#jordanian jon

[celosiaa]

IV/Cannula

hehe this is for day 1 of mediwhumpmay, which I am now posting in October

tw: emeto, hospital setting

“Hey, there you are. Keep those eyes open for me, Blackwood.”

“Mmm…wh?”

Everything feels so, so heavy—god, he can barely see. His eyes must drift closed again, because before he knows it, the voice is back, this time pinching the skin on the inside of his arm.

“Eyes open, Martin, come on.” Pinching again.

Gauging his responsiveness, he knows. The thought floats above the whirling pool of all the others. His eyes flutter open, an effort to reassure the voice he slowly comes to recognize as the voice of his junior partner, Ben.

“Ff…fuck,” he moans, squeezing his eyes shut as soon as he opens them. The vertigo was too much to bear—and with an awful rising feeling in his gut, he curls further onto his side and vomits.

The effort of this exhausts him, and he must lose time, for the next thing he is aware of is the earth rumbling beneath him. He prepares mentally for the end of the world, again—but upon fluttering his eyes open again, he discovers that the ambulance had just hit a bump in the road.

Ambulance. I’m at…work.

He snaps his eyes open again at the thought, attempting to sit up, only to find himself strapped into something.

The stretcher.

“Lie back, Martin, just relax—“

Darkness.

—

Jon hates the hospital. Hates it.

He would do just about anything to avoid coming here, especially to A&E. The crowding, the noise, the smell of antiseptic…the desperation of all the people waiting for hours upon hours to be seen.

He doesn’t understand how Martin can cope with this every day.

It’s already been a long walk from the train station, and Jon’s heart is pounding—from this as well as the call that he’d received from Ben, telling him that his husband collapsed on the job and is being cared for here.

Jon knew he shouldn’t have gone into work that day. And he’d told him as much, many times. Martin had been ill over the holidays, but due to the nature of his work, had needed to go in anyway. Especially with the increased number of accidents, injuries, and illnesses that tend to make themselves known during this season. Added to that, a bug had been working its way through their ranks, taking down one medic after the next. Martin had assured Jon that he felt alright enough to cover for his indisposed coworkers, but…

Obviously, that had not been the case.

With a sigh, Jon leans a little heavier upon his cane, still in the triage queue. He needs to calm down, not let this frustration get the better of him. As much as an “I told you so” might be warranted here…god knows Martin had spared him many such conversations that Jon himself had certainly deserved.

At last, the person behind the desk waves him forward.

“I’m here to see my husband, please.”

“Name?”

“Martin Blackwood-Sims. I was told he’s in bay thirty-three.”

“Hmm…” They click around on their computer a few times before looking back up at him. “Looks like he’s on respiratory precautions. Please take a mask to protect yourself.”

Jon sighs, the anger bubbling up in his chest again.

I told you, Martin. I told you.

Not helpful.

He swallows it the best that he can, fitting the loops of the mask over his ears before following the nurse through the double doors.

“Straight back this way, and you should see him,” the nurse says, and turns back to their post.

Jon hadn’t needed the directions. From where he entered, he saw him—his husband, pale faced, propped up on several pillows and getting an IV placed.

Be calm. Breathe. Breathe.

Jon hates this; god he hates it here—and he’s absolutely livid that Martin never listens to him, and now look where it’s gotten him. Now they both have to be here, with all the people and the noise and the memories—

He feels suddenly quite weightless in the relentless onslaught of emotions, and wishes desperately for somewhere to sit. Not by Martin, not quite yet. Everything is all tangled up in itself, in the past, in the fear of this place. And his husband needs him calm. Calm and supportive, just as Martin has done so many times for him.

Braced against the wall of the corridor and his cane, Jon allows his eyes to fall closed, to focus on his breath for a moment. It’s just this breath. And the next. And the next.

Bless Martin for teaching him this technique.

When he opens his eyes, he feels a gentle wave of calm. Not perfect, but it will get him through and allow him to be there for Martin, who is now alone in his bay, eyes closed and exhausted.

That is, until they reopen and alight on Jon, walking toward him. Immediately, Martin’s hands reach up to cover his face—the tips of his ears reddening with shame, even as the rest of him retains that unnerving pallor.

“Oh God, Jon, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“Martin…”

“I swear I didn’t mean to—to cause such a fuss, I didn’t—“

”Martin,” Jon pleads, more forcefully this. Time as he eyes his oxygen saturation on the monitor. “Breathe, habibi. You’re alright.”

As the monitor starts to alarm, Martin seems to realize that he’s gasping for air—and that sets him into a coughing fit, worse even than he’d been showing at home. Jon’s stomach drops just listening. And even more so when a nurse comes in to silence the alarm, reaching for the plastic tubing of the nasal cannula that Jon knows all too well.

“That’s quite the nasty cough there, Mr. Blackwood.”

Jon is hit with another sudden wave of irritation—obviously, its a bad cough, obviously, that’s why he’s in the damn A&E.

He needs to calm down before he snaps at someone and makes the whole damned situation even worse.

“Sorry,” Martin croaks, the fit ending. “I’m alright, I—sorry.”

“No need to apologize love. Just keep that oxygen on, alright?”

Saying this, the nurse leaves, and Martin sinks further into his bed, exhausted. Jon’s heart twinges painfully, and he extends his hand to Martin’s—and just as he’d hoped, Martin opens his eyes at the contact, smile weary but warm as he takes his hand in turn.

“What happened, Martin?” Jon asks, desperately. “Ben called me, you know. Told me you collapsed.”

“Oh no—no, love, I’m alright, really, I’m okay. Just took a bit of a tumble.”

Martin gives him another embarrassed smile, trying to sit up straighter, and Jon can’t take it anymore.

“If that’s what you want to call it, fine,” he snaps.

He regrets it immediately. Martin’s face is stricken, smile disappearing, eyes wide.

“I-I’m sorry, Jon—“

“No, Martin, I—“

“Are you okay?”

Martin leans closer, putting his other hand over Jon’s, the one with the IV. Still so pale, clammy. And concerned. Martin is worrying over him, even here while he’s the one in the hospital bed.

Jon takes a deeper breath than he has since he received the phone call, closing his eyes  as Martin gently squeezes his hand between both of his own.

Oh, Martin.

“Thank you,” says Martin softly, “for being here with me, habibi. I know this is…a difficult place for you to be. So thank you.”

That is too much, far too much.

“Don’t thank me,”  Jon chokes around a lump in his throat he can’t quite swallow. “Don’t. I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped, it’s just...”

“Memories.”

“Yes.”

Martin squeezes his hand again, and Jon opens his eyes. Still there, still Martin, despite everything. Jon moves closer, using his free hand to brush Martin’s sweat soaked hair back from his forehead.

“I’m here for you, habibi. I’m sorry.”

“And I’m here for you,” Martin replies earnestly, breaking off momentarily to muffle a chest-rattling cough into his elbow. “We can…we can b—ha, both...”

“Shh, hush now,” Jon whispers lowly, reaching for the call light on Martin’s bed.

“We…we’ve got…each other,” Martin pants, letting Jon anxiously fuss over his blankets and his nasal cannula.

“I know, darling.” He rests a gentle hand on Martin’s laboring chest, a reminder that he’s here, he’s here.

“I know.”

[ao3feed-jonmartin]

how long before you hurt for me?

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/UHgGKzk by celosiaa “Hey, there you are. Keep those eyes open for me, Blackwood.” “Mmm…wh?” Everything feels so, so heavy—god, he can barely see. His eyes must drift closed again, because before he knows it, the voice is back, this time pinching the skin on the inside of his arm. “Eyes open, Martin, come on.” Pinching again. (written for Day 1 of MediWhumpMay 2023: IV/Cannula) Words: 1388, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Whump, mediwhumpmay's MediWhump May 2023, Sickfic, Sick Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist has POTS | Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, martin is a paramedic, jon is jordanian, Hurt/Comfort, Hospitals, allusions to medical trauma, Fainting read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/UHgGKzk

[stuartbramhall]

Jordanian study reports sleep disorders in 48% of Covid jab recipients

Jon Fleetwood A new study published last month in the international, peer-reviewed, open-access journal Clinical and Experimental Vaccine Research confirms a link between the covid-19 injection and narcolepsy, sleep paralysis, hallucinations, and repeated interruptions or awakenings during the night. The study aimed to investigate the relationship between covid-19 injections and the incidence of…

[captaincravatthecapricious]

[conandaily2022]

Jon Jones vs George St-Pierre: Jordan's Muhammad Al Moghrabi chooses the G.O.A.T.

Jon Jones vs George St-Pierre: Jordan’s Muhammad Al Moghrabi chooses the G.O.A.T.

Muhammad Al Moghrabi of Jordan was one of the 498 athletes who registered to compete in the 2022 International Mixed Martial Arts Federation Youth World Championships. Including Jordan, 41 countries and territories were represented at the event. Muhammad Al Moghrabi

[redhoodys]

Here is my art for this wonderful fic by @spacestationdaedalus as part of the @tmabigbang !!

Please check everything out!!

Thank you @pocketsizedquasar for the image ID!!

[ID: A digital drawing of Jon and Martin from the Magnus Archives in the Lonely. Jon is a thin Jordanian man with light brown skin, long wavy dark hair in a bun, and a beard. His skin is dotted with scars, and his eyes are glowing green. A crown of glowing green eyes blooms up from his head. Martin is a chubby Polish and English man, entirely made of swirling white and gray fog. Martin is cupping Jon's face with a hand as Jon looks up at him with a pained expression, blood dripping from his glowing eyes. Fog swirls all around them both, lit by the bright green of the eye crown.]

[misterghostfrog]

[IMAGE ID; A drawing of Martin Blackwood and Jonathan Sims from The Magnus Archives. Jon is a scrawny Jordanian man with long greying dark hair. He is covered in a series of scars. A large burn on his hand, an unknown amount of small circular scars on all visible skin, and a large straight scar across his neck. He has slight stubble on his chin, and his hair is pulled into a messy bun with a bright yellow hairtie. There are two brightly colored hairclips above his ear. He is wearing a dark green t-shirt and grey sweatpants. And there is a black ring just barely visible on his right middle finger. Martin is a fat freckled caucasian man with curly ginger hair, there is some small stubble on his chin and light hair on his arm. He is wearing a navy t-shirt and heart patterned boxers. They are both in a kitchen, Jon is perched on a kitchen counter, above him is a cabinet and to the left is brown and white checketed tile wall. Behind both of them is brown, yellow, and green striped wallpaper over dark wood siding. There is a window on that wall opening up into the highlands where it looks like the sun is just starting to rise. Martins arms are around Jons waist and Jons right hand is on Martins face. Jons left arm is hanging over Martins shoulder, he is holding his glasses. They are kissing, Jons head is at a slight angle and they are both smiling softly. There is a second cropped version of the image zoomed in on the kiss END ID]

Happy valentines! It’s gay! It’s been a while since i’ve drawn anything from the safehouse, and I feel like they’ve earned the chance to smooch in the ugliest imaginable kitchen!

[call-of-the-ocean]

flowers never bend with the rainfall

here’s my third piece for the @tmabigbang! this one is for the lovely and intriguing multichapter fic “flowers never bend with the rainfall” by @jawbonemage, a selkie au set in the first season. (go read it it’s so sweet i love it)

[Image ID: A digital painting of Sasha, Tim, Martin, and Jon from the podcast The Magnus Archives. They are in the Institute's break room, which has one solid green wall, while the rest are grey. Sasha, a thin Black woman with dark brown skin and curly medium-length dark brown hair tied back with a pink headband, and Martin, a fat White and Filipino man with tan skin and a wavy brown mullet, are sitting together at a wooden table, which has a brown paper bag of pastries on it and one white coffee mug, as Martin holds up his arm to show Sasha and Tim the gray, furry selkie coat he has on with a small smile. Tim, a muscular Puerto Rican man with light brown skin and styled short wavy black hair, stands behind the table between Sasha and Martin, looking curiously at the coat. Jon, a thin Jordanian nonbinary man with medium brown skin and short, wavy salt-and-pepper hair, is standing to the right of the group in front of the refrigerator, which has several packed lunches inside it, and is holding a container of sushi, looking nervously behind his shoulder at the group. Sasha is smiling slightly at Martin, and is wearing a purple sweater over a white button-up, as well as a gray suit jacket and navy blue trousers while holding a white coffee mug. Tim is wearing a white long-sleeved shirt under a medium blue sweater vest, and has his right ear pierced with a pearl earring. Martin has a maroon T-shirt on under the seal coat, as well as medium brown trousers. Jon has rectangular-framed glasses, and is wearing a green sweater on over a white button-up, as well as gray trousers tied with a black belt. Behind Tim is a wooden door leading to the rest of the Institute, as well as a motivational poster with an eye superimposed on a picture of the globe, that reads, "Eyes on the Prize." /End Image ID.]

[bugeaterzz]

my contribution to the @tmabigbang for @shutupeiffel‘s wonderful fic ‘When I Grow Up’ (link is below). I had such a blast creating this- thanks for letting me participate :0)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/35062744/chapters/87335920

image ID:

[ID: A digital painting of Jon and Melanie from the podcast The Magnus Archives. The painting is fully coloured, cartoonish in style and in landscape format. The two characters are depicted as 8-year-olds sitting on chairs in a school hallway. Jon is abrown-skinned Jordanian boy, with floppy brown hair and large glasses. He is wearing a white button-down shirt, knitted green vest, dark trousers and brown shoes. He is holding a black backpack on his lap with folded hands. He is sitting on the second chair to the left and looking across one empty seat at Melanie with a nervous expression. She is depicted as white British with pale skin and an uneven, messy mousy-brown bob. She is in her school uniform (a white blouse, black skirt, white sockc and black shoes with a buttoned-up blue cardigan). Melanie is sitting eith one arm slung over the back of her chair and her legs crossed, displaying bandages on her shin and knee and a tooth gap as she speaks to Jon with an unimpressed expression. On the wall behind them, there is a cork notice board with various posters and papers. The Book Club meets on Wednesdays during lunch and the Library needs more helpers. There are two posters with spiderweb imagery and two posters with eye imagery. The eyes are all looking towards Jon. /End ID]

[celosiaa]

i would give my breath away

Jon is severely ill, and Martin is hanging on by a thread. Good thing he's got his friends back to look after him.

I found this fic in ye old archives when I was planning to write something else!

this fic is loosely a missing scene from the incredible traveller19's fic, "Death is the Easy Way Out." I have gifted this work to them on AO3--please give them a visit and check out their fabulous writing here!!

my Jon is a Jordanian Arabic-speaker! A couple translations to mention: habibi = my love/darling, hayati = my life

let me know what you think if you can <3 cw: hospital setting, panic attacks

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The steady rhythm of the heart monitor has set Martin into somewhat of a trance, the beats matched perfectly to his breaths—in and out; in and out. In his mind’s eye the dingy, patterned wallpaper begins to expand and contract with his lungs, the shapes spinning and enlarging, then slowing back down to size. None of it really draws his focus anymore, however.

He is far, far too exhausted for that.

“Martin,” a soft voice calls from behind him—and he jumps nearly a foot in the air. Had he nodded off? Betrayed Jon—had Jon woken without him, alone, afraid?

A panicked glance at the hospital bed before him shows the same picture he had seen before lights out: his husband, thinned out almost to the extent of his archivist days, oxygen cannula in his nose, dark shadows beneath his eyes. A rattle to his breath. But still sleeping—more peacefully than he had been, even. And thank the gods for that.

“Hey, you’re alright.”

Having nearly forgotten about the voice behind him, Martin finds himself blinking in the light spilling over from the doorway into the darkened room. Two figures stand in silhouette before him. Even if his eyes hadn’t had the time to adjust yet, he would recognize the gentle presence of Tim and Sasha anywhere.

“Hey,” he attempts—but the words come out hoarsely, and he clears his throat. When is the last time he had something to drink? “Hey, guys. Sorry.”

“Here,” Sasha says as she takes a seat beside him, mercifully holding out what appears to be a water bottle. How could she have known? Had he been…obvious?

Gods, he hopes not. He’d been doing his damnedest to be fine.

“How’s he doing?” Tim asks, going to sit on the opposite side of Jon’s bed, as has become habit at this point. “Has he been awake at all?”

“Since…erm, since you left, yeah. Mostly just to cough.”

“Has he been…you know…”

“Confused? No, his fever’s still staying down. Thankfully.”

“Good. That’s—”

“Better, yeah. For now.”

Beep. Beep.

Martin feels more than sees the glance shared between Tim and Sasha; braces himself against the irritation rising ever more easily in his gut as the days have passed. They don’t deserve that. They don’t deserve it, they haven’t done anything—

“Martin…”

“What?” he snaps, ashamed of it as soon as it comes out of his mouth.

Right. Level-headed Blackwood strikes again.

Strikes in an even more devastating way than intended—as Jon begins to stir at the sudden sound. Martin sucks in a sharp breath as he watches Jon’s eyebrows knit together, and his right hand reaches up toward the oxygen cannula.

“Oh no no, darling. Let it alone,” Martin soothes quickly, gently prying Jon’s fingers from the tubing. “It’s alright.”

At the closeness of Martin’s voice, Jon’s eyes begin to flutter open, wincing at the fluorescence from the doorway. Tim hurries to block out as much as he can of it at once, for which Martin finds himself suffering a twinge of guilt and gratitude. Shove it down. Put it away for later, that’s all there is to do, because the guilt could send him spinning and spinning and spinning—

Stop. Stop it.

“Jon? You with us?” Sasha asks in scarce more than a whisper.

“Mmm…here.”

Hoarse and shallow as it may be, something wonderful soars in Martin’s stomach at the sound of his husband’s voice. He’d been sleeping so much today—not that it was a bad thing at all, but…it still gives him comfort all the same. He’s still with us. Mentally and physically, still with us.

The relief he feels washing over him like the tide is turned quickly into ice by the sound of Jon’s coughing. Sleep, while wonderful and healing, also comes with drawbacks when you’ve managed to develop what’s shaped up to be a severe pneumonia—everything has been settling in his chest the longer his mind remains too drowsy to trigger his cough reflex. And it certainly sounds it, by the way it sounds like he’s trying to force the ocean through a straw just to bring something up.

“Okay, alright, I’ve got you,” Martin says as he leans Jon’s trembling frame forward, make it easier to clear his lungs. As he has done so many times over the last week that it has become routine, he uses one hand to brace Jon forward, the other to move the box of tissues and an emesis bin within his immediate sight. More likely than not, Jon was going to bring up something. They had learned that in a rather unpleasant fashion on the first night of admission.

This time, however. This time, Jon’s airways sound so constricted around the mucus blocking them that he can barely get any air in at all. No loosening rattle in his chest to be heard—none at all, and rather than reaching for either of the objects before him, Jon uses a free hand to clutch at his chest while he gasps.

“Jon?! Jon, it’s alright, we’ll get help—Tim—“

“On it.”

Tim quickly reaches over Jon’s bed for the call button, while Sasha takes the more direct route of poking her head outside the door. Sooner than later, two nurses stride into the room, taking in the situation just as Jon’s monitor starts to blare its alarm.

CAN’T BREATHE. CAN’T BREATHE.

It might as well be screaming those words directly into Martin’s ears, with the panic that hits him. How could everyone be so calm? It’s not right, he’s not safe, he can’t breathe he can’t breathe please god help him I need him please—

“Martin? Hey hey hey, alright. Sit down, he’s alright.”

“No no no no please no—“

“He’s panicking. Tim—“

“I’ve got it. Just stay there.”

Every color around him a blur; every breath a gasping heave. The rushing of his own heartbeat in his ears drowns out everything else around him; all except that beeping, so fast too fast too fast, Jon Jon Jon Jon Jon—

“Martin? Hey, listen to me—“

No he bloody well won’t, not when Jon is dying and Tim is holding him back—

“Stop. Listen to me. He’s not in danger, mate. They’ve got him.”

Who’s got him? Who took him don’t take him don’t make me leave—

“He’s on the nebulizer, Martin. That’s all he needed. Hey, look at me.”

…what?

“Don’t make me put you on one too.”

The pounding, pounding, pounding of the blood in his ears lessening gradually, Martin begins to hear the sound of his own breathing—rapid, shallow, gasping. Slow down, he needs to slow it—stars dance in his vision when he opens his eyes, and he knows he needs to be getting more air if he wants to avoid passing out.

Don’t leave him don’t leave him you promised

Breathe. Breathe. In-2-3-4, out-2-3-4. In—

“Good, mate. You’re doing good.”

Such platitudes—undeserved though they are—settle something in Martin’s chest, allowing his hearing to further come back to him. The beeping is still here, of course. It never leaves, and feels like it may never leave again. But it is slower, much steadier, much more even. No alarms.

Just the man he loves in a hospital bed, his friend holding his hand.

And Martin breaks.

The levy of his mind holding back the encroaching tide bursts, and it all spills out in sobs he finds he can no longer control. God, Jon. God, Christ. Please. Please. I can’t lose you I can’t lose you—

“Habibi?”

His voice. Wrecked, wavering, strong. Full of a worry Martin knows he placed there with his silly little outburst.

You make everything worse you make him worse everything is better without you—

“Martin. Love, it’s…it’s alright.”

Still regaining his breath from the fit, Jon is forced to take a breath in the middle of his short sentence—but he sounds neither distressed, nor desperate, nor delirious. Just Jon. Just Jon. And Martin could never deny him anything.

“M’here, I’m coming.”

As he stands from where he seemingly collapsed on the floor, Tim holds his arms vaguely outstretched, as if afraid he might tip over. But no, Martin wouldn’t put anything else on him, not after he had caused the whole mess himself—and manages to make it back to his chair beside Jon’s bed. With no small amount of surprise, he finds that the nebulizer has already been replaced by the nasal cannula again—and though labored, Jon’s breathing is nowhere near distressed. No panic or glassiness to his eyes. Simply that gorgeous, deep brown cutting directly to Martin’s soul.

He cannot say why, but it makes his chest ache.

“Are you alright?”

Martin lets out a strangled sort of laugh at the question. “Are you?”

“Fine, love.”

“Stop that. I know you’re not.”

“I’m—I’m really okay now. Sorted.”

Tears swimming in his eyes, Martin looks away, shaking his head with fury and heartbreak. Can’t he see, he almost died? Can’t he see that everything was always on the line, constant, never-ending? It makes him sick; he’s going to be sick, I’m gonna be sick—

“Asthma attack, Martin. Added to the pneumonia. That’s all it was.”

“Oh, that’s all, is it, Tim?”

“Not what I meant.”

He’s picking a fight, he knows he is. Ready to swing at anyone; just as ready to take a hit. Tim should be fighting him back by now—he ought to be angry, the way he’s acting, come on let me have it I deserve it—

“Martin. Hayati. Look at me.”

All the anger slips out of his frame at his voice, along with the tears spilling over the edges of his eyes. Jon could always undo him like this at a mere word, it seems. One of the countless reasons to love him. One that is entirely too overwhelming in this moment.

“Sorry, m’sorry,” he half-sobs, pressing the bases of his palms to his eyes in protest to the leakage.

“Martin, please look at me.”

At last, he does so, meeting Jon’s wide and weary eyes, so filled with concern and hurt and love that Martin doesn’t deserve. Would never deserve.

“You need to…get some rest. Proper— ha, proper sleep.”

The hollow of his belly threatens to swallow him whole. Leave him; how could he leave him?

He wants me to leave him?

“Just—just rest darling,” he says tremulously, fidgeting aimlessly with Jon’s blankets and pillows. “Get your breath back—“

“No—listen. Please.”

And how could he deny him that? Jon’s trembling hand grasps his own—whether weakly or gently, Martin cannot be sure.

“Go h—home, Martin. Please. Need to—to rest.”

A half-sob escapes Martin’s chest unbidden on an exhale. “You rest, I’ll be just here, I’ll make sure no one bothers you—“

“No…no. Y—“ An exhausted, rattling cough escapes his chest, interrupts his thoughts for the moment. Long enough for Tim to brace his shoulder from the opposite side of the bed as he breaths shallowly, eyeing him closely. “You, Martin. You…”

He trails off again, eyes losing their sharpness in a wave of overwhelming weariness. It shatters Martin’s heart. Surely he hadn’t much left to shatter at this point.

“Jon?”

“M’sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. “Jus’ tired.”

“Sleep then, love. Just rest.”

“Sorry.”

“Hush, now. You’re alright.”

A mere few moment of Martin’s fingers carding through his hair is enough for Jon to sink deeper into sleep, head lolling against the pillow and expression going slack. And thank god for that, really, he’d been having such dreadful night terrors, and he hardly sleeps for longer than an half an hour, and he has to nearly sit up to breathe and he’s not comfortable and he’s so, so ill—

“I…think what he’s saying,” Sasha begins carefully, stepping around the bed to place a hand on Martin’s back, interrupting his spiral. “Is that you need to rest, Martin. He wants you to go home for the night.”

“So do we, mate,” Tim adds, a rare quietness to his voice that brings the bottomless well of tears springing back up in his eyes again. “You’re absolutely spent.”

Breathe, 2, 3, 4 —out, 2, 3, 4

Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes is not enough to stem the flow of his tears—hasn’t been for quite some time now. The mere thought of leaving Jon in this state is enough to set his heart racing. Or it would be, ordinarily, if it weren’t threatening to beat out of his chest near constantly for the past god-knows-how-many hours now. All of the sudden, Sasha’s hand on his back, moving slowly, comfortingly, is too much—christ, does he ache; his back and chest and neck and pounding, pounding head.

But he can’t. Can he?

“I feel—“ A gasping sob. “S-sorry. Sorry. I just c…can’t leave him. Won’t let him be alone.”

“I’m staying,” Tim states with intense finality. “You’re going. But I’m staying. He won’t be alone.”

“N-no, Tim—you can’t, your migraines—“

“I’ll be careful,” he assures. “Also? Couldn’t care less. You need to go home. And I need to be here.”

“But—“

“It’s okay, Martin.” Sasha crouches in front of his chair, setting a hand on his bouncing knee. “He’s safe. And he won’t be alone.”

“But what if—“

“Anything happens, and I call you,” says Tim. “I promise.”

God, my head.

“Come on, Martin.” He must have held the silence for too long, as the next thing he knows, Sasha is tugging him up from his bedside chair. “I’ll take you home.”

He puts up little resistance, and hates himself for it—but the moment he steps outside into the bracing cold, he feels nothing but relief. Jon is safe, in the hospital where he needs to be, in the company of a trusted friend. And so is he.

We’ll be alright, love. I really think we might just be alright.

[janekfan]

AHHH BINGO!! if you want, could you do 'unexpected trigger' with our boy Jon??? <3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28465461

I hope you like it!

Martin had never yelled at Jon. Never raised his voice at Jon. Not really. Not like he knew he was capable of and had learned from his absent, asshole father. And so when his voice crescendoed in anger, real anger over something so petty something so Jon it caught him so off guard he wasn’t able to halt the vitriolic venom pouring from his throat like smoke from freshly fired gun.

“Shut your mouth!”

And he did.

Abruptly.

Martin could hear his teeth click together with the force.

There was a beat of silence run through only by Jon’s harsh breaths before Martin realized he’d gone stock still, eyes wide and round as saucers and filled with a fear he hadn’t seen since their time in the Archives.

“Jon?” He flinched, holding himself stiff, trembling so minutely Martin wouldn’t have realized it if he hadn’t been looking. “Love?” All the frustration and anger fled with this strange, unfamiliar reaction.

“Yes?” Automatic and filled to the brim with false affect. It sounded like a stranger had taken control of his voice box. When Jon tried to laugh lightly it read more as a sob, and Martin hated the smile slipping from ear to ear like an oil slick, like a mask. “I’m sorry, you know how stubborn I can be.” Robotically, Jon stepped forward, supplicating and small, expression soft and fond and everything Martin loved.

And wrong.

“J’Jon?” Martin was confused and worried because while all the pieces of his partner were there, they didn’t form the whole picture.

“I’ll start dinner.” The step forward he’d taken became a step back as his grin cracked at the corners. “Then we can talk.” And like a wraith he disappeared into the tiny kitchen leaving Martin completely mystified and wracked with worry and itching to follow, instinct warning him that it would certainly do more harm than good. Instead, he sat on the sofa, taking deep breaths to calm himself down from their fight and his own loss of control before being lured by the smells wafting through the safe house.

“That smells delicious, love.” If he hadn’t been looking carefully, Martin would have missed the tightening of Jon’s shoulders.

“Ah, thank you. I hope you like it.” Martin frowned, glad Jon wasn’t facing him to see it.

“Of course I will.” Carefully, he moved to stand beside him taking note of the sharp intake of breath and the way he held it.

“You’re upset.” Jon laughed, stirring in a mess of spices Martin couldn’t hope to identify.

“‘Course not, Martin.” He wouldn’t look at him, pretending to be absorbed in tasting whatever he was making, something Jordanian no doubt that would take its place at the top of Martin’s ‘best thing he’d ever tasted’ list. “It was a fight, c’couples fight.”

“They do.” Jon still wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“So it’s fine, try this--need anything?” As if he would know, Martin thought as he accepted the proffered bite which of course melted pleasantly in his mouth.

“It’s perfect, darling.” A real smile graced his tired face and stayed there while Jon dished up their servings. They ate in the sitting room as Daisy hadn’t felt the need for a dining table and watched mindless telly, settling into their evening routine.

Except Jon wasn’t pressed against Martin, sleep soft and warm like he usually was.

“I’m sorry for shouting like that earlier.”

“It was my fault. I pushed too hard like I always do and I apoloize. You didn’t do anything wrong, Martin.” Matter of fact and it sounded like Jon. But it was wrong. So wrong. And Jon was on the other side of the couch, curled up in a throw with a book open and face down in his lap when he’d barely left Martin’s side since leaving the Lonely. The space between them wasn’t cold but it wasn’t easy either.

“Jon,” tentative and probing just a little. “You do realize I shouldn’t have reacted that way, right? That, that yelling at you like that wasn’t okay?” Jon sat up straighter, paperback falling to the floor when he shifted. He paid it no mind, holding out his hands in capitulation, not reaching out like he normally would, and shaking his head in earnest.

“No, Martin. No, no it’s.” And Martin couldn’t help the jolt of relief at his tone because this was the most Jon had sounded like Jon since their argument. “It’s me, I push and needle and I, I, I don’t know when to quit. I’m. I’m too much, I j’just forget that sometimes! You reminded me, that’s all. Th’that’s all it was. No harm done.” But that wasn’t true and Martin kept his own voice calm and unassuming.

“Did you feel safe when I did that?” It was clear Jon didn’t know what to say, that he didn’t want to risk upsetting him again, hands twisting and winding around each other with nervous energy and apprehension. “You didn’t.”

“No! I--” he pressed his lips together, wrapping his arms around bent knees and resting his chin on top. “I.” Martin gave him the time to figure himself out, watching as his eyes darted between him and the plates on the table. “I know y’you wouldn’t.”

“That’s not the same.” Jon was shaking his head, adamant.

“But it, it isn’t your fault.” And when he finally met Martin’s eyes it was like a collision, something painfully vulnerable and panicked in the deepest part of them. “It’s mine, I promise, I d’don’t need--” Martin’s heart skipped a beat when he cut himself off, leaning forward, trying to be there and not frighten him away.

“It’s alright to need things, Jon.” Gently, so gently, even as Jon’s breath came short and shallow, eyes pleading with him and Martin didn’t know what to say to fix this.

“I, but I. I d’don’t.” He clenched his fingers into trembling fists, face crumpling up as he tried to make Martin understand. “I’m too needy.”

“Jon--”

“It’s not important!”

I’m not important.

Martin could pinpoint the moment Jon realized he’d run out of ways to convince him otherwise, falling into his broad chest and hiding his face in the washworn wool as he embraced him, whispering almost to himself; “just want to make you h’happy.”

“You do make me happy, love.” Tentative, he let his hands rest lightly on his back, not certain Jon really wanted to be touched right now, or if he was doing it because the only emotions that mattered were Martin’s. “So happy.”

“Don’t want you to leave.”

“I won’t.”

“But, but.”

Everyone always leaves.

Martin understood that feeling all too well. After all, hadn’t that been how the Lonely got its hooks into him so deep? Jon was like a beacon for it himself, filled with the fear that the last person he had left was going to abandon him like the rest of them had. Martin let himself indulge the desire to hold him, relieved that Jon melted against him.

“I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time. That’s not going to change, darling.”

“Even…” Martin dropped a kiss amongst his messy curls.

“Couples fight sometimes.” Jon took a deep breath, relaxing just that much more. “It hurts because. Well, because we do love each other.” A snort of laughter escaped him, shaking the blades of his shoulders under Martin’s hands.

“You’re such a poet.” Unsure and wobbly with hidden tears as he worried how his attempt at humor would be perceived, but teasing all the same. “I love you, too.” And for right now, in this moment, it was enough.

[theineated]

The first of my pieces for @janekfan's  @podcastbigbang fic Bittersweet Symphony. It’s fantastic, absolutely recommended!

[Image ID: traditional drawing of Jonathan Sims and Martin Blackwood from The Magnus Archives. They are standing in front of a cooking hob. The fire closest to Jon is lit, and covered in spilled sauce from a red pan that has been set aside and holds some pieces of meat. Jon is a thin Jordanian man with blue eyes and rectangular glasses, covered in scars. His hair is black with streaks of gray, styled in a loose half bun. He looks upset and is shaking. His right hand, almost covered in a burn scar, vaguely points at the pan and spilled sauce. Martin is holding his other hand. He is a fat white man, slightly taller than Jon. His hair is blond and wavy. He has light blue eyes and round glasses. He looks shocked, and is turning off the fire with his free hand. They are wearing matching jumpers that show cows in a field. Jon’s has an orange field and teal blue sky, and  Martin’s is green and blue. Jon is wearing a beige apron. End ID]

[captaincravatthecapricious]

For the wonderful @banashee everyone go read the fic! It’s great!!!!!! https://archiveofourown.org/works/34891501 for the @tmabigbang I had a wonderful time!!! Image ids under the cut! Image 1 ID: a digital drawing of Martin and Tim sitting with each other from the chest up. Martin, on the left, is a Polish and Japanese man with glasses, freckles, and short straight mussed hair. He’s wearing an oversized sweater. His hands are up over his face to rub at his eye and upper lip, hiding his right eye and mouth. His eyes are closed, looking queasy. Tim, on the right, is a Filipino, Melanesian, and Irish man with short messy straight hair, a faint mustache and goatee, circular worm scars over his skin, and ear piercings. He’s wearing a long sleeved shirt and holding a glass in his right hand. He looks at Martin with an open expression, mouth open as if talking. The pair are only shaded slightly by light blue, and the background is light green. In the top right corner is the artist’s signature, @ capataincravatthecapricious. End ID. (ID by @caedogeist-rights) Image 2 [begin ID: a digital line-art drawing, with blue shading, depicts Jon and Tim. Tim, a Filipino, Melanesian, and Irish mixed race man, is in the forefront on the left side of the image, from the shoulders up. He is wearing a jacket and has short, messy hair, a small beard, and three piercings in his right ear, as well as worm scars on his face and neck. He is looking toward the lower, left corner, shoulder hunched, with a slight frown. Jon, a Jordanian, Pakistani, Indian, and white mixed race person, is standing in the background on the right side of the image. They have long, curly hair pulled up into a half-bun, and is wearing square glasses, a hoodie tucked into a long, plaid skirt. Jon’s right hand is resting on a cane, the left is resting on the doorframe of an open door. A small speech bubble floats next to the right side of Jon’s head, which reads: Tim? The artist’s signature, @ captaincravatthecapricious, is in the top, right corner. end ID] (ID by @notesofarichlycolorednight) Image 3 [begin ID: a digital line-art drawing, with a pale red shading, depicting Jon, Martin, and Tim all cuddling in bed. Jon is a Jordanian, Pakistani, Indian, white mixed race person with long, curly hair pulled up into a loose bun. They are wearing a jumper and have bandages on their face. Their arms are around Martin’s middle, nose pressed into Martin’s back. Martin is a Polish and Japanese mixed race man with short hair, also wearing a jumper. He has his arms around Tim. Tim is a Filipino, Melanesian, Irish mixed race man with short hair, has ear piercings, and is also wearing a jumper. He has his head tucked into the crook of Martin’s neck. The artist’s signature is in the top, left corner: @ captaincravatthecapriciou. end ID] (ID by @notesofarichlycolorednight​)

[rpdtactus]

In Jerusalem, Israeli and Jordanian militias patrolled a fortified, impassable Green Line from 1948 until 1967. In Nicosia, two walls and a buffer zone have segregated Turkish and Greek Cypriots since 1963. In Belfast, "peaceline" barricades have separated working-class Catholics and Protestants since 1969. In Beirut, civil war from 1974 until 1990 turned a cosmopolitan city into a lethal patchwork of ethnic enclaves. In Mostar, the Croatian and Bosniak communities have occupied two autonomous sectors since 1993. These cities were not destined for partition by their social or political histories. They were partitioned by politicians, citizens, and engineers according to limited information, short-range plans, and often dubious motives. How did it happen? How can it be avoided? Divided Cities explores the logic of violent urban partition along ethnic lines—when it occurs, who supports it, what it costs, and why seemingly healthy cities succumb to it. Planning and conservation experts Jon Calame and Esther Charlesworth offer a warning beacon to a growing class of cities torn apart by ethnic rivals. Field-based investigations in Beirut, Belfast, Jerusalem, Mostar, and Nicosia are coupled with scholarly research to illuminate the history of urban dividing lines, the social impacts of physical partition, and the assorted professional responses to "self-imposed apartheid." Through interviews with people on both sides of a divide—residents, politicians, taxi drivers, built-environment professionals, cultural critics, and journalists—they compare the evolution of each urban partition along with its social impacts. The patterns that emerge support an assertion that division is a gradual, predictable, and avoidable occurrence that ultimately impedes intercommunal cooperation. With the voices of divided-city residents, updated partition maps, and previously unpublished photographs, Divided Cities illuminates the enormous costs of physical segregation.

[fricklefracklefloof]

flowers never bend with the rainfall by @jawbonemage

one of my other pieces for the @tmabigbang! it's for mordecai's fic about a jmart selkie au, it's a really sweet concept and i love it to bits <3 PLUS there is filipino martin. they are eating longaniza because mordecai is cool and sexy and understands mixed asian martin is superior

also go check out @call-of-the-ocean's piece :)

[image description: a warm-colored digital drawing of jon and martin eating longaniza and rice on the cot in document storage. jon is a thin, brown-skinned jordanian person with short dark hair streaked with grey, and he's waving around his fork in annoyance as he talks about something. martin is a fat, tan-skinned mixed filipino man with short dark hair. he's listening to jon patiently with his fork in his mouth and he is wearing a selkie coat. end id]

[biiscione]

@thxwxlf​  suggests  :   a  drabble  about  Jon  in  Keki’s  point  of  view DRABBLE MEME  /  accepting

           It’s intentional, really, the way she lounges on that chair next to his desk. She had been perched there for quite some time. He HAD promised quality time, what was it, an hour ago? She sits up only to look at her phone, clicking the lock button to reveal the screen. Yep                it’s been an hour and he’s still, wait, what was he doing again? A hand instinctively tosses locked hair behind her shoulder as she sits upright fully, green hue peering over the clutter of the desk.         “What’re you workin’ on?”         A few moments of waiting and nothing but the scratching of his pen is her answer. She pouts her lips to a corner of her mouth.         Rude.         Kekipi stands, omitting an exaggerated and frustrated sigh as she turns her back to his desk. That should get his attention                  and it does.         “Yes, my love.” Yeah. Yeah. He knows what he’s doing.         She turns abruptly, periphery watching him closely. His head is lifted and turned towards her, magnified glasses resting low on the bridge of his pointed nose. A smile teases the corner of full, scarred lips. She wonders how he can see without those silly things. Maybe he can’t?         Resisting the urge to mock him, she answers him with a methodically, slow tone.         “I asked,” she enunciates and accentuates every hard syllable, “ WHAT are YOU doing? ”         He hums. Good. A more active response.         “Paperwork.” Uh yeah                     that was obvious.         “What kind of paperwork?” He really should commend her patience.         She awaits a mundane and dull response, stepping closer to the desk but halts when he speaks, him beckoning her to sit on his lap. Brows lift and head cants as if to ask ‘ REALLY ? ’. His answer comes in the form of a rolling chair, sliding out from under his desk. Of course the wolf obliges him, skipping on the balls of her feet to finally sitting on his lap. She’s quite content now ( compared to her early disposition ), settling into his form as he wraps his left arm around her waist. She hums. Did he know the security he gave her?         Emerald eye scans the pages his pen marks with red ink. At first glance she doesn’t recognize the letters on the paper            that is, well, because it wasn’t a language she knew.         “You know Arabic?”         “Recreationally.” Dreaded hair whips around her neck as she snaps her head to look at Jon. He recreationally knows Arabic while doing his work? She laughs seeing a stupid, wry little smile on Jon’s full lips. He knew what he said was stupid and basked in the ridiculousness of it. He had a way of putting on airs of seriousness and stoicism but he never took himself too seriously. Well, never so much to alert her of any RED FLAGS.         “Recreationally? Yeah               recreationally reading Arabic for work,” she smiles as he laughs, the rumbling against her back oddly warm and comforting. “What does your recreational Arabic-reading tell you it says?” Her prodding should be expected by now but she knows his works requires quite a bit of discretion. She’s just glad he shares what little he can with her.         “A Jordanian father wishes to take his two daughters to Germany,” red pen marks what she assumes is the request. His lips part and he wishes to divulge more, she knows, but understands he can’t. So she interrupts him.         “Why don’t you use a computer?” A jerk of her head indicates the laptop collecting dust at the edge of the desk.         “You can burn paper.”         “Well, okay, but you can burn a hard drive          ”         “Eh, not as quickly as paper.”         His head may be down but she can tell by that statement alone that he’s smiling like a complete buffoon. She elbows him, evoking hitched laughter from him. They sit happily in silence for a few moments, Jon’s pen scratching away at the paper. Kekipi watches as he etches digits along the margins then a encircled checkmark in the top, righthand corner. She smiles. She’s happy for that Jordanian father and his two daughters.          Suddenly his glasses are in her line - of - sight, atop the papers he had just been working on. His chin rests on the bulk of her upper arm, amber hues etching their gaze into the flesh of her features.          “I had promised you quality time          ”          “Yeah,” she hardens her gaze, just so. “You did.”          “I am at your disposal.”          “Mhm,” she offers nasally laughter. “Well, okay, you know what? I think I like it here.” Kekipi curls her legs against her petite form, cementing herself in his lap. Looking down at him, she watches his silent approval in the form of a smile and mouthed ‘ OKAY. ’ Content with his concedement, her gaze dances over the mess on his desk.          “What’s that?” She points to a gilded frame, face down and peaking out from a pile of papers.         “Uhm.”         She looks at him wryly.         “A portrait of me in my priestly robes             ”         “NO. NO FUCKING WAY                And you just let me sit here like this? Give it to me.” A pause. “PLEASE.”