#counting down the hours until i can flee work and get back to sims

[allfrogsmatter]

Hello, dear! Can’t wait to see what you’re working on! ❤️

How about 🍑, 🐇, and 🌱 for the ask game?

Thank you for the ask!! I’m excited for my next project and can’t wait to share it with you all :)

🍑 Peach: What is a color that makes you smile

I’ve always been partial to periwinkle and lately i’ve also been loving sage green!

🐇 Bunny: What’s a song that you really like?

I’ve been listing to Christmas music for a few weeks now (since the election..) and keep getting reminded of Christmas songs I love like Christmas Auld Lang Syne by Bobby Darin and I’m Gonna Be Warm This Winter by Connie Francis

In terms of modern, non-seasonal music, I (like everyone on tiktok) have been enjoying Sailor Song by Gigi Perez. Also always love Hozier, right now my favorite is probably I, Carrion (Icarian). The lyrics on that one really get me, especially the line:

“if these heights should bring my fall let me be your own Icarian carrion”

And of course some older faves for you all - Gentle On My Mind by Glen Campbell and This Guy’s In Love With You by Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass

🌱 Seedling: What is something you want to begin learning? 

I have one sim related and one non-sim related!

For the non-sim one, I want to learn to bake bread! I baked my first loaf yesterday and it surprisingly turned out really good, so I’m eager to do more. But I absolutely love bread and can never get enough- I figured it’s about time I learn how to make it myself!

And sim’s wise, I want to learn to make custom content! Of course I’ve been saying this for years, but now I actually have the space to install all the required programs on my computer so I may actually get to it. I was able to make some custom in-game portraits, which is big because I did it a few years ago and they were buggy, and I also am working on recoloring a wall for a build, so baby steps. I don’t know if I’ll actually get off the ground with it, but I’m so often frustrated by little droughts in cc (like right now, 1890’s-1900’s cold weather attire for girls (all my child and toddler girls wear the same coat in different swatches and I want to give them more options!)

[strawberry-skies-xx]

say that the wind will never change on us

summary: martin doesn’t respond to jon’s texts.

word count: 2068

tags: martin blackwood / jonathan sims, panic attacks, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff

main masterlist | story on ao3

Martin Blackwood 8:05 a.m.

I didn’t want to wake you, I’m off to work.

Jonathan Sims 10:07 a.m.

Alright. Have fun.

2:03 p.m.

Are you on your lunch break?

2:08 p.m.

Do you want to meet at the cafe across the street from the library?

5:31 p.m.

Martin? What do you want for dinner?

5:39 p.m.

You’re starting to worry me…

6:04 p.m.

I’m making dumplings for dinner.

6:14 p.m.

Please respond.

7:03 p.m.

Did work extend you? Should I wait for you to come home to have dinner or will you be late?

7:18 p.m.

Martin?

7:32 p.m.

You’re scaring me.

7:46 p.m.

You’re not usually extended this late, and you always tell me when you’re extended.

8:01 p.m.

You would tell me if you were extended tonight, right?

8:16 p.m.

I had dinner already. I was hungry. There’s a plate here still waiting for you.

8:23 p.m.

Martin? It’s been hours and I’m getting really worried. Please respond.

8:33 p.m.

Tell me when you’re close to home.

8:54 p.m.

I promised you I wouldn’t Know anything about you without your consent.

9:05 p.m.

I just Know that you’re not in danger. I can’t not know, you’re scaring me, Martin. Why aren’t you responding?

9:21 p.m.

The sound of keys turning in the door alerts Jon as soon as the noise starts, and he’s halfway to the door when it opens and Martin steps through, dressed in a sweater and a coat from the chill outside and hefting his backpack over his shoulder.

“Martin,” Jon says, and steps as close as physically possible. Not touching him, letting Martin take off his coat and backpack, but Jon can feel the fear he had, the panic lurking at the edges of his senses the longer his texts had gone unnoticed. He remembers dragging Martin out of the Lonely all too well, remembers I really loved you, you know, and he never wants that feeling again. It’s an irrational fear, he should trust Martin more than this, but he can’t help it. He had to pull him out, he hadn’t known whether Martin would come back that time and he’d blamed himself for not reaching out further, for not intervening with Peter Lukas. Of all the Entities Jon has faced, and of the Entity he still serves, the Lonely is what he’s most scared of. The Lonely came the closest to taking what Jon loves, taking everything he has, and there’s a deep, primal fear in him of it happening again.

“Hi, Jon,” Martin says, smiling as Jon steps forward and kisses him for a few moments. The hands Jon places on his waist are shaking a little, trembling finely as he processes that Martin is here and solid, but he ignores it. He was overreacting, because he really should trust Martin more than to be lost in the Lonely again, and Martin doesn’t need to know how scared he was.

“Hey,” he says back, and his voice doesn’t shake, and he doesn’t have a desperate look in his eyes as he scans Martin. “Where were you? I was worried.”

Martin laughs wryly and glances down. “Sorry. I got caught up in work. You know, it’s still a novelty, even after two months, to be working in a library that doesn’t have eldritch horrors out for me.”

Jon’s hands won’t stop trembling. He lets them hang at his side and steps back to let Martin sit on the couch, turns to go make tea, and makes himself laugh a little in response. Martin is safe and here and he shouldn’t still be panicking. “Yeah, it is relaxing,” he says quietly.

He puts the mug on the counter quickly so he doesn’t drop it; the boiling water pours in a shaky stream. Jon presses his mouth into a thin line and tries to force the panic down, tries to focus on Martin and stop shaking so much.

You’re scaring me, Martin.

I came for you. I thought you might be lost.

He leans on the counter, hands holding the edge tightly. Martin’s on the couch, sitting so he can’t see him; Jon exhales slowly. He glances at his left hand and sees it hasn’t stopped shaking.

Why aren’t you responding?

But we need you. I need you.

“I’ll microwave the dumplings in a minute, Jon, you don’t have to,” Martin says from the couch, facing away from Jon. He picks up the mug of hot tea and doesn’t respond, feeling as if he’s made of glass, like he could fall apart at the slightest harsh touch. He curses the fear, curses that it still haunts him even after they were supposed to be safe, Jon has Martin here and safe and solid and he can’t even properly appreciate that because he’s scared.

He feels his fingers shaking as he turns from the counter, doesn’t register that the mug has dropped until the porcelain shatters on the floor and he instinctively jumps back to avoid the boiling hot splash of tea. He looks down, doesn’t register Martin’s voice as he turns around quickly, but he can feel something inside him break and the hot sting of tears at the corner of his eyes.

“Jon?”

Broken porcelain. He has to clean up broken porcelain, they could step on it and there’s boiling tea too, he’s already sinking halfway to the floor-

“Oh, fuck- Jon!”

Arms around him - Martin’s arms around him. Strange, he’s trying to pull Jon up, away from the broken porcelain that he has to clean up, but he doesn’t fight it. Martin was almost gone, after all, almost-

Martin was almost gone.

“Martin,” Jon gasps out when he’s somehow returned back to himself, and now he can’t breathe right, it’s too fast and there’s not enough air. He’s enveloped by warmth, and it takes him a long few moments to realize he’s in Martin’s lap. Martin’s sitting on the kitchen floor, leaning against the cabinets, with Jon sitting sideways in his lap and legs draped over his, Martin’s arms wrapped around him. There’s words too, something soft and soothing and repetitive that Jon vaguely distinguishes as I’m here, and that’s as far as he gets before the rest of him breaks.

It’s part relief and part panic and part like opening a dam. Martin was almost gone, and now Martin is here; Jon’s hands move to the back of Martin’s sweater, fingers finding the fabric and curling tightly in it, holding on like he thinks he’d disappear if he lets go.

Maybe he does think he’ll disappear if he lets go; he can’t tell. He’s shaking and there’s so many parts of him that are shattered apart, that had been hanging by a thread, and the fabric of Martin’s sweater and the solid warmth against him are the only things that are real right now; there’s a large part of him working on convincing himself that’s true.

“I’m here, Jon, I’m sorry I didn’t respond, God, I should’ve known,” Martin says. Jon focuses on the building rhythm of his hand across his back, and feels Martin’s other hand rise so his fingers start running through his hair. “I’m so sorry, Jon.”

I’m here, Jon.

Jon’s breathing starts to slow, starts to go down to normal levels. It takes a while before he stops shaking - I’m here, Jon - and he finds he buried his face in Martin’s neck, breathing in the scent of his shampoo. He took a shower this morning, Jon thinks randomly. And then he went to work, and then he came home, and now he’s here. I’m here, Jon.

“You’re here,” he breathes out, relaxes as he focuses on the two rhythms of Martin’s hand through his hair and going up and down his back.

“Yes, I am here, Jon,” Martin replies softly.

Jon hesitates. There’s still a fractured part of him, a what if hanging in the air and slicing through his newly-constructed calm. “Don’t-” he starts, and stops when the word comes out as a panicked breath. “Please-”

Martin pauses the rhythms. Jon wants to tell him to keep going, but he can’t speak. “Jon?” Martin asks quietly. Not pressing, not confused.

Martin knows, and he’s simply waiting for Jon to speak on his own time. Whenever he wants.

“Please respond,” Jon says quickly, part sentence and part gasp as the fear rises up in him again, the panic starts at simply thinking of the what if. “I was scared,” he adds bluntly, in the same quick breath.

Martin continues his two rhythms; through his hair, across his back. Jon feels like a weight’s been lifted from his shoulders; his throat seems less blocked and he melts into Martin with a soft sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Martin says softly. “I know I should’ve responded. I’ll do better next time.”

That doesn’t sound right. The calm flees, and Jon feels a slight nausea rising. He doesn’t want to- “I- no,” he blurts out, lifting his head from Martin’s chest and looking at him. Martin looks back, tilting his head a little in confusion.

“No what, Jon?”

“Not doing better. That- I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I-it’s controlling you, and I don’t want to do that, Martin. I shouldn’t have overreacted so much.”

Martin’s brows furrow and he frowns. “Jon, no. You’re not controlling me, and you’re not overreacting. This is not overreacting. You may have had to pull me out of the Lonely, but I was in there too. I know how lonely it is, I know how it feels.” He laughs a little. “To be entirely honest, there’s still a part of me that longs for it.”

Jon looks up quickly. Martin gives a small smile. “See? Not overreacting. You have a perfectly valid reason to want me to respond to your texts, Jon. And I… well, they sort of help me stay connected too. I don’t want to go back to the Lonely as much as you don’t want me to, though I can’t help the small part of me still connected to it. I’ve been connected to it my entire life.”

Martin smiles more now. “And you happen to be a golden thread of life in all the fog. You saved me then, you’re still saving me now, and I’m going to do the same for you.”

Jon pauses for a moment, and then he theatrically rolls his eyes. “It’s all so poetic,” he says, in an overly dramatic, annoyed voice, even as he grins at Martin.

Martin laughs. “Yeah, well, you knew what you were getting into.”

“Who says I was getting into it? Maybe I liked poetry all along.”

“Jonathan Sims, I have at least four different recordings of you walking in on me recording poetry and complaining about it,” Martin replies, deadpan. “You cannot lie to me about this.”

Jon considers. “Fine,” he says after a moment, and then opens his mouth to speak again.

“You have no ground to stand on here,” Martin adds in before he can say anything.

“Well…” He makes another show of considering, then leans in and kisses Martin quickly, swallowing his noise of surprise before he leans back, smirking. “What if I said I love you?”

Martin freezes for a moment, then rolls his eyes and leans his head back dramatically. “Fine, fine- fine, you win, Jon! You always win, because you always pull that card and you’re always adorable while doing it!”

“I still deny I’m adorable,” Jon says flatly, “but it works on you, so.” He shrugs, still grinning, and leans his head back against Martin’s chest.

Martin smiles, starting to rub his hand across his back and run through his hair again. Jon closes his eyes and tightens his fingers in Martin’s sweater again, all humor leaving him suddenly to be replaced by a content quiet.

“Thank you, Martin,” he says softly. Martin relaxes similarly against him, his voice sober once more when he responds.

“I love you, Jon.”

Jon smiles. “I love you too.”

“We do still have to clean up the tea.”

Jon considers. “Maybe later.”

Martin pauses, then shifts to get comfortable against the cabinets and pulls Jon closer.

“Yeah, a little later is fine.”