#AspecMartinWeek

[cuttoothed]

Written for @aspecmartinweek, for the prompt “First”, for which I am overwhelmingly late. Featuring sex neutral ace Martin, sex averse ace Jon, brief discussion of sexual boundaries. and every first date cliché I could think to cram in. 

*

Jon brings him flowers, on their first official date. They meet at a little park not far from the Institute, and Martin’s been waiting there almost ten minutes when Jon appears, walking hurriedly towards him with one arm tucked oddly behind his back. 

“About time,” Martin is about to say, when Jon’s hand sweeps forward, and the words are lost in his throat. 

The flowers are bold white daisies, their heads nodding gracefully, with sprays of small yellow blossoms peeking out in between. Jon presents it to him with near schoolboy awkwardness, his cheeks red and scarcely able to meet Martin’s eyes. 

“They reminded me of you,” he says, obstinately, as if daring Martin to deny it. 

Martin doesn’t know what to say. Nobody’s ever brought him flowers before. In fact, he’s not sure he’s ever had flowers. There are a few succulents in his flat, and an aspidistra that he bought ironically during his Orwell phase and has been stubbornly keeping alive since, but he’s never had the knack for blooming plants. And he’s always been too embarrassed to buy cut flowers, as if the salesperson might know he was buying them for himself and judge him accordingly.  

There’s something charming and old fashioned and utterly Jon about the gesture, and Martin scolds himself as he feels tears start to sting his eyes. 

“What are they?” he asks as a distraction, lifting them to his nose. The blooms smell sweet, like honey, with an earthy hint.   

“Oxeye daisies,” says Jon, “And goldenrod. I—you don’t mind, do you? I know it’s a bit of a cliché. We can get rid of them—”

“No!” Martin is surprised by his own vehemence. “No, they’re lovely. Thank you. At least now I know why you didn’t want to leave work together—I thought you were trying to keep it off the Institute gossip vine.”

“Why would I want to do that?” Jon frowns, genuinely confused, and a tender warmth swells in Martin’s chest.  

*

Jon’s made reservations at an Italian restaurant. Once they’re seated, Martin places the flowers carefully down by his feet, and looks around. The place is cozy and intimate, the tables set with candles, warm lamplight and low music. 

“This place is nice,” he says, picking up a menu. “Have you been here before?”

“Oh, no,” says Jon. “But I’ve walked past it plenty of times, and I always thought it seemed like a date sort of place?”   

It is, Martin supposes. Most of the tables are two-person, and most of the other patrons appear to be couples, leaning close to each other in the candlelight, laughing and drinking wine. It’s all very traditionally romantic, and Martin is suddenly extremely aware that he and Jon are on a date. He feels a bit foolish, because of course he knew, but until now it’s been easy to think of it as just...him and Jon. Walking somewhere to eat, like they do for lunch a couple of times a week, talking about unimportant things. 

This isn’t that, though. This is flowers and a candlelit dinner, and all of this with Jon, and Martin has no idea what to do. He’s never been any good at dating. Relationships, sure—for a certain value of good—but the bit at the start, where you talk about interests and share details of your lives and gauge if this is a person you want to actually know better? Not his strong suit. Martin never knows how much to share, and when, and whether the first date is the right time to have the “so...about the whole ‘sex’ thing” talk or if he should wait for the third, and— 

“Everything all right?” Jon asks. 

“Yes, fine! Why?”

“You just looked a bit...wild eyed there. Like you’d seen a ghost.” 

“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts?”

“It depends what you mean by a ghost,” says Jon, his brow furrowing seriously, and then he’s off explaining theories of psychic trauma manifestations in specific locations, which is entirely different from the concept of an actual human soul lingering in the world, his hands cutting the air to illustrate his point, and it’s just them again, and honestly Martin could listen to Jon talk like this all day. 

It’s lovely, after that. The food is tasty, and the glass of wine Martin drinks softens away any lingering nervousness, and Jon looks extraordinarily good by candlelight, the shadows sketching his cheekbones and jaw, the light sparking in the depths of his brown eyes. The only thing that Martin takes exception to is when Jon tries to pay for the entire meal. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Martin tells him, “We’ll split it.”

“I invited you, so I pay,” Jon persists. “You can pay next time.” 

In the end he gets his way, because Jonathan Sims is possibly the most stubborn human being Martin has ever met, but Martin wins the concession that he will buy ice cream afterwards. He takes them to the little ice cream shop a few streets from the Institute, and Jon looks flustered and pleased when Martin, feeling bold, places the order for both of them. 

“I can’t believe you remembered,” he says softly. His hand touches Martin’s as he takes his cup of rum and raisin, lingering for just an instant, and Martin feels his face go hot. 

“Of course I did.”

*

They walk along the Embankment as they eat their ice cream. The sun is beginning to set, the street lights flickering on, casting bright shards across the surface of the river, and Martin realizes it’s been over three hours since they met in the park. It feels it’s been no time at all, talking easily, sharing little pieces of themselves back and forth. It feels like Martin could stay like this forever.

He stops to toss his empty ice cream cup in the bin, the flowers tucked into the crook of his arm, and when he turns back, Jon is looking at him oddly. The way he looks at a document that he can’t quite figure out, intent and curious. 

“What?” he says.

“Could I kiss you?”

“Oh,” says Martin intelligently. “Yes, please?” 

Jon huffs a surprised laugh, and then he takes a step closer, his hand pressing to Martin’s cheek. His eyes are dark and depthless in the twilight. His lips brush against Martin’s, dry and soft and still tasting of sweet rum flavor. When he pulls back, Martin tries to remember how to breathe, Jon’s palm still warm against his skin.

“Was that—”

“Yeah,” Martin says before Jon can even finish. “That was good.” 

*

They get on the Tube together, since they’re in the same direction for a while. It’s busy, so they stand gripping the handrails, close together in the press of people. Martin holds his flowers against his chest, doing his best to protect them from jostling bodies. There are a lot of things Martin wants to say, things he wants to whisper in Jon’s ear or tell him while looking deep into his eyes, but this isn’t the right place, so he holds them against his chest as well.

The intercom scratchily announces the next station, and Jon clears his throat.

“Well, this is me,” he says. “I’ll...see you tomorrow?”

His voice is quiet and hopeful, as he starts to shuffle towards the door, and that warm feeling is filling up all the space behind Martin’s rib cage. He doesn’t want this to end yet.

“Hang on,” he says, as the train slows to a halt. He moves towards the exit as well, ignoring Jon’s startled glance, and when the doors slide open, he steps off onto the platform. “Coming?”

The doors shut behind them and the train glides away. They stand there for a few moments, while the other disembarking passengers disperse, and then Jon says:

“What are you doing?” 

“I’d like to walk you home,” says Martin. “You’re not far from here, right?” 

“But this isn’t your stop.”

Martin shrugs. “It’s not that much out of the way. And I want to. After you bought dinner, and brought me these,” he lifts his slightly battered flowers. “Maybe I get to do the cliché thing for this part of the date? If it’s okay with you?” 

Jon huffs a breath, and the look he gives Martin is halfway between defensive and apologetic. Martin knows that look, the “this was nice, but…” look, and god, he can’t have been so wrong about all this, can he? 

“I...this has been a—a lovely evening, Martin,” says Jon. “Truly. But I—I don’t want to give you the wrong impression, so I have to tell you now that I...don’t do the, ahh, the sexual aspects of a relationship. I’m sorry, I should have been upfront about this sooner—” 

“I know that,” Martin says. 

“Sorry?”

“I know, Jon. Or, well, not know, but there was some...office gossip?”

“Oh.” 

“Sorry, I should have probably said something earlier. I, umm, I don’t either? Not much, at least. I mean I can, if it’s important to the person I’m with? I don’t mind sex. But I’d just as soon not. So, yeah.”

“Oh,” says Jon again. He looks stunned. Martin gives him what he hopes is an encouraging smile.

“I really do just want to walk you home, I promise.”

“R-right. I see.” Jon still looks a little stupefied, but relieved along with it, the tension in his jaw relaxing. “In that case...thank you, Martin. I’d like that.”

*

They walk the quiet suburban streets towards Jon’s flat, meeting no one but a startled looking fox that bolts into the bushes. They don’t talk for a while, but it’s a comfortable silence. At some point, Martin feels Jon’s hand brush against his, and Jon’s fingers tangle with his own. He looks across, and Jon is smiling shyly at him. That warm feeling inside his chest surges, fizzing up and over and spilling out as a laugh of pure joy. 

“I can’t believe you thought I was planning to seduce you,” he says. “As if I’m anywhere near suave enough for that!”

“I happen to think you’re very charming,” says Jon with mock affront, frowning, while a smile twitches at the corners of his mouth. “I’m sure you could seduce someone if you put your mind to it.”

“I’ll keep that one in my back pocket, then, just in case I ever have to become an international man of mystery.”

“Good idea,” Jon says solemnly, twining his fingers further with Martin’s. 

At last they reach a three storey house with a little patch of garden in the front, and buzzers at the door for the different flats. 

“This is actually me,” says Jon. “Unless...you’d like to come in for a cup of tea?”

“Isn’t coffee the proper convention here?” Martin asks, and Jon laughs.

“Traditionally I don’t think the beverage is the point,” he says, “But if you fancy an actual cup of tea…?” 

“That sounds lovely,” says Martin. It sounds more than lovely, if it lets him spend more time with Jon; it sounds like the best idea in the world. 

Their hands are still clasped together as they walk to the front door, and Martin pauses, tugs on Jon’s hand to stop him too. 

“All right?” Jon asks with a tiny frown. 

“Just one more first date cliché I think we should respect,” he replies seriously. “The kiss on the doorstep.” 

He leans in, and Jon moves to meet him, and it’s just as soft and heart pounding as their first kiss on the riverbank. Jon gives him a little smile when they part.

“You know, the kiss on the doorstep usually signifies the end of the date,” he says, unlocking the door. “But in this case, I think we can break the tradition.”

“Sounds good to me,” Martin laughs, and follows him inside for tea.

[mossy-rainfrog]

“Jon’s gaze shifts back to Martin from where it’s drifted off into the middle distance, the intense look on his face replaced with something else. Wonder, Martin thinks. Definitely wonder.”

- Spectrums in Common by Gwyn_Paige

I happened across this really brilliant fic a while ago, and it was just so striking I couldn’t help but draw for it. The fic is about nail polish and solidarity and it’s honestly just completely wonderful. :D Check out their work!!

[Image ID: A traditional drawing of Jon and Martin from the fic Spectrums in Common. Jon is a thin British Persian person with short, greying hair, brown skin, and rectangular glasses. Martin is a chubby Black man with short, curly hair, brown skin, and square, gold-framed glasses. Both Jon and Martin are wearing nail polish that displays the asexual flag. The picture shows three moments, all connected by a winding asexual flag in the background. The first moment shows the two shaking hands, their nail polish matching. The second moment, shows Martin handing over a statement, both of their hands and nails visible. Two quotes surround this image. The first reads: “I...I know what they mean. Because, in a way, they’re my colors too, I suppose.” The second reads “You noticed. You knew.” The third moment shows the two of them looking each other, an expression of wonder on Jon’s face, and an expression of surprise on Martin’s. End ID.]

Bonus because this scene was just so cute:

[Image ID: A mostly black and white sketch of the original archival assistants and Jon. Jon has fallen asleep at his desk, his head down on his arms, and Sasha and Martin watch with glee as Tim bends over to paint Jon’s nails. One of Jon’s hands already has the nails painted, and they are a bright many colors. End ID.]

[bibliocratic]

Only a little late!

Written for the prompts: AU and Touch for AspecMartinWeek

Ace Jon / Ace Martin, AU – Daemons, post 159.

They are lying dozy and lazing on the settee when Jon clears his throat and apologises.

Martin's thoughts have been like the unheeded tumbling of water through a brook. He hasn't spoken, he's sure, for a long while, not confident that he's fully awake. Jon's tucked neatly against Martin's graceless outstretch of limbs, mumbling whatever comes to mind against his throat. His breath is hot, mildly damp, condensing Martin's skin like he's fogging up a window.

There is the curiously new, near-dazed feeling that Martin is basking in like the shallow waters of some island beach. Every tension unhooked from him like an unburdened yoke, of having said everything that he has always wanted to say. Digging out the gristle of small deceits from his stumbling mouth was a stop-judder-start of a conversation, and it's been a painful, physical release to bring them up. Martin's held his hands over his mouth and the words have spilled out anyway, scraping his throat on the way up, and Jon had rubbed his back and listened as every emotion he forced down came back in nauseous waves.

It's been exhausting, feeling so much all at once. Martin's snapped and snarled and sobbed and slept a lot. And now he has the blessed relief to lie, feeling like he's dug up all the weeds of his fears, the soil of him loosened enough to allow something better to bloom.

Jon knows Martin loves him. Vast-welled, bone-down-deep. Jon knows that love will never be physical, and had still cradled him and declared him beloved, confessed that it was a form of expression he'd never sought either. Jon reframed question after question so they barely resembled enquiries at all, and Martin laid down all the cards of himself with a trustfulness he is having to practise again.

“Hm?” Martin questions sluggish. He opens a squinting, disgruntled eye, discomforted by the radiance of the room, and sees Jon gnawing on his bottom lip. He is managing to give off the impression of both staring intensely at Martin and attempting to avoid his gaze entirely.

“I'm sorry,” Jon repeats. His words are steady enough, but Emer is fluttering hither-and-thither over his head like an anxious coronet. Landing on his shoulder, antennae bobbing, crawling flustered over to his other shoulder before returning airborne in an overactive bluster of motion.

Martin has always liked watching Emer. The flash of gossamer-white wings circling Jon's head or sat on his wrist like an overly-extravagant watch while he read statements.

“Stop looking,” he used to hiss at the moving lump under his shirt, poking many orb-like eyes over his collar to stare even when Martin stopped. “It's rude.”

“What're you sorry for?” Martin asks. The question comes out squashed, half-sighed. His arm encircling Jon's shoulder, he strokes the skin of his upper arm in a light reassurance.

Jon's forehead is establishing trenches as he deepens the lines on his brow. Emer lands and whispers harsh, insistent words into his ear, but he shakes his head like shedding water, and she goes back to hovering.

“I should have asked,” Jon says finally. “I'd never.... you were always so private about him, so I mean, at first I wasn't sure he was even yours, but then – when you, when you went with Peter, and I – he was so small, and I thought he was h-half-dead and Emer wouldn't leave him. S-so I picked him up and I carried him. And I'm sorry.”

It takes a few moments for Jon's garbling to reach understanding.

“I'd kind of assumed you must have,” Martin replies slowly. “I'm the – I'm the one who left him behind.”

At the hollow of Martin's throat, he can feel the crouched and scratchy weight, still unfamiliar to him. He brings up his hand, uses a finger to stroke the short, bristling fur down his rounded abdomen. He stops, leaving his hand nearby, close but undemanding. A second later, delayed, two probing legs tap affectionately and tiredly onto the back of Martin's hand, before withdrawing again.

He was never so steady before. He used to crawl, scramble, quiver and jump, always in motion under the cover of Martin's shirts, the camouflage of his bramble-coiled hair. If he got excited, he'd jump from Martin's shoulder to ear to get his attention, chatter and chirp animatedly. Most of Martin's life, he's rarely strayed a foot from his side.

Martin doesn't feel him now. Not like it was before. There's no solid anchoring when he concentrates. Like a weak signal, a light seen through fog, a previously taut string scraped threadbare.

Peter had suggested a knife. Had even held one out to Martin with a chummy, encouraging smile. Telling him how clean it could be to slice through.

“It won't even kill you,” he had said. “Best part of it.”

“It'll hurt though,” Martin had replied dully, jaw set, as the spider quivered against his throat.

“Oh, certainly,” Peter had replied, admiring the sheen of the blade. “But you've already given away so much, Martin, what's a little more in the grand scheme of things, hm?”

Martin had refused, and Peter had sighed, pocketing the knife again, responded:

“Pity. You'll have to leave him anyway. It would be so much easier to make the separation quicker for the both of you.”

Aron hadn't said anything when Martin scooped him off his neck, setting him down on top of the tape recorder. He'd stared, resigned but with still enough expectation in him to feel betrayed.

It hadn't made the rending, punch-breathed stretching of their distance hurt less.

It had stopped hurting after a while, like everything else had.

Jon must have carried him all the way into the Lonely and out, Martin thinks, stroking Aron again. Maybe longer. The days, they've not been as clear as Martin would like. It's been as treading through murky water a lot of the time. He's not even sure when he woke up blearily, cosseted by the tight bundle of blankets Jon had barricaded him with, and felt Aron nestled in his hair like the old days.

“You couldn't have asked anyway,” Martin continues. “It's not like, well, not like I was around to say it was ok, was I?”

Jon makes a grunt of agreement, but it's one of those distracted sounds he makes when he's taken something in but not really listened.

“When you got out though,” he says, seeming, if anything, even more shame-faced. “When we got here, you didn't – you didn't even ask about him. He'd be at the other side of the house and you didn't blink at how far that was, he-he'd climb onto you and try and get your attention and you wouldn't flinch. I don't think you even knew he was there. And then Emer talked to him, wouldn't move from his side, and then – it-it was the second night, guess you don't remember but you were – you were struggling to come back to yourself. And he – he crawled onto me, and I didn't – I didn't push him away.”

“I'm not mad at you, Jon,” Martin says. “'s like you said. I wasn't – I wasn't in the right place. You kept him safe, how could I be mad?”

Jon nods stiffly. Looks at Aron. Martin likes the way Jon looks at him, carefully, like something might have changed while he wasn't looking.

“I just... thought I should apologise,” he says, more lamely than before. “It's not right, to go around touching other people's.... Anyway. I won't – won't do it again.”

Aron's chelicerae twitch against Martin's adam's apple.

“What's your thoughts on all this then?” Martin says, directing it lowly at Aron.

He's not expecting a response. Their conversations have been stilted, working through the gap Martin ripped between them. Those last few months, they'd mostly fought. Peter Lukas' arrival had found Aron sullen and petty, argumentative and frightened, and Martin had ignored him or snapped back in kind. Aron had stopped speaking to him long before Lukas dragged him into the Lonely, and it's a slow cautious revival, to find out how to talk to each other again.

Aron unfolds his legs carefully, creeps unobtrusively up to the side of Martin's face to lurk near his ear. Even as a bigger example of his species, he's still about the length of Martin's thumb. He flexes the stubby pedipalps under his eyes like he's kneading something.

“He's the best decision you've made in a long time,” he says resolutely to Martin. “He loved me even when you thought you couldn't.”

Martin's mouth is raw from saying sorry but he murmurs it again. Aron's front legs tap him like a reassurance.

“Would you like to?” Martin turns to Jon, who is militantly trying not to listen to their conversation. Emer is circling the ceiling as though to further compound the gesture of privacy. “Touch him, mean – intentionally this time?”

When Martin was younger and working everything out, he'd diligently done his research on the ways he thought he was failing. He'd watched a lot of films, read a lot of books. Romantic stuff, filled with swelling, stirring scores, or purple-prose dramatic declarations of passion. It's quite a common trope in a lot of these; the couples confessing their tormented adoration, their daemons touching, tail in tail or rough-housing in play. Then one half of the couple will reach out, suddenly tender, tangle their fingers in the fur of the other's daemon or scrape along their scales. The other will gasp like they've been shocked, their body rocking with the aftermath of it, before they follow with shaking hands. Martin would replay those moments of intimate connection, fantasising about how someone might hold his own bristled and secretive soul.

It inevitably leads to sex. And Martin would switch it off, then, feeling nonplussed and uncomfortable and wondering if that part was necessary.

It doesn't matter to Martin if Jon doesn't want to, if he never touches Aron again. Jon's already carried his soul so many miles.

It's important to him that Jon knows he can. That Martin wants him to, that Martin trusts him with Aron more than he trusts himself.

Jon's face goes a dark spasm of oxblood red.

“It's – I mean – I'd – course I'd – that's a lot though, are you sure – ?”

Emer chooses that moment to make some quick fed-up comment to Jon before decisively fluttering down and landing on Martin's nose.

Jon gives a squeaking, mildly scandalised gasp. So does Martin, more at the shock.

It doesn't feel like how he expected it might.

There's no rush, no swelling violins or heightened poetry.

“Hey,” he whispers to the white-winged moth. Emer preens, giving a show-off little flap before closing her wings against her back.

“She's beautiful,” he says to Jon sincerely.

Jon's holding his breath like he's trying not to disturb the moment.

“How – how do you feel?” He asks tentatively, his words slightly strangled.

“Warm,” Martin says. There's a steady coil of heat in his chest that matches the warmth of their close-knit afternoon. He feels beheld in the surest of light, cherished and reverential, the same feeling he gets whenever Jon says he loves him.

“Like you expected?”

Martin told Jon about the films he'd watched, the books he'd read, the expressions and sensations he'd thought would make him happier. Jon had listened in the blanketing dark of the evening, and admitted the same in kind.

“I mean, I still don't feel much of an urge to suddenly rip your clothes off, if that's what you're asking.”

Jon's lips hook up in a smile, releasing some of his nervous tension.

“How disappointing,” he intones, and Martin, going a little cross-eyed staring at the speckling spots of black over the fuzz coating Emer's body, laughs.

He reaches up, his hands gone a little shivery, glances over at Jon.

“Can I...?” he asks.

Jon gives a jerking motion, looking like a rather demented nodding dog in his poorly disguised eagerness.

“Er – y-eah – that would be – I-I'd like that.”

Martin strokes a blunt nail from her thorax down.

“Oh,” Jon says, sounding more than a little awestruck. If possible, he sinks even more limbless against Martin. “That's.... that's lovely.”

Martin strokes Emer for a while, rhythmically rubbing the fur with a precise concentrated effort. Jon hums, looking dazed and pleased.

He wonders if it'll feel the same with Jon touching Aron. If Martin will be able to tell, if the sensation will be muted or altered in some way.

Aron, impatient and with apparently less decorum about the whole thing, gives a restless huff and decides to find out himself by jumping onto Jon.

Jon, jolted from his near-soporific state, rather valiantly does not shriek or flail the way he might if an actual spider flung itself onto him. He jerks but makes a serious effort to hold himself ramrod still.

“Stop it,” Martin warns.

“You are absolutely no fun,” Aron answers back playfully as he skitters down to where Jon's hands are. Jon if anything holds himself even more still.

Aron reaches his wrist and taps the skin there, waiting. Slowly, Jon cups his hands together, and Aron clambers delicately onto his palms. Jon's face is making another one of those wowed expressions. Martin feels another pulse of that settling warmth, not as dulled as before, strengthening as Jon rubs a self-conscious finger down Aron's abdomen.

Martin feels Emer flutter up and settle against his hair as he hums and closes his eyes, his soul held in the safest hands he knows.

[somuchbetterthanthat]

Probably too long for tumblr, un-betaed, written in one rush, utterly and completely self-indulgent. Have a little bit of touch-adverse/kiss-adverse Martin (with a good deal of denial and internalize prejudice to boot, so warning) for Aspec Martin Week.

It’s been a week, and they haven’t kissed.

It makes sense, Martin insists to tell himself, eager to find excuses for that one little discordant note in his otherwise perfect fairytale. What they shared in the Lonely had been -- much more powerful than that, for starters. And afterwards, there’d been the rush of getting somewhere safe, first to Martin’s flat, then to Scotland. They’d gone from stuttering at each other, exhausted and soft, blatantly trying to get over months of separation, to falling back in each other’s orbit with an easiness that made Martin light-headed when he thought about it too long.

So they hadn’t kissed. It just hadn’t -- came up yet. They’d gone so fast, so suddenly, it was nice to have that little thrill of anticipation. They were building towards something. They were building something, right now. There was no rush, was there?

After all, they’d hold hands, a few times. In the train to Scotland, fingers loosely intertwined, when Martin was still shivering from a coldness that had nothing to do with the rain pouring outside, and everything with the pervasive attraction of the sea that was still trying to drown out the beating of his own heart. They’d hold hands and it was warm and good and -- and well, sweaty, sometimes, when they kept at it for too long, but Martin had daydreamed of holding Jon’s hand for so long he could never make himself let go (and if there was an odd drop of relief wherever Jon let go first, at last, well, that was -- that was --)

Jon was affectionate, the way Martin had seen cats be when he fell into YouTube spirals, before. He hovered in Martin’s physical space, nuzzle his shoulder when he was sleepy, put his legs on Martin’s lap when they sat on the couch, and downright beamed and melted into his arms the first time Martin, filled with abrupt courage and stubbornness had decided to hug him, and every single time after that (this chased away the sound of the sea; if he kept Jon’s close enough, all he could hear was Jon’s voice and Jon’s heart and Jon’s breathing --)

(And if it get too much, sometimes, if he had to bite his tongue not to flinch when Jon’s hand brushed over his arms, his neck, his back, suddenly and without any apparent pattern, well, that was --)

They slept in the same bed, for heaven’s sake. They hadn’t even talked about it. The first night, tiredness had won over any potential flustering. Afterwards, it’d been easy, like everything else between them. Martin adored the intimacy of it in a way that was hard to describe properly. He loved it most in the morning, when the sun came in and he woke up before Jon, liked going to prepare breakfast knowing that he could come back whenever he wanted, and Jon would be there still, comfortable and vulnerable and in their bed, probably curled on Martin’s side, nose pressed against Martin’s pillow. He loved it most when they spent the evening there, still dressed, Jon’s reading, Martin scribbling in the small notebook Jon had bought for him at the London train station, cheeks flushed and eyes hopeful.

(They slept in the same bed, and Jon’s pajamas were too short, and his legs hairy, and his feet cold, and when he fell asleep he had a tendency to roll over and lean his legs against Martin’s, and Martin closed his hands into fists and breathed, breathed, and tried not to feel like he was trapped between suffocating in the bed, or disappearing into the fog to escape it all together. It was intimate. It was intimacy. It was what normal couples did, sharing a bed, and why couldn’t he enjoy it, he who’d dreamed of this his whole life? Intimacy. A relationship. Someone to love and to hold and fall asleep with, he who had been craving gentle, casual, loving touches his whole life, why couldn’t he ----)

So they hadn’t kissed; it didn’t matter, because Martin knew they would anyway. It was just that, out of everything, he had dreamed of kissing the most his whole life. When he was very young, the person hadn’t even had a face; he’d thought this would happen very officially, at his wedding. As a teenager, it’d slowly dawned on him he had no desire to kiss girls. Harder, he’d thought, but that would happen, he knew it could, Mr Anders had a boyfriend, everybody knew he had. Martin had imagined his first kiss with Louis who was two years older and played Rugby. Then it’d been with Tom, and Samir, and -- and then, there hadn’t been school anymore, but that was fine; he’d imagined his first kiss to be with an half stranger in a café, or in this bar where they hosted poetry nights.

It’d never happened, of course, but that was fine. That was fine. Who needed a relationship, anyway? Lots of people were single, and didn’t kiss people all the time, and if Martin sometimes felt icy envy when Tim used to speak of how easily he seduced people, well, that was easily pushed back down. (Martin had thought, once or twice, that he could ask Tim. Warm, friendly, easy-going Tim, who would never judge him for being inexperienced. He could have, but Martin didn’t want to kiss Tim. There was no pull, no attraction, no matter how charming Tim’s smile was. He wasn’t in love --)

And then there was Jon. The first time he’d daydreamed about kissing Jon, he was sleeping in his cot, and it smelled like his awful-but-not-quite-boss and safety-safety-safe-. Afterwards, there’d been million of other occasions. God, how much he’d craved, this past months, to go down the Archives, the hell with Peter, and to cup Jon’s face and to -- (and then he hadn’t wanted to anymore, and that was fine, too, it was easier, to stare at Jon and care in a pragmatic way instead of like a pathetic, lovesick fool. One of us should, he’d thought in his worst moment, and he loathed the man he’d been for those weeks so much -- there was a quiet dread in him that liked to murmur back to him Daisy’s words, that the entities didn’t force anything on them, just exacerbated what was already inside them, and every time, inevitably, he felt so cold again--)

So they hadn’t kissed. It was fine. They were going to. They were building to it. They just needed the perfect moment. First kisses weren’t just about the right person. They were about the right place, at the right time. Martin had wanted this for so long --

Tonight, Jon’s scowling at their puzzle like it personally insulted him, has been for the past ten minutes, and the light of the fire is reflecting in his eyes; he’s wearing Martin’s jumper and his hair is still wet from his earlier shower and Martin’s heart jumps at his throat as he thinks now. It has to be now.

“I’d like to kiss you,” he blurts out, filled with a sudden urgency. “Please? If -- If that’s -- if you want to.”

Jon looks up, startled, and it’s magic, the way his scowl disappears under his sudden flush and shy, happy smile. “Ah, yes,” he says, like he’s surprised. “Yes, I want -- I thought you might not --”

“No,” Martin says, “No I really really do --” “Well, then.” Jon’s lips curled into something that’s full of mischief, and Martin didn’t know it was possible to adore someone just as much as he adores Jon. “Come here, Mr Blackwood.”

“Oh I’ve got to work for it, have I?” Martin retorts, but he’s grinning, and already moving to Jon. They push the puzzle away, and Martin’s whole body is thrumming with nervous energy, abruptly, as Jon looks up to him, eyes dark and beautiful and soft. “I haven’t -- I haven’t actually ever done this,” he says, and is surprised to find he’s not embarrassed to say.

“There’s really not much to it,” Jon tells him, but he cups Martin’s face, tender as ever, and Martin thinks -- non sense, what is there more intense and intimate in the world than this? What else embodies love as much as kissing? -- and then Jon’s lips gently brush against his

-- and it’s good; for a few seconds, Martin feels electrified and so happy he could float; and then Jon’s lips are pressing back a little more insistently, and they’re a bit dry, and chapped, and his breath is hot against Martin’s face, and Martin’s knees are not wobbly, and the electricity has passed and all there is left is two bodies, pressed awkwardly against each other, skin and flesh and that odd, wet noise, and he wants to run, he wants to run so badly, this is ---

Jon moves away. Blinks worriedly, smile gone. “Martin?”

“No,” Martin says, his voice too tight, his hands trembling. “No, come back it’s -- sorry, i’m going to -- I’m just, i’m new to this? It’s got to -- It’s just -- I need --”

“Martin, breathe,” Jon snaps (he’s not angry, Martin has learnt to recognize the different ways Jon snaps over the years. He’s worried, and anxious, and probably thinking he’s done something wrong, the beautiful idiot --)

Martin breathes.

“Let me try again,” he stammers, after a minute.

“...Are you sure?” Jon tentatively asks. He’s so far away, careful not to lean too close while clearly yearning for it, and Martin forbids himself to start crying.

“Please,” he says instead.

“Okay,” Jon says. This time, he is so much more hesitant, so Martin is the one who crosses the distance between them, heart racing desperately in his chest. He tries to think of every movie, every story he’s ever watched or read or listen to; he puts one hand on Jon’s shoulder, and one hand on Jon’s hair, and Jon sighs, and their lips met and this time it’s right except, except it’s --

it’s all wrong, everything is wrong, and all that Martin manages to be aware of is how awkward and weird it all is; just like the hand-holding, when they do it too long, just like those little unexpected touches Jon offer at random moments, just like Jon’s legs in bed, and his damn cold feet;

Martin doesn’t remember breaking off the kiss; suddenly he is sobbing angrily -- at the lonely, at himself, at his childhood self who’s probably dreamed of this so much he’s ruined the reality of it all for themselves as an adult, -- and hides his face in Jon’s shoulder, apologizing like an idiot; he doesn’t even know what he babblers on. Stupid stuff, properly, because he’s an idiot, because he’s doing this horribly wrong, all of this, because he’s not feeling anything of what he should feel right now, because there is something ugly in him that refuses to be tamed even by love, and so what now? What now?

(Jon holds him. Jon murmurs it’s okay, it’s okay, we don’t have to, it’s okay, I love you, breathe for me, Martin, it’s okay, you’re okay -- and how is it, that Martin can love him so much and yet not be able to --)

“I want to,” he manages to say. “I’ve wanted to. All my life I just --”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, as if he is in any way responsible for this disaster. “Kisses are very much overstated, if you want my opinion.”

“But it’s not,” Martin argues, clinging to him harder. “It’s how you, you show love --”

“Is it? I never thought so. I like kissing just fine, I suppose, but It does get boring, especially if you do it for too long. Assuming we’re speaking of mouth kissing, of course.”

“How can you -- How can you say that?” Martin sputters, tearing himself away from Jon’s arms to stare at him. Jon is frowning, but he also looks so calm, it’s baffling.

“Easily,” Jon said, shrugging, a bit defensively. “Look, Martin, I told you four days ago I didn’t have sex. Ever. And you said it was fine, that you didn’t mind.”

“Well, yes, but --”

“How is that in any way different than kissing?”

“It’s, it’s -- I don’t know but --” Martin can feel himself tearing up again. Jon’s eyes soften, and he gently squeezes Martin’s hand.

“If you want to try again, at some point, we can,” he tells him, and it’s so impossibly gentle. “But it’s alright if it’s not -- something you enjoy. If we don’t kiss, ever, I won’t love you any less for it.”

“Maybe I just -- I just need to practice,” Martin says, quieter now.

“Maybe,” Jon admits. “But if it makes you this distressed every time, I might be the one who has to say no, here.”

Martin wants to argue some more, but something in Jon’s expression, stubborn and worried still, stopped him from doing so. “I love you,” he says instead, because that part is true, that part he trust; if he cannot control his body, at least he has mastered his heart;

Jon smiles. “I love you,” he says back, and he brings Martin’s hand to his mouth and kisses it gently.

Martin’s heart stops; his cheeks warm up abruptly; a shiver runs down his spine. He feels his breath hitch up his throat.

“Do that again?” he tries, voice trembling.

Jon raises his eyebrows. “This?” his lips linger on Martin’s knuckles, this time. Martin’s knees feel weak. Jon’s smile gets wider; warmer. “Oh, I can do this,” he nods, seriously. “Tell me if it’s get boring.” and he kisses Martin’s hand again; each finger, with a tenderness that makes Martin feel dizzy.

“I love you,” he repeats, because he thinks, he’s starting to understand what Jon was saying. “I love you so much.”

Jon kisses his wrist; his lips are a bit chapped and it’s slightly wet and Martin’s pulse is loud in his ears.

This. this is perfect.

There is no but; there is no quiet, shameful parentheses; Martin thinks he might have to talk to Jon about the bed, maybe, tomorrow; for now, his eyes fall back on Jon’s hand. He wonders what it’ll be like, to kiss it. He’s got a feeling it might be very pleasant, indeed.

[seachanqe]

universally us

A ficlet written for Aspec Martin Blackwood Week, JonMartin, Prompt: Common Experiences

                                                             -----

"How in the world did you end up with a-- a--, you know, a--," Jon said, waving his hands vaguely.

"It's all right, Jon, I'll say the word 'crush' for you," Martin teased, biting the inside of his cheek to hide how much he was grinning.

Jon's mouth dropped open, and for a second Martin wasn't sure if Jon was going to thank him or swat at him.

"Yes, precisely. That. With me, of all people."

"Jon, don't you dare say it like that. You're perfect."

Jon scoffed. "If you say so."

Martin leaned forward, threading his fingers with Jon's, and pulled Jon's hand up to his lips to give his knuckles a kiss, short and sweet. Martin adored seeing Jon turn dark red just by such a simple show of affection. "I do, Jon. Are you questioning my judgement?"

Still blushing, Jon glared at Martin ineffectively. "No, yes. Maybe?"

Martin just shook his head, unable to hold back a gentle laugh. "How dare you, Mr. Sims. But, for your information, I think my crush began when you let me stay in the Archives after the horrible Prentiss apartment... incident. Told me I could stay as long as I wanted. Even volunteered to obtain more fire extinguishers. My hero."

"Really?" Jon said, with a small frown. "That… I was just doing what anyone would."

"What anyone would. You believed me, Jon. You took me seriously, and offered me a safe place to stay. That meant so much to me, you have no idea." Martin laughed, surprised with how little self-deprecation he was feeling. "It was weird, for sure. I didn't realize that's what it was at first, that I actually had a crush. It was just like these faint warm, fuzzy feelings." Martin looked down at their hands, brushing his thumb across the back of Jon's hand, and tried to ignore how softly Jon was looking at him. No matter how long they were together, Martin didn't think he would ever get used to it, being cared for, being loved. "It was nice though. It is nice."

Martin cleared his throat after several long, heavy moments. "How about you?"

"Me? Wha--Oh! Um. I think… I think…" Jon sighed. "I'm not sure I know, to be honest. It may have been that many different moments contributed to it, and I didn't realize how in love with you I was until it was overwhelming. When you brought me tea, when you dragged me to lunch, the late nights in the archives trying to track down a statement, or a piece of research. When we would spend hours arguing over something inconsequential, like… like that argument we had on chocolate chip vs. oatmeal raisin cookies. All those lovely little things, the things really helped me get to know you."

"I get what you mean." Martin let go of Jon's hand and snuggled over so that his back leaned against Jon's chest. Jon's arms immediately wrapped around his waist, holding him tight. “I feel like I know you better than... anyone really. And I know you know me.”

Martin felt Jon’s lips brush the top of his head.

“I do, and you’re incredible, Martin. And don’t you dare argue that.”

Martin huffed. “Fine.” Then, softer, “I like you. I, um, never have been able to tell anyone I had a crush on them before.”

Jon’s arms tightened around Martin momentarily. “I like you too.”

[aspecmartinweek]

Announcement:  Aspec Martin Blackwood Week

What is Aspec Martin Blackwood Week?

As we enjoy the content created for the show's canon ace character, we are excited to explore the possibilities of ace and aro interpretations for the other characters we love.  Aspec Martin Blackwood Week is an event created by fans of The Magnus Archives to celebrate aro- and ace-spectrum (aspec) headcanons for Martin Blackwood.  This event will run from April 19 to April 25, 2020, and will promote aspec headcanons, meta, writing, and art you may have for Martin.

Each day during the event, three different prompts will be provided for inspiration, but don't feel bound by any of the prompts.  If you feel inspired to go in another direction, run with it!  All aspec Martin content is encouraged.  We are also accepting submissions of existing works.

Event and Prompts

We will be using the #AspecMartinWeek tag to collect works on tumblr, and the Aspec Martin Blackwood Week Collection on AO3.  Please see our FAQ for details and guidelines on how to submit content.

Our list of prompts for the event are below:

4/19  Sunday -    Discovery   ♢    Poetry   ♢   Rainstorm

4/20  Monday -  Common Experiences  ♢  Tea  ♢  Travel

4/21  Tuesday -   Frustration   ♢   Family   ♢   Seasons 1-2

4/22  Wednesday -   First   ♢   Sunrise/Sunset    ♢    AU

4/23  Thursday -    Touch    ♢    Flowers    ♢    Childhood

4/24  Friday -      Wish     ♢     Colors     ♢     Coffee Shop

4/25  Saturday -  Together   ♢   Blanket   ♢   Exploration

Feel free to contact us if you have any questions, and give us a reblog to spread the word!

[dathen]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims Additional Tags: ace Martin, ADHD Jon (implied), Getting to know you, No angst this time around, No Spoilers, Canon Asexual Character Series: Part 2 of Dathen's Aspec Martin Prompt Fills Summary:

“I’m not making fun, I promise.” Jon absently brushed the back of his fingers against Martin’s cheek, and for a second Martin’s thoughts blurred as heat rushed to his face.  “I just never pictured you playing video games.”

--

Martin and Jon compare fictional crushes. Hypothetically during TMA 160 interlude, but no series spoilers. Written for Prompt 2 of Aspec Martin Blackwood Week: Common Experiences.

[loumandliker]

if my heart is a grenade

conversations about love, intimacy and expectations after the end of the world. features kiss semi-averse martin, kiss-neutral jon, and a little bit of anxiety stemming from internalized normative ideas about intimacy and romantic love and a lack of communication. (set between 162 and 163!)

–

The night before they leave Jon nestles close enough that some of his curls get into Martin’s mouth.

“Are you scared?” he asks softly.

“No,” Martin says, and tries to discreetly spit out the stray hairs without making too much noise or otherwise making it too obvious that he’s doing it. 

Jon, seemingly not noticing, is quiet for a bit. “Me neither.”

He feels warm under the blanket, and with Jon partially in his lap he feels even warmer. He thinks it should probably be uncomfortable, to some extent at least, but as it is all he feels is affection. He feels warm on the inside, even more so than on the outside. 

“You don’t have to lie,” Martin says. It radiates off of him. He’s been saying it, for God’s sake, for weeks now, how he’s scared and worried and afraid and whatever other synonyms he has in store – vexed and haunted, whatever. Scared. Afraid. Martin had gathered supplies and waited patiently for him to no longer feel immobilized by that fear. 

Jon’s head moves a little bit. The top of it knocks against Martin’s chin, and Martin tilts his chin up to make room. “I’m not,” he says, and then he sighs. “It’s complicated. I suppose you could say that, technically, if you want to mince words, but it’s more that I’m –” he hesitates, “ I feel uncertain. I don’t know if this is a good idea, and the possibility of us leaving making things worse is… Suboptimal, and I don’t want to cause any more harm. But staying here – I think that’d be worse. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” Martin says. His arms move without his input to wrap tighter around Jon’s shoulders. He sighs heavily, cheek rubbing against Martin’s chest. Like a cat, Martin thinks, he’s like a cat. He thinks about moving one hand up to scratch behind his ears, gentle and tender and soft and light.  

“You don’t have to lie, either,” Jon says. There’s a smile in his voice. Martin smiles as well. It’s good. It’s nice. He thinks about the way his smile pulls his cheeks up. He thinks about his dimples. He thinks about the way he smiles with just the barest hint of teeth. 

“What? You can just tell if I’m lying now?” Martin asks, not too serious about it. 

“Can you?” Jon asks back. 

“No,” Martin lies. 

“Right,” Jon says, and presses a kiss to the exposed skin of Martin’s neck. “I thought we weren’t lying to each other!”

Martin’s smile widens. “I never said that!”

And – Martin guesses – this is just their new normal, now. Pressing kisses to each other’s skin, sitting side by side. Or Jon in his lap, or lying on the bed, not sleeping, not awake. Catching each other on little lies and saying so. Catching each other falling into bad habits or patterns and calling each other out. It’s nice. 

It’s Jon in his arms. It’s Jon’s scarred arms under his fingertips. It’s Jon’s lips on his neck, and his hands in Martin’s, and sometimes his feet in Martin’s lap. It’s his fingers in Martin’s hair, twirling his curls around his long, elegant fingers. Martin sits and feels his fingers and thinks about him playing the piano, as a kid, as a teenager. He wonders if he could still play, if he had a piano here. If he’d play for him, in front of the fireplace, the music filling the little cabin, bouncing off the walls. Would he play with his eyes closed? Would he just know how to move his hands, his fingers, his wrists? 

Piano or not – it’s good. It’s so good. Jon is so much better like this than Martin had ever imagined. It’s –

It’s scary. 

Jon climbing into bed and Martin not knowing what to do. If he’s supposed to do something. Is he supposed to do something? He says “hi” and Jon leans towards him and kisses him on the cheek, right by his mouth, and says “hi,” and then he pulls back away. Is that supposed to happen? Jon sits in his lap and nuzzles his face against his chest and kisses through the fabric. It’s been weeks. Should something else be happening? Should there be more?

Jon shifts in his arms, a subtle, quiet thing. 

“Do you love me?” he asks, quietly. Jon’s head moves again, then, fast and jerky, and Martin just barely manages to move his own out of the way before it collides with Martin’s chin again.

“Martin,” Jon says, bewildered, “I tell you I love you all the time!” 

“Right,” Martin says, hurriedly. “You do.”

“I thought you could tell when I’m lying,” Jon says. There’s no accusation in his voice. Martin thinks he might be trying to sound playful in a half-hearted way. Like he’s not sure if it’s appropriate or not. Like he’s split between playful and concerned. 

“Right. But I didn’t say I can tell when you’re telling the truth.”

Jon’s eyebrows furrow. “That doesn’t make sense. They’re mutually inclusive. If you can tell when I’m lying you can tell when I’m telling the truth. If I’m not lying then I must be telling the truth. Simple process of elimination.”

Martin looks away. “I suppose.” A tear threatens to fall out of his eye. He shakes his head gently to dislodge it. 

“Martin.”

“Sorry,” he says. He unwraps one arm from around Jon to wipe the tear away. “I don’t know what’s wrong. I think I might be scared, after all.”

“No, you’re not,” Jon says softly. 

“No,” Martin agrees, “I’m not.” 

Not of the trip, at least. He guesses he’ll re-evaluate whether or not he’s scared of what they’ll find at the end of it when they get to it.

“Please talk to me,” Jon says, and his voice is so soft – 

“Can’t you just Know?” Martin asks. “Isn’t that a whole thing? You can just Know things, now, right?”

“Right,” Jon agrees, voice dripping with reluctance and disdain, “I can, yes.”

Martin thinks about –

Jon in his arms, kissing his cheeks, one after the other. Martin kissing him back, one cheek, then the next. When he pulls back Jon stays still with his eyes closed, a little blissed out smile carving space for itself on his face, and Martin thinks about love in the abstract, and then love as a concrete, tangible thing, and then love in the present, and then love in the active. Love as a noun. Love as a verb. He thinks about love as an action, and Jon opens his eyes, just a little bit, and then he blinks, slow and languid, head swaying a little with the motion of it. 

Like a cat. He thinks about this. He closes his eyes, and nods quietly.

“I think it might be better if you just told me,” Jon says gently. “Just because I can know things doesn’t mean I’ll understand.”

Martin nods, quick, jerky. “Ah. Right. Sees all, understands none…?”

“Something like that,” Jon says, and then after a second of silence, “not just because of that, though. I just think – I think I want to hear these things from you.”

“I don’t want to say it,” Martin says, and his breath hitches on the last syllable. “I’ll cry. I don’t want to say it.”

He could wait. He could cry it out, and let Jon hold him through it, and then just tell him, just say all of these ridiculous things pressing down on the bottom of his skull like something tangible and heavy, he could, and Jon would like that more – it’d be fair. It’d be nicer.

But Jon just knowing would be – it’d be painless. It’d be easy. Like pulling off a bandaid. Gauze on an open wound. 

“Alright,” Jon says. “What should I – what’s wrong? Is that what I should –”

“I don’t know,” Martin says, helpless. “I just feel like – like I don’t know anything. I feel like there’s something I’m missing. You say you love me, and I believe you, I do! It’s just –”

There’s a brief surge of static, and Jon’s eyes fill with something unreadable but intense, and Martin feels like someone’s cut strings holding him up. He’s overheating, now, almost definitely. 

“I didn’t know you wanted me to –” Jon’s voice falters, “I didn’t realize you wanted me to kiss you on the mouth!” 

Martin whimpers quietly. “I don’t – I don’t know if I want you to, I just – I thought that’s what people did when they –” He falters. “I thought you would want to do that. I thought it’s what people did.”

Jon looks at him, then, long and quiet and dark and observing. Cataloguing. “Do you want me to kiss you?” he asks. 

And Martin – he doesn’t know. In all of the relationships he’s been in, before, there’d always been kissing – closed, chaste kisses; wet, messy kisses; making out, all that, and it’s –

“No,” he says, and then when Jon doesn’t say anything he hurries to add, “not because I don’t love you! Um. I just. I don’t know.” He wants to put his face in his hands. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me right now. I don’t think so. Y’know, in my last relationship he really liked kissing, and I thought it was kind of, not gross, exactly, but more so – inconvenient? I didn’t hate it! Just, it kept happening. And I just thought other people wanted to do that. Everyone I’ve dated before has always wanted to. I figured – I figured everyone wants to do that.”

“Not you,” Jon says gently. 

“Not me, I suppose,” Martin agrees, shoulders slumping. 

“And not me,” Jon says, and then he buries his face in Martin’s chest. Out of shyness or shame or embarrassment or just a desire for physical contact again, Martin doesn’t know. His hand finds its way to the back of Jon’s neck to hold him there regardless.

“Wait, what?”

“I don’t really enjoy it either,” he says. It’s a little muffled. “I’ll do it, if you’d like, but as you’ve um, noticed, I don’t really enjoy or desire it enough to seek it out.”

Martin nods mutely, and then after a second, “oh.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought –”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and pulls his face away from Martin’s chest. “I really thought you’d just kiss me if you wanted it. I didn’t realize you were waiting for me to. I thought you just – ah, didn’t want to, and that’s why.”

“Right,” says Martin. He feels both very small and very silly at the same time. “That makes sense.”

Jon cranes his neck to reach his jaw, and kisses him right there. “Are you okay? Do you need me to – to tell you, again? Do you believe me?”

Martin closes his eyes tight and breathes. In. Out. His head is buzzing. He thinks about Jon nestling himself into Martin’s lap with such care and precision it’d almost knocked the breath out of him with the scientific accuracy of it all, legs and arms and spine folding and bending and straightening to take up just the right amount of space, to distribute his weight just right, to make himself as comfortable as possible. He thinks about Jon with his huge, dark eyes. He thinks about his hair in his mouth. He traces the curve and angle of Jon’s jaw with a fingertip and when Jon shivers gently he presses a possessive kiss on the top of his head. 

“Tell me,” he says, voice shaking. “Please.”

“I love you,” Jon says immediately. “I love you. I love you –”

And Martin thinks about the rucksacks in the doorway, waiting by their shoes, stuffed full of rope and supplies and anything else he’d thought to bring, and he believes him. 

[dickwheelie]

Miracle of miracles, I managed to finish my fic for @aspecmartinweek on time! I’m so glad I was able to get this in just under the wire, because I love this celebration of ace and aro folks getting to have some fun with this character and I’m so happy to be a part of it :)

Summary: One day, Jon comes into work with his nails painted a particularly specific set of colors, and Martin takes notice.

Jon and Martin are both asexual in this, and I headcanon Martin as being homoromantic. No content warnings for this one, just some good ol’ fashioned Season 1 fun, with the added bonus of ace solidarity.

[thesleepdeprivedravingsofcasey]

oh boy we got some internalized arophobia here tonight folks

also a little bit of trauma mention, nothing graphic, just. “I’m broken” level of thing

some days I doubt myself am convinced that this is simply a side effect of everything else "you're a people pleaser" they tell me and I nod smile and offer a cup of tea if the fact that I don't love like everyone else is just another thing that's broken about me

but. you don't either and I love you so far as I can tell you don't love at all and you're not broken not like me

and I may not be able to kiss you it's not like you'd want me to nor can I hold you or whisper the things I want you to hear but I can boil water let it steep add three sugars and a splash of milk just how you like it I know because that's the one you'd always finish and place it carefully on the edge of your desk like an indirect kiss but I'm warming your hands

so I'll make tea

[cuttoothed]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: First Dates, Romantic Fluff, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Martin Blackwood, Sex Neutral Martin, Sex Averse Jon, Brief discussion of sexual boundaries, Romantic Cliches, So many cliches Summary:

Jon brings him flowers, on their first official date.

*

Written for Aspec Martin Week, for the prompt: First.

[connanro]

What a pair, Martin thinks, the two of them make. Insomnia and nightmares driving them to awkwardly stand together and drink tea in a crummy breakroom at an obscene hour in the morning.

Or: Martin learns about asexuality at three in the morning and is able to breathe a little easier.

[bibliocratic]

Aspec Martin Week – Day 4 

Martin's first Pride ft. OG Archive Crew. Set sometime during S1. 

Martin hangs close to Sasha near a stand selling gaudy accessories and spinning fans while Tim bounds off, shoving cheerfully through the mass of people, promising to search out somewhere that might have something approaching alcohol.

He's been gone a while now, and Martin's been anxiously adjusting his scratchy, over-loose bow-tie to try and distract himself, feeling sweaty and visible and uncomfortable. Sasha and Tim, in their early morning marshalling of their small group, had convinced him to paint his nails in some gauche glittery material that ripples rainbow when the light strikes it. He doesn't like the colour, and he's half ruined it anyway with his picking and fussing. Someone hasn't adjusted the volume controls on whatever system they've set up, and the next song blares out screaming-loud before someone lowers it, and Martin winces at how much it all it, every time someone gets hold of a garbling microphone and hollers something in the distance that gets muffled by a feedback whine.

He keeps checking his phone to make sure his mum hasn't called. He still isn't sure what excuse he'd try.

“What do you think?” Sasha angles her neck up to half-shout in Martin's ear. “For your first one?”

She's better dressed for the day, that's for sure, a flowing cotton summer dress  with sewn-on streamers like some particularly striking maypole. She has a fake flower crown and it makes her look like a wispy fae creature. Her earrings dangle and chime, and Martin's glad he's not here on his own.

“Loud,” Martin complains back, and he thinks she laughs and nods in agreement before he's glancing around again at the masses of people. “Are you sure Tim's ok, I really think he should have been back by – ”

“Oy, over here!” comes the shout, and from the assembled gaggle, Tim emerges, looking delighted and smug and red-faced, his cheeks and the top of his nose having caught the sun. He adjusts his cap from where it's been jauntily knocked, and he's somehow gained the most tacky pair of rainbow sunglasses and at least five new roughly slapped on stickers since he vanished.

“Finally!” Sasha shouts back to him. “Took your time!”

“OK!” Tim says, clearly having not heard her or chosen not to. “Firstly, very important, on the alcohol front, ta-dah!” he gestures at his now bulging backpack. “Who's the man, huh, who delivers on his promises?”

“Like some sort of boozy Santa,” Sasha agrees, and unzips the bag to get a better look. “Someone's had a few on the job already!”

Tim makes a face. “Only one!”

“Tim, are you thirteen, what you doing buying us this shite!” Sasha rootles around, pushing the Heineken cans out of the way and pulling half-out the three litre bottle of Frosty Jack's.

“They don't sell White Lightning any more!”

“For good reason!”

“C'mon, it'll be a reminder of old times! A misspent youth...”

“Not all of us hung about the parks getting wankered off cheap cider, Timothy.”

Martin's letting the rhythm of their conversation wash over him. Someone gave him a big beaming grin two minutes ago as they passed, an easy and appreciative look-over, and the heat of that interaction hasn't quite left his cheeks.

“And secondly, if I can be allowed to get a word in edgeways – ”

“You may.”

“A kindness, m' lady.”

“Get on with it, serf.”

“Secondly, guys, look, they were giving them out for free!”

Tim presents his snaffled haul, his palms full of colours and patterns. A collection of cheaply-made paper flags, clearly printed and folded over and stuck onto cocktail sticks. There's a good number of them Martin doesn't recognise, but he doesn't want to feel ignorant by asking, so he keeps quiet.

“Sash, Sash, Sash,” Tim sing-songs at her.

“Tim, Tim, Tim,” she warbles back in a faux operatic voice.

“Got this one 'specially.”

“Charmer,” she smiles, but she allows Tim to stretch up to the height she's achieved with some seriously fuck-off heels, to plant the little flag behind her ear like a flower. She makes a show of preening, twirling it dramatically so the blue, white and pink of the stripes blur together for a moment. “It's acceptable.”

“You're too gracious,” Tim gives a mock bow. He's already stuck his blue, purple and pink flag into one of the belt loops of his jeans, the corner of it already bent slightly at the rough treatment.

He then turns to Martin.

“Let's spruce you up then Marto!”

Martin's in half a mind to refuse. It took a lot for him to even come here, and he's still not quite gotten rid of the tension that's strung across his shoulders. But he sets his jaw and knows he can always pocket them so no-one can see later.

He shyly grabs a multicolour pride flag from Tim's open hands. Then, daring, almost surprising himself, he grabs a second flag.

Sasha gives him an elbow nudge and a smile. Tim gives a whoop and a cheer and attempts to crush them both into a poorly aimed hug, before he shoves the rest of his haul into his trouser pockets.

Martin doesn't stick his own flags anywhere. He holds them fisted in his palm all day, over-aware of them, doing his best to protect them from the tides of people even though they eventually get a bit bashed and crumpled.

Tim's all for spending the night out on the town. But they spend most of the afternoon baking and hot, covered in glitter and day-drinking, finding a park along the way and casting themselves limblessly on the grass, so it's early yet when they start away from the street parties and thumping dance music. Tim ends the day with one cheek striped blue, one pink and his forehead purple, with some face-paint he's somehow gotten somewhere, waxing effusive about someone he danced to Taylor Swift with and didn't get her number: 'stunning, honestly, Martin, she was like one of those hot 1940's Hollywood people.'

“Didn't know you were into grandmas, Tim,” Sasha mumbles, half the words directed into Martin's ruin of hair. She's taken off her heels – which Tim is now holding, having tried and failed to get them to fit – and as the most sober one, Martin's carrying her on his back as she half dozes, sleepy and headachy from the music.

Martin hasn't checked his phone in hours. He's still got the little flags crushed in his grip. Tim keeps trying to hide a bear pride flag on Martin when he's not looking, and giving a giggling squawking protestation whenever he gets caught.

It's been a good day. Martin's head is buzzy on shit cider, and he's lost his bowtie, but he keeps looking at his little flags and smiling.

It's been a really good day, he thinks.

Restored from their dramatic hangovers, Monday comes. Martin arrives huffing and delayed from the Tube to see Tim's stuck his flag so it stands battered and proud over the lid of his laptop. Sasha's made her small desk teddy bear hold hers. And it's the memory of the day, the sun and the heat and the wild dizzying lack of expectations of it all, that gives him the courage to bring the flags he carefully preserved in on Tuesday, to put them jutting out of the mug on his desk that holds his stationery.

Honestly, he doesn't expect anyone to comment on them. It's not like anyone else comes down to their offices anyway.

So it's a surprise when Jon, striding past their desks, stops. Looks at the  multicolour flag with its bent edging. Its sister flag, the stripes of grey, white and purple only a little sun-faded.

Tim has been lost to Archive Storage for hours now, Sasha hard cross-referencing over at another department. Martin always feels like he's failed some sort of test he didn't know he was taking, when he's in the room with Jon alone.

Martin stiffens but Jon just looks for  moment.

“Where did you get them?” he asks briskly, gesturing.

“Oh!” Martin says, relieved that Jon's not stopped to tell him how poor his filing skills are again. “It was, erm, Pride? At the weekend. Tim, he got some for all of us.”

“Hm,” Jon nods. Still staring at Martin's flags. Especially the one Martin had hesitated over, held that bit tighter in his grip. He has an expression on his face, but Martin doesn't know what it is. He rarely knows how to read Jon.

“I think Tim might still have some!” Martin says, anxious to add something in this interaction he doesn't quite know how to navigate. “If you – you wanted any of your own?”

Jon pauses, gives Martin a sharp look as though annoyed he'd mentioned it, but then his face softens, and he looks at the flags again.

“I'll ask him,” he says, giving a short, hard nod. “No need to disrupt him when he's doing something productive.”

“Right,” Martin says weakly.

Jon gives him another nod, and then he vanishes back into his office, leaving Martin unsure of what's just happened.

(Later that week, Martin sees the flags struck into the soil of Jon's beleaguered desk cactus. The blue, pink and purple flag like Tim's. The grey, purple and white flag like Martin's. He doesn't comment, doesn't think Jon would like the attention. But he smile to see it nonetheless).

[miribalis]

Chapters: ½ Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims Additional Tags: Character Study, Grey-romantic Martin, Asexual Martin Blackwood, Internalised Arophobia, just a bit maybe, Overthinking, Scottish Highlands Summary:

Martin had held several iterations of his own feelings in his head for the better part of three years. Martin was in love. Martin had a crush. Martin had a weird complex that made him want to make everyone like him, even just a little bit. Martin had tricked himself into believing he liked someone. Martin liked the idea of being in love, and had chosen the least likely person to care about it.

On looking from afar, and seeing up close.

– 

 This was not in my plans for this month, but here you go! 💚🖤💜

[seachanqe]

write the softest words and kiss them

My first entry for Aspec Martin Blackwood Week, using the prompt “Poetry”!

Tags/Warnings: Internalized Acephobia, Aro-Ace Martin Blackwood, Demi-Aro Martin Blackwood, ace relationship, Non-sexualized intimacy, Post-159

Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Summary: Jon had walked into the Lonely and saved him from his own personal hell; he saw Jon, he felt the force of that love. It was all-encompassing, a choking, bright explosion, and after everything, Martin's afraid. He's afraid he's not a worthy recipient of those feelings, he's afraid his own version of-- of-- that emotion won't be enough for Jon. But Jon's Seen him, and he's still here. That-- it has to mean something, even if it's out of misguided pity or obligation.

Or: As they both recuperate from escaping the Lonely, Martin shares with Jon his feelings and fears related to love, through an explanation of his relationship with love poetry.

Read on AO3 or below

Pale, pink dusk light filters through the dust-filled air of Martin's neglected-of-late flat. Martin flicks on the hall light, blinking as he adjusts to the sudden flood of light. Routine kicks in and he toes off his shoes. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that Jon follows his lead, though he makes sure to untie his first before setting them neatly next to Martin's. Martin's mind stalls on the sight of Jon's shoes next to his, though he can hardly process why at the moment. The warm weight of Jon's hand settles on Martin's back.

"Martin?" Jon murmurs with unconcealed concern, and steps closer; Martin knows the simple utterance of his name is many questions at once: Is everything okay? Are you still here with me? And-- and-- He flinches away from the emotion seeped into every syllable Jon utters; it's just too much, everything feels too much, especially when what he feels might not be enough for Jon. Jon had walked into the Lonely and saved him from his own personal hell; he saw Jon, he felt the force of that love. It was all-encompassing, a choking, bright explosion, and after everything, Martin's afraid. He's afraid he's not a worthy recipient of those feelings, he's afraid his own version of-- of-- that emotion won't be enough for Jon. But Jon's Seen him, and he's still here. That-- it has to mean something, even if it's out of misguided pity or obligation.

Martin takes a quick, deep breath, before nodding in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. "Yeah, yeah. I'm--I'm fine."

Jon appears unconvinced but nods back, his eyes never leaving Martin's face, his hand clenched in Martin's shirt as if he's afraid Martin will disappear in front of him and he'll need to pull him back. Martin simultaneously relishes and shies away from the attention; it's everything he's wanted and at the same time too much for him to handle. He had spent months purposefully withdrawing from his own life, and he's suddenly being properly seen, by the person he cares most about in the world. And although it's overwhelming, he can't help but also be drawn into it, like a moth to the flame. So few people in his life have offered to love him so freely, he can't help it. He tries to bury his dread, at least for now, for what he sees as an inevitable fallout; later, he tells himself, later .

Martin's flat is small; the short hallway they stand in leads to a combo kitchen and living room, and a door off the left to his room and bathroom.

"Jon? I--" He looks apologetically at Jon, with a quick glance over his shoulder where he can feel Jon's hand. "I need to close the curtains and turn the rest of the lights on."

"Mm? Oh, oh right, sorry, of course." Jon pulls his hand away, to rub at his own neck instead, in a familiar, awkward gesture that unexpectedly brings a smile to Martin's face.

"Thanks," Martin says softly, before retreating. He makes quick work of it and, out of instinct and a bit of embarrassment, begins to tidy up a bit. Books, used tea mugs, chipped plates with crumbs, haphazard pieces of trash, and random articles of clothing are all strewn about the living room. Martin had hardly been expecting guests; he honestly hadn't expected to still be alive, let alone have Jon in his flat.

"You don't-- Martin, it's fine."

Martin glances up at Jon, his arms full of clothes. Jon had been not-so-surreptitiously looking around while Martin had started cleaning, and was currently standing by his old, rickety desk.

"Is it?" Martin asks, and he can't stop his voice coming out higher pitched than usual. "It's a mess, Jon, I'll just--"

"Martin--"

"--put these clothes away, and finish tidying up the coffee table and end table--"

"It's fine, Martin. Really. You're tired. I'm tired. Please." Jon's voice drops to a pleading tone, and as much as Martin wants to be stubborn, he feels himself giving in. Jon's right--he's tired. And he doesn't want to keep Jon up either.

"Okay, fine, but only cause I already cleared the couch. And I'm making tea first no matter what you say. Then we can sleep"

Jon breaks into a fond, albeit weary, smile. "That's-- that sounds nice. Thank you, Martin."

---

While the tea is seeping, Martin looks up to see Jon holding one of his notebooks, an odd expression on his face. Tilting his head to read the front, Martin squints at the notebook in Jon's hand and immediately has a minor heart attack.

"Jon!" he blurts, starting forward. Jon flushes, nearly throws the notebook back on the desk, and immediately raises his hands, apologetic.

"I-- S--sorry, I didn't mean, I just-- I saw it and I--I suddenly knew -- I knew ," Jon says in a rush, "I didn't mean to know, I swear, I just-- it just happened."

Martin snatches the notebook from the desk, holding it so tightly he could feel the edges dig into the palm of his hand.

Biting his lip, Martin looks down at the notebook. It had been a while since he had opened it and read its contents, and even longer since he had written anything in it.

"What do you know?" he asks, heart in his throat.

"I'm so sorry, Martin. All I know is that it's-- it's some of your poetry," Jon says shakily.  "I missed it," he adds, softly, like a wish, almost to himself.

Martin meets Jon's eyes, searching for deceit, for some proof that this is a joke, but Jon's earnest and pleading in a way Martin's never seen before.

"You've missed it?" Martin asks incredulously. "When have you ever-- "

"Oh god--" Jon's blush has spread to his ears, and Martin tries to ignore how adorable it looks. "Uh a few years ago, when I thought--" He sighs. "It doesn't matter. I was going through the trash, and found a few of your poems."

"Of course you did," Martin says with a sigh. "And then you read them."

"Yes," Jon whispers. "But," and his voice grows more loud, more certain, "I-- I liked them Martin. I missed having those little pieces of you around. I--I missed you ."

Martin can feel himself turning red now, and jumps on his immediate instinct to change to the subject.

"Tea's ready! Here," he says, tossing the notebook back down on the desk. "Go sit on the couch and I'll bring it over before it gets cold."

Jon murmurs his agreement and thanks, but doesn't comment on the change of subject.

---

Both too stubborn to take the couch, they end up agreeing to share Martin's bed. Too exhausted to change the linens, Martin halfheartedly apologizes for the musty sheets before collapsing into bed. He tries not to think about how this is the first time he's ever shared a bed with anyone, let alone someone who he--he... cares about so much.

---

The next morning, they decide to continue to hide away in the flat, both unwilling to risk being discovered until they hear from Basira. Martin gets to work after breakfast tidying up the flat with Jon's help.

"When did you start writing poetry?" Jon asks nonchalantly, no compulsion in his voice, as he folds freshly laundered bedding. Jon had insisted; apparently among Jon's many talents was folding a fitted-sheet perfectly.

Martin nearly drops his washcloth, and glances over at Jon, eyebrows raised. "Where's this coming from, then?"

Jon bites his lip, and gives a little shrug. "I--I don't know everything, Martin. Not the things I want to know."

Martin shakes his head. "Why would you want to know about this?" Martin asks, unable to keep the self-deprecation out of his voice.

"Martin," Jon says, in that damned voice, soft and laced with pure emotion. He had no idea Jon could even sound like that until a few months ago. Jon sets down the sheet he had been folding, and walks over to him, arms outstretched. Martin almost flinches away, but when Jon hesitates before him, clearly waiting for an okay, Martin sighs and gives a little nod. Jon wraps his arms around Martin, and runs his hand up and down Martin's back soothingly. "Martin," he says again, just a whisper, before pulling back, his hands falling to Martin's waist. "Is this okay?" Jon's warmth is a comfort, an anchor.

"Yes, yes. But, you still haven't answered my question."

Jon's hand, so assured, moves to his face, cupping his jaw, cradling his head. Martin squeezes his eyes shut at the casual show of affection.

"Because it's important to you, Martin. I--I love you." Martin's heart jolts, and his throat feels full of cotton, and he swallows, jaw clenched, refusing to cry. "And because of that I want to--to know everything about you."

After several long moments, when he's sure he won't start crying, Martin finally responds, glancing at Jon before quickly looking away. "Okay," he says, more raspy than he would like, "Okay. I, uh." Martin winces. "Jon, I, I care about you a lot too, I-- fuck."

He pulls away from Jon, his hands clutching the back of the sofa. Jon lets go of him, apparently reluctantly, and steps back, concern etched across his face. "Martin, its fine, you don't have to--"

"I-- It's complicated, Jon," Martin interjects. "I do... love you? I just," Martin runs a hand across his face, exhaling slowly. "Let me answer your original question. It will explain things better."

Jon nods, no less concerned, but waits, watching Martin intently. Martin's used to that though, it's almost comforting, the normality of it.

"When I was 9 or 10, I guess? Used to write instead of listening to the teachers. Kept at it even though I was never able to take any formal classes, but learned by trying to emulate poets I admired: Dickinson, Blake, Frost, Whitman, Keats."

"That's admirable."

Martin squints at him, unable to help being wary for a sign of any mocking. Jon looks stricken. "Martin, I'm serious I promise. You didn't-- You didn't have the opportunities that others had, but you still-- You did it anyway."

"I have a harder time reading modern poets. It's hard-- it's hard for me to sort out the good from the bad. And there's," Martin winces, "some stuff I'd rather not read."

Jon's interest is clearly piqued. "Like what? If you don't mind sharing."

Martin gives him a pained look, a feeling of dread in his gut. "Love poetry-- don't laugh-- It's just-- I hate the tone of it, and then there's all those break-up poems and heartbreak and I just… I don't get it. It's not for me," he finishes, a touch too defiant.

Jon tilts his head slightly, questioning and bemused.

Under his scrutiny, Martin folds inward. He grasps his hands together, his head bowed. "I don't-- I usually don't feel that way. And I didn't like to read what I'm missing," he says in a small voice. Jon says nothing, but his hand twitches, like he wants to reach out. Martin takes a deep breath, and continues.

"Jon, I don't usually get crushes-- I, uh, actually never had one before you, and all this time I wasn't even sure that it was an actual," Martin couldn't help how his voice curled with aversion, " crush . All I knew is that I wanted to see you happy, I wanted to help you, protect you, I-- that I would do anything for you. I care, I care so, so much, I may even love you. I just-- I don't know what that is, and I don't want to promise anything that might-- that might go away. And, Jon, I'm terrified ."

"Martin," Jon says, voice raw and aching, and it's too much, Martin's terrified of what Jon will say. Jon will leave him, walk away, and, if he's being honest with himself, it's probably for the best.

Jon reaches forward, gently covering one of Martin's hands with two of his. "I get it--or at least I think I do--this… stuff," Jon says, echoing Martin's tone of aversion, "is complicated, ephemeral. I have similar struggles with trying to define how I feel when it comes to relationships, love, though I do not wish to claim it's exactly similar to your experiences."

"If you still want a relationship, if you want to try this, being together, I want that too. Any version of us would make me so happy. But if you--if you aren't comfortable with it, if it's too much, that's--that's fine. A world with you in it is enough for me."

Martin bites his lip, considering what Jon's said, wisps of bitter skepticism clouding his thoughts, even as tears burn at the corners of his eyes. But Jon's hands are warm around his. Jon's hands don't cling at him, but simply rest there, a steady, solid weight. Something real , offered freely, with no strings attached, no expectations. And he knows what Jon's said, what Jon's offered contains no lie. The tears bud like flowers, and fall down his face.

"Okay," Martin whispers, "Okay."

Jon leans forward, enfolding Martin in his arms, and Martin rests his head on Jon's shoulder, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart.

After several long moments, Martin gives a damp laugh. "Don't expect me to write you any love poems though."

Jon inhales, clearly ready to disavow any need for love poems, but Martin pulls back slightly before he can, so that he's looking into Jon's eyes. "I actually tried, you know. When I realized how--how strongly I felt about you. I got excited, that I might be able to write a love poem, but--hm. It felt, hm… wrong, I guess? But," he adds quickly, "it's nothing personal, I just. Like I said, don't like 'em."

"That's fine, Martin. I would be honored to hear any of your poetry, though."

Martin rolls his eyes, a small smile peaking through, like the sun on a cloudy day. "Persistent, aren't you. How about later today?"

"I'd like that," Jon says, and Martin could lose himself in the quiet, joyful mood Jon radiates. "Thank you, Martin," Jon says, like he isn't giving Martin everything, like he isn't the most wonderful man Martin's ever met, like he isn't accepting everything Martin is and continues to love him.

Martin leans towards Jon, scrutinizing his face, trying to memorize all the little details from his many scars that pepper his cheeks, to the small mole on his jaw, to the rich brown-gold of his eyes. Jon gazes back, his expression reverent. With some apprehension, Martin presses a kiss to Jon's forehead, a mere brush of lips.

"Is this okay?" he asks, biting his lip as he pulls back.

Jon gives a little laugh, warm and breathy, and nods. "It's--it's good, Martin." And despite Jon glancing down at where Martin's biting his lip, Jon doesn't surge forward to claim a kiss, but continues to let Martin lead. Martin considers Jon's nose; it's always cute when Jon scrunches it. Martin presses a kiss to the tip of his nose, and drinks in the nearly dopey smile on Jon's face when he pulls back again. He did that.

"Would it--would it be okay if we finished up the… the," Martin attempts, waving a hand vaguely towards the pile of unfolded laundry. His own washcloth was somewhere behind him.

"Of course, Martin." Unexpectedly, Jon doesn't look put-out by this, but appears happy to return to his folding. "If you don't mind though, I'd like to--to talk more about this later? There's some stuff about me I want to share as well."

"Oh! Yeah, oh god, sorry, I--"

"Martin!" Jon says sharply, but not unkindly. "Martin, don't apologize, there's nothing to be sorry about. I just think--" Jon exhales. "This heavy stuff needs to be in small doses, there's only so much we can handle at a time."

"That--that makes sense. But whenever you want to talk about it, I'm here."

"Yes," Jon says, with a warm, gentle smile. "You're here."

[aspecmartinweek]

Aspec Martin Blackwood Week: Day 4

The prompts for today are:

- First

- Sunrise/sunset

- AU

Content doesn’t have to be based on a prompt, so feel free to provide works that don’t match the above, or even those published in the past.

Please see our FAQ for more details, or send an ask if you have any questions!