks down at the tiny creatures in their nest of wool; he can just about see the shallow in-out of their breathing. All day outside alone, at their age, the odds aren’t great. But he’s met enough kittens to know that they’re shockingly resilient little sods, and he’s never given up on a so-called hopeless case before. He’s not about to start now.

“You did the right thing moving them,” he assures the man, moving to flip the sign on the door to CLOSED. “We need to get them warmed up and get some food into them. Body heat is the best thing for them right now—can you start warming them with your hands?”

“Oh—ah, yes,” says the man, turning to his bundle of jumper with a worried frown. Martin leaves him there while he rushes around the shop, grabbing kitten milk replacer and nursing bottles, and then into the back to heat two mugs of water in the microwave while he makes up the bottles. He pops them into the mugs to warm, and brings the whole lot out to the front. The man now has a kitten in each hand, and is holding them pressed carefully to his chest for additional warmth; his expression is still worried, but also desperately tender, and Martin feels a pang of something behind his ribs at the sight.

“One of them is moving,” the man says eagerly as Martin sets the bottles down. Martin can see the gray kitten wriggling weakly in the man’s grip, responding to the heat. Its sibling is still motionless, and Martin’s heart sinks a little.

“That’s great,” he says. “Hold onto her for another minute, and let me see if I can get her sister moving too.”

He holds out a hand, and the man almost reluctantly passes him the black kitten. Martin doesn’t try to notice that the man has lovely hands, with long, slim fingers, narrow wrist jutting out of his shirt sleeve, but, well, he notices a bit. He turns his attention to the kitten; he can’t make out the motion of its breathing anymore. He takes it in both hands and starts to massage it gently. It lies limp in his palms, head lolling, and Martin starts to feel despair crawling cold up his spine.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “You can do it.” The man is watching him anxiously, the gray kitten cradled against his chest, and Martin knows he can’t give up. He keeps rubbing the kitten’s small body, trying to will warmth and life back into the tiny, fragile form. At last, after what seems like an eternity, the kitten squirms in his hands and a faint, plaintive mew escapes it. An answering mew comes from the gray kitten, and Martin laughs, relief washing over him.

“Right, let’s see if we can get them to eat.”

After checking that they’re not too chilled to feed, Martin tests each of the kittens with a drop of formula on their tongue; thankfully they both seem able to swallow without difficulty. He shows the man how to feed the gray kitten, holding its body in a neutral position with the bottle tilted for a gentle flow. It doesn’t take long for the kittens to figure out the process, and Martin can feel the tug on the bottle as his kitten begins to suckle.

“Oh,” he hears softly from beside him, and turns to see the man gazing in delight at the gray kitten, whose tiny, unfurled ears are twitching as it sucks.

“She’s doing great,” Martin comments. “Good job.” The man gives him a tentative, pleased smile, and Martin still isn’t trying to notice but it’s a very nice smile. “I’m Martin, by the way.”

“Jonathan Sims—Jon,” says the man, and then gives a small, tense laugh. “God, I haven’t even apologized for storming in here while you were clearly trying to close up for the night.”

“That’s all right, I didn’t have any exciting plans tonight anyway. I’d much rather be spending time with these little beauties.”

Jon smiles again, more sure this time, and all right, maybe Martin deliberately notices the dimple in his right cheek. Just a bit.

Once the kittens are fed, Martin shows Jon how to stimulate them; both of them only pee a little—poor things are dehydrated—but it’s a good sign. They clean them up and tuck them back into the nest of Jon’s jumper, where they curl up into a small puddle of black and gray. Jon gives a sigh that’s somewhere between relieved and exhausted.

“Thank you,” he says. “I, ah, I think I forgot to say that as well. You know a lot about this.”

“I volunteer at a shelter, there are a lot of kittens. If you like, I can take them for tonight and bring them in tomorrow?”

“Ah,” says Jon. “Do you think that’s—I mean...I-I’m not sure I’d feel right, handing them off to someone else. Not that I think you’re not capable!” he rushes to add, and Martin finds himself smiling.

“No, I get it. You found them, you want to take care of them. I’ll warn you, though, it’s a big commitment. For the first couple of weeks you have to feed them every two hours, even during the night, and then it’s every three or four hours until they start weaning. It’s like having a newborn baby.”

“I don’t get much sleep generally,” says Jon. “At least this way I’ll have something to do while I’m up all night. And my work is—well, I’ll explain the situation.”

He looks set on it, brow furrowed with determination. Martin considers arguing more: that a shelter will be better equipped to care for the kittens, that there’s no guarantee they’ll survive in any case, that Jon doesn’t know what he’s signing up for. But the shelters are always crowded, and kittens this young have simple needs, and really, a dedicated foster parent—armed with the right knowledge—is probably the best thing for them.

“Right,” he says, “Let’s make sure these two are well wrapped up before you take them home.”

He scrounges a cardboard box from the back and they settle the kittens into it, still wrapped in Jon’s jumper along with a soft fleece blanket printed with cartoon fish. Martin gathers a couple of cartons of liquid formula and extra bottles to get them started, and shows Jon how to pierce the nipple so the flow isn’t too strong.

“It should be warmed to body temperature,” he explains, “But not directly in the microwave—put the bottles in heated water, like I did earlier. Do you have a hot water bottle?”

“Yes, I do,” says Jon, frowning intently as he listens. Martin nods.

“It’s better than a heating pad at this age, they’re less likely to get overheated. Don’t make it too hot—body temperature, again—and wrap it in a blanket so they’re not touching it directly.”

“Got it,” says Jon firmly, and Martin believes him. He bags up the formula and bottles and an extra pet blanket, and presses them into the hands of a startled Jon; the till is shut off for the night, but Martin can explain and pay for the items tomorrow.

“What’s your phone number?” he asks, and Jon looks even more startled.

“S-sorry?”

“Or your email. I’m going to send you some links—videos, a couple of good blogs that should be helpful.”

“Oh, ah, right. Of course.” Jon recites his number and Martin saves it under “Jon (Kittens).” He peeks into the box one last time before Jon scoops it up, and sees the kittens snuggled in the folds of the jumper, paws waving in little kitten dreams.

“Thank you again, Martin,” says Jon. “I honestly don’t know what I would have done without you tonight.” His tone is shy but genuine, and it sends warmth through Martin’s chest and up into his cheeks.

“Any time,” Martin says. “And feel free to text me if you need anything—if you have a question or...anything. Or call me if you like.” He’s aware he’s rambling a bit, but it’s not every day an attractive man says that he doesn’t know what he would have done without you, so he can hardly be blamed.

“I will,” says Jon solemnly.

*

He doesn’t text Martin any questions that night, but when Martin sends him the links to a youtube channel and three blog posts on kitten care, he replies:

Thank you :)

Martin spends most of the rest of the night wondering what that smiley face means.

*

He doesn’t necessarily expect to see Jon again, and certainly doesn’t expect to see him the very next day. But just before one o’clock in the afternoon the bell above the door jingles and there’s Jon, looking tired and more than a bit sheepish.

“I got all the way into work this morning before I realized I’d never paid for any of the things you gave me,” he says, reaching for his wallet.

“Those were gifts,” Martin tells him firmly. “Sort of a “welcome to foster parenthood” care basket?”

“No, I couldn’t let you—” Jon starts to protest, but Martin shakes his head emphatically.

“It’s no big deal, honestly. I get an employee discount anyway.”

“I...well, then I suppose I need to thank you yet again,” says Jon.

“It’s becoming a bit of a habit,” Martin jokes, grinning, and Jon smiles in return. He hesitates a moment before continuing:

“Maybe I could buy you lunch instead, then? To pay you back.”

“There’s no need, honestly,” says Martin, even as his brain berates him: What are you doing, idiot, he’s asking you to have lunch with him? Say yes!

“Please, I’d like to,” Jon says, and then gives a thoughtful frown. “Only if you want to, of course, don’t feel obligated—”

“I’m on lunch in five minutes,” Martin blurts out before he can overthink it.

“Great!” says Jon, sounding pleased. “If you have time, we could go by my office as well and visit the kittens. I just fed them before I came to see you.”

Before I came to see you, not before I came to pay you back, and Martin feels that warmth crawling up towards his cheeks again. Even if Jon’s intentions are purely friendly rather than...anything else, well, Martin could always use more friends.

“How were they last night?” he asks, and the smile that spreads across Jon’s face this time is pure delight.

“Oh I barely got an hour’s sleep,” he says, waving a hand. “And today they’re sitting under my desk reminding me every couple of hours that they need attention and that they are far more important than whatever I’m working on. They’re perfect.”

“Sounds like cat parenthood suits you,” Martin teases gently, and Jon laughs.

“I think it rather does.”

*

Lunch is...nice, and only slightly awkward in the “getting to know a new person” sort of way. Jon is serious, but also funny in an understated, acerbic way, and there’s a gentleness to him that wouldn’t be immediately apparent, if Martin hadn’t seen him cradling two tiny, fragile lives to his chest last night. He’s the kind of person Martin would like to know better, he thinks.

Afterwards they go to Jon’s workplace, which is extremely academic with a brass nameplate by the door and everything, and down to the basement office where Jon works; Martin doesn’t really know what archiving entails, but it looks like mostly a bloody great pile of paperwork. Jon’s two colleagues give Martin friendly and extremely curious glances as they pass; Jon pointedly ignores them in favor of directing Martin to his desk and the cardboard box sitting beneath it.

When Martin glances inside, the two kittens are curled up in the folds of the fish-print blanket, lying against the shape of what he assumes is the hot water bottle. Their bellies already look rounder than they were last night, thanks to regular feeding, and their limbs twitch as they sleep.

“I’ll take them to the vet for a check up after work,” Jon murmurs quietly, gazing down at them with a soft expression. Martin recognizes that look of adoration, and he knows this pair won’t be going to a shelter or anywhere else; they’ve found their home with Jon.

“They’re lucky you found them,” he says, and Jon smiles self-consciously.

“I think I’m the one who was lucky,” he says.

They spend a bit more time with the kittens, and then Martin realizes that it’s about time he got back to work if he doesn’t want to get in trouble. He excuses himself, waving goodbye to Jon’s still curious colleagues, and Jon walks him out to the grand front entrance of the building.

“Thanks again for lunch,” he says. “And—you have my number, right? The offer is open, if you need anything, just text me.”

“I will,” says Jon. “And, ah, let me know if you’d like to come and see the kittens again. Any day. Well, most days,” he corrects himself. “We could, ah, maybe have lunch again?”

“That sounds...really nice,” says Martin. Jon smiles, pleased, and Martin isn’t trying to notice the faint flush that spreads across his face, but it’s very cute anyway.

*

As he walks back to work, Martin’s phone vibrates with a text. It’s a picture of the kittens, curled up on top of each other, with the message:

Come back and see us soon!

Martin grins; the kittens, he thinks, weren’t the only ones lucky to be found last night.

#the magnus archives #jonsimsandcats2021 #my fic #jonmartin