#jon wanted to keep his hair longer but it was getting a bit put of hand and wasn't well kept during season four

[cabincryptid51]

The Ceaseless Watcher's Special Little Boy deserves to be comfortable<3

(Simply just how I imagine Jon dresses in the safehouse!)

#tma #the magnus archives #jon sims #jonathan sims #scottish safehouse period #I like to think that Martin made him the cat mug in a pottery class #some little things that I imagine with this drawing that you can't really tell: #His glasses do not have frames because I don't think that he would need them by this point #but he still wanted to wear some to feel more normal #plus without the lenses they won't smudge! #Martin both cut his hair a bit and painted his nails (also he has ear piercings) #jon wanted to keep his hair longer but it was getting a bit put of hand and wasn't well kept during season four #so he had Martin trim it so it would be nicer #the nail polish and ear rings are simply because they vibed #I definitely was not projecting onto him #noooo not at all #my art

[slut4thebroken]

Safe

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Jonathan Crane x reader

Summary | Your boyfriend just wants to keep you safe… by any means necessary.

Warnings | Smut, dubcon, attempted? SA (not by Jon), manipulation, walking red flag lol, house wife kink?, praise, painful sex, sub space, crying, dacryphilia, breeding.

Words | 2.3 k

Notes | Finally finished the fic from this lol

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

You were kept properly fed and fucked, what more did you need? 

The first time you asked to leave after partially moving in, he was almost offended. He gave you a short “fine, if you want to put yourself in danger, go ahead” and walked away. You didn’t leave, except to occasionally stop by your own apartment. Usually he'd do that for you though. 

The second time, you didn’t ask, you just brought it up. You wondered what he meant by that. “The world— but especially Gotham— is full of people who want to take advantage of you and hurt you. They see your kind heart as a vulnerability they can exploit. Do you understand?” 

“But.. that’s never happened before?” You said meekly. Despite living in one of the most crime ridden cities in America, nothing bad has happened to you yet— you’ve lived a perfectly average life. 

“You were lucky. But that luck will run out. I just don’t want anything to happen to you.” He said, gently brushing your hair behind your ear. “I care about you too much to do that to you, that’s why I’m not forcing you outside.” The way he twisted his words around to make it seem like he wasn’t forcing you to stay inside was completely lost on you. 

“Oh. Thank you, Jon.”

“You’re welcome, angel. I know it’s scary. Would you like me to help you get rid of that fear?” He cooed, making you blush at the implication behind his words. 

He wanted to be gentle with you… but thinking about how scared you’d look in a situation like that made it hard to control himself. He tried not to get too impatient while he ate you out since he knew you needed the preparation… Once your words were becoming a little incoherent as you begged and pleaded senselessly, he decided you were ready enough. You still struggled to take him, but that wasn’t much of a surprise. You didn’t dare say anything though because of how desperate you were to please him, not wanting to ask him to wait even longer for what he needed. 

“Do you know what those men want to do to a sweet thing like you?” He said, his thrusts slowing into a rocking motion. “They want to take every last ounce of innocence and kindness you may have. And do you know how they’ll do that, my love?” You shook your head, trying to focus on his words and not the feeling of his cock inside you. “They’ll fuck every single one of your holes until they either get bored or interrupted. But they won’t be gentle with you, like I am.” The thought of them being less gentle than Jon was almost unfathomable. You whimpered and bit your lip, not wanting to think about something like that. “No..” He chuckled quietly. “Animals like that don’t care about you. You’re just a set of holes to them.” 

“Jon..” You whined, brows furrowing. 

“I’m just trying to help you understand, angel. I’m keeping you safe, why do you always have to question me?” He frowned, making you falter. “I thought you wanted to be with someone who cares about you and your well-being. If you don’t, then maybe we’re not meant for each other,”

“No! No, I- I do want that— want you. I’m sorry for questioning you, Jon. I won’t do it anymore, I promise.” You begged staring up at him through your lashes as your eyes started to fill with tears at the thought of him leaving you. 

“Are you sure, sweetheart? I promise I won’t be mad.” 

“No, I want to be with you. Please.” He wasn’t quiet for long, but it was long enough to make you start rambling out pleas. “I’m sorry for questioning you, I know you’re just trying to keep me safe. Please don’t leave me, Jon.” You whimpered, making him shush you gently. 

“It’s okay, little one. I’ll stay and keep you safe, don’t worry.” 

To really drive the point home, he staged something. He asked you to go to the store for a few things since it would close before he could get off work. You were on your way back, almost to the apartment building, when someone grabbed you, dragging you back into an alley. The bag fell to the ground and he roughly shoved you against the wall, covering your mouth when you started to scream. He pushed you into the wall with his body, his bulge digging into your hip, and as he started ripping off your clothes, all you could do was cry. You didn’t know how else to react. 

Your shirt was discarded to the floor and when he started forcing your bra off, you tried to put up a little bit of a fight, but he just grabbed your neck and slammed your head into the wall. You whimpered at the pain, hands going limp and dropping to your sides. He finally removed the garment and you barely registered the cold air on your nipples. 

“Yeah, look at how fuckin hard they are— You like this shit, don’t you?” He asked smugly, making you shake your head, but you immediately stopped when your vision started spinning. “I bet this pussy’s wet too.” He pushed your skirt up, then roughly cupped your sex over your underwear, making your cries turn into violent sobs. 

“Hey!” His body was suddenly gone, making you collapse to the floor. “Angel?” Your head snapped up once you registered his voice. 

“Jon?” You whimpered, trying to suppress the sobbing. 

“Shh, it’s okay.” He put your shirt back on, then grabbed your bra and the bag before helping you up. Once you were inside his apartment, the crying came back full force. He hugged you and cradled your head, holding you against his shoulder. 

“You’re okay— you’re safe now.” He whispered, holding you tighter. “I’m so sorry, little one. I should’ve never asked you to do that.” He brought you over to the bed and had you lay down. 

“Are you hurt?” He asked, voice thick with something you couldn’t quite discern. 

“My head.” You whimpered, the pain intensifying now that you were thinking about it. He got up to get you some painkillers and water, then laid down next to you and wrapped you up in his embrace. 

“You might have a concussion, so you have to stay awake. Can you do that for me?” You whimpered and shook your head, feeling so incredibly exhausted. “I know you’re tired, but I need you to stay awake. Can you please do that for me?” You wanted to please him so badly that, despite the fact that you were struggling to keep your eyes open, you agreed. All you could think about was what just happened— over and over again. You let out a choked sob and turned your face into his chest to muffle your cries. 

“I was so scared, Jon.” You whimpered, fisting his shirt to ground yourself. 

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I’m so, so sorry.” He whispered, placing a soft kiss on the top of your head. “Let me help you forget.” One of his hands started snaking down your back until he reached your hip. He grabbed you hard enough to make you whimper and moved you to lay partially on top of him. “We need keep you awake too.” He said softly. When you felt his bulge against your stomach, your body started trembling even more intensely. 

“I know this may seem hard, but you know I only want what’s best for you. I would never do anything to hurt you, angel.” You nodded with a sniffle and he gave you a pleased smile, then pulled you into a kiss. His hands roamed your body, making you wince when he dragged his fingers over the scratches on your back just a little too hard. 

He quickly removed your clothes and once you were completely undressed, he rolled both of you over and settled between your legs. With gentle hands, he pushed your hair out of your face and wiped the drying tears from your cheeks. You’ve never looked prettier than right now, your eyes glossy and wide from fear, and your lips trembling, staying slightly parted as you took in ragged breaths. 

“My sweet girl.” He cooed. “I won’t let anything bad happen to you ever again. If that means letting you move in with me fully, then I’m more than willing to make that sacrifice for you.” Your bottom lip quivered as you stared up at him with teary eyes, but your expression showed that you still weren’t completely convinced yet. “It’s up to you, darling. Whatever you need, I’ll do it for you.”

“Thank you, Jonny.” You whimpered and he clenched his jaw when you used the name you only use in a certain headspace with him. He always took advantage of these moments. The ones where you were pliant and needy and too dumb to know what you wanted.  

“Of course… I love you so much, little one.” Your cheeks flushed and you looked away from him, embarrassed. He knows how those words affect you which is pretty much the only reason he says them. He cares for you obviously— he’d kill anyone who’d lay a finger on you… except the people he hires for that— but he doesn’t love anyone. Not even you.

“I love you, Jonny.” You whined. He leaned down to kiss you as he worked on opening his pants and removing his cock, making you let out a startled moan when the tip brushed your folds. It took a little more force than usual because he’s been hard since he saw you in the alley and he couldn’t give two shits about foreplay right now. When he finally breached your opening, you let out a pained whine that was overshadowed by his groan. 

“Every time feels like the first time I fucked you.” He said through a breath, leaning his head into the crook of your neck as he panted quietly. “So fucking tight and hot and wet… best little cunt I’ve ever felt.” He moaned quietly. 

“Jon…” You whined and he could practically feel the blush on your neck. 

“I’m sorry, angel, I can’t help it. You feel so incredible, you deserve to know how good you make me feel.” He didn’t let you try to respond before slowly dragging his hips back until only the tip was inside, then forcing his cock back in just as slowly. He got lost in the feeling of slowly rutting into you, your whimpers music to his ears as you just laid there and took it. 

“If you decide you want to stay with me, you won’t even have to go outside— I’ll take care of everything for you.” He cupped your cheek as his eyes bored into yours. “All you’ll have to do is clean up around the house, have a warm meal ready when I get home, and take my cock whenever I need. You won’t have to worry about anything else.” He promised. 

You nodded, staring up at him as your bottom lip trembled. He could tell you were still in pain, but you were already fucked dumb enough that you either didn’t feel it or didn’t care. 

“What else did he do to you? Did he touch you?” He rasped, trying not to sound too eager as he snaked a hand down to rub your clit. Your shaking intensified and you let out a quiet whimper as you nodded again. “Where?” You whined and looked away from him. He could tell you wanted to stay quiet, but his tone showed that he was expecting a response. 

“There a-and… my chest.” 

“I’m so sorry, angel… Were you scared?” He was getting close now. 

“Yes.. I thought— I…” You cut off with a strangled sob and he used his free hand to cup your cheek again. Your crying picked back up and tears were streaming down your face, making his cock throb almost painfully.  

“I know, sweetheart. It’s okay, it’s over now.” Despite his words, you continued crying. Because it wasn’t over. He knew you weren’t in the mood, but he also knew that you were too stupid to realize that right now. You were too stupid to realize he was just finishing what that man started. 

His hand moved down to roughly grope your tits as his fingers picked up on your clit. You were practically frozen beneath him. You weren’t grabbing his hair or clinging to his shoulders like you normally would. You were just laying there limply, taking his cock like a good little girl should.  

“I’m so close, angel. Just a little longer.” He said through a breath. You were whimpering and moaning quietly because of how rough he was being, and he couldn’t help but smile at how pretty you looked. Your lashes were damp with tears as you continued crying, your brows scrunched together from all of the physical and emotional pain you were enduring… 

With one final thrust, he fully buried his cock inside you and let out a low groan as his head fell downward, resting in the crook of your neck. He removed his hand from your clit and wrapped his arm under your shoulders and head, hugging you tightly, making your whimpers and cries get a little louder. He reveled in the way your body was trembling and the way your cunt was practically suffocating his cock because of how tense you were. Grunting quietly, he rode out the rest of his orgasm, only loosening his grip on your body once his cock stopped twitching. 

“Good girl.” He whispered, placing a tender kiss on your neck. He waited until his heavy breathing returned to a normal level, then pulled back to look at you. “I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you ever again.” He said softly. “I’m going to keep you safe, little one. I promise.” Safe from everyone but himself. 

I edited the taglist post so pls take a look ty <3

(For the record, this ⬇️ is why I’m changing the taglist system lmao. It’s just too much😭 This is going to be the last fic (except ongoing fics) that’ll have a taglist fyi)

Taglist

@pedrisgatorade @lunyyx @faebirdie @idkdudsworld @nashja @rentaldarling @theoraekenslover @kaorisakamotofan @scorpiussage @naevisct @jimmywoosimp @cillianscrybaby @vivvive @ceruleanrainblues @mrkdvidal1989 @brooklynscherry-z @ohmysatansstuff @monsterfromthewoods @aviamulier @d1lf-loverthinqs @butlersluvbot @miyababby @n1ghtw1ngslver @mandowhatnow @baekhyunstruly @nashja @xxorazz @halleysc6met @crunchsworld @babaohhhriley @deceitfuldevout @gentyleman @lorelais-world @shroombloom-rry @pinguwrites @thatonesinglefriend @bernelflo @milktert @nyxxie.pooh @butterfly-lies-chase-them-away @milkytomura @bigbossbabysworld @sheisthedxrkness @ll4n4 @olivialveshbc @feyresqueen @charlottegemyngende @ffionspreach @drcranessweetestdoe @goblinjnr @1nterstellarcha0s @mothhball @anonwrtr @venustusjuliet8 @cillianslvt @bluujaiwrites @jayroytodd @harleyql @lokabrenna0801 @hanawrites404 @soo-woop @sewmxx @havkjhdecs @trumanbluee @twasbrillig71 @punkiebuttons

#jonathan crane #jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane smut #jonathan crane x reader smut #cillian murphy

[salamandergoo]

switching it up with a jargyle thought because i love height differences: argyle has been watching jonathan doing little tasks in the kitchen. sleepy and bleary eyed, trying to gather everything he needs to make coffee. the filters are on the the tallest shelf (i could have sworn they weren't there yesterday! thinks jonanthan) and jon starts getting on his tiptoes to reach. he watched jon's shirt riding up and argyle can't hold back. so he comes up behind him grabbing it with one hand while reaching around to place his other big hand on jon's stomach. jon thanks him as argyle sets the filters on the counter, then uses that hand to settle on jon's hip, keeping him in place. kisses behind jon's ear down his neck and slides his hand up from jon's stomach to his chest, neck, and holds his jaw, thumb pressed to the corner of jon's mouth, jon's tongue darting out, slightly,to taste and suckle on it. argyle tightens the hand holding jon's head still, tilts his head back further and whispers in his ear, slightly pressing jon against the counter. argyle's hand that was resting on jon's hip dips down, his fingers skirting into the elastic of jon's sleep pants. argyle starts to roll his hips in a circular motion then forward, slowly but with purpose. making jonathan let out a soft gasp.

have a wonderful night!

OHHHHHH YESSSS

Anon, my guy, you've gotta hit me up in dms at some point here, I NEED to scream with you about these things.  I'm picturing them in their late 20s, comfortably living together and settling into their careers and lives. This totally got way longer than I was expecting it to lololol

Look, Argyle didn't put the filters up there for any real reason.  He wasn't even thinking about it, he'd just been checking to see if they needed more from the store.  But man, he was grateful for it, seeing the way Jonathan stretched for them.  The flash of pale skin was tantalizing, he was tempted to get down and press his lips to it, but instead he moved to grab the filters, pressing himself against Jonathan's back.  "Mm... what...?"  Jonathan's voice was sleepy and just a little scratchy still.  But he dropped his arm and leaned back with a long sigh.  "Warm..."

"Cozy?"  Argyle's hand slipped up Jonathan's shirt, warm skin on warm skin.  "You're still so sleepy, aren't you?"

"Just a little."  Jonathan tilted his head back to nuzzle in closer.  He yawned and put his hand over Argyle's through the shirt.  "Why'd you put them on the top shelf?"

"Didn't even realize I was doing it.  Must've put them on the wrong one without thinking."  Argyle grinned as he leaned back into the embrace.  His hand slid down a little further until his fingertips traced the waistband of the well worn pajama pants.  "I'll remember to put them on the right shelf next time, baby."

"I forgive you."  Jonathan arched his back, ass pressing into Argyle's crotch.  "Feels nice..."  He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Of course it does.  You're all sleepy and sweet right now."

"I'm not sweet."  Jonathan shuddered as Argyle's lips pressed to his ear.  "Hey..."

"It's nice, just relax, baby."  Argyle set the filters down and held his hip instead.  He squeezed, fingertips digging into Jonathan's skin.  Not hard enough to bruise, it was too early for bruises, but enough to make him shiver.  "You're so warm, it's like you just rolled out of bed."

"I did."  Jonathan's laugh was a little breathy as he rolled his hips back again.  "I wanted you to stay in bed too, but you got up."

"Had to take a call, my guy, I didn't want me to get up either."

"On Sunday?  That should be illegal."

"It should be."  Argyle pressed a few more kisses to his ear, trailing them down towards his neck.  He rubbed his hand against Jonathan's belly, appreciating the soft hair and the little bit of pudge he'd developed over the last few years.  "But I'm free now.  We could go back to bed."  When Jonathan's hips pressed a little more firmly, he grinned.  "Or we could stay right here, make coffee together and enjoy the morning."

"Yeah."  Jonathan let out a high little noise as the hand on his belly drifted higher, up to his chest.  "Yeah, that's... that's real good.  Love feeling your hands on me."

"I know you do.  Love having my hands on you, love you so much."  Argyle mouthed down his neck, teeth catching his skin.  "Too bad we aren't in front of a mirror, wish I could see your face."  He flicked his fingers over Jonathan's nipple and grinned at the little whine it earned him.  "Pretty, your sounds wake me up better than coffee, my man."  He nuzzled in a little closer to keep mouthing at his neck, the skin damp with spit already.  He was going to mark him up, he loved leaving little reminders of what they got up to together.

Jonathan relaxed into it, body going nice and pliable.  If he wanted to, Argyle knew he could have Jonathan bent over the counter, could drop to his knees and work him open on his tongue.  He could take Jonathan right here in the kitchen and fuck him until they were both sweaty and sated.  But there was something nice about the way it felt to grind forward against the curve of his boyfriend's ass, to feel the warmth through their layers of clothes, his boxers and Jonathan's pajamas.  They were touching, wrapped up in each other, but it was slower, lazier.

Argyle liked it.  They hadn't done something like this in a number of years now, had grown used to getting in bed and opening each other up, fucking each other into the sheets or using hands and mouths.  Even when they did rub against each other like this, it wasn't while clothed.  This felt more like the early days of their relationship, when it was hushed and hidden behind closed doors in occupied spaces.  Closed away in the bathroom of the Hopper-Byers house, hands over mouths and bubbling over desperation.

There was no desperation here, just simmering want, an appreciation for the morning and the closeness.  Jonathan sighed and arched his back, head tilting back until it was nearly pressed against Argyle's shoulder.  His eyes were half-lidded, though he was certainly more awake than he'd been moments ago.  "Baby," he whispered, reaching a hand back to hold Argyle's hip and pull him forwards.  "Come on..."

"Patience, my man."  Argyle's hand slipped out from under Jonathan's shirt and cupped his jaw, thumb stroking past his lips once, twice, then catching when Jonathan's tongue poked out just enough to wet the pad of his finger.  "Oh, do you need something in your mouth?  Is that it?"  He pressed his thumb past those pretty pink lips and hummed as Jonathan sucked on it, drawing it a little deeper.  Argyle cradled his face and turned his head so he could kiss his cheek, lips brushing over stubbled skin.  "You look so pretty with something in your mouth, I know how much you love it.  Bet you'd sit nice and pretty and just keep my cock warm if I asked you to.  I bet you'd feel so nice too, let me take care of some work while you did it."  When Jonathan's eyes fluttered closed and his hips ground back, Argyle took that as a yes and grinned.  "Yeah.  Because you're my good boy, always my good boy."

Jonathan moaned at that and Argyle reached into the front of his pants, get a hand around his hard cock.  Jonathan whined, sharp and loud in their quiet home.  "Good boy."  The first few strokes were dry and a little rougher than Argyle preferred so he pulled his hand back out.  He let go and guided Jonathan's head so he was looking downwards.  "Spit, baby."  He could feel the way Jonathan shivered and cupped his hand to catch the spit that dribbled off of his tongue.  He used it to guide the next stroke, spreading it along the shaft of Jonathan's cock.  "Yeah, that's better, huh?  Gotta get you nice and wet so I can work you faster.  Know how you like it, don't I?"  Jonathan nodded and rocked his hips back.

Argyle rocked his hips forwards against the curve of Jonathan's ass and sighed as his cock rubbed against the layers of fabric between them.  It really did feel like the early days.  "Remember this?  When we'd make out in my van, it would be way too warm, we'd be sweating through our clothes, but it was the only place we felt truly hidden?"

"Yeah.  Yeah, I liked it, felt closer to you than I ever had, even liked the- mm, the way our skin would stick together."  Jonathan was panting softly, each breath catching in time with Argyle's stroking.  "Didn't mind being so hot, not when I got to kiss you and touch you.  I'd wanted- hah, I'd wanted you for so long."

"I'd wanted you too."  Argyle nipped at Jonathan's neck again and tightened his grip just a touch.  "Remember how embarrassed you'd get when you whined?  Thought it was the prettiest thing I'd ever heard, those little high pitched noises...  You still get embarrassed.  It's real cute."

"Argyle..."  Jonathan's back arched as he tried to rub himself back against Argyle's hard cock.  "Fuck, I never liked being called cute until you."

"I know.  You like when I call you anything, don't you baby?"  He slipped his thumb back into Jonathan's mouth.  "Like it when I call you baby, or cute, or sweet.  Or desperate and whiny.  Or my pretty little slut, ready to open your mouth or fall to your knees or ride me just because I ask."

"Like when you ask me to fuck you too," he slurred around Argyle's thumb, drooling and panting.

"You do.  You're my good boy, so good at following directions, aren't you?  My good, perfect boy."   He rocked his hips a little faster and could feel the way his cock pressed into the crease of Jonathan's ass.  "Mm, you feel so nice."  He didn't want to push him too far forward, didn't want the counter to dig into his belly and make him uncomfortable.  But Jonathan was still letting out those pretty moans, wasn't trying to squirm away or push at his hands.  Jonathan's hands were planted firmly against the counter to let him arch and brace himself.  He had such pretty hands, fingers long and delicate, perfect for holding and kissing and wrapping around his cameras, for brushing through long hair or any of the other billion things Jonathan did during the day.  Argyle loved to just watch him, admire the way he existed in the world.  One of his favorite things to do while high these days was stretch out on their well-worn couch and just watch Jonathan do ordinary, domestic things.  Last week he'd watched him do laundry and it had felt like the greatest thing he'd ever seen.

Jonathan's breath hitched when Argyle's thumb swiped over the head of his cock to gather the precum he'd started to drip.  "That's nice," he mumbled, head nuzzling into Argyle's throat, hair soft against his skin.  "Don't stop, think... I'm gonna..."  He whined around the thumb in his mouth and sealed his lips around it to suck on it harder.

"Yeah?  Gonna make a mess in your pants in the middle of our kitchen?"  He wanted to see it and hear the pretty whimpers he was sure he'd get.  Jonathan shuddered, and his shoulder blades pressed more firmly into Argyle's body.  "That's it, pretty boy.  There's my baby, come on, you're close, aren't you?"

"So close."  Jonathan whined as Argyle's thumb pressed down against his tongue, stroking over it.  Spit was dribbling down his chin, probably dripping onto his shirt and coating the side of Argyle's hand.  "Don't stop," he begged, hips starting to roll as Argyle's hand slowed down enough to be teasing.  "Please-"

"I won't stop.  I just wanna keep hearing all those pretty little noises."  Argyle ground his hips a little harder, a wet patch on his boxers that stuck them to his dick.  He could rut up against Jonathan a little harder, knew he'd be able to make himself cum in practically no time, but Jonathan sounded so close, he wanted to get him over the edge first.  "Come on, baby."

"Ah-" Jonathan's back arched and he let out a high noise in the back of his throat, exhaling hard through his nose.  "A- Argyle, fuck!"  He came across Argyle's hand, cum streaking over his fingers.  His teeth closed around the thumb in his mouth, but he didn't bite down hard.  He sucked on it a few times as he came, whimpering around it as his hips kept rocking.  He went lax after just another moment and slumped back against Argyle with a big sigh.  "Mm..."

"Good boy," Argyle cooed.  He pulled his hand away from Jonathan's face, dragging his wet thumb down his jaw.  Then he took his other hand out of Jonathan's boxers and looked down at it with a grin.  "Look at the mess you made, babe.  Gonna have to take a shower after this, huh?"

"Coffee first?"  Jonathan lifted a hand to wipe the spit off his face and pressed his hips back, wiggling just a little.

Argyle sighed and curled his fingers around Jonathan's hip to guide him in a slow grind.  "Coffee first, yeah.  You wanna clean me up a little?"  He held his hand up to Jonathan's mouth, smirking.  "Clean up your mess?"

Jonathan let out a low whimper, but leaned in to start licking up his own cum, holding it on his tongue.  And yeah, that always did something for Argyle, who grunted softly and started to hump up against Jonathan's ass a little quicker.

"You're my good boy, Jonny, being so good and so sweet for me."  Argyle dropped his head down so it pressed against Jonathan's shoulders.  He worked his hips against Jonathan, cock nudged into the crease of his ass.  It was a good ass, Argyle could probably wax poetic about it and all the things he'd been lucky enough to do to it.  If it didn't feel so nice to grind up against him like this, it would be a shame to not be able to cum on his skin.  Next time, maybe in the shower he would.  For now, he was more than happy to work himself up to the edge while letting out hot breaths and moans.  "Jonny, fuck..."  He squeezed his eyes closed and his hips stuttered out of their steady rhythm.  His boxers caught the cum and his balls pulsed as he came.  "God," he groaned softly.

Jonathan turned in his arms after another moment and leaned up to kiss him.  There was still cum on his tongue and he pressed it past Argyle's lips, sharing the taste with him.  Argyle cradled the back of his head as they made out, pressed him in closer to the counter to pin him in place.  Jonathan huffed against his mouth and pushed himself up to sit on the counter, only breaking the kiss for a moment.  His legs wrapped around Argyle's waist as he kept him in close.  The kisses grew lazier, both of them taking soft breaths each time they parted, only to be drawn back in a moment later.

It was soft and gentle as their hearts slowed to normal, as they held each other and basked in the early morning warmth of their kitchen.  Jonathan sighed as he pulled away, leaning his forehead against Argyle's.  "That was nice."

"It was."  He grinned.  "You're sitting on the coffee filters."

"I'm-?"  Jonathan looked down, and sure enough, sticking out from under his thigh, was the pack of coffee filters.  "Damn it."  He got back down and grimaced at the wet spot on the front of his pants.  "Jesus, it looks like I wet myself."

"Now there's something we've gotta keep out of the kitchen for sure," Argyle teased, nudging past him to grab the bag of ground coffee beans.  "We'll clean up once I get the coffee started.  That was fun, we should start more mornings like that."

Jonathan hummed and pressed himself up against Argyle's back, a reversal of earlier.  He nuzzled his cheek against his shoulder and listened as he measured out coffee and water, setting up the coffee maker.  "I think I'd rather do that in bed.  It was fun though."  He smiled and muffled a yawn against Argyle's shoulder.  "I always have fun when your hand is in my pants."

"You're such a romantic, you're gonna make me blush."  He chuckled and reached a free hand back to squeeze Jonathan's hip.  "I have fun when my hand is in your pants too.  Love making you moan for me, prettiest man I've ever seen."

"Now who's the romantic?"  Jonathan let go and took a step back, carelessly peeling off his soiled pants under Argyle's gaze.  "I'll go get the shower started."

"I'm right behind you, baby."  Argyle grinned and followed him down the hall.  "Not even 9 yet and I've checked everything off my to do list for the day."

"What was on your list?"

"You.  Maybe I should give it another shot though."

"Maybe you should."

#jargyle #stranger things #jonathan byers #argyle stranger things #answered asks

[artificialdaydreamer]

The Sharkivist is In

For day five of @tmaappreciationweek, "what if" Jon has one of those plush blåhaj sharks from ikea

Read it on Ao3

The shark was sitting in his desk chair when Jon opened his office door. Actually sitting in it, with a “hello my name is” sticker stuck to it with “Jonathan Swims, Head Sharkivist” written on it in black marker. At first, Jon was annoyed, he had no idea where to put the shark as his office was already too crowded with filing cabinets and boxes of miscellaneous statements. Then a small, petty voice inside him whispered that he should just… go along with whatever scheme that the others had hatched. So Jon turned around and walked out of his office, sat down at one of the unoccupied desks, and pulled out a book from his bag.

There was a collective muttering from his assistants and Jon did his best to hide his smile. Tim was the first to speak up, his expression cheerful but there was a definite glint to his eyes. “What’re you doing out here, boss?”

Jon continued to read for a few seconds- for dramatic effect of course- before glancing up at Tim. “Oh, sorry. Were you talking to me?”

“Yeah,” to Jon’s delight the assistants seemed confused. “Why aren’t you in your office?”

“It would appear,” it was getting harder to keep from smiling. “I’ve been demoted. Someone else was in my office, and he seems to be doing a rather good job, so…” With a shrug, Jon returned to the book. “I guess I’ll wait to see what he wants me to do.”

The rest of the day passed without much incident. Jon pitched in where he could, looking into old newspaper articles or cross-checking the dates on statements. It was kind of nice, reminiscent of when he worked in research. Occasionally he’d pop into his- the Sharkivist’s- office and get fake instructions if someone was looking bored. Everyone seemed to be in a good mood, even Jon.

At one point Tim stood up from his desk and walked into the Sharkivist’s office, looking over a statement. “Hey boss, I had a question regarding the Adekoya statement, did you want me to look into police records for it?” There was silence for a few seconds before he nodded, as though hearing something nobody else had. “Gotcha, I’ll check with Sasha to see if she has any leads.” Then he went back to work as if nothing had happened.

If Jon were being completely honest he thought it might have been one of the most productive- and fun- days they’d had.

So the Sharkivist stayed in Jon’s office, not in his chair- he needed to use that- but on top of the filing cabinets after he’d moved some boxes around. The morale in the archives did seem to improve somewhat afterward, they’d all learned that the job wasn’t quite as serious as they’d been made to think. Jon no longer felt the need to act as professional as he had been. Occasionally someone would move the Sharkivist to one of the empty desks and give him a stack of debunked statements to “look over.” Over time he even got a pair of glasses and a tie, to go with his name tag. On the rare occasion that a statement-giver made their way to the archives they were surprised to see the Sharkivist, he did look out of place among the books and files, but they found it more amusing than anything else. Although, some people who had had a particularly traumatic experience found it comforting to hug him while giving their statements. Work continued as normal, albeit there was now a large stuffed shark employed in the Archives.

--

“I’m going to lie down for a bit.” Jon leaned up against the frame of his office door, massaging his temples with one hand since the other was holding his glasses.

“You doing okay, boss?” Tim looked up from his computer, a pen sticking out from between his lips. “You don’t look so good.” It was true, Jon’s tie was undone, his collar unbuttoned, which was a rare occurrence in itself. His hair was distinctly rumpled, his brows knit together, and the shadows under his eyes seemed darker than they usually were.

“Got a bit of a headache,” Jon mumbled, making his way to the document storage room. Everyone in the Archives knew that there was a foldaway cot stored in there that Jon used from time to time, although he seemed desperate to keep it a secret from his assistants. Still, Jon kept secrets as well as a colander held water, so naturally, everyone knew.

Once the storage room door had closed Sasha darted into Jon’s abandoned office and set up the Sharkivist in the empty chair, making sure to straighten its tie before joining the others again. “It’s a shark boss day guys, everyone be on your best behavior.”

“I’ll go make tea, then.” Martin stood from his desk and headed for the break room just as Elias walked into the Archives. It was as if he’d sensed that it was the worst possible time to make an appearance.

“Good afternoon, I was hoping to talk to Jon about how the transcription is going.”

“Oh, Elias. Now really isn’t the best time-” Sasha got to her feet hastily, although she wasn’t entirely sure what her plan was.

“Why? Is Jon not in his office?” Elias’ voice sounded almost amused, as though he already knew what was going on. “I’d hate to think that he was wasting company time.”

“No, no, he’s there.” Tim piped up, struggling to keep a straight face. “He just might look a little... different.” He shot Sasha a look, and she gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

Elias walked over to Jon’s office, opened the door, and closed it almost instantly. He let out a long, low sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose with his index and pointer finger. “Why is there a stuffed animal sitting at Jon’s desk?”

“Because he’s in charge right now?” Sasha replied, her arms braced on top of her desk. The assistants all knew that they were on very thin ice here. Still, they didn’t want Jon to get in trouble for taking a break- it was practically a miracle that he was taking one at all- when he’d looked so haggard. “He is the Head Sh-Archivist, after all.”

Elias let out a sigh before shooting Sasha a withering look. “Where is Jon?”

“He’s in his office,” Tim pointed to the office door Elias had just closed before hastily looking at his computer. “Is something the matter, boss?”

“Is this some sort of prank you have all decided to join in on?” Gritting his teeth, Elias threw the office door open once more. “Need I remind you that it’s September? Hardly the time of year for such actions.”

It was probably a good thing that Jon wasn’t actually in his office, with how annoyed Elias was getting. Martin chose that exact moment to come out of the break room brandishing three steaming mugs. He froze upon seeing Elias, a small amount of tea sloshing over his hands. Sasha took the opportunity to relieve him of two of the mugs, placing one on her desk and bringing the other to Tim. “Thanks so much, Martin!” She smiled a little forcefully. “Go ahead and bring Jon his mug.”

Martin nodded, although the mug he was holding had been meant for him. He could always make more tea. He strode into the office with as much confidence as he could muster and placed the mug on Jon’s desk, right in front of one of the Sharkivist’s fins. “Here you go, Jon. We were out of Earl grey so I went with a chai instead because I thought I remember hearing you liked that too.”

As if realizing that none of the assistants were going to drop the act Elias let out another sigh and marched out of the office, towards the door to the Archives. “I’m going to check back in a few hours, and if Jon isn’t here-”

“He’s been in his office the whole time, I’m not sure what the problem is.” Sasha sat down and hid her grin by taking a sip of tea.

Without bothering to respond Elias stormed out of the Archives, slamming the door behind him. An hour later Jon emerged from the document storage room, looking a bit more rumpled, but he seemed to be feeling much better than he had. Upon seeing the Sharkivist in his desk chair he chuckled softly. “Thanks for covering for me.”

“You have no idea, mate.” Tim leaned against the door frame, grinning. Jon looked at him quizzically, but the only response he got was giggling from Martin and Sasha.

Turning back to the Sharkivist, Jon shook his head. “I have no idea what they’re talking about, but honestly? I don’t really want to know either.” Then he left his office and joined his assistants in researching statements for the rest of the day. The Sharkivist was in charge, after all. Who was Jon to question him?

For those who like the Sharkivist, there is some excellent fanart by Kam/@hello-archivist as well as a live-action version by @shinyopals. You can also read this on AO3 here.

#my fic stuff #my wriitng #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #tma #tmaappreciationweek #sharkivist

[robinofgothamcity]

♡ prompt: your relationship with Damian isn’t what is seems like.

♡ pairing: damian wayne (robin), bart allen (impulse) x fem reader

♡ lyric inspiration: “it’s just a little too late, you say you dream about me but you don’t like me, you just like the chase so be real, it doesn’t matter anyway.”

♡ note: not checked for grammar or spelling mistakes 

you were blasting music into your headphones as you were trying to finish everything you needed to get done for the week. graduation was coming in just a few weeks and you had been neck deep in homework with essays and exams coming in from left and right. 

you had even been putting off even hanging out or going on dates with Damian because your lack of time. he kept telling you that it was okay but in the back of your head, you felt wrong for denying him every time he asked you out. 

Jon and Billy had been in the lair’s living room, lazying around until Nightwing or even Batman came in to give all of you times and coordinates for your patrolling tonight. you hadn’t even been hearing their conversation since your music was drowning out their conversations. 

when you realized that your coffee had ran out and everything that you needed in order to make a new cup was in the kitchen, you took off your headphones and grabbed your cup, walking slowly to living room. 

“where’s Damian?” Billy asked, kicking his shoes off, “oh, he’s training. ever since graduation for Gotham Academy came closer, ( your name ) has been putting him off to study so he’s been training to kill time.” 

your eyebrows fluttered in confusion, not knowing if what Jon was saying was rude or not. “I have to give Damian props though,” Jon continued, “he’s been with her for two months now! we even had a small bet going to see how long he would be able to date her and he’s clearly won since he’s been with her longer than the month we bet on. even a few of the titans had placed bets that it wouldn’t last as long as it did. Raven put in a measly two weeks,” Jon laughed. 

your eyes stared down at the ground, completely watery and stinging, “hey, that just shows Damian can commit to things that aren’t training although it’s like you said, it’s surprising they’re even together if she keeps putting him off,” Billy added on. 

not realizing that your cup had slipped your grasp, the metal collided with the ground, making Jon and Billy turn around. they could see the hurt in your eyes as you remained frozen in place. 

“hey ( your name ),” Jon murmured, “did you hear what we were talking about?” Billy asked, afraid at the answer. 

your eyes turned into rage as you picked up your cup off the floor, “tell Damian that since our month is over, we’re done,” Jon immediately sprang up, “hey! please, don’t say that! you’re completely not understanding what we’re saying!” Jon said frantically. 

Damian walked out of the solo training room, seeing Jon and Billy’s expressions as the tears ran down your face, “what’s going on?” Damian asked. you laughed, not wanting to even look at him, “great! you’re here! since our relationship was based on a bet that you had money on that would only last a month, you can count it as we’re over now!” you exclaimed.

you slammed your laptop and grabbed your backpack as Damian ran towards you. in a fit of complete rage, you turned around and punched him square in the stomach, making him fall onto Jon. 

“go fuck yourself! as a matter of fact, you can find another member for the Titans! I quit!” you screamed, slamming your mask down onto the table and leaving the lair, “wait! please, this isn’t how you think it went down, please!” Damian begged. 

you gave him the finger, “I hope you, right along with Jon and Billy, enjoy sitting on the shame that is playing with people’s emotions,” you said as Nightwing walked into the hallway, clearly lost on what was happening, “the next time you, Jon, Billy, hell! even the Titan’s decide to play with people’s emotion for the sake of getting money, make sure it’s someone who’s not on the same team as you,” you whispered. 

“don’t leave, please don’t leave. Nightwing, stop her!” Damian said in panic as you got onto your bike, “Nightwing, since the Titan’s are now down a member, you can tell whoever was fighting a place that my spot is now vacant,” you managed to say before revving your bike and riding onto the street. 

“what is going on?” Nightwing asked the three. he had never saw Damian so hurt, meanwhile Billy and Jon were left speechless, “my girlfriend just broke up with me!” Damian murmured, a feeling in his heart that he had never felt before, “she overheard a conversation Billy and I were having but I think she only heard a piece of it,” Jon tried to rationalize. 

Damian looked at the two, pure rage coming over his body, “it’s both your fault?” he screamed, charging them with his sword. Nightwing quickly grabbed his brother, taking the sword away from his grasp, “she only heard some of the conversation! we never meant for her to actually get upset.” 

Nightwing stood in between the three, “listen, whatever happened, all of you need to apologize. now, I can’t promise that she’ll rejoin the team,” he warned Damian, “if she decides to come back, that’ll be her decision....AND HER DECISION only,” Nightwing said, “but if she decides not too, I can’t force her to overturn her decision,” he added on, “no matter who you’re related too.”

Damian knew he was hinting at Bruce when he added in the last part. there was no way any of them could actually convince you to come back if you didn’t want too. they could try and persuade you but it was ultimately your decision if you wanted to rejoin the team. 

+

once you got back home, you felt as though your heart hadn’t completely accepted what happened. a part of you felt like it was some sort of sick joke and you needed to wake up from it. 

alas, it wasn’t and you knew that what Damian and you had was something that wasn’t going to happen again. it stung knowing that Jon, the one who seemed so innocent all the time, was actually in on the joke and was sitting there and laughing at you. 

you hadn’t known Billy for that long. the two of you became acquainted not long after you got with Damian and while you thought of him as a friend, it still hurt that he too was in on the joke. 

your mom was working late as she was helping Gotham Academy with situating for graduation planning. your mom didn’t know about you and Damian thankfully so even though you were completely heartbroken, it’s not like she knew about what you were going through. 

you flopped onto your bed, trying to control your breathing when the doorbell rang. tiptoeing to the front door, hoping it wasn’t any of the three idiots, you were stricken with relief when you saw that it was Bart of all people.

“hey Allen, what are you up too? wait a minute, what you doing here in Gotham?” you asked, welcoming him inside. Bart chuckled softly, “I’m here for some stuff on the behalf of my family. don’t worry about it,” he murmured, “I went to the lair looking for you and you were gone.” 

you hummed, not knowing if you were willing to tell him the actual story of why you weren’t there, “you okay? you look like you were crying!” he exclaimed, seeing the puffyness under your eye and the redness around it. you sighed shakily, “truthfully? I’m not but it’s nothing to worry about,” you tried to say calmly. 

Bart gave you a look, not fully convinced, “seriously? I can’t talk to you about the real reason on why I’m here if you’re upset. tell me!” he restated, looking at you dead in the eye. you dragged him inside, not wanting anyone to heart, especially if Damian was on his bullshit and spying on you.

you got Bart up to your room, locking the door and leaning up against the door. your back against it as you tried to contain your tears and running your hands through your hair, “I broke up with my boyfriend recently and I’ve been having a lot of issues with it since I found out,” you finally confessed. 

Bart’s eyes twitched in annoyance, “you were dating someone?” he asked, a bit hurt that the girl he had been crushing on not only had a boyfriend but you were now heartbroken over it. you nodded, “not that my identity was ever a secret but I was dating Robin,” your eye twitched this time, annoyed at mentioning Damian.

Bart stood in disbelief, not believing that Robin, the one everyone thought was perfect, had broken up with you. a part of him wanted to strangle the boy but he knew that Robin was a lot more stronger than he was.

“if you don’t mind me asking, can I ask what happened?” Bart played with his fingers nervously. you stared at the ground, scared if you looked at Bart, you would bawl your eyes out, “he started dating me as a joke. he had made a bet with a few other sidekicks about being able to date me for a month and the longer he dated me, the more money he made,” your tears fell almost immediately at the confession. 

Bart’s anger immediately rose as he tried to not say anything irrational, “are you kidding?” he asked. you shook your head no, not knowing what to say, “can I kick his ass?” he asked again, making you laugh for the first time in a while. 

“sorry Allen but you know I won’t let you...especially because you and I both know how that would end,” you giggled, making Bart agree. you sat down on the bed next to him, “now why are you here? although I think I might know why,” you murmured. 

The Flash family, especially Bart and Barry had taken an interest in you when you first joined the Titans. your powers had given you the ability to be as fast as the Flashes were. you weren’t exactly as speedy as Flash but your powers did let you have competition with Bart’s speed. 

“you know Central city has been calling your name,” Bart whispered, looking at you. “you know you’d have a position with us and you wouldn’t be around Robin if you weren’t comfortable being around him,” Bart added in the last part. 

you bit your lip, “come on, you know better than anyone that Gotham has nothing for you,” he tried to rationalize, “yeah, you have potential with the Bats but you know that joining us would make you an even bigger hero than you are here,” he said. 

“Bart, is this really the reason why you want me to join all of you?” you asked. Bart nodded, hoping that you were actually considering it, “of course! you can join us out for patrol tonight and if you like it, you can join us over in Central City when you graduate,” he exclaimed. 

“tonight? with who?” you asked. Bart pointed to himself with confidence, “with the one and only, Bart Allen!” he boasted. you laughed, “just tonight and if I don’t like it, I get to stay here!” you said, pointing your finger at his chest. 

“SERIOUSLY?” he asked surprised. you nodded as you saw the time, “sure but remember what I said!” you yelled as he ran around your room in excitement. 

the time you had ever went to Central City was when you went with Damian and Bruce on the behalf of Bat business so the feeling that you were now no longer going there with them felt a bit out of place. you looked at the time as Bart had told you that it wouldn’t take to long to get there with both your speeds. 

you grabbed you uniform out of your closet and looked at the time, sensing that both you and Bart should get to Central City before both of your patrol times started. you could see the excitement coming from Bart as he was basically talking your ear off the entire way back to Central City. 

-

through the following few days, you had actively ignored Jon, Damian, and Billy. it was harder for you to ignore Jon and Damian as they had known your home address but every time Raven had informed you on one of the boys coming and paying you a visit, Bart always seemed to come over and get you out of the house before they could. 

this time was no different but today, you couldn’t ignore Damian even if you wanted too. today was Gotham’s graduation and with both you and Damian graduating at the top of the class, you both had to sat on the stage, right next to each other. 

you had worn a plain neutral yellow dress with black shoes as you tried to follow Gotham’s school colors. the actual cap and gowns were not as cute as they had the tacky yellow cap and gown with black lining that made all of you look like bee’s. 

up until this moment, you still hadn’t decided on what your plans were for after graduation. you had a bunch of unanswered acceptance letters from different University’s around the U.S. and one of them was from Central City State University. 

they had personally reached out to you in order to attend their school. you had been thinking about actually accepting their letter for a while now and with Bart now offering to be your partner, you didn’t want to pass up the opportunity. you hadn’t told anyone besides your mother about the move to Central City and while she was upset to see you leave, she knew it was best to let you finally be on your own. 

you had gotten to Gotham Academy, a bit early and tired as you had stayed up late with being on Face Time with Bart. the two of you had gotten closer over the course of the last few weeks and while you were still extremely heartbroken over Damian’s actions, a part of your heart was starting to fix itself with Bart now mending that piece. 

you, on a very sporadic thought, had invited Bart and Barry to your graduation as you didn’t want to run into the chance of actually having to be alone with Damian. you wanted to make sure that you were either around your mom or Bart when everything was finished. 

the stage had been set by the time you got to the Auditorium as you had saw your mom along with Bart and Barry in the front. since you were moving to Central City, partially for college and partially to continue doing hero work there, your mom had to introduce and get familiar with the family that was soon taking you in. 

everyone knew that everyone who were connected to the Flash family had this flamboyant personality to them so when Barry and Bart introduced themselves to your mom, she was quite taken back. nevertheless, she did end up getting along well with them and felt safe with you moving there. 

Damian had saw you sitting in the chair, on your phone as everyone sat in their seats. what he hadn’t realized was that Bart and Barry were right next to your mom. he had heard about your endeavors with going over to Central City to ‘intern’ with the Flash family and while he didn’t want to believe it, a part of him felt as though that might’ve been actually true now. 

Damian looked at you with guilt crossing his face. you hadn’t been face to face with him since that fateful night and although it took every ounce of power to not scream at him, for the sake of his identity and the fact that all of you had to be professional, you gave him the side eye and turned to your headmaster who was approaching the stand. 

Gotham Academy’s graduation had felt like centuries before it finally came to your turn to speak on the behalf of your class. you smiled at the crowd, waving at your family and the Allen’s before looking down at your paper. you gulped in nervousness as you began your speech. 

“and although I have been keeping my college acceptance a secret, within the last few weeks, I’ve had the privilege of being scouted by a few schools and finally came down to the decision last week on which university I would attend. it is my honor and with grace to finally announce that I will be attending Central City State University in the fall! go Falcons!” you told the crowd as you opened up your gown to show off the school sweater. 

you saw Bart’s face light up with excitement as he realized that you had accepted the Flash’s invitation to work with them. Damian had also realized that the rumors surrounding you actually leaving the Titan’s to work with the Flash was actually true and he felt his heart break realizing that you were no longer a part of his life. 

you sat back down in your seat with a smirk playing on your face as you could basically feel Damian’s stare coming down on you. it wasn’t until after graduation when all of you got the chance to join your families again when you saw Bart and everyone else. 

“are you really joining us in Central City?” he asked excitedly. you nodded, giving Bart a hug. the hug didn’t feel friendly. not in the slightest. it felt almost romantic as the two of you remained in an embrace longer than you had realized, “than I’m so glad our plan actually worked out!” Barry said in relief. 

your eyebrows fluttered in confusion but he told you it was a surprise that you wouldn’t see until you got to Central City tonight. you nodded as all you had decided to take pictures before heading to eat. you had noticed Damian approaching you, a determined stare on his face but Bart quickly realized it and grabbed you by the wrist, making you join Barry and your mom again. 

the night finally entered as you had made your way to Central City in order to get settled into your new apartment by signing the final papers over to the apartment. Barry and Bart had offered to show you around your new home, as if you hadn’t already recognized Central City already but nevertheless, you complied and let them show you. 

you got into the core of the city, the lights twinkling and the noises of cars making you feel as though you were in a movie. Bart had covered your eyes with his hands as he told you your secret was coming up. a nervous feeling crept up to your stomach as you had no idea what was going on. 

finally, all of you stopped and that was when Bart took his hands off your eyes. you stared at the large billboard that was high up in the sky as you felt tears spring your eyes. 

“welcoming Central City’s newest superhero.” 

the billboard read as it had a picture of you right next to the lettering. you looked to Barry and Bart before engulfing them into a hug as you thanked them profusely. Barry shrugged you off, “we should be thanking you. you’re going to help us so much! it’s the least we could do,” he said as Bart agreed. 

Barry had mentioned that all of you were going to catch dinner at a restaurant and your reservation should be coming up soon. he had gotten the head start, whispering to Bart that he’d leave the two of you alone for a moment. 

“seriously, thank you so much Bart,” you whispered, giving him another hug. he chuckled nervously, trying to wave you off, “you have no idea how much this means to me,” you added on. 

you looked to Bart and got on your toes, hoping that your next action wasn’t a mistake. you gave him a quick peck on the cheek, making Bart go red in the face. it hadn’t fully set in that you kissed him until he realized that he hadn’t said anything back yet. 

Bart grabbed your hand, giving it a soft kiss before doing the same to your cheek. you smiled at him shyly, grabbing his hand before telling him that you were going to be late for the reservation with Barry. 

-

months had passed since you had started your new life in Central City. you hadn’t spared anyone in Gotham a second thought unless you were visiting your mom so you hadn’t contacted Damian or any of the Titan’s since then. 

however, you had to go with Bart to the Titan’s tower today. you had to meet up with Nightwing there to get information Barry needed for a case. you were hoping that you didn’t run into any of the idiots while you were there with Bart but luck was not on your side that day and upon reaching the Titan’s tower, you were met with not only Damian but with Jon and Billy. 

“where’s Nightwing?” you asked them. Jon gave you a sheepish smile, “he’ll be here soon,” he responded. you nodded, grabbing Bart’s hand and heading to the couch to say hello to Raven and Beast Boy. 

the four of you got into conversation until Damian walked in, basically dragging you into the kitchen as Bart immediately stood up, running to where you were. 

“what the fuck is your issue?” you yelled, snatching your hand back. Bart knew you could hold your own but he still wanted to make sure you were okay, “we need to talk,” he stated, looking to Bart. you laughed, “yeah, whatever you have to say you can say right now. I refuse to talk to you alone,” you said back. 

Damian growled as Jon and Billy stood up, “that night when everything went down, we want to say that it was all a mistake. you had only heard a portion of what we were saying. we never intentionally made a bet on the two of you. we had made a bet that was basically us telling Da-Robin that he couldn’t do anything besides train and fight. Robin had actual feelings for you and the bet was never intentionally set on you. we swear,” Jon explained. 

you looked to Damian and Billy as they both agreed. you rolled your eyes annoyed, “you think I’d actually believe that?” you looked to Bart and laughed before taking his hand, “the next time you actually want to make up lies, make sure they’re actually fucking believable!” you exclaimed laughing. 

Bart laughed along with you, “you think we’re lying?” Damian yelled, “yeah because why should I ever believe what any of you three have to say. all of you are a bunch of pricks that are so far up your own asses that no one with an actual working brain would believe that lie.” 

Bart’s mouth, along with everyone else, hung in disbelief and surprise. “seriously, the next time we see each other, make up a better lie and for the record, working with and in Central City has been actually been so refreshing! no offense,” you said looking over to the rest of the Titan’s, “especially since he’s been making it a lot easier,” you gave Bart a wink as he blushed slightly. 

“so unless we actually have to speak to each other on professional terms, don’t bank on me ever contacting any of you again.” 

you grabbed Bart’s hand as Nightwing had walked into the tower and the three of you walked into a solo conference room to actually do what Barry had sent you two for. 

#DC comics #dc imagine #DC imagines #dc x reader #dc #Damian Wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne imagine #robin imagine #robin x reader #bart allen x reader #bart allen imagine #bart allen #bart allen x you #impulse #impulse imagine #impulse x reader #jon kent #superboy #shazam #billy batson

[fandom-puff]

Guard

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x reader

Requested by: anon ‘Can I get literally anything with Sandor Clegane? Maybe reader is a highborn child of a lord, and the Hound is hired as their bodyguard. And reader is very flustered around Sandor and can’t help but try to seduce them nervously? And Sandor is secretly digging it but tries to remain stoic and scary. Did that make any sense? I hope that was coherent’

Note: I... got a bit carried away here lol, sorry it took a while to write. also the reader in this is Robert Baratheon’s eldest daughter :)

Warnings: drunk shenanigans, references to sex

Gif creds to owner

“Oh father, honestly. What need have I for a guard?” You sighed, setting your book aside as Robert Baratheon sat across from you. “I can barely leave my chambers without a swarm of mother’s little birds to watch my every move,”

“What good are your ladies maids against would be assassins, Hm?” Robert said gently, brushing your dark hair away from your face. “All they can do is tell your mother you’ve had your throat slit,” you didn’t grimace at his bluntness.

“Surely Joffrey would be the prime target?” You insisted. “He’s heir to the throne seeing as he’s the eldest son. And he’s an ass as well,”

Robert laughed, knowing of your disdain for your younger brother. “I know, my girl, I know. Still, I want you protected, especially when we set off for the north. It took a while to convince your mother but... well, she can’t deny her own bannermen will be the best to serve the job,”

“Lannister bannermen?” You asked, taking your father’s arm as he began to walk you to dinner.

“Aye. Don’t worry, I won’t let the Mountain anywhere near you,” he said, patting your hand gently. “But his brother, Sandor, is to be your guard,”

***

The journey north was... arduous, to put it diplomatically. Your mother was overbearing, Joffrey grew bored, Myrcella was travel-sick from the bumpy road and Tommen was dearly missing Ser Pounce.

When the parade of servants and guards and carriages and luggage stopped for dinner before sun down, you sighed, happy to stretch your legs and get away from the claustrophobic Queen’s litter.

After dinner, you followed your father and uncles to their own carriage, insisting you couldn’t bare another moment of your siblings bickering and your mother trying to get you to sew. Your father allowed it and you smiled as he helped you into the carriage, sitting next to him and across from your uncles. Tyrion smiled at you, asking about the book you were reading. You soon found yourself relaxing, under no pressure from Cersei, being treated as an intellectual equal. You even drank some strong wine (under Robert’s supervision of course) and soon nodded off to sleep against your father’s shoulder the way you used to when you were a girl...

“YN, wake up,” you jolted awake, blinking away your sleepiness.

“Are we at Winterfell?” You mumbled, rubbing your eyes. Robert smiled fondly.

“Almost, my dear. Your mother is going spare, says you’re to go to her litter right this instant and put your best gown on,” he grinned, nudging you as you rolled your eyes. “Clegane will escort you, he’s outside,” you sighed and nodded, slipping out of the carriage, almost colliding head on with the Hound.

“Princess,” he said, looking down at you and bowing slightly. “I’m to take to you your mother,”

You smiled sweetly up and him, nodding. “Thank you, Ser Clegane,”

“I’m no Ser,” he said firmly.

“Then what should I call you?” You asked, looking up at him expectantly.

“Well... your brother used to just call me Hound, or Dog, princess,” he said, frowning.

You stared up at him, locking eyes with him, taking in his scarred face and stoic expression. “I am not an ignorant arse like my brother. I’m sure your first name shall suffice, Sandor,” you said firmly and he nodded, helping you navigate the uneven ground to your mother’s carriage

***

Your stay at Winterfell was enjoyable, yet suffocating at times. You grew used to the cold rather quickly, donning furs the way the Starks did. You got on well with Sansa, let Arya show you how fast she could run, held Rickon on your hip when he raised his arms up, let Bran quiz you on the different creatures Old Nan had told him about, spoke politics with Robb. You even beckoned the bastard, Jon Snow over after Robb told you they were as close as real brothers. You admired how warm Lady Stark was with her children, and how Lord Stark was firm but fair with them, disciplining them when need be.

Of course, wherever you went, you had a shadow. Sandor Clegane followed your every move, standing just close enough so he could see and hear you, but far away enough to not stifle you. It was odd at first, but you soon got used to it, smiling softly when you found him waiting outside of your allocated chamber each morning. You couldn’t help but be curious about him. Many recoiled in fright when they saw his disfigured face, but you couldn’t care less. It intrigued you. He was... handsome. In a rugged, scary, gigantic way. At night you couldn’t help but let your mind wander... thinking about his strong arms and great height and low, rumbling voice... you often woke in a sweat, despite the frigid wind of the North, your entire body alight with desire.

It was wrong, you knew it was. He was your guard. Father would have his head if anything untoward happened, and your mother would surely condemn you to a life as a Septa. But still... there was something about his powerful presence that stoked the fire within you.

***

There was a firm thud at your door. “Princess, I’m here to take you to the feast,” Sandor’s gruff voice sounded.

“A moment, I’m just... is there a ladies’ maid nearby?” You called

“No, Princess. They are down at the feast with your mother and sister... should I fetch one? Or perhaps the Septa or the Maester, if it’s women’s troubles that are ailing you?”

You rolled your eyes and opened the door. “There’s no need for that, Sandor,” you said firmly. “I’m simply having difficulty trying to do up the clasp on my necklace. Would you...?” You opened your door a little wider, inviting him inside. Sandor hesitated for a moment before following you, his armour rattling with every step. He admired your figure as you walked; you had decided to wear the colours of your house for the Feast. A black gown, embroidered with twisting golden antlers. You stood in front of the mirror, holding out the ends of your pendant. Sandor’s hands brushed against yours as he took the ends, and you couldn’t help but shiver, goosebumps spreading over the swell of your breasts as you swept your hair aside. Sandor gulped, clasping the fiddly chain against the column of your neck, his knuckles caressing gently.

“There,” he said, clearing his throat as he felt your heated skin. “Come on... before your mother castrates me for making you late,”

You smiled gently, walking slightly ahead of him toward the noisy Hall. As you approached the head table, Ned and Catelyn stood, but you quickly gestured for them to sit. “Please, sit. This is your home,” you said gently, allowing Sandor to pull a chair out for you next to your mother.

“Thank you Clegane,” she said coldly, eyes narrowed. “You may leave us now,”

You turned to him and smiled shyly. “Stay,” you said softly.

“YN,” your mother said warningly.

“Sandor, go and enjoy the feast. Have some food and some wine, I’m sure Uncle Jaime and Uncle Tyrion can spare you some. Go. Make Merry,” you said gently and he nodded, bowing slightly.

“Of course, Princess, your majesty,” he said, before stalking away.

You ignored your mother’s disapproving look and engaged in pleasant conversation with Lady Catelyn, mainly about when you were to be wed, but your mother cut across.

“I believe Robert intended to betroth her to your eldest son, but we must consider Joffrey’s future first. He is after all to be king and needs to have heirs,”

“Of course,” Catelyn smiled. “I’m sure a suitor will come shortly,”

You nodded, although your attention was no longer on the conversation; your eyes had drifted to Sandor. For once he was smiling, looking at ease as your uncles poured him more wine, your father laughing jovially with a woman on his lap. “I’m going to see Uncle Jaime,” you said to your mother, who sighed but let you go.

“Ah, YN,” Tyrion smiled as jaime poured you a goblet of wine. “I see you’ve managed to escape your mother’s side,”

“Don’t,” you said, taking the wine and drinking it quickly, sitting yourself next to Sandor. Robert sent the woman on his lap go, frowning at you.

“Careful now, YN, that wine’s stronger than you’re used to,” he warned, but you reached over to clink your goblet with his. Sandor gulped, seeing the curve of your back as you swayed slightly.

“Oh, nonsense, father. I am your daughter after all... and my uncle is the drunkest man in the seven kingdoms. It’d be rather shameful if I couldn’t manage a cup of wine,” you smiled, sitting back down and knocking back another cup as the men roared with laughter.

Your father was right. A few cups of the strong wine later, you were rather giddy, insisting Jaime dance with you. He humoured you, your father and Tyrion laughing and cheering you on while Sandor smiled bemusedly. “Come now, YN... that’s enough for tonight,” Jaime said, helping you stagger back. “She’s drunk,” he grinned as you giggled, sitting yourself back down. Your fathered grinned, allowing you one more cup before smirking.

“Gods above, Cersei will have my head for getting you drunk...” Robert grinned, although he didn’t really look too worried. “Clegane, take her to her rooms and guard the door. Send for the maester if she’s unwell,” Sandor nodded and bowed, watching as you hugged your father goodnight, before taking your arm and guiding you out of the crowded hall.

As you walked through the courtyard of Winterfell, you shivered in the cold, leaning into Sandor a little more, trying to keep up with his wide strides. He helped you up the stairs to your room, rolling his eyes fondly as you giggled when you stumbled. “Come on, Princess, need to get you to bed in one piece,”

“I’d like you to get me in bed, Sandor,” you grinned, nudging him, fuelled by liquid confidence. He said nothing, opening your bedroom door, helping you inside before turning around. “What’re you doing?” You asked indignantly.

“Turning my back so you can get yourself dressed for bed,” he said lowly, gritting his teeth.

“I can’t undo the laces at the back... my ladies’ maid is still at the feast. Help?” You asked, already clumsily undoing your braids. Sandor sighed softly, cursing under his breath as he turned around. You had your back to him, holding your hair out of the way so he could unlace your gown. When you felt his strong hands against your back, caressing with the gentlest touch, you let out a little sigh, leaning back into his touch. Your gown pooled onto the floor, leaving you in your corset and chemise. His breath hitched, unlacing your corset. You smiled, turning around and he quickly averted his eyes- he could see your nipples through the fabric, thanks to the cold.

“C’mon, princess,” he said, clearing his throat, thankful his armour covered his cock; his trousers were feeling uncomfortably tight. “Into bed with you,” you nodded obediently, letting him help you up into the high bed. He pulled the blanket over you, and as he was straightening, you reached up to kiss him. He froze for a moment, before kissing you back gently, stroking your hair. His whole hand almost covered your head as he cupped the back of it gently. Slowly, he pulled away, much to your dismay. “Sleep, princess,” he said softly, pushing you down. You reached up, pouting.

“Stay?” You slurred, eyes already drooping as the alcohol caught up to you.

“I’ll be standing just outside the door, YN,” he said, blowing out the candles. “Can’t keep you safe if I’m in here, can I?”

***

Tags: @lotsoffandomrecs @zodiyack @rabeccablake @simonsbluee @wonderwoman292 @little-bit-of-randomness @doozywoozy

#sandor clegane has a heart #sandor clegane imagine #Sandor Clegane oneshot #Sandor Clegane x you #sandor clegane x reader #Sandor Clegane x y/n #2021 #Sandor Clegane fanfic #the hound x reader #game of thrones #game of thrones imagine #request #game of thrones oneshot #game of thrones fanfic

[thekisforkeats]

Love Languages

Info: The Magnus Archives, JonMartin, rated T probably for swears. Canon-Compliant. Set post-MAG 22, with a coda post-MAG 159. Everyone is ND and everyone is trans because that’s just how my personal S1 Archives gang rolls.

CWs: Mentions of ableism and Martin’s mother. I’d say canon-typical worms but the worms don’t really come up except in passing.

I do not know anything about BSL, so I did not try to describe the signs.

Summary: A love language is not just about how you best show love and affection; it is also about the ways you best receive love and affection. And so, for someone like Martin, who shows love by going out of his way to help others, someone going out of their way to help him, well. What better way for him to realize just how loved he is?

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

The first time Martin went completely non-verbal after starting work in the Archives, it was the morning after giving Jon the statement about Jane Prentiss.

It wasn’t a surprising development, really. Martin didn’t go fully non-verbal that often, but when he did it was almost always a thing that started in the morning and lasted most of the day. Sometimes it wore off by the time he went to bed, sometimes it lasted until the next morning.

After his mother’s diagnosis, he’d been unable to speak for an entire week. That hadn’t gone over well--as much as his mother wanted him to be quiet, she didn’t like the “silent treatment,” as she called it.

Martin hated that she’d called it that, as though his non-verbal episodes were anything he did on purpose. Some days talking just felt like a chore; those days he could get by only forcing words out when he had to. But some days, the worst days, he just couldn’t talk. He could understand other people just fine, he could make noises, sometimes he could even hum. And he could definitely read and write. But speaking words, aloud? No. He could not speak, on these days, however much he may have wanted to.

As Martin grew older and learned more about himself, he learned words and reasons and coping mechanisms. He realized that some of the problem came from dysphoria and the longer he was on hormones the less often it happened. He realized that he was autistic (even if he never got diagnosed), and learned how to handle the episodes that still occurred. He took sign languages classes because it was a good and useful thing to know regardless, to be able to communicate with more people.

As many Deaf people had learned before Martin, he’d found himself in plenty of situations when nobody around him knew BSL, so he’d found a phone app that let him type out things he wanted to say and repeated them in a tinny, mechanical voice. Feminine, but he found it didn’t cause dysphoria; it wasn’t his voice. It was the app speaking for him, a robot lady translating his words.

Martin was fairly certain he was going to need the robot lady to speak for him today, and he was dreading the whole idea. The app got him a range of reactions from scorn to derision to faux sympathy. The last time he’d done so at work, the Institute library staff had regarded him with such pity that he’d called in sick the two other times it had happened since.

He’d woken early, because he was always awake fairly early, to ensure he looked presentable and got to work on time. He did not want Jonathan “Crisply Professional At All Times” Sims giving him that look again. The particular look that was “I highly disapprove of your sartorial choices but I’m not going to get into it right now because I have so very much else to do. Nonetheless, if I could fire you for what you’re wearing I would.”

Jon had a lot of looks. Martin fervently wished he could stop categorizing them; he very much disliked his boss, and very much wanted to stop thinking about Jon quite as much as he did.

Jon was attractive, that much Martin had noticed the first day he’d come in, with a jawline Martin would’ve loved to trace with his fingers, eyes sharp and deep and intelligent, salt-and-pepper hair that Martin would have tangled his fingers in gladly.

Except, of course, that Jon was also a prick who didn’t like Martin one bit and made that very clear. He’d put down on record that he thought Martin would “contribute nothing but delays.” Martin was not such a sucker for punishment that he would put up with someone who hated him just for a pretty face. The tiny potential blossom of a crush had been, well, crushed five seconds after it had poked its head above ground, by Jon’s declaration that he could dismiss Martin if he didn’t resolve the “dog situation” immediately.

Martin counted his lucky stars every day that Jon had not, in fact, dismissed him, despite having had to deal with a doggy mess. The luck was really in having Tim around, Martin figured; Jon actually seemed fond of Tim, and the other man had managed to smooth the entire situation over.

Martin had fallen asleep last night thinking about the new look Jon had given him yesterday: concerned. Truly, genuinely concerned, which had rather taken Martin aback. He’d been certain Jon wouldn’t believe him, would scoff and roll his eyes at the entire statement, and instead he’d just looked… concerned. 

And then Jon had offered Martin the cot that he’d woken up in this morning.

It wasn’t the look of concern that had Martin non-verbal, though; of that he was certain. It was the stress of the last two weeks, and dumping out the statement yesterday, and all the whirl of figuring out how to live in the Archives. Jon’s insistence on going with him to pick up basics with a toothbrush at the convenience store, and then coming back to be sure he was okay. Jon finding clean sheets and discussing how he’d do his laundry. Jon had expensed clothing bought online to the Institute, including next-day shipping, because he’d “lost access to his flat and thus his wardrobe in the line of duty.” It had all been bewildering and overwhelming and it was no real surprise that Martin was in the state he found himself when he woke.

Martin had known as soon as he’d opened his eyes. It was just there, the feeling of nope can’t talk today. He’d pulled on his binder and the same clothing he’d worn the day before and then fumbled around for his phone. Which… he didn’t have. The damn worm-hive-lady had stolen it from him. Well, shit.

He managed to avoid having to figure out how to talk while he went out to get breakfast, just pointing at a scone in the display and smiling at the guy behind the counter as if he wasn’t secretly irritated by the price of everything in Chelsea. By the time Martin got back, Jon was already in his office, so thank God he’d avoided that awkward interaction. He went to make himself tea, and had his breakfast in the breakroom, and brushed his teeth, and then went to get started on…

Wait. He didn’t even know what they were working on right now.

Well, he wasn’t going to bother Jon about it; however nice he’d been last night it surely must have worn off by now, and Martin had no interest in summoning one of his boss’ looks this early in the morning. Normally he’d still be on his commute at this hour.

After a moment’s thought, he went to go see what they’d recorded in his absence, and soon had a stack of statements on his desk. They’d gotten through five statements in the two weeks he’d been gone. Maybe Jon was right. Maybe Martin did contribute “nothing but delays.”

Pushing the thought aside, Martin focused on listening to the tapes, and was just finishing up listening to the second half of Father Edwin Burroughs’ statement when Tim came into the shared office the assistants used.

“Hey, you’re in early. You get the email?”

Martin raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

Tim snorted. “Jon claims he’s got something to warn us about, something that ‘won’t parse properly through digital means.’” He rolled his eyes. “Which is Jon-speak for ‘it’s a weird thing and I don’t want to admit it’s a weird thing because I have to keep my skeptic hat on to preserve my self-image.”

Martin chuckled in solidarity, then gestured toward the door to Jon’s office, to indicate that’s where their boss was.

“Not coming?” Tim asked, his own eyebrow raised. When Martin shrugged, he said, “Well, I guess if you didn’t get the email…” Tim also shrugged, then said, “Guess I’d better get it over with. Wish me luck!”

Martin gave him a thumbs up.

When Sasha came in, Martin silently directed her to Jon’s office as well, then heaved a sigh of relief. He hadn’t had to explain being non-verbal at all yet, and it was already nine o’clock. Maybe if he was lucky, Jon would warn them off talking to him and he’d manage to make it the entire day without having to explain the whole “non-verbal” business to anyone he saw on a regular basis.

Alas, it was barely thirty minutes later that Tim and Sasha returned to talk to him, both wearing expressions of mingled concern and guilt. When they spoke it was a flood of the usual, expected platitudes:

“We’re so sorry!”

“We didn’t know!”

“Are you okay??”

And such like.

Martin shrugged and nodded and shook his head in all the right places, and evidently Jon had played them the tape of his statement so he didn’t have to explain it all again (thank God), and he thought maybe, maybe he could even figure out what statement they were working on right now if he just listened to their chatter after they were done with the niceties, but then…

Well. Then Timothy Stoker happened.

Which is to say, Tim actually looked at Martin, and said, “You’re being awfully quiet. You sure you’re okay?”

And then he and Sasha just… sat there, looking at him expectantly.

Martin sighed and reached for a piece of scrap paper and wrote, I’m autistic and sometimes I go non-verbal. Today’s one of those days, but I don’t have my phone anymore, so no communication app.

As he held up the paper so the others could read the words, Martin braced himself for the ensuing reactions. Pity, probably, like those in the Institute library, and he couldn’t even call in sick to avoid it; he’d rather have scorn and derision. At least those reactions were honest.

What he got from them was not pity, however, nor even scorn.

Sasha hummed. “Autism explains a lot, actually. Don’t worry, it’s not a problem.”

Tim grinned and clapped Martin on the shoulder. “Yeah, why didn’t you just say so? It’s fine, you’ve been through an ordeal. And so you know--you’re hardly the only neurodivergent in the Archives.”

Martin blinked at Tim, then wrote: Wait, what? Who…?

“Would you believe me if I said all of us?” Tim said with a grin. “I have ADD, Jon’s… well… he’s Jon, and as for Sasha…”

Sasha sighed in fond exasperation and cut in, “Tim…”

“I contend that you cannot be neurotypical, Ms. James. You fit in too well around here.”

“I am not admitting to anything on Institute property,” Sasha said with aplomb. “And you shouldn't have either, but here we are.” She looked at Martin. “If HR finds out and they give you any trouble, let us know and we’ll figure out what to do.”

Tim, in the meanwhile, pulled out his phone. “Here, go ahead and use mine for now, until your replacement gets here or whatever. What’s the app so I can install it for you?”

Martin’s jaw had dropped open. Tim having ADD made sense; what did he mean about Jon, though? And Sasha? And what did Sasha mean about HR? And… and why were they being so… nice? So… understanding? It wasn’t an act, or at least he didn’t think it was. They seemed… genuinely fine with it. Accepting, even.

It was the strangest thing Martin had experienced in a while, and that was including the worm-riddled woman who’d stood outside his door for two straight weeks.

From there the day just… went on as normal. Tim installed the app on the phone, Martin’s robot phone lady spoke for him, the three of them did their work, and everything was fine.

Until, of course, the nature of their work reared its ugly head. They were discussing the statement of Leanne Denikin, case #0051701, which they had yet to attach a pithy name to; hence the discussion. It had long since become standard practice to attach a name to the “weirder” statements, to make them easier to discuss. (Jon insisted on using the case numbers on tape still, which was annoying, given that was the only place he did that.)

Martin was reading through the statement, and he typed into Tim’s phone: What do you think of this bit? “Be still, for there is strange music.”

What came out of the phone’s speakers, however, was garbled static followed by high-pitched screeching that startled Martin so much he actually dropped the phone.

Jon was walking in just as this happened; he stopped in the doorway, blinking. “What on Earth was that?”

“Martin’s robot lady gave Tim’s phone an aneurysm, I think,” Sasha said, eyeing Martin as well.

Martin scrabbled on the floor for the phone, pulled up the app (which had crashed), and typed, I don’t know what happened!! I was just typing in something from one of the statements!

Jon frowned at him sharply. “What are you doing with Tim’s phone? Are you quite well?”

“No, Martin is not ‘quite well,’” Tim said. “Non-verbal for the day.”

Then Jon did something that stunned Martin: Jon signed at him, specifically, “Do you know sign language?” He spoke aloud as he said this, too, but also raised his eyebrows and gave a quizzical tilt to his head to convey that he was asking a question.

Martin blinked rapidly, then signed back: “Yes, actually. But Tim and Sasha don’t.”

Jon nodded, then said aloud, along with signing, “Why are you non-verbal, exactly?”

“I have autism,” Martin signed. “Sometimes talking is overwhelming and sometimes, especially in stressful situations, I can’t talk at all. Woke up that way today. It should be gone by tomorrow morning.” Why was he explaining so much more to Jon than he had to the others? Maybe just because Jon knew sign, and thus could communicate in a language Martin found much easier than even the typing.

Jon frowned thoughtfully, then nodded again. Then, still speaking and signing both, “What were you typing into your phone?”

“Be still, for there is strange music. From the statement.” Martin gestured to the statement on his desk.

Jon’s frown deepened and he repeated the words. “‘Be still, for there is strange music….’” His expression went slack for a moment, and then he shook himself. “Right. Well. Just… just… I’ll be right back.” Then he abruptly turned and left the room.

Tim and Sasha exchanged bewildered looks. Then Sasha asked, “Do you know what that was all about?”

“I forgot Jon knows BSL,” Tim replied thoughtfully. “Hard of hearing on one side. Not that he’d have agreed to interpret all day or anything.”

Martin shrugged. It’s alright, he typed. This works just fine.

“Well, no, obviously not for some things.” Jon had reappeared as suddenly as he’d disappeared, holding a small brown notebook the size of Martin’s hand. “Here,” he said, thrusting the notebook at Martin. “This will work better, for communicating about the statements. You needn’t use it with me, of course, unless signing is also taxing.”

Martin stared up at Jon. There was an entirely new look on his boss’ face. Not any level of scorn or sneer, nor even concern. He was… nervous. Fidgety. Like he was offering a gift that he was afraid might be rejected.

Something went flip in Martin’s stomach and it was like the entire world turned upside down. Suddenly, in light of Jon’s actions in the last 24 hours, he saw the way his boss had acted toward him the last six months for what it was: a defense mechanism. Armor pulled up around someone fragile and soft and sweet, someone so terrified of rejection that he went about making sure it happened preemptively so he wouldn’t be hurt.

Martin had a sudden, fierce desire to hug Jon and tell him everything would be okay. It was so bewildering a sensation--he didn’t even like the man! At all!--that he just took the notebook with a nod and a signed “Thank you,” eyes still very wide.

Jon nodded in return. “You’re welcome.” He let out a breath, and seemed to relax a little. “Well. Then. I think we’ve found the name for this one, given the way Tim’s phone reacted to those words. ‘Strange Music’ it is.” He straightened himself. “Tim, you said something about the organ reminding you of articles you’ve read…?”

Tim nodded, expression suddenly serious. “Yeah. I’ll see if I can find them for you.”

“Right. Well, then, Sasha, if I could ask you to look through the Archive like we talked about? I’m certain we’ve had a statement from Jane Prentiss.” Jon then turned to Martin. “And if you wouldn’t mind helping me with ‘Schwarzwald?’ You used to work in the library, right?”

Martin was still staring at Jon in confusion, but nodded.

Jon actually smiled at him. Faintly. “Well, then, I’m certain you must know where to find the German history reference books, if you could go grab whatever they’ll let you bring down?”

The strangest thing about it was, Jon seemed sincere. Like he actually believed Martin did, indeed, know the library well enough to just… go up there and find the German history reference books. The faint, confident-in-his-assistant smile was a new look, at least directed at Martin; he’d seen Jon look at Tim and Sasha that way many times before.

Martin’s stomach was doing cartwheels. There were butterflies taking up residence in his intestines. His heart was pounding. How had he never noticed how nice Jon’s smile was? Soft and small, like he was afraid to let it actually take up residence on his face for too long.

Oh, God, oh, no. Martin could not fancy his boss. Jon hated him. Or, well, no, evidence suggested that perhaps Jon did not hate him, but Jon most certainly did not fancy him. This crush had to disappear, just as fast as it had come. This would not do.

He was going to be writing poetry again tonight, wasn’t he? Crap.

“Martin?” Jon’s tone was concerned rather than sharp, and the way Jon said his name made Martin want to sink into the floor.

Instead, he scribbled furiously in the notebook and held it up so all three of the others could see: Yeah, sorry, was just thinking about where that’d be. I’ll bring them down as soon as I find them.

Jon practically beamed at Martin’s use of the notebook and he nodded briskly. “Right! I’ll be in my office when you have the books, then.” He started to turn away.

Martin’s heart went pound pound pound because oh wow Jon was really cute when he let that smile take up more of his face. Throwing caution to the wind, he made a noise to get the other man’s attention.

Jon turned around, quirking a brow. “Yes, Martin?”

Martin signed, “Tea?” He, too, raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to indicate the question.

Jon nodded. “Tea would be lovely, yes.” He smiled at Martin for a brief moment, and then suddenly looked flustered. He glared at them all. “Anyway,” he snapped in his ‘boss’ voice, the impact of which was ruined by the flush rising in his cheeks, “there’s still work to be done. So let’s… do it.” And with that, he turned on his heel and left the office.

Had Jon blushed because Martin had offered him tea? Did Jon like his tea that much? Was Martin imagining things? He had to be imagining things. He put his head down on the desk and wrapped his arms over it so he could grab at handfuls of hair. What was happening to him?

Sasha tried to make her voice serious, but couldn't quite manage it past quite clearly holding back giggles. “Mourn for poor Martin, working alone with Jon.” She looked at Tim. “We should call HR preemptively, it’ll be a bloodbath.”

“Nah, I think Jon’s softening on our boy,” Tim said with a laugh. He reached over to ruffle Martin’s hair with one hand while he took his phone back with the other. “Don’t worry, Marto. I told you he’d come around one day.”

Martin looked up at Tim with a stricken, betrayed expression. In the notebook: Is this how you comfort me in my hour of need??

Sasha shook her head. “For once, Tim’s being serious. You weren’t in the room when Jon explained things to us. He’s worried about you, he doesn’t want you to have to leave the Institute alone, he doesn’t want you to have to look for the Prentiss statement in case it’s ‘too traumatic’ for you to run across on your own. He actually asked us if we thought we should avoid any mention of Prentiss altogether in your presence.”

“I told him no,” Tim said. “I hope that was okay. You seem like you’d rather deal with trauma by facing it and figuring it out, rather than avoiding it entirely.”

Matin gaped at them. Really? he wrote. Jon’s… worried about me? Really? As if he hadn’t seen the evidence just now that Jon was, indeed… softening.

Tim gave Martin a very serious look. “I’ve told you before… I’ve known Jon, well, not as long as I’ve known Sasha, but for a long while now. He’s prickly and thorny, even to people he cares about, but that’s a front and I’ve said so. You just didn’t believe me.”

“In Martin’s defense,” Sasha put in, “Jon’s been awfully ‘prickly and thorny’ to him specifically.”

Tim put up a hand. “Oh, I agree. I have had words with our dear boss about the way he treats Martin, largely because I’m one of the few people he might actually listen to.” He looked at Martin. “I don’t want to take the credit, because it’s really been a remarkably fast turnaround, but I’d like to think I helped, a little.”

Martin frowned thoughtfully. Thank you, he wrote. If Jon’s at ‘I can stand Martin’ instead of ‘Martin is the source of all bad that happens in the Archives’ work might be… better than tolerable, for once.

“That’s the spirit!” Tim said with a grin. “Now, then, Jon did say to get back to work…”

Jon gave Martin another of those soft smiles when Martin brought in the tea, a smile which widened on seeing the stack of books he carried in right after. That afternoon, spent sitting and going through books and discussing the Schwarzwald statement, was the first of many they’d spend together, reading and talking and comparing notes.

Martin was feeling verbal again the next morning, but he kept the notebook. If nothing else, it was a good place to jot down poetry. And it came in handy when he found himself unable to speak the morning after Jane Prentiss’ attack on the Archives.

And the morning after Jon confronted him about his CV.

And the morning after Jon disappeared, leaving Jurgen Leitner’s body at his desk. (Martin blamed that on the corridors more than the body, really.)

Funnily enough, he didn’t need it the morning after the Unknowing. But he kept it with him that day all the same, the first gift Jon had ever given him, and one of the few things he had left of him with Jon in a coma.

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

When they reached Daisy’s safehouse in Scotland, Martin had hoped he’d somehow manage to dodge the threat of going non-verbal. He’d been the one to drive the car, over Jon’s protests; it was something to focus on, to keep him remembering he was alive and real. He’d clutched the wheel and driven north north north with Jon giving directions in the passenger seat.

Martin had finally figured out that it was the chance to stop and think about trauma that led to his being non-verbal, which was why it was almost always a thing that hit in the morning. Adrenaline would keep him running after a stressful event, and then he’d carry himself through the rest of the day trying to clean up whatever mess had been caused. But sleep was enough for his body and brain to both tell him to stop, to process, to deal with whatever he’d run into.

It was possible, in hindsight, that he’d gone non-verbal more than once since the Unknowing and just hadn’t noticed because he’d been barely interacting with anyone. He’d certainly had a bad bout the morning after his mother’s funeral, dealing with so much misgendering and fake smiles. And there had been more than enough trauma to try to process in the past year, so it must have happened before.

He’d just really, really hoped it wouldn’t now, because he didn’t want to put Jon through that. (Why he thought he was putting Jon through anything he didn’t really want to examine. It made him feel Lonely, and that was bad.)

At any rate, the realization of why he went non-verbal had led to him keeping busy in order to hold it off, in order to hold himself together. So he drove, and he puttered about the cabin poking into cupboards, and he talked to Jon, and he talked to the shop lady in the village, and he brought back food and made dinner with Jon, and everything was good and fine.

And then he woke up the next morning, in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, and he could not speak.

There was the smell of bacon and eggs and pancakes cooking, and Martin made his bleary way out into the main room of the cabin and peered at Jon, already up and dressed and cooking.

His boyfriend turned to look at him and smiled, one of those soft smiles Martin had come to love so much. “Sleep well?”

"Not really,” Martin signed. “I mean…” He gestured at his throat.

Jon nodded. “I figured you might feel that way this morning. I, uhh… hold on a moment, I need to….” He grabbed the pan of bacon and moved it off the heat, pulled a pancake off the griddle and deposited it on a plate, then turned off the stove and went to poke around in one of the bags.

Martin chuckled fondly. “What’re you looking for?”

Jon was still digging through his bag. “When I was grabbing essentials at the store, back in London, I was thinking, you’ve been through a lot, and the notebook I gave you before must be full if you even have it anymore. I know you were writing poetry in it, and… oh, here we go.”

Jon came up with another small notebook. This one was not plain and brown, the way the first one he’d gifted Martin all those years ago had been. This one was black, and had silvery stars on its cover that, as Jon held out the book and thus tilted it through the light, shimmered into rainbows.

“Just in case, you know, the shop lady doesn’t know BSL.”

Martin blinked at the notebook.

“It, uhh… I know it’s not your usual style,” Jon said, his voice suddenly nervous. He was looking down at the notebook as he spoke, instead of at Martin. “Not… retro. But… I saw it and I thought of you.” He paused. “That tape, where you were talking to Simon Fairchild. He talked about the ‘cosmic scale,’ and how we’ve never even been alive on that time frame, and you said… what was it? You said, ‘I think our experience of the universe has value. Even if it disappears forever.’ And I just… that was… maybe the most… it was very… you. And there were other options, flowers or cursive writing, o-or… I don’t know, they all seemed so obvious, but this…”

Jon swallowed, and finally looked up at Martin. “I thought, after the Lonely, you might like a reminder that, you have value. That… that to me, you shine as bright as any star.” And then he flushed, and Martin knew it was for him, just as he now knew the flushes about tea all those years ago had also been for him.

Martin was gaping. Oh. Oh. Jon… loved him. Which he’d known, intellectually, but the emotional knowledge of it hit him suddenly, took his breath away. He knew it, all at once, in that “oh we could spend the rest of our lives together” way he’d never really thought he’d ever feel.

Jon had clearly misinterpreted the expression; he started stammering, “I-if… it it’s bad, I can… well, no, I can’t take it back, stupid, I should’ve just grabbed the one that had--”

Martin cut him off by reaching out to take the notebook from Jon and reached out with his other hand to cup the shorter man’s cheek. He smiled, and because he’d realized long ago how well Jon responded to physical touch, he leaned in to plant a soft kiss on his boyfriend’s forehead.

Then he pulled back to put the notebook aside on the counter and signed, “It’s perfect. Thank you.” A pause, and then, “I love you.”

Jon smiled, both speaking and signing, “I love you, too.”

And for once in his life, Martin knew that to be true, and trusted that knowledge. He was loved. He had been loved, and he would be loved for the rest of his life, whatever state his voice was in.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #jon sims #jonathan sims #jon the archivist #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #archives gang #otp: one way or another together #fanfic #my fanfic #ableism tw #jmart #canon tma fic

[spacestationdaedalus]

when my demons won’t let me be

or: not in his right state of mind, Jon accidentally compels Martin. It’s not okay, but it’s okay.

or or: i spend so much time reading sick fic and i finally wrote one of my own angst and plenty of hurt/comfort, warnings for canon-typical compulsion and descriptions of panic and disassociation

Martin wakes to a shifting of weight and a cut off breath. It's a hazy half-awareness, coming to him under a snowdrift, on a radio station drowning in dull static.

In a well-practiced motion, Martin extends an arm over the covers to rest on Jon's chest. He doesn't let the full weight fall, not yet. Enough for Jon to know he's there, a touch light enough that Jon can readily push away or lean into. It depends on the particular brand of nightmare, the terror that's chosen to follow him to sleep. Sometimes he sets Martin's arm aside with a gentle squeeze, sitting up against the headboard and taking comfort in the cool bedroom air and the sound of Martin's breathing. At least, in Jon's own words. Other times, he holds Martin's arm to his chest, taking comfort in the weight and warmth of it.

Neither of those things happen, though.

Jon rolls sharply, seemingly ignoring Martin's arm in favor of the other side of the bed. He curls around himself with a low whine, harshly cut off in the back of his throat.

"J'n?" Martin props himself up on one arm. Voice rough with sleep, but no less concerned.

Jon shifts, a back and forth movement that looks like it could be the shaking of his head. His shoulders are taut and trembling. He makes another sound that could be the beginning of a shout, and it brings Martin to full awareness. He moves his hands to Jon's shoulder before he has time to think, desperate to help, to comfort, to something.

"Jon, it's alright-"

“Don’t touch me!” Jon bursts out, dripping and full of static and oh oh oh. It cascades over Martin’s mind, oily and slick. His hands pull away like they've been burned, but numb and far off. As though belonging to a stranger.

He shifts away from Jon and off of the bed, limbs moving robotically to pull back the covers, to move him away until his back meets the bedroom wall. Martin's hands are raised halfway, frozen in a caricature of comfort. A puppet on strings. He wants to move, shout, anything. But the gaze of eyes he can’t see bears down on him, an insurmountable weight holding him in place. Like a butterfly pinned inside a glass display case.

Jon is sitting up, now. Eyes (eyes, eyes, he's all eyes) blown wide, bright and glassy even in the low light of the room. His breathing is ragged and uneven in obvious panic. Even with his hands clenched tight in the front of his nightshirt, Martin can see they’re trembling. Martin’s heart aches and he wants to help but he can’t move and Jon’s eyes are still on him and he can’t breathe and it hurts. And he's afraid. He can hear his pulse pounding in his ears, the eyes are still watching him and it feels so much like burning paper and righteous anger and Elias's face and everything Martin had been trying to forget.

Jon brings up a hand to cover his mouth. Horror and panic clear in his eyes, which Martin knows are reflected in his own. Then Jon backs away, clearly unsteady on shaking legs. Martin's vision starts to blur (when was the last time he blinked?) but he hears Jon's steps fade into the hall. And Martin can do nothing.

The back of Martin's mind still using logic was hoping the feeling would fade once Jon wasn't looking at him. Unfortunately, Martin is used to being proven wrong. Face blank, body rigid, mind screaming.

Autonomy comes back to him slowly, a tingling in his fingertips that trickles down his arms and leaves an awful shakiness in its wake. Nerves making up for lost time, maybe. Trying to catch up with the adrenaline coursing through his veins. A grip Martin wasn't aware of begins to loosen from around his ribcage, and his first real breath in ages is a shuddering gasp. The force of it combined with the jelly replacing his knees sends him sliding to the floor, using the wall for support.

Martin breathes. In. Out. The first breath is molten in his lungs. His eyes water against it, and the second one is even worse. The third leaves as a sob that echoes back at him. In one last betrayal of his body against him, the tears spill over to drip down his cheeks. Martin rests his forehead against his knees and wills himself not to fall apart.

The Lonely was easy, in that regard. For months, Martin didn't have to worry about this kind of thing - the fear and anger and gaping misery that had been following them for so long. But evidently suppressing your trauma with more trauma wasn't a healthy coping mechanism. Go figure.

Leaving the Lonely was hard. Martin had spent most of the first 48 hours oscillating wildly between numb detachment and emotion so overwhelming he thought he would drown in it. Jon helped. He was patient, gentle, all the things Martin thought were too good to be true.

Martin forces himself up as soon as he's able. Maybe sooner, given the way the room sways when he stands. But it passes after a moment, and Martin goes to find Jon.

The house is dark. The occasional creak from the pipes and floors could be off-putting, but compared to everything else, it's benign. He uses fingers brushed against the wall to guide him down the short hallway.

"Jon?" He calls. The floor creaks in response.

Martin reaches the threshold between the hall and the kitchen. The haze of the moon behind thin clouds bleeds through the window above the sink, providing just enough light to see. Martin catches a shadow out of the corner of his eye, but it isn't actually a shadow, and Martin lets himself feel a hint of temporary relief.

Jon is tucked in the corner between two cabinets. Head buried against his bent knees, hands gripping into his hair in a position that mirrors Martin's from mere moments ago. Martin's heart leaps into his throat.

"Oh, Jon." Martin kneels in front of him, slow as to not startle him. If Jon notices, he makes no sign of it.

"Jon?" Martin reaches, but stops halfway. He doesn't want a repeat of before. His palm itches, but he keeps it airborne. Until he knows it's okay.

Jon makes a sound in the back of his throat, one that Martin hasn't heard before. His next inhale is strained and wet and - oh. 

Martin had never seen Jon cry before. Angry, upset, shaken, sure. But not this. It twists something awful and thorny in his chest. Martin wants to hug him, but he keeps the few inches between them.

"Don't-" Jon starts suddenly, and for an awful moment the hairs on the back of Martin's neck stand up on end. But Jon cuts himself off with a keening noise, and curls further into himself. His shoulders are trembling, either from holding back sobs or the biting chill of the poorly-insulated kitchen floor, Martin can't be sure. Probably both.

"I-I'm sorry-" Jon stutters, sounding like each word is a fight to get out. "I-I-I don't - I don't know…"

"Just breathe, Jon. It's alright."

Jon shakes his head against his legs. "N-no, you need to-" A sob cuts him off.

"Need to what, love?" The term of endearment slips out naturally on Martin's tongue. If Jon notices, he doesn't say so.

"Leave." The last word crackles slightly in the air, like static electricity threatening a shock. Martin freezes. The compulsion threatens to overtake him, but it's weaker than before. It rings in his skull, and Martin fights it back until it fades to background noise.

Jon whispers, barely audible. "I can't - I can't control it."

Oh.

"Alright, alright…" Martin bites his lip for a moment. Nods to himself.

"Okay, let's just - I'll ask you yes or no questions for now. You can, ah - just nod for yes and shake your head for no. Is that alright?"

Jon's face is still hidden, but that's alright. After a moment, he nods enough for Martin to discern the movement.

"G-good, okay-" Martin pauses, not immediately sure what question to go with first.

"Did you have a nightmare, earlier? Is that what scared you?" Martin silently chides himself for asking two questions, but hopefully it won't matter.

Jon nods.

"Has this happened before? The, uh-" Martin makes a hand motion, but Jon can't see it. "Th-the 'not being able to control the compulsion,' thing?"

There's a pause, then Jon shakes his head. Martin frowns.

"Alright, that's alright. Do you think you can look at me?"

Another pause, longer. Martin doesn't press as the seconds pass. Then Jon slowly raises his head.

Jon's eyes are wide, rimmed with red and dark circles more pronounced than they had been in the last few days. Tears are steadily dripping down his cheeks, flushed dark against his complexion. His lips are pressed tightly together, and Martin can see the barely contained panic mingled with exhaustion in every line of his face.

"Hey." Martin greets, feeling like a small victory. Jon quickly casts his gaze down and to the side, not meeting Martin's eyes. He also moves his hands to wrap around his torso, shivering harshly against the cabinets. Martin frowns again. He racks his brain for the seemingly mundane moments from the previous day. Jon talking less as the day had gone on, his less-than-already-finnicky appetite, going to bed early because he said he was a bit tired. Nothing individually out of the ordinary, not after the hell they'd dragged themselves through just to get here. But-

"Jon, is it alright if I touch you?"

Jon nods almost immediately, but still avoids Martin's eyes. Encouraged, Martin moves carefully to press the back of his hand against Jon's cheek. It's warm - hot, even - to the touch. Martin checks his forehead for good measure, feeling the heat before their skin actually makes contact. Martin's winces in sympathy, moving his hand back to Jon's cheek. He uses both hands, for good measure, to cup Jon's face, and wipe the stray tears still dripping from his lashes.

"Oh, love. You're burning up." Martin says, gently. "That must have something to do with it."

Jon's brow furrows. He brings his own hand up to his face, seemingly to try and feel his own temperature. Martin can't help the quiet laugh.

"First let's get off the floor. 's not exactly comfortable, yeah?" Martin offers. 

Jon doesn't react, eyes locked in a middle distance between the two of them. But then all at once his expression breaks, and he buries his face in his hands.

Jon doesn't react, eyes locked in a middle distance between the two of them. But then all at once his expression breaks, and he buries his face in his hands.

Martin's heart leaps into his throat. "Oh, hey, hey-"

Jon's words are muffled by his hands, and broken up by harsh, jagged sobs.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I-I didn't-"

Martin moves forward slightly so he can wrap his arms around Jon. He can feel the shivers wracking Jon's frame, and the heat radiating off of him in waves. Martin tucks Jon's head under his chin, and holds him.

"Hey, it's okay." And it's not a lie. Martin was scared - terrified, to put it lightly. He knows he can't just brush that fear away. But he's not scared of Jon, never has been, never will be. And Martin know Jon, knows him and loves him and knows that he loves him back. Martin thinks that this might be more complicated than that, but right now, with Jon coming apart on the kitchen floor, it feels that simple.

"I know you didn't mean to, Jon. It's alright."

Jon shakes his head weakly in protest. Martin can't make out his exact words, jumbled as they are. But he feels the intent behind them, with the way they reverberate in his chest.

"We can talk about it later, when you're feeling better. But I'm not mad, I promise." Martin runs a hand through Jon's hair. It might have been a braid when Jon first went to bed, but it's mostly undone now. "Right now, I'm just worried about you. That's a nasty fever you're running."

They stay like that for a few minutes more. Jon's form is still a trembling leaf in Martin's arms, shallow and uneven breaths punctured by the occasional apology and stifled cry. Jon's forehead is pressed into his neck, burning like a furnace against Martin's skin.

Martin almost asks Jon if he can walk, but instead-

"Jon, is it alright if I pick you up?"

Jon tenses, and Martin immediately regrets asking. But then Jon nods affirmative, relaxing slightly into Martin's hold. Oh thank god.

Jon fits easily into the bends of Martin's arms, one at his back and one under his knees. Jon's hands clench the front of Martin's shirt, tightening and loosening in an uneven rhythm as Martin stands. It's easy for Martin to carry him the short distance to the bedroom, mindful of the narrow door frames.

The quilt and sheets are pulled back from before, which is helpful now. Martin eases Jon onto the bed. He brushes Jon's hair away from his face in what Martin hopes is a comforting gesture. But Jon still has that faraway, panicky look in his eyes, and Martin has an idea.

"Don't move, alright? I'll be right back, I promise." Martin presses a kiss to Jon's forehead, hoping he heard and understood enough of that to not mind when he leaves the room.

Martin comes back with a damp cloth and a glass of water. And a bottle of pain reliever - one that Martin had originally picked up from the store as an afterthought, but is grateful for now. He sets the glass and bottle on the nightstand and sits gingerly on the edge of the bed. Next to Jon, who hasn't so much as shifted in Martin's admittedly brief absence. Martin lays a hand on Jon's shoulder, but after a moment, moves to Jon's cheek. An olive branch to Jon's clouded awareness.

"Alright, love. I'm gonna lay this on the back of your neck, okay? Can you lean forward a touch for me?" 

Jon doesn't move or otherwise react for a moment, and Martin is almost sure he didn't hear it. But then he pitches forward slightly, and Martin shifts so he can support Jon's weight against his shoulder. He brushes Jon's loose curls to the side, letting his fingers linger there for good measure.

"It's gonna feel really cold, but it'll help. Easy," Martin murmurs, placing the folded cloth on the back of Jon's neck. Jon flinches at the touch, hissing between a groan and a whimper. 

"I know, I know." Martin soothes easily, adding other words of comfort here and there, lost to his memory as soon as they cross his lips. He holds Jon close, taking the chance to comb his fingers again through Jon's bed-moussed hair. He knows Jon likes having his hair played with, so Martin ever so gently works his way through some of the tangles, careful never to pull too hard or too fast. Jon's breaths slow and deepen - still marred by the occasional hitch, but a vast improvement from before. He gradually sinks more of his weight onto Martin's shoulder, until Martin is sure he's the only reason Jon is still upright. But Martin doesn't mind.

"Better?" Martin asks, when Jon's trembling passes and his breaths sound less like someone on the verge of drowning. Jon clears his throat.

"I- yes." He rasps, hardly a whisper. The word pulls a cough out of him, but he keeps going. "Th- thank you."

"Of course." Martin says. He all but beams at the sound of Jon's voice, wretched as it sounds. He considers making tea, but something about the bonelessness of Jon's posture tells him Jon won't be awake long enough to see a cup finished. But he does grab the glass of water from the nightstand, and shifts so Jon can take it in both hands.

"Drink some of that for me." Martin presses, and Jon doesn't argue. Martin reaches for the pain reliever next, shaking two pills out and handing them to Jon. He seems surprised at first, but quietly offers a thank you as he takes them from Martin's hand.

"How are you feeling?" Martin asks. It feels like a stupid question, but one of those stupid questions that you just have to ask in lieu of anything else.

"I'm-" Martin knows Jon is about to say I'm alright and something in his face must stop Jon from finishing, because he cuts himself off with a sigh. He presses the heel of his palm into his eye, suppressing a wince. "To - to be honest, uh, quite terrible."

The frankness of it could almost be funny, but Martin's heart aches instead. "I'm sorry. The medicine should help, at least."

Even without his glasses, Martin can make out the two in the hour place of the digital clock on the nightstand, and yeah, it's time for bed.

"And some proper sleep."

Jon nods, eyelids heavy. Martin takes the half-empty glass from his hand, and encourages Jon to lie back with a gentle push. Martin joins him on the other side of the bed, pulling the covers back over the two of them. He leans, partially sitting up against the headboard, inviting Jon into the place at his side if he wants it.

Jon fills the space immediately, burrowing his face into Martin's shoulder. Arms curled in front of him, pressed into Martin's side. He sighs softly. Martin watches the last of the tension bleed out of Jon's face, eyes closed. Jon's fever leaves Martin's side overly warm in minutes, but Martin can't bring himself to mind.

He's sure Jon is already asleep, but-

"M-rtin?"

"What is it, Jon? Do you need something?"

Jon makes a negative sound into Martin's shoulder, shaking his head. It's quiet for a moment, save for their breathing.

"I love you."

Martin freezes, and the response comes as naturally as an inhale after an exhale.

"I love you too."

#the magnus archives #tma #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jonmartin #tma fics #my writing #i have not proofread this but i'm also proud of it pls forgive me

[dickwheelie]

Touching 18, squishing the other's cheeks, for Jmart?

this one kinda got away from me, ended up longer than intended, but whaddayagonnado. hope you enjoy oran!

______________

The first thing Martin does when they finish unpacking is make tea, which doesn't surprise Jon. He sits on the worn sofa and watches Martin plug in the kettle, drop tea bags into the mugs, portion out the sugar. He watches Martin watch the water boil.

Jon doesn't particularly want tea. He's never particularly wanted tea; it's never been his favorite. But when he'd come in for his second day as head archivist, there had been a steaming mug sitting on his desk along with a note that said, Really sorry about yesterday. Hope this helps make up for it. --Martin B. And so Jon had drank the tea, and he kept drinking it every time Martin brought some. He's never known why he didn't just tell Martin he didn't like tea very much. Martin would have understood. He probably would have just asked if Jon would prefer coffee instead.

But Jon's never said anything. And now, staring at Martin stare at the steeping tea bags, his hair ruffled from travel and the corner of his lip red from anxious biting, his eyes so, so tired, Jon thinks he knows why.

Martin blinks, and apparently deciding that he's stared for long enough, removes the tea bags and brings the mugs over to the sofa. Jon lets him set his on the end table, but doesn't reach for it. Martin sits on the sofa's far corner, just out of Jon's reach. It isn't on purpose, Jon knows. It's just what Martin is used to, now.

"Thank you," Jon says.

"Sure," Martin says. He smiles at him, over the lip of the mug, and Jon wants to rub away the bags under his eyes. "You should have some before it gets cold."

Jon finally reaches for his mug and takes a few sips. It's just the way he likes it, which is to say perfectly serviceable, but nothing Jon would get excited about. It doesn't matter what it tastes like, really. It's never mattered. It was never about the tea, anyway.

"It's good," Jon says.

"Good," Martin says, nodding.

Martin drinks his tea. Jon can't stop staring at him. Martin keeps glancing up and meeting Jon's eyes, shooting him awkward little half-smiles before looking quickly away again. Jon doesn't blame him; he knows he's acting weird. This is weird. But he doesn't know how to stop. It isn't the Eye. It's just Jon's momentary inability to look away from Martin's hands curling around his mug, so wide that they cover its surface entirely, or the practiced little sips he takes to avoid burning the roof of his mouth, or the way his lashes hide his eyes from view when he stares down at his lap.

By the time Martin's finished his tea, Jon's is almost untouched and gone cold. He holds it, inert, in his hands, as he stares at Martin's hands tapping patterns on his empty mug.

Martin must notice his cold tea, because he says, "Didn't like it much, huh?"

His tone isn't accusatory or sarcastic, just melancholy. A pang of guilt goes through Jon. "N-No, it's good. I'm just not in the mood, I suppose."

"Oh." Martin laughs, but it's hollow. "Didn't know it was possible for someone to not be in the mood for tea."

Jon laughs too, trying to make Martin feel better. "Yeah. Guess it's just been a . . . weird day."

"Yeah." Martin keeps staring down at his empty mug. Jon could stretch out his legs across the sofa and touch his thigh. He could put them in Martin's lap, easily. But Jon remains pressed to his side of the sofa. "Well, if you want me to make a fresh cup, just say so."

I don't, Jon thinks. More tea isn't what I want.

But he doesn't say no when, later that night as the sun goes down and the temperature drops, Martin offers to make him a nice hot cuppa. Once again, Jon watches from the sofa, a blanket around his shoulders, not wanting tea. Martin's hands are so practiced in their movements. He's done this so, so many times. He knows exactly how much sugar Jon takes. Jon wants nothing more than to reach out and still his hands. I don't want it, he thinks, staring at Martin's thumb as he wipes a drop of tea from the countertop.

Martin carries the mug to him in both hands, one on the handle and one under the mug, keeping it steady. This time Jon reaches for it. He's not done that many times, he realizes. Usually it's placed on his desk before he gets the chance to reach out. But now his hands slide over Martin's, which are pliable and warm, and achingly familiar, though they've never held hands. Jon's hands itch when Martin pulls away, leaving him holding only the piping hot mug of tea that Jon doesn't want.

Jon is about to take an obligatory sip, but then for whatever reason, Martin lingers by the sofa, standing over Jon, just inches away. They stare at one another. Very slowly, Jon lowers the mug from his lips, and sets it gently aside, on the end table. Martin's eyes follow it, and his expression twitches with confusion, and he opens his mouth to ask a question, but before he can make a sound Jon is sitting up, pulling his knees up onto the sofa to lean over the armrest so he can reach up towards Martin, placing his hands on his shoulders and then on either side of his face, gently tugging him closer, and Martin follows, leans down to meet Jon's gaze, bracing his hands on the armrest on either side of Jon's elbows. Jon pulls their faces close, their foreheads nearly touching, and seeing Martin's still-puzzled expression, Jon tightens his grip on his freckled, chubby cheeks, which fill his palms perfectly, and squeezes. It's a gentle but insistent action, a kind of impulsive affection that Jon doesn't know how else to express. Martin blinks at him, his face distorted a bit comically with his cheeks pressed inwards by Jon's hands, but he huffs a laugh and doesn't pull away, and Jon thinks he might be beginning to understand. So keeping his grip on his cheeks Jon pulls him closer, closes his eyes as he taps their foreheads together, and their noses follow suit, squishing against one another almost painfully. Jon doesn't know what to do after that. All he wants is to get closer to Martin, but they're at an awkward angle, and he can do nothing except raise himself up further from the sofa and nudge their faces closer together.

His heart leaps when, a moment later, Jon feels Martin's hands slowly come up to hold either side of his face in turn, his broad palms so gentle as he pulls Jon further up towards him, supporting his weight as Jon kneels up on the armrest and throws his arms around Martin's neck. Yes, Jon thinks, sinking into Martin's soft, assuring weight, this is what I want. Martin's hands and chest are warmer than any cup of tea Jon's ever had.

"I don't like tea," Jon tells him then, leaning back slightly so they can look each other in the eye.

"I--what?" Martin's completely thrown. His hair is ruffled, and his cheeks are still rosy from Jon's hands on them.

"I mean, I don't hate it, it's alright," Jon says. "It's just not one of my favorites."

"But you . . . you like my tea."

"Not really, no. You make very good tea, Martin, I don't think that's disputable. But I just . . . don't like tea very much."

"I--" Martin still looks utterly confused. "But you drink my tea. You always drink it. Until today, apparently."

"I don't like tea. But I like you." Jon bumps their noses together for emphasis. "I didn't want you to think I didn't. And for a while your tea was all I had of you. And it is good tea. But today I guess I just . . . I guess I realized there was no reason to pretend anymore. Because now you're here, we're both here, and we know how we feel about each other, so . . ." Jon drifts off, some of his steam lost, but judging by the look in his eyes he thinks Martin understands.

"You like me, huh?" Martin says, and there's a twinkle in his eye that Jon has missed of late. "Could've made it more obvious."

Jon, who is clinging to Martin like a lifeline, huffs. "I thought I was being obvious."

"Jon," Martin laughs, and he says nothing more, just holds him close as Jon's tea, forgotten on the end table, gets colder and colder.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #gwyneth writes #thank u for the prompt oran!

[voiceless-terror]

And Many Happy Returns

a sequel (or companion piece) to Inseparable, my childhood friends AU. chapter 1 of 2.

“Next week?” Jon shrieks, slamming a hand down on his desk and startling the nearby students. “That’s not nearly enough time to prepare!”

Martin does that blinky-eye thing that means Jon’s being too loud, but he can’t help it! Martin’s turning eight in six days (less than a week!) and didn’t think to tell him. They’re best friends, he should know these things. He curses himself for not asking about this at the beginning of their relationship, when he was collecting Martin facts. Favorite color and book seemed more important at the time. 

And while Jon doesn’t think birthdays are that important, it’s still a fact he ought to have known. Well, his Nan doesn’t consider birthdays important. These past two birthdays he’s gotten one new (!) book and a dessert after dinner, but that’s about it. Nan doesn’t have money to spend on frivolous things, and Jon’s never needed much, but he wouldn’t mind a bit of fanfare. His mum always made sure he felt very loved- he got plenty of hugs, a fun cake, an outing where they would do his favorite things. But maybe that’s something only mums do. Nan, with her rare, stiff hugs and general stand-offishness was never one to put up much of a fuss.

“It’s not that big a deal,” Martin mutters, his pencil twitching in his hand as he refuses to meet Jon’s eyes. He doesn’t like it when Jon starts fretting about him. “We never do anything for it, anyway.”

Martin’s mum isn’t anything like Jon’s, that’s for sure. It’s not every day you turn eight. It’s a nice number, very even and divisible. Much better than boring old seven. When Jon turns eight, he’s going to get fifteen extra minutes added to his curfew, and he’ll be able to walk to the corner store all by himself. He’s already walked there several times, but it’ll be nice to have permission. That’s the real treat.

“So you’re not going to bring in cupcakes for the class?” he asks, remembering the last birthday they celebrated- it was Lydia’s, a quiet, unassuming girl that Jon doesn’t mind but also doesn’t think much about. As soon as Jon asks it, Martin gets that sad look in his eyes again, the kind that’s always followed by an “I’m sorry” or something equally nonsensical. Jon hates that he’s the cause of it, him and his stupid mouth. Think before you speak, that’s what Nan always says. She says that for most anything he talks about, though, so he takes her advice with a grain of salt.

He reaches out to pat Martin’s arm consolingly, giving him his best sympathetic head tilt. “It’s alright. I’ve never brought any in either. Just thought I’d check in case you needed help bringing them to school.” Jon’s not very good at carrying things, but for Martin he would make an attempt.

“That’s nice of you,” Martin replies, though it’s not really nice, it’s just a normal thing a friend would do. Jon’s read books about it, he ought to know. “But yeah. I don’t think Mum’s planning anything, much less making cupcakes. She’s really busy.” Martin’s always saying how busy his Mum is, but Jon’s pretty sure she doesn’t do half the things around the house that she’s supposed to. Martin already knows how to cook and make tea and do the laundry without hurting himself. It’s very admirable. The last time Jon attempted to do laundry, he flooded the cellar.

“Do you like cupcakes, though?” Jon asks, scooching closer to Martin’s desk. “Lydia’s mum brought some for her birthday, but they were all carrot cake. Blegh.” He makes an exaggerated face to get Martin to laugh. It works.

“Carrot cake’s not so bad,” Martin says, poking lightly at Jon’s hand with the eraser of his pencil. Jon flinches back dramatically, putting on his most wounded look. “You just don’t like it cause it has the word carrot in it.”

“I don’t like it cause it has actual carrots in it,” Jon sniffs, turning away from Martin to show his displeasure. He decides not to talk to him for the rest of the day, or at least until he has something else to say to him. He’s got a lot on his mind now, and he needs to be left alone with his thoughts. Besides, Martin will poke him again once he gets bored enough. 

Jon flips open the school planner that he’s never used for actual school work and starts to write. He’s got a birthday to plan, and he’s going to give Martin a Mrs. Sims birthday special.

______

It’s a Thursday, which means Martin can’t play on account of his many, many chores. Jon hates Thursdays.

But this time it works in his favor, as he’ll actually have time to plan without Martin thinking something’s up. Jon very rarely cancels on Martin; he’s his most important (and only) friend. But he does on occasion get a little mixed up. One time, he thought it was a Wednesday instead of Thursday, and wound up at Martin’s flat when he didn’t show up at the park. Martin was very nice about it, though, and gave him a cup of tea to ‘calm down’ to drink in the hallway, before he went home. Martin thinks a cup of tea is calming. It doesn’t really do much for Jon, but it is tasty, and Martin gives him extra sugar just the way he likes.

But today is most definitely a Thursday so he scurries on home, slamming the door open and screaming a greeting to Nan that goes unanswered.  She must be off at the shops, otherwise she’d be giving Jon an earful for being too loud. He kicks off his shoes and gazes at the picture of him and his mum on the wall. If his mum were here, she would know exactly what to do to make Martin’s birthday extra-special. But she’s not, and Martin’s mum seems like kind of a jerk, so it’s Jon’s responsibility. “I won’t let you down,” he solemnly tells her smiling face, and turns to take the steps two at a time.

After grabbing his planner and throwing his backpack into the corner,  he pulls out the chair to his messy homework desk, which is usually only used for doodling or writing stories or reading when he wants the activity to feel more official. He flips open his planner to next Wednesday, Martin’s birthday (!!!) and taps his pen impatiently against the page. 

What do birthdays need? Food. Presents. Happiness. The first two might be a bit difficult to pull off, considering his lack of money and cooking skills. Martin deserves a lot more than stale discount biscuits from the grocery. He can get those any day.

But a whole cake is going to be hard. If Nan won’t make one for Jon on his birthday, she most certainly won’t do it for ‘his little friend,’ even if she thinks he’s a good influence. Martin is always very quiet and polite when he sees her, and Nan always gives him a smile in return for his good manners. She doesn’t smile at Jon like that. He tamps down his jealousy and gets back to birthday thoughts.

He thinks he had a purple- or was it pink? - cake on his fifth. It saddens him that he can’t remember. He thinks he’d forget his own mother’s face if he didn’t look at it every morning and night. Memory’s fickle like that, as his Nan likes to say.

Maybe, if he’s very nice and good tonight, Nan will take him with her on the weekly shop and he can convince her to get Martin a cupcake, a good one. One that doesn’t have any carrots in it, even if Martin says they’re alright. He must like them so much because they’re orange, like his hair. Unsurprising. 

He stops wiggling in his chair and straightens his back, as if Nan can see him in his room right now. It’s good to practice, he thinks. If he can sit still all through dinner and not make a mess, she’ll come round. 

Next, an essential part of any birthday: a good present.

His mum never really showered him with gifts, but she always gave him something good, something from the heart. The last present he received - Augustus, an orange cat plushie- still sits on his bed. It’s kind of babyish to sleep with a stuffed animal at his age (or so Marcus declared during recess one day) but Jon doesn’t really care. It helps him sleep.

Unfortunately, Jon can’t buy Martin a stuffed cat. He doesn’t have much money except for what he’s found on the ground and in sofa cushions. And he’s supposed to give that to Nan if he finds it (which he does, mostly).

He could be creative. Make him something. Jon’s not very good at crafts, though. And he doesn’t have a lot of supplies. But he has almost a week to figure something out, minus the times he’s playing with Martin. Well, even then he can stare at him and hope it jogs a good idea.

Lastly, he’s got to make it the happiest, most special day he can. Martin should feel special all the time, but Jon knows how hard that is, especially when you go home and you’re lonely and it seems like you’re the least special person there is. But if Jon is very nice to him and makes the day as fun as possible, maybe he’ll be able to keep that happiness all night, even when Jon leaves. 

That’ll be the hardest part, Jon thinks. He’s not the type of person to make someone happy. Sigh in aggravation, maybe. Roll their eyes. But Martin does neither of those things, so Jon might have a chance. He’ll try and ‘tone it down,’ though. His Jon-ness can be too much at times, and he doesn’t want that to get in the way of what should be Martin’s day.

Everything’s going to be perfect. 

________

And then it’s Saturday, and Jon still doesn’t have a present for Martin. 

He somehow managed to get Nan to agree to the cupcake bit- he’d asked very politely, ate all of his dinner and didn’t spill a thing. Though he thinks it has more to do with her liking Martin. She always acts surprised when she sees him over, like she’s shocked Jon kept a friend for longer than a week. He’s not that bad. But Tuesday she promised to take him to the grocery with her, so it’s fine. One part of his plan is done.

But the present. 

Actually buying something is clearly out of the question- he already exhausted his Nan’s good will in that department. And Jon, for all his usual creativity, is plum out of ideas. He could give him one of his books, but he does that already without prompting. He doesn’t have any good toys, and Martin certainly isn’t getting his best pen, the one that glides real smoothly on the page.

“Are you alright?”

He’s been staring at Martin too long. “Of course,” Jon snaps. “I just like your shirt today, that’s all.”

Martin looks down at his worn t-shirt. It’s not Jon’s favorite, but it’s Martin’s, so he likes it. “Thank you!”

“You’re welcome.”

They’re out in the woods behind Mr. Fletchley’s house to investigate what Jon thought was an ancient ruin but just turned out to be a couple of crumbling cinder blocks. It was an incredibly disappointing find, but Martin wasn’t discouraged.

“We don’t know where they came from, or why someone dumped them here,” he reasoned, a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “What if they were stolen? What if they’re part of a...a crime, or something?”

Jon doesn’t know what crime would need a cinder block, but he intends to find out. They’ve been walking down the relatively short path (it’s not so much woods as it is a cluster of trees) and haven’t seen anything suspicious, besides a few empty wrappers and a particularly sharp stick that Jon’s been whacking against the ground. He thinks it could’ve been used as a weapon.

“What are you going to do when you’re eight?” he asks, nudging Martin in the side. He hasn’t mentioned his birthday since the first time, so he’ll be in for a real treat come Wednesday. Jon just hopes he can think of something good in time.

“Mm, I don’t know.” Martin slows down to a mosey, and Jon tries to match his strides no matter how much he wants to jump ahead. Martin’s a real ‘slow down and sniff the flowers’ type of guy. Jon’s more of a ‘run ahead and accidentally trample them’ type. “Probably the same as I’m doing now. It’s not like it’s an important age. I can’t drive or anything like that.”

“It’s a very important age!” Jon insists, though he doesn’t have much to back that up. He’s mostly just excited because it’s Martin’s very first birthday with him. “You should look forward to something.”

“I dunno, I don’t want anything to change,” Martin says, his face going a little red as he stares at the ground. “I’d just like to spend more time with you. Have fun. That kind of stuff.”

Jon blinks. “We do that now, though.”

“Yeah. It’s the best.” Martin gives him a toothy grin, the kind that Jon puts away and thinks about later when he’s at dinner with Nan or getting ready in the morning. People don’t smile at him like that, only Martin. He does it all the time when Jon tells him a good joke, or shares his food, or passes him a particularly funny doodle.

And now Jon’s got the perfect idea for a present.

part 2

#my writing #inseparable #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #cw for jon and martin's typical shitty childhoods #but this is all fluff my friends #pt 1 of 2

[amidstsaltandsmoke]

My beloved!!! How are you?

For the drabble challenge I was thinking: 93 - “You didn’t just wake me up at 2am because you were ‘in the mood’.”

or

100 - “I just got out of the shower, I can’t dance. What if my towel falls off?”

These reminded me of Jonerys 😆 especially your sexy nerdy naughty beans in One Lifetime With You 🤭😏

Thaaank you!😘

ERIKAAAA MY DARLING MY LOVE!!! I’m hanging in there, how are yooooou?🤗🤗🤗 What about…..

...and in the OLWY ‘verse? _______________________________________________________

Gods, what a week. A good, productive week, but also a hell week. Dany had worked enough overtime to take the entire following week off, or so she surmised. It was unfortunate that it didn’t work that way, but a girl could dream. Dream about files and prints and letters upon letters upon letters, it seemed. Work had seeped into her dreams, too.

Earlier that evening, she had stayed a little late to wrap everything up for the weekend. Jon had texted her asking when she thought she’d be off, then later followed up with a photo of some burgers he’d grabbed from a local pub and had brought to his place, which developed into a series of texts that followed with milkshakes, french fries, and then one of the contents of his freezer. In which he had a lineup of five different types of ice cream.

She never needed a bribe to see him, but she was beyond bribed. With each text she chuckled louder and louder, until she was practically drooling on her pristine office floor by the food spread, and all but stuffed the rest of her paperwork into a locked cabinet before dashing out of the office. It was 7:00PM on the button, just as she’d promised him.

When she turned up, she melted into his welcoming arms, the comfort too overwhelming to do much else. He’d scooped her up and brought her into the kitchen where they went over their busy week and about swallowed everything whole.

A little later on, she dozed on his couch after he’d turned a movie on. When next she woke, she hadn’t yet opened her eyes, but her brows pulled into a small frown as she tried to figure out what was slowly grinding over her arse behind her. She hadn’t remembered getting into bed, but that was clear now, as was what was happening behind her.

Jon’s face was nestled into the back of her neck, and she couldn’t be certain if he was completely awake. His slow, rhythmic breathing told her he wasn’t, and she had to bite her tongue to not snort and startle him awake. Slowly, she moved just enough so that she could try to see his face, while his hips went to town against her.

From what she could tell, he was definitely at least half asleep. With a wicked smirk, she went to slip her hand between them, but had only reached the hem of his sweats when his hand caught her wrist. She yelped and buried her giggle into the bed. “Are you awake?” She whispered, her voice a pitch higher.

“Mhm,” he rumbled, then brought her hand back to the front of her and entwined their fingers together, trapping it against the mattress.

Dany peered over her shoulder, behind his solid frame, to check the time. “You didn’t just wake me up at 2am because you were ‘in the mood’...?”

His lips and beard tickled over her skin. “No...that was all you. But now that you’re awake…”

Dany’s face scrunched at the accusation, though she was getting hot with every slow roll of his hips against her. “I did no such thing!”

“I don’t get this hard just by sleeping, Dany,” he purred, and she fought off a whimper, his hand leaving hers to slide beneath her shirt. Then, under the elastic of her panties - at some point, she’d also foregone any pants, or Jon had rid of them for her since he knew she loathed any chafing against her legs when she slept. She tried not to squirm, bunching the sheets in her fist and mouth falling open once his fingers glided over her cunt. He gathered the wetness that had collected there and spread it over her clit, a strangled groan sounding from her chest. “Told you,” he whispered hotly into her ear, drawing lazy circles with barely any pressure over her clit until she was pressing back against him, suddenly needing more relief.

Jon rolled over onto her back, alleviating some of the pressure as she was gently pressed into the mattress. The brief absence of him told her he was getting himself naked, and she thought she might very well scream if he didn’t move any faster. Seeming to be in the same mental dilemma, his hands swiftly pulled her panties down to her knees, but didn’t bother removing them completely, then spread her open enough so that he could run the length of his cock over her cunt, soaking himself.

Dany gasped, turning her face into the bed and biting on her fist as his breathing stuttered behind her while he worked the both of them up. Jon gripped her hips and brought her up a little higher, to his level, and a sharp nip of teeth to one of her cheeks unexpectedly made her squeal. “You’re such a pain in my ass! Literally!” She giggled, his hands keeping her from reaching him as she attempted to pinch him anywhere she could reach.

His lip was tightly trapped between his teeth as he observed the teeth marks he’d left behind on her bum.

Huffing, Dany pouted pitifully at him over her shoulder. “You’d better make it better.”

Wiggling his eyebrows, he steadied her, a wicked glint in his eye. “Aye, I plan to."

And that he did. Or, at least, she was so tender elsewhere that she didn’t notice the bite any longer. She had been lying in bed, giving herself some time to wake up instead of the usual rushing she did on a work day. Plus, Ghost was perfectly balled up at her feet, content as he slept.

She wasn’t sure if she could trust her legs to function at normal at the moment, anyway. Jon had wanted to take his time when he had her, and she wasn’t complaining; her body had been almost numbed by pleasure while also strung taut like a tether until she inevitably snapped.

But now she was perpetually stuck to the bed.

The bathroom door opened, and she twisted her head to find Jon emerging in all his glory, a towel hanging precariously low on his hips, his hair a nest of wet curls atop his head. Her mouth watered. “Stop,” she commanded, pleased when he did so mid-step, while he narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her in silent question. “You owe me a favor since you’ve paralyzed me.”

His head turned to side-eye her as his skepticism grew. “What sort of favor?”

Dany thought on it for a few moments, purposefully taking her time and raking her eyes over him from head to toe. Then, she held her arm out over the edge of the bed, hand stretching for him. “You have to dance to me.”

He pulled a face. “I just got out of the shower, I can’t dance,” he said, then lifted his eyebrows slyly, “what if my towel falls off?”

A devious grin spread across her face. “Get over here and you’ll find out.”

Jon sucked in a deep breath, his hands going to his hips as he psychd himself up, as if this were his true Olympic moment. “You can’t judge me.”

A lazy giggle escaped her, though she was genuinely trying not to laugh, crooking her fingers for him to get on with it. “As if I would ever. Those hips don’t lie, Jon Snow, now bring them here.”

To her complete entertainment, he obliged, although she couldn’t even put a name on what he was trying to do. She brought his knees up and threw her hands over mouth, chortling against her promise that she wouldn’t mortify him, but it was too much. He gave it his all, waltzing across the small space until he ripped his towel off once he’d reached the bed to claim his prize.

Climbing over her, slightly winded, she worked on regulating her breathing while he caged her in with his arms. She was gratified to see that, when she looked down, his cock was already half prepped for her. “I thought you were paralyzed?” He lowered his head to kiss her cheek, softly bristling his beard down her jaw, ending at her neck.

“I am,” she said weakly, reaching until she got a hold on him, stroking him long and slow as his forehead fell to her chest and he rumbled some curse words she couldn’t quite make out.

“Is this where you want me?” He bit out, his hips surging forward as she squeezed him.

“Up here,” she said.

Jon lifted his head to look at her as if he didn’t quite believe her, so she dug her fingers into her perfect arse and gave him a boost forward. She shifted to sit up a little further, propping her pillow up to support her upper back. “Are you sure?” He asked, a little bit shyly and breathless as she gripped his cock once more, peering up at him. His arm rose, hand gripping the bed post.

“What do you think?”

#I hope you liked it!!!!!! Don't murder me for leaving out the actual smut!!! 🤣🤣🤣 #jonerys #jonerys drabble #THANK YOU YOU PRECIOUS HUMAN!!!!

[iceeckos12]

time travel snippet

little time travel au oneshot. season 5 jon travels back in time to season 1. from the perspectives of tim, martin, and sasha. 3.5k.

i dont think i need to tag anything, but please let me know otherwise.

Tim wakes up that morning, and it’s just like any other day.

Well—no, okay, that’s a bit misleading. Today is his first day working as an archival assistant, so he’s one part nervous, one part that breathless, exhilarated feeling you only get when you’re about to do something unfamiliar that may or may not redefine your life for the foreseeable future. When he says “it’s just like any other day”, he means that he wakes up, and he’s a normal person doing normal people things like eating a healthy breakfast and going to work.

(So, no. In short, he doesn’t realize that today is the day when It happens, that big, life-changing event that you think will Never Happen To You.)

He gets out of bed, stumbles into the bathroom. Washes his face of whatever residue that’d built up during the night, tries to scrape away the evidence of his nightmares, smiles big and bright at the mirror to see how successful his efforts were. He’s betrayed by the traitorous bags beneath his eyes, but that’s okay. Sasha taught him how to wield concealer as a shield whenever his past wore down his armor.

He shoots twin finger guns into his reflection, making soft pew, pew! noises that are almost too-loud in the hush of the bathroom. Then he turns on his heel and walks away, sauntering and humming along with the chorus of Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5.

He gets to the Institute twenty minutes before he’s supposed to—not because he’s trying to impress his boss or whatever (he and Jon have known each other long enough that there’s no point). It’s just, Jon will probably want to make some sort of game-plan before the actual workday starts. 

The poor man had been relieved to an almost comical degree when Tim had said yes, I’ll come with you to the Archives. It’s painfully obvious how out-of-his-depth Jon is with the whole “Head Archivist” thing. Tim’s honestly baffled as to why Elias had singled him out for the position in the first place, considering his lack of qualifications.

But, whatever. It’s fine! Tim and Sasha will be there to help him—although the third assistant is a bit of a problem, considering that they know absolutely nothing about him. There’s no guarantee that this Martin Blackwood won’t report inadequacies or mistakes back to Elias. If that’s the case, Tim and Sasha will have to be Jon’s safety net, which is partially why Tim is hoping to talk to Jon before anyone else gets there.

He also wants to talk to Jon because he just knows the man is probably working himself up over all of this. Maybe reassurances won’t do away with the source of anxiety entirely, but at least it’ll remind Jon that he’s not alone, and that he can count on Tim and Sasha.

As expected, when Tim gets there he can see a sliver of light pouring out from the cracked door of the Head Archivist’s office. He selects a desk and sets his bag on top of it, noting a set of strange gouges in the fake wood with a raised eyebrow, and then an internal shrug. The Institute issued laptop is near the far edge of his desk, and his collection of pictures are strategically placed so that he can see them all clearly.

His eyes linger over the image of him, his mother, and his brother. Their smiles are almost perfect replicas of each other, like someone took a mold of one of their faces and recreated it twice over.

Briefly, he closes his eyes. Then he shakes himself, releases a slow, steadying breath, and goes to check on Jon.

Tim’s not sure what he’s expecting to see when he goes into Jon’s office.

(That’s misleading too, though. He’s not sure if Jon will be visibly calm or upset, if he’ll be on his laptop, if he’ll be picking at the skin around his fingernails, as he so often does when he’s stressed. He is expecting Jon as he is and always has been—a twenty-some year old going on sixty, who wraps his gruff, grumpy demeanor about himself to protect the soft, vulnerable core he likes to pretend doesn’t exist.)

He comes up to the door, and the soft rectangle of light that emanates from beneath the door paints the tips of his shoes gold. “Jon?” he calls softly, rapping his knuckles against the frame. There’s a soft rustling noise—papers maybe? but no audible response, so he shrugs and pushes the door open. “I’m coming in.”

Tim steps inside, a quip instinctively readying itself on his tongue—but then his gaze lands on Jon, and he freezes dead in his tracks.

Even years later, he still vividly, viscerally remembers the moment he saw Danny standing on the stage underneath the Royal Opera House, the way he’d looked...not quite right. The wrongness had been subtle, so much so that it had been unnoticeable upon first glance, upon second glance. The longer Tim had looked though, the more obvious it had become, exposing all the little faults in that almost-perfect recreation of his brother.

Looking at Jon now, it’s the first and only thing he can think of. Because—yes, there’s the long, silver-streaked black hair, there’s the rich brown eyes, there’s the pair of spectacles that make him look far older than he actually is. But that’s where the similarities between the Jon he knows and this Jon end.

Jon’s always been a small man, but his feigned haughtiness makes him seem much bigger than he actually is. Except—except this Jon looks smaller somehow, his shoulders curved protectively inward, like he’s trying to present less of a target. And there’s something about his face, too—his expression is too sharp, too much—

But the worst of it is his eyes. There’s something very wrong with his eyes.

Who the fuck are you, and what have you done with Jon? He doesn’t say it out loud though, just keeps staring at Jon, a heady mix of terror and horror making any sort of reaction impossible.

After a moment Jon’s lips thin, contorted by some distant cousin of displeasure, and he rises to his feet. Tim stumbles instinctively backward, his breath escaping him in a sharp gasp that’s immediately swallowed up by the apathetic stacks of books and papers surrounding them. He’s struck by the fact that if he dies here, it’s unlikely anyone will notice; he’ll become just another set of marks gouged into the desk, willed away with an uneasy shrug.

Jon freezes, lips parting subtly, as though he were about to speak. Tim feels his breath catch in his chest, unable to shake himself out of the clouded stupor his mind has fallen into.

In the end, Jon says nothing. Just releases a long, slow breath of air and sits back down, pushing his chair close to his desk. The motion looks heavy, tired, as though it takes far more energy than it should.

“You—you should go,” Jon rasps, and there’s something off about his voice too, though Tim can’t put his finger on why. He can’t cobble together enough of a train of thought to make sense of any of this, all he can think of is that clown ripping Danny apart—

He stumbles out of Jon’s office, sits down at his desk. Stares down at the cheap, fake wood, at the gouges that have marred the otherwise pristine surface. Puts his head in his hands, and tries to will his heart to stop pounding in his chest.

-0-

Martin’s heard things about Jonathan Sims.

He’s not usually the type to pay attention or encourage gossip, as the vivid memories of his classmates tittering cruelly whenever he walked by still leaves a sour taste in his mouth.The problem with the Institute is that the employees get bored pretty easily. Though most would consider academic research into the esoteric and the paranormal to be fairly interesting, it’s still academic research. And the subject content can get to be a bit...repetitive. There’s only so many gruesome statements you can read without thinking, oh great, more meat.

So the employees gossip a lot, and while Martin usually tries to keep his head down and avoid it, it’s difficult not to overhear some things. And from what little he’s heard, he’s...a bit concerned. Rude and unsociable has frequently been mentioned, as have arrogant and unnecessarily finicky, and worst of all, a bit of a stuck-up know-it-all.

Normally he tries not to put too much stock in office gossip—he’s well aware that the grapevine tends to exaggerate one’s most undesirable traits—but if any of it is true, then he might just be in trouble. It was hard enough being a library employee when his boss wasn’t even paying attention most of the time. If Jon is as exacting as they say, it might be enough to expose the fact that Martin has no idea what the fuck he’s doing. And if that happens, then he might get fired, and he can’t get fired, he needs this job, he can barely keep up with his mum’s medical bills as it is—

Calm down, Martin tells himself firmly, pressing his hand against his sternum, as though that will be enough to quell the rising panic. It’s only your first day. Maybe he’s nice, and we’ll actually be good friends.

(With his luck? Yeah, right.)

The Institute looms in the distance, growing closer with every terrified, grudging footstep. A shiver runs up his spine at the sight of its imposing presence, a dark, ugly blot of a building against the backdrop of the iron grey clouds.

If there’s one thing he’s good at though, it’s keeping his head down and muddling through until he’s able to figure out what is actually expected of him. He can twist and fold himself into whatever role they need him to fill, as he has done so many times in the past. Not easily perhaps, but he has always managed. The alternative is untenable, after all.

So he takes a deep breath, and shoves his panic down as deep as possible. Lifts his head and forces a smile onto his face, like a good attitude will be enough to protect him from his boss’s wrath.

He could really do with a cup of tea.

Martin trudges down the stairs, giving the blank walls, the old-fashioned carpet, a dubious look as he does. The Archives themselves are as he remembers it—he’s been down here a couple of times when Gertrude made a request for something specific, but—

He pauses when he notices a man sitting at one of the desks, his face buried in his hands. His shoulders aren’t shaking and his breathing is even, so Martin doesn’t think that he’s crying? He’s just….sitting there, his stillness so perfect it’s almost inhuman.

“Hello?” Martin calls softly, cautiously, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet.

The man looks up, revealing a very handsome face and brown eyes so dark they may as well be black. His cheeks are dry but his eyes are bright and a little wild, and his mouth is pressed into a small, tight line. He doesn’t speak, just keeps watching, blinking dazedly in Martin’s direction. Martin gets the feeling that this person isn’t entirely there at the moment, like a house in which every room is lit, but there are no people inside.

He swallows and shifts nervously back and forth, trying to decide whether or not to call for some backup. Eventually he sets his bag on the floor and shuffles a bit closer. “Um—are you—is everything okay?”

The man blinks rapidly, some semblance of awareness creeping back into his gaze. He shakes his head slowly, pushes his short, gelled hair back from his head. His hands are trembling. “I’m...yeah, I’m fine. It’s—everything’s, it’s…”

But then his gaze lands on something over Martin’s shoulder, and all the color drains out of his face, his mouth shutting with a painful sounding click. Martin quickly spins around, searching for whatever could’ve scared him so much—

There’s someone standing in the doorway of Gertrude’s office.

There are so many things that one normally takes in upon first meeting another person: their hair, their skin color, all the little wrinkles and marks that give you the briefest insight into their life. Martin looks at posture first, tends to check if a person is intentionally looming, or if they’re making themself smaller.

But all Martin can see are the eyes.

There’s—two of them he thinks, but two is such an arbitrary number when the thing you’re applying it to doesn’t ascribe to human values (he’s not sure how he knows that—how does he know that—?). That horrible, terrible gaze is an unerring arrow, all-encompassing, all-consuming, piercing the deepest corners of his mind. It hurts in some distant, nebulous way he’s not even sure he comprehends—

Then he blinks, and the sheer terror, that feeling of the horrible, violating exposure of everything that he is, abruptly snuffs out. What’s left is just a person, wispy and small, his slight frame fairly drowning in a chunky, cable-knit jumper. He’s leaning against his doorframe, his eyes—two big brown ones, rich and unfathomably sad and more than that, human—drinking Martin in, his lips parted in a soundless gasp.

“Um—” Martin glances over his shoulder, and almost leaps out of his skin when a land falls heavily on his shoulder. The man who’d been sitting in the chair is standing just behind him, a strained but polite smile on his face.

“Hi Jon,” the man says, an undercurrent of a warning in his voice.

Martin glances between the two, his confusion growing with every passing moment. This is not what he was expecting when he first came into work today, and the uncertainty makes him feel strange and off-kilter.

The person in the door swallows once, twice, then straightens, one hand still gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. When he speaks, his voice is soft, tentative, a little ragged around the edges. “Tim. It’s, um...it’s good to see you.”

“Martin Blackwood, was it?” Tim continues, injecting a bit of cheer into his voice. It takes Martin a moment to realize that he’s being addressed, and he shoots Jon—this is Jonathan Sims?—an uncertain look before nodding slowly. “We’re happy to have you on the team.”

“O-Oh?” Martin squeaks, then grits his teeth and bodily forces his voice back into its normal range. “I’m—um, I’m happy to be here?”

“Good,” Tim says through a grin that looks more like a grimace, giving Martin’s shoulder a friendly pat. The look he shoots Jon is a dark, mistrustful thing. The look Jon gives him back is fragile, vulnerable, that winds the tension in Tim’s shoulders so tight it has to be painful.

Jon’s gaze flickers to Martin, just for a second—and then he disappears into his office, leaving the door cracked behind him.

Tim and Martin stand there for a second, staring at the door. Tim’s still tense as a bowstring, and his grip on Martin’s shoulder is almost uncomfortable. The air in the Archives feels stuffy and too warm, and there’s a strange prickling sensation on the back of Martin’s neck, like he’s being subjected to close scrutiny.

Then Tim sighs and lets go of Martin’s shoulder, a little of the tension bleeding out of him, and without it he looks small, deflated. He goes back to his desk and sits down, booting up his laptop without a word of explanation to Martin.

Martin stares at the back of Tim’s head for a moment, a number of questions clamoring around in his brain—what the fuck was that? What’s wrong with Jon? Why are you so obviously suspicious of him?—but the words won’t come. Breaking the silence feels...sacrilegious, somehow. Every breath of air sticks against the back of his throat.

In the end, he doesn’t say anything either, just sits at his desk and takes out his Institute-issued laptop. Stares blankly at the screen as the machine slowly, laboriously, comes to life.

-0-

Sasha’s not entirely sure how to interpret the tense atmosphere that has descended over the Archives.

The first day she’d arrived a couple of minutes before she was supposed to, prepared to follow Jon’s direction and help him adjust as best she could. (Her feelings about Jon’s promotion...didn’t matter. She didn’t like it, but it wasn’t his fault that Elias was an old-fashioned misogynist.)

But when she’d come down the stairs, Tim and the assistant she didn’t know, Martin, had been seated quietly at their desks. They’d both had the same distant, shell-shocked look on their faces, like they’d received some shattering, horrible news. Sasha had sent Tim a confused look, but he either hadn’t noticed it, or hadn’t wanted to explain.

She hadn’t even seen Jon that first day, just received a polite email asking her to start organizing the statements according to the system which he’d devised.

It’s been almost three days, and nothing has changed. Oh sure, they’ve all started organizing the statements as directed. Tim cracks jokes, Martin tiptoes around them and makes copious amounts of tea. That strange tension that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up, like the world is holding its breath in anticipation, hasn’t faded though. And while she doesn’t know Martin all that well, she knows that something’s still up with Tim. He seems more subdued than usual, keeps sending uncomfortable looks in the direction of Jon’s office—

—which hasn’t been open since that first day. She hasn’t seen Jon at all either, no matter how early she arrives or how late she stays. The only proof she has that he’s still alive is the polite email she periodically receives, detailing some specific task that he wants for them to do.

Even then, his emails are...odd. She’s not sure how she can tell, but they feel...awkward? Stilted? Like he’s only half-aware of what he’s typing, or like he’s only asking them to do things because he feels like he should, not because he has any actual goal in mind.

Normally she’d be frustrated by this, would complain bitterly to Tim about Elias passing over her for someone who obviously doesn’t properly appreciate the position they’ve been given—except that she knows Jon. He’d made a point to explain the situation to her himself, an apologetic twist tucked into the corner of his mouth. More than that, he’d asked her to follow him to the archives, saying that he wanted the two people he trusted most, her and Tim, to come with him.

He respects her too much not to take this job seriously.

The strangeness of the archives is only emphasized by Jon’s complete and utter lack of presence within it, but she doesn’t—she doesn’t buy that. She doesn’t believe that he’d just suddenly decide not to do the job he’d been so anxious to excel at. 

More damning than anything is Tim’s complete, utter silence regarding Jon’s strange behavior, but whatever he knows about it, he isn’t saying anything. Martin is willing to talk, but he seems to be as lost as she is.

“I—that first day, Jon…” Martin shrugs, shooting a nervous glance toward the door leading to the archives. He’s been spending a lot of time hovering in the break room making tea, not that she can blame him. “He—I mean obviously I don’t know him very well, but he seemed...upset?”

“Upset,” Sasha repeats dubiously.

Martin lets out an exhausted sigh and turns away, waving a dismissive hand. “Look, I’m not entirely sure how to explain it. He just—okay, so, bear with me for a second, but he reminded me of this guy who used to live in my neighborhood.”

Sasha backs off, folding her arms and leaning against the counter. “Okay?”

“There was this little old couple that used to live in my neighborhood. They were—they were really sweet! The husband used to give candy to us younger kids. But um—sometimes you’d see him sitting in the rocking chair on his porch, and it was like...he wasn’t entirely there? Like, he’d just sit there for hours, rocking and staring at nothing. That’s—that’s what Jon’s expression reminded me of.”

Martin gets more animated the more he talks, Sasha notes; his hands move in broad, sweeping gestures, his expression twisting into an expression of extreme concentration. The moment he finishes he deflates again, tucking his hands into his armpits self-consciously, a hedgehog curling protectively in on itself.

“So, yeah,” he finishes eloquently.

“Huh,” Sasha says thoughtfully.

She gets back to her desk. Looks over at Tim, who’s studiously working through a box of statements, his mouth set in a neutral, concentrated frown. Takes a deep breath, letting the taste of dust and old papers sit heavy on her tongue.

Then she opens her laptop and starts looking through the catalog of cursed items that are currently being held in Artifact Storage.

(She doesn’t think that she’ll find anything, but—but just in case.)

-0-

They all get the call the next Monday morning: Elias Bouchard was found dead in his office.

#tma #iceeckos12 writes #my writing #just a little time travel au #probably wont continue this but i thought it was kinda fun

[itsadamcole]

but ... it’s valentine’s day

fem!reader x jon moxley

reader loves Valentine's Day, but Jon isn't the biggest fan of the holiday and he makes sure everyone knows that ...

word count: 2.2k+

warnings: kinda fluffy, public touching and a little teasing, smut

— we’re gonna ignore the fact that this is being posted almost 2 months late. okay? okay. —

masterlist || request an imagine here

~ 18+ content below - read at your own risk ~

You walk back to your locker room after your match with Britt Baker. You're all sweaty and feel gross, even after you've wiped most of the sweat away. The match was for the number one contender's tournament, and you lost but you're happy for your best friend since she advanced, even if it was because she beat you.

The door closes behind you and you fall onto the little loveseat with a sigh. You close your eyes for a second, literally one second, when the door opens and you hear your boyfriend ask, "Why does everyone make a huge deal about Valentine's Day?"

"It's a day to show some extra love to your significant other," you say, closing your eyes again. "Balloons, chocolates, and romantic dates. You know, it's a thing."

Jon sits beside you and says, "I can give you balloons, chocolates, and romantic dates any day of the week."

You look over at him and say, "You haven't given me balloons or chocolates. Romantic dates, yes, but not the balloons or chocolates."

He blinks at you and says, "I don't have to give you balloons or chocolates. I give you the hottest sex you'll ever have, whenever you want."

"You do," you giggle. "Maybe I'd like some chocolates and balloons today though."

Your boyfriend moves closer to you and puts a hand on your thigh. "Or," he says, kissing your jaw. "I can just give you some hot sex again." A sigh escapes your lips and you smile.

Jon rubs your thigh a bit as you say, "I have to shower and I do want to at least do dinner tonight since it is Valentine's Day. Then after that, all the hot sex you want, baby."

He looks at you and asks, "Can I join you in the shower?"

"As long as you promise you won't try anything and actually let me shower," you tell him, standing up.

Jon nods and says, "I promise, baby."

He doesn't keep his promise. Not at all.

***

You get home after Jon turned a 20 minute shower into an hour-long shower. Dinner is very late because you had a match, and because of the long shower, but you still get dressed up to go out. You dress into a two piece red dress. The top is lacey, almost see through and has long sleeves. The neck dips low, revealing a lot of your cleavage, and it's cut like a crop top. It hugs your body. You know Jon will love that, especially since it reveals a decent amount. He'll also love the fact that the skirt is short and tight. You put on red heels and put your hair up in a high ponytail, adding some light makeup after. Not too much though.

Just so you can use it against Jon later, you don't wear any underwear. You're completely commando.

Jon waits downstairs for you. He sits on the couch and scrolls through his phone. You click into the living room and clear your throat. "Ready?" you ask.

Your boyfriend looks up from his phone and his eyes almost bug out of his head. "Damn, baby," he says. "I don't know if I can make it through dinner with you looking like that."

You walk over to him and stand behind him. He's looking back at you as you lean down, putting your hands on his shoulders. You say, "I have a surprise for you after dinner, but you have to be good. Okay?"

Jon says, "I can't promise you that. Look at what happened last time I promised you I wouldn't do anything."

"Touche," you giggle. "Come on. Dinner then sex, I promise."

Your boyfriend reluctantly gets up and leaves with you to go to dinner.

Both of you decided on the way home that you would just go to a nice place that wouldn't be completely booked since it's late on Valentine's Day. Most couples would be home by now so you're hopeful to get a table pretty quickly.

You do have to wait a little bit. You sit with Jon in the waiting area on a comfortable bench that's cushioned. Jon sits very close to you. You look over at Jon, saying, "You better not do anything, Jon. Or no present for you."

He holds his hands up and says, "I'm not doing anything to you, baby. I promise. See? Hands are up and I'm not touching you."

A smile forms on his lips and you shake your head, a smile forming on yours. "You are really testing it," you say.

"I'm not testing anything," he says. "But I still don't get romantic dates on Valentine's Day. I can take you out whenever you want to. Why couldn't we stay home and have sex or something."

You say, "Because Valentine's Day is about spending the day doing romantic stuff. Not about how hard you can fuck me, Jon. I know how hard you can fuck me and I've learned the hard way just how hard you can fuck me."

He snickers a bit and says, "You really couldn't walk for the rest of the day."

Laughing, you say, "I couldn't. That was your fault."

Jon smirks, proud of himself. You take his hand and rest your head on his shoulder.

Soon after, your name is called. A table is ready, and the hostess leads you to the table. Jon sits adjacent to you and you begin looking over the menu.

Younger couples surround you in the restaurant. The couple that are parents are probably home with their kids at this point.

A waitress comes up to you and Jon, saying, "Hi, my name is Andi and I'll be taking care of you tonight. What can I get y'all to drink?" She has a slight southern accent.

Jon says, "A bottle of your finest wine for the table, please."

"Anything for you, darlin'," the waitress says, writing down Jon's request. You blink at the waitress as she walks off.

You continue to look over the menu, trying to find something to eat. It's a fancy restaurant so there are steaks and there are pasta dishes. You're not really in the mood for anything specific.

The waitress comes back with a bottle of wine and two glasses. "Okay, what can I get y'all to eat?" she asks.

You say, "I'll have the broccoli chicken alfredo. Can I get some extra alfredo sauce on that please?"

She nods and asks, "And for you, handsome?"

That little comment made you a little angry, you won't lie. You stare at Jon and he says, "I'll take a 12 ounce sirloin steak with mushrooms and onions. And for the sides, I'd like a loaded baked potato and french fries."

He got french fries. He knows you love french fries and he knows you'll snack on them. A smile forms on your lips.

The waitress nods and walks off. You pout a bit at Jon.

"What's wrong, babe?" Jon asks, looking at you. "Are you feeling okay? Sore from your match?"

You say, "She was flirting with you."

Jon reaches out and tucks a piece of loose hair behind your ear before he says, "I didn't notice. My girlfriend is looking sexy right beside me."

Blood rushes to your cheeks, warming them. Jon laughs as you blush. "It's not funny," you say.

"You're cute," Jon says. "And I love you."

You smile a bit and say, "Okay, fine. I love you too."

He leans over and pecks your lips. When he pulls back, you lean into him and press a longer kiss to his lips. One of Jon's hands slip between your thighs under the table. You put your elbows on the table and put your head in your hands. You look at Jon as his fingers slip further up your skirt.

A soft gasp leaves your lips as Jon surprisingly discovers you're not wearing any underwear. A mischievous smirk forms on his lips. "You're leaving yourself vulnerable to me, Y/N," Jon starts.

"You are not fingering me in the middle of a restaurant," you loud whisper at him. "So help me, Moxley. No surprise for you."

Jon chuckles and he just plays with your clit under the table. You have bite your lip to stay quiet. You feel yourself getting more wet with every movement of his fingers. This goes on until your meals get to the table.

Both of you are very turned on at this point because of him teasing you and touching you under the table so after you're done eating, Jon pays the bill and quickly leaves with you. You get in the car, and Jon gets in too. He drives to your shared house. You've taken off your heels by this point so you can get inside quicker.

It takes about two seconds for Jon's lips to find yours as soon as the door is closed. He presses your back against the door as you start to unbutton the buttons on his nice button-up that he wore to dinner. He quickly sheds the shirt and it drops to the floor. Your tongue slides into his mouth.

Jon's hands are on your thighs before he picks you up. You wrap your legs around his waist as Jon walks into the living room. He drops you on your back on the couch, breaking the kiss. You sit up and undo the button on his pants. You can see the very obvious bulge in his boxers when you pull his pants down. You trace the print of his dick for a second before you pull the boxers down.

You gently begin to stroke his member. Jon sighs softly before grabbing a handful of your hair. "Be nice and suck it," he almost commands.

"I didn't hear a 'please'," you say, smirking.

Jon says, "The only time you'll hear the word 'please' tonight is when I'm fucking you and you beg me for more."

The dirty talk is definitely a turn on for you. You bite your lip and take his dick in your hand before you take him in your mouth. You begin bobbing your head, using your hand for what can't fit in your mouth. Jon's hand is still in your hair as he begins to thrust into your mouth.

You hum around him. You know that drives Jon crazy. Your hands are on his thighs and you grip a little bit. Jon grabs your ponytail and tilts your head back after a moment, his member sliding out of your mouth. You stare up at him and wait for him to do something.

Jon takes off the top of your two piece dress before taking the skirt off. He smirks when he sees that you’re now completely naked. He knows you went completely commando under your dress.

“You’re so bad, Y/N,” Jon tells you.

You grab his wrists and pull him onto you. He braces himself on the back of the couch and looks at you. “I had to learn from someone, didn’t I?” you say innocently.

He pushes you onto your back and puts your legs over his shoulders. “I know you learned from me, Y/N,” he says.

A smile forms on your lips as Jon lines himself up with your entrance. Without warning, he slams into you. It’s not as painful as it used to be because he almost always starts out like this when you have sex. You’ve gotten used to it, but it feels more pleasurable than painful.

“God, fuck,” you cuss. “Do it again.”

He listens to you and thrusts hard into you again. You moan out his name and grasp onto the couch cushions. Jon hovers above you as he begins to repeatedly slam into your core. Your moans are loud almost from the start.

Jon goes harder and harder every few thrusts. You gasp and moan. When he finds your g-spot, you scream, “Jon! Right there! Please don’t stop.”

Your moans and the sound of skin slapping fills the house. You grasp onto Jon’s arms, digging your nails into the skin as he fucks you.

A pit forms in your stomach and you know you’re close, but you still need to give Jon his Valentine’s Day present.

So, much to Jon’s surprise, you roll so you’re straddling his dick, which is still inside of him. Jon stares up at you and you begin to bounce up and down on his member. Your moans are loud and his hands are on your waist.

The pit in your stomach explodes without warning and you release around Jon, moaning his name. Jon cums inside of you, not wanting to dirty the couch cushions. You’re okay with it.

You collapse onto Jon’s chest. You bury your face in his neck and he wraps his arms around your shoulders. Both of you lay and catch your breaths.

“Best Valentine’s Day sex we’ve ever had,” Jon pants. “You need to top me more often, Y/N.”

A smirk forms on your lips and you say, “With pleasure.”

#jon moxley imagine #jon moxley smut #jon moxley fluff #wrestling imagine #wrestling smut #wrestling fluff #wrestler x reader #aew imagine #aew smut #imagines #imagine #nswf imagine #smut #smut imagine #valentine’s day imagine #valentine’s day smut

[magalidragon]

Okay drabble #2 for @lalacristina18 ‘s ask! Hope you like this one! It’s a little silly and kind of Fixer Upper Fanfiction ( @nlights37 is that a thing? I’m doing it) meets my drabble “wet paint.”

Enjoy!

haunted house | 30. “You better watch yourself”

It was the dumbest thing she had ever done.

Except she felt like she had to do it.

How else was she going to get the cute handyman to ask her out?

"Just ask him out!" her best friend shouted, as she took a crowbar to the siding on her house, prying up the nails. Missandei was used to most of her antics, but she knew this was going too far. She watched, amazed, slightly terrified, and in awe, muttering, "You have gone mental Daenerys."

Maybe she had gone mental, but she was also put off by how attractive the handyman was. He was incredibly sweet. A little goofy; he apologized one day when he showed up in thick black glasses, saying he'd forgotten to put his contacts in before he left the house. She had wondered why someone would apologize for that, but she soon learned that Jon Snow, Handyman Extraordinaire, apologized for quite a few things that were in no way his fault or under his control.

Like when he couldn't get a part in time to fix her hot water tank, because it was a weekend and the store was closed. "No problem, guess I'll see you Monday," she had simply said with a smile and a cheerful glee, because she knew they were closed on the weekend and he'd have to come back Monday.

Or when she had purposefully yanked out some sort of fuse in her car so it wouldn't start and he had apologized that it had gone missing. "Not your fault at all!" Because it's totally my fault and then she'd pretended to find the fuse on the ground. "Will this fix it?"

He frowned at the tiny piece of place and wire. "Um, aye, that's so weird..."

Today she was going to claim there was something wrong with her siding and it needed to be replaced. She dropped the crowbar, wiping sweat off her forehead, and placed her hands on her hips, glancing at Missandei, who was shaking her head side-to-side. "What?"

"Just bloody ask him out! I'll do it for you. You're destroying your house just to get him to come over." She smirked. "He has to know what you're doing. He's just taking your money and knowing you're using him which is wrong, or he's really bloody stupid and that's not great either."

"You haven't met him yet."

"What guy could be so attractive and cute and sweet and all that for you to resort to this!?" Missandei waved her hands at the splintered wood at her feet. She sighed, closing her eyes. "Dany, love, you are my best friend but..."

"Good morning!"

Dany threw the crowbar into the bushes, spinning on her heels and beaming at the man who had poked his head around the open fence to her back garden. She waved. "Hello Jon! Good morning to you!" She rounded on Missandei, who stared at him and smirked knowingly. "You're a little early."

He turned pink, coming around the corner holding onto his toolbox. "Aye, sorry about that, I thought I might get you a coffee..." he trailed off and politely smiled at Missandei. "Oh I am sorry, I would have gotten another....here, you can have mine if you want."

To her best friend's stunned silence, he removed one of the two takeout coffee cups from the tray in his other hand and passed it to her. Missandei swallowed hard, clearing her throat. "Thank you, that's...so nice of you."

He smiled again in his shy, half-smile way that Dany absolutely bloody adored, and turned his face to her. "You called last night and said that your bathroom pipes were leaking again? I don't know what is going on, I mean..." He scratched his hair, brow furrowing, and gazed up at the old-as-shit house she had purchased with intent to completely renovate. "I swear I just fixed those..."

"Oh you did, I'm sure this place is cursed."

"By a Valyrian dragon," Missandei mumbled under her breath.

Dany stepped on her foot and crossed her arms, grinning. "And would you look at this? This siding is rotten, I think we'll need to replace it."

"Um, yes of course." He knelt and picked up some of the wood, shaking his head. "You must have an angry ghost Dany, this looks like someone took a crowbar to it." He was immediately concerned, jumping to his feet. "You should file a police report, someone could be vandalizing your property!"

Missandei sipped her free coffee and mumbled again, not so quietly, "Hmm, someone with silver hair I think."

"What?" Jon asked.

"Ignore her, she's mad." She forced another smile. "It's fine. I...thank you Jon, perhaps look at those pipes first and then we can look at the siding."

"I have wood," he blurted out.

Missandei choked. Dany flushed bright red. "Oh?"

"Hmm, in the truck. Be right back." He turned on his heel and walked away. Dany elbowed her best friend, who stared now at his retreating back.

"Oh my."

"It's beautiful. I just like to look at it."

Missandei patted her arm. "Daenerys you are my best friend, but if you don't ask him out by the end of the day, I'm going to tell him everything you've been doing and only because I'm scared you might set your house on fire just to watch him come running in with the fire hose."

Dany hummed. The idea was appealing, but arson was certainly not an option.

Yet.

---

It was the end of the day; she'd tried her damndest to get him to ask her out. Missandei had left, becaus she claimed she couldn't watch it any longer, proclaiming them both "stupid idiots" and Dany had to agree. She was a stupid idiot, trying to get him to look at her as something other than the crazy lady in the haunted house. She'd worn her bikini top while gardening, she'd broken her siding, and stuffed leaves in her gutters.

And Jon Snow still didn't bloody get it.

Maybe he was stupid, she thought, and watched him bent over some exposed pipes in the hallway leading to the master bedroom. A himbo or something. Except she knew he wasn't, because she'd seen that he had a stack of books in his truck to return to the library, one of which happened to be her brother's boring ass tome on Targaryen History, and he'd eagerly chatted with her about it.

"So why are you a contractor?" she asked. She kept referring to him as a handyman, but reminded herself he was more than that. He ran his own business and lumber yard up in Winterfell. "Do you just like fixing things?"

He shrugged, reaching his arm down into the pipes. "I do like fixing things, but when I got out of the military, nothing really appealed to me. Didn't want a boss again and I like building things. Working on my own terms."

"I like that too." It was why she moved up North, a freelance journalist, and needing a safe quiet space to recharge and focus between assignments. She got up and cleared her throat. "I'll be downstairs if you need me." She was halfway down the stairs when she heard a strange sound. It was a yowl.

It sounded like Drogon, she thought, turning towards the wall. "Drogon?" she called.

He meowed again, pitiful. She moved closer towards the wall and knocked. Her voice trembled, calling once more. "Drogon?"

A light scratching and more yowling.

She screamed, realizing with horror that Drogon was inside the bloody wall. "DROGON!" She banged on the wall, running up the stairs, crying out. "Jon! Drogon's in the wall!"

"What?"

"I think he must have crawled in when we were talking and not looking, oh my gods, Drogon!"

Jon frowned at her, still not moving. He narrowed his eyes. "Drogon's in the wall, huh?"

"I think so."

He cocked his head and got to his feet, sighing hard. "Dany, I...I think I know what's going on and..." He turned bright pink. "I really have to confess something..." He shifted on his feet and blurted out, really fast, his Northern burr thick. "I...I know that not everything here is breaking and...and I'm fixing it and stuff, but...well...the store was open and I didn't get hte part because I wanted to come see you and...and I may not have cleaned the gutters all the way so I could come back and...oh gods, I haven't charged you at all because I'm just...I like you!"

Her eyes widened, too terrified for her cat to process what he'd just admitted to her. "But...I...I'm sorry, but he's really in the wall! Listen!"

They both were quiet and after a second, heard the pathetic howling of a trapped cat.

Jon moaned, mortified, shoving his face into his palms. "Oh my gods! I'm so sorry! I thought...oh fuck, forget what I said!"

"No I can't forget it because I like you too!" They could have this conversation after they saved her damn cat.

It took awhile, of her trying to coax the damn cat out from the opening in the floor, to Jon carefully searching and finding a space in the wall to knock through with a sledgehammer so he wouldn't hit Drogon or anything unsafe. Bits of drywall and debris scattered, "You better watch yourself," she warned him, when Drogon began to hiss and pant, terrified as they drew closer to him. "He might attack!"

"He's just scared, he'll be alright."

A couple hours later, her entire hallway and stairwell covered in broken bits of drywall, plaster, wood, and insulation, her very dirty and ashy cat enveloped in a blanket in her arms, Dany finally looked up at JOn. He hadn't said a word to her about his confession of not really fixing anything because he liked her and wanted ot keep seeing her.

She ducked her head, whispering, "I know it was wrong of me too, to keep breaking things...I just really liked you too."

"I'm not good with women," he admitted.

"Clearly, I was walking around in my bikini and you didnt say a word."

"I was trying to be professional!"

She giggled. Drogon whined in her arms. She scowled. "Hey! You didn't think I was serious that my cat got stuck in the wall!"

"I thought it was another thing like when you called me to say that your pipes were clogged at ten at night." He arched his brows. "Come on Dany."

"Alright, that was a ruse...but he really did get stuck!" She let go of Drogon, who raced into her bedroom to hide under the bed and lick his wounds-- more like his pride at having to be rescued by humans of all things. She looked up at Jon, sitting on the step just above her and grinned. "Can we agree to just...kind of start over?"

he nodded and licked his lips; she shivered. "Start over at dinner tonight?"

"Yes, dinner is perfect."

"And I'll be the first thing in the morning to start working on..." he gazed around at the chaos surrounding them, sighing. "This."

"Sounds good."

Turned out he didn't have to show up early at all the next morning, because he was already there, fast asleep in her bed, both of them exhausted. Dinner had been merely an afterthought.

#jonerys #jonerys au #my fics #my moodboards #jonerys fanfic #stupid silly shit here #dorkssss

[malereader-inserts]

To Serve Our King and Queen

Fandom: Game of Thrones Pairing: Daenerys Targeryen x Baratheon!Reader, Sansa Stark x Baratheon!Reader Summary: A story of heart break, love and heart break again. Word Count:  2,407 Request:  Hey can u do a Daenerys x Baratheon reader where he is the son of cersei and Robert the true son. He used to be In love with Sansa but she wanted Joffrey so she break his heart. Reader leaves king’s landing with tyrion and meet Daenerys where both fall In love with each other. Later Sansa sees the reader with dany and Jon when they arrive to the north. Sansa is being disrespectful towards dany and reader put Sansa in her place and tells her to not talk to his WIFE like that ever again please. A/n: I changed it a bit, I wish it was a little bitter but oh well. 

Cersei and Robert were married before he even became king, Tywin had faith that the Baratheon would overrule the Mad King. It was the start of the downfall of their marriage, the sex was lousy, but it got the lioness pregnant. You were a beautiful babe that Cersei had fallen in love with your looks.

You were a year old when your father overthrows the throne and becomes king of the seven kingdoms. You had a somewhat happy childhood, you were spoilt by your father more than your younger brother - Joffery. Whilst your mother somewhat loved you, you knew that she loved her golden crown children more than you, you had a suspicion about your siblings, they look too much of your uncle Jaime than your father, which was known that Baratheon seed was strong.

So, you were more of a father’s boy than your mother’s. At a young age, you were trained hard, went through advisers and teachers - teaching your expanding knowledge, your father demanded that you were to start off young in training to be king, making sure you know how to fight and be a respected knight just like your father. When you were growing up, you were told tales from your uncle Tyrion, who adored you because he could hold an intellectual conversation with you.

As you grew up, often at times you went with your father to go on hunting, even met with your dad’s best friend and his children. You often had playtime with them, being good friends with Robb and Jon, but you were always wanting to be with Sansa, your father laughs that you would marry Sansa when you two were older - Ned would laugh too.

As years gone past, you tried to ignore your father’s debauchery and your mother’s ever growing hatred towards you. You grew up to be a fine young man, despite being the son of two fucked up people, you were a loved prince - charming, caring and a fighter. You were too familiar with your mother’s manipulation that you were just as smart as her in playing games.

Tywin saw your potential to rule. The people will love you, they already do, because you weren’t fake but you knew when to stand your ground. You weren’t going to be pushed around, you knew your worth to that throne and you will be king whether your mother likes it or not. 

You knew what you wanted but sometimes that’s not how it works out.

You wanted Sansa as a bride, when you arrived at Winterfell after so many years later, you saw how beautiful Sansa was. But, you could see how she was ogling on your brother Joffery, you scoffed - he’s not that big of a deal. 

“Sansa be wise, pick (Y/n),” Robb says in their little family circle after being dismissed in greeting the king, “Jon and I know him better than you, and he’s a delight.”

“But, he’s not Joffery.”

Arya snorted, “Of course, you would want a little prat than an actual prince.”

“Joffery is a prince,” Sansa argued, “He’s handsome and I love him.”

“You barely know the boy,” Robb says with concern on his voice, “How do you even know if you love him?”

You tried winning Sansa’s heart, but before you left Winterfell, Sansa had pulled you aside, you had a little bit of hope but you had seen how she was all over your brother and was by his side every opportunity she could get.

You got your heartbroken by her, she was honest and you were thankful for that, but it hurt your heart. Sure, the two of you were still young, feelings can change like the wind and nothing is certain in the future. 

When you arrived home, you talked to your dad about it and for once, he got serious - talking about that even if you were rejected you should always try to pursue her. He then laughed it off saying Baratheon men don’t have much luck with Stark ladies, but you could see in the pain in his father’s eyes as he remembers Lyanna Stark. 

When your father died there were talks about who will inherit the throne, Cersei was quick on her game to get Joffery on the throne, you were livid. There was a screaming match between you and your mother in front of the small council before venomously bidding her hell. It was Varys, who started to tell you to leave because there were talks of your mother that she was going to hire people to kill you. 

You couldn’t risk that, so you took a route down to the deepest part of Kings landing, keeping yourself out of sight, picking up a stray sword that caught your eye.

That’s your story really.

Anyone back home would believe that you were killed or dead, and suffered in the rule of Joffery Baratheon. People called your the lost prince of hope, their last strand of hope.

Tyrion did not expect to see you alive and by Daenarys side when he entered Esso, running away with the potential of execution on his head. When he saw you, it had been a few years that had past, you were a lot different. 

Your hair was longer, you had grown more muscle mass, must of because you trained with Greyworm. You stood up straighter as if you had a purpose, but you looked happier. What your uncle did not expect was to look at the silver haired woman with such love.

It was a familiar look that he had seen, it was the same look you used to stare at Sansa with. But, to Tyrion’s surprised the look with returned. When you weren’t paying attention or was looking away, Daenerys would give you the same look of love. Tyrion asked Barristan, who laughs and nods.

“Those two? In love like any other teenagers!” He laughs, shaking his head, “They’re betrothed to each other, looking for the perfect time to marry. Daenerys has explicitly said that she wanted no one by her side when she becomes Queen, but learning Ser (Y/n) story, she realised that the two of them have the biggest claim to the throne, rightfully, and on the way, she fell in love with him as did he.”

“Of course,” Tyrion nodded, “I would have liked to see my nephew rule the seven kingdoms, at least he has the birthright unlike Joffery and his siblings.”

“Bastards?” Ser Barristan asked as Tyrion nodded, “Well, that explains the blond hair.”

“I know for the fact that (Y/n) would rule with a good heart, he was trained and he has compassion, he fought any manipulation and lies that were fed to him.”

“Yes,” the knight nods, “I wonder what the people of Westeros would think when they find out a Baratheon could ride a dragon.”

As months past, years past on, Tyrion watched his nephew enjoy his life fighting for what is rightfully his alongside his wife, who loves him as much as he did. There was no one better to rule the Realms other than two great leaders. Tyrion watched how Daenerys freed slaves and took control, Tyrion remembers how you were as a prince. 

“Was there someone you loved before me?” Daenerys asked once, it was on the sail back to Westeros, she could see how excited you were to return home.

You looked at her, “I did, once,” You say, remembering how Dany had disclosed her lovers to you before, “She was fiery, but unlikely you who is made of fire and blood, it was her striking red hair - her name was Sansa Stark.”

“Is she-?”

“My uncle has told me before he had fled that she was alive, but I have no idea where she is now or if she is alive. I’m sure she turned to be a fine young lady.”

Dany raised an eyebrow, “Do tell more.”

“Well, as you know I am of Lannister blood.”

“I am aware,” Dany says distastefully, cringing that you were of blood of the man who murdered her father and you were the son of the man who killed her brother.

“She was more in love with my brother, Joffery. Half-brother because I had my suspicion that he wasn’t of Baratheon blood. You could say he’s pure, like you.”

Dany nods, knowing what you mean, after all, she is in a long line of keeping her blood pure as her relatives were all related one way or another. She hates to think the fact if she were to marry her narcissistic brother, Viserys, whilst both of you acknowledge that you two were distantly related - it was a fact that she was willing to ignore. 

“He was a cunt,” You laughed whilst your wife giggles next to you in bed, “Spoilt and full of himself, I don’t want to imagine what his rule was like, but stories from my uncle it seems to appear as hell.”

“And she picked him over you?” Daenerys asked, raising an eyebrow, “Well, her loss, I think I have a great man before me. A true king.” 

You chuckle, smiling at her lovingly, kissing her forehead, “Shall we sleep, my love?”

“No,” She pouts as you can’t help but find it adorable, “I think you should tell me tales of Westeros, after all, it’s more of your home than it is of mine.”

You weren’t expecting to return to Winterfell, but, it demanded it’s independence, which you thought was outrageous - really. You were reunited with Jon, who greets you with a smile, a joke and good hug - it has been a while since you’ve seen your best friend, glad to see him alive.

You thought that you were going to take over Kings landing, but having to take a detour route to Winterfell to battle in a war of the undead. Although, you get to see your mother before going to the North.

You relish the sight to see her and your uncle Jaime astonished that you were alive and knowing you were going back to claim for the throne. Cersei did not miss how your eyes darken and the glimmer of your sword.

“Mother.”

“Son.”

It was the only interaction you had with her, she refused to come to talk to you, you weren’t surprised - you lacked a mother’s love as you grew up. But, Jaime tried his best to get you to talk to him. You shook off his advances before turning to Jon and Daenerys.

You were surprised to see Sansa, as she was with you. Arya had noticed how she was staring.

“You’re staring, do you have regrets?”

Sansa cleared her throat and stood up straight, “No, he’s just grown.”

“So, have you, perhaps you have a chance at wooing him,” Arya hums looking over to you, talking to Jon with Daenerys by your side, “I can’t deny that he is very handsome.”

You barely got to talk to Sansa when everyone was preparing to war, luckily that your group of people survived the war. But, Missandei was down in the tombs with Sansa and Tyrion where she had heard that Sansa was disrespecting your wife.

Missandei was going to tell her Queen, but rather think other when she sees you walking towards her with a smile - she knew that you were better to handle it. She saw how your jaw locked, no one was going to disrespect your wife.

“Thank you, Missandei, please be with Dany, I’ll sort her out.”

You went to Jon first, who was confused at his cousin after you and Dany told him that he was actually the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. Jon had his whole heart to support you and Dany’s plan to rule the seven kingdoms, agreeing that despite Winterfell wanting independence, they would struggle.

Sansa was trying to find the right ways to talk to you, perhaps try and mend the relationship. But, when you were looking at her as you stride towards her - she thinks differently. 

Tyrion was in the room, trailing behind you as well as Varys. Jon followed closely behind whilst Arya looked confused, looking at her sister. 

“How dare you disrespect your Queen!” 

No greetings, no smile upon your face, fury on your expression and for once in her life, Sansa no longer recognise the sweet boy from many years ago.

“You should owe her your life after she came to rescue your home! She brought dragons and not once has she spoken about the clear disrespect that you and your people wore. She is not mad like her father at all.”

Tyrion, Varys, Jon and many other people could agree to that, Daenerys was nothing like her father and it was mostly because of you. You were her constant grounding, bringing her to reality and knowing that you will always be by her side. 

“She’s not my Queen!” Sansa snaps back, gritting her teeth, “I don’t think she should be if anything if someone was to take the throne it should be you! It’s been rightfully yours since your father died.”

“It is my throne,” You sneered as Sansa stops upon hearing your words, “You’re not only disrespecting your queen, you are disrespecting my wife.”

Wife.

Her hearts shatter, she wonders is that how you felt when she had rejected you. Your eyes were cold, your stance was stiff and the lost Valyrian sword matches it’s current owner - you. It reflected who you were, shiny and attractive, but can cut so deeply - it was hard to recover from it’s inflicted wounds.

“You shall never bad mouth the throne, you hear me?” You pressed on, your tone turning stern that she reluctantly nods, “Don’t test me, Stark.” 

With that, you turn on your heel and leave the room, leaving the occupants confused and somewhat terrified. 

“Well...” Arya breaks the silence, “Sansa?”

Her heart was broken, she thought this time she could find love. She was never Joffery’s, she refuses to be claimed by Ramsey and she lost Theon. But, she could not let a man ruin her thoughts, putting up a wall as she looks away from where you last were.

“I believe we all have a meeting on how we will accompany our King and Queen to the throne.”

She dreads to see you because she knows when she arrives - you will look at Daenerys with love and it’ll be returned. 

#daenerys targeryan #daenerys targeryan imagine #daenerys targeryan x male reader #sansa stark imagine #sansa stark x male reader #Sansa Stark #x male reader #game of thrones #game of thrones imagine #game of throne x male reader

[fandomficsnstuff]

Little Dragon - Part 13

Summary: You were a child slave of Meereen, when one day a silver haired woman sets you free. Though your master isn’t too keen on letting you go, and Daenerys took personal action to see you freed and taken care of.

(Warnings: talks of former slavery, time skips and it’s a bit fast forwarded, Jorah’s death, lots of angst I think, let me know if I missed anything, stay safe out there ya’ll!)

High Valyrian is in cursive

And Dothraki in bold

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

You kept your head down as you rode on your horse, a fairly new experience for you, but it was similar to riding Rhaegal, just smaller, less scaly and less windy, you had reigns to hold onto, and a saddle to sit in. You were broken out of your train of thought as you heard your name called, turning your head to see none other than Jon Snow, giving you a nervous glance “hello” he said awkwardly, making you look ahead, spotting Daenerys talking with Missandei, before turning back to him “Lord Snow, can I help you with something?” he grimaced a bit, but still gave you a smile “if it’s alright, I would prefer if you didn’t call me Lord” you nodded “forgive me, I don’t know what to call you then. All these… customs are new to me, I have only lived with them for a few years now” Jon frowned at your words “how long then?” you shrugged as you looked ahead again “around five, I was ten when our Queen Daenerys found me” you smiled at the memory, glancing at Jon who only gave you a look that silently asked you to explain further.

“You see, I was a slave, in Mereen,” Jon immediately frowned “but you were a child?” he sounded disturbed, and it brought a tiny sense of envy, envy that he didn’t grow up with such horrible things “yes, though that didn’t concern my former master. I remember the day that Daenerys liberated Mereen, I remember seeing her silver hair in the street as she walked with the freed children, but I was still a slave. My master had let his other slaves go but not me, he kept me locked up in his small pyramid… Daenerys saw me watching her in the window, so she waved at me. I remember being so scared of my master that I looked over my shoulder before I waved back, I was so scared of how many beatings I would get if he caught me, but he didn’t, anyway, I must have leaned over the edge of the window, because she saw my collar. I remember how angry she looked as she walked into the house, she immediately had my master thrown in the cells, and then she saw me, on the steps, watching her again” you smiled warmly at the fond memory, a few tears building up in your eyes, but as you looked back at Jon, he seemed horrified and confused, looking away from you as he thought over your words, as if he didn’t know what to say “it’s alright, Jon Snow, I wouldn’t want your sympathy” he looked at you with confusion, something that made you smile ever so slightly, he didn’t know why you didn’t want sympathy.

“I don’t want sympathy because that is not why Daenerys took me in as her own, at least I’d like to believe it wasn’t. Yes, she felt bad for me, but I remember seeing those purple eyes of hers… I remember how safe I felt. It was only later that I learnt of Rhaego. Perhaps she saw in me what she had lost, or maybe it really was just sympathy, whatever it was, I no longer wear a collar, my body no longer bears bruises except for those I earned in training. Daenerys may not have carried me, but she is my mother. That is why I do not want sympathy, Jon Snow, because I no longer need it, I am no longer in a position where it keeps me alive” you finished, speeding up your horse to join Daenerys and Missandei, leaving behind a sympathetic, but understanding Jon Snow.

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

Your lips slightly parted in awe as you neared Winterfell, you felt as though the only grounding force that told you it wasn’t a dream was Rhaegal and Drogon above you, their roars and the sound of their wings let you know you were wide awake, and you finally turned to Ezzo, smiling amazed at him before looking back to Winterfell. You had read about it in Mereen, and you remembered how out of all of the cities, you wanted to see Winterfell the most, and here you were, approaching it slowly as people of the north watched you ride by. You felt Ezzo’s hand gently nudge your knee, making you look at him as he gave you a smile “what?” you asked as he just looked at you, he shrugged and just kept smiling “just wanted to look at you” you blushed at his words, the colour of you (Y/S/C) cheeks flushing red, and you looked away, much to Ezzo’s dismay, he thought it looked beautiful with your (Y/E/C) eyes. You shook your head, almost as if you tried to shake off the blush on your cheeks, but you couldn’t shake off the smile that graced your lips “I’ve read a lot about Winterfell, it was built so long ago, it’s said to be built over there natural hot springs, so even though it’s snowing, the castle is much warmer than it looks” you looked back to Ezzo, only to find him already looking at you, and you refrained from saying anything, just enjoying the soft look he gave you as you looked back to Winterfell.

You marvelled at how big it actually was, and Daenerys, upon seeing your face, couldn’t help the smile that found it’s way to her lips.

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

You sat tense by Daenerys’ side, something she had noticed long ago. You were cold, colder than before. When you read about the hot springs under Winterfell, you had hoped it would have given more of an impact, but here you were, willing yourself to stop shaking, while your mother sat quite comfortably, since she was a Targaryen. Your eyes scanned the crowd as a way to distract yourself, and you noticed how everyone seemed to love Jon, everyone knew him, adored him, admired him, and you could see, out the corner of your eyes, Daenerys’ smile wavering, she noticed as well. Daenerys was so used to being loved back in Essos, in Essos she was the Breaker of Chains, the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, she brought wonder and awe to people’s lives as she entered them, but here, here she was the foreign queen who their king had knelt to, the daughter of a madman, leader of an army of savages, and you imagined how much it must hurt her, so turning to her you gently nudged her, giving you her attention, and you knew the smile she put on her lips were fake, it was forced and stretched, like a piece of leather being forced over shapes it wasn’t meant to embrace.

You got up, pulled your new arakh out from behind your back and sat back down, your whole body facing her as you showed it to her “Ezzo gave it to me” you let her hold it and study it, watching her smile fade as realization struck her “your name day…” your own smile fell, you hadn’t meant to force it upon her, she was busy, it was a time of war, you understood how she could forget it, so you quickly shook your head “Mhysa I-... I didn’t mean it like that I just… wanted to show you… he carved the handle himself and-”

“I’m so sorry, Little Dragon” she looked heartbroken and you quickly shook your head again, reaching out for her hands “no, no Mhysa, please don’t be, we’re at war, I nearly forgot it myself, as have Missandei, please don’t feel bad. We’re all busy, you most of all, and after Viserion-” you stopped yourself there, knowing you’d get nowhere with her, and mentioning Viserion would only bring the both of you pain, you could already feel the tears building up in your eyes “I will do my best to correct this, I swear, (Y/N)” you sighed, taking back you anakh, putting it on the table, leaning over and hugging her “you don’t have to, just be happy” you whispered the last bit, feeling her arms finally wrap around you to embrace you as well. Once you parted you saw how sad she still was, which made you feel a guilty, you hadn’t meant to force it upon her, you heard her give a short sigh, turning back to look at the different people, studying them and how they loved Jon Snow, you followed her gaze, and you couldn’t help moving your hand down to gently grasp hers, she was so warm compared to you, her Targaryen blood had fire running through her veins “you are so cold, are you freezing?” you turned to look at her concerned expression, making you smile slightly “no, no I’m just cold. Mhysa, you’re a Targaryen, you have fire in your veins” you giggled slightly, and she joined you, briefly, before looking back over the the northerners “they’ll love you, you know, they’re just scared, perhaps even a bit betrayed, they trusted their king to never kneel again and then he did it, they’re just angry, but I don't blame them, who wouldn’t be in this cold?” you whispered the last bit to her, making her grin and do her best to hold in a laugh that you knew wanted to tear it’s way out of her and make itself known to everyone in the room, a thought that kept you warmer than the fires your brother’s breathed.

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

You frowned as you stared at her in disbelief, taking in her words, each time you tried to decipher it a new frown appeared on your forehead “but-...” you leaned back in your chair, your gaze off to the side, not looking at anything in particular. You finally looked back at Daenerys, seeing her being torn between worlds as well. You leaned forward, gently grasping her hand in yours “who knows, Mhysa?” she swallowed the lump in her throat before speaking up “his brother, Bran, Samwell Tarly, and he’s going to tell his sisters” you frowned at her last statement “but I thought he loved you?” at yours words Daenerys finally let a tear roll down her cheek, all her life she had believed she was the true heir to Westeros, and now, now all of the sudden she wasn’t, the goal she had worked her way towards her whole life was gone, snuffed out, like a candle in a storm. You sighed heavily and got up “and he says he doesn’t want the throne?” you looked out a window before back to Daenerys, seeing her nod briefly and weakly, making you sigh again “then that’s that, Mhysa, he doesn’t want it, you are the heir to the Seven Kingdoms, you are the Queen of Westeros, there is nothing else to it” you kneeled down in front of her, you knew how much this meant to her.

She gently shook her head “it doesn’t matter what he wants… he’s the rightful heir and the people-”

“No! Mhysa… you’ve worked towards this your entire life! He doesn’t want the throne, they can’t force him upon it, can they? I-... I know you love him… I know you haven’t said so but, the way you look at him, and the way he looks at you, he loves you as well, I’m not-... experienced in love but, you have to at least trust that, right?” Daenerys sighed and looked at you, raising a hand to gently hold your cheek, you leaned into her touch and she smiled at the gesture “my sweet little dragon” she whispered, leaning over and placing a kiss on your forehead, her eyes closed as yet another tear fell from them.

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

You glared at your mother as she looked at you with a pleading look “I am not going into the crypt, I want to fight!” Daenerys sighed, you two had been at it for almost an hour now “(Y/N) there is nothing to discuss, please, my little dragon, do as I say. You have a responsibility, you’re the heir to the throne, my ONLY heir, please, I can’t let anything happen to you” you sighed as she used your nickname in Valyrian, mulling over her words before finally giving a weak nod, making Daenerys close her eyes in pure relief. You sighed heavily as you walked down the steps, mumbling annoyed, making Sansa frown as she studied you, looking down at Tyrion, who sighed “she wants to fight, a Dothraki has been teaching her for months now. I think she’s scared,” he whispered the last part, making Sansa lean in as he continued “I think she’s scared of losing yet another brother, or perhaps even her mother, she thinks that somehow if she fights with her, she could prevent it” Sansa frowned even more “but the dragons are not her brothers” Tyrion shrugged “she has grown up around them for the last five years, whenever she was sad and Missandei or Daenerys wasn’t around, the dragons comforted her, I’ve heard stories of how they flew up on her balcony and came close to her, let her lay up against them and cry. When they were locked in the pyramid, she visited them every day, Rhaegal was her dragon, and now Jon Snow is riding him, she may not be a Targaryen, but she understands those dragons, almost as well as their mother, so try to tell her, once a little girl, lost and afraid of the world, protected and cared for by these dragons and their mother, that they are not her family. She already lost one brother, forgive me, Lady Stark, but I do believe you can understand how she feels” Tyrion ended, looking back at you as Missandei sat down next to you, talking with you quietly.

Sansa watched you with sympathy now, she understood what it was like to lose family, and while she couldn’t see how you saw dragons as family, she could understand the bond and the grief you must have felt when Viserion died, especially now that it was known that he had joined the Night King as an undead dragon, no longer the brother you knew.

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

You stared at the piles upon piles of dead bodies, blood covering your face, your akanh in your hand, a cut on your hand and leg, still bleeding, your eyes widening as you saw a white figure in the distance leaning over someone, crying. It was nearly dawn, the Night King was dead and so was his army. Your feet took off before you even knew it, you barely felt the wound on your leg as you ran across the body littered field, you fell to your knees, you arakh long forgotten as you stared at the body in Daenerys’ arms. You breathed heavily as you just stared at his pale skin, the blood splattered across his face and armor, and the small drops of tears from your mother’s eyes. You gently shook your head as you held your breath, at any moment he would wake up, right? He would wake up, let you know that he was alright, he was okay, he was wounded but alive, right? You let out a whimper as none of that happened, he stayed still and pale, and you leaned over his breastplate, resting your head on it, not caring about the blood smearing onto your forehead. You let a sob escape your lips, only one, you told yourself, but it was followed by another, and another, and another, and before you knew it you were sobbing against the cold, hard metal covering his chest.

You looked up at Daenerys to see her crying as well, holding Joarh close and you couldn’t help but lean down and hug his stiff form, your arms around his neck as you sobbed against his throat, silently begging him to wake up, and when that didn’t work you tried verbally “wake up, please Ser Jorah, please, please wake up, please no, no, no, no! Wake up!” you hadn’t even noticed how you had begun to speak Valyrian, it was your native tongue after all, even though Jorah never understood it. You shook him as hard as you could, tears streaming down your face as you shook your head once more, you could barely breathe, Jorah had been the one to cut off your collar, he had been the one you had talked the most with, even though none of you understood each other back then. You leaned against Daenerys’ shoulder as you both cried, tears streaming down your faces as you continued to hold the old knight.

You don’t know how long you stayed like that, clinging to his corpse and Daenerys’ side as you cried over his body, praying that somehow he would wake up, somehow his eyes would open, or he would cough, say something, anything. But nothing happened, and nothing ever would, he was dead, cold and stiff, buried in metal as he laid in the cold snow, blood surrounding him, some of it his own, some of it not, that thought chilled you to the bone more than any wind ever could, he was bathed in blood, some not his own, it made you sick, and you felt the urge to throw up, leaning away quickly and throwing up over the side, making sure none of it touched Jorah or your mother. Afterwards you groaned, tears still streaming down your face as you glanced at Ser Jorah, another sob forcing it’s way through your body and out your mouth as you yet again fell to Daenerys’ side, holding Jorah. You felt Daenerys’ hand slowly place itself on your back as you sobbed, her own cries still spilling from her lips as you both just held him, not caring who watched or who was nearby.

#Daenerys Targaryen #Daenerys Targaryen x Child!Reader #GoTFanFic