#Jon: you know that if there was anything... potentially bad... you could tell me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

blackkatmagic · 2 years

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It's always so exciting when you suddenly reblog a lot of one character because I feel like it's always a sign that there's ~something~ in the works just waiting to make my day

;)

“A sorcerer?” Fay demands, and Jon winces at the clatter of dishes in the background. Fay isn't much of one for household chores at the best of times, and interrupting her while she’s doing dishes likely isn't going to help anything. “Jon, I thought you were keeping things quiet—”

“I did,” Jon says, though since he’s sitting about thirty feet from a corpse, it’s potentially not as convincing as it could be. There's a pause, disbelieving and judgmental, and he sighs through his nose. “I think he was the mayor.”

“Jon.”

“Fay. I couldn’t leave him alive,” Jon says quietly. He curls his fingers around the sharp-edged black stone in his hand, then breathes out and tosses it back into the cave. The black-shrouded form is just visible from where he’s sitting, but he doesn’t otherwise move, doesn’t make any attempt to hide the body just yet. “He was preparing a ritual that needed a human heart.”

Fay doesn’t ask if he’s sure, doesn’t ask how he knows. She’s silent for a long stretch of seconds, then sighs quietly. “Give me the name of the town,” she says. “I’ll call Nico and make arrangements. Can you last a few days in the woods while he gets everything settled?”

Jon raises a brow, amused that she even has to ask, and lets his silence speak for itself.

There's a pause, then another sigh, this time full of annoyance. “Yes, yes, I know. But you're somewhere coastal, aren’t you? It gets cold.”

Jon doesn’t ask how she knows that when he very definitely didn’t tell her. “I’ll be fine. It’s summer.”

Porcelain shatters with a crash that makes Jon twitch, and Fay huffs, then turns the water off. “Fine,” she says tartly, though not to Jon. “If you want to be clean, wash yourselves.”

Despite his exhaustion, despite the pull of dark, cold earth so close, Jon smiles. The sound of dishes washing picks up over the other end of the line, but Fay's footsteps move away, out to somewhere full of birdsong. Jon doesn’t comment on that, either, though Fay is technically within the same time zone as him and it should be midnight for her as well.

“Is it a nice town, at least?” she asks, and Jon hums.

“Nicer now,” he offers, because he honestly doesn’t know. He’d arrived in the darkness and immediately been drawn to the source of the ritual, the sorcerer, the working. The lay lines here are tainted, and Jon can guess that Palpatine was pulling from them—and putting back into them—for a very long time.

Fay snorts, and Jon can hear the rustle of fabric against bark, the gentle creak of tree branches. She’s probably up a tree, he thinks, smiling a little. T'ra has been a bad influence. “The coast there is rather pretty,” she says after a moment. “Maybe you can find a place to stay on the beach.”

Jon breathes out, curls forward. He rests his forehead against his knees, closing is eyes, and doesn’t let himself look back at deep, cold earth.

“I've been dreaming about a lighthouse,” he admits, because Fay will never doubt him. “And an alder tree with its bark stained red.”

Fay is silent for several long moments, then makes a quiet, thoughtful sound. “The Goddess tree,” she says. “Did you know that when alder is drowned, it hardens into stone?”

A shiver slides down Jon's spine, like a cold wind through his bones. He doesn’t open his eyes.

Fay doesn’t need a response, doesn’t wait for one. “I'm sure you’ll find your lighthouse. But be careful with that tree. Alder is an odd thing.”

So am I, Jon doesn’t say, because Fay has little patience for anything approaching self-pity. “Will anyone come looking for the body if I bury it?” he asks.

There's a pause, and then Fay hums. “Burn it,” she says. “Underground. And bury the ashes. No one will find it that way.”

It’s hardly more difficult to set a fire than fill in the tunnel, and Jon doesn’t protest. “The lay lines here have gone dark,” he says. “Not dead, but…”

“They’ll repair themselves eventually, I presume,” Fay says briskly. “One man can't change the course of the tides forever, even if he can divert them temporarily. But keep one eye to them, and call me if they don’t seem to be improving.”

“Thank you,” Jon says, quiet, because he knows how little Fay likes phones, how infrequently she leaves her wood. The fact that she’s willing to contact Nico is already more than he was expecting, but—it makes things far easier. Jon doesn’t speak to others much.

“Be careful,” Fay returns, and her voice is something warm, close. “Don’t spend too long underground.”

Jon swallows, glances back at the tunnel, the cave, the corpse. “There are veins of obsidian here,” he says quietly, and Fay sighs, sad and a little tired and a bit rueful.

“Mind the edges,” she tells him, and then hangs up, and Jon pulls the phone from his ear, then curls a little tighter for just a moment. His palm burns where the obsidian rested, and the cave pulls at him like dark, cold hands, but—

Did you know that when alder is drowned, it hardens into stone?

Fay says a lot of things, and some of them resonate through the world and some of them don’t. Jon doesn’t know why this of all things rings in his head, but…better to mind it. Better to listen. Fay is an old, old thing, and beyond that, Jon's dreams of the lighthouse and the alder have drawn him here like a loadstone. That must mean something.

Letting out a breath, Jon pushes to his feet, slides the phone away in his pocket, and goes to burn the mayor’s body.

#i will wade out #foxjoncody #my writing #kat answers

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cuttoothed · 3 years

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Fic for day 3 of @jonmartinweek for the prompt "Healing & Recovery". We've all been saying jmart need a lot of therapy after the finale, so...yeah.

Disclaimer: I have never been to couple's therapy. I have done some reading on it, but this is not intended in any way to accurately reflect real world therapy practices. Please just assume that anything "off" is due to the way couple's therapy is practiced in AU-land (though of course feel free to let me know if you spot anything egregious).

“Why don’t you start,” Judith suggests, “By telling me about the incident?”

The two men on the sofa give her identical startled looks, as if she’s uncovered something incriminating. Martin seems to regain his composure first; he clears his throat, and his hand moves to cover Jon’s, unconsciously protective.

“Sorry, wh-what do you mean by “incident”?”

“For most couples who come to see me, there’s an...inciting incident,” Judith explains. “Something that makes them realize they could use some professional support to work through things. Of course any couple can benefit from seeing a therapist together on occasion, to deal with small issues before they become big ones. But, well, it’s the same way that everyone knows they should go for regular check ups with their GP rather than waiting until they actually get sick—it’s just not something most people get around to until they need it.”

She pauses to give them time to consider that, and after a moment Jon nods, looking mildly embarrassed.

“Right,” he says. “That’s, ah, I think that’s fair.”

“There are pretty strong extenuating circumstances, though,” Martin huffs defensively. “We didn’t exactly have the option for therapy in the a—wh-where we lived before.”

“It’s not intended as a criticism,” Judith tells him. “You’ve chosen to talk to a therapist, and that’s a big step—one that many people never take. You’re ahead of the curve, Martin.”

Martin looks mollified at that; he’s clearly a bit touchy about perceived criticisms of their relationship, and Judith doesn’t want to get him on the defensive. She gives them both an encouraging smile.

“So,” she says. “Is there an incident you’d like to talk about?”

The two of them look at each other expectantly, as if each is waiting for the other to start. After several long moments of silence, Jon raises his eyebrows meaningfully, and Martin sighs.

“Fine,” he says. “So, we, uh, we recently realized that our...garden was a-a bit of a mess. So we—Jon and I—we get together with our...housemates, to figure out what kind of flowers we should plant. Fuschias or—or hydrangeas. ”

He pauses to glance nervously at Jon, who gives him a reassuring nod, squeezing his hand.

Right, Judith thinks, This is probably not about flowers.

“We agree we all want fuschias,” Martin continues, “Except Jon—he wanted hydrangeas. But we took a vote, and it was fuschias.”

“Except of course most of our—our housemates weren’t there for that meeting,” Jon interjects, folding his arms across his chest.

“Yes, but we agreed we couldn’t wait to ask every single person,” Martin says sharply, back on the defensive. Jon’s brow furrows and his mouth opens as if to say something, but he changes his mind and shuts it again. Conflict aversion is one of the most common dysfunctions Judith sees in the couples she treats; very few people want to disagree with the person they love, and even fewer know how to have a constructive conflict. She makes a mental note of it for later.

“Go ahead, Martin,’ she suggests gently. Martin looks unhappy, but continues.

“So we agree to plant the fuschias the next day, but Jon—Jon sneaks out in the middle of the night and starts, uh, planting hydrangeas. Without telling anyone.”

Without telling me, Judith hears in his hurt tone. Jon’s arms are still folded, and he’s almost squirming in his seat with the effort to not interject; Judith decides it’s a good time to invite him into the story.

“Jon, why did you feel so strongly about the hydrangeas?”

“It’s—it wasn’t that I wanted hydrangeas, I just couldn’t a-accept the idea of—of fuchsias.”

“Couldn’t allow it, you mean,” Martin grumbles. Judith lets it pass and continues to focus on Jon.

“Why is that?”

“They, uh, they spread…” Jon waves his hands vaguely. “Their—their...roots? They would get into the, uh, the neighbors’ gardens, completely take over, destroy everything.”

“Potentially,” Martin insists. “There was no guarantee—”

“There was no reason they wouldn’t,” Jon snaps.

By now Judith is not only sure that this has nothing to do with gardening, but suspects that neither of these men has ever seen a fuchsia in their lives. It’s fine, though. This is far from the first time a client has invented a story out of whole cloth so they can work through something uncomfortable without actually describing it. And this is their first session; Judith hopes in the future they’ll trust her enough to give her the real story.

“Remember,” she tells them. “We’re not here to decide that someone was objectively right or wrong, we’re here to help you understand each other and improve your communication skills.”

“Right,” Martin mutters, unconvinced. Jon’s expression is distressed, but he continues.

“There was no other choice,” he says wearily. “The only other option was—was azaleas, and I know you didn’t want that, Martin.”

“Absolutely not.” Martin sounds horrified. “But hydrangeas, Jon? Do you really think that was a better option?”

“You have to see the difference.” Jon’s tone goes stiff and incredulous, as if he’s winding up for a lecture, and Judith decides to cut that off before it starts.

“So what I’m hearing,” she says, “Is that you both had very strong, conflicting opinions on this topic. And that’s okay—it’s okay for you to disagree, even on something important. You’re not always going to agree on what the right thing to do is. Often there is no single “right thing,” so it comes down to how the different choices make us feel.”

“That doesn’t seem like a good way to make a decision that affects the wh—a lot of people.” Jon clearly considers that his opinion on not-flowers was the objectively correct one. Judith smiles.

“People aren’t computers, Jon. Even the most logical minded person in the world is influenced by their feelings—about important issues, about other people. You’d be surprised at how much of our decision making is rooted in emotion; either how we anticipate the outcome of our decision will make us feel, or how we are feeling in the immediate moment of the choice.”

A spasm of something that might be grief or pain flashes across Jon’s face, and he leans unconsciously in Martin’s direction. Martin’s arm instantly goes around him, offering comfort without thought. It’s clear that these two love each other deeply, unquestioningly—and that’s also part of the problem. When someone you love thinks that you’re wrong about something that’s important to you, it can feel like a rejection of your entire self.

“I’d like to pause this discussion for now, and try a little exercise,” she says. Jon nods, sitting back up and disengaging from Martin’s embrace; Martin looks attentively at her, though his expression is unsure.

“One of the biggest challenges we face with people we love is recognizing that they are separate from us. I know—” she says, raising her hands to stop the objections she can already see forming on their lips. “Of course you know that you’re separate people. We all know that, rationally. But emotionally, it’s natural to see the people you’re close to as extensions of yourself—it’s an evolutionary impulse to aid group bonding. It happens with friends and family, and it’s an even stronger impulse between partners.

“We have to do a lot of work to truly internalize the idea that the people we love have their own inner emotional lives that drive their opinions and decisions. But once you are able to fully grasp that truth, it makes disagreeing with the person you love feel less emotionally fraught; it’s a powerful tool for navigating conflict constructively.”

Jon is frowning, but it’s in consideration rather than disapproval. Martin still looks skeptical, his body language defensive, though he doesn’t say anything. That’s probably the best she’s going to get for now, Judith thinks.

“So,” she says. “The exercise is this: I’d like each of you to take a few moments to think, and then tell the other person something about yourself. Not a fact, but something that you feel. And I would like you to listen without interrupting when your partner tells you their feeling. Can you each do that?”

“I, ah—” Jon’s frown deepens. “That’s...rather difficult to do on demand.”

“I know,” says Judith with sympathy. “That’s why I’m here, to support you both in doing the difficult things. If it was easy, you wouldn’t need a therapist to facilitate.”

“Right,” says Jon. “Okay.”

“Martin?”

“Fine,” he says, but his tone is reluctant. Judith gets it; vulnerability is hard enough in front of someone you love, never mind with a stranger in the room. It’s easier to pretend that it’s pointless, that you’re not really putting yourself out there to be hurt. She has the feeling that Martin is someone who would rather avoid being hurt, even if it means closing himself off.

“All right,” she says. “When you’re ready, Jon, would you mind going first? No rush, take all the time you need.” Hopefully, seeing Jon take the first step might help Martin get over some of his defensiveness.

“Oh,” he says, and for a few moments his expression devolves into one of intense concentration. Then he nods, turning towards Martin.

“Start with “I feel”,” Judith suggests.

“All right,” he says, breathless with nerves. “I, uh, I feel...responsible. For—well, for everything, basically. And for everyone. Bad things have happened to people, and it’s my fault, because I should have done something. Everything that happened, back there, it was all because of me.”

“It wasn’t you, Jon!” Martin protests. “Annabelle told us—”

Judith is about to remind him that he’s supposed to just be listening, but he cuts himself off first. Jon laughs, an ugly sound that’s more like a sob.

“And how is that supposed to help? Knowing that the—that they were using me my whole life, how does that absolve me of any responsibility for what I did? For the fact that I failed to do anything to stop them? I couldn’t even go through with the one thing that could have actually meant something, because—”

He clamps his mouth shut, his jaw locked tight; Martin looks down at his hands, his expression distraught.

“Because of me.”

“Martin—” Jon’s tone is wounded, and he reaches for Martin’s hand. Judith sees reflections of a shared pain in both their faces, though she doesn’t understand why; this would be a lot easier if they’d just tell her the truth.

But you didn’t get into this profession because it was easy, did you?

“Thank you for sharing that, Jon. I think there’s a lot more for us to explore there, but let’s give you a break and give Martin a chance to share, okay?”

Jon nods, clutching Martin’s hand in his. Martin gives a long, slow exhale.

“Righto,” he says with false, brittle cheer. “”I feel,” wasn’t it? Right. Jon, when you do something stupidly self-sacrificing for other people, I feel like everyone else is more important than me.”

Jon flinches.

“Martin,” Judith says, keeping her tone level. “Let’s keep the focus on what you feel, not on what causes you to feel that way, okay?”

“Right,” Martin mutters, and glances at Jon. “Okay. In that case, I feel...like I’m not important. Like the only thing I can really do is—is take care of you. And if I can’t even do that, then what bloody use am I? That’s it, I suppose.”

“Martin…” Jon says again, softly. His eyes are wet, and he’s clinging to Martin’s hand like a drowning man to a plank. Martin swallows hard and shakes his head, but he makes no move to extract his hand from Jon’s grip.

“Thank you, Martin,” Judith tells him. “I know that wasn’t easy to share, for either of you. But this is the kind of honesty that we need, in order to build strong communication. Let’s all take five minutes—if either of you want to take a bathroom break, or get some water—and then we can talk about where to go from here. All right?”

Martin disappears to the loo, while Jon wanders around the office, looking with polite interest at the shelves of books and ornaments. Judith writes a few notes for herself, to follow up in future sessions. She hopes there’ll be future sessions. Both of these men seem deeply hurt, traumatized by events that they’re just barely alluding to, and have clearly been struggling through as best they can with less than ideal coping mechanisms, trying—and likely failing—not to hurt each other in the process. They both need individual counselling as much as couples’ therapy—maybe more. She’s certainly going to recommend it..

They clearly love each other, though. And they want to make it work. If they’re willing to put the effort in, they have better than even odds in their favor.

Martin’s eyes are red-rimmed when he returns; he sits on the sofa as near as he can to Jon, who presses their shoulders together. Judith can’t help smiling at the sight.

“How long have the two of you been together?” she asks. She always asks new clients at the end of the first session, rather than at the beginning; that way she can get a feel for the relationship without preconceptions based on longevity. The two of them look at each other properly, for the first time since Martin came back in, and matching, sheepish smiles break out on both their faces after a moment.

“So it was three weeks in Scotland,” Martin begins, ticking it off on his fingers. “And then—how long?”

“Uhh, it’s...let’s say half a year, give or take?” Jon makes a face that says he’s really not all that sure.

“Right, and then we’ve been here nearly six months. So...about a year, all in all?”

“But we knew each other for over three years before that,” Jon insists earnestly.

“It sounds as if the two of you have been through a lot,” says Judith. “And not all of it gardening related?”

“No,” Jon says with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Mostly not.”

“We barely scratched the surface today—and that’s normal. Relationships are complicated, and it takes a lot of time and hard work to build understanding and communication. But I promise you, it is worth all the effort. You both made a really strong start today—it takes courage to be that honest, even with your partner.”

The two of them give each other a long look, and the smile they trade is tentative, but genuine. They haven’t solved anything today, have only just begun to reveal their hurt and their insecurities; they have a long journey ahead to get to a truly honest, healthy place both for themselves and their relationship. Judith has a feeling they’ll persevere, though—that losing each other simply isn’t an option.

“So,” she says, “Should we make this a recurring appointment?”

Jon glances questioningly at Martin, who bites his lip and then nods firmly, taking Jon’s hand in his.

“Yeah,” Martin says. “We’ve done much harder things. We can do this.”

“Together?” says Jon, and Martin smiles.

“No matter what.”

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartinweek2021 #my fic #jonmartin

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cellsshapedlikestars · 3 years

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Potentially one shot prompts

Secret romance with the bosses daughter

The Starks conspire to have Jon and Sansa share a room/bed

Jon gets a concussion and forgets he’s married to Sansa but hey this redheaded trauma nurse seems super sexy and amazing

Stark siblings hate JonSa and conspire to break them up but it backfired bc duh

Sansa works with rhaegar who keeps trying to set me up with his son Jaehyrs but she’s super uninterested cuz she has a crush on Jon

Hello, dear anon, I've been sitting on these prompts for a while now? I can't remember how long, but long enough I think. I read them again this morning while answering some other asks and an idea popped into my head.

Be warned, I wrote this all in one go in a very short amount of time, so ignore... you know, just any issues. Spelling, grammar, plot, characterization...

The prompt I have chosen for this is: Sansa works with Rhaegar, who keeps trying to set her up with his son Jaehaerys, but she's not interested because she has a crush on Jon.

There are a lot of pros to Sansa's job.

She loves the work, it pays better than she had expected to get straight out of college, and she really likes all her coworkers so far. She'd been a bit hesitant in joining such a large company, so sure that the atmosphere would be toxic and her boss cartoonishly evil. But Rhaeger Targaryen is no Miranda Priestly. Mostly Rhaegar just tells really bad jokes that she at first tried to laugh at, until she realized no one else did and so she stopped trying. Rhaeger didn't seem to notice (or care?), continuing to tell them and laughing at them himself. He's a little out of touch with reality, being – you know – a billionaire CEO, but otherwise he's not too bad.

Except that he keeps trying to set her up with his son.

I really think you and Jaehaerys would hit it off.

Sansa had politely declined.

She's never met Jaehaerys, but she has met Aegon, and no thank you. Aegon is.... well, again, he could be worse for a billionaire's son, but she would never be able to date him. First and foremost, he winks at her every time he leaves his dad's office. Her little desk isn't too far from Rhaegar's office and she gets that wink every single time. Second, he doesn't do anything. Sure, he has some generic title at the company, but she has never actually seen him do work. Occasionally he shows up at meetings, she guesses to fill some sort of quota, and spends the entire time on his phone, not paying attention and eating all the donuts. Sansa's family has money, but they've always stressed the importance of work.

So the fact that she has never once seen Jaehaerys does not bode well. She knows Rhaegar's other son (from a different woman, the scandal) works for the company, too, but she has never, not once, even caught a glimpse of him. He must be even lazier than Aegon.

(Rhaenys, however, is no slouch. Neither is Dany. Dany sort of terrifies her, actually. She could definitely qualify as a Miranda Priestly.)

Sansa might be scared of Dany, but Dany is actually the reason Sansa has a job here. She'd been hired on as a temp to help update the company's social media, and they'd liked her work so much, she'd been hired on full time as part of their new social media and marketing team. She's helping to drag Targaryen Inc out of the stone age, according to Dany. She's in charge of their Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram presence and so far, she thinks she's really killing it. At least, no one has told her that she's not.

The door to Rhaegar's office opens and she looks up and her heart does that annoying little flutter when she sees him. He has to walk by her desk – everyone who comes to see Rhaegar does – and when he catches her looking, he gives her that same little half smile he always does.

“Hey Jon,” she calls when he gets close enough. “The boss having computer problems again?”

“Isn't he always?” Jon jokes and Sansa laughs maybe a bit too loud. Curse this dumb little schoolgirl crush she has on Jon the IT guy. It had started her first day here, when she'd needed help setting up her computer and accounts and logins. She'd tried doing it over the phone, but eventually Jon had sighed and said he'd just come up and help her in person. She's been a goner ever since.

He heads out towards the elevator and she tries not to stare at his ass on the way. Those jeans should be illegal, she thinks. They have to be against some sort of company dress code.

She almost squeals when a spray of water hits her.

“Down girl,” Myranda says, pointing her water spritzer in Sansa's direction – a threat.

“Stop doing that!” Sansa hisses, wiping droplets of water off her face. “I'm not one of your plants.”

Myranda likes to keep her little desk jungle property hydrated, and Sansa hears that spray bottle going at least twice a day. More, if Jon walks by – then the spray bottle is turned on her.

“You know, it's been a while since you've had computer trouble,” Myranda turns back to her computer and puts the bottle down.

“I don't know what you mean,” Sansa sniffs, knowing exactly what Myranda means. She will deny until her dying breath that she keeps messing things up on her computer on purpose, just to get Jon the hot IT guy up here.

Jon the hot IT guy with his tight jeans and his tight t-shirts and his glasses and that little bun that she wants to take out just to see what his hair looks like down...

“Don't make me spray you again,” Myranda sing-songs and it snaps her out of her daydreams.

Sansa does not respond to this.

…

“You really should let me set you up with Jaehaerys,” Rhaeger tells her one morning, after he had overheard her telling Mya about her absolutely disastrous date the night before.

Sansa tries very hard not to say something terrible because one – Rhaegar is her boss, two – she's already embarrassed enough that her boss overheard her complaining about her love life, and three – Rhaegar is her boss.

“That's really ok,” Sansa says diplomatically. “I wouldn't want to date someone within the company, you know what they say.”

She really is wary of dating someone she works with, though that isn't the real reason she doesn't want to date Jaehaerys.

(She would break this rule for Jon, though.)

“You two have so much in common!” Rhaegar cries, dramatic as always. “You both like that... computer stuff,” he waves his hands around, as if that indicates computer stuff.

Another point against Jaehaerys, Sansa thinks. Yes, she does social media marketing for a living, but her own personal social media is wildly different. Jaehaerys is probably one of those guys who posts nonstop shirtless selfies while drinking cocktails on some yacht. That's a hard no for her.

Maybe at one point in her life, she would've been into that sort of guy, but she's grown up and her tastes have changed. (Her problem, she knows, is that it's taken her too long to realize that her tastes have changed, and she keeps trying to date the same type of guys she dated in high school. It isn't working.)

“Think about it!” Rhaegar calls after her as she and Mya leave the break room.

…

“Here's the problem,” Jon mutters. “How did this even get deleted?”

He says it more to himself than to her, and Sansa ignores the pointed look from Myranda. “That's so weird,” she says, innocently of course. “You think I'd be better with computers, considering...”

Jon looks up at her and gives her that tentative half smile that sends her pulse fluttering. “That's alright, I don't mind getting calls from you. And hey, you saved me from having to walk Barbrey through how to send an email for the thousandth time. Sam got to take that call.” His smile turns into a full grin and she can't help but grin back at him.

“There, that's going to reinstall and then you should be good to go,” Jon stands from her chair. Sansa had been perched on the edge of her desk, watching, and she hops down and tries to smooth out her skirt.

“Thanks, again,” she says, so awkwardly that she somehow feels like she's thirteen again, trying to flirt with a cute boy in class. It doesn't help that even though he's very nice to her, he seems to hold himself at a distance, and she has come to the conclusion that he has absolutely no interest in her and finds her offputting. And then, just to really make things worse, she asks, “are you going to the Christmas party?”

“Sort of have to,” Jon shrugs and waves in the general direction of Rhaegar's office.

“Right,” she nods. She guesses that makes sense – Jon is the only IT guy she ever sees coming out of Rhaegar's office. He must be high up or something? It would make sense he'd have to go to the office Christmas party if he's the boss's go-to IT person.

When Jon is gone, she manages to dodge the spray of water that Myranda aims her way.

…

Oh, but he looks good in a suit.

Why couldn't he look terrible? Why does the universe hate her?

She'd spent so long picking out the perfect dress, but now that she's here, she's deeply regretting it. She feels ridiculous, though she knows she has no reason to. Her dress is not as scandalous as, say, Margaery's, and it's not as fancy as any of the Targaryen's. But still. Her dress sparkles in the light and she's convinced that instead of festive, she just looks like a golden disco ball.

She's a disco ball and Jon looks too good in a suit. It isn't fair.

“Just go talk to him,” Myranda nudges at her. “I swear, I cannot keep watching you make heart eyes at him. It's giving me hives.”

“Don't pressure her,” Mya argues. “I don't blame her for being cautious about getting involved with someone like that.”

Sansa's not quite sure what that means, she guesses Mya means someone as attractive as Jon?

She's about to thank Mya for the defense, when Mya continues, “plus, she's not giving him heart eyes, she's giving him fuck me eyes.”

“I am not!” she hisses at her two friends. Or, she thought they were friends.

“I think it's both,” Myranda muses. “Fuck me and then cuddle me eyes.”

“I hate you both,” Sansa says with as much dignity as she can muster and then walks away from them, towards the refreshment table. There, she grabs a glass of champagne (and tells herself this will be the only one. She's heard horror stories of the time Viserys got drunk at one of these holiday parties. Sansa didn't work here then and it was years ago, but everyone still laughs about it. She will not be that person).

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees someone come to stand next to her and her heart does that incredibly annoying flutter that it always does around Jon.

“You made it,” he says casually, and she turns just in time to catch him eyeing up her dress. His eyes snap back to her face, but... but he was definitely checking her out, right? Or maybe he was just so distracted by how obnoxiously sparkly her dress is.

“Look at you in a suit,” she teases, trying for casual. “I thought you only owned the one pair of jeans and black t-shirt.”

“I take offense to that,” he says, not sounding offended in the slightest. “You should see my closet, it's filled with all sorts of color.”

“Oh?”

“I've got greys,” he nods solemnly. “And dark blues. Even some dark greens.”

“A veritable rainbow,” she agrees, which makes him smile. She tries not to blurt out that she'd be very happy to come see his closet.

They're interrupted in the worst way – Rhaegar shows up and says, “ah! Sansa! I was just telling Egg that this was the night I set you up with Jaehaerys, and here you are!”

Sansa can feel a horrible, splotchy blush start to rise on her chest and make it's way up her throat and to her cheeks.

“I appreciate the offer, but-”

“Dad,” Jon sighs at the same time. “You have got to stop.”

For a moment the world tilts slightly off center and Sansa turns to look at Jon. “What?”

Jon winces and looks back at her and says, “you've already said no, I told him to stop bothering you about it.”

She can hear Rhaegar saying something about how great they'd be, but she can't... she doesn't...

“You're Jaehaerys?”

Confusion flits over Jon's face as he looks from her to Rhaegar. When she turns to Rhaegar, he looks just as confused. She knows she's confused.

“I don't go by it, obviously,” Jon grumbles.

“Nonsense,” Rhaegar frowns. “It's your name. It's a good, strong, family name.”

“He and my mom couldn't agree on a name,” Jon scratches at his beard like he's uncomfortable with the whole situation. “To this day she swears she only signed the birth certificate because she was high on pain meds at the time.”

“You're Jaehaerys,” she repeats, like an idiot.

“You didn't know?” Rhaegar asks.

How did she not know?

The clues had all been there – he's into computer stuff, Rhaegar had said. Getting involved with someone like that, Mya had said. The only IT person that ever goes into Rhaegar's office, and goes in often. How Rhaegar seemed to mention setting her up with Jaehaerys most often after a visit from Jon. Little pieces start to fall into place from the past six months and Sansa wants the ground to open up and swallow her whole.

“Look,” Jon sighs, “I'm sorry if he keeps... this is your place of work and you've been doing really well, don't let him scare you off. I told him it was probably some sort of harassment - you said no, that should-”

“Well, I would've said yes if I knew it was you!” she blurts out.

“Ha!” Rhaegar nearly shouts, grin on his face as he punches Jon in the arm. “I knew it!”

“Wait, you would've?” Jon asks, ignoring his father.

Sansa can feel the heat in her face as she shrugs and nods. “I thought Jaehaerys was like...” she can't help when she looks over at where Aegon is standing, hitting on Margaery.

“There's a reason I didn't suggest you date Aegon,” Rhaegar says with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, as if he's pointing out the obvious. “Now Jaehaerys, here...”

“Dad,” Jon sighs. “I'd like to talk to Sansa alone, could you go?”

Rhaegar manages to look both deeply offended and highly pleased at the same time. But he doesn't argue and leaves them alone.

“I really didn't know it was you,” Sansa murmurs, looking down at her champagne glass instead of him.

“I thought you weren't interested,” Jon clears his throat and she can see him fidget awkwardly with his watch, like he just needs something to do with his hands.

“I thought you weren't interested,” she looks up at him then, remembering all the times he'd seemed to hold back around her and it hits her that it's because he thought she turned him down. Through his dad, sure, but still. “Did you... did you ask Rhaegar to ask me?”

“No,” Jon laughs. “He did that all on his own. Though he may have gotten the idea because...” he trails off with a grimace, but she waits him out, staring at him until he continues, “I may have talked about you after I helped set up your accounts. A lot. Rhaegar might be... eccentric, but he isn't stupid.”

No, Sansa does know that. For all his dumb jokes and disconnect from the real world, there's still a reason Targaryen Inc has been at the top of it's game for decades.

“Well,” Sansa says slowly, hopefully, “if Jaehaerys wanted to ask me out himself, I'm sure I'd say yes.”

There's a smile on Jon's face now, and not that hesitant little half smile he usually wears around her. “Sansa,” he starts, and she hums out an acknowledgment, trying to keep her own smile at bay. “Would you like to go out with me sometime?”

“Oh, I don't normally date coworkers,” she says, and tries not to laugh when his face falls, “but I think I can make an exception for you.”

Jon's smile could light up the room, she thinks.

“I have one request,” he says. “Just don't call me Jaehaerys?”

#jonsa #jonsa fic #ask #anon #prompt fic

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nat-20s · 3 years

Text

Part 8 of the wonderful! Au: the boys answer some questions! Up to you to decide if they actually clarify anything!

(also on AO3)

~*~

Martin: Hey everyone! I know what some of you are thinking right now: it's not Tuesday, why is this episode in my feed? I know significantly more of you are thinking: I don't consistently keep up with podcast releases, how much free time do you think I have, buddy? To answer your queries: this is a bonus episode! We're answering listener questions to clear the air and/or have fun. Also, I don't know, around 20 to 40 minutes a week, as that is the average amount of time per episode? Maybe during your commute? My husband's omnipotence has been gone for five years, we just have to guess at that sort of thing now.

Jon: For legal reasons, that last statement was a joke. In fact, to cover all of our bases, we do not guarantee that any of our responses are genuine.

Martin: Just because we say we'll answer things doesn't mean we'll answer truthfully. Though, honestly, I think we might make it more enjoyable if we do tell the truth. Like, I don't necessarily have a fun lie prepared for our first question from konspiracyking97: "What's their fuckin deal anyway?"

Jon: Is this referring to the oblique references we've made about being from a parallel reality and only ending up here as a consequence of ending one apocalypse and potentially starting another or the general premise of the show?

Martin: Oh, it's gotta be general premise, yeah?

Jon: In that case, I'm Jon, the other voice you're hearing is Martin, we're married, and we talk about things that are..nice? Good? Usually generally but occasionally rather specifically pleasant.

Martin: That pretty much covers it. It's not a complicated show. Uhh, next question comes from Shane: are either or both of you aliens? Nope!

Jon: Well..

Martin: No. We are 100% human people from Earth, we are under no definition extraterrestrial.

Jon: Eh..

Martin: Okay, first off, I know the tone of that 'eh' and "not fully human" is not synonymous with alien, so even if 100% is being a bit generous, we're still from the same planet as our listeners.

Jon:..

Jon: But. We sort of aren't though. Technically speaking.

Martin: No no no no no. I don't care if it's parallel, Earth is Earth is Earth, regardless of whatever nonsense metaphysics might be occurring.

Jon: So what you're saying is that if you got sucked through a portal and landed on an Earth where dinosaurs were still the predominant species, you wouldn't consider yourself to be an alien?

Martin: Nope!

Jon: I'm certain that they would consider you an alien. All of their mammals are probably shrew sized.

Martin: Sounds like a them problem.

Jon: Sounds like a-?! You know what, no, this will be an off the record debate, for now, I suppose I concede that the two Earths and our physiologies are similar enough that we might, maybe, not count as aliens.

Martin: Thank you. Anyway, our next question is from anonymous, and asks, "Is all of this an ARG?"

Jon: A whomst?

Martin: Alternate reality game. It's a method of storytelling that's interactive with audience, and usually has, I dunno, a certain suspension of disbelief to it where it pretends to be something actually happening in the real world until a dramatic reveal. A lot times it was used as a marketing gimmick, but others have done it just for fun. I can show you some examples after the show?

Jon: So it's in essence a more involved creepypasta?

Martin, delighted: Aw, babe, I'm never going to have a handle on what pop culture you are and aren't aware of, huh?

Jon: We were born within a year of each other, and I've told you that I was a deeply morbid teenager, you should probably be able to intuit some of things, love.

Martin: This coming from a man who has yet to see "It's a Wonderful Life", but has seen every film in the "Banjo Cannibals" franchise, including the Easter special. Jesus doesn't exist in the Banjo Cannibals universe, why does it have an Easter special?

Jon: The movies are rather shoddily translated from Russian, so I'm fairly certain the Easter component of that special was invented wholesale in the English version.

Martin: You say that like it answers more questions than it raises.

Jon: Yes, because it does. Oh, and to answer anonymous's question, no, this isn't an ARG. From my understanding of it, if it were, it'd be a poorly constructed one, as there's no real game element to any of this.

Martin: Hmm. Well, sometimes the game component is just trying to figure out what's going on with the story, or if there's any deeper content, and people are definitely doing that with this show.

Jon: That's not by design though. It's more a side effect of us having poor brain to mouth filters, I'd say.

Martin: Harsh, but fair. Oh, this next one is from Zac, no K, who asks, "Are you two actually even married?"

Jon, flat: We are, but it's under false names because this whole thing is an elaborate insurance scam.

Jon, incredulous: Yes, obviously, we're married. What did you hear in this podcast that would make you wonder otherwise, and how do we rectify it?

Martin: Clearly we need to up our quota for how "disgustingly in love" and "horrifically sappy" we are per episode. Which segues nicely into the next question from Gwen, "What's your favourite wonderful thing you've brought so far?" My answer: my husband. He's kind of my favourite in most things, you know?

Jon: Boooooo

Martin: Why, what's your favourite thing?

[Jon reluctantly sighs]

Jon, indulgent: being married.

Martin: A: serves you right for trying to pretend you're the less horrifically sappy and romantic one even though earlier today someone put a love note in the lunch they packed for me-

Jon:- Lies and slander! I have never, in my life, done that, even once.

Martin: Oh, sure, not even once. And you definitely don't reserve the lilac sticky notes specifically for my lunches because you know I like the colour.

Jon: I..I don't.. you're rather ruining my image here.

[Martin snorts]

Martin: Can't have the audience think that you are, on occasion, an incredibly doting husband-

Jon: -A title I would argue we both share-

Martin: - which is obviously why, even with it being your favourite thing you've brought, being married to me is just a small wonder-

Jon, audibly rolling his eyes: As I already explained-

[A Pause}

Jon: Actually, you're right-

Martin: Wait-

Jon:- I really should have brought it as a larger wonder-

Martin: Wait-

Jon: though I should warn you, I think I'd have far too much material for just one little segment-

Martin: No no no no no-

Jon:- In fact, I think I might have too much material for just one little episode-

Martin: Joo-oon-

Jon: I might have to do a whole series! Where would I even start? I mean I could talk about how every day I get to watch the early morning sun highlight your curls when I get up first, or hear you quietly humming and shuffling around the kitchen when you do, or I could talk about how the lunch notes only started in the first place as retaliation to the notes you would leave on the mirror for me to find, or how every time I get to see you at ease in a way that you aren't with anyone else, it takes my breath away, or I could talk about how cute I find the lines between your eyebrows that you only get when you're thinking something petty, but you know it's petty so you don't want to say anything-

Martin: Okay, okay, Christ, I give !up I surrender, and will cease my teasing on this particular topic.

Jon, probably making the :3 face: You don't have to stop. I mean, I could also discuss how very, very attractive I find your voice when it takes on a teasi-mmph!

[There's a pleased hum, then a pause.]

[The audio quality is slightly changed, as if the recording has been stopped and then started later]

Martin, giddy: Uh, heh, anyway, Eric asked what the least favourite thing we've brought was, and because of Jon's attempt to embarrass me live-

Jon, overlapping: It's definitely not live-

Martin:- on air, I'm gonna say it's my husband.

[Jon scoffs]

Jon : If the past few minutes are any sort of indication, I'm going to go ahead and saying that you are lying.

Martin, sighing contentedly: Maybe a bit, but how was I supposed to resist when your indigance gives you that adorable little nose scrunch? In reality, my least favourite thing was probably, um, mini golf? Which, I still don't think is inherently bad, definitely superior to regular golf, but when it's the only thing a next door two year old wants to do with you, the charm begins to wear off a bit.

Jon: Wow. A rather scathing review of a toddler.

Martin: Not so much a scathing review of a toddler as it's a scathing review of minigolf's inability to keep its appeal after the third time in the same week.

Jon: Mmm, the sound effects rather quickly go from part of the atmosphere to part of the irritation, don't they?

Martin: So what's your least favorite thing we've covered here?

Jon: Oh, love, I'm not going to pretend to have nearly enough memory of what we've covered so far to have a least favorite.

Martin: Really? Nothing that you regret or rescind?

Jon: Well, regret, certainly. It was one of the weeks where you went first, and your second item was mutual aid funds, and what they can do for marginalized communities, and I had to follow it with fucking Slapchop.

Martin, poorly suppressing laughter: In your defence, Slapchop, or whatever offbrand we have, is pretty useful, especially when either your scar or my arthritis is acting up.

Jon: I'm still not convinced you didn't somehow see my notes for the recording and decided you get revenge for the first year that we knew each other.

Martin, no longer suppressing his laughter: Yep, you got me! This marriage wasn't an act of insurance fraud, but it was a near decade long con to humiliate you on a podcast that about twenty people listen to. I'll draft up the divorce papers immediately, and then we can finally go our separate ways.

Jon: I'm glad you've at last admitted it. Such a weight off of my shoulders. Goodbye forever then.

Martin: Right.

Jon: Right.

[A beat.]

[There's a pfft from one of them, before both dissolve into giggles that lasts a good 30 seconds.]

Martin, slightly out of breath: I can't believe we're the kind of people that talk this much about speciality kitchen gadgets.

Jon: Sorry about that.

Martin: God, don't apologize. I'm, like, deliriously happy with our varying degrees of useful cooking ware filled life. If you had told 25 year old me that one day he'd be debating the merits of getting a tortilla press with his husband, he'd have wept, I tell you.

Jon: Funny, if you told 25 year old me the same thing, he would've said "You don't know the future,piss off" and then quietly have a bit of a panic at 3 am that night.

Martin: I bet you were insufferable in your mid-twenties.

Jon: First of all, who isn't, secondly, I was fresh out of Oxford, and third, I was insufferable in my late twenties, as you can attest to, and I'm insufferable now, as you can further attest to, so extrapolation would indicate that, yes, I was insufferable back then.

Martin: Probably a different kind of insufferable, though.

Jon: There are different kinds?

Martin: Of course! You used to be "prick boss" insufferable and now you're "smug in a way that I can't admit I find hot or it will go straight to your head" insufferable.

Jon, in the aforementioned smug tone: Oh, really?

Martin: See, see! Straight to your head.

Jon: Well straight is probably the wrong descriptor-

Martin: Oof, 4 out of 10 joke, babe.

Jon: That would be a far more convincing rating if you weren't grinning right now.

Martin: It's a genuine review, I'm just well known to be a sucker.

Jon: You and me both, darling.

Martin: Okay, if you're pulling out darling, you're clearly in too giddy of a mood to be focused on recording. Last question, from Jess, "You two mentioned meeting at work, but how did you actually end up together?" That's easy, Jon pulled me out of a hell dimension and then we went on the lam together to Scotland.

Jon: If that's not the way to tell a cute boy you like him, I don't know what is.

Martin: All right, that wraps up this bonus episode, and as the old saying goes, hiding from murderers in a cottage is more conducive to romance than suggesting you gouge out your eyes together.

Jon, cut off: Hey-!

#tma #jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #post canon #wonderful! au #my fic

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definitelynotscott · 2 years

Note

📓 (book emoji i'm bad at this)

Your book emoji is excellent, and I accept it gleefully.

So. The one I am daydreaming about and DEFINITELY NOT writing, because I have Purimgifts and that takes priority, is a little Star Wars thing where sometime in the past Jon Antilles rolled through and obliterated a Death Watch base because they were brainwashing children and that is a no-no. Fortunately/unfortunately for him one of the children was Arla Fett, who has decided that he now has a teenage daughter (her). Or padawan. She's not picky. ("That's not how it works." "Too bad." "I am too young to be a father, much less your father." "Meh. No shame in being a teen dad, dad." Jon: :/) And they have bounty-hunter hijinx together until she feels comfortable returning to the Mandalorians.

But that's all backstory that could be its own story some day.

WHERE WE COME IN Tor Vizla and some Death Watch are in a standoff with Jaster Mereel and some of his faction (including Jango). Everybody knows this situation is about to descend into a firefight, but they're still in the Mouthing Off at Each Other stage. Jaster's like "I own your death, Tor, prepare to die" (but, like, hopefully better written). When. Out of NOWHERE some rando bounty hunter strolls up and interrupts with "Actually, I know of somebody who has a better claim to Tor's death." And everybody is SHOOK. (Especially the New Mandalorians. Why is this potential threat right next to our Manda'lor???)

Tor: Not the smartest way to look for employment bounty-hunter.

Jon: Oh, no, no, no. Not enough money in the universe for any bounty-hunter to get in the middle of a Mandalorian dustup. I just thought it was pertinent information.

Tor: A wise decision. I might get in contact with you after this is over. *attention going back to Jaster*

Jon: I would do anything for my daughter though. *shoots from the hip*

Everyone Else: Waugh????? FIREFIGHT! *much shooting wherein the fact that the two guys Jon shot cleared a path for a sniper to take out Tor goes partially unnoticed*

When the dust settles, Death Watch and Tor are all neutralized and the other Mandalorians are side-eyeing Jon. Cue the voice of a teenage girl yelling across the battlefield "Is he staying down, buir?" This does not make the Mandalorians LESS weirded-out. Jon replies that yes, Tor is staying down. Then, many Mandalorian eyes on him, he says "I'm going to holster my weapon now," and slowly moves to do so. (It's not like they were aiming their weapons at him... but it's not like they weren't pointedly keeping their weapons out either.)

Then a very particular teenage girl climbs down from her sniper perch and starts running toward Jon. But at a certain distance she yells "Jango!" and alters her trajectory slightly, which might be concerning for the others if Jango didn't say "...Arla?!?" back and start running toward her. Needless to say, Jaster invites them to stay with him.

Then... we have a bunch of happy Jango & Arla reunion with a bunch of awkward adults in the background. Mandalorians trying to be polite and contain their "This is NOT how adoption works" instincts (Jon knows how you feel, Mandalorians, Jon knows how you feel). Jon pointedly not telling anybody he's a jedi. Arla dropping casual comments about her past or Jon's past that make any listeners blanch and clutch their pearls. Jon carefully trying to speak Mandalorian even though his accent is terrible because it obviously matters to his daughter and she wants to teach him. Jango being like "BUt... I've got a buir!" while Arla gives him a flat look and says "So do I."

At some point Jaster and Jon are racing toward Jango & Arla because Montross or someone is about to hurt/kill them but they're too far away and Jon just teleports and pops in with his lightsaber out, "I know you heard me say I would do anything for my daughter." And everybody is like "JEDI????????????" but also "HOT."

Maybe ending with some Jaster/Jon and solving the whole buir/buir problem. IDK, daydreams don't need endings.

#star wars #book emoji meme #anonymous #any asks after this are going to be League though

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fakecrfan · 3 years

Note

Do you think Basira and Daisy had a healthy relationship?

I am so glad you asked! I have had a lot of thoughts about their relationship, but had decided to shelve those thoughts because I was worried it would come off as me telling people to not ship Daisira, which is... not what I want to be doing. But you sent me an Ask and so I am compelled to answer!

My answer is: no. Their relationship is toxic in one of the most interesting ways I have seen portrayed in media.

This might be a bit confusing to hear, though. Normally when we call a relationship toxic, it means that one or both of the people involved are making each other feel bad. But Daisy and Basira seem to make each other feel... good. Basira is apparently Daisy’s last human attachment, and according to Elias in MAG 92, and “not being able to see Basira again” is one of Daisy’s biggest laments in the coffin. And on Basira’s end, Daisy seems to make Basira feel... secure. Supported.

From MAG 117:

BASIRA

But at least Daisy’s coming. I mean, I know she’s… difficult. Everything they say about her, it’s true, it’s fair. But, she’s solid. She’s a… a fixed point, and if she’s there, I know exactly where I stand, exactly what I’m doing, relative to her.

From MAG 178:

MARTIN

We’re here for you.

BASIRA

No. She was there for me.

So, “attachment to humanity” “support” and “security” are good things in a relationship, right? Their love for each other (whether you read it as completely platonic or not) seems genuine, and they put each other first. That should mean that their relationship is Good!

Wellllllll no. Sometimes, a relationship can feel good while also... trapping you in a harmful cycle, or stunting your growth as a person. Think: a friend who is charming and fun who you love to drink with--to the extent that, even when you’re trying to manage an alcohol addiction, you end up going into situations with them that trigger your urge to drink. Also think: a friend who keeps bringing you sugary food even after you’ve been diagnosed with serious diabetes with potential life-altering complications--because you like donuts, they used to make you so happy.

Daisy and Basira are that to each other. In particular--Basira’s attachment to Daisy draws Basira back into dangerous situations and, by extension, causes her fall deep into that “siege mentality” that shuts down Basira’s more thoughtful side.

When Jon confronts Basira about Daisy’s crimes in MAG 178, this exchange occurs.

MARTIN

[Loudly] Enough. Enough! Someone has died! Show some respect. Or don’t you care?

BASIRA

[Incensed] Of course I fucking care!

…

[Quieter] That’s the problem.

MARTIN

I… I don’t understand.

BASIRA

I just… I don’t need him laying everything out for me like I’m some kind of idiot. I know, all right.

I don’t think Basira is making anything up here to make herself seem better. Basira already knew there was a problem with the police, before Jon confronted her. She already knew Daisy was corrupt to some extent, even if she had trouble facing it head on. And--she already cared.

That’s why she quit. She didn’t need a revelation from Jon or anyone else to open her eyes. She didn’t even need to see harm happen to an innocent bystander. Instead, she saw how the higher ups were covering up the killing of Maxwell Raynor, of all people--

BASIRA

They’ve given us a few days ‘compassionate leave’. I think they just want us out of the way while they figure out the official version of what happened.

--and she quit after that.

So, here we already have someone who is coming into an understanding of the police as a flawed system without anyone needing to tell her. Here we have someone who is already extricating herself from that system, because she cares about her impact on other people. From this point, she could easily have gone her own way, taken time to reflect and never hurt anyone again.

So what brings her back into the whole mess in MAG 88?

BASIRA

I’m looking for Daisy.

MARTIN

Oh for – Okay, I don’t know where she is! I don’t know where anybody is! Why does everyone… okay, why does everyone think that I always know where everyone is, all the time?!

BASIRA

Alright, okay, alright, sorry. They just… well, they said at the station that this was the last place she checked in.

--Her relationship with Daisy, of course!

She wants to leave the supernatural and the police behind. She tells Jon the Institute is bad (MAG 73) but she walks back in because she’s worried about Daisy. And then she throws herself right back in the fray to stop Daisy from killing Jon. Shortly after that, Basira has to sign herself off as a hostage to Elias…

ELIAS

She’s quite the killer, your partner. All in the public good, of course. And she was correct, I spent some time acquiring that evidence. Or creating it. And while your superiors don’t much care about the killings, the fact there is proof… They’re not happy. And they want you brought in.

--because of Daisy’s murders, Daisy’s reckless actions giving Elias leverage. Basira throws herself in with Daisy, and it draws Basira right back into a world of violence and the paranormal that she was trying to quit. It motivates her to, once again, cover for Daisy’s errors and justify them. This takes away any chance Basira could have had to gain distance from the violence, reflect, and get some perspective. Instead, she’s thrown right back into the siege.

Basira doesn’t even show any sign of frustration with Daisy at this. It’s not that Basira is 100% meek. We see her get frustrated with people later, express grievances, and hold people accountable later--but with Daisy she doesn’t do any of this. Instead, she immediately re-affirms that she’s on Daisy’s side.

BASIRA

Daisy, it’s… it’s okay. We’ll figure something out.

Of course, it’s not a one-way street, either. It’s not an uncomplicated “Basira good, Daisy toxic and bad” story. It’s a mutually reinforcing cycle where they are both complicit. We see that in season 4, when Daisy tries to stop feeding the hunt.

People like to rag on Basira for her actions in this season but... her actions are actually also more complicated than a simple story of “Basira sabotages Daisy’s progress.” Because Basira misses the more resolute Daisy, yes, and wishes she had a strong protector instead of another person to help... but even with that, she’s still willing to support Daisy’s progress away from the Hunt!

In MAG 133:

ARCHIVIST

You’re not happy she’s back.

BASIRA

I didn’t say that, John. I will never abandon Daisy, and… having her back is… (she sighs) But right now she’s dead weight, and I need to be able to travel light.

Basira wants someone powerful to protect her, is conflicted that she doesn’t have that but still will never abandon Daisy regardless. And, true to her word, she does support what Daisy is doing.

From MAG 140:

BASIRA

We’ve talked about it. If the Hunt takes her again, we don’t know if she’s coming back. And neither of us want that.

In MAG 146, she even praises Daisy’s path of resistance.

BASIRA

You didn’t know what you were doing.

[Daisy makes a pained sound, as if to contradict her, but stops.]

BASIRA

And since you did, you’ve spent every waking hour resisting.

So, Basira is--true to Elias’s word--being Daisy’s anchor to humanity. True to her own word, she’s having Daisy’s back, supporting her decision to quit the hunt even if it means Basira has less back up. So what changes?

MAG 155:

BASIRA

Because I’m not going to lose her.

ARCHIVIST

She goes hunting again, you might anyway.

BASIRA

And if she doesn’t, she might die.

Even at this point, Basira’s worst impulses are always about Daisy. Even when she undercuts Daisy’s progress, it’s about Daisy’s wellbeing. All she wants to do is make sure Daisy’s alive and okay, and to that end she will throw out all of her rationality and moral principles.

And then, when Daisy does finally give into the hunt, it’s for Basira.

It’s... funny to analyze and critique this behavior, because I have seen this sort of behavior in Jon/Martin fics treated as a sweet and romantic thing. You know, the “I want you to keep being a monster because I don’t want to lose you!” thing. And also the “prioritizing each other over everything else in the world” thing. Because the concept of unconditional support, of putting another person first above everything else in the world--it’s an alluring one.

But with Daisy and Basira, even though their relationship isn’t necessarily romantic, we see how harmful that mindset can be. How someone can care for you, prioritize you, make you feel like the whole world, and... the main effect of that is to stunt you, to give you so much comfort you never get out of a harmful cycle or change your behavior at all. How it can cause you to enable horrible things in the world, like police brutality.

That is the story of Daisy and Basira’s relationship. It’s about the effects of this cycle on Basira--yes, Basira specifically and not Daisy, even though the cycle is mutually reinforcing and affects them both.

Basira appears in nearly twice as many episodes as Daisy. Because of this, Basira is the one we see discussing the relationship and what it means to her. Basira is the one we see grappling with the psychological fallout of their relationship. It’s more Basira’s story than Daisy’s--not because she’s the “victim” or that she was morally pure but because... Basira is the one who ultimately grows past this.

After episode after episode of “she needs me” and “I can’t leave her” and “I can’t let her die”--after Basira endangering herself and stunting her own growth by centering Daisy

DAISY

Partner… Come…

[MORE FOOTSTEPS]

BASIRA

Not now. Not after everything.

--Basira finally breaks free, and moves on.

#taiey #basira hussain #daisy tonner #tma #the magnus archives #my post #tma meta

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leighistired · 3 years

Text

Out Loud

A Martin character study AO3 Link

“G’night mum, love you.”

“Make sure you put the trash out, don’t want it stinking up the house.”

At 12 it occurs to Martin, he can’t recall the last time his mother said “I love you” to him. She must have. He knows she loves him, so why can’t he remember her saying it? Was it before dad left? It can’t have been that long ago. He knows if he brings it up she’ll just tell him off for being silly so he just decides to not say it unless she says it first. She doesn’t say it.

“Look how nice our neighbor’s garden is,” she says instead. “If only we could have such a nice garden.”

“The neighbors hire a man-” Martin tries to explain. He had just done law maintenance over the weekend; he would have to bring up memory issues next time they saw a doctor.

“Aren’t you happy with how I provide for you?” She snaps. “Ever since your lousy father left us I have done my best even with my health and all you can talk about is getting a bloody gardener.”

“Sorry, mum,” he says. It’s better not to argue when she gets like this.

“Forget it. Just get me my tea.”

He goes and brews her a cup of Oolong tea. It’s far too bitter for his tastes but it’s all he buys when he does the shopping. Perhaps that was it, instead of saying she loved him she just provided for him.

Martin tells himself that until she gets too sick to work and begins needling him to get a job at 14. Suddenly he’s providing for her on top of school and everything else but that didn’t mean she didn’t love him. She was just sick and the medication she was on made her tired most of the time so it wasn’t like he could expect her to be excited to see him; especially not when he’s the one bringing it to her.

“Is soup the only thing you buy?” She asks one evening when he brings her dinner.

“You didn’t have soup last night,” he reminds her patiently after a long day of school and work.

“Oh, so you think I’m ungrateful? I am your mother! I gave birth to you! You should be happy to take care of me!”

“It would be nice if you acted like a mum for once!” Martin snaps back. He regrets it as soon as he says it and doesn’t wait to hear her response. He leaves the house and sits in the park near his house for a long time and cries. Of course she loves him. It must be so hard on her to be stuck at home all day with no one to talk to and there he went snapping at her. She’s asleep by the time he comes home and neither of them mentions it in the morning.

Martin doesn’t know what he expects when he starts to transition. He hadn’t even called it a transition at first, he just likes how he looks with short hair, baggy clothes, and a sports bra. His mother disagrees. There are days she won’t even look at him and when she does it’s usually even worse.

“You cut your hair again,” she mentions one morning over breakfast. “Just when you were starting to look like a girl.”

“Yup,” Martin replies tight-lipped. He had been thinking it over for a while and he’s slowly coming to terms with the fact that he isn’t a girl. The way she says it hits him sharply. If she was never going to say “I love you” to a daughter, why would she say it to a son? He doesn’t bother coming out to her properly because he can already see the disgust on her face when he gets a proper binder.

When she decides to move into a full-time care facility, it’s almost a relief. He feels foolish for expecting her to say it when she leaves. He feels even more foolish when he says it in goodbye. The receptionist gives him a sympathetic look when she doesn’t say it back but the receptionist probably assumes his mother has memory issues and forgot who he was. She doesn’t. Still, he appreciates the gesture.

Dating is nearly impossible for most of his life. It’s easiest to blame his busy schedule; he doesn’t even have time for friends outside of school. The fact that no one even asks him out isn’t something he wants to think about. After he drops out of school and his mother leaves, dating and friendship don’t get any easier. He can’t let anyone he works with get close enough or they’ll find out his real age and utter lack of qualifications. Online dating is also out of the question for similar reasons. If one of his coworkers saw him with the age 19 in his profile they would either know he wasn’t actually 25 or they would think he was a creep and he didn’t exactly feel comfortable lying about his age to potential dates. Meeting people organically isn’t the worst thing in the world but it’s difficult. He makes a few passing friends at a local trans support group but even then, he can’t get close to anyone without risking someone discovering his falsified CV.

He doesn’t have his first real boyfriend until he’s 23 years old. They meet at a Holloween party thrown by a mutual acquaintance and date for almost five months before Martin ruins it.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Dominick, I love you,” Martin says as he serves dinner.

“Oh, uh, it’s a little fast to say that, don’t you think?” Dominick had stammered awkwardly. Was it? It didn’t seem like it to Martin and even if it was, it was true. He loved Dominick.

“I-I don’t think so,” Martin replies nervously. Some distant part of himself starts to berate him for being so needy.

“It kind of is. Let’s just pretend you never said it and we’ll see how we feel in a few more months, ok?”

“You mean we’ll see how you feel,” Martin says a little bitterly.

“Why can’t you just relax and enjoy the holiday?”

Martin had sighed in resignation and picked at the rest of his plate. They broke up a week later because Dominick felt like they were “looking for different things.”

Martin doesn’t have another serious boyfriend after that. He goes on a few more dates over the years but nothing that lasts longer than five months. Nothing that lasts long enough to say “I love you.” In some deep dark part of him, he wonders if he was ever meant for love. His father hadn’t loved him enough to stay, his mother hadn’t said she loved him in over a decade, and he’s not even sure he was in love with Dominick. He gets crushes, sure, but he just throws himself into his work at the Magnus Institute instead.

Working in the library isn’t bad. He gets along with his coworkers well enough but he can never get close to them. Not close enough to love them as friends or be loved in return.

Then he gets transferred to the Archives.

Jonathan Sims is not the first asshole boss Martin has ever had. He doesn’t understand why Mr. Bouchard sent him down to work in the Archive in the first place and his first impression with his new boss is less than stellar when a dog follows him into the building. It doesn’t help that Jon is good-looking and every once in a while Martin catches glimpses of a version of the Archivist without a stick up his ass. Like when he spends Martin’s ice cream birthday talking about emulsifiers. If only he would be clearer about what he actually wants from Martin. No report or follow-up seems to be good enough, even with the help of Tim and Sasha.

Martin works hard for Jon’s approval. He doesn’t know why he wants the recognition but it’s either this or quit and he really, really can’t quit. So he spends three full days looking for every woman named Angela over fifty in Bexley only to be berated for actually talking to one of them and then he offers to look into a case about spiders that clearly upsets Jon only to get trapped in his flat by a zombie worm woman.

When he finally escapes, he takes a few worm corpses with him and he dumps them on Jon’s desk while he’s in the middle of a statement. Let Jon try and disprove that When he gives his own statement he makes special emphasis on reminding Jon how hard he worked to meet his exacting standards. He refuses to be yelled at for this.

Except Jon believes him. More than believes him, in fact. He offers Martin a place to stay. Of course that would be enough to ignite a crush in Martin.

As soon as they get to document storage Martin sits on the cot and begins to cry with exhaustion. He expects Jon to leave but again he surprises him.

“I-it’s alright, Martin,” he says awkwardly as he pats Martin’s shoulder. “You’ll be safe here and I’m certain Elias will respond promptly to my request for extra security.”

“Thanks,” Martin sniffs. He can’t remember the last time he cried in front of another person.

“Would...would you like me to stay until you fall asleep? If- if you think it will help.”

“Oh, er...no...I’ll be fine, thank you. You should be getting home, anyway. It’s Saturday, Jon.”

Martin blacks out as soon as Jon shuts the door to document storage. When he wakes up he finds his crush on Jon stubbornly still in place.

He can’t help himself after that. He starts taking special care of Jon in hopes of encouraging the kind man he saw that night into emerging. At the very least Jon doesn’t yell at him as much and he even thanks Martin for the tea he brings. It’s then that he notices other things about Jon, like how rattled he gets by certain statements and how he’ll often go an entire day without eating or drinking anything unless someone brings him something. That someone being Martin. He also notices how late Jon leaves, if he leaves at all.

It’s on one such night of Jon still being in his office at 11 o’clock that Martin knocks on Jon’s office door.

“Jon?” He calls gently.

“Hzzmt! Martin?” Jon responds, having been startled awake from dozing at his desk. “You should be asleep.”

“And you should be home.”

“I see your point,” Jon sighs. “I’ll finish up here and head home. Unless you need something?”

“Actually….I-I was thinking,” Martin beings. “Since I sort of kicked you off your cot...D’you want to come back to document storage with me? You know, get some sleep?”

“What?”

“Er...forget I-”

“The cot would be rather cramped with both of us,” Jon warns as he gets up from his desk. “If...if you’re sure you want me to join you.”

“Yeah...I thought you had work to do?”

“It can wait until morning, no use keeping you up longer than necessary.”

Martin only half regrets offering to share a bed with his crush. Jon was right, the only way to fit both of them on the cot is for both of them to sleep on their sides (or for Jon to sleep on top of Martin but even the thought has his face burning) and it’s difficult for him to fall asleep with Jon’s back pressed against his. It’s good to hear Jon fall asleep, though, and as time wears on it’s easier for Martin to goad Jon away from work to sleep a few hours.

The more of himself Jon reveals the harder Martin falls for him. Especially after Jon accuses him of being a ghost during the Prentiss attack. Even with the guilt Martin feels every time he looks at Jon mummified in bandages. That was Martin’s fault. If he had just paid more attention then he wouldn’t have lost Jon and Tim in the tunnels. He does everything he can to try and make up for it; despite Jon becoming more and more closed off by the day. Intellectually, Martin knows that Jon has gotten like that with everyone, but something deep down makes Martin feel like it’s his fault Jon’s gotten so cold. It doesn’t help that Jon seems to have gotten friendly with the policewoman investigating the murder of the previous Archivist. Tim even seems to think they’re having an affair which does wonders for Martin’s self-esteem. Jon wouldn’t be the first straight man Martin has ever had a crush on but Martin was pretty sure Jon wasn’t straight. Again, he wonders if he’s done something wrong to push Jon away.

After Jon stumbles out of his office covered in blood claiming to have had an accident with a bread knife Martin finds all the excuse he needs to regularly drag Jon to the canteen to make sure he eats something. The silences during those lunches are hard. They had eaten together before but now Jon wasn’t talking to him. The most Martin could get out of him were a few one-word answers. He tries not to think about how it reminds him of his mum.

“So,” he tries for the millionth time while Jon picks at his sandwich. “Did I tell you what happened while you were at physical therapy the other day?”

Jon doesn’t say anything but he looks up with a gaze that bores into Martin.

“Uh...A little girl came in alone with a statement, she must’ve only been eight years old,” Martin says. Jon looks at him with an expression that almost seems afraid. “Don’t worry, it recorded fine on digital. She walked right down into the Archive, walked up to my desk, and said ‘Excuse me. My name is Beatrice Walker and I’d like to make a statement about a supernatural occurrence.’ She sounded so grown up and she refused to leave until I had recorded her statement. Turns out her dad was using the library for research and she had just wandered off.”

“What was her statement about?” Jon asks to Martin’s surprise.

“Oh, a hamster with mysteriously changing spots.”

“Ah,” Jon replies thoughtfully. “Not much need for follow-up there, I suppose.”

“Not unless you really need me to track down the shop where her parents picked up the new hamster.”

He catches the briefest of smirks from Jon before the conversation dies again.

After that Jon’s coldness and paranoia comes out in the form of a screaming accusation over letters Jon found in the trash. Martin barely manages to make it to the bathroom before he bursts into tears after coming clean about his CV. Tim thankfully doesn’t check on him while he silently curses his taste in men. Jon doesn’t meet his eye for the next week in what he bitterly hopes is guilt. He does seem slightly more willing to talk with Martin at lunch, though.

Then Jon goes missing. After trying to get Martin and Tim to go home early because Jon was feeling under the weather; he disappears. Not before apparently bludgeoning someone with a pipe and isn’t that exactly what he and Tim need to see as soon as they get back from a two-week kidnapping by a spooky door monster?

With Sasha gone, Jon missing, and Melanie King being suddenly hired by Elias, whatever’s left of Martin’s relationship with Tim deteriorates. More so when Martin becomes the only one in the world to believe Jon could be innocent. It’s probably that that makes the police detective “investigating” Jon so actively hostile toward him. Apparently, people say he and Jon are “close” and that probably only means the lunch thing but he wants to imagine it’s something more. Like people are somehow picking up that Jon likes him back.

When Jon comes back to confront Elias it’s all Martin can think to do to fall back on his tea-making. He ducks into Jon’s office with a piping cup of the overly sweet tea he spent months perfecting to Jon’s taste and finds him with his face buried in his one non-bandaged hand.

“Jon?” He calls as gently as he can while he closes the door behind him. “I brought you some tea.”

It’s when Jon looks up that Martin notices the bloody mess down the front of his shirt.

“You’re hurt. Let me go get the first aid-”

“No!” Jon interrupts frantically. “Just...Could you just stay with me for a moment?”

Martin acquiesces and they sit side by side on the sofa in Jon’s office in silence until Jon starts sniffling into his tea. He offers Jon a hug and Jon all but dives into his chest to cry. It’s the saddest most broken thing Martin has ever heard and it’s all he can do not to pull Jon into his lap and curl around him protectively.

“Martin...I-I...I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For everything. For Sasha and Prentiss and...and for the way I treated you. You didn’t….no one deserves that.”

“None of that was your fault and I sort of deserved it. I didn’t actually know what I was doing.”

“You didn’t deserve it,” Jon insists before going back to quietly crying into Martin’s jumper. Martin doesn’t respond. He can’t recall the last time someone’s apologized to him. At least not like that. He’d been told off most of his life for not doing things up to people’s standards. A few people over the years had told him he didn’t deserve it but Jon was the first person to apologize. No wonder Martin was falling in love with him.

Damn it.

Cuddling doesn’t become a regular occurrence for them by any means but Jon begins doing more to seek Martin out after that. They eat lunch together more often and Martin stays up late to talk to Jon while he’s abroad. It drives home how deeply buried into Martin’s heart Jon has become. Especially after he comes back after going missing for a month and has the audacity to joke about being moisturized by a clown mannequin for a month.

He wonders if Jon feels the same way. Sometimes Jon will smile shyly at him, and he can almost believe that Jon would be interested in a relationship if the world wasn’t ending. The last time they speak before the Unknowing they’re in document storage.

“Are you ready?” Jon asks as he shifts nervously.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Martin signs. He heard what happened to Melanie. He knows what’s likely to happen to him. Some small part of him is screaming to just tell Jon his feelings like it’s the climax of an action movie.

“Stay safe,” Jon says.

“Come back,” Martin replies. Jon offers him a hug. It’s no movie kiss but it allows Martin to hold Jon as close as possible. Jon himself is hanging off of Martin’s neck and it feels like a final goodbye.

Then Elias confirms what Martin has always suspected deep down. That his mother never loved him or if there was a time when she did, she stopped when his father left. Even after everything. After he spent years taking care of her. After he had to quit school to care for her. All she ever saw was his father. All his transition did was to remind her further of how much he looked like his father’s son. At least it was worth it. To distract Elias so Melanie could find evidence to arrest him.

Then Peter Lukas shows up and reveals that Elias planned to get arrested. Worse than that, he offers Martin a promotion of sorts.

Then they get the news from Yarmouth. Tim’s body is found in a charred heap, Daisy is missing, and Jon is dead in all but brain activity. At least Basira is physically alive.

Martin spends as much time as he can next to Jon. He’s used to loving someone who can’t love him back. Maybe this is all he’s destined for. Love unrequited. He talks to Jon’s dreaming corpse. Tells him about his day, reads him poetry, even a statement, but nothing draws Jon out of his coma.

Then his mother dies. He barely has the emotional strength to mourn her. Instead, he scatters her ashes and mourns his childhood lost to trying impossibly to earn her love.

After the Flesh attacks, Martin makes a decision. He’ll join Lukas. It’ll probably lead to his death but what did that matter? His mother was gone and didn’t care about him anyway. Tim and Sasha were gone. Jon was basically gone. Basira and Melanie were the only people left that he vaguely cared about and by doing this he could at least protect them.

He visits Jon one last time in the hospital. He’s still covered in wires and his eyes still flit around violently behind his lids as Martin sits down next to him and takes his hand.

“Hey Jon,” he says quietly. “I...This is the last time I’m going to see you...Probably ever. I know, I know old dramatic Martin surely he’s exaggerating. I’m not. The Institute is in danger and...I have a way to keep Melanie and Basira a little safer, so I’m doing it. I just came by one last time to say...Jon, I...I love you. Goodbye.”

He gets up and presses a kiss on a part of Jon’s forehead not covered in wires before leaving. It’s alright that he doesn’t say it back. No one ever says it back to Martin.

When Jon wakes up everything becomes that much harder. Suddenly he had a reason to live and the way Jon pursues him makes him almost believe...No, even completing the thought would be dangerous for all of them. Jon trusts him enough not to be constantly badgering and that makes it worse. When Jon is there the Lonely makes Martin resent his presence and when Jon’s gone Martin resents his absence.

The final, most excruciating pain is when Jon comes after him in the Lonely. He’s excepted his fate in the chilling numbness of the Lonely. Maybe that’s why he says it. The certain, inevitable rejection would be numbed utterly. So he says it.

“I really loved you, you know?”

And Jon looks broken. Even after he rips Peter’s statement from him. Even when he reaches for Martin’s face with hands that seem far too warm and makes him See. Knowing Jon loves him isn’t like “knowing” his mother loves him. Instead of a lie born in Martin’s mind to stamp down the fear of rejection, it’s a reality pouring from Jon’s mind mingled with Jon’s fears of rejection.

Jon’s hands still feel too warm compared to the icy chill of the Lonely as he leads Martin out. Still, he refuses to let go all the way through the tunnels, the Institute, talking to Basira, packing at each other’s flats, and on to the train. The way to Daisy’s safe house feels like a blur and when they finally arrive it’s all Martin can do to remember to take off his binder before collapsing into bed with Jon’s warm arms around him.

He wakes to Jon’s quiet crying. The awful, stifled thing that breaks Martin’s heart.

“Jon,” he whispers.

“Martin? Did I wake you? I’m sorry, I’ll-”

“It’s alright, Jon,” he assures as he swaps their positions so Jon is tucked firmly against him. Jon makes another broken noise and Martin can’t stop himself from crying, too.

“I-I’m here, Martin. You aren’t on your own,” Jon soothes and Martin almost has to laugh. They lay crying and comforting each other until they both fall back asleep.

When they wake up properly they take stock of the safe house’s pantry and make a list of things to pick up in the village after breakfast. Martin gives in to the temptation to buy a new notebook to try and write poetry in. They have enough canned food to survive to the next ice age so they pick up perishable items like milk, bread, butter, and eggs. Jon also picks up fresh peaches and a box of Martin’s preferred tea. It’s easy to pretend like they going on a normal shopping trip as they walk up and down the aisles to check things off their list.

They return to the cabin and settle in. Martin sits on the sofa and tries to write out a poem while Jon tries to read a book from Daisy’s personal collection. After a while, Martin beings to feel Jon’s gaze on him.

“Is there something on my face?” He tries casually as he’s met with an expression he’s never been on the receiving end of.

“I was just thinking about how much I love you,” Jon sighs. Martin can’t stop the noise that comes out of him. All his life trying to earn love and Jon just says it while Martin’s thinking of a synonym for ‘yellow.’

“I-I don’t expect you to reciprocate,” Jon says quickly, his soft expression suddenly turning worried.

“But I do.”

“Oh…Oh!”

“Yeah.”

Jon starts giggling and it’s impossible for Martin not to follow suit until happy tears stream down both of their faces.

#the magnus archives #martin blackwood #jonmartin #jonathan sims #I wrote a fic #this was supposed to be posted on valentines day

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ashbrea381writings · 3 years

Text

Fractals and Feathers: Chapter two, Information

“Colored cracks may appear in cases where a soulmate dies and is subsequently resuscitated.” Tim quoted as he sat back from the computer. “This happens frequently with heart patients and those in bad motor accidents.”

“Yes, but these are a lot of them… And they’re gold.” Damian commented with a sigh. “And Kent has mostly gold with a few red ones. It shouldn’t be possible for someone to die and be resuscitated that many times!” He began pacing around behind Tim, muttering. “There must be some kind of magic involved here, perhaps Mother is behind this, Grandfather always hated my wings, it could be some sort of magic they’re using to try and make me think my soulmate is dead, but it didn’t work right.”

“Baby Bird, that doesn’t explain Jon’s wings.” Dick commented as he walked in, removing his mask and wiping some sweat from his forehead. “Besides, I did some recon too, it seems like a few people who’s soulmates are in Paris have experienced the same thing. When they called their soulmates in a panic over the cracks that had appeared, they were told that there is a new set of Supers in Paris. And one of them has the power to reverse all the damage done by the Villain… Including death.”

Tim gave a groan, typing furiously as he tried to get past the firewall that kept rewriting itself. “I can’t get any info out of Paris. I even set my VPN to and address in Paris, but it somehow keeps blocking me.” He growled in frustration as a window opened on the screen previously just covered with code, showing a young woman with dark, blue-black hair in a high ponytail and a red and black mask over eyes that practically glowed blue.

“Will you stop that?!” She snarled in heavily accented English. “I don’t care who you are, but you need to keep your noses out of our business.”

Thankfully, Tim and Damian were still masked up, and Dick was able to turn around before the video fully opened. “We work with the Justice League, if people are dying repeatedly and are only brought back by magic it IS our business.” Nightwing responded in his best Batman impression as he turned around with his mask back in place. “I’m assuming that would be you who does this?”

“Yes, it is, and I would appreciate it if you and your superpowered friends stayed away from my city.” She seemed to set whatever the camera was attached to on a ledge, showing a stunning view of Paris behind her. “We have it handled here and we don’t need any of your friends making our jobs harder.”

“Isn’t your job to protect the citizens of Paris?!” Robin growled, stalking up to the screen and glaring behind his mask. “Yet somehow, those who we know have soulmates in Paris are suffering with the knowledge that their soulmates keep dying only to be brought back by some magic that might just stop working one day!”

“I don’t get a choice.” She responded, crossing her arms. “Hawkmoth won’t stop until he gets what he wants and I don’t feel like letting the world potentially end, thank you. We are working on his identity, but it’s difficult with the magics involved-such as the one that alerted me to your intrusion and prevents you from finding what you want.”

“And how are we supposed to trust you?” Red Robin asked, almost too casually for Robin’s preference, if the way his shoulders stiffened was any indication. “See, we have a couple people we know personally whose wings are covered in gold and red fractal patterns, and we’re awfully worried about people who have to sacrifice themselves that much. Especially since it obviously sticks long enough to make a mark, AND they all showed up within the last couple of weeks.”

“One of my team members is able to rewind time for a maximum of 5 minutes at a time, this allows the possibility of thousands of different aborted timelines, hence why the lines might show up multiple at a time. Because they might have died in a couple dozen of the timelines before we finally had a solution.” She sighed and pinched her nose. “We are up against a madman with a magic item that allows him to use negative emotions against us and make his victims do the dirty work for him.”

“Dirty work? What kind of dirty work?” Nightwing asked, frowning and crossing his arms in turn. “What does he want, exactly? And how does that potentially end the world?”

“He wants the magic items that myself and my partner use. The ones our team uses and that Hawkmoth and his partner use are from a set of them, I won’t tell you how many. Each has a different power, and the one’s my partner and I use happen to be the two most powerful, using the power of creation…” She paused and gestured to herself, glancing off screen for a moment. “And destruction, respectively.” She stepped to one side to reveal a young man in armored leather with cat ears on his head.

“When you combine them, you are able to make a wish. Would you trust the man who is willing to destroy Paris with such a wish?” The young man asked, his black and acid green wings flaring out as though in a threat display. “Or being able to use someone like Superman as a weapon?”

“How would that be possible?” Nightwing asked, “Also, since we will apparently be having a longer conversation than I expected, I’m Nightwing. These are Robin and Red Robin.” He added, pointing to them. “We would like to offer aid if we can, even from a distance if we needed to. I’m assuming that since you could connect to our computer with the magic you’re using, you could also exempt it from the magic.”

“That’s a bold assumption. I’m Ladybug, and this is my partner Chat Noir. While I could let you guys have an exception, I’m afraid I don’t see why I should trust you.” Her wings were also bristling, the red-and-black spots clearly caused by the magic they used just as Chat’s coloration obviously wasn’t natural.

“We are known for being detectives above all else. We don’t have powers, and one or two of us are even mentally well-adjusted enough that we could probably come to you guys without risking whatever happens with your villain.” Nightwing insisted.

“How about we come to you? Give us a place to meet with you in your city, we have a way to transport ourselves. I’d like to size you up before I give you any more information.” Ladybug countered, moving her hands to her hips. “I don’t trust that you’re nearly as well adjusted as you claim, I’m one of the most positive people on the face of the earth and even I have had to force myself out of mindsets that nearly got me Akumatized. It’s not as easy to avoid as you think.”

“What was that word? Akumatized?” Red Robin asked, frowning as he tried and failed to translate the word.

“It’s what we call it when someone has been taken over by Hawkmoth. He sends out a butterfly corrupted by magic and turns normal people into a villain. Once the Akuma -the butterfly- is purified the victim does not remember any of what happened while they were Akumatized.” The Bug and Cat pair exchanged a glance, making frustrated faces at each other.

“What was that look?” Robin asked, still angry that they weren’t giving him what he wanted. “The look you two had just now?”

“We… We’ll tell you after we decide if we want help from you.” Ladybug sighed. “I’ve added a way for you to message me on my device I’m using to talk to you, it’ll show up as an app on your computer. Don’t use it for trivial matters or I’ll just lock you out. Give me a time and place to meet, using my timezone preferably, and I will do my best to have both me and Chat be there to discuss matters further.” With those last, brisk words, Ladybug reached for her device and cut the call.

“Well, that was rude.” Red Robin huffed, picking up his phone to show Batman’s face in a video call there. “Did you hear all that, B?”

“I heard. Send coordinates for the top of Wayne Enterprises, for 9:00 pm Paris time tomorrow.” He instructed, sighing from his seat in the Batmobile. “We will all meet them there, let her know that myself and the three of you will be there.”

“Copy that, B. Sending the information now.” The young man typed quickly, double-checking what time that would be for them. “That’s the middle of the afternoon, are you sure?”

“Yeah, nobody has anything scheduled for tomorrow, and she sounded about the same age as Robin. With all that considered, I don’t know if they DO have civilian plans early the next day, so I’d rather err towards them having more time to sleep.”

Reading the return message, Red Robin began to chuckle. “They want to meet us at 4am Paris Time, as they already get up that early to do other things and missing half an hour or so wouldn’t be an issue.”

“Very well, if that’s part of their routine, we can handle that.” Batman answered, seeming interested to know what the heck had them up that early.

#mgi trope tussle #maribat #daminette #dc #miraculous ladybug #wing au #soulmate

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ofdreamsanddoodles · 4 years

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i know the fears are kind of made up so classifying the statements isn’t super important, especially now, but I’d like to point out that even thought MAG 180 is about death, it is absolutely 100% a Web statement and, unfortunately, that means we should be worried about Annabelle

First off, this statement’s in second person. All of this is someone telling you what to do, to “walk faster now, pick up the pace” and to “just knock and and ask to enter.” Then there’s what’s actually in the building. The face “you” find is “stained with age and death and sin,” but immediately after "sin” is mentioned, the statement giver backs up, saying that they’ve misjudged what they saw. It’s very typical of the Web to make you second guess yourself. MAG 172 has something similar

THE SPIDER: “Oh, Francis. It’s such a shame that I couldn’t do such a thing even if I wanted to. The man in the audience saw to that. (laugh) I am no more free than you are, little puppet.

It’s not exactly the same, but here’s the line in MAG 180:

Or try your best not to hear, to think nothing but good and admirable thoughts of those who wait in monuments to their own virtue. There now, a face, pale and stained with age and death and sin, no, not sin, never sin. Misjudgment. Indiscretion. Misunderstanding. Never sin. Never evil.

Once again, an outside force is telling the statement giver that the people around them are good, despite the fact that the situation they’re in is specifically designed to cause as much fear as possible.

We even have a description of doors with occupants that have “brittle, bony limbs.” It’s easy to assume that this could be describing skeletons, except that Annabelle is described several times as being extremely thin, and says that the Web avatar she met was very skinny as well. Either way, we never find out what’s inside the crypts because the statement tells you to avoid the doors, and ignore the thoughts these sights make you feel.

There’s a very heavy emphasis on not being able to speak your mind, not because you don’t want to, but because something is stopping you from being honest about your feelings. First, there’s the phrase “Nihil Nisi Bonum,” which means not to speak ill of the dead, then the statement goes on to insisting that the angels wouldn’t like it if you made a scene, and continues on to imply that saying anything bad about the dead, even if they personally wronged you, makes you a terrible person. It’s all manipulation! The person in this statement isn’t afraid of the dead, or being dead, they’re afraid of what this experience will force them to say, and what will happen to them if they deviate from their script. It’s also pretty important to point out that this is very clearly about a dead female relative! It’s not specified whether or not it’s their mother or not, but it’s definitely someone who raised him. Which makes this next bit very interesting;

Don’t step on the cracks, or goodness knows what will happen. And you are surrounded by goodness, are you not?

"If you step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back” is a really childish superstition, but it’s another mention of mothers, right before we meet Annabelle (aka, the daughter of the mother of puppets) and it’s another insistence that “you” must be good. More manipulation, more insistence that you follow a rigid morality that makes no sense.

There’s also “t calls itself a home, but it lies,” which is a potentially Spiral line, of course, but the Web lies just as much. And now that Jon and Martin are in Annabelle’s home...

‘Come in,’ the Funeral Director intones, ‘the service is about to begin. You are expected.’

It’s not the same, but Annabelle welcomes Jon and Martin this episode as well. And it’s the Funeral Director nudging “you” through this entire statement. It’s them and their involvement that makes this day as terrible as it is.

The dust has settled over everything in layers so thick you dread to touch anything, to rest for even a moment, so keenly aware of the stark imprint you would leave, the marks of your presence.

This isn’t a super important line right yet, but dust and cobwebs are, as we know, tied to the Web. And the fact that they can’t even rest for a moment is really interesting, since that’s exactly what Jon and Martin are going to do.

There’s not much that’s obviously Web about the way the statement describes walking up to the corpse, but the Funeral Director forces “you” into the podium despite being desperate to leave, and then “commands” you into “saying a few words.” There’s a lot that can be said about, especially considering that’s kind of how Jon was forced into ending the world, but the fact that the eulogy is someone forced into speaking about how good someone is despite all evidence to the contrary? The fact that they talk about how this person touched the lives of others? Very Web. I’m sure Annabelle would say the Web made Jon’s life “more beautiful,” too.

There’s also the part angels play into this statement. It’s the angels that are watching, the angels that you can’t offend, they angels that are waiting for you to make one wrong move so they have an excuse to strike. The person in the statement continues onwards because of the fear of these angels, which the Funeral Director then takes advantage of. And in the eulogy, the corpse called an angel.

Beneath your threadbare suit and fear-stained shirt, the scars that lattice across your body ache and burn at the sight of the one who gave them to you. You feel the cross she once carved into your back open, and begin to weep its own bloody testament.

We all know who gave Jon his scars. We also know who he and Martin are planning on fighting. And we know Elias is always watching and that he was waiting for Jon to make a wrong move, so he could end the world. And Jon, just like in the statement, was placed on this path because of agents of the Web. The Director leads you up to the podium. Mr. Spider makes desperate to learn more.

And then we have the last few lines, which is what convinced me this was Web in the first place

You cannot turn from the podium, cannot stop the gushing flow of love and forgiveness you vomit out into the nodding crowd. Behind you, a dark shadow moves, a shape that seems to slither from the coffin. You watch it coming closer from the corner of your eye, but you cannot stop your kind words. Not even as the needle-sharp teeth of her corpse begin to dig into your shoulder.

Once again, not the first time we’ve heard about something like this. Yes, this is obviously a zombie, but Francis had hooks dug into their skin for The Spider to control them. And, honestly, what is a zombie but a person operating against their own will? You don’t want for flesh or brains, but being bitten by a zombie gives you that hunger. Jon needs to survive on statements. He lives this way because someone with a similar hunger forced him into becoming something inhuman.

And of course, the corpse you knew is the only angel that gets to hurt you. The rest never move, though it’s implied they could. But you’re only even so close to this corpse because of the Funeral Director. They’ve placed you right where you need to be for the one who wants to hurt you to deal the final blow.

So, whatever Annabelle has planned proooobably isn’t great news for Jon

#the magnus archives #tma #tma spoilers #tma meta #mag 180 #annabelle cane #jonathan sims #adventures of angel #the web

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rosy-cheekx · 3 years

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Peeling Labels

Aspec Week, Day 7: Something New-- @aspecarchivesweek

an exploration of Jon and demisexuality! As a demisexual mspec person, a lot of this is based on my own anxieties as an aspec person and not being “ace enough.” (thanks to @ombreblossom for listening to me try to parse out how being demi feels and how to word it for the fic.)

Rated T for reference to a sex dream, but no explicit language/smut words used!

Jon has a weird relationship with labels. Labels are good, they categorize and compartmentalize feelings, situations, states of being. An archivist’s dream, really. But when they are applied to Jon, either by himself or someone else, they feel non-Newtonian, as if holding onto the word for too long causes it to slip through his fingers.

Usually, it’s fine. He knows that labels don’t really matter, but they still feel good. It’s comforting to know that he isn’t broken or a liar or confused; there are people in the world who share a word with him. They are bonded under a flag of black, white, purple, and grey.

Jon had set the precedent quickly, with Martin, on the first night they had been in Jon’s flat, pressed against a doorframe and exploring each other with gentle urgency. “I-ah, Martin,” he had broken away from Martin’s lips, eyes shining with a mix of adoration and anxiety. “I don’t think I’ve told you before, but I’m asexual. Just-uh, well. Thought you should know.”

Martin had nodded, eyes soft and full of understanding. “Okay. Do we have a boundary I should know?” The answer was yes: anything below the belt was strictly off limits, to give or to receive. And that was that. Martin was the perfect gentleman, checking in constantly whenever they were in the heat of a moment. The rule remained and was never crossed. Rules have labels and that label was: asexual.

Except, it wasn’t that easy. God forbid anything was easy for Jon. Labels are nice and they’re helpful to the part of Jon that craves structure, order. He’d found his ace identity while dating Georgie, after she gently asked him what was up after his third gentlemanly refusal of her advances. He had stammered out that he liked her, but didn’t want sex, at all, and he didn’t want her to be upset with him. And of course she wasn’t, because she’s Georgie, and she helped him find the word asexual, that glorious, blessed word that made so many frustrations and doubts slot into place.

Their romance didn’t end because of his aceness, far from it in fact. In fact, honestly, they were probably together as long as they were because their friendship was the strongest part of their relationship. But god, they were too similar to be in love. They were both too stubborn, too determined, unable to reach compromise when it came to the silliest things like movie nights (Jon found Georgie’s Lord of the Rings box set far too long and far too pretentious for his taste) or how their cupboards should be arranged. Their relationship was something they could win, and they were both determined to be the victor.

In the end, they both lost.

While Jon and Georgie had been a couple first, friends second, he and Martin had a foundation. There was friendship, shared trauma, a love that surpassed romantic and dug into something deeper. When they’re in bed and the dark is warm and heavy, limbs intertwined, Jon is reminded of the Greek myth of soulmates: a four armed, four legged being split in two, deemed to be too powerful by the gods. Sharing an essence, completing each other, making two halves whole. It makes Jon smile and kiss Martin’s forehead affectionately. They had been too powerful for the gods, hadn’t they? Unstoppable, really.

All this to say…what he has with Martin? It’s new. Something he has never experienced before. And it’s leading to a host of new, confusing experiences. He’s been in a relationship with Martin for nearly six months now. Jon really thought that at 32 years old, after battling down fear entity after fear entity in an apocalyptic hellscape, there were no new feelings he could experience. But here he was, lying awake, trying to trace patterns in the ceiling and understand the dream he had woken up from.

Not a nightmare. No, quite the opposite. Nightmares he knows how to deal with: slip out of bed, make a cup of tea or a glass of water, slip on the lamp by the bed, and cuddle into bed, reading quietly until sleep steals him away. But he does not know how to deal with this new dream of Martin, hovering above him, low voice stealing his breath and pressing kisses along his jaw, collarbone, shoulder as delicate, warm, strong hands brushed his body, dipping low with confidence. Jon woke up to a heat pooling in his core, tight and powerful, one he hadn’t experienced in such a way.

Jon has a libido, sure, but it’s always been a bodily desire, not a…what would you call this? Emotional one? He certainly never fantasized about another person, especially not someone he knew, that felt so invasive. He felt a flush heat his cheeks and chest as he pictured that image of Martin his subconscious has supplied him, above and around him with that concentration face he wears whenever he’s starting a puzzle or stuck on a particular difficult crossword, the one that always makes Jon grin and kiss his wrinkled forehead. But this one looked more heated, more filled with lust. And it… it affected him. Jon realized with a dawning that he liked it. A lot.

Jon glanced at the bedside clock and sighed at the blinking green 5:15 on the LED screen. Good a time as any to get a hot shower and let his feelings wash away with the soapy water. He extracted himself carefully from Martin’s warm arms and slipped into the ensuite, stripping to the sounds of water pounding from the showerhead and letting the steam and hot water envelop him. He scrubbed himself down harshly, watching suds rinse down his legs and down the drain, trying desperately to keep his mind off whatever that had been.

Once his skin was blotchy from heat, Jon decided he had enough. He slid into the flannel trousers he’d left abandoned on the floor of the loo and slipped back to bed, trying to do so without disrupting his sleeping boyfriend. Martin looked so lovely like this, auburn curls streaked with white plastered against the pillow and his forehead, mouth hung open and naked torso splayed so openly, so unguarded. He looked so lovely, the freckles smattered on his shoulders and stretch marks carving beautiful lines across his skin; the stars and the rivers below, a whole world in the work of art that is Martin Blackwood. How would he feel if he knew Jon had had that dream about him?

Jon’s staring, the lowercase-b-beholding of the man he loved was broken by Martin sleepily opening his eyes, a moment of confusion followed by focusing on Jon, who was kneeling on the edge of his side of the bed, captivated.

“Mmm. Hi there, love,” Martin mumbled, running a hand through his hair and sleepily glancing over at the clock. “You alright? Bad dream?”

Jon nodded; the spell broken. “Ah, yeah.” He couldn’t tell Martin, it was just a dream; he didn’t want to confuse Martin or worse, convince him he was a liar, that he wasn’t asexual, that it had all been to avoid-

Oh. Martin had spoken. He was staring at him expectantly, waiting for a response. “Sorry, say it again?” Jon asked meekly, sliding back under the covers.

“Do you want to talk about it, Jon?” The voice was patient, so patient. Jon shook his head and tucked himself into Martin’s side, tying up his damp, freshly brushed hair out of the way.

“I don’t really remember it anymore.” Lies. “It mustn’t have been that bad.” Martin’s hands were cool on his skin, still warm from the shower, as they brushed over the planes of his face in a slow way, stroking his nose and cheeks and forehead in the way Martin always did when he wanted Jon to go back to sleep. With some reservation, Jon let himself fall back against the pillows.

Jon thought about “The Dream” quite a bit in the week that followed. He wanted to understand it: why it had happened at all, but also, why it was still affecting him. Every so often, between emails sent and papers graded, his mind would drift back to the image of Martin, cheeks ruddy and eyes glassy, gazing down at him with such affection and Jon’s whole body would freeze up. Why was he suddenly attracted to Martin in such a new way? He loved that man with his whole being and yet, there was suddenly a new element, something unexpected, coming over the horizon. It’s been almost six months with Martin; why now?

The implications scared Jon. He had always identified as asexual; it was a core part of who he knew himself to be. Had it all been an unknowing lie? Had he just never been attracted to Georgie properly? Was it like when people get STIs; would he have to ring Georgie up and say, “hey, sorry to bother, I was never asexual, oops!”? He really didn’t want to have to do that. Would Martin be upset, angry that he had missed out on six months of potential sex just because Jon was…what? Prudish? Naïve? Afraid?

The worst part was that this…desire hadn’t come on all at once, he realized. He hadn’t even noticed the way his stomach would flip when Martin’s hands brushed his thighs, blaming his touch-based love language. It was in the way he stared at Martin when he couldn’t see it; eyes tracing his form and wondering what it would be like to feel every inch of him, in a way he had yet to experience.

God he…had to tell Martin, didn’t he? He didn’t want to feel like a pervert in his own relationship, observing and imagining from afar without Martin’s knowledge. It felt…dirty.

Jon made dinner, nine days after the dream. Nothing extreme, tikka masala, rice, and garlic naan. Martin’s favorite. As he cooked, he vacillated between trying to plan out what he wanted to say and very-much-not-thinking about how the evening could end. The worst outcome, he imagined, was Martin storming out, betrayed and heartbroken. That…that probably wouldn’t happen. No, he knew Martin Blackwood. Better than anyone else in the world. That definitely wouldn’t happen. Lo-fi techno crooned through the speakers as Jon cooked and he let his thoughts float away with the music, trying to focus on the spices of dish he was making and not the knowledge that Martin would be home in ten-

Oh. Jon heard the shhlik of the door sliding against the welcome mat and felt his whole body tense up.

“Jon? You making dinner?” Martin’s voice was warm as he called through the entrance, he didn’t know yet what Jon was going to tell him, that it was all a lie-

“Yes!” Jon called back, determined to keep his voice light and casual. “Your favorite. Be ready in five, so get out of your work clothes.”

“Smells delicious,” Martin was behind him now, voice low against the shell of his ear. Jon felt a shiver run down his spine, to where his stomach and pelvis met and a ball of electricity crackled there, unbidden. Martin kissed the crook of his neck chastely and Jon froze, unsure how to reciprocate.

“You okay?” Martin’s chin was on his shoulder now, voice soft.

“Fine, fine. You smell like crayons. The cerulean one.” Jon nudged Martin away casually, trying to pass off a witty remark.

“Hazard of the job, I suppose. You know you love it,” Martin mercifully pulled his hands from Jon’s waist and retreated to the bedroom, and Jon exhaled in relief.

Jon plated the masala. Martin poured the wine. They sat down to dinner. Jon felt it all happen, was there for it all, but it passed in strange jerky stop-motion, and he couldn’t seem to slow it down. He couldn’t see to find the words, so elected for none at all, eating silently. Eye-contact would give away the anxiety brimming inside him, so he kept his eyes on his plate and the wine and the sleeve of Martin’s sweatshirt, anything but Martin’s warm hazel eyes that he knew so well.

“Jon.” He could hear it in Martin’s voice, the gentle prompting. He could hear the worry, the confusion. God, it was going to happen wasn’t it? He was going to tell Martin and what happened happened and he couldn’t do anything to change that. “How was your day?”

“I-ah. Martin.” He said, voice jerky, unable to find a rhythm that felt right. “I have something to tell you.” The words fell from his mouth in a tumble.

“Oh?”

“I. I had a dream?” Martin’s eyes widened and he set his fork down. “N-not one of the Eye’s dreams,” Jon reassures quickly. He really wished dreams weren’t such a theme in his life. “Not a statement dream, but a… different kind of dream.”

“I…I don’t follow.” Martin was confused, eyes searching Jon’s face.

“A dream…about you?” he tried, unable to add the words “sex dream” into his vocabulary quite yet.

“Oh. Oh!” Martin understood at last, eyebrows raised and forehead that adorable, confused wrinkle. “That’s, well, nice, I guess?” Jon’s face must have given way to his thoughts, as Martin tried again. “O-or maybe not?”

“Martin,” Jon steeled himself. “I…I think I’m maybe not asexual.” The words rang sharp in his ears, grating; they didn’t feel right. But it was true, wasn’t it? He didn’t know what sort of explanation there could be.

When Jon dared to look into Martin’s face, he saw an expression he didn’t know how to parse. Furrowed eyebrows, eyes searching Jon’s face, head cocked slightly. “Okay. Because of the dream?”

“Um-kind of? But also…” Jon felt blood rush through his cheeks, was certain the Desolation had picked now to tear its way through him, and was grateful. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About you. In-in ways asexual people shouldn’t. A-and I thought you should know, because I didn’t want you to think I was lying to you and I don’t want to be having those thoughts without you knowing because that feels rude, in a way? Like I set a boundary but have been crossing it in my head this whole time?” Tears stung the corners of his eyes.

Martin’s voice was even, level, hard to parse as he spoke. “Jon, can I ask you a question? Only because you seem upset and I want to try to help you.” Jon was frustrated. Why wouldn’t he have the decency to be upset? At a nod, Martin’s chair scraped backwards, and Jon found Martin kneeling him beside him, hands on his knees as Jon swiveled to face him. Taking his pockmarked hands in his own, Martin rubbed Jon’s knuckles slowly, tenderly.

“Have you ever felt those feelings before?” Jon shook his head meekly, certain the lump in his throat would betray him. “Have you had those feelings the whole time we’ve known each other? Like, since the Institute?”

This time, Jon shook his head. “Not-not until after we were dating. The safehouse, maybe?”

“This one’s gonna sound a little rude, Jon, but bear with me. Do you think you’ve ever been as emotionally close to anyone else as you are with me?” He squeezed Jon’s hands warmly, adding: “And I am with you?”

Jon shook his head. Of course not. Martin was something new to him, something untapped in the world. A treasure, a diamond in the rough. There was nothing that compared to their relationship.

“Jon. I don’t want to tell you how you identify, that’s not my place, but I, I think you’re still asexual.” Jon’s eyes snapped to meet Martin’s; it was his turn to furrow his brow. “After you came out to me, remember? I started looking into asexuality. I wanted to be able to impress you at Pride this summer,” Martin ducked his head, wincing at the cheesiness of his words. “But did you know there’s a bunch of subtypes of asexuality?”

What? This was news to Jon. There’s wanting sex and not wanting sex, right? He shook his head numbly and felt a comforting, grounding squeeze of his hands again.

“There was one I researched a little extra, because it confused me, and I wanted to understand the difference,” Martin continued, moving a hand to stroke Jon’s cheekbone, to guide his face to meet his. “Demisexual, Jon. It’s a subtype of asexuality, and it’s when-” Martin’s eyes rolled back in his head, as they were want to do when he was struggling to recite something from memory. “-you don’t even have to option to feel sexual attraction until an emotional bond is established. And it’s not, like, a one-to-one thing, either. There was a woman talking about her experience on a forum and she basically explained it like sex being a door, right? And the door has a padlock on it. Emotional connection opens the padlock, but you still have to open the door.”

Jon’s mouth was agape. He…there were so many things to parse out here. “You…you looked all this up for me?”

Martin’s cheeks pinked slightly. “I wanted to make sure I understood asexuality. It’s a whole subgroup of its own; it was interesting.” Martin had been a Researcher for a reason, Jon supposed dimly.

“I. I want to research for myself, but demisexuality?” He rolled the word in his mouth as he spoke. It felt nice, weighty. “And it’s still asexual?”

Martin nodded, vehemently, pulling out his phone as he spoke. “Yeah! Its flag is the same colors too, just arranged differently.” He showed him the white and grey flag, divided with a smooth purple stripe and a black triangle on the edge. “A-and, I mean, if you realize you’re not asexual, or you’re something else, you know I’ll still support you regardless, right? I don’t love you because of your sexuality, or your identity. I love you because you’re Jonathan Sims, and everything else besides that is bonus.”

Jon exhaled, feeling the Choke release the hold on his chest. “Demisexual. I…Thank you, Martin. For listening and believing me. I love you too.” He pressed a kiss to Martin’s forehead, carding fingers through the tumbled curls. “Let’s eat, and maybe you can show me that forum afterwards?”

#cw: internalized acephobia #cw: sex dreams #tma #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #georgie barker #fanfic to a tea #ace week #aspecarchivesweek #aspec archive week

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