#Like it sounds so childish to say it was how mean they were to Jon that did it. But.

[ophthalmotropy]

Someone tagged my post about characters with tunnel vision with Basira and I can't even get angry at them because it's not wrong :/ It fits, but I don't like her.

[madame-fear]

DK Scarecrow having enemies to lovers story? Reader is a sunshine woman who is well liked, likes romcom movies, works in the same building with him and they get really annoyed with each other.

He thinks her attitude is childish while she is like "Why are so fucking negative all the time?"

They have to work on case together and have to tolerate each other. Jonathan got hurt at one of his Scarecrow heists and wound opens again on his hand on the job. While she isn't his fan she gets concerned and tells him to show it. She bandaged the wound very carefully with delicacy and told him to be careful.  

He, trying to be less dickish because of that, starts having short conversations with her. Turns out she loves animals and has a pet crow, the only horror movie she likes is Jon's favorite one.

When he accidentally cuts his finger on paper he goes to her being like "Oh no,I need medical help." She just smiles and puts bandage on it and kisses it afterwards saying he needs to be more careful.  Oh yeah, he fell. How he is going to ask for a date is up to you.

Sorry for ask being so long-

Omg i love this!! Especially the crow pet part, because I always wanted to have a crow 😂❤ In this one I made the reader a psychiatrist just so she can work w/Jon at Arkham 😘

I had so much fun writing this, so it might be a bit long since I got carried away. Enjoy your reading, my dearest!🥰

(F/H/M) = Favourite Horror Movie

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Enemies to Lovers | DK! Jonathan Crane x Fem!Reader

Being a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum didn't sound fun to anybody, especially considering the bad reputation that Arkham had gained over the years. You couldn't categorise your job as "fun", but you certainly enjoyed it, and always thought of yourself as lucky for having the chance to work there. Even if most of your colleagues didn't have high hopes for the patients in there, you were always eager about helping them overcome their problems, and hear what they had to say.

Everyone who worked there and knew you always talked good things about you, you were so kind, emphatic, and sweet. Your heart was big, and full of sympathy for anyone who crossed your path. But, there was something, or rather, someone who always ruined the mood, and frustrated the hell out of you: it was Dr Jonathan Crane. He was what you would call an 'asshole' with you. He was always too serious, moody, and could never take a joke, so that lead to you two not being able to tolerate each other. The tension between you two was too notorious for anyone who was stuck in the middle of you.

The main reason of why you couldn't stand each other was not only because he got on your nerves with his moodiness, but also, because you've argued a few times before, and it was always because he thought of you as childish.

"Why do you have to be so childish all the time, Dr (L/N)?" / "And why are you so fucking negative all the time, Dr Crane?"

The worst part of all is that you had been assigned to work together on a particular case, meaning you would have to learn to tolerate each other's presence. Even if you couldn't stand each other, you couldn't help but deep down inside wish he was nicer to you. He was so...enigmatic, and there was something about him that made you want to know him properly, but you couldn't place your finger on what had caught your attention. The only thing you could do was keep dreaming about getting properly along with him.

You shook your thoughts off your mind as you finally reached the large, obscure front doors of Arkham, taking a deep sigh before entering the building. Today was the day you had to work on the assigned case along Dr Crane, which that required to not lose your shit trying to cope with his constant bad mood. You directly headed towards his office, expecting him to be there so you could try to manage yourselves with the case. Suddenly hearing a familiar voice call you from behind, you stopped on your tracks.

"Dr (L/N)." Turning your head to see where the voice came from, you saw Jonathan standing there, with what seemed to be some paper work on his hand. "Dr Crane." You said, offering a gentle smile, as you slowly made your way towards him. "This is the patients file. We should begin to work on it as soon as possi–" His serious face suddenly changed, as it turned into a pained expression. Interrupting himself, he instinctively passed the paper work to the other hand, looking at his now shaky hand. You couldn't help but notice there was a big slash covering his whole palm, and it seemed to be that it began dripping some bright, red blood. "Dr Crane, what happened? Are you alright?" At this point you didn't care if he pushed you away, you were genuinely concerned about it. "It's nothing." He said, hardly trying to keep a monotone voice, as well as his professional facade. "Please, show me your hand." You insisted.

He looked deep into your eyes for a second, and sighed. "I just...accidentally cut myself." He replied. His excuse was lame, but you didn't mind that at all, nor you knew it was only an excuse. Knowing you'd keep insisting, he gave up and showed his wounded hand to you. You furrowed your eyebrows at the thought of the pain he must've felt at the moment. "This must hurt like hell, Dr Crane. Before we begin working on this case, I'm going to put a bandage on your wound. Come on, let's go." Not allowing him to oppose and leaving him no time to argue against that, you grabbed him by the hand, and guided him towards your office, where you had saved some bandages and aids in case you had an emergency. A light blush crept on his face. While it was well known in the entire building that you didn't get along very well, deep down inside, he appreciated the fact that you still cared for his well being and shook off the assigned patient case just to bandage his wound. Maybe, you weren't so bad, after all.

Having reached your office, you quickly opened the door, closing it behind you as soon as you entered. "Sit there." You said, moving the chairs in front and behind your desk so you could sit, and properly take care of his wound. He did as you told, and sat in the chair, as he stared at you look for all things neccessary to take care of a wound. "Here they are!" You said, a broad smile occupying your lips, as you held the bandages and other things to cover his injury. "This might be a bit annoying, considering it's a deep wound covering your whole palm, but it'll be quick." That was definitely going to be painful, you thought. Trying to reassure him, you gave him a gentle smile as you sat in front of him.

The first thing you did, was grab a liquid in a small bottle that was useful for deep wounds that could possibly form into an infection in a future, and gently dropped a few drops in it. Noticing how he flinched his face with clear pain due to the stinging sensation he felt, you muttered a quick 'sorry' and continued taking care of it. The next step, once you dropped a bit of your anti-infection liquid in his wound, you grabbed the bandage, and gently began wrapping his palm with it. You were as delicate and as careful as you could be, knowing that since his wound seemed to had once again opened, it was a very annoying, and it hurted quite a lot even if he said absolutely nothing.

Once you fully covered his palm with the bandage, you grabbed the scissors that stood on your desk, and cut the rest of bandage that you weren't going to use, placing it back again on your desk. "You should be more careful next time, Dr Crane." You shyly muttered, as you stared deep into his icy blue eyes. Your kindness was enough to get into him. With a single nod, he smiled back at you, and quietly thanked you for your dedication. The tension that was always felt when you two where in the same room wasn't there anymore, it was more of a calm atmosphere, which it was something you enjoyed, and had desired for a while now.

"You can call me Jonathan." He said quietly.

The rest of the day was spent working. You were constantly on the thrill of the rush, due to Arkham's natural chaotic environment. You were especially focused on working on the patient Dr Crane and you had been assigned to take care of, so you had been extremely busy and always on the run. While your mind was full of work and adrenaline, his mind was occupied on replaying the small moment he shared with you. He appreciated the fact that you cared for his injuries, despite not liking each other. He had no reason for acting shitty around you now, since that would be very ungrateful of him. Naturally, everytime he looked at his bandaged hand, it made him think of all the times he had been mean towards you, which kind of made him feel bad about it; something very rare for him.

Perhaps, it was time for you to get to know each other properly. He thought that the best way of doing so was by starting small chats with you.

------- Time Skip To a Few Months Later -------

A short while after having taken care of his wounded hand, you two had soon began to have some small talking while you worked; progressively getting along each other. The sudden change of attitude between you two was thrilling for your colleagues, who knew how badly you disliked each other. The well-known tension slowly but notoriously fading away.

He discovered some fun facts about you, it seemed you shared more similarities than any of you would have ever thought. One of the things he learned about you was the love and interest you held for animals. That love you had was both fascinating and contagious. What he had also found out about you, was that you had a pet crow named Corvus, and also, that you had similar tastes in horror movies – sharing the liking of a specific horror movie: (F/H/M). Not only it was his favourite, but it was your as well.

It had costed him a bit to open up and reveal more of himself to you, but your smile, your sweetness, your kindness...all of that was enough to make him confident in himself, and feel free to express and share his thoughts with you. You were special to him, somehow. He wasn't sure exactly how and what it was, but there was something about you that made him excited to go to work, and his heart flutter with joy as soon as he saw you walking around the chilly, obscure hallways of Arkham Asylum. He wasn't very well familiarised with that sensation, but he surely enjoyed it.

Could it be love? Maybe, most definitely. But he wasn't ready to accept the thoughts of him so badly falling for one of his colleagues. He never thought about dating someone, or simply being in a relationship, his mind was way too focused on his work, especially on working with the fear toxin. It took him a while to stop fighting against the constant denial about his feelings towards you, eventually giving up and allowing his mind to be consumed by you.

Shaking off his current thoughts away from his mind, which were distracting him, he focused back on his work. Looking at his desk collapsed with paperwork, he adjusted his glasses, deeply sighing. He stood up from his chair, and began placing the paperwork in order, trying to make his desk look less messy, and more professional.

As he quickly moved the papers away, absolutely entranced in the task, his concentration was suddenly lost as he felt an annoyingly stinging pain in his finger, which caused him to let out to quietly curse out of frustration. He looked at what provoked such feeling, and noticed that he had accidentally cut his finger with the paper, causing only a very small drop of blood to show up. A bright idea suddenly invaded his mind. Smiling at the though of it, he pressed his cut finger, making some more drops of blood to appear. This was such a great excuse to head towards your office and spend time with you.

In a heartbeat, he got out of his office and quickly guided himself towards your office. Since the distance between your office and his was short, he quickly arrived there, gently knocking on the door as he waited for you to respond. "Come in!" You shouted from inside your office, causing his heart to beat slightly faster. He slowly opened the door, revealing your small and delicate figure sitting on the chair behind your desk, apparently you were reading some files from the new patients. Lifting your sight, you smiled at the sight of him popping from behind your door.

"I might need some medical help." He said, before you could even open your mouth to greet him. He partly closed the door behind him, and slowly walked towards you, showing you his insignificant cut, which had a few miserable drops of blood. You couldn't help but smile and playfully scoff at his silly exaggeration, you couldn't help but find him extremely adorable, considering yourself lucky of being able to see his hidden personality. "Very well, sir. Allow me to take care of it." You replied, doing your best to sound as professional as possible.

Searching through your first aid kit, you found some band aids. You grabbed them, and walked towards him, gently grabbing his barely cut finger and placing the band aid on top of the slightly smeared blood. Since you had gained all his trust, you guided his finger to your lips, and placed a very delicate kiss on top of the band aid. "You should be more careful, sir." Oh, he surely felt his heart pounding with excitement as soon as your eyes met his, making him more confident in the realisation of his crush with you. It was a whole new sensation for him, and he absolutely loved the way he felt around you. He was sure he felt the blushing on his cheeks increase, slightly tingling.

"Thank you for your service, Dr." He playfully replied; you really did get the best of him. "Of course." You said smiling, and smoothly sending him a wink that made his cheeks get even more reddish. He had to get his mind back to work, but he had something he's been holding for a while now, and he'll eventually find a way to tell you in a proper way, without scaring you off.

Hours passed, and he had finally returned back again to his home. As soon as he got comfy, he spent nearly all night long thinking about in which way would he ask you out. Ironically, anxiety consumed the emotionless Dr Crane, by simply thinking about how to impress you while asking you out for a date. That night, even if he had been nearly sleepless, a brilliant idea crossed his mind. And he was going to put it into action the very next day, as soon as he saw you.

------- The Next Day -------

The exciting day he's been waiting for had come. He was anxious, yet eager to try out the idea that had left him sleepless all night long. What he had planned was a small yet subtle detail, but it was perfect enough to allow him to smoothly ask you out on a date. On the other hand, you were clueless, but also excited to see him once again. Just like him, you've gained a huge crush on him, and you suspected he liked you too...but you thought to yourself, that you might have been imagining it.

Making your way towards your workplace, your head was filled with thoughts about him. Your head constantly replayed all the good times you've spent with him, and hoped for things to go even further than now. Once you arrived to Arkham, you entered the building as quickly as possible, since today was colder than usual, making you could feel some goosebumps creeping on your body. The Asylum itself wasn't helping much with the current cold that consumed your body, due to it's chilly halls.

Nervousness filled your whole body like it never did before. You were thrilled at the thought of being near his presence, and you swore it made your heart skip a beat. Having to focus back to your work, you had finally arrived to your office. Opening the door, you left it very partly open and quickly sat on your chair. "Shit." You quietly muttered, at the sight of your desk being a mess with paperwork. Feeling a small headache appear, you took a deep sigh and mentally prepared yourself for the day that was yet to come. The first thing you did was place everything that laid on your desk in it's right place, only to make it look less chaotic.

Since your mind was automatically focused on the task, you slightly jumped and quietly gasped when you heard someone knocking on the door. "Fuck!" You exclaimed. Your cheeks began getting rosy when you realised that the one knocking on the door was Jonathan. "Sorry, Jon. I didn't realise it was you the one knocking." He chuckled at your comment, both his hands were behind his back. "You should watch your language." He said, a gentle smile forming on his lips. You playfully rolled your eyes at him. "What are you, my mum? Come on, we are both adults. Besides, I've heard you swear before." He quietly scoffed at you, his smile never fading away. "You're right, (Y/N)."

Leaving your paperwork aside, you slowly walked towards him. "So, what brings you to my office? Are you in need of medical help once again?" Soft blush appeared on his cheeks as you playfully hit his arm with your shoulder. He gently shook his head. "Luckily, no. It's something better, I'd say. I came to bring you..." He briefly paused for a moment. This very moment was the first time he ever felt shy around someone. "I came to bring you a gift." His arms were behind his back the whole time, hiding the gift he had bought for you. "Oh! Really? What is it?" He found you adorable when you were excited, just like a little child.

Your excitement was so contagious, and it made his smile grow even wider. "Hope you like it." He said, as he finally showed you a very delicate black box with a golden ribbon wrapped around it. At this moment, you felt you were about to faint. Gently taking it away from him, you slowly open the box, revealing a pair of crow earrings, and a necklace that had with the initial of your name. "Oh, this is so beautiful! Thank you so much, I love it!" With your arms wide open, you threw yourself at him, tightly embracing him into a hug. It was the first time you had ever hugged him.

He stood there, shockingly proccesing the moment. He felt like melting into your touch, it was something that he had hoped for so long...and here you were. Eventually, he gave into the hug, wrapping his arms around you, and pressing your small, delicate body against his. Now, was the moment to ask you out on a date, and he only wished for you to say yes. "I'm glad you liked it, my dear." He quietly muttered, as he softly played with some strands of your hair. His nervousness increased as seconds passed by. "I really enjoy your company, (Y/N). You're a great colleague, and you're so sweet and kind as well. I'm absolutely thrilled to be able to work with you." He quickly licked his lips before he continued speaking.

Taking a deep breath, he spoke again. "And that's why I was wondering, if perhaps I could take you out on a date someday after work?" You quickly opened your eyes, since they were previously closed. Your heart began pounding with nervousness, and overjoy. Finally! All your dreams had become true. Trying to keep your cool, you released your grip from his lanky and tall figure, and looked deep into his eyes with a small smile. "Of course! I'd love that. When?" Your voice tone was quiet and gentle, but on the inside you were screaming of happiness...unbeknownst to you, so was he. "Are you free today?" He asked, slightly tilting his head to his side. When it came to him, of course you were. You'd always be free for him.

"Sure. My schedule is free today after work. Your house or mine?" You asked, you didn't even bother to hide the blushing anymore, your lips growing wider with joy. "That decision is up to you, my dearest." He was better than you at keeping his cool, he didn't look nervous on the outside...but he was too overexcited about this whole situation. "It's a date, then. Let's meet at my house." You said, playfully extending your hand for him to shake. He looked down at your hand, and quietly chuckled to himself. He gently took your hand, and shook it.

"It's a date." He extended your hand towards his lips, and carefully kissed your knuckles, making the rosy red in your cheeks to intensify. "See you after work, Dr (L/N)." He winked at you, and walked out of your office, fully closing the door after he left. It was so hard to contain your giggles at this point. "Yeah...see you later, Dr Crane." You quietly muttered to yourself. Waiting a few long seconds after he left, you harshly covered your face with both of your hands, gushing out at the intense emotions you were currently feeling.

Joy took over your entire body as your mind replayed the sweet moment you just had with him, and kept staring at the precious little gift he had bought especially for you. It was as if the small gift had attached intensely strong emotions to it, and you could feel it deep inside of your heart. On the other hand, it was quite impossible for him to contain his goofy smile. He was so happy and proud of himself for having the courage of asking you out on a date. He really judged you wrongly when he first met you, and you were quite exclusive to him, because you're the only person he's ever regretted treating badly.

But he was surely going to make it to you. It was unbelievable how much you had gotten into his mind and heart, you had such a strong effect on him. It didn't matter how things went after your date, but he's always going to make sure you felt loved, and taken cared of. You're his precious little crow now.

[dickwheelie]

This is a little specific so feel free to give it a pass if you're not into it, but would you like to like to do season 2 Lunch Date Era jonmartin with the 'friendly hugs' prompt? Thank you, and have a good day!

specific prompts are actually really nice, they give me something solid to work off of, so this was actually perfect! I had a lot of fun writing this one. thank you and enjoy, anon!

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Jon can't stop bouncing his leg.

He keeps forgetting that he's doing it, and then noticing again, and then forcibly stopping himself, but it never lasts long. The cafe is crowded and loud, which is distracting enough on its own, but Martin is also there, sitting across from him and tucking into a sandwich, gamely trying to engage Jon in conversation even though Jon keeps getting distracted and bouncing his leg.

"Jon? You there?"

Martin's voice fades back into Jon's awareness, and he shifts his gaze back to him. "Sorry," he says for the fifth time that lunch hour, "um, say that again?"

He feels bad. He does. Ever since he found out about Martin's CV, Jon's been kicking himself over how paranoid he'd been, thinking that Martin was out to get him, shouting at him over what turned out to be nothing. Jon doesn't want to be that sort of boss, that sort of person, but he'd just been so overwhelmed. He could hardly believe it when Martin asked him to join him for lunch, after all the things Jon's said to him. Still, he's grateful for the olive branch. It's too bad he keeps messing it up by forgetting to listen to Martin when he talks.

Speaking of--

"Oh, damn," Jon mutters, interrupting whatever it is Martin is trying to tell him. "Martin, god, I'm so sorry, I just got--"

"Distracted?" Martin says, and to Jon's surprise he doesn't seem annoyed, just . . . concerned. "I've noticed. Jon, are you feeling alright?"

"What? Yes, I'm fine." Jon eats the last few bites of his salad so he doesn't have to meet Martin's eyes.

"Sure? Because you seem really anxious." Martin's voice has that soft, worried lilt to it that Jon used to get annoyed by. It doesn't bother him so much anymore. It's . . . sort of nice, really, to be worried over, sometimes.

Not now, though. Because right now Jon doesn't need to be worried over. "I'm not anxious. Just . . . it's distracting in here. It's loud."

"Oh, well, let's go then," Martin says, finishing up his sandwich and standing up to gather his coat. "It's not too cold out. We can walk around downtown until lunch hour is over."

"I--" Jon wants to protest, but he realizes that yes, getting out of this small cafe would be very welcome. "That's . . . that's a good idea, actually."

His leg can't bounce when he's walking, and the early winter air is cold but not biting, and the walkways aren't crowded. Jon can feel himself calming down by the time they get a block away from the cafe. Maybe he had been a little anxious, after all. This was a very good idea. Martin has very good ideas, he thinks.

"If that cafe was too much," Martin is telling him, and thankfully Jon is actually able to listen to him now, "there's another place we could try next time. New Indian place, right around the corner from the Institute. Tim says he goes there whenever he has a PT appointment, to treat himself."

Jon wants to go back to the fact that Martin wants there to be a next time, but for now there's something more pressing to address. "Tim's still doing physical therapy?" he says. He'd thought he was finished weeks ago.

"Yeah, he says it's just follow-up appointments. He's mostly okay, they just need to make sure he's improving, I guess." Martin shoots him a sidelong look. "I thought you and he were close."

"Not, um . . . not so much anymore." Jon stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, ducking into his collar. "We don't really . . . talk."

"Oh," Martin says. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah." Jon doesn't want to get into it. Thankfully, Martin doesn't press the issue.

"Are you still going to PT?" Martin says instead. "You don't have to tell me, obviously. I just . . . I never see you outside the archives anymore."

Jon bites the inside of his cheek. "I, um . . . I sort of . . . stopped going. After the second appointment."

Martin stops short in the middle of the sidewalk, and Jon has to double back. "Christ, Jon!" he says, not angry, but aggravated. "You can't just skip out on that stuff, you could do permanent damage--"

"Martin, I'm fine," Jon says. "See, I'm walking around and everything. Trust me, if it was bad, I'd have kept going, but the whole thing was a waste of time and I had work to get done--"

"Your health comes first," Martin says, with finality, before his demeanor softens. "I'm not an idiot, Jon, I notice you staying late and coming in early, I notice when you skip meals. You're running yourself ragged. It's a job, Jon, and trust me, I know how important this work is, I get it, but none of it, alright, none of it's more important than you."

Jon blinks at him. He wants to protest, but every half-formed rebuttal sounds either defensive or outright silly. Martin is right, after all. Jon just wishes that he weren't, because then he wouldn't have to reevaluate everything he's been doing for the past two months.

Martin goes on, taking a step closer to him. "Just . . . you don't need to keep throwing yourself at a wall, Jon. At least give yourself a break every once in a while."

"I can't just walk away, Martin. O-Or, I don't--" Jon's voice has gone shaky. He clears his throat and tries again. "I--I don't really know how. There's just . . . there's so much, and I don't know where any of it leads, if it's leading anywhere at all, and . . . I just . . . I've no idea what I'm supposed to do about all of it."

Martin gives him a look that Jon doesn't know how to place. It's not pity, or condescension, which Jon would expect from most everyone else. He just looks . . . sort of sad. His hands are clasped in front of his chest, tugging restlessly on his fingers. "Jon, would you . . . um, that is . . ." Suddenly Martin thrusts his open arms out towards Jon and blurts out, "Would you like a hug?"

Jon's speechless. What a thing to be asked, he thinks, and especially by a coworker, no matter how well they know each other, it's completely unprofessional, and even if Martin were his closest friend, which he isn't, but even if he were, why on earth would Jon of all people need a hug? Sure, he's not doing all that great, but Martin doesn't need to know that, and anyway how is a hug supposed to fix anything, especially a hug from someone who doesn't know the half of what Jon's been going through lately, or how scared and confused he's been, or about Jon's very serious problems that are complicated and terrifying and can't be fixed with something as childish and simple as a--

"Yes, please," Jon says, the words coming out in an exhale of pent-up tension, and he all but collapses into Martin's open arms. His face lands just under Martin's chin, half-tucked into his shoulder, and he's just barely able to wrap his arms around Martin's midsection as Martin hugs him back tightly, squeezing him against his chest, and Jon had never known how strong Martin was, how much he had been hiding beneath those soft jumpers of his. His arms, all muscle beneath fat, feel as though they could fight off an army if they really wanted to, and despite his nagging paranoia, Jon can't help but feel utterly protected by them. He feels himself relaxing, bit by bit, sinking into the softness of Martin's chest, letting him hug him closer, just tight enough to be secure without hurting. As he leans into the hug, he doesn't feel any concern about Martin losing his grip or slipping backwards. Martin can take his weight; he knows this. He is as solid and reliable as a wall, and just as stubborn, and he will not drop Jon. Jon lets out a deep sigh, his breaths evening out and slowing, tension seeping from his limbs until he feels entirely relaxed. He feels cared for. He feels safe. It's been so, so long since he's felt safe.

He doesn't even notice that he's closed his eyes until Martin's arms shift around him, and Jon realizes they've been hugging for probably way longer than is normal. His eyes snap open and he backs off, hands sliding away from Martin, clearing his throat awkwardly. He tries not to miss the gentle security of Martin's arms.

"Um," Martin says, sounding like he's about to apologize, but Jon interrupts him.

"Thank you," he says, trying to keep his voice even. "That was--I, um. I needed that." When was the last time he'd hugged someone? Jon can't even remember. "It was really nice," he says quietly. Another one of Martin's brilliant ideas.

Martin nods, looking relieved, and perhaps a little fond, though it may just be Jon's imagination. "Anytime," he says, and Jon thinks he might mean it. He hopes he does. "What are friends for, eh?"

Jon blinks. Are they friends? How long has that been the case? He looks at Martin, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, a small smile on his face, and he thinks that yes, maybe they are friends. It would be nice to be friends, anyway. If Martin says they're friends, Jon won't correct him. "Yeah," he says, and he's very glad to see Martin's face brighten at the word. "I, um," and Jon needs to clear his throat again, "I-I'll try. To have a break once in a while."

"Promise?" Martin says, and Jon can't help but laugh.

"I promise."

Martin nods. "Okay. Good."

"This, today, lunch I mean, this was nice. I'd . . . um. I'd like to do it again."

"Oh! Um, sure. Definitely," Martin says, smiling.

"We can go to that Indian place," Jon says.

"Sure," Martin says. "Tomorrow?" His look is hesitant, but Jon's answer is immediate.

"Yes," he says, letting a smile run over his lips. "Yes, Martin, I'd like that very much."

[radiosandrecordings]

i’m almost scared to ask this due to the angst potential but 22 with jm, please?

You blessed me with a Good Martin earlier, I’ll spare you from the angst storm (I have nooo ulterior motives here, me, who doesn’t like writing angst? None whatsoever)

Set in some nebulous no-powers au where they get to go home from a Normal Date. Thank you @horngryeyes for letting me just message him asking for Polish swears 

22) Things you said after it was over

“I had a really nice time tonight.” 

Martin smiled as Jon leaned closer into his side, joined hands between them stilling from their gentle swing, purely because they no longer had space to with Jon cosied up against him. “I’m glad, I had a wonderful time as well.” 

The restaurant they had been to had been close to Martin’s apartment, and so they were currently on their way to the nearest tube station for Martin to see him off safely. They proceeded to walk in a comfortable silence for several minutes, the comforting presence of the other at their side driving off the chill of the early Spring evening. 

It was only when they reached the entrance to the tube station and Martin’s eyes drifted to the screen displaying a digital clock did they realise something was wrong. 

“Wait, what?” Jon vocalised his concern before Martin, a furrow forming on his brow. “That can’t be right.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and glared at the lock screen. The harsh white light illuminated exactly the same numbers as those staring back down at them in green LED from the wall of the station. 1:06AM. Aka, past the time any of the trains were running in Jon’s direction home. 

“How? I checked as we were paying, we were getting ready to leave the restaurant at 11:40, it can’t have taken us over an hour to walk here, it was barely a mile!” 

“... Jon what day is it?” 

“What?” 

“Just, check for me?” 

Jon hit the button again and his phone screen lit up. “Just turned over to the 28th. Is that anything?” 

“Spring forward, fall back, kurde,” Martin muttered under his breath. “Of course. Just our luck. Clocks just went forward for British Summertime. So we essentially just lost an hour, and it’s now one as opposed to just gone twelve. So... No trains.” 

“... No trains” 

There was a silence for a moment, breath starting to cloud in front of them as they breathed in the cool night air, rapidly getting colder. The silence was broken by the sound of Jon typing, fingers quickly skimming over his phone as he began trying to search for alternatives. “Buses maybe? I think they’re still running but I’m not sure if there’s any going my route....” 

Another few seconds passed of Jon hurriedly typing and Martin chewing his lip. Eventually, he managed to muster up the courage to speak, “I mean.. You could always come back to mine?” 

And immediately, his mind was racing with all the different reasons for why he shouldn’t have said that. This was only their third official date, was that too soon to invite Jon back to his house? They weren’t even technically dating yet, there was still a certain degree of casual about their relationship, they weren’t actually boyfriends. God, what if Jon misunderstood what he was saying? They’d had that conversation even before they’d started seeing each other, one friend trusting another with an intimate detail of their life. Martin didn’t want Jon to think he’d forgotten, or worse, was disregarding it. And even past those two points, Jon was technically still his boss -  Logically he knew if they were breaking any kind of office conduct they would have done so three dinners ago, but this felt different, to invite someone to your home felt far more vulnerable, and serious. 

“Uh- That’s okay, Martin I wouldn’t want to impose...”

Martin isn’t quite sure where he got the courage to continue. Normally he’d take Jon’s response to heart, overthink it, and end up interpreting it as ‘I don’t want to do that and am trying to let you down easy’. Maybe it was the two glasses of wine he’d had at dinner, or some spirit of the moment daring, but whatever it is possessed him long enough for him to say “You wouldn’t be imposing. Actually, I would rather like you to be there?”

Jon looked slightly stunned for a moment, before Martin began to see a faint flush darken his cheeks. “Oh, uhm...” A spike of anxiety shot through Martin as Jon dipped his head to cough into his fist, but when he drew it away again he looked somewhat... Bashful? “Well, if... Yes, okay then. I would like to be there as well.” 

“Good.”

“Good.” 

“Good.” 

There was another few beats of silence before both, tipsy on averagely-priced wine and drunk on nervous energy, lapsed into childish giggles. “Lead the way, Mr Blackwood,” Jon crooned, leaning into his arm again, and Martin knew he was joking, playful atmosphere being allowed to overtake the anxious one between them, but he rather liked the sound of that. 

It was another ten minutes of walking further to get back to Martin’s flat, and Jon only managed to stumble over his own two feet once, which may have been partially due to his own three glasses of red setting in, or just the fact that it was rather awkward to walk when trying to merge with the coat of the man beside you. 

“It’s uhm, sorry if it’s a little messy, I wasn’t expecting company, obviously,” Martin apologised as he fumbled with the key in the lock. 

“’M sure it’s fine.” Jon’s speech was getting a little messier now, but really only to the degree that was notable by Standard Jon English. He wasn’t quite at the swaying on his feet stage yet, but he was blinking sleepily, a small, content smile playing gently at his lips. 

As he stepped in the door, Martin shrugged his coat off and hung it by the door, gesturing an invitation for Jon to do the same, which he accepted. Martin took his hand again to lead him inside, but let go again soon enough to step into the small alcove of the kitchen to fetch two glasses and fill them at the sink. “I think we could both use these,” he said softly, handing one to Jon, who took it gratefully. They sipped their water in silence for a moment, enjoying the relative peace and warmth that being inside afforded them. They didn’t sit, both just leaned against the wall while Jon took in the contents of a bookshelf and Martin watched him do so, both with equal levels of intrigue. 

Eventually, the silence was broken by the muffled sound of a yawn from Jon, who tried to cover it with one hand. “Right, maybe time for bed then?” Martin suggested, taking the glass from him and putting them both beside the sink to deal with tomorrow. 

When he returned Jon was hovering around the couch, like he wanted to take a seat but was unsure how to go about doing so. “You okay?” 

“Oh, uhm, yes, I just... You wouldn’t happen to have a spare blanket, would you?” 

“What?” 

“Sorry to be a bother I just- Never mind, it’s fine. Good night, Martin.” 

“...What?” 

“I- I’m sorry did I do something wrong?” 

“No, just... C’mon, bedrooms this way.” 

“Oh!” And there was that flush again, more visible under the lights of the flat than it had been under streetlamps. 

“... Jon, did you think I was going to make you sleep on the sofa?” Martin felt his voice trail slightly upwards at the end, struck both by humour and concern. 

“I didn’t want to presume!” Jon said, shaking his hands out. “Um... Okay then, lead the way.” 

Martin smiled, before doing the mental math and squinting. “Two seconds?” He said, before quickly making his way into the bedroom and doing his best to make the room look as presentable as possible within a short amount of time. A minute or two later he opened the door again, and Jon made his way inside. 

His room wasn’t anything special, just a standard bedroom in a low quality apartment, but the duvet and quilt had been straightened and clothes haphazardly strewn about the room had been banished into the laundry basket, and the lamp on his bedside table was casting a soft yellow glow about the room, making the room feel warm and cosy. 

Jon just kind of stood there for a moment, like he was trying to figure out what to do next, before Martin realised what was wrong with the picture. “Oh, uhm, clothes, do you want to borrow a shirt or something?” 

The words were out of Martin’s mouth before he could really think through the implications of them, practicality and comfort overriding the realisation that Jon borrowing his shirt would mean Jon, in his bed, wearing his clothes. 

“That would be good, thank you.” 

Martin attempted to keep his composure by going over to his drawers and rooting around for two shirts, one for himself and one for Jon. “I’d offer you bottoms too but I’m not really sure they’d fit, is that okay?” Martin said, turning to hand Jon a shirt. He wasn’t sure what Jon was comfortable with, where boundaries lay yet, he didn’t want to force Jon into something that overstepped.

“I think that should be fine,” Jon said, and Martin breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Right, uh, do you want to take the bathroom and I’ll...?” 

“Okay, sure, sure.” 

Jon made his way through the other door in the room and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. 

Martin was just finished changing into his own pyjamas when a knock came from the other side of the door, startling him slightly. “Oh, finished!” 

The door opened, and Jon walked into the room. Now, Martin had known, theoretically, for the last three minutes that Jon had been gone that when he saw him again he would be standing in his bedroom wearing his shirt. But it was quite another thing to actually see it, soft golden lamplight reflecting against eyes that at this point were losing the fight to stay open, too-large shirt with a faded movie poster on it hanging loosely around his shoulders, panning down to boxers and bare feet on the wooden floor. Martin felt his breath catch in his throat slightly. 

“Are you okay?” 

“Hm? Oh, yeah, fine. Do you, uhm, need anything?” 

“No, no, I’m fine thank you, I think I’m just about ready to pass out if it’s all the same to you.” 

“I can agree with that.” 

Jon kept his eyes on the bed, watching until Martin had walked over to his chosen side and pulled the covers back before padding round to the opposite and climbing in beside him. 

There were a few awkward moments where they both got comfortable. Martin hadn’t shared a bed with someone in quite a while, and it was an odd sensation to try and get used to again. “Pillows, do you- Is that enough?” 

“Two is more than fine, thank you Martin,” Jon said, cleaning back against them. 

“Right, well... Good night, Jon.” 

“Good night, Martin.” Jon said, voice barely above a whisper now as his eyes drifted closed. Martin took that as a cue to turn the light off. 

Martin had never been aware of how loud the analog clock hanging on his wall was until that moment, dull ticks making themselves thunderous in the silence between them. He must have counted to sixty several times over before Martin heard a rustling beside him, and felt the duvet twitch. 

“Martin?” If Jon’s goodnight had been a whisper, this was barely audible, but as it was Martin was so aware of every footstep of his neighbours, creaking of pipes, or car going past outside, it sounded like it was said directly into his ear. Which, really, wasn’t that far off, considering how close Jon was, lying on the pillow next to him.

“Mmmh?” 

“I.. Thank you, for today. For this.” 

“You don’t have to thank me for a date, Jon, that’s... I mean, not that I’m not tempted to thank you in return but that’s not how that works.” 

He rolled on to his side to face Jon, and was greeted by a face only a few inches away him his. “Oh. Hi.” 

Jon smiled. “Hi.” 

“Can I... Do you mind if...” Words failing him, Martin leaned forward. When Jon didn’t seem to retreat, he leaned further, until he was pressing a kiss to his brow. “Is... Is that okay?” 

There was a low rumbling from Jon’s throat, vibrating across the pillow. “More than okay. Encouraged, even,” Jon said, and suddenly he was pressing a kiss to Martin’s cheek in return. He searched under the duvet for a moment, before twining his fingers together with Martin’s, and proceeded to roll over to face away from him, dragging Martin’s arm with him until it was draped across him, gently cradling their bodies together. “Good night, Martin.”  

Yeah. Yeah, it was a pretty good night.

[fandomficsnstuff]

Little Dragon - Part 8

Summary: You were a child slave of Meereen, when one day a silver haired woman sets you free. Though your master isn’t too keen on letting you go, and Daenerys took personal action to see you freed and taken care of.

High Valyrian is in cursive

You were listening intently to the conversations going on in the war room, so many faces that you wanted to remember, their names, their houses, their history, but for now you settled on staying silent and listening, “are you really sure we can discuss this around her?” your head snapped towards the accented voice, seeing a beautiful woman with olive skin, black hair and dark brown eyes, and you wanted to look to your mother for help, but decided that you couldn’t use her as a pillar forever “(Y/N) Targaryen, Lady…?” you couldn’t help your tone, you were not a little girl wearing a collar around her neck anymore, jumping at the slightest of sounds. You were still timid and childish with Daenerys and Missandei, because you knew you could afford it, but you didn’t know these people, they were allies of your mother, but you didn’t know them.

“Ellaria” she sounded tense as she responded, she probably hadn't known you were the daughter of Daenerys, but you merely nodded “well, Lady Ellaria, I would prefer that if you are done questioning who your Queen trusts, perhaps we could get back to planning the war we are currently in” you heard a short laugh, your eyes glancing to none other than Olenna Tyrell, the Queen of Thorns, and the only living Tyrell left. “Are you sure you did not birthe her? She has the spirit of a dragon that one” Daenerys did everything to not smirk proudly at Olenna’s comment, and even Ellaria looked a bit surprised at your response “now… I agree that a foreign army would send the wrong signal, but an army from Westeros, it would show that we are not here to raid and pillage, the Dothraki will not do so unless their Khaleesi orders and my mother never will, the Unsullied are obedient and loyal, so they won’t either, but we need Westeros with us, and showing that their own houses are turning on Cercei is a good way to win quickly and without a lot of losses, on either side”, you studied the map as you spoke, unaware of the impressed looks everyone gave you, Tyrion being the first to speak up “well… I agree” you glanced at him and sent him a quick smile, one of the few smiles you had offered him, but you didn’t really know him either, so it was justified that you didn’t treat him, or Varys, as warmly as the rest of your mother’s allies.

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You stood impatiently besides Daenerys in the throne room, and Daenerys couldn’t help the amused glance she shared with Missandei “alright go, but change before you do!” you barely even heard the rest of her sentence, you were already off, heading towards your room. In record breaking time you changed from your formal dress to a special outfit you had made for you. You had been riding Rhaegal much more frequently, and today were the day of the arrival of Jon Snow, King in the North, and you had promised to stay for his arrival and then ride Rhaegal after, but you couldn’t help fidgeting, and were more than happy that Daenerys excused you. You put on your leather trousers, securing them with a harness that was connected to them, ensuring that they didn’t fall down, not even an inch, you had a tunic under your harness, pulling a shortened cloak over your shoulders and tying it to the harness, making sure the knots were tight, the cloak was warm but light, it reached just below your hips, but kept you warm. Next you threw on a pair of gloves made from cloth on the inside and leather on the outside, and then your boots, they were high, they almost reached your knees, and you pulled the laces tight, so they wouldn’t fall off during the flight.

Your room had an open balcony, just like Daenerys’, and you approached the edge, grinning widely as you waited. You couldn’t help the excited giggle you let out as you heard him roar as he came closer, and in a leap of faith you jumped off of the balcony, you let out a little huff as you landed on scales, and a few moments later you got a good grip, holding onto Rhaegal as you flew away from the castle, going high up and then soaring, admiring the landscape below, seeing a ship you presumed belonged to Jon Snow, you flew towards Drogon and Viseryon who were flying on the other side of the island. You could still just about watch Tyrion greet Jon Snow, and saw them making their way towards the entrance.

A wicked smile grazed your lips as you got an idea, and somehow Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal knew what your plan was, Rhaegal let out an ear shattering roar as you held on tightly, flying towards Tyrion and the two men he were leading up the long stone staircase. You leaned forward as you flew closer to the ground, Rhaegal barely managing to not hit the small people below, something that made you laugh loudly and you couldn’t help but cheer, Tyrion seeing you on Rhaegal as you waved at him, and you could see him shake his head, but you also knew of the smile he tried to hide, he was probably telling Jon that he himself wasn’t used to the presence of the dragons.

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You heaved heavily as you ran into the throne room, your hair wild from the wind, your chest rising dramatically as you tried to catch your breath, standing besides Daenerys who did her very best to not smirk at you proudly, instead she tried to look as regal as ever, waiting patiently for this, Jon Snow, to arrive.

Rhaegal had barely managed to throw you off on the open balcony you jumped out of earlier, you almost bumped into a few tables on your way to the throne room, a fact that made you smile amused before trying to hide it. “Well, at least you made it back in time” her words could be mistaken as scolding, but you knew her better, and you couldn’t help the breathless giggle you let out “think I scared an inch or so off of Lord Tyrion” Daenerys let out a short, although quiet, laugh at your comment, shooting you a very poor attempt of a scolding gaze before looking back towards the large doors at the end of the throne room, making you straighten your back, your smile faltering and your hands placed in front of yourself, as you always did when you had attended any court meeting.

You watched the two strangers as Missandei went down the list of titles that your Queen had acquired along the way, something you took great pride in, she was your mother after all.

“And this is (Y/N) Targaryen, daughter of Queen Daenerys Stormborn, princess of the Seven Kingdoms and heir to the throne” Missandei finally ended, and the two men looked at you confused, giving you the impression that they didn’t know that much about your mother, and therefore you, they had probably only heard rumours, lies or other falsehoods, and therefore didn’t know of your existence, which was probably not a bad thing. You had heard of how the usurper King Robert Baratheon had sent assassins to kill Daenerys, even while she was pregnant, so who says they wouldn’t have been sent after you, back then nothing more than a little girl, had the usurper's children heard of your existence, and Daenerys’ love for you. You were snapped out of your day dream as Daenerys got up, approaching Jon Snow and his adviser, and first now you tuned in on their conversation, a small frown resting on your brows, hearing her words, but you couldn’t deny the pride it gave you, despite hearing all that she had suffered, “I was born at Dragonstone. Not that I can remember it. We fled before Robert's assassins could find us. Robert was your father's best friend, no? I wonder if your father knew his best friend sent assassins to murder a baby girl in her crib. Not that it matters now, of course. I spent my life in foreign lands. So many men have tried to kill me, I don't remember all their names. I have been sold like a broodmare. I've been chained and betrayed, raped and defiled. Do you know what kept me standing, through all those years in exile? Faith. Not in any god, not in myths and legends. In myself. In Daenerys Targaryen. The world hadn't seen a dragon in centuries, until my children were born. The Dothraki hadn't crossed the sea, any sea. They did for me. I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and I will, and so will my daughter.” Her gaze turned to you for a brief moment and you smiled proudly, one she proudly returned before turning back to Jon Snow.

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You frowned as you watched your mother study the map in silence, you wanted to say something, you really did, but what could you say? The Iron Fleet was gone, Yara and Ellaria had been taken prisoner and Jon Snow refused to bend the knee and instead only wants to hack away at some mysterious stone somewhere in a cave on the island, claiming that an army of undead people and giants are the true enemy.

You couldn’t help the sigh that escaped your lips, you being the only one to actually make a sound in the entire map room “maybe…” you dared a glance at your mother, not that you feared her, but more that you knew of the thin ice you were balancing on “maybe you should just let him mine this… ‘dragonglass’... it means nothing to you after all” Daenerys looked to you slowly, and for a second everyone in the room were praying to whoever and whatever that you hadn’t crossed a line, but when you received no response, you continued, “you didn’t know it was there, no one did… there are two options here, either he’s right, in which it doesn’t hurt you or your army or your dragons to comply, or he’s mad, and it won’t hurt you, your army or your dragons either. There’s no outcome here where anything bad is an outcome, you complying will also show that yes, you are to be feared, but you are also complying and reasonable, and allowing one man, one person to mine something of no value is a sign that you are with the people of Westeros” there was another second of silence, but eventually Daenerys smiled at you, walked over to you and placed a gentle hand on your cheek, looking at you with a proud look in her eyes before walking off.

“Where is she going?” Tyrion looked at you baffled and confused, but you simply shrugged “to allow Jon Snow to mine the Dragonglass” you leaned over the map table, studying the different areas, looking at the different highlighted places, such as King’s Landing, Winterfell, all the places you’ve only ever read about, you couldn't wait to see them for real.

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

I Wonder What It’s Like (3/3) - fic

Characters: Jon Kent, Damian Wayne, some Maya and Kathy Pairing: jondami Summary: One person’s bad timing is another person’s good timing. A/N: And *mumble mumble* they live happily ever after. Damian was already curious because the way Jon was holding him in the rescue was the way Clark holds lois in similar situations and ONLY Lois. It was just a giant ‘oh fuck it’s reciprocated.’ moment I guess, so he egged it on.

Part One | Part Two | Part Three

~~

It was an alien invasion. Of course it was.

All hands on deck. Justice League, the Titans, and their Teen variety, Young Justice. Even some less desirables like the Outlaws, Suicide Squad, Deathstroke and, well, their own little ragtag group.

And it was a weird time to be thinking about it, you know, punching out aliens and their robot pets over the city harbor and all, that their little foursome didn’t have a name. Didn’t go by anything. They weren’t League and they weren’t Outlaws. They weren’t really…anything. The ace in the hole? The backup?

He didn’t like any of those-

“Focus, Superboy.” Crackled in his ear. He glanced down to the nearby skyscraper. Saw Damian and Maya fighting back-to-back. Felt himself smile. Kicking ass and taking names – that was so them.

It was Damian who had spoken. Damian, who wasn’t even looking at him. Too busy flipping over Maya’s shoulder as they switched opponents.

Jon blinked a few times, then looked back at his own enemy, clutched tightly in his fist, shrieking to the machine that Kathy was taking out a few feet away from him.

“How’d you know I wasn’t?” Jon mumbled, throwing his rock-monster-looking alien towards the ground.

“Because we know you.” Maya chimed in. “And you float when you zone out. Notice how high you are right now?”

Kathy laughed as Jon sheepishly floated back down to where she was. “What were you thinking ‘bout?”

“…We don’t have a team name.” Jon practically pouted. “We’re just…the Other Ones.”

“And that’s a problem?” Damian snorted. “The less who know about us, the better, in my opinion.”

“Oh, right, and your opinion is never wrong.” Maya droned. A moment later she let out a shout, and Jon glanced down to see that Damian had thrown an unconscious and oozing alien right at her. “Okay, no need to be childish, you little worm!”

Damian cackled at her annoyance, and Jon ignored the flutter in his stomach.

“And there was no need for you to open your mouth at all, yet here we are, Nobody.” Damian sneered. Maya let out a string of curses, and Jon watched her throw a body in Damian’s direction. Damian dodged it, and then spoke again, but softer this time, aimed at him. “…Were you just lamenting the fact, or coming up with names yourself?”

“Mmm, both? Neither?” Jon shrugged, shooting himself across the sky to intercept an alien heading straight for a group of fleeing civilians. “I just thought it was odd.”

“I can’t believe I’m going to say it, but I agree with Damian.” Kathy said, making a retching noise right after. Maya laughed through the comms. Damian scoffed. “I like it how it is right now, you know? People call us when they need us, and we get to be normal people otherwise. It’s like being a hero part-time, and honestly, after our childhoods? I think the four of us deserve the break.”

“Freelance heroes.” Maya echoed. “I mean, I don’t think actually having a name or title associated with us would change anything, but I suppose I get the general principle.”

“I just mean, like…what if we’re interviewed by the news? Or some little kid asks who we are?” Jon pushed. An alien came flying towards him. He caught it like a baseball, spun, and threw it back from where it came. “The day is saved thanks to…who? Justice League Jr.? The Ghosts? The Powerpuff Girls? Like, what’s our backup?”

“I think concerned citizens would suffice in most situations.” Damian drawled.

“Concerned and capable, that’s us.” Maya mocked.

Kathy laughed at the joke, and Jon just rolled his eyes. He turned towards the water, seeing a new hoard of aliens and their robots coming their way. He sighed – when would this end?

Suddenly, there was a sharp static crack in his ear. In his periphery, he saw Kathy flinch at the noise too. Their communicators, then.

But before either of them could open their mouths to ask, Maya gave a shriek.

“Fuck!” She screamed. Jon and Kathy spun back towards the building their teammates had been on. The rooftop was no longer swarmed with aliens. In fact, the aliens were all scattered and flailing, like they were turtles knocked on their backs.

Jon’s stomach dropped as his mind processed what else was wrong. Maya and Damian were gone.

“Damian!” Maya shouted. Jon saw movement below the roof, glanced down to see Maya scrambling to her feet on the fire escape, pointing straight up into the sky. “Guys, he grabbed Damian!”

Jon’s eye followed her finger, and sure enough, speeding above even his head, one of these rock creatures – but bigger, more reptilian – was flying full speed towards the stratosphere, Damian hanging from his clawed hand by his ankle.

Damian, of course, wasn’t fazed in the slightest. Already had a knife in hand, and was stabbing at his captor’s grip.

Jon’s heart pounded, and he found himself glancing over at Kathy. She nodded, gave him a grim smile.

“Go get him.”

Jon needed nothing else, and felt the sonic boom snap behind him as he took off after the reptile man.

“Does he always break the sound barrier when he takes off?” Maya’s voice buzzed through his communicator. She was most likely talking to Kathy. He paid it no mind. “Or is that just another one of those Damian things…”

But because Damian was, well, Damian, he couldn’t leave well enough alone and kept stabbing at the monster’s fingers. And even as Jon sped towards them, he could see the creature getting frustrated, questioning how worth it it was to have Damian as a captive.

Without warning, he decided that, apparently, it wasn’t worth it at all.

So he dropped him.

Panic electrified Jon’s system, and his breath came up short as he twisted his course to follow a now-plummeting Damian.

What if he wasn’t fast enough? What if he didn’t catch him? What if the alien came back?

What if Damian died? Right here? Right in front of him?

“I’m coming!” Jon found himself shouting, both for himself and for Damian. In freefall, he saw Damian look towards him. “I’m coming, D!”

And as he got closer, flying as fast as he could, he saw Damian believe it, believe in him, and slowly, steadily, reach his hand out.

Jon was almost there. Jon almost had him.

But god, the buildings below them were already so close.

His heart was on fire, the wind in his face was causing his eyes to tear up. But he was close, he was so close-

(And the jagged corner of that skyscraper was even closer.)

-so he reached his own hand out, brushed his fingertips against Damian’s. Watched Damian watch their hands. Watched all fear drain from Damian’s face, turn into blind trust.

Then grabbed his forearm and yanked him into his chest. Held the back of Damian’s head as he spun them, so it was his back that bounced into the corner of the building’s roof, and not Damian’s skull.

The momentum kept them bouncing. Off that first building into another, into a fire escape, into a broken window, into brick, against a dumpster. And all the while, Jon kept tight hold of Damian, kept him curled into his chest, hidden by his cape.

Anything to keep him safe. And alive.

They landed in a heap in the alleyway, Jon’s back against the dirty ground, and Damian spread on top of him. Jon let out a small groan as Damian scrambled up and backed off of him.

“I hate falling. It’s my least favorite part of flying.” He mumbled, sitting up himself. He rubbed at the base of his spine as he glanced up. “You okay?”

“Am I…?” Damian scoffed, holding out his hand. Jon took it, and let Damian swing him up into his space. “You’re really asking me? You’re the one who just crash landed.”

“Being Kryptonian helps with that.” Jon winked. “Besides, you were the one who was just almost kidnapped, and then almost splattered on the pavement. I think it’s a valid question.”

Damian scoffed and crossed his arms, glancing away. “I’m fine…Thank you.”

“Any time.” Jon grinned. But almost instantly, he let the smile drop. Furrowed his brows and, without thinking, reached out, cupping his hand along Damian’s jaw and turning his head. “Hey, what’s…”

He’d seen blood, he thought, coming from Damian’s hairline. Was it from the previous fight, or their fall? Jeez, if it was from their fall, Jon wasn’t sure if he could handle…

But no, it was just dirt. Grime from being in battle all day with no breaks. His bad. He went to smile once more, but found himself hesitating as he glanced towards Damian’s face, and found Damian staring at him with wide eyes. Wide, too knowing, too soulful, too hopeful, too green eyes.

He felt his own heart beating against his chest. Especially as he remembered just how close they were standing. Damian had pulled him up into his chest, and Jon had never backed up.

And Damian never asked him to.

Suddenly, he found himself unable to let go of Damian’s face. Kept his hand glued to the curve of his throat, Damian’s own heartbeat pulsing against his fingers. Swallowed, and could have sworn the whole city heard it.

“Damian, I…”

But Damian cut him off with a simple, blunt demand. “Kiss me.”

Jon stumbled over the noises suddenly coming out of his mouth. Not words, not even thoughts. His attempts at speaking coming out like television static instead.

“Wha…what?”

“You heard me.” Damian said lowly, and Jon could feel the cheek under his hand heating up in the start of a blush. “And you know I don’t repeat myself.”

“You…I…this…” There was a crash a few streets over and Jon flinched. Instinctively shifted even closer into Damian’s space to box him in against the wall, to protect him. Just in case.

He never dropped his hand.

A second later, he realized his movement, and glanced down. Damian was still watching him with those sharp jade detective eyes. The ones Jon could stare into forever, if given the chance. The ones he could see the universe in, that were brighter than any star in the sky.

God, Damian could always see right through him.

“…I don’t think now’s the best time.” Jon whispered, almost desperately. Damian smirked.

“Timing and invasions and life-or-death danger has never stopped your mother and father. Hell, that never stopped my parents either. I’m pretty sure I was conceived in the middle of an assassination plot. On both of them.” A pause, to think, to bite at his lip. “But you didn’t say no.” Damian breathed softly. “Bad timing is not a no.”

“Well, of course not.” Jon rambled – admitted – as he looked off to the side, towards the invasion still happening all around them. Looked at anything but Damian. “But, we have to save the city. The attack is still going, and these aliens-”

Suddenly, there were fists in the front of his cape, and he was being yanked down, lips crashing into his.

Damian tasted better than Jon could ever dream, ever fantasized all those nights alone in his room. There was no distinct taste, but rather…he tasted like the donut Maya had forced him to have for breakfast that morning. The black coffee he’d drank with it.

He tasted like blood and chapped lips, with a fading hint of the cheap chapstick he used because it was a gift from a little girl they’d rescued a few months ago.

He tasted like insecurities and heartbreak. He tasted like a man who had never been sure of anything in his life until this moment, this action.

And Jon wanted to devour him. Jon knew he had to devour him.

Consciously this time, he raised his other hand, held Damian’s face as tenderly as he could. Felt his breath hitch as Damian skimmed his hands down Jon’s chest to grab at his waist.

It felt like he’d been waiting his whole life for this.

Damian seemed to almost melt against him, and when he leaned back those few centimeters to take a breath, Jon guided him backwards, until his spine pressed against the building’s brick wall.

“Jonathan…”

But Jon pushed against him, swallowed his voice. He couldn’t help but smirk, just a little. Damian may have started this, but he had no problem taking control.

And his heart stuttered at the thought that Damian was letting him.

But then, of course – of course – there was a explosion from the building behind them. They broke apart as Damian ducked slightly, and Jon once more hovered over him protectively.

Debris collapsed loudly around them, a sharp rod of steel bouncing off Jon’s back at one point. But as soon as it began to settle, their comms. crackled to life with their allies, friends and fathers calling for them, asking for their locations and statuses. Roars of the aliens echoed all around them.

Damian sighed.

“I suppose…you were correct.” He grumbled as he stood back to full height, looking up towards the clouds.

“About?”

“Now probably wasn’t the best time for...” He whined, waving his hand awkwardly between them. He put his hands on Jon’s chest again, but this time to push him gently back and step back into the street. “There’s an alien invasion to stop.”

Jon watched him for a moment. “…Damian?” Damian glanced over his shoulder. “Are we going to talk about this later?”

Damian blinked, then smiled. But not a hero smile. Not a Robin or Nightwing or Batman smile. A Damian smile. Warm and genuine and just the slightest bit mischievous.

“What’s there to talk about, Beloved?” Damian asked, leaning back and taking Jon’s hand, pulling him forward. “Now come on, there’s a world to save.”

[misterghostfrog]

So I was reading someones post about what if Jon went back in time to save everyone, and he managed it. He kept Martin away from Prentiss, he Kept Sasha alive, Tim never even know the unknowing existed and he never had Jons paranioa to ruin him. But They never knew, there was never those moments of bonding between the terror. Martin never had that moment when he realized Jon wasn’t just his shitty boss. And sure the assistants were close, but there was no room for Jon. And it gave me thoughts.

Under the cut bc I started to Ramble and it got Long, warning; its Big Sad Hours down there. No happy endings here.

Jon solves all these problems before they start, he fixes it without anyone ever knowing. The assistants are blissfully unaware, maybe he stops sending them on ‘real’ statement followup. The archives are a normal, safe job for all of them. Sometimes it gets too much, pretending he doesn’t know them. So he’ll record, mostly for himself. Sometimes for them, though he’ll never share. He sticks them all in Gertrude's old storage locker, where he knows they’ll never be found.

And then something goes wrong. He knows the unknowing can’t work, of course it can’t. But Nikola doesn’t, none of the avatars know. And Nikola still wants her skin. She still wants his skin, actually. And she’s not afraid to play dirty to get it, she’s hands-on like that. Because why stop at the archivist when he’s got so many lovely ignorant assistants?

So he fixes the problem before she can make good on her threats, she can’t be killed that easily. He knows. But she died during the unknowing, and there are some pretty simple steps to follow to replicate that result. He knows the easiest way to make sure it works is also a death sentence for him. But that’s a simple choice to make. Alright no, it’s not. He’s terrified of death, of dying. He doesn’t want to die, but he can lie to himself. He can delude and say maybe he’ll get another chance. And just in case, he makes sure the assistants know they can quit now.

Tim, Sasha, and Martin don’t know what to make of the news that their boss died mysteriously in an explosion. They know even less what to make of the notes he left them.

Clearly the ramblings of a very unstable man. They all knew Jon was a bit off but this... Well, they all know there’s something weird about the job. But the apocalypse? Really? 

Sasha believes some of it, she’s worked in artifact storage. She’s seen what this stuff can do. But, well. Jon’s never come off as the most stable person, and with no proper proof to back up any of this there’s no reason for them to follow suit. After all she’s known lots of people to quit the institute, she even knows for a fact that Eric Delano did it when she was rooting through employee records for perfectly rational legal reasons.

Then Martin gets called up to Elias’s office, and gets the news he’s the new head archivist.

He tries to turn it down, but he’s offered a pay-raise and a promise that he can step down anytime if he doesn’t feel suited to the position. Elias just sees so much potential in him.

Martin tries to feel flattered and not thoroughly terrified by the way Elias says potential. He takes the promotion, after all, he can always step down if it’s too much.

He offers as much when he finds out Sasha probably should have been given the position, but she turns him down. It’s not his fault their boss is a sexist old bastard, and at this rate he’d probably just turn around and give it to Tim.

Things are normal for a few months. Until slowly a strange noise starts to be heard around the archives, a weird sort-of squishing sound with no source. Along with a metallic scent of meat. 

An infestation, of course. They’re getting the problem worked on, or so Elias says. But aside from the occasional exterminator coming in to ‘take a look’ nothing ever seems to change. Weird statements start showing up on Martins desk, surrounding meat and twisted up things, eaten alive and wrong. Suddenly he understands how Jon went off his rocker so easily.

It’s hard to believe all this supernatural stuff as it’s suddenly getting crammed down his throat, after so long of the archives being normal in almost every sense of the word it’s like missing a step on the staircase. The more awful statements he finds- that Tim and Sasha confirm -the more he realizes how much his boss was hiding from them.

He wants to quit, he thinks about it, he tries to think about it. But he just, can’t.

It’s another or two month before it happens. Meat and bone and gristle erupt from the floor, taking on horrible mangled shapes of almost-humans reaching out with hands full of teeth and hungry.

They all survive, though Tim gets eaten up a bit more than the rest of them. And they’ll all have nightmares for the rest of their lives. They’re alive.

And they find Gertrude’s body, though none of them know how to feel about it. They’ve realized by now there’s something to Jon’s nonsensical ramblings. And they’re long past regretting not quitting before this all happened.

There’s a section of document storage that got uncovered during the cleaning,an old cot that was shoved behind some of the shelves, and a box that had a few sets of clothes, an old teacup, and a key. The cleaners say they burned the clothes, but the cup and the Key are given to Martin for him to keep to return to whoever left their things in the archive.

Neither of those items belong to Tim or Sasha, so they all assume they belonged to Jon.

They start following Jons footsteps, they find out he was a suspect in an arson case surrounding Carlos Vittery’s old apartment. Nobody was there except one unidentified body. He was arrested for trespassing on a dock, though no charges were filed. There was an incident that ended in the near arrest of one Jude Perry, though no charges were filed and she soon fell off the grid. And then he exploded using C4 he had no way of getting, Nothing concrete, no proper genuine evidence except a series of weird encounters their dead boss had.

Martin Decides to try and hunt down Jude Perry, it takes some time. He has a very nice cup of tea with one Micheal Crew. Who points him in a general direction and is just a bit weird about tall buildings.

Martin finds Jude, and asks her about Jon. She laughs at him, of course. But she tells him anyway. Jon was trying to have her arrested- no, not arrested. Killed. Officer Tonner would have seen to that, he knew one of the Hunt could do her in, well. At least of Officer Tonner’s sort anyway. Jude resisted, naturally. He escaped her clutches only barely, by running. Like a coward. And she escaped the policewoman by playing innocent. She’s still on her tail though, damn dog. It’ll be a long time before she’d rid of her, but she knows better than to run. Oh, he doesn’t know what any of that means, does he? Oh he really doesn’t, how sweet. Just a little baby archivist- she was going to kill him after this. But watching him stumble into his own ruin will be so much more fun.

She sends him on his way with a burn.

Martin is terrified, he genuinely tries to quit. Almost manages it before his computer shuts off. The others try too, and then they all have a lovely freak-out together.

They decide to try and talk to Detective Tonner, which proves easy. She’s the partner of the one who’s been interviewing them. She comes to the institute, and they ask her about Jon. She tells them they believed he was responsible for killing Gertrude, seeing as he was next in line. Martin accidentally Compels her into a statement, and then into admitting she's mostly just saying he killed her because dead men don’t put up fights.

She threatens him right then and there, though Basira comes in and intervenes before anything happens. He files a dispute with the station, and avoids the police after that.

Basira brings him some of the tapes, she says it’s an apology. He’s pretty sure she’s just trying to get him to drop the dispute in the weirdest way possible. He does learn some about Gertrude though, and through her what he’s dealing with. And something about an ‘unknowing’

A man named peter Lukas visits the institute, one of the doners. Elias says he wants to see how the archive runs, Lukas says a few choice words about it. And Martin tells him in the most polite of terms to shove off. Lukas threatens him, and very briefly makes him forget everyone he’s ever loved. And then tells him he got off lucky, and that Elias should have picked a better archivist. You can hardly trust someone so childish to run something as important as this now can you.

Daisy visits him in his home, and threatens him in much more physical terms now. She tells him if he tries to do what he did to her again he’ll get more than a scar.

After that it’s a bit unclear how he gets marked by the next two (Curruption, Stranger.) but he does.

There’s a delivery, a few weeks after the stranger mark. It’s not supernatural in any sense, just a young woman dropping off a small box in the archivists office. She says her name is Georgie, and no, she doesn’t know what’s in the box. She just had an old friend tell her to deliver it if he didn’t check in after a bit. Then she found out he died on the news, and then she hadn’t wanted to deliver them- clearly whatever was in the box was going to get someone killed. And she wasn’t scared of it, she wasn’t one for fear, but the thought of putting anyone in danger made her skin crawl. But she didn’t want it in her house, and she refused to be haunted be this box forever. And there was no reason to defy the poor guys apparent final wishes- wait, why was she saying all this again?

In the box was tapes, a dozen or so of them. All addressed to ‘the next head archivist’

It’s Jon’s voice, on the tapes. Talking to who he apparently assumes to be an entire stranger, explaining the fears. And how Smirkes 14 wasn’t wrong, but wasn’t right either. It tells the next archivist to avoid eyes, paintings, doodles, abstract representations, and to keep playing dumb. There’s a lot out there, and the more you know the worse it gets. There’s no fighting, don’t struggle the nets already around you. There’s a way out, but you’re not going to like it.

It gives an odd image of Jon, the man who awkwardly tried to make small-talk int he break room, only to shuffle away after it fell flat. Carrying this world-ending secret on his shoulders. Stiff, awkward Jon. Grim, sad Jon. not so far apart but still so far outside of what Martin had known about him.

What had Martin known about him?

Tim decides to quit, Sasha stays. Elias hires Melanie. Who turns out to be another connection to Jon.

Melanie says he was kind of a prick, he belived her about her Sarah incident, but refused to give her library access. Probably because he was sexist, or maybe just a dickhead. She’d been trying to learn more about her encounter for ages. And this was finally her chance. They try to explain the way out but she won’t listen.

Martin starts following Gertrudes tapes, things about the unknowing have been popping up on his desk lately, and it sounds like Jon was right about an apocalypse. He goes to america, gets a bit kidnapped, and meets Gerry. He offers to help, and then asks about the unknowing. Gerry points him towards the storage locker. And when he gets back He and Sasha and Melanie check it out.

It’s mostly empty, apparently somewhat recently cleared out. Though in the corner there’s a large box of Tapes. There has to be dozens of them, and when they pres play it’s Jon. Talking to them. Except it’s not them, it’s another version of them, and something this version.

And there’s another Jon to add to the mystery of a man he was. The jon on these tapes isn’t stiffly awkward or forcedly professional. He’s open, sad. He cries, he laughs at memories they don’t have. He apologizes, a lot. Too much really. He talks about time travel, about forgetting faces and losing friends.

“Sometimes I-I think- I can’t help but be a bit... upset. At how unfair it all is. You’re all happy and laughing and together and i’m- 

i’m alone. 

I suppose it must be some sort of- cosmic Karma, I doomed the world so in this new one bright an new I pay my penance in isolation.

Or maybe it’s the other way around. I doom the world- suffer its horrors, and get a little bit of time to taste what humanity would be like.

Or maybe i’m just not that likable without an apocalypse.

Probably says a lot about me either way.

Is it bad that I- I sometimes consider letting things play their course? W-without any of you dying of course I just... I suppose it is bad, to want to end the world because you’re lonely. Just because i’m a bit sad doesn’t mean the planet should suffer, no... maybe i’ll try and reconnect with Georgie, it’s been... well. No. Perhaps best not.”

Sasha says that if she knew she would have at least brought him out for drinks or something. 

But they did sort-of know didn’t they? Not about the apocalypse, but about the loneliness. After all, nobody chats so awkwardly in the break room because they have a thriving social life.

“I’m going to kill Nikola tonight- i’m not going to die. I’m not. I didn’t die last time, a-and there’s no reason for that to change. T-there isn’t. I’m going to try and be a safe distance from the blast this time, too. But... Well, it’s not like I have anyone to miss me if I do go.

I suppose... Martin, if you’re listening to this- I... I miss you. You always did say I should be more open with my feelings, and it’s weird. To miss someone who’s right there. T-to look at a face and see a friend and a stranger. To love someone you’ve known for years who doesn’t even really know who you are.

It’s all very stranger, ironic really. Considering what i’m about to do.

I love you, and I miss you. I know you’re not listening, even if I did die you’ve probably long since quit. I hope you’re happy, whatever you’re doing. Happy and safe. All of you. 

And maybe you are listening, maybe... maybe we do become friends, maybe you actually choose to talk to me someday. Maybe I tell you about all of this and... And you don’t think i’m mad. Maybe you let me take you out to dinner and we’d be together again. We’d never be like before- not that that’s a bad thing what with the eldritch horrors. There’d be bits missing, memories we don’t share- but, it would still be you... It’s always been you, I think. And maybe I've decided to give this to you as some sort of silly romantic gesture.

A-and in that case. I love you, Martin Blackwood. More than you’ll ever know.

[HE SIGHS]

When I come back, i’m recording over this.”

[CLICK]

But he didn’t come back. He died that night. He died loving Martin, who never even really knew him beyond passing awkward conversation. Martin doesn’t know how to feel about it, besides guilty that is.

The tapes point them towards Georgie Barker, the woman who delivered the other set to the archives.

Georgie doesn’t really want anything to do with them, she knows whatever they’re stewing in got Jon killed. But she tells them about her encounter with The End, though she’s tetchy afterwards. Martins finally starting to understand this whole compelling business and is feeling pretty sorry about it. He redirects, he starts to ask about Jon. Who he was, really. What she knew he was like.

They talk, Martins curiosity is part Eye and part knowing that someone loved him, really, really loved him. And feeling like he missed out, like he skipped a train he hadn’t known was there. And wanting to know what kind of person would- could love him the way Jon did. And why that kind of person could end the world.

They talk, Georgie explains why they broke up (clashing ideals, he didn’t believe in the supernatural and her trauma was so inherently tied to it. He was a sleep-clinger and she kicked when she dreamed) And why it took so long for them to break up (Jon was funny once you learned to get his jokes, the Admiral loved him, he had a weird way of caring that was really sweet) they talk about things, Georgie lets him hang out with her as long as he promises to keep the supernatural out of their conversations. And how is Melanie doing by the way?

Sasha has a hard time splitting her time in the archive and helping Tim. He can manage himself of course but it’s hard knowing he’s sitting in her flat alone, he’s getting back into publishing though. Sleeping easier now he knows that not only is he free of the eye, but Jon very much killed the thing that killed Danny. He only wishes he could have been the one to pull the trigger. Sasha is getting more involved though, the eye has it’s own grip on her.

They finally confront Elias. They know it won’t do any good, Jons tapes explained what he was, who he was. But they’re frustrated. Low on options. Jon never really explained what the apocalypse was- if Martins learned anything from the other tapes it’s probably because he forgot, thought he did somewhere and didn’t.

Elias isn’t entirely surprised that they’ve figured it out, he knew something was going on. Though he wasn’t quite sure what. He claims he knows what oncoming apocalypse Jon was talking about, and that he was likely underestimating the amount.

He sends them to Ny-Ålesund. And Martin views the black sun. Gets briefly taken hostage by Manuela. And gets “saved” by a man who pops out of a door to stab her.

He says his name is Micheal, and he’s not there to help. He does his whole distortion bit, confuses them. Stabs Martin when he tries to take his statement. Says he was going to kill him, but what happens next might be much better than death. And leaves after stating that he’s very excited to watch how the rest of this plays out.

They go back to the institute, and Elias says he must have been wrong. Oopsie. Anyway the web is planning a ritual you should go check out the spooky house from all these statements.

They meet Annabelle in person, Martin gets marked by the web.

This continues on for the end the slaughter and the buried. They finally confront Elias again about these wild goose chases, he claims innocence but he’s done it enough times they don’t believe him. They stop trusting Elias. Not that they ever really did, but they stop listening to him.

Melanie isn’t as angry as she was. Though she is still angry. She didn’t go to india so no ghost bullet, but she’s still trapped. Though she knows how to quit, it’s been a scary idea. But the longer she stays the more she realizes how low she is on options. So she quits.

Martin is angry, he’s exhausted, he’s confused. Nothing makes sense. And another one of Elias’s goddamn doners is visiting. A weird old man who, when he shakes his hand, makes him feel like he just dropped off a rollercoaster at a million miles into empty nothingness. He laughs when Martins regained himself, and says that that tricks better than a buzzer every time.

He visits Georgie again, he’s thinking about quitting. But he can’t figure out what the apocalypse he’s supposed to stop is, because according to Jon it’s pretty bad. And he’s the one who can stop, or maybe start, it. But he doesn’t know what it is.

He talks to Georgie about Jon some more, it’s funny, to grieve a man you already knew. Except four years too late. There’s a sort-of helpless frustration to it, every time he talks about Jon he wishes he could be learning this first-hand. Not from someone who hadn’t spoken to him in years before this.

He also finds himself glued to the tapes, he can relate, in a way. To Jons loneliness. To have a person so, so close but so far away. He wishes he could meet the Jon on the tapes now. Then neither of them would have to be lonely. But Jon is dead. And Martin... Martin might love Jon. Jon, who died years ago. A dead man who apparently loved him enough to consider ending the world for the chance to have a real conversation with him.

He goes back to work, frustrated and so, so lost. A million questions that genuinely can’t be answered. There’s a fresh statement on his desk. It’s a statement of Jonah Magnus, regarding stopping the apocalypse.

Certainly a goddamn roundabout way of giving Martin information, but he’ll take it.

He reads the statement.

The world ends.

Sasha, Tim, Melanie, and Georgie all get their own domains. And wander free in the hills of suffering. Martin is alone, well and truly alone. He ended the world, because he was too stupid and sad to read a few extra paragraphs before starting the tape.

But Jon went back, didn’t he? He went back in time and stopped this once. Maybe Martin can too. Maybe he can stop the flesh from attacking, maybe he can stop Melanie from joining the institute. Maybe he can meet the real Jon.

He goes back, he does it. Nobody remembers but him. 

Nobody remembers but him. 

And things keep happening he can’t have predicted.

Worms, Sasha is gone, Gertrude. It’s all wrong. And Jon isn’t the Jon he knew, he doesn’t know Martin, he doesn’t even like Martin. Nobody is the person he knew before.

He is alone. And things keep happening he can’t have predicted, worms tables and paranoia. He starts recording. Trying to follow in Jon’s footsteps and leave information behind, easier to access this time of course. In his flat, and he’ll have the key sent to the archives if something goes wrong. He’ll record until Jon trusts him enough to believe him, Maybe he’ll even stop him before it’s too late and he’ll never need to find out what happened at all. Maybe he can't get close as he was to everyone, but he can keep them safe.

He doesn’t get to finish his recordings, he wasn’t careful enough. Jonah catches wind and half the tapes are destroyed when he dies in a mysterious housefire. But what’s left does get delivered to the archives.

And the cycle continues.

[janekfan]

Dismiss

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28016568

This was all Jon’s fault.

He should have known; he’d just brought about an apocalypse for christ’s sake! Of course it was too soon! Of course Martin would be upset at finding him rifling in the dark like an addict. What if there was something worse hiding away in another one and there he was, walking in on Jon pawing through the box for a goddamn snack?

But after the panic and questions and shouting at a sky that only looked on silent and steady, the shakiness was back. The ache. The draw that came from knowing they were here and whispering to him, beckoning to him, promising to ease the hurt building up in his bones as the Eye continued to take and take and take when the well had long since run dry.

And now Martin was alone. Holed up in the bedroom, their(?) bedroom, and it was Jon’s fault. He was alone again and it was because he was too selfish to think beyond feeding the monster he’d become. All because he couldn’t wait, couldn’t give him even a moment to try and forget about Jon’s dietary needs and the pain they caused. There was no way it was easy on Martin, knowing that Jon required.

This.

Worse still was the disappointment, the devastation rolling over him like the rain laden clouds of a storm as he backed away, anguished betrayal pooling in his eyes, even as Jon reached for him, excuses pouring over his lips like ink from a pen.

The mug in his hand seemed like such a paltry offering. Martin deserved infinitely more than this and Jon would never be up for the task if he kept relying on his more monstrous half. Like his resolve, his hold on the ceramic tightened. If Martin wanted him to hold off, or, or prove that he was better than his thirst for fear, then he would give that to him.

Anything for him.

“M’Martin?” He called through the door rather than knock, holding his breath while the decision to let him in or not was made. He couldn’t help but count the seconds, forty seven, a small eternity. Jon fought the impulse to apologize again, Martin said he did that far too much, likely thought he didn’t truly mean it because he never seemed to fix his mistakes. Patience. Wait.

It was not his forte.

“Come in.” Good lord, Martin sounded so tired and when Jon stepped into the room he could see him curled up on the bed facing away from him, the slope of his shoulders defeated. The desire to express remorse all but choked him and he swallowed it down with difficulty. It wouldn’t be for Martin anyway, not really, just another selfish attempt to assuage his own guilt.

“I’m. I brought tea?” Another step closer, watching Martin sit up slowly, elbow rising up as he swiped at his eyes. “O’of course it, it could never hope to m’measure up to yours. I’m afraid I’I’ve never been a deft hand.” He was babbling, rounding the frame so fast that liquid splashed over his fingers. “Mm. B’but here? It’s warm?”

“Thank you, Jon.” It shouldn’t have mattered but the lack of an endearment he’d become so used to was like a blow. Still, he accepted the tea, taking a measured sip before setting it aside and glancing up with red rimmed eyes.

“I. I wasn’t thinking.” To prevent himself reaching for more, Jon plucked at the bottom hem of his, of Martin’s jumper, picking and pulling at the stray threads.

“I was. Surprised, I guess? That you could even look at--” He shook his head, “it’s not important.” And while Jon didn’t agree considering how insensitive he’d been, he welcomed Martin’s arms around him.

“Can’t it wait, Jon?”

Caught.

As he tried to steal away up the stairs with his prize, all too aware of the inherent chicanery.

All too aware of the exasperation in Martin’s voice as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

Exasperation with him.

“I can’t exactly...avoid you in here.” He gestured absently to the small space of the cabin made smaller by fear of leaving and they both knew well there was no way Martin wouldn’t be able to hear him. It physically hurt to replace the yellowed paper back into its watermarked manila folder.

“S’sorry Martin. Of course it can wait.” But it was worse for having held it in his hands, for having been so close and the Eye was railing at him now, shouting in his mind for his denial and dizzying him with its volume. Instead Jon settled for stumbling over to the couch to burrow into Martin’s warmth, sighing when he draped a heavy arm across his aching shoulders and dropped a kiss into his messy hair. Beneath his ear Martin’s pulse beat loud, nearly drowning out the yammering want and sluggish and thick, Jon responded in a sleepy hum to Martin’s questions, sinking into a doze when he began to pet through his tangled curls.

Without a dose of second hand fear it only became worse, to the point where his scars screamed out whenever he moved, breathed, and Jon found himself losing large tracts of time even when he wasn’t sleeping. The inside of his skull was stuffed full of candy floss and digging through any of it for a spare thought was far beyond his ken.

Martin didn’t leave anymore.

For very good reason, but Jon couldn’t find a moment alone to, to, to.

Eat.

Even old and stale they would provide a reprieve.

“Martin.” His own voice sounded as though he were hearing it through the walls of a submarine, muffled and strained, and he wasn’t totally certain of his volume. “I. I need to read. To read a statement.”

Please.

The disbelief knitting Martin’s brow almost made him want to cry. It. He’d waited so long. Tried to sneak, be out of the way, to ask.

“The world just ended!” Martin avoided saying just who ended it but it was there in the set of his mouth and Jon winced irrationally at the volume; he wasn’t being yelled at, just about. “And you want to read a bloody statement now?” Incredulous, and at his tone, Jon folded himself into a small origami shape on his spot on the sofa, sharp at all his corners and hopefully harder to hit.

“No! I mean, I--”

“I don’t understand.” His voice was soft now, imploring. "Did you forget what caused this in the first place?" Oh, but he knew the answer to this question. It was good to know.

“M’me?” When Martin sighed, the disappointment captured in it stung.

“Yeah, I mean, no. It’s not your fault you were tricked into reading--look, I just think it’d be better if we waited. At least until we have a plan?” That made sense and he said so, words tripping up in a jumble on his tongue. “Jon, are you alright?”

No. He was hurting and upset and couldn't decide which was the greater ache.

“Yes. Just tired.”

“I’m ready for a kip after the staring contest I had with the sky earlier.” That would be nice. Martin was warm and soft and it didn’t all hurt so much when he was asleep.

His scars pulsed with a feverish ache, twisting, burning, smoldering embers in a body crying out for relief, thoughts disconnected, disoriented, disjointed, knotted up past, present.

He hated this. Hated himself, hated how nothing made sense anymore, all a vast landscape of, boiling, melted wax running together in a kaleidoscope of color.

Martin must hate what he is, hate that he ruined the world and want him to know it. Maybe once he’d learned to be more careful, more thoughtful Martin would let him have one. That's all, he just had to be patient. He still held him, kissed him, loved him, this was just a, a lesson. That's all. When he told him the right answers, when he figured them out, he’d be allowed to read and fill the emptiness eating him away from inside out.

He’d rather Martin than a statement any day.

Just a bit longer.

“Jon.” Martin left him in bed this equivalent to morning in hopes it would stave off whatever he’d come down with but enough was enough. “You can’t spend all day sleeping, love. We need to figure this out.” You can’t ignore what you’ve done and leave me to clean up your mess. Uncharitable, the thought came out of nowhere and Martin was thankful he’d kept his frustration to himself. He knew it wasn’t his fault. Breaking it down to blame wouldn’t help anybody, least of all the entire world. Magnus was old and he’d taken the time to plan this, manipulating them all into place, and asking Jon to carry the whole weight of that wasn’t fair. Fading in and out, thick and syrupy, Jon’s unsteady voice rose from the mountain of quilts.

“Nnn...n’feeling...very well.” He looked dreadful, flushed and fevered, and not for the first time Martin wondered if this was a leftover side effect of the ritual. “S’so cold…” Taking pity, Martin curled around his too thin and shivering frame where Jon panted harshly into his neck, the brush of overheated air humid at his throat.

“What’s wrong, darling?”

“Hur’s.” Worry flooded Martin’s chest, constricting and tight. There were no doctors here, no ambulance he could call on.

“Where?”

“Ss…” With difficulty he flexed his burned hand.

“Scars?”

“Ah.”

“Alright, I’m here.” Gently Martin ran a light hand along the seam of his spine in the hope it brought Jon some measure of comfort if nothing else.

Idiot.

It took him too long to put the pieces together. How big did a neon sign have to be before he could read it?

Selfish. Foolish. Stupid. And the one paying dearly for it was Jon.

“You need to come awake for me, love.” He’d already heaved him up once only for him to swoon and this time he bullied him to his feet where he stood swaying dangerously but Martin needed him to be awake, to get his blood moving and stay that way.

“Mma’tin…” agonized, breathless, what had he said earlier? About hurting, his scars? God, Martin, you just watched him fall apart in front of you and did nothing. Worse than nothing. “Sstop…”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” For so much, for not listening, for thinking ever that Jon would keep seeking out statements for anything other than necessity. “You’re doing so well, so, so well.” To think he nigh accused him of wanting to Know and nothing else; childish and angry. “But you need to wake up, you need to be able to listen.”

“Am...am.” Marble mouthed, dark lashes like strokes of ink fluttered, obscured the unnatural green glow always seeking. “Lis…” he broke off into a low, shaky moan, curling into himself, trying to sink to the floor, and Martin wanted to cry, worried that if he left him alone for even a moment he wouldn’t be able to wake him again. So he swept him into his arms instead, heart shattering when Jon bit off a sharp sob as his palm ghosted over the gap in his ribs, sore and sensitive and even so, he turned his face into Martin’s chest, twisted trembling fingers into wash-worn wool with a keening whine. He'd hurt him, accused him, berated him.

And Jon still turned to him as though he were the sun.

“Shh, soon now.” Shallow and short, Jon’s chest hitched as he pressed his fever hot forehead hard into his shoulder and swallowed with a wet click.

“Mmah…” around another convulsive swallow and it was barely warning enough to get him over the sink where he coughed up the tea Martin forced into him earlier. Strung tight and painfully wound, Jon exhaled in relief when Martin let him slide boneless down the cabinetry to the floor, cheek pillowed on the cool painted wood. Lifting his chin, Martin brushed back sweat soaked curls, pressed a promise into fiery skin.

“I’m going to fix this.” As quick as he could Martin ran to the closet and grabbed the whole box, returning to find Jon sprawled out on his back, limbs twisted and loose where he fell. “Oh, Jon.” There was no time to make him comfortable, not when for all Martin knew he was dying because he’d refused to see what was right in front of him, what Jon had been trying to tell him. Because it meant that Jon truly wasn’t human and clearly part of Martin wanted to ignore that.

And now.

“Jon, darling, please.” In his lap, listless deadweight, face turned unconsciously toward the statements. “Open your eyes, Jon, which ones haven’t you read?” Martin clawed through the folders, skimming titles, trying to remember if he’d heard any snippets, but no. He didn’t like listening to them, didn’t want to hear the horrors of others. If he’d stayed with him would he have been able to stop Magnus’ plan? “Jon!” Listing numbers, names, until the floor around them was tiled in paper. Hitching him higher, Martin kissed his pulsepoint when his head lolled, slow and sluggish. “Jon.” Which one?

“Mmm...”

“This one?” He read the first sentence, shuddering already at the chill running up his spine. “Jon?” Another paragraph and uncoordinated, his arm struck out, reaching blindly. “Okay, alright. Are you listening?” The tiniest nod, Martin wasn’t sure if he imagined it or not, but began to read, steady as he could, sick with himself when the tremors eased and tight, spasming muscles unspooled under his worried hand. When the tears came he had to force himself to keep on, beside himself that he couldn’t comfort him. With the great gasping breaths of a man half drowned, Jon swung his arms around Martin’s neck when the strength came back to his arms as it all drew to a close.

“Th’thank you.” Damp spread over his skin, his words tinged with desperate relief. “M’sorry, m’s’sorry.”

“For what?” He clutched him back, the sound of paper crumpling in his fist sharp in his ears and punctuated by Jon’s frantic apologies, his uneasy gratefulness.

“Th’thank you, Martin, thank y’you. Won’ a’a’ask again.”

“Jon.”

“Can wait.” The quake in his voice was shivery and small and devastation pooled in Martin’ stomach.

It sounded too much as though--

“Oh darling, oh no, no. I.” He had to pause, to swallow the tangle of emotion clotting up his throat and gathered him closer. “I didn’t understand. That’s all. I would. Jon.” Gently he shifted him to get a look at his tear streaked and exhausted face, swiping at his own eyes before cupping his cheek and drawing his thumb over the too-prominent bone there. “Never, I would never h’hurt, or punish--I didn’t know. I didn’t listen.” The first statement’s reprieve was wearing thin and Martin settled Jon against his chest where he laid still, head resting on his shoulder as he reached for another envelope.

The light never changed, no matter the time, but it was softer now. Here.

Pastel behind his eyelids as if swimming through a twilight consciousness into the soft sensations of waking. The knit strands of Martin’s cardigan threaded between his tangled fingers and he shifted closer, so warm, the fever chills he’d suffered for days a thing of the not too distant past. Jon wanted to collect this feeling, this safety, bottle it up for when Martin finally figured out that the only thing he knew how to do was take. Holding his breath, he tried to stay in this moment and absorb the feeling of Martin’s body pressed against his own, slotted perfectly together like a pair of puzzle pieces, the heat generated beneath the quilt comforting, intoxicating.

Even though Jon could tell you more than most that stealing scraps of affection never amounted to enough.

Soft kisses rained over his skin, over every scar, because he’d been unable to cry quietly enough to leave Martin undisturbed. He pulled away, scrubbed his face with the heel of his scarred hands.

“Sorry.”

“Please, don’t be.” And he wanted to believe him, that he could have this even with what he was. That he wouldn’t ruin Martin like he’d already ruined so much. “Come here, love.” Patient. Martin was so patient with him even when the uncertainty had to show in his face. “It’s alright.” And Jon dove back in, hands not so much brushing against each other as colliding when he reached for more, more, more, taking, taking, taking. Hiccuping with sobs, burrowing close, closer, the closest he could be, where Martin’s kiss was a soft promise pressed between them, told to his mouth rather than his ear but a message of love and protection and tenderness all the same. Tears he forgot he’d been crying were thumbed gently away, so carefully it was as though Martin worried he would break under the weight of his touch.

Sated, the Beholding a murmur lost in the rhythm of Martin’s heart, Jon allowed himself to be lost, to let someone else, someone he loved and who loved him in return, carry it all just for a little while.

“How’re you feeling?” He approached with a cup of tea, inadequate though it was for an apology, passing it off to Jon’s eager, steady hands. His color was better, the flush faded, and he’d stopped moving like there were needles wedged in every joint.

“Much better, thank you, Martin.” Whyever would he thank him? But here he was, eyes closed in appreciation of the first sip, patting the cushion next to him in open invitation.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” After a beat of silence Jon set aside the mug and folded his hands in his lap.

“I thought you knew.” His fingers flexed and Jon forced himself to look Martin in the eye. “I thought it was what you, what you wanted.” And the confusion in his expression, that he had possibly miscalculated, was painful. But isn’t that what he’d learned time and time again? Tim, Basira, Melanie, Daisy, even Martin himself! That when he made mistakes, made wrong choices, when he’d done something they didn’t approve of he’d been yelled at, ridiculed, threatened, terrified, hurt, abandoned. He laughed, a bitter, deprecating huff. "I did end the world after all. You've a right to be upset."

“Wha--no! Jon, no! If I’d--” speechless, that Jon just accepted so easily being hurt this way, accepted that Martin, even accidentally, wanted to see him punished for his part in bringing about Magnus’ plan.

“When I, I asked. I. It made you so angry.”

"Jon. No matter how angry I am, I never want to hurt you or punish you. That’s not okay."

"But--"

“I should have never made you feel--” He grit his teeth, calmed his voice. There was no part of him that wanted Jon to interpret his anger at himself as anger pointed towards him. “Please, if I do this again. Please, love.” For a moment Jon looked like he wanted to argue and Martin tugged him into an embrace, overjoyed when it was returned, his response muffled in his jumper.

“Alright.”

[voiceless-terror]

all those sleep prompts are so killer and such big jon vibes!!! i would love to read anything on "- a character who refuses to share a sleeping space with anyone else, and it’s because he doesn’t want to disturb others/doesn’t want pity/is ashamed of his nightmares" with jon. bonus points if tim is involved and extra bonus points if tim also has experience with insomnia/nightmares, either himself or used to taking care of someone in his life with those issues...

Hey there! Here I am, finally writing the promised Jon/Tim that I should have written ages ago. Feels good to be on this train! I’ve placed this in pre-canon, when Jon and Tim are researchers and have just started dating. Hope you like!

“That was...really nice, Tim. Thank you.”

“Thank you? Jon, we split the check,” Tim throws an arm around his shoulder and it’s heavy and warm in all the right ways. “You know my policy on that. The person who asks you out pays the bill! Ergo, me.”

“I know, I know,” Jon relents under the pressure and burrows into Tim’s side. The wine’s gone to his head, he’s sure of it. Shouldn’t have had those three glasses. But the waiter was so attentive and Tim’s smile was infectious so he couldn’t help but say yes, of course, thank you, to every pour. “I just...I really enjoyed myself, is all.”

“I did too,” Tim’s voice goes to that soft, fond register he’s only just started using with Jon. Before it had been all gregarious charm, winks and nudges that he used interchangeably with friends and acquaintances alike. When Tim first asked him out, Jon thought he was joking; he rolled his eyes and went back to work, ignoring Tim’s look of hurt. Jon was used to practical jokes of this nature- he’s not exactly an attractive prospective partner, and several people have implied he was more trouble than he was worth. But a week later, on their usual coffee run, Tim offered to buy him dinner, his voice serious and shy and utterly unlike him. The look in his eyes was genuine and Jon had to say yes; who could refuse him, in the face of such sincerity?

It’s been a month and they’ve fallen into a sort of routine. Every week is a new spot- Tim’s a bit of a foodie, and he overheard him making a list of places with Sasha. It took up an entire page in his notebook, and Jon wonders if Tim will get sick of him before they finish it.

He stumbles on the sidewalk and Tim catches him with a steady hand on his waist. The cold air should be bracing but it is not; his dizziness increases two times over and it’s a long journey home. Tim knows this, which must lead to his next suggestion.

“You can spend the night at mine,” he says, voice purposefully light. Jon freezes. They hadn’t broached the topic yet, but he thinks Tim has some sort of idea. Rumors abound in research, after all. Tim must notice his nervousness because he stops walking, turning to face Jon with that same unbearable sincerity. 

“Nothing untoward, I promise,” Tim says, and Jon believes him. Tim hasn’t lied to him yet. “I just don’t feel comfortable putting you on the tube, and you’re a long way from home while I’m right around the corner.” Jon still doesn’t respond, so Tim continues. “No pressure, honestly. I could call you a cab, it’s not a big deal-”

“No, that’s-that’s too expensive.” Living in London is hard enough, especially on a researcher’s salary. But to spend the night at Tim’s, as innocent as it may be, fills him with dread. There’s a reason he lives alone. There’s a reason it took him almost a year before he stayed the night at Georgie’s.

Sleep has never been kind to him.

Jon has nightmares. Terrible, horrifying visions of make-believe that leave him screaming and crying and choking on his breath. Georgie had been about ready to call an ambulance the first time she witnessed it, but Jon was able to talk her down.

“These happen every night?” she’d asked, her face a mix of pity and concern. 

“Not every night,” he insisted. It was true. If he stayed up late, working himself to exhaustion, he could usually manage a dreamless sleep of at least five hours. But that came with its own difficulties; crankiness, irritability. It put a strain on most of his relationships. 

Tim, though- Tim is kind and understanding. Beneath the mask of sociability and flirtation lies a serious, determined person. Compassionate, loving, but in a quiet way and with small gestures. He makes lists. He puts in time. He asks Jon what he wants when they go out to eat and he doesn’t laugh or roll his eyes when Jon carries on for too long. 

“We can go to your place,” he whispers. “I-I think I’d like that.” Tim smiles and hooks an arm through his and Jon knows he’s made the right decision. Maybe tonight will be different. Maybe the wine will dull the terror that rules most of his life. The night is dark and Jon’s flat is cold and lonely. 

Tim’s flat, on the other hand, is warm and cozy. It’s neat and organized, but cluttered enough to give it personality and charm. There’s a couch calling his name and he answers it, practically collapsing in the cushions as Tim lets out a little laugh.

“No going to sleep yet,” he instructs and Jon can’t help but let out a groan. The warmth and safety of the spot and the closeness of Tim has suddenly made him comfortably tired, and he’d like to slip off to sleep in this pleasant haze. “Not until you’ve had some food and water. I’ve even got those crusty little granola bars you like so much.”

“They’re not crusty,” he grumbles, his voice stifled by a pillow. But he’s not in a fighting mood and his mind’s currently swimming with the fact that Tim stocked his favorite snack. 

“Very crusty, indeed,” Tim’s nudging him up into a sitting position and forcing water into his hands. “Drink up!”

“You’re very irritating, I hope you know,” Jon says as he leans his head onto Tim’s shoulder. Tim makes for a comfortable pillow. 

“Aw, you love it.” 

Maybe he does.

By the time he’s choked down the last of the bar, his eyes are fluttering and he can’t keep in his yawns. Tim puts a warm hand on his arm and it burns pleasantly as he pulls him up. “Time for bed, I think.”

The words startle Jon out of his haze and he blinks his eyes open, focusing on Tim’s gentle smile. “Er, I think-” he doesn’t want to disappoint the man, but he would rather be as cautious as possible. “I think it would be best if I slept out here.”

“On the couch?” Tim asks, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Oh- would you rather sleep alone?” Tim doesn’t seem too miffed about it, just confused, so Jon answers as honestly as he can.

“Yes.” He doesn’t want to, not really. But he needs to.

“Alright,” Tim agrees easily enough. “But you should take the bed, then. The sofa’s comfy but I know you have a bad back-”

“It’s fine for one night,” Jon responds. Forcing Tim to sleep on the sofa in his own flat seems terribly selfish.

“If you’re sure…”

“I am,” Jon assures, trying to convey his affection in a gentle smile. Tim returns it.

“I’ll just get you some sheets, then. Change of clothes, too.”

By the time Jon’s head hits the pillow, comfortably attired in Tim’s old joggers and t-shirt, he’s already half asleep. He thinks Tim’s already left the room but then he feels the warm pressure of a kiss to his forehead.

Perhaps he dreamed that, though.

__________

There’s a thread and it’s pulling Jon forward.

It’s not comfortable. Jon would rather stay here, in the library, surrounded by books and dim lights and knowledge he has control over. But there are whispers in the hallway, and someone’s telling him to go, go, go. 

And go he does. Down stairs, so many stairs, more stairs than the institute ought to have. There is something watching and something pulling; Jon is being split in two and somehow this is worse than actually seeing the spiders and the eyes that have haunted him all these years. This, he feels in his soul. Something is at stake.

There’s a door. This is how it always ends, you see- with a door. And Jon’s fist, small and childish and grubby, raises to knock against the wood. It echoes too many times as Jon tries to step back, get off this porch and out of this nightmare but it is too late, the deed is done and the door is opening and a single, spindly black leg creeps out of the door hello, Mr. Spider-

“Jon!”

There are limbs holding him but it’s not the many-legged creature of his nightmares- they’re familiar and strong even as he thrashes against them but someone is screaming and the sound is haunting and painful-

And it’s him. Jon wrenches his eyes open to find himself safe and sound, held in place by Tim’s arms. His heart continues to stutter and he wheezes- Tim’s got a hand on his back and a soothing murmur going.

“You’ve got to breathe, Jon. Slow.” Tim takes his shaking hand and puts it to his own chest. “Like this. In and out. There you go. Nice and slow.” The words are calm and practiced; Tim’s done this before, with someone else. As his heartbeat resumes a normal rhythm, he wonders who. 

There’s a hand on Jon’s face, gently wiping away tears he wasn’t aware he shed. Tim’s eyes are far-away, sort of, like he’s just going through the motions, slow and loving. “There we are,” he says as he finally meets Jon’s eyes. “Better now?”

“Y-Yes,” he croaks back. His hand is still gripping at Tim’s shirt but he doesn’t let go until the reality of the situation sets in. “Oh God- I’m- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you-”

“Is that why you slept out here?” Tim asks, his voice patient. “Does this happen a lot?”

“M-More than I care to admit.” Jon feels a sudden need to explain himself, to let Tim know he tries to keep it under control as best he can. “I’ve tried everything- tea, therapy, p-pills- it doesn’t work.” A note of frustration creeps into his voice. “Something doesn’t want me to sleep, I guess.”

“Just thought you were a workaholic, to be honest,” Tim pulls him into his side and Jon melts, the tension slowly leaving his body. “Should’ve known better. We work at the Magnus Institute, after all.” The laugh that comes from both of them is bitter. “D’you want to sleep in my bed, maybe? Just- just for company. I’ve been told that helps.”

“I-I don’t want to wake you.” The argument is weak and the both of them know it.

“You already have, love.” The endearment slips out unnoticed by Tim, but Jon hears it. “You’ll wake me either way, but I’d rather you didn’t wake up alone.”

“O-Oh.” There’s a lot of care in those words. Jon doesn’t know what to do with it, except agree. “Yes, I’ll- if, if you don’t mind-”

“Wouldn’t offer if I did.” He wouldn’t, Jon knows. Tim always means what he says when it comes to him.

So they curl up in his bed, an arm slung across Jon’s waist, his back to Tim’s chest. There are no spiders here, not in this bed that smells of dryer sheets and detergent and Tim. He’s almost asleep when the arm around his waist tightens suddenly.

“My brother always said the pressure helped. When he had bad dreams.” Jon opens his eyes.

Tim never mentioned a brother; it never came up in any of their conversations. Tim knows Jon is an only child, that he was brought up by his grandmother and had a lonely childhood. He didn’t realize, in all of their time together, that he knew so little of Tim’s own background, besides his publishing career.

Nobody liked to talk about what brought them to the Magnus Institute. It was like some unspoken rule, some shared trauma that somehow kept them all silent and apart.

“Your brother?” he whispers, turning over to see Tim’s face. Its dark, but he thinks he can see a brightness in Tim’s eyes like unshed tears. 

“Danny.” Tim says the name like he’s asking for forgiveness that Jon can’t give. He sees a tear drip down the man’s face and he reaches for it, just like Tim did before. “He was...he was my little brother. And he was so, so good.” Tim’s voice breaks and something in Jon breaks too. “And something took him from me.” His expression is hard but his hand reaches out to lovingly trace Jon’s face, as if trying to memorize its shape.

“I’m sorry,” Jon knows his apology is not enough, that it will never fill the gap in Tim’s heart. Instead, he finds words spilling from his lips, as if sharing his own pain will help too. “I-I saw someone get taken, once. I didn’t- I didn’t love them, but- but it was because of me.” Tim’s hand is in his hair, tucking a curl behind his ear as his voice wobbles. “It should’ve been me.” 

Tim draws him close and squeezes; Jon buries his face in the crook of his neck and inhales. “I’m glad it wasn’t you, Jon,” Tim whispers as he runs a hand down his back. “I’m glad it wasn’t you.” Jon isn’t Danny and Tim isn’t offering him absolution but it’s fine, for tonight.

Jon doesn’t dream.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27494077

[omahasnakes]

2017: Modern Times, in the Geological Sense

This week has me listening to more songs by artists whose names I recognized only distantly: Machine Gun Kelly (“You smell like weed.” “I AM weed.”,) Quavo (❄️,) 21 Savage, Gucci Mane, Kodak Black, Future, Lil Yachty, Migos, Playboy Carti, and XXXTENTACION. I had created a headcanon where I had decided which of these I would like based only on how their names sounded (Quavo, Migos, Future) but so far none of them have drawn me in.

Song of the year: “Bodak Yellow” Cardi B. The original line I remember on Cardi B was that it was impossible to understand her lyrics, but that’s simply not true in retrospect. I find her delightful.

DJ Khaled is not a serious person. I don’t take him seriously in the slightest. This is one of the worst insults I can imagine. He says the same line in the beginning of both of his songs on the chart this year, and it sounds to my ear like “We the best music.” Can that be right?

Ed Sheeran- he’s fine. Not in the colloquial sense of being attractive, but in the general shrugging sense of “it’s fine that he exists, I suppose.” If he were my coworker-- if Ed Sheeran taught business calculus-- I’m sure he’d be very charismatic. Honestly, I kind of like “Shape of You” even though the lyrics are completely silly.

“Redbone” Childish Gambino. Really, after none of the songs from “Camp” and none from “Because the Internet” showed up on the chart, a song that doesn’t do much for me from an album I ignored is the one that charts? Suspicious.

Why is “Despacito” such a punchline? I perceive Daddy Yankee as a kind of unserious person (see earlier insult) but the whole thing seems fine to me? Me, a young and hip person. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oXOlvWw8uXs

“Look What You Made Me Do” Taylor Swift. This one is a little troubling. It makes me think of various fascists who tweeted about liking the song and how the chorus really resonated with their abuser-brains. On the other hand, the video has a lot of nice outfits in it. Taylor Swift also charted this year duetting on “I Don’t Wanna Live Forever” with the artist I refer to as “that handsome Zayn Malik” but now apparently records under the name ZAYN and also don’t do a google news search for him because you’ll feel disappointed and let down but not surprised.

“All Time Low” Jon Bellion. Another song that I had never heard before this week but fell in love with. Am I wrong that he sounds a tiny little bit like Ben Gibbard?

“Havana” Camila Cabello, Young Thug. “Cabello” means “hair” which sounds funny at first, but that’s also an English surname that I’ve known people to have, so it’s actually not the slightest bit weird. You can add this song to the secret Intro to Latin Dance playlist (see 2000.)

Country music barometer: 5%. Up from last year, but I’m not worried yet.

[jonspurpleskirt]

Perks of Beholding

Summary: Jon gets distracted from paranoia by learning he can now understand animals. This somehow solves all their problems. Or: Jon turns into a Disney princess the fic.

No Warnings apply. It’s just fluff. Heavily inspired by this lovely TMA comic:  ___

It started with the Admiral. Jon was about to read the first statement his mysterious benefactor had sent when he heard a small "Jon!" from the kitchen. It had a strange, rumbling undertone to it and sounded as though a human was trying to imitate a cat.

Jon startled so hard at the unfamiliar voice that he send the papers he had in his hands flying. Instinctively grabbing the tape recorder he sprung up.

"Who's there!"

The Admiral came out of the kitchen, rubbing against the doorframe and purring. "Jon! It's time for a midday snack."

Jon blinked hard, wondering if he had lost his mind entirely, while a much louder voice was screeching in delight.

"Admiral! I can understand you!"

"Give me food Jon, I beg of you. I'm famished."

The Admiral jumped up on his lap, claws snagging on the worm hole riddled arm. It should have already been healed, but Jon continued picking on it.

"Ah..ha. Careful please. I'm damaged goods."

"My apologies. Now food and then cuddles? I crave attention."

Statement forgotten Jon spend the rest of the afternoon debating with Georgies cat about the pros and cons of feeding the Admiral without Georgies consent, sneaking snacks anyway and cuddling on the couch.

To say that Georgie was bemused when she got home was an understatement. "You can speak cat now. Are you shitting me?"

"No. It's amazing! Georgie this might be the only good thing to have happened to me in years!"

Georgie rolled his eyes, grinning. "Don't be so dramatic. So what? Are cats really planning to overthrow us lowly humans? What is he saying?"

"I'm pretty sure he wouldn't tell me if that was the case. Admiral is there anything you'd like to say to Georgie?"

The Admiral, who hadn't budged from Jons chest since after he had been fed was staring straight at him. "Tell her I love her."

Jon turned to Georgie with the most serious face she had ever seen on him. "He wants you to know that he loves you." He announced gravely. And then, after a short pause. "But he loves me more."

"I didn't say that."

"He didn't say that!"

"No, but I know."

The Admiral bit at his finger and then immediately licked the raw skin as an apology. "Unruly kitten."

"I'm not a kitten!"

"You know I'm not sure if the noises you make are cute or creepy."

~~~

His language comprehension skills didn't only focus on cat speak, Jon found out soon after. He had been brave enough to step out of Georgies flat to go for a quick walk (and buy some cat food that Georgie refused to get for the Admiral), when a voice from above cooed at him.

"So shiny!"

Jon froze at the croaky exclamation, scanning his environment and trying not to panic. There was no police nearby. Which was good. But also bad if this was going to turn out to be a robbery. There weren't any people around at all, actually. Jon had gone out at an ungodly hour as to avoid big crowds and thus being seen.

The only being he could make out was a crow perched atop a lantern, gazing down at him. Jon pointed at himself. "Are you speaking to me?"

The crow tilted its head. "It would seem so, human."

"Oh. What is it that you find so shiny?"

It considered his question for a moment, then flew down. Jon flinched when the bird landed on his shoulder, a sharp beak tapping the hair clasp Jon had used to keep his mess of a hair out of his face.

"This. I'd like to have it."

Jon itched to stroke the black feathers that caressed his cheek. A childish excitement that he hadn't felt since uni thrumming in his chest.

"You can have it. Just let me take it out first."

The crow hopped on his other shoulder, nibbling at his scarf while Jon gently untangled the clasp from his locks, careful not to jostle his new friend too much.

"There we go. Here."

"Thank you. This kindness will not be forgotten."

Jon watched the bird fly off with his possession and wished his human encounters could go so smoothly.

Word did get around fast that he was a friend of corvids and provider of shiny things. Wherever he went at least two or three crows or ravens would appear within minutes chatting him up. Most of his spare change went to them and soon he found himself buying little trinkets for them to carry off.

In the weeks that followed Jon got out more and more, keeping to parks at unreasonable hours, driven to converse with all kinds of wildlife. He hadn't touched most of the statements he had been send, too fixated on the new, harmless ability he had been granted. This had improved Georgies and his relationship immensely. She had been worried that he would obsess over who could have murdered Leitner. Him going out and talking to various animals might not have been any less strange, but at least it felt harmless enough to her that she left him to it, sometimes even tagging along.

Jon had always felt it easier to communicate with animals. And this didn't change with his new ability. Interactions were simple and their stories were interesting, with a perspective foreign enough to catch his interest. Animals viewed the world rather differently, had different priorities and had less behavioral rules that Jon could mess up.

And they weren't shy to seek out his touch once they got to know him. More often than not these days Georgie would find him with a squirrel draped around his neck, a bird pulling his hair or a cat in his arms. He had even tried to talk to some insects once, but told Georgie with a look of disappointment that they didn't have the mind for idle chatter.

Like humans not every animal was friendly or even a good conversationalist. There was a white and grey pigeon nesting close to Georgies flat, who made for dreadful smalltalk and couldn't hold a thought to save its life. And Clara the sparrow loved to spew a litany of curse words at him, because she found they sounded funny.

In the end, however, his curiousity to learn more about his abilities led him to check out more of the statements and eventually, try and contact Jude Perry. They met in a quaint little café, opting to sit outside because of Judes flamability and Jons want to have a better chance of escape should anything go wrong.

Jon didn't shake Judes hand when she first asked. But after her statement and her willingness to give him the contact of an acquaintance he felt he had to. He reached out to take her hand when a crow dived down and crashed between the two. The ball of black feathers shook itself and snapped sharply at Jons hand.

"What do you think you are doing you lanky idiot! Do you not have any instincts left in your body! What are you?! A fledgling? Shame on you! You nearly gave us a heart attack!"

"I'm sorry, but you really should fly away. Your feathers are beginning to sizzle- Ow!"

The crow had squawked at him in a rather unbecoming manner for such a lovely lady, but had heeded his warning and flown onto his shoulder, opting to snap at his ear and pull it to get him to leave the firey lady, cussing him out all the while.

"I get it, I get it! Please stop assaulting my ear."

"What."

Momentarily having forgotten his audience in order to get the furious crow out of his hair, Jon send Jude an apologetic smile.

"Sorry. Marah seems to be quite against me shaking your hand. Ow. Would you stop that I'm not doing anything!"

"You can speak with animals?" Not even Jude - I'll burn everything you love to the ground - Perry seemed to be immune to the craziness of the situation. Her grin had turned from feral to amused. The air around her had gotten colder as well.

"Ah, yes. Wasn't Gertrude also able to do so?"

Jon had finally been able to get Marah out of his hair and was cradling her against his chest, patting down her ruffled feathers and let her play with the shiny decorative coins that hung from his scarf.

"I don't think I've ever seen her doing that. But then everyone Becomes differently."

"Becomes? Ah... right sorry, no further questions. I... I guess I've always had more interest in animals then humans. Could that... I mean that could be the reason."

"Could." She echoed him, eyes fixed on the crow nestled in his arms.

A flutter of wings made both of them look up and startle at the sight of dozens of black birds perched along the roofs staring down at them.

"Did you call them?" She hissed.

"No. It's not like I can control them. I occasionally give them stuff? And they make great conversation partners. I guess they're just pretty protective of me?"

"Fledgling." Marah huffed, winding one of his long locks around her beak and tugging.

"Ow. They call me fledgling for some reason."

Jude snorted into her boiling coffee. "Yeah that checks out." Her gaze skimmed the dark wall of feathers above them. People around them had become uncomfortable as well, hurrying to get out of the area. The waiter was giving them nervous glances, too.

"If it would ease your mind I doubt they'll try to attack you if you play nice?"

"You sound awfully unsure of that."

Jon shrugged as best as he could without jostling Marah too much. "I'm still not sure how all of this works. That's why I'm looking for other avatars."

Jude shook her head and laughed. "A Watcher not Knowing something. The world never ceases to surprise me." She took out her phone, which had a cracked display, the plastic scorched where her fingers touched, but miraculously was still functioning. "Give me your number I'll forward you some of my contacts."

"Thank you!"

"Don't. You'll pay me in cute pet pictures. Once weekly."

Jon smiled, that sounded like a much better price to pay than a scorched hand. "I'll do that. Any favourites?"

"Owls." Jude said without hesitation, then blinked and scowled at him. "You'll have to get a grip on that if you don't want Mike to throw you out the window."

"I'm sorry. I really don't mean to do... whatever I'm doing."

"Watch your wording then. Don't ask questions or whatever."

Jon sighed, holding out his phone for her to copy his number. "Right."

He bought Marah her favourite pastry as a thank you for saving him and promised to get her that pretty ring she had seen. It was quite expensive, but Jon thought it was worth it.

~~~

Jon was a bundle of frayed nerves when he went to visit Mike Crew. They had written back and forth a bit over the days and no matter how much Jon tried to coax Mike into meeting him somewhere more open the Avatar of the Vast never budged.

So here he was, sans crow support, knocking on the door of a serial killer. The young man that welcomed him in was only shorter than him by maybe an inch or two. He had donned a fake smile and was asking if he wanted some tea.

Jon didn't. He had a set of questions, hungered for Mikes statement. But Judes warning stopped him from immediately going for it. Drinking bland tea he didn't want was probably the better alternative to being thrown out a window. Not that that was still a very real possibility afterwards.

"I'd love to. Thank you."

Mike seemed surprised that he had taken him up on the offer. "Huh. Well then. Come in. I only have Lavender and Peppermint, any preferences?"

Jon tried to distract himself from the very obvious scar on Mikes neck by taking in the spacious flat he had just entered. "Peppermint sounds nice."

"Peppermint it is, then."

Jon trailed after him into the kitchen, a bit lost on what the etiquette was when being a first time guest. Was he supposed to wait somewhere? Go to the couch? Was he even allowed to take a seat before being told?

At least he had gotten better at small talk. True Mike Crew wasn't an animal, but Jon had found out that being nice was actually well received by humans and avatars alike. (What a shocker.)

"You have a lovely apartment."

Mike shot him what looked like a genuine grin. "Thank you! A gift from Simon. He's taking good care of all the new Vast avatars. Tends to try and adopt them, but I quite like my autonomy and the family parties he throws are dreadful."

Jon couldn't help but pout. The terminology didn't confuse him as much anymore. Jude had deigned to explain that to him via text, with a lot of gloating and bad puns. "I wish the Eye would be so welcoming. I swear for an entity that's all about knowing it doesn't tell me shit."

"Tough. You sure you work for the Eye and not the Web? Here. Come on don't just stand there like a bean pole the couch is a perfectly good place to sit."

"Good lord I hope so. I hate spiders."

"Cheers to that."

Not asking questions was hard. Jon was an impatient man, endlessly curious. And something within him craved Mikes statement. He opted to be honest with Mike about that, telling him without turning it into a burning question and the Avatar nodded in understanding.

"Alright I'll tell you my story then. Because you were nice enough not to ask and we short people should work together."

Jon hadn't been prepared for the sad tale that had been Mikes life. It seemed that he had only been able to somewhat settle down in the last few years. Being on the run for so long, Jon could only imagine what it did to a persons mind. He was only being wanted for murder for a bit now and the stress and paranoia was already killing him.

"Huh." Mike blinked when he was done, tea gone cold in his hands. "That was actually pretty therapeutic. I'm not opposed to doing this again."

They talked idly for a while after, Mike far less aggressive in his attitude than Jude, although he did lightly threaten him once or twice and gave him a horrible case of vertigo when Jon accidently insulted his taste in books.

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door and Mikes eyes narrowed. "I thought we agreed you'd come alone."

"I did." Jon defended himself, fear easily flooding back into his body.

They both stood and carefully inched towards the door. Just as Mike was about to open it, mouth already open to scold whoever had dared to interrupt him, a chorus of loud hisses, meows and a surprised shout made them freeze.

"Jon! A Hunter is here! We've got her handled. Run!"

Not thinking Jon snatched Mikes wrist and pulled him away from the entrance to the flat. The floor underneath him seemed to give way, but Mike at least hadn't fully thrown him into his domain. He dragged them both deeper into the flat. "Shit that's Tonner."

"Who?"

"The police. I ah... might be wanted for murder at the moment. I thought I've been descreet enough. But apparently not. Sorry."

He didn't like that Mikes eyes gleamed with a newfound respect after hearing that. "Oh yeah. I forgot that murder was illegal for a moment. Who did you kill?"

"I didn't." Jon scowled. "I was framed. It was Jurgen Leitner."

"Leitner?!"

"Hmhm. Turns out he was hiding below the institute the whole time. Honestly he was a rather pathetic old man."

Mike tsked. "Good riddance."

"Quite."

Mike eyed the window as the cursing from outside continued. They both flinched when there was a gunshot. Jon lurched forward, running towards the sound, only to be harshly janked back with surprising force. "What the fuck are you doing?!"

"She's shooting the cats! I need to save them!" There might have been a bit of static in his voice, fueled by the panic.

An inhuman growl came from outside and a layered voice shouting "Stay back!".

"That's a Hunter out there!"

Jon only let out a pathetic whine. His cats. He couldn't leave his cats! But the arm around his waist didn't let him go. Mike cursed behind him.

"You're crazy. And weird. You owe me for this."

"I can pay in cute animal pictures."

Mike snorted and let Jon go, leaving him to open the door. As soon as Daisy was in sight there was a loud Pop and a yelp, then she was gone. Jon knelt down in the mass of hissing fur, hands stroking over every body he could find, frantically looking for injuries on any of his babies. They came to him immediately, butting against his hands, chanting "Jon!" and started to purr up a storm.

"I think she just fired a warning shot." Mike mused, pointing towards the ceiling.

Jon heaved a huge sigh. "Oh thank god."

Mike tilted his head at the strange display before him. "Are those free of fleas?"

"Of course! They all are perfectly well behaved, clean angels."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Cool. They can come in then. I'm sure they just saved both of our lifes. Might as well reward them a bit."

And that was how Jon joined an impromptu sleepover at a supernatural serial killers flat, drowned in cats and delightfully tipsy, because Mike insisted on drinking to not dying.

The next morning greeted them with more knocking, which was nearly drowned out by the screams of the cats begging for food. Mike shot him a tired look.

"I deal with the cats. You open the door. You only presumably killed one guy. I'm sure they won't shoot you on sight."

Jon really didn't think that logic was sound, but decided against arguing with Mike, who turned out to not be a morning person at all. Some of the cats came with him as he greeted Basira, who frowned at his entourage.

"I didn't know Mike Crew was secretly a cat lady."

"Ah no, that would be me."

"Right. That sounds more believable. I just came by to let you know that you're in the clear. Elias Bouchard is the murderer. We have evidence now."

"Cool." Came the nonplussed reply from behind Jon.

Both avatars (could Jon count himself as an avatar at this point?) stared the police woman down. Jon unsure how to either continue or end the conversation and Mike probably trying to glare her to death. By the looks of it Basira had suddenly developed a very bad case of vertigo.

She stood her ground, though, clearing her throat and staring right back. "Would you know where Daisy is? She came her to investigate yesterday and I didn't hear from her since."

Mike giggled, Jon sighed and the cats purred in triumph, looking smug. This did not reassure Basira in the slightest.

"Your feral mutt was making a racket outside my flat, Officer."

"She was shooting at the cats." Jon was still upset about that, bending down to cradle one of them against his chest. The good boy immediately began licking his chin to soothe him.

Basira just about held herself back from snarling at them, keeping her cold, professional mask in place. "And where is she now?"

Jon glanced over to Mike in question. The Avatar of the Vast grinned. "Enjoying a long skydiving trip!"

"I'd like to have her back, please. We'll need her to confront Elias."

"We?"

Basira shot him a glare. "Yes." There was no room for arguement there.

Jons shoulders slumped and Mike patted his head in faux sympathy. There was a scream from outside.

"There. Done. See you around Archivist. Send pictures not Cops."

"If I survive this." Jon grumbled, the cats trailing behind him as he left with officer Hussain.

Daisy met them halfway down the stairs and nearly lunged at Jon. Basira took the whole car ride to calm her down. A task that was made even harder by Jon, who was unconsciously bristling with static, still very much furious about Daisy trying to harm his babies. No matter how many times either of the women explained that they would never and that Daisy hadn't aimed at any of them, Jon could not be calmed. This was the only reason why Basira allowed him to take a huge orange tabby into the car.

Really.

[akimmito]

I’ll still be with you

Previous | AO3 | Next

Master List

Chapter 2: The blue of the sky

Maybe, I can never see this sky again...

The raindrops fall in silent lament, drowning out the noise of the city that is prey to its tears. He just watches the clouds above him, ignoring the water and allowing himself to soak, the white uniform shirt sticks to him defining the muscles he hides underneath, the hair almost covering his eyes as it drips following the rhythm imposed by the sky.

"From here, I can't tell if you're crying or not."

Damian looks away from the dark sky and meets his best friend's vibrant blue, a brilliant color among all the gray that surrounds him. Since that fateful night everything has lost its meaning, didn't he want to make his father proud? Didn't he want to show that he could do great things? Didn't he want to find his own way?

"You're going to get sick, let's go to class."

"No, I'll stay here..."

"Shall I call Alfred or Dick? You don't look good. ”He keeps staring at the blue, sees it blur with the boy's conflicting emotions. Jon is still three years younger than him, it doesn't matter that he's already nearing puberty. His features are still childish, he still lights up as if he were his own sun without needing the star that revitalize him.

"I'll be fine, I just need time..."

Why do I feel this way?

Jon just watches him before nodding, doesn't say anything else, and walks away. He gives him little glances the further he walks back to the classroom, for several days he has been that way, sad. And as if the skies of Gotham felt it, the same amount of time it has been raining, shedding the tears that the teenager is not able to let go.

Damian looks back at the clouds, feeling his eyes sting. In an attempt to contain the sensation, he closes his eyes and just lets himself be felt, the drops soaking him even more, knowing that Alfred won't be happy when he sees him dripping so much water that he could give a whole neighborhood drink. But the rain stops falling on him and he opens his eyes again, a black umbrella protects him.

"I extended a permit to your teacher, come with me."

Damian feels the return of the rain abruptly on him and sees Drake walking towards the main entrance, unlike him, his brother is so neat that he doesn't seem to be walking in the rain. He looks at him for just one more moment before walking behind him.

Before, when he first arrived, he saw Drake as someone inferior, as a piece to be eliminated from the board in order to achieve his objectives, he earned his contempt and a cold shoulder that prevailed until now. Drake is the hardest to read, always hidden behind a sympathetic image, easy to ignore, easy to underestimate and forget that, of all the Wayne family members, he's the most dangerous. He runs Wayne Enterprise better than Bruce, everyone says, the efficiency of the company grew as soon as he got the full job a year ago. Drake is nineteen years old and it's already everything Bruce never asked for, but is proud to have.

If I were like him would my father be proud? Would he love me more?

They move silently through the damp streets of the city, Damian has his eyes fixed on the drops that crash against the glass of the window. There was no comment, Drake just handed him his jacket and now it's just as wet as the rest of him.

He don't want to keep thinking, he just want your mind to push all the thoughts that drown him and let he breathe easy. He feels tormented by not being able to fulfill his father's expectations, by the quiet years in the company of Richard and that were broken by the abrupt return of Bruce, by the time it left and will never return, by the lost happiness, for the torn illusions and for the dreams that are impossible to reach on a horizon that recedes with each step he takes.

"I'm Sorry."

Damian turns to Drake immediately, he's suddenly with the blue of the sky that is dimmed by sadness.

"Why?"

"It's my fault, I brought Bruce back."

He doesn't say anything, maybe that's enough, because his brother returns all his attention to the streets.

The sound of the rain envelops them and the cold is almost welcoming. Damian closes his eyes and leans against the glass, he doesn't care about the destination as long as it's as far as possible from the mansion, the school and everything that haunts him. Because he failed.

I just have to resist… it's the only thing I can do.

I'll not change my father's mind.

I'll not change overnight...

The lack of movement brings him back to reality, the noise of the drops hitting the car is not heard either. They are under cover.

"Where we are?"

"My home."

Sure, Drake lives in the city. Like Todd, he follows the patrol routes imposed by Batman, but no longer lives in the mansion. It's just Bruce, Alfred and him...

A sense of tranquility floods him, it's not the mansion. It's a place without shadows, but neither with a light that he doesn't deserve. Follow Drake up to the tall silver, barely noticing the details of the apartment, though it0s more of a complete building. He vaguely remembers that it's the old theater near the alley where his grandparents died, it was not important and still is not, it is almost surprising how detached he feels to the whole thing, when that event was the first and great event that he brought to life to Batman. He could say, without shame, that he feels closer to the death of Richard's parents, because he always spoke to him about them and made him part of those moments, he made them his family.

"Why are we here, Drake?"

He sees him wandering aimlessly until he stops in front of a door, gives him a glance before entering the new environment. Damian follows him, assuming the answer to his question is there.

A room so small that it could be a matchbox, at odds with the large space enjoyed in the previous room. Stacked books and scattered papers are the main decorations, but the most important are the two computers. Drake works in that little 4x4 space? The place is visibly uncomfortable.

"Drake."

"Bruce is being unfair to you." Damian frowns, his brother doesn't face him, he can only see him in profile while he turns on one of the two computers. The light illuminates his face, making his dull expression better to see. "I was also unfair to you six years ago and I remained so for a long time, I was stuck in your version of ten years. I'm sorry for that too, you deserved more. We're family."

It was never a secret that Drake held a grudge against him and to receive such a sincere apology, admitting that it wasn't just Damian who made mistakes, it's a new and unfamiliar feeling. It's not exactly unpleasant, although it does cause him some discomfort.

"I know it was an accident. I can't judge you for that, I've been close to passing that line… ”He falls silent and begins typing, opening files and an email. Damian begins to suspect that those computers are not for work, he looks for the switch and when the whole room is properly lit, he can see everything in greater detail.

Stacked books are magic, since when has Drake been interested in magic? It's no secret that he feels rejection towards it, so it's strange. The scattered papers, for some that he can read, are bank accounts and other documents related to a certain Gabriel Agreste. On the far wall are a couple of photographs, guarded as if they were a secret. Red Robin and a spotted heroine, Drake and a young girl with bright blue eyes and a kind smile. He can only assume that it's the same woman.

"What is all this?"

"The memories of my trip."

Damian doesn't make sense in his words, but doesn't push. He's tired of pushing.

Just hold on... this place is at least much better than the mansion.

"I'll go."

"Hm?"

"I'll leave Gotham and I'll not return." Only until then does he look at the screen, there is another photo of that same woman, but in the design of a French Marie Lenoir passport, he's sure that this is not her real Name. Next to it's also one of him, Timothée Rothchild. That just confirms it's not her real name. "There is something I must do and it will take me a lifetime."

"Why are you telling me?"

"Do you want to come?"

Damian just watches him open another document and this time, it's his photo with a blank passport.

I wanna go?

Maybe that's the time to go back and find my way...

---------

I don't know if I managed to express well the feeling of melancholy and of being... lost, yes. I hope I have made it.

What did you think?

[dickwheelie]

heyyyy coming in a few days early with the “expression” prompt for @aspecarchivesweek! just a lil something about jon wearing a shirt he doesn’t like. enjoy!

(also on ao3)

_______________

All of Jon’s clothes are in greyscale.

Well, this isn’t entirely true—some are a very light tan, or a dingy brown. One mothbitten vest is a glaring 70’s orange that Jon deeply dislikes, so it stays at the back of his closet. These are the clothes he inherited from his parents and possibly also his grandparents, which he can’t bring himself to throw away. The rest, however, strictly range from white to black, practical to a fault.

Jon has a working theory that he may be the first person in history with an allergy to clothing stores. Entering one instantly stresses him out, and all he wants is to get what he came for and get out as quickly as possible. Figuring out how to match colors, as he eventually learns by the time he’s in uni, is a waste of time and consideration. Much easier and simpler to only buy clothes in shades that match no matter how you swap them out.

Of course, there are exceptions, and as life goes on in its chaotic and unaccountable way, he acquires items of clothing he wouldn’t otherwise have picked for himself. A colorful sweater from Georgie as a birthday gift. A free T-shirt from a uni event. He keeps these things for their sentimental value, but rarely wears them out of the house.

However, sometimes life is not only chaotic but also utterly unmanageable. And sometimes Jon finds himself with a promotion he doesn’t really know what to do with, an entire archive to organize, and less time than he’s ever had to do laundry.

And, well. One has to wear something to work, doesn’t one.

This is what Jon keeps telling himself as he miserably pulls on the last clean shirt left in his flat. He should know; he’s checked four times, and if he checks a fifth he’ll be late for work. He gives himself a glance in the small, dirty mirror stuck to the inside of his closet door, and looks away almost immediately, strangely embarrassed.

It’s just a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt, which is maybe a bit unprofessional for the workplace, but it’s not as though anybody minds how the people who work in the basement dress. The problem comes from its colors. Well, one of its colors. Three of them—black, grey, white—are perfectly suitable for Jon. But following those, at the bottom of the shirt, is a glaring, bright violet.

The shirt is a casualty of the aforementioned chaos of life. A friend of an acquaintance had given it to Jon to wear to a pride parade several years back, which he had ended up skipping out on anyway. Since then the shirt had been kept out of sight and mind, packed into the back of Jon’s closet for a rainy day that he’d never really expected to arrive.

There’s a first time for everything, Jon thinks, almost reflexively. The words don’t mean much to him, philosophically speaking, but they are a steadying mantra nonetheless. He goes to pull on his coat; by some measure of luck, it’s a cold day out. He plans not to take it off again until he’s safely back in his flat that night.

The trouble is, of course, that wearing one’s coat while making tea in the break room in an adequately-heated basement looks rather conspicuous to one’s coworkers, and leads to questions.

“You feeling alright, boss?” Tim asks, as he retrieves his bagged lunch from the fridge.

“Yes,” Jon says, stiffly. “Perfectly fine. I’m just cold.”

Sasha, who has followed Tim in, says, “Not sick, I hope.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Jon says again, though he is beginning to feel a bit overheated. “It’s just cold in here. You don’t feel cold?”

Tim and Sasha shake their heads, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Jon says for the third time in thirty seconds, and promptly flees the break room.

By late afternoon, Jon is sweltering, and has no choice but to take off the coat. He’s careful to close his office door before he does so, resolving to put it back on if he needs to be seen by anyone for the rest of the day.

Though the garish violet stripe in his periphery is distracting at first, he loses himself in his work soon enough, spending an hour or two tearing through a stack of statements that are, by and large, utter nonsense.

He loses himself in his work so much, in fact, that when there’s a knock at his office door, he says “Come in,” without thinking.

“Hey, Jon,” says Tim as he enters, “d’you have a copy of statement zero-one-three-two . . .”

Tim’s voice drifts off, and Jon looks up, irritated. “Zero-one-three-two-what?”

Tim’s staring at him, an eager expression on his face, and Jon’s stomach goes cold. He looks down at the shirt, remembering, and stops himself from groaning. If he doesn’t react, maybe Tim will leave it alone. “What number were you looking for, Tim?” he says instead, very calmly and professionally.

But of course it doesn’t work. Tim’s face breaks into a smile, and he gives Jon a big, showy once-over. Jon rolls his eyes even before the words are out of Tim’s mouth. “Looking good, boss.”

“Tim, I have even less patience for sarcasm than usual, so if you could please—”

“Who said anything about sarcasm? You look good! Casual, ah, Tuesday suits you, Jon.”

Jon puts his elbows up on his desk and massages his temples. “I ran out of laundry.”

“Ah, been there.” Tim seems to have taken Jon’s resignation as an invitation, because he helps himself to the chair opposite Jon’s desk. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the pride flag type, though. Don’t even think I’ve seen you with laptop stickers.”

“No,” Jon says, “I’m not. Not usually. This is just the only thing I had lying around. It’s from years ago, I never wear it.”

“Aw.” Tim genuinely looks disappointed. Jon wonders if perhaps he’s losing what remains of his tenuous ability to read people. “That’s a shame. You look good in purple.”

Jon has reached a point in his life, he’s fairly certain, where he ought to have heard such a comment before, or at least know the proper response. In actuality, he cannot recall a single instance of someone in his adult life complimenting his choice of fashion. He looks down at the shirt again. It’s the same as it was before: too-bright and obvious. He highly doubts it could look good on him in any shape or form. “Um. Thank you?” he says, sounding more bewildered than grateful.

“Really! It, like, brings out your eyes, or something. I dunno, but I think it’s nice on you. Not sure why you went through all the trouble to hide it all day.”

Jon shifts in his chair. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s very loud, isn’t it. And obvious. It’ll just attract attention.”

Tim looks at him for a moment or two. “Jon,” he says, “is this just about the shirt? Or is it also about the shirt?”

“That makes no sense, Tim.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jon, admittedly, does. One of the things he appreciates most about Tim is that they can be honest with one another, if only after some customary back-and-forth. He sighs deeply. “It’s—it’s just . . . a lot. I know it isn’t, really, in the grand scheme, it’s just you and Sasha, a-and Martin, too, I suppose. And it’s London, no one’s going to—it’s safe. I know that. B-But it’s a lot, being seen with everything—out in the open. By strangers. To know that they know. And even if they don’t know, they’ll . . . they’ll probably be able to guess.” He stares down at the scratched, cheap wood of his desk. Long ago, someone had carved a tiny pentagram on the lip of it. If Jon’s sense of humor weren’t buried under three layers of anxiety at the moment, he’d probably find it funny. “And I know it’s childish, to care what a bunch of strangers would think. But I can’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t just let it go.”

There’s a painfully long pause before Tim speaks up again.

“Well, I’ve got good news for you, Jon.”

Jon looks up at him warily, and finds that Tim is smiling at him. “What?”

He points at Jon’s coat where it hangs off the back of his chair. “You can put that back on.”

Jon blinks at him.

“At five,” Tim goes on, “you can put your coat back on, button it up, and walk out of here, and when you get back to your flat, Jon, you can do your bloody laundry. And you never have to wear that shirt ever again. Problem solved.”

“But . . .” Jon’s voice peters out before he can come up with a real protest.

“If wearing pride colors makes you feel like that,” Tim says, his voice gentler, “then don’t wear them. Simple as that. Not everybody’s got to carry a flag twenty-four-seven. Or ever. Doesn’t make you any less queer. Hell, even I take the pins off my bag sometimes.” Tim squints into the middle distance, muttering, “I can never seem to get the laptop stickers off, though.”

“But—what about what you said about me wearing purple?” He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but Tim’s argument is quite good. And the thought of never wearing this particular shirt again does sound rather appealing.

“So wear an aubergine button-down every once in a while!” Tim shrugs. “Or don’t! It’s none of my business.” He tilts his head to the side. “Actually, please do wear an aubergine button-down sometime. You’d turn some heads down here.” He pauses. “Figuratively, I mean. I’m sure everyone would be very respectful.”

Jon lets out a startled laugh. “Alright,” he says, feeling lighter. He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe, sometime, I’ll . . . I’ll try it.”

“I know you like your blacks and whites, Jon,” Tim says, “and I’m not here to tell you how to dress. But if you ever need advice, or want to borrow a colorful, strictly nondenominational shirt . . .” He points both thumbs at himself. “I’m your guy.”

“Okay,” Jon says, and is surprised to find that, in this one, specific case, he is.

“And,” Tim adds, pointing a professorial finger in the air, “it’s not childish to care about what other people think of you. Pretty sure it’s the most universal thing there is. Welcome to the human race, Jon. You’re among us peons, now.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “How unfortunate,” he says, drily, and Tim cackles.

Jon wears his coat home, keeping it carefully buttoned, and when he gets back to his flat he tosses the shirt into the back of his closet from whence it came. He’s not going to throw it away altogether, of course. It has sentimental value. Someday, maybe, he’ll dig it back up, if only just to look at.

For now, Jon does his bloody laundry.

[radiosandrecordings]

Ace fic request if ya feel: Jmart taking a bath together at Upton, w some nonsexual nudity/intimacy? Thank u!!

“Ahaha, I’ll ask for some ace fic prompts and do drabbles for it!” I said, naively. 3K words later. Thank you Gwyn for reading over this and fixing my typos because it is. now coming up to 5am because I decided to write 3K in one sitting

CWs for talk of nudity but no one ever gets full nakey. Jon also has a brief panic about not being able to protect Martin without the Eye.

Ao3 version too 

They’d probably been awake for an hour or so by the time the feeling of grime coating his skin became intolerable. 

It felt wrong, really, the juxtaposition of the soft, clean cotton under his head and the greasy knots his hair had woven itself into over the course of their journey. Like it was insulting to the pillow, the case of which, Jon guessed absently, was worth more than his entire bed back in his flat, if it was still standing.

And wasn’t that something? To have to guess that and not just be aware. As it normally was, the Beholding would inform him that that wasn’t quite true, as while the sheets on this bed were certainly nice they were more chosen for display purposes than with the intent of anyone truly sleeping in them. The house was a museum. The curators had not supposed upon the current scenario. 

The current scenario being that there were two men lying in it, half asleep, lying still and just staring at each other with an eye-watering fondness. They had spoken, when they first awoke. Got out all the words they wanted to say. The “Where are we” and the “How long were we asleep?” and the “Is it finally safe to rest?” and the “I love you so, so much.” 

Now the thing to break the silence was the sound of Martin’s stomach making its discontent known. This, of course, sent them both into peals of laughter, because when was the last time they’d felt mundane hunger? 

“Do you think they even have food here?” Martin asks, still buried up to his neck in duvet. 

“Perhaps? Salesa surely has to eat, if we do.” 

“Yeah, but Annabelle though,” Martin chews his lip in mock contemplation. “What if we go downstairs and open up all the cupboards and it’s just… Flies as far as the eye can see, all wrapped up for eating. There’s one in the fridge all done up on a platter like a Christmas ham. Cloves spiked into it and all.” 

Jon winces. “I’d really rather not picture that right now, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah, course,” Martin says, looking slightly sheepish as they lapse into silence again. “Should probably go check though. Don’t exactly want to have gotten through all that just to starve. Though I’d happily let this be my death bed, honestly. Don’t think I’ve slept that well in… Ever.” 

“Mmh, now that you mention it, I’m quite peckish as well… Odd, that. Had almost forgotten what it felt like.” Jon heaves himself into a sitting position, and takes stock of the door to his left. “Probably the bathroom. Ensuite. Very nice.” 

“You want to get cleaned up before we go scavenging?” Martin asks, prying the duvet away like he’s pulling teeth. Jon feels bad that they can’t just stay in bed all day. He hadn’t been able to sleep, in the safe house, but Martin had chosen to dream. He might be biased, but Jon figures that that was probably worse. Martin seemed now to be relishing the opportunity to relax.

“I think we rather need it. Not keen to embarrass ourselves in front of our hosts a second time, so I’d rather not appear downstairs looking like something the cat dragged in.” Jon shoves the duvet away and gets, somewhat shakily, to his feet. Damn. No Beholding means the pain from- Where- The wound… His leg hurts. It means his leg hurts something fierce. He hopes he can stand in the shower. 

When he makes his way over to the door and swings it open, it turns out not to be a concern. The bathroom, in the fashion of the rest of the house, has no shower. Instead, a comically beautiful bathtub sits against the opposing wall. It’s a clawfoot, gold varnish painted over its feet where porcelain turns to antique wood. 

“You want to go first then?” Martin asks, slowly pulling the duvet around himself again. 

Jon rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’ll go on ahead. You enjoy the extra time.” 

Martin gives him a smug look and burrows down again. God, Jon really, really loves him. Which is why, when he puts his hand on the door handle to close it behind him, he freezes. 

Statement readings aside, this will be the first time Martin has been out of his sight in… However you choose to categorize the indefinite amount of time they spent roaming the hellscape. And even then, Jon had his powers. If anything threatened Martin he’d be there to help him. To save him. The Eye offers no such comfort now. Jon doesn’t want to close the door. He doesn’t want Martin out of his line of sight. Not with Annabelle here. He won't leave him alone, not now. 

“... Jon? You okay?”

Jon realises he’s been standing in the doorway for at least a minute now, hand frozen in indecision. He blinks a few times, trying to bring his eyes back into focus. He opens his mouth, and finds himself gaping slightly, looking for the words. 

Martin shifts, sitting back up again. “Jon, talk to me. What’s wrong?”

It comes out like a croak. “I- I don’t Know.”

Martin’s tone is gentle, placating, two hands gently offered out in Jon’s direction. “You don’t know what’s wrong?”

“No, I don’t Know,” he can feel tears beading at the corners of his eyes and tries to push down the lump in his throat. He’s gone this long without crying, why does he have to go and do it now, ruin the peaceful moment that he’d watch Martin lapse into like a drowning man with air. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Martin hushes, sliding out of bed and walking round from his side. He brings his arms around Jon and just lets them stay there, not pulling him against his chest in a restrictive grasp, but just laying his hands against his back, letting him know he’s there. 

Despite his best attempts, Jon lets out a hiccup. “And- And that should be a good thing. It should. I don’t want to Know. But it’s… I’ve spent so long with this constant presence at the back of my skull and now it feels… It’s raw and it’s vulnerable. Annabelle Cane could be a wall away and I’m vulnerable and that means you are too. If I’m in another room, I can’t Know if something is wrong, and more importantly, if something does go wrong I can’t save you.”

The right wrapped around to hold Jon’s left hip, Martin’s free hand has been tracing soothing patterns into his back through his shirt. It stills when Jon finishes. He takes a moment, before breathing out heavily through his nose. He leans back slightly so he can look down and match eye levels. 

“Jon,” he says, and his voice is as soft as that duvet felt. “I can’t imagine what that’s like. I’m so sorry. I thought being free of the Eye would be a good thing, I didn’t even consider how it would feel for you. I can’t promise nothing will go wrong, because… Well, our track record speaks for itself. But I can try and ease your fears.” He brushes Jon’s fringe out of the way, and presses a quick kiss to his forehead. “Tub seems pretty big. How do you feel about taking a bath together?” 

Jon feels his face, flushed from tears, pale. And oh what a relief, to feel a fear so comparatively… Mundane. To not be afraid of the cosmic monstrosity in the back of your brain, or the spiders with motives that scuttle across the ceiling, or the fact that you are responsible for the suffering of billions. Oh to be afraid of… Intimacy. 

Martin must feel him tense, because the hand on his back drops away, and the one at his hip loosens its grip. “I’m sorry, if that’s too much, we can just-”

“No,” Jon cuts him off, and is surprised at his own voice. “No, I… I would like that. That sounds nice.”

He knows it’s from his earlier anxieties, but Martin must still be able to feel Jon trembling slightly under his hand, because he continues to give Jon a sceptical look. 

“Forgive me for being blunt, but you really don’t seem up for that. If that’s not in your… Intimacy wheelhouse, I get it.” 

“I’m just a little shaken, is all,” Jon says, but he knows there’s a truth to Martin’s words. He knows Martin respects him and his orientation, they’d had long discussions about it in the safe house, about boundaries and desires and how Jon wanted to spend his days glued to Martin’s side but he under no circumstances wished to have sex with him. He knows that this isn’t what that is, that Martin means it in the most innocent fashion imaginable, but there’s still something about the idea of close, physical proximity while naked that makes the hairs on his arm stand on end and his stomach churn. 

It’s not that he was bashful about it. He’d seen Martin naked before, gotten changed in the same room most mornings and evenings in the safe house, but that was just a symptom of existing in the same space, never something actively done with the intent to exhibit. It had, predictably, stirred no feelings in him. The idea of them so close while not clothed… No, that wouldn’t be happening. 

“I- Can I make one request, though?” Jon asks, tilting his no longer watery eyes up to meet Martin’s. 

“Anything,” Martin replies, no hesitation to be found. 

Jon feels his face flush again, and the rapid pooling and draining of blood from his face must be doing terrible things to his circulation. “Can- Can we keep our underwear on? Please? God, sorry, that must sound horribly childish-” 

“No, no that’s okay. Whatever you need to feel comfortable,” Martin says and his voice is not so much laced with sincerity as built from bricks of it. 

They break apart and Martin ambles through the doorway and over to the bath, turning the water on. It sputters, clearly struggling after years of disuse, but after a few seconds it flows clear. Martin waits for the brackish residue to be cleaned away before popping the plug into place.

Jon preoccupies himself with looking over the shelves. They were well stocked, likely by Salesa, as Jon has a hard time believing that plastic bottles full of opalescent purple liquid were considered period appropriate set dressing. He pops the lid open on one and is met by a strong whiff of lavender. He tucks it under his arm before swiping a shampoo and matching conditioner. 

“Find something you like?” Martin asks, leaning against the edge of the tub. Jon hums a response before joining him. The tub was filling up quickly now, almost half way full and the water is pleasantly warm when he drags his fingers through it. Jon deposits two of the bottles where they can be grabbed when needed, before taking the lavender body wash and drawing swirls into the water until a layer of foam and bubbles begin to build on the surface. 

When Jon turns back to face Martin, his fingers are twitching at the hem of his t-shirt. Whoever was responsible for transferring them from cold marble floor to warm bed had also seen to it that their shoes were removed, as well as their bags and coats, which Jon had seen folded and placed over a chair in the corner of the bedroom. They were both down to their now ripped, muddied and bloodied trousers, and two v-neck t-shirts from the same set, Jon’s of which was tucked into his jeans to disguise the fact that it was several sizes too large. What possible conclusion could be drawn from that?

Martin cleared his throat. “Do you mind, then, if I…?”

“Yes, of course, go ahead.” 

Martin pulled his shirt over his head. 

It’s not that Jon didn’t find him attractive. He did, very much so, just in the romantic sense. So seeing Martin shirtless was similar to seeing him in a particularly flattering outfit. It didn’t change the way he felt about him, just intensified it. He was very handsome and Jon enjoyed getting to look at him. 

He pulls his own shirt over his head, before turning back to trail his hands through the water again, trying to gage the temperature and encourage more bubbles. When he turns back to face Martin again, he’s fiddling with his belt, eventually getting it undone and letting his trousers drop. Jon does the same. And then nothing more happens, and Jon breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not that he hadn’t trusted Martin to keep his word and not fully strip on him, it was just.. It was a relief. 

“Shall we?” Martin asks, gesturing towards the water. 

“Let’s,” Jon responds, hooking one leg over the edge before stepping fully into the bath, and letting himself sink below the water. 

He’s just about acclimated when suddenly the water is rising slightly as Martin joins him, placing himself at the other end of the tub. There’s not enough room for his legs, so he ends up with his knees close to his chest, sticking out of the water. Jon’s just about fit, stretching down to the other end of the bath and bracketing each side of Martin’s hips. 

If the bed was heaven, this is absolutely blissful. The warm water surrounds his aching joints, slowly massaging them as it laps around him. The water, just seconds earlier clean and pure, is already starting to take on a stale quality as the dirt begins to slough off of the two of them, but Jon can’t bring himself to care for relief that it’s no longer coating his skin. He thinks the lavender may have been a bad choice, because between it and the warmth he’s finding it hard not to fall asleep again. 

“This okay?” Martin asks, because he’s still worried about Jon and his comfort and that makes his heart ache with affection, that someone would care that much about him and his boundaries. 

“Far more than okay,” he responds, dragging one hand down the other arm in an attempt to get some stubborn filth off. Martin is doing the same, except he’s wisely taken a sponge from somewhere and is scrubbing at a spot on his ankle where his trouser and boot hadn’t quite met and the Buried had decided to leave a crusted circle in its wake. 

They sit in silence for quite a while, each taking care of their own needs before Jon reaches one arm out of the bath to make a swipe at the bottle of shampoo. 

“Here, let me,” Martin says, breaking the quiet. He shifts forward slightly, on instinct, before pausing and rocking back slightly. “If you want, that is. Do you?” 

“Do I what?” 

“Do you want me to do your hair? It’s just- It’s probably easier, y’know, than you trying to do it yourself.” 

“And far more romantic,” Jon adds, smiling as he leans over to press a kiss to Martin’s freshly cleaned cheek. 

“That too. Do you want to turn around?” 

Jon answers wordlessly by shifting until he’s facing away from Martin. He’s surprised, but not unpleasantly so, when Martin’s arms wrap around him and gently pull him backwards until his back is just shy of flush with Martin’s chest. It’s very intimate. It’s very nice. 

“That okay?” Martin asks again, and more than ‘I love you’, that’s a phrase Jon will never grow tired of hearing because it means Martin truly cares for his comfort. 

“Absolutely.” 

“Good,” Martin says, as he uncaps the shampoo and pours a small puddle of it into his hands. Even turned away, Jon can smell the wafts of artificial apple scenting in the stuff. 

When Martin starts to gently drag his fingers against Jon’s scalp, he can feel himself almost melt under the touch. His spine loses all tension and he lets himself fall back entirely against Martin’s chest, and it’s only the knowledge that he needs to keep still for Martin to actually do his job that stops him from turning and burrowing his face there. 

“I really hope that was a positive thing and you haven’t just fainted on me. Like, literally on me,” Martin says from behind him and this close, pressed up against him Jon can feel it reverberating in Martin’s chest. 

“Still conscious, don’t worry. That’s just… Very nice.” 

“Oh! Well… Good.” 

This continues for a few minutes, Martin slowly making his way from the scalp down to the roots of Jon’s hair, untangling it with his fingers and then repeating the process with the conditioner until his hair ran smooth under Martin’s hands. Even when Jon knows he’s long finished any actual hair care, Martin continues to run his fingers through the hair, just because. Jon loved him for it.

Eventually, both of Martin’s hands come to rest against Jon’s torso. “This okay?” 

“Yes. I don’t mind any of the touching, as long as it’s… Nowhere previously established to be out of bounds.” 

“Gotcha,” Martin says, pressing a kiss to Jon’s shoulder that makes his brain fizzle like fireworks. 

It takes Jon a minute to fully realise what Martin is doing. Two hands trace lines along his ribcage, one on each side, thumbs gently drawing and redrawing a pattern. His scars. 

Then, the hands travel upwards. Again, two lines along his chest, traced with as much tender care, and Jon’s brain has gone a little fuzzy. He’s unused to such casual touching. There is nothing hurried about it, no urgency, no purpose other than to make him feel good. To make him feel loved and cherished, and if he’s being honest, it’s working. No ulterior motive. This isn’t the lead up to anything. It just exists on it’s own as an experience he gets to have without worrying about what comes after, because he knows the answer is nothing. 

After, Martin shifts slightly, leaning forward. One hand cups Jon’s elbow, raising that arm out of the water as one by one, from shoulder to palm, Martin makes his way down pressing a soft kiss to each and every circular scar. He repeats the process with the other arm. As if to finish it off, he presses a slow, soft, close mouthed kiss to the line that stretches across the front of Jon’s neck.

He’s perfect. Martin Blackwood is perfect and Jon doesn’t know what he did to deserve… This. This quiet barrage of love, the consideration and care poured into it something Jon never thought he would be worthy of, let alone have become a reality.

Jon twists to lie sideways, pressed against Martin with his head tucked under Martin’s chin. Martin’s knees bracket his shoulders on either side and he feels safe. He is in the eye of the storm, a brief respite from the dreadful horrors that ravage the world outside their bubble, but with Martin Blackwood he is safe.

[random-imagines-blog]

Seeing Stars {Sansa Stark x Reader}

Wordcount: 2579 Requested by: Anonymous Summary: You and Sansa get caught.

You giggled as Sansa’s fingers tickled at your ribs while you were trying to make her bed. “My lady, the bed is never going to get done if you keep this up,” You said, though you gave up anyhow, letting the pillows drop onto the middle of her mattress to turn around and try to grab her hands. You entwined your fingers with hers and held them up between the two of you, your thumb caressing the soft back of her pale hand. She settled down immediately, going from childish energy to something more befitting her status. Ever since Ramsay’s death, and the return of her brother and sister, she’s been more elated than you had ever seen before. “Is there a reason why you don’t want me to attend to my duties today?” You raised an eyebrow at her, closing the distance so your enclosed hands were caught between your chests.

“You know I don’t like it when you call me that,” Sansa sighed, leaning her head in so it rested against yours. Forehead to forehead, as if you were transferring thoughts. Sometimes you wished that you could, mainly so you could express her to her with feeling just how much you loved her. It was hard to come up with the words at times. Especially with what you would call your anniversary quickly approaching. You didn’t speak up about such things, because you weren’t sure if that was how Sansa would see it. “I don’t care when we’re in public what you call me, but when we’re alone, I think we’re beyond all of this lady business.”

“But what if I like to call you my lady?” You questioned, the hint of a smirk on the corner of your lips. “It’s all so ... taboo. The lady of Winterfell, and me, of the most simple birth. It makes it a bit more exciting, don’t you think?”

“I guess I never thought of it that way,” Sansa said, her blue eyes brightening. When you had prayed to the ancient Gods for love, you had never expected it to be in the form of the Lady of Winterfell. “I still prefer the way that my name sounds.” Dominating as always, as a Lady should be.

“Yes, Sansa,” You said, let going of her to give a little bow to irritate her. A wrinkle appeared over one eyebrow, showing how all of the wars had aged her. You smoothed it away with your thumb, then caressed her cheek. “You still didn’t answer my question though. Do you intend for my morning chores to take until the afternoon?” You were playful about it, since you really did not mind if they took that long. After all, it was Sansa that you would have to report to if you were late to anything, and she would easily excuse you.

“I might,” She said, her smile becoming a little weaker now. “I have to take council with some of the locals today, and I’m not looking forward to it. If we claim that you couldn’t wake me, maybe...”

“Oh, don’t use me as an excuse not to show up!” You were surprised at her, and gently slapped her arm. “Some of the maids and cooks are suspicious about how much time I spend up here as is.”

“Not like you’re going to deny me more sleep if I want it, no matter what I have going on during the day,” Sansa said, her mood lifting back up again at the chance of distraction.

“As true as that may be, my love, I’m afraid that you will have to make your meetings,” You sighed and turned away from her. The pillow was back in your hand, but not for long, since she wrenched it out of your grip and threw it on the floor. You couldn’t decide if it was sexy seeing her be defiant, or just plain childish. “Okay, now you’re acting a little bit foolish.”

“I’m the Lady of Winterfell, I’ll act foolish if I want to. Especially when I’m not getting what I want.” Knowing what was coming, you gave in before she went into tantrum mode. It was something that she had unfortunately picked up from Cersei. The both of them could be real bitches at times.

“Okay, okay, sit down next to me for a couple of minutes,” You said, letting the pillow stay on the floor. It would need washing now, but that could wait until the afternoon. She finally did as she was told, sitting beside you and rested her head on your shoulder, her long red hair acting as a curtain to separate herself from the world. “You’re really amazing, you know that? Look at you - you’re ruling your father’s land. You’ve survived through wars, through horrible marriages, and have proven all of those people who thought that you were just a silly little girl wrong. But that does not mean that you need to act strong when you are around me - no matter what you do, I know you are. And the people that you are going to see today know it too. Besides, you’ll have Arya and Jon by your side. That should make you feel a little less alone.”

“You’ll be there,” Sansa said, remaining dignified through this pep talk. Just once, it would be nice to see her cry. Not to be cruel, but because it would release a lot of tension from her.

“Having a maid in the room isn’t proper, Sansa, you know that.” You used her name rather than her title now to show how serious you were.

“Well if you would accept the upgrade...” Sansa said with a raised eyebrow. You sighed and put your hands on your lap. You knew what she was speaking about. She wanted to make things between the two of you more public while you were extremely opposed to the idea. It was not out of shame, for you felt none, but for how people would react and change how they thought of your Lady. You were not fit to be her partner. People looked down on you enough now as a maid, they would never accept you as being a face for the North.

“Let’s get you dressed, then you’ll feel better,” You said, getting back onto your feet. You took the liberty of going through her closet and picking something out. Slate gray with fur lining - it fit the image of the north perfectly. As you gathered the stockings to keep her warm through the chilly halls, you noticed that she still didn’t get up from the bed. “Sansa, come on, today of all days?”

She finally got to her feet, unlaced the front of her nightgown, then let it fall to the floor to show off her nude body. If you were a better person, you would have looked away and only focused on the dress, but you were not. You were who you were, and the Gods had made you very attracted to this lovely young woman.

“Dress me then,” She said, impatiently. She was acting very impish now, knowing that you hated every day that you had to decline her offer. You did as she asked, but did it slower than you normally would, caressing her skin through the fabric to make sure the seams were hidden, the folds were where they were supposed to be, and the fit was perfect. When that was done, you untucked her hair from the collar, then let it spill straight down her shoulders like a red waterfall.

“Are you satisfied, mistress?” You asked in the same tone that she had given you.

“Almost,” She said, lightly touching your own waist. You were worried for a second that you had done something wrong with the dress, but instead of complaining about that, she lightly grabbed at the fabric of your outfit, pleading you to move forward. She wasn’t a very dominant person despite what her actions as The Lady of Winterfell had people believe, and you were the one that had to close the distance. And you did, chest to chest, breath coming out as the lightest steam as the body heat between you soared higher, and fingers grabbing at clothing. 

You hadn’t been able to sneak in to give her a goodnight kiss the night before, so this was making up for that. Her hands went to your shoulders, her nails ever so slightly making indents on the fabric. Her lips were so full of wanting, full of need. You could smell her hair as it fell from her shoulder to shield both of your faces from the gloomy coolness of the room, and it smelt like the flowers that you had dropped into her bath. Spring was coming, they were starting to grow once more, just as your relationship continued to bloom.

“Oh wow,” A voice said from the doorway, making both of you jump apart. You with shock, Sansa with anger.

“Arya!” Sansa leaped forward to grab her sister’s arm and pull her into the room, then close the door behind her. “Haven’t you learned how to knock? What do you want?”

“I was going to tell you that everyone is waiting for you downstairs but since you seem to be so busy...” Arya had a large grin on her face that you didn’t like the looks of. You liked her a lot, but she did also terrify you at times.

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Sansa let go of her sister’s arm, and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Please, don’t say anything.”

Arya didn’t say anything, just put her hands behind her back and strolled out of the room. You heard her footsteps, but also the wheels turning in your head. This wasn’t the last that you were going to hear of this incident, you knew that for sure. Sansa turned back to face you, and you ran your fingers through her hair, putting it back into place. “That brat,” She said, turning into her younger self for a moment. You laughed and let the worry roll off of your back.

“Better it be her than anyone else,” You pointed out. “Now go down to your meeting, and I’ll see you tonight.”

-

You were in the kitchens, helping to prepare lunch when one of the servers came up to you, back stiff as usual. “Your presence has been requested,” He said, looking at you suspiciously. You wiped your hands on your apron, then gave him the same look.

“Do you know why?” You asked.

“I didn’t think to ask,” He said, dryly. He refilled the water jug, and you followed him out into the hall where the meeting was being conducted. Only two people looked at you - Arya, and Sansa. Sansa’s cheeks tinged a little pink, and she hid it behind her goblet while Arya looked mischievous as usual. The meeting continued on without anyone sparing you a glance, so you stood by the doorway anxiously. There seemed to be no reason why you had been summoned, but your presence was having a bit of an effect.

“I think you’d better hurry with your answer,” Arya said when Sansa stammered, “Lest you be compromised.”

Ahh - so that was it. Arya just wanted to tease her big sister with what she knew, and you were a pawn in that game.

“I think we should keep to the North,” Sansa stated after finding her voice. “There’s no need to send our men down south when they seem to have things perfectly under control.”

“Cheers to that!” One of the men said, lifting his goblet in celebration. Arya, who was beside him, subtly bumped into him so that the liquid came flying out, landing on Sansa’s dress. “My lady, my deepest apologies-” The man stammered.

“Oh, look, y/n is here, perfect!” Arya said, speaking up again. “You can help Lady Sansa get dressed into something dry, can’t you?” There was that damn look in her eye. You stepped forward, finally getting the attention of everyone that was in the room. You were catching onto her games. And for once, you were thankful because she was buying you more alone time with your love.

“I think our meeting is finished anyway,” Sansa said, getting onto her feet, giving an obvious glare at her sister. “Everyone can get back to their duties. Except for you, Arya, accompany me to my room.”

-

Once the three of you were in the enclosed bedroom, you immediately went to the wardrobe to fetch a new dress, but Sansa stopped you. “I don’t need a new gown, this one will dry.”

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable with-” You started, but were cut off.

“Are you going to do nothing but tease us?” She asked her sister.

“I don’t see a better option,” Arya smirked. You shook your head and closed the wardrobe door, leaving everything inside. You then took a seat at the spot where you usually brushed Sansa’s hair. You had the feeling that you might be here for a while. “Unless you just want to make it public. You’ve been in love with y/n for years, so why not?”

“Because y/n doesn’t want to go public,” Sansa said, crossing her arms and looked over at you. Arya joined in that and you felt the pressure of both of them upon your shoulders.

“I’m not good enough in the eyes of everyone here, except for perhaps you two,” You answered, feeling insecure as the words left your lips. “It just wouldn’t really be accepted. I’d rather not have people look at me like I’ve - I don’t know, corrupted the lady.”

“Corrupted the lady!” Arya said with a snort. She got a good laugh out of that one, then looked at her sister. “Have you been corrupted?”

“Shut up, Arya,” Sansa said, rubbing her temples.

“I’ll just kill them if they don’t approve, problem solved!” Arya whistled as she brought the ever present Needle out of it’s scabbard. She examined it, as if looking for any specks of blood that might have been left behind.

“You can’t just go killing people to solve this,” Sansa retorted.

“Then I’ll tease you all I please,” She shrugged, as if not caring about the answer either way. “It’s the only gossip I care about, let me have this.”

“We can take a little teasing, can’t we?” You piped up. “I mean, it is kind of funny. And she did just discover us. It’s a bit of a relief to let someone else in on the secret. Now I don’t have to hide doing this...”

You got back to your feet and approached the elder Stark girl, smacking a kiss right on her pretty pink lips. Her cheeks heated up beneath you, and she smiled into the kiss. Once you pulled away you looked over at Arya and winked.

“Also, if we don’t care, it takes away her power,” You whispered to Sansa who laughed softly.

[adragonhoardingstories]

Of Blood and Bonds - Chapter 3

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Tag list for this is closed! On that note, this book will contain swearing, mentions of rape and torture. I will try not be explicit but that's really relative. Read at your own risk. There will be warning before if I make a explicit scene so that you can skip it. Anyways, I hope you enjoy and don't hunt me down for this.

_________________________________

"Wait! Where's Damian?" 

~

Damian didn't know what to think of all this. It wasn't like he hadn't considered that one day his father would adopted someone else but he hadn't expected this - the fact that he had an actual blood sibling. 

When he had snuck in on the tour earlier, some people had protested him being there, said that a child would only cause problem. 

Before any of his brothers could intervene, Marinette did, said that she was taking his responsibility as long as he wasn't going to be in trouble for being there. Her expression though respectful was basically asking for a challenge. 

No one denied her. 

Damian decided he liked her and by the end of the tour he would reluctantly admit that maybe he wanted to be friends with her and get to know her better. 

She was smart as whip, genuine, could kick ass according to Todd, didn't treat him as a child and not that he would ever admit it but being near her made him feel... lighter...there wasn't a better to describe it. 

Now he wondered whether she had done what she had only because she had known who he was. 

He banished that thought away. Even if she had, it wasn't necessarily a bad thing, she clearly wanted nothing to do with father so maybe...she had wanted to get to know him? 

That would be a first. 

It's not that he wasn't thankful for the makeshift family that he had acquired but this was different. Her and his situations were a lot similar what with them not living with their father for the most of their lives until then. 

Also, he knew that as much as they might have made it a long way in their relationship compared to how it was when they had just met, the truth would always be that they had had a bad start and he didn't think that they would ever be able to fully forgive him for the things he had done. 

Even Richard Grayson, admittedly the person he was closest with in the family didn't care for him as he did for their other brothers. 

If he did, he wouldn't have left him alone. 

Damian just wished - hoped that this time he would be able to do things right, that he would get a chance to have someone he could fully trust and that would trust him back like his siblings did with each other. 

But he had to do this right. 

He started by researching her and a voice that sounded annoyingly like Jon told him that this was not a good way to gain her trust but in the end, he was still a bat and that's how bats showed they cared.

((In the end, he hadn't needed to worry because she hinted that she knew and that it didn't bother her. By the end of the night, he had admitted to searching her up and she had been understanding. He had been so relieved, it felt like weight lifted off his chest.))

His blood was boiling as he researched her. He also felt sick. Who had dared harm his sister? They would pay, he would make sure of that. 

But then he started thinking about how strong she was for you going through what had seemed like hell and coming out still smiling like and angel. 

There were many things about her case that seemed off to him but there were more important things to worry about them. He made a mental note to investigate them further, especially akumas. 

It seemed like that night no one was going to go for patrol. That made his job of sneaking out easier. 

While Timothy went to fetch the others, he changed into black jeans, a black shirt, wore a black hoodie on top and hid weapons on him. 

He waited until Timothy started explaining what they had found to sneak out. He already knew everything he needed to afterall, including his sister's current address. 

It would be too late to stop him once they realized he was gone. Damian needed to see Marinette and no one would stop him. 

~

"Damian." Marinette leaned out of the window, staring in the darkness. "Either come in or go away. In any case, stop lurking or I'll get jumpy and you'll get hurt." 

She moved back and closed the window, not putting the lock so that he could come in if he wanted and went back to stress baking. 

She had known as soon as he had arrived. After...the incident she had become way more attuned to her surroundings which was why she was more than aware of the eyes that had been on her for the last ten minutes as well as who was observing her. 

She prayed to all the gods she knew that she wasn't wrong and that it was Damian. Not that she wouldn't be able to handle her otherwise. 

The Incident was also what had landed her in her current location. She had gained some friends and a lot of sympathizers after what had happened which was how she was able to convince the school board to let her live away from the class. It was more than simple actually, the people in her class had not been subtle about their beliefs that she had orchestrated the whole kidnapping thing. She simply had to state that she did not feel safe in such an environment.

The fact that she had a mansion in Gotham under her name only helped. 

She had gained this place in inheritance from Master Fu, it had been imbued with Wyazz's protective magic and she could feel the remenants of the other kwamis magic. It was the safest place in Gotham, similar to his Paris penthouse, somewhere not even...he...or another Miraculous user could get to her if she didn't wish them to. As Guardian, the magic shifted and obeyed her. 

It was like a blanket of security. 

Marinette heard the window open and shut and she smiled. "It's a bit late." She said. "Does B know you're out?" 

"He must have noticed by now." Damian looked awkward, like he himself wasn't sure what he was doing there and his eyes were shifting. Someone else might have assumed it was curiosity but Marinette knew when someone was mapping a place out, marking the possible escape routes. 

She didn't mention it. 

"Either way, Father knows that I am more than capable of taking care of myself."

She didn't question it, the way he held himself showed her enough to know that it wasn't just arrogance or childish endeavours speaking. 

"You can sit down." She said after while when he didn't move. "I'd sit with you but if I stop this preparation, everything will be ruined and I don't want this to go to waste."

"It's alright." The reply was instantaneous. He hesitated before continuing. "May I ask why you are still awake, as you said, it is quite late."

"I can't sleep much." She decided that she was going to be as frank as possible with her little brother. "I was already an insomniac but now I get nightmares too." She had no doubt that they had researched her and at least knew the basics of what had happened to her. 

They fell silent again and it felt comfortable enough that Marinette didn't feel the need to make small talk. Also, Damian had come there to see her so he probably had things he wanted to talk to her about and just needed the time to sort out his thoughts.

Apparently, she was right. 

"You knew didn't you?" He asked. 

She made a non-committal sound. "About what?"

"Who I-we were when you saw us on the tour?"

She hummed. "I knew there was a high chance I would bump into one of the Waynes in Wayne Tower yes, and well I know all of your names and even if there aren't pictures of you online, it's pretty obvious."

"Because I look like father?" He sounded almost bitter. 

She turned around and leant against the counter to finally meet his eyes. "No, because you look like me."

It was true. They almost looked like twins. They shared their father's looks, Asian traits and had the same skin tone ((sue me I'm making Marinette have brown skin like she should have according to me and not be white)). Damian only reached to her shoulder but if someone looked at them closely, they would see that there were more similarities than differences. 

He seemed surprised but pleased with her response though he tried to hide it. Marinette turned back to her macaroons and placed them in the oven.((I DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE MACAROONS SO INNACCURATE))

"Why did you never ask father to meet us?" 

"I did. At first, he was adamant that Gotham was too dangerous but then he kept adopting kids and well I started thinking that, well he hadn't planned me. He was nice enough to stay in my life but that didn't mean that he wanted me in his so I stopped asking and well turned out I was right because he stepped out of my life a few years after."

She thought he wasn't going to say anything to that but his answer surprised her. "I understand." He seemed reluctant to admit it but she could hear the sincerity in his voice, in the way he seemed so vulnerable at that moment. "Not knowing whether you're wanted or not."

"Well," She slid in the seat facing him. "I know that I have a lot of time to catch up on but if you'd allow me, I want to be your life and I want you in mine."

He smiled then, slowly and unsurely. Marinette had a feeling that he didn't do that very often and it warmed her heart that he did for her. "I think that I would like that a lot too."

Marinette basked in the moment for a while longer before she stood up. 

"Well, you wanna help me bake, little brother." 

"I've never baked before." He lowered his eyes in shame. Marinette felt something like anger and protectiveness swell up in her chest. Why would he need to feel ashamed of something like that? 

She kept her tone light and tried not to betray any of her emotions. 

"There's a first time for everything, right? Come on, I'll teach you it'll be fun." 

She smiled encouragingly and he shrugged, walking to her side. She nudged him with her shoulder. "Also, do you wanna spend the night here? It can be like a sleepover?" 

She gave him her best puppy eyes and he relented. "Fine."

"Yay." She fist-bumped the air. "Shoot Alfred a text and tell him you won't be home or he'll worry." She instructed and watched patiently as he took his phone out a write a quick text. Not out. Safe. Won't be back tonight. She read over his shoulder. It was sent to Grayson. 

She wondered how often he was out that such a simple text would be enough. 

She didn't voice her question out loud. 

Instead, she beckoned hims over and started explaining. 

~

The next morning when Damian strolled in the manor, was greeted by his brothers, father and Alfred waiting for him. 

"Damian." His father sounded disappointed at him. Nothing new then.

"You cannot just leave without saying anything like that."

"I texted." He didn't have the patience to deal with his father right now. He was already taxing on a normal day but after yesterday…"And you know well that I can take care of myself."

"That doesn't mean you can do this."

Damian was so done with this conversation.

"And it doesn't mean that you can take out your anger at your failures on me." His father froze. He felt like he had crossed a line but he was beyond caring. His sister was more than amazing and she hadn't deserved to be hurt like this. And her suffering may have been prevented or at the very least reduced had it not been for the man in front of him and his love for secrets.  

He turned to his brother and dropped a bag in front of them. "Marinette sent macaroons for you three and Alfred." He knew it was petty but that did not stop him from emphasising on the last four words.

Both Alfred and Bruce startled.  

"Wait Demon Spawn, you were with Marinette?" 

"Obviously." He rolled his eyes and turned to walk to his room. But then he stopped and looked at them. "I'll be heading out again shortly."

"Wait Little D," Richard jumped to his feet. "Come on, explain this to us."

He sighed but really his brothers weren't at fault here. "I went over to Marinette's last night, we talked, we baked," he gestured at the macaroons. "She asked me to sleep over. Now if you'll excuse, I need to change and head out again."

He didn't wait for a response and walked away, however his father's voice stopped him right in his tracks. 

"Damian, I will not tolerate you being disrespectful to me. You're grounded."

The boy turned on his heels, a shark like expression in his face. "Oh? You're forbidding me from meeting my sister now father?" Bruce flinched almost unnoticeably.

 "She asked me to show her around Gotham since she has a free day." He elaborated. 

"Fine." It was rare to see his father looking so defeated. "But you're benched from patrol."

Damian was himself surprised at how much he didn't care. He had expected it. Marinette was more important right now. 

He smiled. "Of course." This time when he walked away, no one stopped him. 

~

"He didn't even protest to being benched." Tim remarked.

Damian's behavior was...he would say worrying but something told him that whatever was happening was for the best and he had learnt to trust his instincts a long time ago

"I've never heard him talk to Bruce like that before." Jason added. 

"You're both missing the most important thing." Dick said. "He mentioned that they baked - meaning he and Marinette baked macaroons together."

As one, all three of them turned to look at the innocent looking package. 

"The brat's got the right idea though." Jason said. "We need to talk to the little lady too."