#jonmartin is good for the soul

[shenanogram]

jmart dynamics from hell

[gammija]

HI HI CAN I JUST SAY I have fallen in love with your art style and ALL of your posts on Instagram are making me actually lose my mind. I need more tma x dp for my soul. There aren't that many fics with this crossover, but I thought I'd come by here to suggest "What Comes After" by UnluckyAlis, I think you'll like it! 👀💞 Thank you for making such fantastic art<3

waaaa thanks so much!!! 🥰🥰🥰

i honestly dont have ideas for what a true crossover would be, i just rlly enjoy doing tma drawings in that style - i mean, one of my favorite dp fanon ideas has always been that the ghosts do what they do because they feed on human emotions, fear in particular. im fact, before tma, i had been mulling over a dp au of sanders sides in which 'guy feeds on fear and is conflicted about it' was a p big plot point... and that's the month I started listening to magnus :)

Thanks for the fic rec! im not reading a lot of tma fic anymore but just by coincidence, i already read What Comes After. it's rlly good so far, hopefully ill like their jonmartin characterization when they appear

[clubsheartsspades]

So @alukardtheabysswalker tagged me in the "get to know your friends a bit better tag game", thank you! Sorry this is a bit late!

Three Ships: Roadrage is one of my favourite ships currently and it gets the first place because I'm deep into rain world ^^'

Pinescone is one I kind of always come back to, it's just always cute <3

JonGerry because I have written a lot of JonMartin but I was kind of thinking I should write more about Gerry (and Jon) that might be a fun dynamic

Last Film: I think it was Across the Spiderverse, pretty sure actually.

Currently Watching: Shadow and Bone S2, yeah I know it got cancelled, but I'm not done with it yet, I watch it with my mom and we live in different states, so that's sometimes a bit difficult lol

Currently Reading: Still the Starless Sea, I forgot my book at my parents' place, so I'll be on that for a little longer

Currently Craving: Some matcha, as I always do, also some of that good jasmine plum tea I had in New York that was unfortunately the best thing to ever happen to me and I miss it

I'm tagging.... @colorfullyminded and @jade-island-lives and @soul-write and also @1face2souls-blog because I think you guys will have fun with this

[roombagreyjoy]

“Shh. Come here. It’s just a nightmare.” prompt for jonmartin >:3

OKAY THERE IS A PERFECTLY GOOD EXPLANATION FOR THIS: I had a perfectly good draft, already edited, ready to be posted. But it was too angsty/filled with anger/not enough comfort for all the hurt and I had a TERRIBLE week and I woke up from a nightmare (oh, the irony) at 6AM and wrote this one instead on a burst of fear-induced mania in like four or five hours. I've barely edited it, so bear with me.

PS: I’m so sorry.

Seriously I did my best I’m so sorry.

-----

Prompt #2: “Shh. Come here. It’s just a nightmare.”

Read it on my AO3 Page as well

Alternative Title: Nightmares Aren’t Fun

[They really aren’t]

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Pairings: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims

Content Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Depression (not explicit), feelings of solitude/loneliness, low self-esteem (not explicit), there’s literally an Apocalypse going on what else do you need to know

Addendum: I am so sorry, I had a perfectly good draft and went for this one I just wrote in four hours nonstop instead, the other one was too angsty/angry/sad and I had a terrible week so I chose to remake the entire thing I am so sorry, the first part of this is very statement-y and it was completely on accident but then again as your resident nightmare expert what can you expect, please don’t kill me I tried my best and I only have one (1) brain cell.

Length: 2515 words (do not trust AO3 I know it’s 2515 don’t fucking @ me)

-----

It’s a weird feeling, waking up from a nightmare. You don’t realise when you’ve woken, you just… are waken, sometimes bolting upright in bed due to the shock, others jolting awake with tears streaming down your cheeks; heaving, or breathing rapidly, or just straight-up sobbing, with snot coming out of your nose in the least dignified way possible. The heavy weight of the world on your shoulders, the fear clinging to your soul, rooted deep beneath your skin, in your brain, in your heart, in your lungs and your stomach and your knees and your shoulders and your chest and your teeth and your eyes and your tongue…

You can feel it clutching at the last cracks of sleep left within you. Sometimes it takes a while for it to be left behind. Can be minutes. Can be hours. Sometimes you carry that fear with you for a day, two days, a week… oftentimes not even remembering what exactly it is you’re supposed to be afraid of.

Waking up from a nightmare with someone by your side is an even weirder feeling.

At least, it is, for people who are not used to having anyone by their side at all.

When you have been lonely for so long, companionship can become a prison as well as a salvation. The balance is hard to find, processing your emotions is more complicated than it used to be when you were alone. You have someone else there; someone who’s affected by your actions and whose actions you’re affected by. Someone who depends on you and on whom you depend. It’s in equal parts comforting and terrifying.

Especially when you’ve just woken up from a horrible, terrible, godawful nightmare.

That had just happened to poor Martin Blackwood, who, in fact, did not quite remember what the nightmare was all about at all! All he remembered is that it was horrible.

But, then again, this is the Apocalypse, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be bad. Awful, even. And that, it was. He shook a little at the touch of cold hands tentatively brushing past his arm and resting on his bare shoulder. He could already feel the tingle in the back of his head, like his brain was tickling, but not necessarily in a good way. The more awoken he was, the more his senses started brushing off the tiredness and sleepiness, he became more and more aware of it. The feeling of being watched, of being observed; the underlying fear of being judged. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to keep that fear at bay. ‘You’re not judged. You’re safe. You’re okay. Being looked at does not mean being submitted to judgement.’ A constant reminder, time and again. The incessant push to make his brain rationalise the situation. Trying not to break. Not like this. Not in front of Jon. He already had enough on his plate as is, to have to deal with him even after the nightmares.

It’s hard to convince yourself of some things when your entire life you’ve felt otherwise.

He did not open his eyes, but he leaned into the touch when he felt Jon cupping his cheek softly. The feeling of his hand on Martin’s skin was comforting; his skin was rough, coarse, the texture of his palm uneven and scarred, his once delicate, slim fingers now slightly bent, fragile, yet their touch was certain, his fingernails only a little too long (Martin bit at them when he was stressed, but Jon never did; he resorted to nervously tangling his fingers instead). He felt himself letting out a long breath of air he didn’t know he had been holding until then, and with it went some of the tension bottled up deep inside his body, when he felt Jon’s thumb slowly caress his cheek in a circular motion. He didn’t open his eyes yet, and he felt the other man’s hand shifting slightly, at an infuriating slow pace, probably in order not to startle him. Said hand slowly reached up, and he felt Jon’s thumb softly against his skin again, this time in his eyelid, moving upwards, tracing his eyebrow, his index finger drawing circles over his forehead with a gentleness almost unparalleled… Jon ran his hand a few times through Martin’s hair, in a calming motion, only for his thumb to then trace the way back down, gently playing with his ear, lingering there for a second or two, before it made its way to Martin’s jawline, lips…

Jon finally let his hand down, and Martin begrudgingly opened his eyes. He was staring at him. Of course, he was staring at him. He blinked whatever was left of sleep within him and smiled back. He stared at the other man for a few minutes, without saying anything. Jon seemed reluctant to say something either. Martin eventually blinked. Jon didn’t. He finally opened his mouth, his voice coming out hoarse yet filled with such affection Martin felt his stomach twist for a second with what he might have once called butterflies. Not anymore, though.

“You’re beautiful, you know.” Was all Jon said. Martin knew he didn’t look beautiful. He could still feel the tears drying up in his cheeks, although he didn’t know why he was crying in the first place, and he sniffed. He shifted his body, so he’d be looking up, to the ceiling. The sounds of the outside world were… bad. They were bad. He shook a little beneath the bedsheets.

“Do you, err… do you want me to bring you another blanket?” Jon asked, cautiously. “The one in the couch is… very comfortable.” He was aware Jon knew he wasn’t shaking out of coldness, but he nodded regardless.

“I know.” Martin said. He was the one who put it there, after all. That’s where Jon spent most of his time after the change. He used to stare silently at the wall, shaking. Sometimes he would let out small huffs of air, like he was trying to laugh but his voice wasn’t there to laugh with him. Martin took the warmest looking blanket he could find (Daisy was, apparently, not one for seeking comfort underneath a blanket and a warm cup of hot cocoa) and put it around him, making sure to cover him entirely. He used to leave Jon like that for a while, not wanting to invade his privacy, but sometimes he felt the need to rest a hand on his shoulder, whisper comforting words he knew Jon would not believe (after all, neither did he), kiss his forehead or his hair… although he wasn’t sure Jon even noticed he was there most of the time.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t an unknown feeling to Martin. So, he carried on, he made tea…

But the tea was gone.

So was the world.

Martin shook slightly harder. Jon bent over his arm to stare at him properly, this time; his green eyes glowing almost imperceptibly to the human eye. If Martin didn’t know, he wouldn’t have noticed. He always noticed, though.

“Are you sure about that blanket?” He asked again. “It’s… I…” He closed his mouth in defeat, at a loss for words.

“Yes. Yes. Go grab it,” Martin conceded. “… please.” He added.

Honestly, he just wanted to get Jon out of the room for a bit, give him a chance to collect himself. To function properly. To take a deep breath without feeling a pair of big, inquiring eyes upon him. Of course, Jon knew this. He should feel guilty. He just didn’t have it in him to feel guilty anymore. This, Jon also knew. Martin wished he could believe there was something Jon did not, in fact, know, at that point. But he had chosen not to care about that either. Not anymore. It was only going to hurt the both of them if he did anyway.

Jon, however, got up silently, took his share of bedsheets he was leaving behind and tucked them closer to Martin so he would keep the warmth his body was leaving behind. Not like Jon produced a lot of body heat, tiny and cold as he was, but the gesture was sweet. It made Martin feel slightly better, and also, slightly guilty, now for real. He closed his eyes with a soft, quick hum and heard the door open and close behind him. There was no need for Jon to close the door, he shouldn’t be long if all he needed to do was retrieve the woollen blanket on the couch, but Martin realised. This was Jon’s way of giving him some privacy. He still felt observed, but this time, the only pair of eyes he actually didn’t mind being observed by were gone.

It did take some of the tension out of him, however. The cabin was… safe. Allegedly. At least, he thought so. And the feeling of being watched decreased significantly with Jon being out of the room. He heard him fumbling in the adjoining room through the paper-thin walls, but he didn’t know what the other man was doing. He used this time to calm himself down as best he could. He sat on the bed, stretched a bit, felt his shoulders crack and moved his neck around. He took a deep breath, held, let it out, repeat. Five breaths later, he felt almost like a person. Almost.

“Jon?” He called out, voice loud enough for the other to hear. He didn’t wait for a response or a confirmation that Jon had, in fact, heard him, when he added: “I think you can come back in now.”

Jon opened the door trying his best not to let his eagerness show, carrying the infamous woollen blanket and… two mugs. For some reason. Martin eyed the man who stood in front of him suspiciously. Jon, patient as a saint, waited, leaning against the doorframe. Finally, Martin nodded, and he made his way to the bed. He didn’t climb onto the bed outright, sliding his knee up first instead, and dropping the objects he was carrying on the mattress carefully. He took the blanket and rounded up the bed until he got to Martin’s side. He placed it gently over his shoulders, instead of putting it on top of the bedsheets.

“I think we can both curl up under there.” He commented casually, a smile painting his words with comfort and love. Martin couldn’t help but smile back, softly.

“Sure, that sounds good.”

As much as he wanted to ask about the mugs, he knew he had to let Jon do his thing, on his own time. This was as much of a coping mechanism to him as it was to Martin.

Finally, with Jon on his side of the bed, Martin opened up the blanket as the other man positioned himself beneath the bedsheets. He took his side of the blanket as well, curling up beneath Martin’s big arm, pressing close to his side. He let out a content sigh and Martin’s heart beat a little faster. He didn’t even care how they’d ended up in this situation, all he cared about was the man who embraced him in his arms and hid his face in Martin’s neck, taking a deep breath. Martin absentmindedly pet Jon’s hair while his gaze diverted to the mugs, standing on the corner of the bed, untouched, empty.

“Jon…”

“Oh! Yes, right. Sorry.” Jon let out a small chuckle, not unlike him these days, but that would’ve been foreign to Martin before all this happened. He seemed so much better than… well. Before.

To some extent at least.

He knew though. He knew Jon was only putting up a show. Martin had been the one in charge of taking care of them before, and he knew Jon felt like it was his turn now. Martin thought it shouldn’t be like this. They had to take care of each other mutually, not just take turns and whatnot. While he was lost in thought, Jon had reached up for the mugs and handed one to Martin. The one with the tartan print on it.

“What’s this?”

“… A mug.”

“No- yes. Jon, I know it’s a mug-”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry, I-”

They kind of stepped on each other’s words for a bit until Jon decided to shut up, looking away with a flustered expression and a shame-induced smile that was still too endearing to Martin to avoid blushing too, himself.

“Look. I… why did you bring the mugs? You said there was no tea left and…”

Jon patiently waited for him to finish. But he didn’t. When it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything else, Jon sighed and pressed harder to Martin’s flank, shifting his own mug in his hands abstractedly.

“I know you like that mug.”

“What?”

“When… when everything was… when I didn’t… before I… well.” Martin did not press him to continue, just as Jon had waited for him to sort out his thoughts. Jon let out a quiet damnit and looked up in frustration. A storm raged in his eyes, and Martin slowly brought his hand to the other’s knee, squishing softly. Jon resumed, sometime afterwards, leaning into Martin’s touch almost desperately, like a sailor stranded at sea for far too long.

“When there was still tea left,” he said, and Martin knew. He had tried to talk to Jon about it, but the blame, the shame, the pain, the fear… it was all too much for him still. Maybe time was running out. Maybe not. Maybe it was all in his head. It could be. He didn’t know. There were so many things he didn’t know these days… But he wouldn’t push Jon. Not so hard. Not yet. Not still. He nodded, and Jon continued, a pinch of sadness crawling onto his voice. He tried to hide it with a cough, but he couldn’t. “When there was still tea left, you used to take these two mugs to make it the most often. You always kept the one with the tartan pattern on it, so, evidently, I assumed… you know.”

“Oh,” Martin whispered, softly.

“Yes. Well.” Jon coughed again. “It thought maybe… even if it was an unconscious choice, you know… I just… maybe, just maybe, it would make you feel better.”

Martin felt a warmth in his body that he knew was not because of the blankets, or Jon’s body next to him (though that sure helped), he smiled, tears threatening to bloom out of his eyes once again, albeit this time for very different reasons. He kissed Jon’s hair and kept his face buried there, the smell of the person he loved the most lingering, covering him, plunging him into memories of a different time, a different world, a different life. He closed his eyes and kissed Jon again, in the same spot, over, and over, slowly, gently, taking in as much of him as he possibly could, while his hands clutched the tartan mug.

Nothing else mattered. For now, he was safe. Jon was here. They were safe.

[corvidbones]

I just think it should be a regular thing for martin to pick jon up and spin him in a silly little circle.

[pitviperofdoom]

TMA Bright Spots: Last Words

Jon and Martin: still together? Still together.

I need you all to understand something about me as a person. There was a post sitting in my drafts for the longest time before I deleted it out of mild embarrassment, and the gist of that post was that there were two things I wanted out of the finale. The first is the above bullet point.

The second is that I wanted to listen in full audio glory as Jonah Magnus had a proper Villainous Breakdown before being summarily killed. After the state we found him in when episodes 192 and 193 came out, I didn't think we'd get that. And then we did! They gave us one last moment of Jonah clarity, just long enough for him to beg for his life before he finally got what was coming to him. That was the catharsis I needed. I am happy and my soul is at peace.

Seriously, Jon beating the shit out of him and invoking everyone who died in the name of Jonah Magnus's eldritch vanity project was music to my ears.

"We both know you don't have it in you--" *blow landing* That's gonna be playing on repeat in my brain for a while.

The soundscaping in this episode was just really nice to listen to. The layering in Jon's voice after he became the Pupil was very pleasant to the ears.

Jon stays himself! Even after taking Jonah's place and becoming the Pupil of the Eye, he's still Jon Sims, he still wants to do good in whatever way he can, and he still loves Martin.

They love each other you guys.

I was not expecting the JonMartin kiss but I appreciate it very much, especially since it's the cherry on top of one last mutual "I love you."

And you know, we don't know that they're dead. Maybe they are. Maybe they're simply somewhere else. No answer is any more real than any other, and that means we get to decide.

THE ADMIRAL IS OKAY, REPEAT, THE ADMIRAL IS OKAY. GEORGIE HAS HER CAT BACK.

And they did it! It worked! They saved their world. Billions of lives saved in a world free from the fears. Sometimes all you can do is save one thing, and even in the vast cosmic multiverse, one whole world is nothing to sneeze at.

Simon Fairchild got torn apart by an angry mob, rip in shit you wrinkly old fuck.

[lady-potato-ninja]

Finally got around to finish this today! I tried a lot of new things and it came out just as soft and tender as I wanted 🙈✨ jonmartin do be good for my soul 😩

(Martin is reading pride and prejudice because my girlfriend gave me the book for my birthday today 🥺)

[judesstfrancis]

Hey so I've been digging my way through your TMA fics on ao3 for the past few days, and I just wanted to let you know how incredibly good they are. Like all of them, without fail. Reading them feels like a warm hug from a good friend, and you make the characters and their dynamics so vibrant - I love the way you write Jonmartin, but also how they'll interact with Tim and Sasha and others feels so natural and important to their lives, and their friendships feels so valued it has made me cry on occasion. Thank you so much for putting these fics out there, please never stop writing, also please never stop making your rep explicit - be that ace!jon, ace!martin, mexican!martin, disabled!jon... I love seeing them get to thrive and be happy. Your fics soothe my soul. Sincerely, thank you so much.

hello oh my goodness u are so sweet ????? this is the kindest message I've ever received thank u so so much!!! the portrayal of friendships in my fic is especially important to me and I always love to hear that people find them worthwhile. the same for my portrayals of ace jon and mexican martin and the like as well. I promise I don't have any plans to quit the writing game, I still have a lot of stories to tell and a lot of people to tell them about! thank u again for coming by to tell me all this, I'm so glad to hear that u feel this way about the stories I write 💕💕

[tma-ficrec]

Five All Time Mod Recs

To start off this blog, we decided to submit ourselves to the mortifying ordeal of being known and show y’all our TMA top fic recs!

These are fics of very different premises and categories that stayed with us and soothed our souls. Feel free to ask for more recs (or more specific stuff) because we’re definitely not done. Enjoy!

Mod Ami:

Statement Ends  by @martivist 4k words. Jonmartin. Angst. Post-canon AU. Ending Speculation. Lore speculation. S5 AU.

"Final statement of Jonathan Sims. The Archivist. Statement given… I think it’s June? We haven’t done very well counting time since the days stopped. Summer 2019, call it that. Statement begins.

We’ve found a way to send them back where they came from. All of them."

Forty-some years after the apocalypse abruptly ends, the final acts of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood come to light.

Mod note: This fic... goddamit this fic. I read it halfway through s5 and I genuinely think this is one of the best endings the show could have had. It hit all the points Jonny made and then some. This fic is pain, yes, but the best kind.

Ninety Feet To Home by @judesstfrancis 33k words. Jonmartin. No Powers AU. Baseball Players AU. Fluff. Pining.

Jon isn’t really Martin Blackwood’s biggest fan. And he knows it’s a him problem, because it’s not like Blackwood is a terrible person or like he loses on purposes just to ruin Jon’s life, but he can’t help it. In his defense, if you were on a hot streak and the same person kept coming in and ruining it for you every single time, you'd harbor a bit of resentment towards them, too.

Mod note: I’m so obsessed with this AU that I broke my vow of not making fanart for TMA and made fanart of it. Yeah. Sue me. It’s the perfect levels of pining, ridiculousness and it brought me (an argentinian whose only baseball reference is the HSM musical number) tremendous joy. As the us-statians would say: home fucking run. ALSO, MARTIN BLACKWOOD IS LATINOOOOO.

Maybe not the stuff of legend by imperfectcircle. 14k words. Jonmartin. Post-canon AU. S5 AU. Ending Speculation. Lore speculation. Angst with a Happy Ending.

Martin forgets slowly at first, and then all at once. One moment he's grasping at memories, desperate without knowing why to retain even a single image of an angry, scarred stranger saying incomprehensible things about eyes, and the next, nothing. He can't even remember what had him so anxious just now. A car alarm, probably, or a dog barking in the distance. He's always startled easily.

Mod note: I still quote it to myself from time to time. ‘’Martin, you ate the megalodon’’ makes me giggle and also terribly sad. This is an excellent way of exploring entities lore, as well as grief and hope. 

the garden of forking paths by @bibliocratic. 49k words. Jonmartin. Post-canon AU. Ending Speculation. Angst with a Happy Ending. Use of Spiral Doors.

Whatever he had predicted might happen, Jon wasn't expecting to survive upon demolishing the Panopticon. He certainly wasn't expecting to be rescued.

Instead, he wakes up in an alternative universe where he's never been the Archivist, and Martin Blackwood doesn't exist.

Martin Blackwood wakes up somewhere else entirely.

Mod note: I’m argentinian and the major element in this story is a Borgues book. OF COURSE IT’S HERE. This fic is an absolute ride and so so so beautiful - multiple universes and Jon and Martin doing the same thing over and over and over again, with hope of finding each other.

Family, Found  by Dribbledscribbles. Gen fic. 9k words. S4 Divergent. Canon Divergence. 

It’s Basira who catches onto it.

The collective shift that seems to come over them when heading in or out of the Institute. Not just the oppressive sensation of being observed, their every move catalogued for the voyeuristic cravings of some unseen Eye(s). That feeling remained with them even when they left the Institute these days, but it was always stronger inside its walls. That wasn’t the change. Nor was it the point.

The point was: making life worse for Jonathan Sims.

Mod note: Do you want to hit the Eye? Do you want all the Entities’s plans to be twarted by the power of found family? Do you want everyone who blamed Jon for everything in S4 to sit down and apologise? This is your fic.

Mod Ebby:

the apple of the eye by  gocrazygostupid. 2.8k words. Fluff. Lore speculation.

TELL ME, ARCHIVIST

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG?

i'm not sure. i don't really get the chance to listen to music

if i told you, what would you do with it?

Mod note: I am absolutely weak towards any fic that gives the Entities some form of sentience, no matter what canon said. Especially when these interactions are so surprisingly soft. 

I WOULD PLAY IT

I WOULD LISTEN

in the chillest land and on the strangest sea by  imperfectcircle and raven (singlecrow). 19k words. S4 Divergent. Canon divergence, in the space between 159-160

Jon remembers a statement he read years ago given by a Jesuit priest, who said that the shortest prayer he knew was, just, fuck it, as in fuck it; it's in God's hands. He takes Daisy's hand and trails on after her.

or; hope is a thing with feathers.

Mod note: Everytime I read this fic, I end up at least a little teary eyed. It’s not exactly happy, more bittersweet, considering, but I still love it.

Come Love This World (Come Hate It, Too) by cedarbranch. 3.3k words. Character Study, fluff and angst, spans s1-5. Canon Compliant. 

Jon never liked poetry, until Martin.

Mod note: Yes I am picking fics that personally came for my heart one way or another, not much else to say, besides that “it feels like loving you” haunts me still to this day, in a good way.

i love you, i'm glad i exist by kissyourlocalmoth. 1.7k words. Scottish safehouse period. Fluff.  Established relationship.

Martin was thinking of a poem. It’s name sat on the tip of his tongue, aching to get out. It was a lovely one, too: something about how life felt easy now, at peace; how the small things felt like everything, a poem about… the importance of the little moments. These last few days had been like that, he thought. He couldn’t stop smiling to himself recently, and even Jon teased him about it sometimes, though he was hardly less giddy. He thought of the immense joy the little things brought him now, the mugs of tea they made for each other, how he would lay in their bed late at night staring at the ceiling, his love nestled against his chest, overflowing with so much contentment and fondness he did not know what to make of himself.

Mod note: Short and sweet, it was the first time I read that particular poem, and now it’s forever intertwined in my head with little scenes of jon and martin in the scottish safehouse before 160 happens.

exit wound by autoclaves. 3.1k words. Post-canon AU. Ending speculation.

Suppose there is a house on a hilltop. Suppose there is a story. There is always a story, and every universe is always expanding.

Mod note: I would’ve liked to tag this more, but it would probably spoil the twist it has. Reading back on it, the narration reminds me of the statement from 196, which I find fitting and a funny coincidence, considering. 

[celosiaa]

you cut through all the noise

Alright, here’s a ficlet I’ve got for day three of TMA hurt/comfort week from @themagnuswriters​!

Prompts used: Sickfic + Overwhelmed

Other tags: Jonmartin, season 3, statement withdrawal, asthma, fever

“I’m confused, I’m-I’m dizzy, I—”

Jon breaks off with a sigh, feeling so endlessly out of breath that the next words come out in a rush.

“I think I saw the police officer from Chicago again—in the station where I was talking to Rebecks.  I—”

God, I can’t breathe.

“I’m not—feeling well.”

The tape clicks off on its own right as Jon starts up coughing again, harsh and painful, into his elbow.  He’s been at it all day—the gasping, heaving breaths, the constantly dripping nose, throat on fire—all serving to make him properly miserable.  Even the paracetamol he’d managed to find after a long struggle at the chemist hasn’t worked, and Jon is fairly certain his fever has only been climbing.

And, as is often the case, it makes him…upset.

It’s just that it’s so miserable here, roaming about a hospital looking for news of Gerard’s horrendous death, trying to find a decent cup of tea only to come up empty, endlessly searching through the aisles of the American “pharmacy” to find some damn fever reducers, only to learn it’s called by a different name—

And there’s no one here with him.  He is well and truly alone.

His chest aches.  His very soul aches.

Damn it, I can’t breathe.

Stars begin to spatter across his vision as he reaches down to his bag, hands shaking so badly he can barely grab hold of his inhaler, dropping it several times before managing to set it on the hotel bed. 

Spinning spinning spinning

Squeezing his eyes shut against the endless whorl of colors around him, he pants into the stillness for a moment, until the wheezing of his own chest begins to scare him. Shaking the medicine weakly, he exhales as much as possible before drawing a deep breath—praying that it will work this time.

It doesn’t.  Of course it doesn’t.  It may have stopped his chest from wheezing for now, but—there’s still no room, no air, no one to—

Martin.

Jon curses himself for the thought at once.

No, he doesn’t…he doesn’t need…

Running a hand through his overgrown hair draws up a memory, gentle and light, of warm hands pulling his hair up while he’d been ill, warm hands brushing against his own in the hall, warm hands checking his forehead for fever, supporting him when he’d fallen, even after everything—

His own hands still shaking, he picks up the phone and calls.

“J’n?”

Martin picks up after a few rings, voice low and slurred with sleep.

Oh, shit—

Jon stares wide-eyed at the clock, makes the time conversion in his head, and…it’s four in the morning in London.

“M-Martin I…I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t realize the time, I—”

“No no, it’s—” he breaks off to yawn for a moment. “It’s alright, what’s going on?”

I shouldn’t have called.

“Really Martin, just—go back to sleep, I apologize—”

“Are you alright?”

The concern evident in his voice sends a ripple of guilt through Jon’s empty stomach.

“I’m—”

“Don’t say you’re fine, you don’t sound fine at all,” Martin says, and Jon can hear the rustle of fabric as he sits up in bed.  “Are you ill?”

How do you know these things?  Jon wants to ask, but refrains—instead swiping a hand across his brow.

“Jon?”

Oh, right.

“Err—I don’t know, exactly.  I’m um—heh—”

Can’t breathe

Another coughing fit bursts from him, and he holds the phone far away from his face to spare Martin’s ears.  Even with the medicine, it’s somehow more ragged than before, every bit of his lungs on fire has he struggles to contain it.  When he at last manages to settle it, he picks the phone back up, voice whittled down to nothing more than a haggard whisper.

“Sorry—” he sniffs, swiping a tissue to stem the renewed flow of his nose.  “Sorry, I suppose I might be ill.”

“No kidding.  You sound awful, Jon.  Have you got your inhaler?”

He remembers.

…of course he does.

“I-I do, it’s just—” he sighs heavily, letting his forehead drop onto the palm of his hand.  “It’s not really working.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean—it helps a little, but…not for long.”

“So it’s not asthma then?”

“I suppose not.”

They let the silence hang for a while, and Jon lets his eyes fall closed, not wanting to hang up the call, wanting to keep Martin’s presence with him somehow.

“What’s really wrong, Jon?”

And there it is again, Martin’s ability to read him even without seeing his face.  Tears begin to sting, hot and relentless, behind his eyes, and he tells himself it’s from the fever, wants to tell Martin that’s all it is, but—

I’ve got to be honest.

He trusts me and I’ve got to be honest.

“I don’t know, Martin,” he whispers, sniffing back the congestion that’s rounded out the consonants of his name.  “I don’t know, I just—I just wanted to talk to you.”

I miss you, he wants to say more than anything.

He knows he cannot, or he’ll actually start to cry, and that wouldn’t do to put him through that.

“Okay,” Martin says, keeping his tone light—but Jon can hear the concern behind it all the same.  “Okay, that’s alright, Jon—I’m glad you called.  What can I do to help you feel better?”

Jon can’t help but let out a quick laugh at this, a bit damp and gasping, as he swipes quickly at the tears now spilling from his eyes.

“Nothing, Martin,” he says, still smiling a bit.  “Just…good of you to answer.”

“Jon, I—” he cuts himself off, sighing a bit shakily.  “Jon, I’m worried, I—can I stay on the line with you a bit?  I can—here, I can read you something, or-or we can talk, or—or we could just sit, it’s alright, just…just don’t hang up, alright?”

Jon can’t help but bury his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with choked-back sobs.

“Jon?  Are you there?”

Sniffing quickly, Jon replies.

“I-I’m here, sorry, I—”

He sniffles again, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. 

“Thank you.  I would—”

His pride nearly stops him from saying it, anything but to admit he needs help—

“I’d love it if you read to me.”

Though he cannot see his face, Jon is absolutely certain of the wide smile broadcasted all the way from London.

“Of course, Jon.  Whatever you need.”

He allows the gentleness of Martin’s voice to carry him away with the tide, pulling his small boat away from the shore, and into the oceans of sleep.

[marlasomething]

Jonmartin Week 2022 Day 4: If All Was Lost

Hello there!

As said in previous one-shots of this week, I cannot see a "challenge" and let it go so...Jonmartin week 2022 here we are! The idea is "forcing myself" to write piece of under 1K in different universes, let's see if @jonmartinweek enjoy my contribution of the day!

This was written for the prompt of day 4: Dinivity/Red String Fate, and it is just a post-canon story that could potentially be canon (or not, as you wish).

Also: I will try to end all one-shots with the line of the finale "One way or another. Together". Here I DID IT YEAH!

As usual, do please forgive my quick tipper and non-native speaker mistakes, Marla

Allons-y!

AO3 edition!

Whole week Masterlist!

It was definitively a new world.

It was absolutely, without the shadow of a doubt, Somewhere Else.

None of those necessarily meant that it was a nice place, though.

And so it wasn’t.

Earth was just… Earth, the very same planet with the very same flawed individuals (no matter if their lives had been lived in completely different manners; at the end of the day, people were just people).

Mere humans, already nursing their very own version of Fear, now joined by what they had unleased.

Still, at the beginning, Jon tried to see the good; tried to keep hopes up. Even if he had lost Martin, even if his whole world was now a place he would never return.

Even if, in order to survive the journey, he had been stripped of all remains of humanity per se; turned into a God of all things The Beholding had always represented.

Still, he believed his soul remained, but only because he had always conceived it as a sum of parts, not something that can be simply removed (stupid silly notion…).

Because of that, and because he was hurting.

He hurt every day and night, visions of the man he loved stabbing him, crying so much he had felt salty water dropping into his open wound.

However, there is just so much suffering a person can withstand and, eventually, Jon gave up trying to be better, to be humane in any measure.

There were people worthy of the fear and harm he could inflict, he was hungry and all sense of moral had been long gone.

Until he reappeared.

The Archivist had been weak, he had left a woman go; no statement asked, and even attempted to comfort her at a certain point, before she could run away, scared in a much less deep level.

Now, there was a woman out there speaking of a God-like creature of green eyes and a sad cadence to his extremely British accent.

Weak enough for his Strength to come back to him.

“Jon? Is that truly you?” the man was half made of shadows, his towering figure without even an actual fixed face to it. Instead, his features blurry, coming and going, changing as minutes passed by.

His eyes remained, though. Those very eyes that The Archivist would recognise everywhere.

The rail thin figure, bright green eyes with no pupils staring without blinking, stood up clumsily, out of practice, and did his best to smile for the first time in…he didn’t want to know.

“Martin, you…”

“When we came, I had to survive, I guess? My body surrendered to The Lonely; bloody traitor, he didn’t even asked my opinion on the matter” he did something that could never passed as laughter, but still felt as the most delicious thing Jon had heard in many, many years.

Jon; he was Jon, not only The Archivist; there was more to him than his godly side.

“I thought I’ve lost you forever” there was hope, vague but, still, hope in that inside whatever Martin had become; a hope that had maintain a part of his humanity intact no matter what the world brought to him.

The Eye’s favourite felt something inside his stomach for the very first time in ages; a pinch of guilt.

“I am… Jon is lost. I…I surrendered, to what I was supposed to be. You can see, there isn’t much left of my vessel.”

Martin scoffed.

“That is bullshit and you know it. You know how I know it? Because you let her go. The last woman I consumed, that I will try to ever completely lose for The Forsaken; you were in her memories, you were crying as you let her go. Also, your body is consuming itself, meaning you are not as godly as you thing; stop making an ass of yourself and…” he grunted, clearly hurting, as he forced his own hand into a tangible object, that then he offered Jon. “…try to be a better monster with me.”

“You don’t know the things that I’ve done.”

“Neither do you. Fuck it, I’ve yout told you I have eaten the woman you saved. Not quite literally, but… Look; if I want to be something apart of a god of my own Fear… I need you. And, let’s be honest, you need me.”

He was still unable to form a proper smile, but his eyes did all the work for him, making Martin let his hand go and delicately caress his cheek.

This was the last straw; the person behind The Archivist took complete control, as Fate reunited him with the person he had loved more than anyone else in other place, other time, other World.

Jon muttered again the other person’s name. “Martin, Martin, Martin! I thought I would never see you again.”

But, a part of him, knew that had never been true. They were connected, far more than any law (even those of the supernatural) could ever explain.

Now, they couldn’t be the people they once were; but they would try their best to be these new monstrous versions of Jon and Martin.

One way or another.

Together.

[petrichormeraki]

AITE BET LETS GO MAGNUS ARCHIVE DSMP AU

Tommy; Protagonist bc Tommy, no one knows how he got hired but he does good work in the field and is practically a supernatural magnet. May end up getting taken by either the Lonely or Spiral (Yes I know the JonMartin parallels but it is PURELY PLATONIC)

Tubbo; Archivist who is much more Bastard than Baby once you get to know him. Tommy’s perpetual armrest. Will bite you.

Wilbur; Tommy’s missing brother. Avatar (Arsonist) of the Desolation who frequently sets old monuments and bars on fire.

Niki; The Only Smart One. She is half the reason these idiots are still alive. Will stab as a warning. May or may not join the Hunt. (fuck this is another parallel but it Just WORKS)

Captain Puffy; The other half who keeps these idiots alive. Hardly remembers her past but remembers working on ships a lot and doesn’t like cloudy weather. Could also be the one who saves Tommy from the Lonely should that become A Problem.

Technoblade; Avatar of the Hunt. Still an anarchist but also keeps tabs on most cult activity in Britain. Probably does hits on other followers. Has worked with both Dream and Wilbur but usually leaves the Magnus Institute alone. Usually.

Philza; Probably one of those poor souls who bargained with a Reaper and chooses to remain. Is often seen around Tommy.

Dream; The Distortionist

George; Legit just some normal guy. Maybe, potentially.

Sapnap; Pegged as part of the Desolation - and nearly does become an Avatar - but is pretty chill and works with Tommy alongside his husbands.

Quackity; Not yet an Avatar but he’s got the influence of the Eye. In the middle of rooting out agents of both the Hunt and the Spiral for the sake of his other husband.

Karl; Unwitting Avatar of the Spiral who may or may not be able to time travel. Alternatively, is an Avatar of the Eye but whatever happened to him fucked up his powers which gives the trade off of Knowing while also Forgetting equal parts of knowledge.

THIS IS SO GOOD ALL OF THESE JUST FIT SO WELL

[atlasishere]

I Will Follow You Into the Dark

This was supposed to be a drabble and is instead over 1k words. 

MAG 200 spoilers

Ship: JonMartin

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Word count: 1,151

Martin didn’t love Jon, not really. Sure Jon was attractive, but it hadn’t built to love. That didn’t mean that Martin hurt less after Jon said he was useless. He knew it was because he was less dedicated than Jon but Martin couldn’t find any dedication for anything really, he tried and was happy when he got his followups in on time. 

Jon knew Martin wasn’t a workaholic like him but it was hard for him to not comprehend working hard nonetheless. He wasn’t trying to hide a crush, no matter what his internal Georgie was telling him.

Following Jane Prentiss’ invasion, Martin got better at reading Jon’s emotions. He began to see the true emotions hidden by Jon’s frustration. It wasn’t hard to see that Jon really held something else for Martin and didn’t know how to cope with it. Tim and Sasha had even begun to notice. Jon’s outbursts at Martin began to be seen for what they really were: frustration, and inability to cope with feelings. 

Jon was leaving, he was going to stop the stranger and Martin didn’t know what to do about it. He wanted to be there, to help, but he was needed here. He would follow Jon anywhere, no matter how dark of a place, yet Jon wasn’t ready to accept that. Martin knew Jon wasn’t ready, he had just started trying to have real conversations with Martin that were not lectures. So he had waited and given Jon the space he needed to process as he continued to be there for Jon. He only hoped he would get the chance to tell Jon before the end.

Martin sat by Jon’s hospital bed, humming. He could only hope Jon could hear him inside of his coma. Martin was frustrated, Jon shouldn’t be alive for one thing. The doctors still were not sure how he was still alive. Martin knew he was alone and started to sing. 

Illuminate the no’s on their vacancy signs

"If Heaven and Hell decide, that they both are satisfied

If there’s no one besides you 

When your soul embarks

Martin knew it wasn’t good, he had a rough voice from his hormone therapy, but it was the sentiment that mattered. Martin could only hope Jon had heard his song and understood as Martin walked out of the hospital room for the last time.

I will follow you into the dark"

Martin knew Jon was back, it didn’t matter but Martin knew. He reminisced on the memories he had with Jon before the wax museum and began humming again. He quietly worked and tried to figure out how to walk by and see Jon. Obviously from a distance, but Martin had mourned. He had spent months mourning and was separated from his emotions.

Jon missed Martin. It was simple, Jon wanted to tell Martin he is ready. Jon was ready, he knew now that he was and he had survived for Martin. So yeah, Jon missed Martin and loved him. He loved Martin more than he thought he could say. 

The Lonely was a cold place, a cold and damp wasteland. Martin felt indifferent here, indifferent and numb. It had felt a lot like how his early Archive days had felt. Martin was no stranger to depression and the Lonely was amplifying that feeling. The overwhelming numbness was not hard to get used to. Here he was with his thoughts, his thoughts about Jon and Jonah and Peter. Some weren’t bad thoughts but all of them were loud. Most of Martin’s hope was gone, all it had died down to was a small flicker of a spark that Jon might still try to save him. Well, it had been before snuffed out by the fog of the Lonely. That’s where Martin was like it was 2016 all over again, but without the light of Sasha and Tim. God, Sasha had been gone for so long and he couldn’t even remember her. Martin wanted to cry, to mourn what could’ve been, but was too numb. Martin began to see Jon, telling him he a good-for-nothing fool, that he could never love Martin. It hurt but Martin was used to these thoughts. As he heard these voices, he saw someone running towards him. It looked like Jon, but why would Jon save him? He looked at Jon and heard his voice, but mumbled about surviving on his own and disappeared. 

Martin didn’t know how long it had been, not really. Time was warped here, but he began to hear singing. It was a very familiar song to him, one he had sung so long ago.

“ Love of mine, One day you will die

But I’ll be close behind, I’ll follow you into the dark”

It had faded out, like a radio tuning in and out. Martin began to think he had imagined it when he heard the singing again.

If there’s no one besides you when your soul embarks

“Illuminate the no’s on their vacancy signs

I will follow you into the dark”

The voice was deep, a bit rough. It was familiar. Martin heard his name being called, yelled. It was full of desperation and love. It was full of need. Martin realized it was Jon trying to find him. Upon this realization, Jon found him. Martin saw Jon and was saved from his Loneliness.

The safehouse was nice. It was far away and gave Martin the chance to breathe. He was with Jon and Jon had chosen Martin. There were so many cows and the scenery was pleasant. He and Jon had talked and decided to date. They were happy. It wasn’t perfect but they were happy.

It was the end, Martin knew this. He was going to kill Jonah Magnus and help the entities leave their world. But Jon was gone, he had left and Martin knew. He knew Jon felt guilty and wanted to save the world. Jon wanted to martyr himself. So Martin ran, ran to try and stop Jon. The plan was set into motion and Martin left.

There Jon was, in the Panopticon, trying to fight the influence of the fears. He walked to Jon and began to talk to him. Jon was crying, struggling, and fighting. He was telling Martin to kill him. But he didn’t want to be the one to kill Jon, he couldn’t do that after he had fought so hard to be with him. But Martin knew he had to. Martin knew that if he didn’t, then they would lose and the world would stay the same. Sobbing, Martin stabbed Jon as the Archives went up in flames, taking the entities to Hill Top Road, dragging Martin with Jon in his arms. Martin followed Jon into the Dark as he had always told Jon he would, holding tight with the hope that it wouldn’t be as bad as he previously thought.

[bibliocratic]

i found writing proposal fic really fun !! or wedding planning :) maybe u would also find that fun? x

jonmartin post-160 proposal fic

Jon tries to write vows.

Hunched over, crow-spined and squinting in the feeble cast of the firelight, he scribbles, mutters, scratches out, furrows his brow and clenches his fingers and snarls under his breath in irritation, at his fumbling incapacity for words. He was not born with a poetic soul, and his admiration for Martin's humble offerings grows each passing minute. His words sputter out of him with all the ease of water from a broken tap.  

Jon has taken first watch, and it's a duty he approaches solemnly. They've broken into a boarded-up hairdressers, set up their sleeping bags and meagre provisions and the small fire in a waste-paper bin for warmth in the cramped office space at the back. Every noise, creak and snap and distant shriek has Jon straightening, widening the circle of his Knowing like a fishing net, giving it an exhausted push outwards that gets harder each time. The lawless world they are in has at least one advantage; nothing but the most fool-hardy of things wants to touch the architect of this nether-world of horrors, nothing skulking or spiralling or swooping wants to challenge an unfettered Avatar. It's more people, these days, that they have learned to avoid.

Martin twitches in his sleep. Sleeping bag pulled up over his face, head pillowed by folded-over barber capes,  his body snug against but turned away from Jon, who is sitting up, his back supported by plastic wrapped boxes of industrial-size shampoos and hair rollers. Jon frowns again, his lines only deepening as he listens to the soft, undisturbed in and out of Martin's breathing. Because he wants to get this one right. To place words like mosaic tiles to create the imagery of his intention, to capture everything he feels he needs to say.

Martin deserves this. Jon can give him so few words, these days. Jon wants to give him ones that will mean something.

His impatience is one of the few things that the last few years hasn't chewed out of him. He huffs, irritable and discontent, his frustration leaden under his skin, and scrunches up another paper to sacrifice to his petty mood.

When Martin takes the next watch, he finds a nest of fire-scourged paper balls dying in the embers.

–

Jon tries to find rings.

His intention is to be a few minutes. He unpeels himself around dawn from Martin's heavy arms, gently shushing the unhappy noise this draws from his mouth. The jewellers is ten minutes from where they've holed up today, and Jon steals away guiltily,  keeping his Eye on Martin long after he's left to make sure he doesn't wake up to find him gone.

Jon is away too long. He reaches the small, high-street shop with no issue, doesn't even need to pick the shattered lock of the door. Inside, he finds a scatter of rings and necklaces, but they're all soot-charred, twisted from an unnatural heat, their metals warped irreparable.  And then there is something tooth-filled in the recesses of the jewellers, something that smells the human stench of him and feels hungry, and it takes Jon an hour to give it the slip, leading it into a fog-bank half a mile away to be subsumed by the greedy pull of the mist.

He Looks out of himself, and against the borders of him, he feels a blanketing heat-shimmer of terror and knows it isn't his own.

His long legs take the streets at a run, huffing as he reaches the grey-stone public square at the centre of the city, exposed and empty of people. Getting nearer, he hears a looping, repetitive nightingale whistle, low and plaintive. It stops, waits, and starts up again.

Jon, with perfect mimicry, makes the high harsh caw of a crow in reply.

Martin is standing at the door of the Wagamama's they broke into, his feet unshod by shoes, his hair uncombed and flattened at one side. The creep of dawn is not so faint that Jon can't see the pale wash of his face, the tightness of his jaw, the relief that cascades across it like the release of a dammed-up waterfall when he sees Jon haring his way across the vacant, space of the square to greet him.

“Where were you?” Martin demands even before he reaches him.  His hands running over him as soon as Jon gets close enough, checking for hurt, injury, his voice high and pitchy and failing to translate his panic into something else. “God, I woke up, and – don't do that Jon! Anything could've – I had no idea where you'd – and what the hell were you thinking?”

Jon's hands motion, miserably, desperate to soothe and knowing it can't be that easy, sorry, sorry, sorry.

“Where did you go?” Martin repeats, insistent, almost angry but forcing it down to simmer at a panic-laced frustration. He doesn't usually push, usually recognises the limits of what Jon can communicate, allows them both space to sit down with paper and pencil and is patient with the slower exchange of this. But his shirt is coated with sweat around the throat and arms, his hands curling into fists to stop their juddering, nerve-shocked motions, and Jon tries to imagine how he would feel, should he wake up, and find Martin gone.

He pauses before opening his mouth.

“Looking for something,” he says carefully with a stolen clear-cut pronunciation, bathed in an entitled, self-absorbed air. Rifles through his records, despairing to find no words that he can chop-and-change together like a collage of explanation, glances up at Martin's distressed expression.

“Did you find it?”

Jon shakes his head.

“I feel like an idiot,” he tries again in a pleasant, justifying voice, and wishes someone had put to records some better expression of apology. Wishes someone had used the right words in the appropriate manner; stronger still, wishes his voice was his own again, a domain he could claim unsullied by the burden of his title. That he could say something, anything to wipe the blanket fear from Martin's scruffy face.

“Yeah, well,” Martin grumbles after a while, wiping at his eyes. “I knew that already.”

Sorry, Jon signs again, but Martin is stilling his hands, gentle even now, and bundles him into a tight, bone-squeeze of a hug.

“Don't do that to me again, Jon, please,” he whispers shakily.

Jon doesn't try and find rings again.

–

Jon tries to plan a proposal.

He knows, deep down, that the best intentioned version of himself is a planner. Likes order and alphabetized files and organisational stationery, is happiest with a well-crafted spreadsheet or a completed to-do list. Jonathan Sims is a man easily satisfied by things as they should be, appeased and engaged by the challenge of a logical puzzle, a knotty problem he can sort by analysis and application.

He also knows that there is another version of himself. The one that rashly takes an axe to possessed tables and jumps into fog-bound seascapes and soil-choked coffins after the people he loves.

He does try. He thinks of picturesque spots he can take Martin, places where the scenery isn't so horror-fucked, where there are still banks from which they can watch sunsets. But the picturesque spots, when they aren't shadow-infested or crawling with overzealous fungal growths that warn of Corruption nearby, are chilly, and there's not exactly time to stop and admire the views much anyway. The sunset-stained bank is a near success; drought-scoured and pocked with frost-damage, but the evening colours are unashamedly glorious. Jon spends hours trying to muster the courage and words and correct gestures, only for Martin, drained and wiped out  from a run-in with the Flesh, to fall asleep on Jon's shoulder, his hair flopping over his face, a comforting dead-weight. Jon adjusts them carefully so Martin's head is cushioned against his thigh, and scratches his fingers soothingly through his hair as he watches the sunset alone.  

But one day they're making their way through the Peak District, and they've found a tumbling river with a small waterfall. Martin's flicked water at him with a butter-wouldn't-melt smile, and Jon replied in kind, and Martin had made a shrieking giggling scandalised 'Jon!' as he continued splashing him. And it might have been the way the water dripped down his face and over his freckles, or the way the dim daylight caught his profile, or it might have been the bold and untempered heat that burnt like a forge in Jon's chest to hear the high, bright sound of his rare happiness, but whatever it was,  the other version of Jon resurfaces. Decides that he doesn't need romantic scenery or rings or vows or other people's words in his mouth, that life is short and this can't wait and he wants this, wants Martin, more than anything.

First, he drags Martin to him. On his tiptoes, arms locked around shoulders, feeling Martin hum, surprised but pleased as he kisses him.

It is a good kiss. One of his best. Jon feels a little bit smug about it when they separate and Martin is slightly out of breath, a comet-streak of heat across his face, looking a bit struck at Jon's forwardness.

Jon seals his first kiss with a second, smaller, softer kiss, making sure Martin's looking at him.

Then he lowers himself onto one knee.

“Jon, what are you – ?” Martin asks, his face creasing with confusion. But Jon has chosen the most unsubtle non-verbal gesture he can, and refuses to look away from him, gazing up and waiting for the penny to drop, even as his knees complain on the hard rocky ground, even as his own doubts swarm that Martin won't understand, Martin won't want to, Martin might say no.

Martin gives a little sucked-in gasp.

“Jon, are you, are you asking...?”

Jon is nodding, almost feverish, and Martin's face has gone the colour of a vibrant sunrise, moisture welling up in his eyes. Jon reaches out, takes one of Martin's hands in his smaller hold, touches with the pad of his thumb the space where, if he could, he would have slotted a ring.  

He lets go and precisely and delicately, he signs I love you. They don't have the vocabulary for grander expressions, but Jon doesn't have anything else he needs to say anyway.

“Jon, you – god, I love you,” Martin replies, damp-voiced and faint,  a broad and beaming  smile widening across and lighting up his face. There's not a pause before he's eagerly going to his knees to join Jon, pressing fierce, hopelessly charmed kisses against his lips, cradling his face in his hands, and Jon's so dazed by the onslaught, it takes him a minute to sign Yes? at Martin.

“I – oh, yeah, yeah! Of course, yes,” Martin replies, still struck by a thoughtless delighted giddiness.

Then: “Oh! Oh, oh, wait just a minute I – ”

He's digging his hands into his left trouser-pocket, tugging it out, pressing what he's found into Jon's hands.

Jon opens the travel-knocked, slightly cracked box to see two unpolished plain bands sat snugly in their display, and his own smile blossoms like a firework on his face.

send me prompts if you fancy!

[fanaticit]

Nobody Heard Him

Preview: "But it was more than Loneliness, wasn't it, Martin? It was terror, too. Don't you remember how that terror felt? Feel it again. Feed on it."Or, Peter Lukas imposes the Lonely onto Martin.

Pairing: Implied Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood (Jonmartin)

Genre/themes: Hurt, angst, loneliness

CW's: Using power over somebody in a harmful way, being trapped in a bad situation, nobody can hear/see you, psychological and emotional abuse, manipulation, loneliness, etc. Be safe, please!

Word Count: 1627

Martin was drifting through the Archives with every care in the world resting on his sagged shoulders. He stepped on each marble tile, remembering that he didn't have to worry about stepping on the grouting between the tiles anymore. "Step on a crack, break your mother's back." He used to remember that every time he walked on pavement or tiles, but it didn't much matter anymore, did it?

He reached out a hand to open the door to his office. The knob had been black-painted metal, but years of use had made most of it metallic, reminding Martin of several statues he saw in Scottish streets a while back.

His pale hand passed through the doorknob.

It took him a moment. He tried again, and then again to open the door, to feel that cold smooth metal under his palm. Because clearly, that'd been his mind playing tricks on him. He hadn't slept well recently, or it was a trick of the light. When his hand went through the door, he screamed. Someone patted his shoulder.

"Ah, hello there Martin. Having a rough one, are you?" asked Peter with a genuine grin.

Martin shook his head in disbelief. "Peter, what just happened? My hand, it... it went through the door? But-- but you could touch me! You did, just now. What just happened?" he stammered, staring at his hand, which seemed to be growing less opaque to his eyes.

"Yes, that does happen eventually to most of us. Nothing to be alarmed about, I assure you." Peter assured triumphantly. "In fact, this is wonderful progress. How long has this been going on? I'm proud of you, Martin."

"I-- I can't open the door," Martin murmured to himself. "But I've seen you open doors. You walk around and pick things up, I've seen it. Peter, what's going on?"

Peter contemplated for a second. "I guess it's time for a discussion on the Lonely, Martin. Would you care to step inside?" He opened the door to Martin's office. Martin stepped inside, numb.

The Avatar of the Lonely looked at the wall while he spoke. "To truly harness the power of the Lonely, you must understand its power, its potential, its effect. Let me tell you some stories of people I knew of, Martin. There are so many factors in Loneliness. I can't list them to you, it's bigger than that. It's always too big to summarize, so I'll do some storytelling."

"A woman who worked up the courage to confess to someone she loved, only to be shut down and cast out like waste in front of a laughing crowd. How she cried in the bathroom, how she wanted to sink into the ground or disappear instead of being embarrassed in front of others. Humiliation and rejection are symptoms of the Lonely."

"There was a teen I knew of who associated with sad fools that glorified loneliness. They loved the pain inflicted on them, boasting about their latest tragedy until they couldn't separate grief from joy. They infused Loneliness into themselves eagerly, for the story they could tell later. The glorification of tragedy is Loneliness."

"Some old man who once had a name, but nobody remembered it anymore. Loneliness from age, from the grief of losing everyone close to yourself."

"Two siblings vying for a parents' affection, only for one to be left alone when the parent was forced to choose between the two. Being abandoned."

"A successful lawyer choosing to stay late at work again instead of seeing his family, falling asleep in his office instead of in his home. A priority that lets Loneliness win."

"Loneliness no matter how many people are close. Pushing them away, feeling like they don't care. Anxiety and depression, loneliness despite a crowd around you."

"Oh, there are so many shapes and sizes of Loneliness, Martin. The feeling of being Lonely is similar to the true understanding of it-- overwhelming in every way. It's incredible, isn't it? I can tell in your eyes-- you feel it. You felt the Loneliness of every poor soul I described. Isn't it liberating, Martin? Knowing that you understand the lock, but not the key? Understanding the underlying terror of everyone leaving you behind, understanding why they all assume nothing will improve."

"It's marvelous, don't you think, Martin?" announced Peter, feeling the emotion of his novice.

Martin's face shook. "It's... it's terrible. I hate it. I want no part in this, Peter. I can't do this. I can't feed on their grief. It's wrong!"

He stumbled out of his office, his face grey and hands shaking. Jon. He needed him, Jon would know what to do, how to help him out of this. Where was he?

There-- in his office, the door wide open and a tape recorder going. His head was rested on his arms, and he was silently staring at the spinning tape. There was something haunting about his expression. Martin sped into the room in a panic.

"Jon, oh thank god, I need your help. I did something really stupid, and Peter's chasing me, and I need your help. Please, I can explain it all later, but he's gonna be here any minute, Jon. I don't want to disappear. He wants me to feed on their pain, but I can't do it. I don't want others to be hurting. Come on, we've only got a moment. Why aren't you listening to me? Jon!" Martin ranted, only then looking up at noticing that Jon hadn't moved.

"Jon, listen to me. Please, why aren't you getting it? Peter's going to be here any second and--."

"I'm already here, Martin," Peter announced from behind him in the doorway. He sauntered in, taking a place by Martin's side, staring at the Archivist with no emotion. "He can't hear you, you know."

"Stop playing games, Peter. Not with Jon. You said you'd leave him out of it," Martin stammered, looking between the two others in the room with worry and terror.

"I'm not," Peter said, matter-of-factly. "It's all you, Martin. I'm proud, really. You're making incredible progress."

"Stop it! I don't want any part of it. You're the one doing this, aren't you? Just another one of your sick mind games!" yelled Martin, no longer worried about being overheard, because nobody could hear him.

"This was all you, Martin. I didn't have to do this for you, you figured it all out on your own. Of course, I chose well. You were the perfect candidate for the Lonely right from the beginning. I didn't even have to work it into you, it was already there."

"Shut up!"

"The employee surrounded by superior minds, the eternally jealous and awestruck novice. The friend-to-all with no friends at all. The one ruled by emotion over logic, trapped in a room alone with their terrors locking on the door."

"Stop talking, Peter."

"Were you Lonely when you were trapped in your apartment while the worms tried their hardest to enter and dissect you? Were you Lonely when you faked your way into your job? Were you Lonely when you lost your companions in the tunnels and wandered about on your own until you stumbled upon a corpse?"

"I said shut up!"

"But it was more than Loneliness, wasn't it, Martin? It was terror, too. Don't you remember how that terror felt? Feel it again. Feed on it."

Martin had stopped talking. He went rigid and curled up into a ball instead, sinking to the floor and cradling his knees.

"You're the outcast, Martin. Why else would their only use for you be to bring tea? And they didn't even ask for that, either. Maybe they just didn't want you around at all. Is that why you faced Elias's terror all alone? And then so many of them died because you were too useless, too cowardly, too foolish to act. You're fixated on the one you love, but your death would be inconsequential to him. Everybody you've burdened with your problems was exasperated, so why do you even bother?"

The ringing in Martin's ears was intense, but Peter's words were more so. He stared at Jon, who hadn't moved. He was staring at the tape, oblivious to the scene in front of him.

"They all assume you're nothing, and you'll never have the strength or the resolve to even try to prove them wrong. You felt the Lonely when you lost your mother, too, but you felt it even more when she was here. Do you remember what her last words to you were? Grief seems like second nature to you now, but it never gets better, does it? All the little things you keep seeing. The little reminders."

"Just leave-- me-- ALONE!" screamed Martin out of the blue. He made eye contact, forcing Peter to look away.

"I really am proud of you. If being Lonely is what you wish, then I've succeeded already, haven't I?" Peter murmured. "You'll be able to become visible over time, though it will take effort. Although who's to say that you're really not visible?"

"...Maybe they all don't see you because they don't want to. Just something to think about. I'll see you tomorrow, Martin." Peter let out a sigh, then walked out of the door and vanished from sight.

Martin collapsed against the wall, suddenly exhausted. He stared at Jon, who was still staring at that tape recorder. The Archivist paused, then looked at the door. "Martin... where are you?" he whispered to himself, then rubbed his eyes and stared at the tea he'd made himself. "I miss you."

"I wish I could explain, Jon" mumbled Martin. "I miss you." He muttered it to himself under his breath, Loneliness taking him under again.

Nobody heard him.

--

AN: Stay safe, it's a crazy world out there. Have a good night. --fanaticit

[schrijverr]

A Familiar Face

Martin is a fan of Jons band, the Mechanisms. He goes to a lot of their shows and Jon knows his face. They come face to face at work, Jon recognized Martin from the crowds, but Martin does not make the connection. 

On AO3.

Ships: JonMartin

Warnings: none, really, but if you want me to tag something just send an ask or something and I will do so without question!

~~~~~~~~~~

During his days at university Jon had been in a band called the Mechanisms. They were pretty successful and had a dedicated audience that would come to their gigs. There were a few faces he had come to recognize throughout the years of fans that turned up time and time again.

He liked knowing the regular faces. It made him feel better, knowing that people liked what they did enough to come time and time again, that people didn’t come to a show and then abandoned it, finding it wasn’t for them after all.

What he hadn’t expected was to see one of those familiar faces at his workplace.

The man in front of him was one of the faces he knew best. He had been there since one of their very first performances, he always stayed in the back and never came up to them after shows, but he was always there.

Jon had started looking for him in the audience, making sure to make at least a comment or gesture in his direction whenever he could. (He also might have a small crush on the man, but he couldn’t help it. He was tall and soft and his smile was adorably radiant.)

But now he was standing in front of him in a completely different setting, where Jonathan was just Jon not Jonny. He didn’t have that bravado in real life nor the confidence. He also didn’t want that part of him known at work, he had just gotten a promotion and he had worked for that. He didn’t want anyone to see him as unprofessional.

This is all backstory to explain why he didn’t say anything, but instead just looked at the other. The man shuffled awkwardly and stuck out his hand as he said: “I, uhm, I’m Martin, Martin Blackwood. I’m one of the assistants assigned here. It’s nice to meet you.”

Snapping out of it, Jon introduced himself as well: “I’m Jonathan Sims, the archivist. Pleasure.”

Martin, as he now knew the man was called, didn’t seem to recognize him and he was glad for it. On one hand he wanted to get to know the Martin, but keeping him at a distance so that he would never make the connection was a very tempting possibility.

He did the latter.

He knew it was the cowardly choice, but he had soon realized that although Tim was a good worker, he also lived to tease Jon and Jon could not just hand him that ammunition. But it was also hard to keep Martin at a distance. He was naturally caring and friendly, always ready for some chattering or making Jon some tea.

Yes, Martin made it very hard to not love him.

Still, Jon tried. He didn’t know when it had become so important none of his assistants made the connection between him and his musical past, but it was and Martin would be the first to do it. This was why Jon had started to actively try to push him away.

Jon wasn’t dumb. He knew Martin didn’t deserve it, but Jon had never claimed he wasn’t stupid. He had convinced himself this was the best course of action. He wasn’t someone anyone would love and letting Martin make the connection would only end in heartbreak for him and disappointment for Martin.

Martin liked the Mechanisms, he liked Jonny d’Ville.

Not Jon.

Jon was nothing like Jonny d’Ville. No, pushing him away was better for the both of them.

He kept believing that for a long time, but then Martin disappeared. Martin texted him he was sick with stomach issues and Jon believed him of course, but that didn’t stop the unease from crawling up his spine as the days turned into weeks and Martin still wasn’t back.

He blew up Martins phone with messages, hoping the other wouldn’t mind and Sasha and Tim would never find out. He also lashed out more at Martin, to release stress and hide the worry he felt. Not excusable, but the truth.

Then Martin returned and Jon felt sick as he gave his statement. Martin, kind and sweet Martin, who never got mad at anyone, had been stuck inside while he got attacked and no one had noticed.

Jon wanted to invite him to stay with him, safe and far away from anything paranormal that was hunting him, but that would be a dead give away with all the Mechs stuff there and highly unprofessional, so instead he just offered him a place in the archives.

Martin seemed so relieved he believed him, telling him about the worm he had taken with him to show to Jon he wasn’t lying. Jon had to swallow at that, the fact that Martin had put himself in extra danger just to prove to him he wasn’t a liar. So, Jon resolved to do better.

It was after a few months since Martin had returned from the siege on his flat. He had been living in the archives not really leaving the safety of the walls, but Jon knew he’d leave this weekend. He knew, because he was going to perform with his band this weekend nearby.

He was sure Martin wouldn’t miss it and he hoped he would have a good night, he deserved it, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t terrified that after being in close proximity with Jon for so long would make it easier to make the connection.

He stood backstage in full get up, peering through the curtain into the audience in search of a familiar face. From behind him Jessica asked: “Who are you looking for, Jonny?”

He startled and looked around. Then he blushed and admitted: “Uhm, Martin, a coworker.”

Getting some questions about Martin, he hurriedly said: “Oh no, he doesn’t know it’s me, or if he has he hasn’t said. We’ve seen him before, he’s almost always there. He’s the tall one, with the light brown hair and the nice smile? I don’t want him to make the connection, but he’s been having it rough lately, so I hoped I’d see him here and I could rest knowing he at least had one fun thing.”

“Ahw, does little Jonny have a crush.” Tim teased him.

Jon blushed some more and told him to shut up. Then it was time to go one stage and he didn’t have time to look again as he started the show:

“Like whiskey laced with gasoline, we’ll get you stinking drunk So shut your face and settle down, you sneering little punks For space is vast and you are small, it’s black and bitter cold The book is lying open. There are tales to be told.”

It was only when they were partway through Once Upon a Time (In Space) he managed to locate Martin in the crowd. He was in the back like usual and although he looked more tired than normal, his smile was as bright as Jon remembered it.

The show went on and Jon couldn’t help his gaze from gliding over to Martin. He was clapping along and having a good time. Once Jon made direct eye contact with him and winked. He was silently a bit mortified at the gesture, but he thought he saw Martin blush and smile wider, which made it worth the embarrassment.

His fellow Mechs noticed how he was mostly focused on the one corner, but none made fun of him, mostly. At one point he didn’t fill a silence between the works in favor of checking up on Martin and Tim ribbed: “The corner interesting, Jonny?”

He shot him a glare and gave him the finger as he told him: “Fuck off, I was just speechless by the ugliness of these people. I mean, really? Even you’re pretty in comparison and that is saying a lot.”

Falling back into his character and paying more attention to the flow of the show.

After what felt like a week that passed in a second the show was over and the band went backstage to take a breather, before returning to mingle with the audience. Jon talked to people left and right, just enjoying the feeling that came with a good show.

What he hadn’t expected was to come face to face with Martin. As stated before, Martin usually stayed in the background and never came over after a show, normally choosing to leave right away.

Jon didn’t know what to say, just blinking stupidly at Martin for a second. When he realized how awkward it was he quickly smiled and said: “You stayed! Sorry, I recognize you, you’ve been to a lot of the shows, but you never stayed, so I was kind of surprised. Apologies.”

Martin blushed: “Oh, sorry. I didn’t think, you’d seen me. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Oh, it wasn’t at all. You’re not required to stay.” Jon said, it was clear that Martin had not recognized him yet and to keep it that way he stayed as far away from how he was at work. Besides, this was the perfect opportunity to just talk to Martin, no history or barriers.

“Ah, okay, thank you.” Martin replied, “I never had the time, but I just had to be outside tonight just all bad right now, sorry, no need to say that. Anyway, I thought why not come over, you know?”

“I hope we were a suitable distraction.” Jon told him.

“You were.” Martin said warmly, “It was a great show, like usually of course, but somehow you’re better each time. I had a lot of fun, thank you.”

“And thank you. I’m glad.” Jon smiled at him, his cheeks were hurting a bit, but he would keep smiling to make Martin happy and comfortable.

It was silent between them then and Martin blushed: “I, uh, I never thought of what to say when I actually worked up to courage to come over.”

“That’s alright.” Jon said, before he realized he wasn’t good at small talk at all, the only starter he had was asking about someones job and he knew that wouldn’t be smart. He floundered for a second, then said: “I could introduce you to the others. We’re just drinking a pint at the bar right now.”

He immediately face palmed internally. He hoped none of the others would throw him under the bus and ruin this as he lead Martin over to them.

When they got there he said: “Hello, this is, uhm, sorry never got your name.”

“Martin.” Martin told him.

Jon nodded and repeated: “Martin, yes. He’s a fan of ours and has had it bad as of late and needs a drink.”

He guided Martin to a seat as the others introduced themselves. Ben, god bless his soul, shot him a questioning brow and Jon shook his head behind Martins head, indicating Martin had not realized. The others saw and decided to have mercy on him as they drank their pint in peace, just chattering among themselves and with Martin.

It was a good night and Jon just knew that this would keep him going for weeks and help him sleep when the unease and stress got to be too much. Martin seemed happy as well, which was a good sign. Martin deserved something nice right now.

At work that Monday, Jon overheard Martin and Tim chatting in the break room when he walked past on his way to get a statement. Tim asked: “So how was your weekend? Not too lonely in here, I hope.”

“Not at all.” Martin said and you could hear the smile in his voice, “I went to see a band, the Mechanisms. They’re not household names and not everyones taste, but I like them and it was a good show. I actually drank a pint with them after the show and they were lovely people.”

“Good to hear, man.” Tim said.

“Yeah.” Martin replied.

Jon didn’t hear what was said next, because Sasha came round the corner and Jon hurried off to avoid suspicion.

It wasn’t really mentioned again after that. Jon could sometimes hear Martin hum a familiar tune under his breath or hear his own voice float down the halls when he left or came into work.

But a lot happened, they got attacked by worms, found Gertrude's body and Jon went down a path of paranoia his relationships and mental health never really recovered from. He and the Mechs rarely did gigs anymore and after Sasha was revealed to be not Sasha and he has to flee from the law he decided that enough was enough. He’s had enough stress as it is.

Which is why, a month after his name was cleared, he returned to the stage for one final performance: Death To The Mechanisms.

It’s bittersweet, the end to an era of innocence and fun that Jon is no longer allowed to take part in, not with everything that has happened, will happen. He has to give everyone who supported him and his friends a good ending, they deserved that much at least.

He’s mostly lucky his face wasn’t splattered all over the news, since the police didn’t want any questions about The Magnus Institute.

The venue is packed with excited and sad fans, who have come to wave their band of immortal space pirates goodbye once and for all. Jon is looking from behind the curtain as Reesha played. He was supposed to introduce her, but he had chickened out and asked Tim to do it instead.

The past years hadn’t been kind to him. His body was littered with scars, his hair had gotten even more grey and the bags under his eyes were larger than the eyes themselves. He hoped none of the fans would notice too much or had any questions, god knew the other Mechs had had them when they got together to write the ending.

He had managed to avoid most of them, telling them that his new job was kind of strange and when he has asked them to just drop it, they had.

Reesha was now almost done and the Mechs had to go on stage. Jon tried to loosen his shoulders and clear his mind. He could stop thinking for a moment, stop being Jon with the stupidly hard life and just be Jonny, who let the punches wash over him like it was nothing. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes and stepped onto the stage.

Trying not to look at the crowd he slipped into his character as he started counting if everyone was there. He didn’t need to see the questions in their eyes or the nervousness it would give him. He was glad they’d chosen The Bifrost Incident to perform, since he didn’t have a big singing roll in it.

During the break he checked the comments on the livestream. The not knowing was more torturous than what anyone might have to say about him. He let out a relieved sigh when most thought it was makeup that had something to do with his death. That was good, they didn’t question it so far and when they would start he’d be already off the stage and far away.

He was more confidant after that and walked onto the stage with renewed energy, which would be needed if he were to preform Hellfire for example.

It was all going well so far. Jon was happy with their performance and the fans seemed to love it. When he started with his own death, he saw surprised and concerned faces that it has nothing to do with the scars they had presumed were makeup, but this was something special that they’d been waiting for, so when he moved on the Ashes, so did the crowd.

But they went out with a bang and it wasn’t until they’re waving their last goodbye to everyone, who had supported them so much that he spotted Martin in the back of the crowd. He had honestly forgotten he was a fan of the Mechs with everything that had been going on, but as their eyes met over the crowd he saw Martin mouth: “Jon?”

He winced and looked away, before he fled from the scene, saying a quick goodbye to people he knew he wouldn’t see again from the moment he hadn’t trusted them enough to go to after he was framed. He didn’t want to drag them into this anyway and he’d rather they believe him an asshole than that they’d be dead.

Jon feared the confrontation that would come with Martin when he’d come into work the next time, but alas there wasn’t a next time for a while. He got kidnapped and then there wasn’t time and, who was Martin to seek a fight with a comatose man.

By the time he had woke up, Martin was in the clutches of the Lonely, but unknowingly to Jon, he still had his voice to keep him company on old albums.

In fact the whole thing wasn’t brought up again till they were safe in Scotland and had been for a while. When the fear of being followed or discovered had faded and they’d allowed themselves to relax. It was quite domestic, Jon had to admit, but it was what he had craved, what he had needed.

It came up again, while Jon was doing the dishes off all things. He was just drying the plates and humming under his breath, after a while he started to mumble familiar lyrics of the first couplet that turned into soft singing with the second once:

“And when the giants, they come a-rolling Well, we will fight, we will fight, fight for our boy Jack When the giants, they come a-rolling If he can slay them, so can we”

He didn’t get to move on to the next one, because Martin, who had been in the living room adjacent to the kitchen, had heard and suddenly a revelation he hadn’t taken the time to process came back to him.

Martin stumbled into the kitchen, startling Jon into dropping a plate, as he pointed his finger at him and yelled: “You were in the Mechanisms!”

With wide and fearful eyes Jon looked at him. His brain caught up with the situation and he slowly said: “Oh, yeah, I was.” he paused, “You were there, right? I assumed you knew, sorry.”

Dropping the finger Martins shoulders sagged and he said: “I did, I just hadn’t really taken the time to think about it, you know, with everything that happened after it.”

Jon winced, but Martin went on: “You talked with me for an entire night without mentioning that I knew you! God, that is so embarrassing. I totally made a fool of myself.”

He was blushing with the accusation and Jon winced again, then he reassured Martin: “You didn’t, it was cute.”

“Cute?” Martin exclaimed, bordering on hysterical.

“Yes,” Jon said, “it felt really nice to just talk to you without the whole thing at work and you’re really cute when you’re excited. Besides, you deserved to have one nice thing that wasn’t touched by work. I wasn’t about to ruin that for you.”

“But you hated me back then.” Martin stated, totally confused.

Jon rubbed the back of his head and twisted his fingers. He bit his lip as well and opened his mouth to start a sentence, but then didn’t dare and stopped. Martin saw this, picking up every clue of a nervous Jon, who wanted to say something, but also didn’t. He put his hand on his hip and said: “Spit it out, Jon. I know you want to and I want to know. Please?”

It was the please that did it, Jon was weak for that please, so he admitted: “I never hated you.”

“You didn’t?” Martin asked.

Jon shook his head and explained: “No, I, uhm, I recognized you the moment we met in the archives and I was scared you would tell the other and find out and ruin my reputation of professionalism along with giving Tim teasing material for years, so I tried to push you away, but you’re too nice to push me away and I had a crush on you that I had to hide and the only way I could manage to get that under control was to push you away. Sorry, I’m so sorry about that, Martin.”

Martin was silent for a moment, then he softly stated: “You had a crush on me.”

A scarlet blush went over Jons dark features as he realized he had admitted that. He swallowed and nodded: “Yes, I’d see you in the back and you caught my eye. I, uhm, I never dared to try and talk to you and you were almost always gone by the time I had the chance, so I nothing ever happened. I was pretty surprised to see you suddenly in front of me at work.”

“I can imagine that.” Martin chuckled, a small happy bubble forming in his chest when he realized he wasn’t the only one, who had walked around for too long with a silly crush. He shook his head and said: “I still can’t wrap my head around the fact you’re Jonny d’Ville.”

Jon blushed some more and groaned slightly in embarrassment as he buried his head in Martins chest. They stood like that for a moment, in each others arms. Then Martin kissed his head and asked: “Can you sing something for me?”

Looking up, Jon didn’t have to think twice about agreeing. He’d do anything for Martin and something as simple as just singing something, which would remind him of better times, wasn’t really a sacrifice.

“What do you want me to sing?” he asked.

Without hesitating Martin answered: “The part where you come in in Sleeping Beauty. I always loved that part, I thought it was very funny how you just went straight over the sad song.”

Jon smiled at that, he liked that part as well. He untangled himself from Martin and took a deep breath:

“Take Aurora in gently, Nastya, let’s see what these Rosies can do Gotta say I’m in the mood for violence and I reckon you might be too Let’s get this party started the only way we know Gunfire and explosions, that’s our cue

Fire ‘til your guns are empty, ‘til your ammunition runs dry If you’re finished playing at soldiers you might have noticed we cannot die I suggest you beat a fucking tactical retreat Or we’ll let slip the dogs of war and havoc cry”

Martin clapped in his head excitedly. He smiled broadly and he said: “It’s just like in the shows.” then more bashfully he asked: “Would you mind singing some more? Or is it making you uncomfortable? It’s alright if you don’t want to.” Jon gave him a soft and warm smile and answered: “I would sing for you even, if the world ends if that would make you happy.”

And that promise he kept. Even if there was only despair around them, he would hum and sing softly to remind Martin he was here and he was real and they would make it.