#mundane reblogs

[transrevolutions]

asoiaf modern au where agot takes place in the most dysfunctional secondary school ever. arya has an accommodation plan for her adhd that gives her permission to draw in class but cersei (who is the kind of teacher that hates having to follow inclusion policies) gets mad and throws away one of arya's wolf oc drawings except that particular drawing was actually sansa's and when sansa finds out she gets so pissed off that she dumps joffrey over it. joffrey gets cersei to try and get ned removed from his position of assistant principal even though he's basically running the school at that point because robert baratheon (the real principal) keeps getting drunk when he's supposed to be working.

jon joins an after-school self-defense/outdoor survival skills club and somehow ends up in a weird leadership role because he's one of the only ones who knows what he's doing. tyrion shows up sometimes to try and sell him shitty weed. arya is always begging him to let her come even though she's still under the age limit. daenerys is a transfer student who spends every single one of her classes doing wings of fire rp on scratch.mit.edu but still manages to get good grades so a bunch of the teachers hate her because they're convinced she's cheating.

robert baratheon gets fired after the school board gets an anonymous tip about his drinking on the clock. the anonymous tipper is actually cersei because she's mad that he won't let joffrey run for student council because he's gotten in trouble for bullying too much. when ned finds out about this cersei gets him fired too which makes arya mad so she makes jon teach her mma so she can beat up joffrey. catelyn gets so upset about ned getting fired that she convinces herself that tyrion was in on it bc he's cersei's sister despite the fact that cersei fully and actually hates his guts and tyrion wasn't even remotely involved because he was too busy trying to hide from jon's uncle benjen after he caught him trying to sell jon weed.

robb stark (low level admin position but everyone thinks he's just there bc nepotism which is actually sorta true) tries to get the rest of admin to band together to expose cersei but most of them don't give a fuck so he has to try and network with their longtime rival school to try and find allies. he also may or may not have introduced bran to the online furry community and he really really doesn't want ned or catelyn to find out. daenerys somehow manages to get a whole squad of jocks to basically be her personal bodyguards after she introduces them to wings of fire and they get hooked.

catelyn almost kicks jon out because she thinks he taught rickon to curse when actually rickon overheard sansa ranting about joffrey while on the phone with jeyne poole.

[ef-1]

[mollymauk-teafleak]

could not foresee lying beside you

Another fic for the little mundane au! Huge thanks to @minky-for-short for the idea behind this fic and putting up with my current obsession.

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3!

----

Jon has a very awkward conversation with Sasha that leads to a very good evening with his boyfriend Martin.

Note: contains sex favourable ace jon

-----

Jon had always thought he maintained a certain level of professionalism in the Archives. 

His department may have been the smallest, the least funded and, if the way the other department heads reacted to him was any indicator, the least liked out of the whole institute. But, as long as he was in charge, their professionalism would never be called into question. The work they did would always come first. 

Jon had always thought that. But things had changed lately and, to no one’s surprise more than his own, he was changing with them.

But old habits clearly died pretty hard. Which was his excuse for why he’d been hovering awkwardly in the break room, trying and failing to steer his conversation with Sasha in the right direction for most of lunch. 

Fortunately, Sasha had clearly worked with him long enough to not notice when Jon was being a few degrees more awkward than usual. She was well practised at keeping the conversation going with no input from him beyond stammerings and far off, distracted gazes. 

“So Eddie is swearing blind that this mirror was sent to storage but I checked twice and, if it’s there, the damn thing is supernatural enough to turn invisible!” she stirred her coffee with an irritated clatter, “Or grow legs and walk away. Neither of which were mentioned in the statement, just a lot of blood.”

“And the emaciated version of yourself for a reflection,” Jon mumbled vaguely, tapping his fingers on the wobbly little table they all had to squeeze around.

“Yeah, that too,” Sasha nodded, “My point is, that place has gone really downhill since I transferred…anyway, we’ve got five minutes left of lunch. So are you going to ask me whatever you’re chewing over or what?”

It took Jon a minute to realise what she’d said, his face realising first and taking the liberty of blushing darkly even before he could groan, “Am I being that obvious?”

Sasha smiled, tilting her head, “Not really. I’ve just gotten to know you pretty well.”

Not all that long ago, her saying that would make Jon squirm, feel like he’d been pinned under the glare of a microscope, like he was failing as a boss if his team saw him as a human being. But, again, things had changed. 

Jon swallowed hard, trying to poke nonchalantly at his salad like he hadn’t rehearsed these words until they’d worn thin, “Listen. This is me speaking as something other than your boss, okay?” 

“So…as my friend?” Sasha prompted him, with the patient smile you’d give a child. 

“Right,” Jon cleared his throat, “Um…so you know I’m with Martin…”

“Yes, I realised when you two snuck off from my wedding reception to hook up,” Sasha smirked.

Jon couldn’t help spluttering just a little, “We weren’t together together then…I had another month or so of being an obtuse asshole to get through…”

Sasha’s voice softened, turned kinder, “And you worked on yourself and now you’re both very happy together, the way you were always meant to be. So what’s the problem?”

“Me. As per usual,” Jon’s laugh didn’t sound completely convincing, not even to him, “It’s been a long time since I was in a relationship and I’ve never been in one where I wasn’t a total wreck. I’m realizing there’s a lot of Relationship 101 classes I missed somewhere along the way.”

Sasha tilted her head, her smile turning gentle in a way that managed not to be pitying, “That’s not you being a problem, Jon. There’s no time limit on this kind of thing, you can borrow my notes any time you like.”

Jon wondered if she’d end up regretting those words somewhere in the next ten seconds, as he realised he’d hit the point where he had to just cough it up and get it over with.

“I don’t…” he waved his fork vaguely in the air, “I don’t know how to go about initiating…y’know. Sex?”

There was a beat of silence as Sasha absorbed that. Jon wondered if she was comparing  him to the first version of Jonathan Sims she’d met, the one with the constant tremor in his hands and his too tight ties and short hair, if she was trying to imagine that Jonathan asking her about her weekend, let alone anything that involved taking off clothes. 

From the way she grinned, Jon thought she might prefer the version sat in front of her a little more, even if his hair was already falling out of its bun less than halfway through the day and he was drowning in a jumper Martin had knitted for him rather than a suit. Jon rather thought he preferred this version too. 

“Oh so it’s one of those questions, huh?” Sasha beamed, leaning forward with a new bright eyed energy that was only slightly terrifying, “This is so fun, I never got to play the cool big sister…”

“Ninety percent sure I’m older than you,” Jon rolled his eyes but her smile was infectious, he felt one pulling at his own mouth as he sat back and braced himself. 

“It’s a spiritual thing, Jon, don’t take this away from me,” Sasha waved her hand airily, “Okay. So you want to be straightforward about it? You want to flirt a little, make it a surprise, what are we looking for?”

Jon fidgeted with his glasses, pushing them up his nose, “I mean…I want to ask Martin if he’d like to have sex with me without sounding like a robot that was programmed to make people uncomfortable?”

Sasha chuckled, though not unkindly, “I mean, it’s always going to be a little uncomfortable, Jon. That's not something you can fix, it’s just something you learn to embrace and so do they.”

“I’m…starting to see that,” Jon nodded slowly, trying to chase down the feeling in his chest, pin it down clumsily with words, “I’m not used to wanting this. Wanting to be with someone like that, to make someone look at me in that way. I still don’t want sex the same way other people want it, I’ve sorted out that much. But I want it with Martin.”

“And how do you ask for something you’ve never wanted before?” Sasha nodded, sympathetic, “I hear what you’re saying, Jon.”

It was strange how such a simple thing, something most people never had to question, could mean so much to him. He supposed that's what came of actually choosing to speak, to ask. 

“Thank you, Sasha,” he smiled at his friend, sitting up a little, “So…how do I go about this?”

Sasha grinned, “Oh that’s easy. You have some fun with it.”

-

Jon thought he was doing pretty well. He’d only texted Sasha are you sure about this three times since Martin had left to go to the shops.

His latest message received the same answer as the first two, equally as patient and equally as reassuring. 

Trust me! As long as ur comfortable with it, he’ll <3 it

Jon looked at himself in the mirror again, trying to find something there that Martin would love. He sighed, picking up his phone again after he promised himself he wouldn’t.

And this worked on Tim?

A few moments of a reply bubble. 

He got a speeding fine driving home after I sent him pics of me in that pink shirt he has

Jon’s eyebrows shot up. That pink Hawaiian shirt was objectively hideous. 

Point taken. 

An older version of him would put the phone down then, nothing more to say. But he knew better now. 

Thank you for this, Sasha. 

He somehow heard her smile in the reply that pinged through. 

Don’t thank me yet. Gonna demand some details on Mon as tax. have fun boss!

Jon rolled his eyes, setting his phone down for good now. Martin would be back soon, allowing for how many of their neighbours he stopped to talk to on the way and if any of them were walking dogs he could fuss over. He gave himself a last look over in the mirror, not that anything would be different. 

He’d spent a long time choosing the right jumper out of the many Martin owned. He’d wanted one in green after his boyfriend said the colour brought out his eyes, an offhand comment from months ago but it had snagged in Jon’s mind. He’d wanted one of the larger ones so he didn’t freeze but not so large it didn’t skate the edge of his thighs and slide down off one shoulder in a way he thought- hoped- was sexy. He’d wanted his hair loose, lying across his shoulders in the way that had always been an invitation for Martin to run his fingers through it. 

Jon had planned out everything, this was exactly what he’d been picturing in his head in the hours since he talked to Sasha. And he still thought he looked a little ridiculous. 

But now his reflection wore a soft smile, a little shy, a little uncertain but it was there. It was still hard to believe there was anything in the mirror that Martin would love but Jon did see something he wanted to give him. And that felt good.

A creaking floorboard somewhere out in the hallway sent him scrambling for the sofa. Damn it, he’d been counting on Mrs Nowack and Biscuit keeping Martin occupied for at least ten minutes, she must have had somewhere to be. He had just enough time to arrange himself in a vaguely casual position against the cushions, one leg up, the hem of the jumper sitting just right, before he heard the front door to their flat open. 

“Jon? I’m back,” Martin’s voice was a little winded from the long climb up the stairs but it still had that bright smile in it, “They had that mango juice you like!”

Jon chuckled softly as he heard shopping bags hitting the floor, Martin shrugged off his anorak, boots being kicked off, “Nice…I’ll put it all away, just leave it there.”

“What? No, no, I’m already on my feet,” Martin’s voice moved, going towards the kitchen, “You stay comfy, I’ll put the kettle on…”

Jon struggled not to laugh, he hadn’t accounted for this, for being tripped up by his boyfriend’s implacable politeness. He tried to figure out how he could coax Martin into the living room without being obvious, while their ancient kettle rattled and wheezed towards boiling point and the man he was trying to seduce whistled as he put away the shopping. He should have just sent a picture. Or maybe an embossed invitation. Skywriting, possibly?

Though, Jon had to admit, there was a distinct satisfaction as Martin walked in, saw his boyfriend sprawled on the sofa in nothing but one of his own jumpers, and dropped two full mugs of tea on the floor. 

“I’ll clean that up later,” Jon grinned, watching the heat rise in Martin’s face, “Do you…do you like it?”

“I…I…you…you’re so…” Martin’s jaw worked but his brain clearly wasn’t, his eyes wide like they wanted to take in every inch of Jon. 

“Thank you,” Jon shifted onto his knees, rather enjoying the way the fabric pulled higher on his leg and Martin’s eyes snapped to it like a cat watching prey, “I wanted to surprise you.”

Martin swallowed hard, like his mouth was dry, “Do you…I mean…can I…do you want…”

“Very much so,” Jon purred, freeing one hand enough to beckon him, “Come here, darling.”

“Oh thank god,” Martin groaned, rushing forward and sweeping him into a kiss that told Jon he’d done a very, very good job. 

The moment their lips met, Jon realised he had what he wanted, even if he couldn’t put a name to it. This closeness, this warmth, all the emotion he didn’t have words for expressed physically instead. He could never say what Martin meant to him, he couldn’t ever thank him for the way he took the parts of Jon that were broken and malformed and sharp and pressed them close without fear. 

But he could kiss him. He could root his fingers in those loose red curls, he could part his legs and make room for him between them, he could moan softly as their tongues brushed each other. And Martin would just know. 

“I can’t believe you did this for me…” his words were breathless, coming between a smile and hungry kisses that trailed down Jon’s neck, to where the jumper revealed his collarbone.

Jon’s words came out shaky as Martin’s leg pressed between his own, his nerves sparking at the contact, “Wanted to make it clear...wanted…fuck, Martin, I wanted you…”

Martin drew back, an expression softened with a heartbreaking mix of disbelief and joy. An expression that told Jon he’d never expected to be here, holding him and hearing those words, believing them, “You have me. You always have me.”

So Jon gave him no doubt, rolling his hips against him, sliding his hands down and under Martin’s shirt, across the warmth of his skin, “I love you…”

“I love you too,” Martin helped him pull off his shirt, sending it to the floor, his jeans and boxers pushed down enough that Jon could wrap a hand around his cock. 

Jon pulled back, eyes travelling across Martin’s body. He’d always felt the need to study the things he felt drawn to, to tag and categorise and collate until he understood them down to the last atom. Martin was no different. Jon found himself making an index of every little detail that made his heart beat faster and the muscles low in his stomach twist, Harvard references to the desire racing through him. 

Freckles, face. Freckles, shoulders, collarbone, like someone had taken a paintbrush full of ochre and flicked it at him. Stomach, soft, rounded, perfect to rest on. Hair, soft to touch, heavily dusting his chest and running down his stomach, between his legs. Cock, thick, heavy enough in his palm to make his wrist ache, slick warmth running between his fingers. Noises, moans. Noises, gasps. Noises, fuck, Jon... 

He guided Martin’s cock between his legs until he felt him press against where Jon was so hot and wet it felt like he was melting. Like their bodies would just run together like candle wax, into one whole and they’d never have to be apart again. 

“Easy, Jon…” Martin’s voice was tight, trembling like a plucked violin string, “Don’t want to hurt you…”

“You won’t,” Jon’s voice came out a raw moan, halfway to a growl, his heels pressing into Martin’s back, urging him forward.

It wasn’t a complete lie. Martin was a big guy in every sense of the word, there was a bite, a stretch his body wasn’t used to and cried out at. But the word pain implied something bad, something he didn’t want. That burn meant Martin was sharing his body and, right now, he wanted that more than he wanted air in his lungs. 

“Fuck, Jon, darling…” Martin groaned, his face pressed to the side of his neck, one hand wrapped around his waist, the other braced on the arm of the sofa behind him. 

Jon panted heavily, waiting until enough of him broke the surface to think again, to form words, “I’m all yours, sweetheart. Take me.”

More references, more data points rolled in as Martin shifted his weight to his knees, leveraging enough to rock into Jon. Arms, strong, enough to make him feel small in the best way. Scent, warm, amber, heady. Muscles, deceptively hidden under layers of softness but the feel of them tensing, relaxing, tensing was intoxicating. Stubble, rough in the best way as it scratched his shoulder. So many things thrilling Jon, leaving him utterly helpless to his most base instincts, so many things that made up his Martin. 

“More, Martin, fuck, faster…” he begged breathlessly, digging his fingers into his boyfriend’s shoulders so tight there would be marks in the morning.

“I got you, Jon…”

Martin was already thrusting so hard the sofa was creaking dangerously but, just because Jon had asked it of him, he found a way to go harder, faster, hitting Jon’s sweet spot every single time like his whole purpose for existing had become giving him pleasure. It gave what was coming the inevitability of a law of physics, something comfortingly certain, something Jon knew couldn’t be taken away from him. 

“Martin, darling, I…I think…” his voice broke, words unravelling, dissipating when he tried to grasp for them.

“I know,” Martin gasped, voice raw, “I’m with you, Jon, I’m with you, let go…”

It hit Jon with the force of a wave, shattering his control and leaving him reeling. It could have burned up into panic so quickly but Martin was there, heat flooding into him as he came with a soft, sweet cry. There was a long moment of ringing tension that hung like a droplet of water before falling, breaking, and suddenly Jon was back in his body. 

His laugh was half a gasp as Martin collapsed on top of him, the two of them left giggling like teenagers. 

“God, sorry…” Martin panted softly, grinning, trying to shift off of him.

But Jon held on tightly, nuzzling against his shoulder, “Don’t you dare, Martin Blackwood.”

Martin grinned, fingers trailing across the sleeve of the jumper that was now rucked up just underneath Jon’s chest, after their activities it looked like he was going to have to return it in a far worse state than he found it. It seemed like he’d be forgiven, though. 

“Good to know my first attempt at seduction was a success,” Jon smiled, combing back Martin’s curls where they’d stuck to his forehead. 

“Your first huh? Could have fooled me,” Martin snorted, leaning into his touch gratefully, “Where did you even get the idea for this, what on earth possessed you?”

Jon opened his mouth and closed it again before his smile turned slightly coy, “Um, might not be a conversation you want to have while you’re still, y’know, inside me…incidentally, if Sasha looks at you weird on Monday, don’t worry about it.”

Martin, to his credit, managed a whole two seconds before he burst out laughing, which was more than Jon had expected from him. He just had to cling to him, grinning and kissing him until he had no choice but to shut up. 

“You are so adorable,” Martin gently extracted himself from Jon, sitting back and letting his boyfriend pillow his head on his chest, “What happened to the Mr Sims who insisted on strict professionalism on Archive property?”

Jon rolled his eyes at the poor impression, though he couldn’t help smiling at the answer that rose to his lips as he reached up to kiss him softly. 

“You happened.” 

[bittsandpieces]

Was supposed to go to a potluck but I'm cramping so hard I can bear to go anywhere :(((

[superbellsubways]

someone tagged my virtual assistants as shitpost earlier I take these gay little computer programs and their daily lives SERIOUSLY!!!!!! smh 🙄

[screambirdscreaming]

Ok so I'm out of the habit of rolling with these punches. But I'm quickly remembering that trump's number one game is playing insane mode "good cop, bad cop" with every other political power in the US but especially the democratic party.

He will completely change course in a moment as soon as looks like it might benefit him to do so. He will get everyone to go along on something he swears up and down he will do, and then at the last minute flip to playing his own devil's advocate. He will do all of this at the exact same level of uncompromising forward momentum.

It makes it really hard to tell which things he yells about will actually happen. Which is frustrating and stressful and makes it hard to organize and keep up resistance. This is part of the point, presumably.

It also makes it so sometimes he seems to pull off bizarre tactical maneuvers, or apparently outwit his political opponents. In retrospect once you get past the immediate confusion, it usually looks less like a grand plan, and more like turning on a dime to catch any short-term advantage.

It does mean he doesn't make much forward progress on any coherent political goals, as measured or understood by anyone else. Including, and this is the small silver lining, any of his hangers-on and coattail-riders, many of whom have much more coherent and terrifying political platforms.

Trump himself seems to be motivated by power, attention, and outrage. He is good at doing damage, which counts as power. Many people try to take advantage of this damage blast to their more specific nasty ends, which he is generally on board with. The silver lining, again, is that he turns on most of them at some point, when he sees any benefit in doing so. This isn't much of a comfort to anyone caught up in the damage that does get caused.

Last time, I had to learn not to follow his moves too closely, because that just led to getting caught up in the whirlwind and being stressed and confused. Pick some issues that are your battles and focus on what needs to be done there. When the damage blast is aimed at you, push back on it. When he turns on a dime in some bizarre and flashy way, don't overthink it. Just keep your eyes on what you're trying to get done.

Again, many of his hangers-on have agendas that are terrifying and bear watching closely. But don't get caught up in the shitshow hurricane.

[robotomia]

cope art

[mollymauk-teafleak]

like silence but not really silent

Another Magnus Archives fic from my little mundane AU! This one turned deeply, deeply self indulgent because of Bad Things Happening in my personal life so I make no apologies! Only thanks to @minky-for-short for all the encouragement with this AU in general!

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3 if you enjoyed this! (It is formatted a little nicer over there into the three separate chapters)

----

Three moments from Jonathan Sims' life, spent on the same beach in his hometown of Bournemouth.

Three moments of quiet.

----

One

The world was too loud for Jonathan Sims. 

That was what his daadi would tell him, in a soft voice that didn’t do much to hide the disappointment like a cloth worn too thin to conceal what lay underneath. After the police would leave, their halfhearted concerns about Jon’s welfare muffled under cups of tea and homemade cardamom biscuits, after the headteacher would let them leave her office, everyone well aware how little had been achieved in that latest meeting, she would take his face in her hands, look him in the eyes and say it to him as she stroked a thumb across his cheek. 

It wouldn’t be an accusation, not really, or an attempt at comfort. It would just be a statement of a fact that made life harder, a geography textbook’s explanation for floods or earthquakes or volcanic eruptions, something he just had to accept, just like the fact that everyone saw him as a girl no matter how many times he tried to correct them or tell them the name he’d decided for himself. The world is too loud for you, beti.  

But daadi never told Jon what he could do to fix it. He was left to figure that out for himself. 

The closest he’d found to a real answer was down on the beach. 

Not that Jon had ever left Bournemouth to confirm this but, if he did, he imagined people sighing romantically at the idea of living there. They’d imagine it like residing in a postcard, the sea a perfect watercolour blue, the sand a butter yellow, the sunshine washing over everything all the time. The reality was very different. Postcards didn’t show the dense crowds that gathered on any day with a little sunshine, the rain that fell the rest of the year, the litter all those people left behind to blow across the grey sand like decorations left behind after a party. Or how the amusements always looked more than a little sad when the streets were empty, their garish paint peeling and their tinny songs becoming a headache. 

So when Jon told his daadi he was going down to the beach- if he bothered telling her at all- he didn’t mean the same beach everyone pictured when they thought of Bournemouth. He avoided that place like the plague. The world was too loud for him so he needed somewhere that felt like it wasn’t part of the world at all, somewhere everyone else had forgotten so completely that it felt disconnected from everything else. He meant his beach. 

It was hard to get to, especially for a pair of ten year old legs, involving a long walk along the striped cliffs of clay and sand, a perilous half climb, half slide down a particular face to find a little closed off bay tucked safely behind the curve of the land. Away from the wind and the rain and, more importantly, the rest of the world. It was a pebble beach rather than sand, the seaweed washed up thicker, the gulls were always screeching overhead but Jon didn’t mind. He would pack a book or two in his rucksack, whatever snacks he could find around the house, an extra jumper, a raincoat, everything he needed to maximise the amount of time before he had to come sloping back to civilization. He would tuck himself into the little natural caves and read, he would skim stones in the water, he would take off his socks and shoes and walk through the little shore, finding crabs and starfish and sea snails.

There he could be Jonathan for real, not just in his head. 

Whenever he went there, he could feel the weight on his chest lift with every step he took away from the town proper, finally able to take a deep, full breath once he’d staggered down onto the little scrap of a beach. 

Today, it felt like it had come just in time, a few seconds before he would have suffocated. 

Jon scrubbed at the burn in his eyes that definitely wasn’t tears, silently begged his chest to stop heaving, his shoulders to stop shuddering. Now it was quiet, now he could actually think, his body finally listened. He took the rising, overwhelming emotion he’d carried all the way here, packed it into a box and shut the lid tightly, sent it away to somewhere far from here. Jon gulped down those things that weren’t tears, feeling such a sense of relief as the sea resolved in front of his eyes and became clear. He counted the whitecaps he could see, digging his fingers into the pebbles under his knees to feel their reassuring rattle and clack. 

He was here. He was in his one quiet place, the one place he belonged, the one place that knew he was Jon and accepted it without question. 

Once the steady roll and crash of the waves on the shore had cleared away the panic, Jon shifted to sit cross legged on the stones. He felt wrung out, hollowed, the way his favourite jumper had gone all thin and unravelled after he’d tried to put it in the washing machine. He couldn’t even find the anger anymore, there was just nothing. 

Just the aching, echoing gap left behind when he just didn’t understand. 

Jon’s stomach had already been a writhing mess of snakes as he’d walked out of school. They’d ended the day by working on making family trees, all the other students settling in excitedly for an hour spent with the colouring pencils. They moved around Jon, ignoring him as per usual, laughing and chattering away about whatever it was kids his age were supposed to talk about when they had someone to listen. 

He’d been left to sit and stare at the name that everyone kept telling him was his, scrawled at the bottom of the template, his eyes following its dark lines up to the many branches with their own spaces for other names to go. Names he didn’t know. Names he’d never get to know. A whole family tree that had withered and died before he’d even gotten a chance to learn what the word even meant. Just him and his daadi, who already had a bad chest and doctors visits written onto the calendar in the kitchen that she didn’t want to talk about. When she went away, like his papa and his mama, his name would be completely and totally alone. 

That’s when his eyes had started to blur and burn. 

Miss Andi had done her circuit of the classroom, the only person to notice Jon sitting there, frozen under the weight of the grief he didn’t know how to hold. She’d been kind, of course, speaking in her soft voice, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, dear, you can go read in the corner if you like . 

But her voice hadn’t been quite soft enough, the other children had still heard her, that damning sympathy carrying over the waves of chatter somehow. And then he’d felt the prickle of eyes on his back, wide stares like Jonathan Sims was just something behind a thick pane of museum glass and a little white card explaining just how sad and lonely he was. Though the card would probably call him the wrong name too.  

He’d fled to the reading corner, even if none of the books there interested him anymore. He’d just needed to hide his face. 

Maybe it was that tight, storm in the stomach feeling that had made him do something so stupid as standing up to those older kids. Most of Jon’s mind had still been running fruitless, frantic laps around the base of that blank family tree, he hadn’t even noticed his feet changing direction, striding towards the knot of hollering secondary school boys.

Jon’s voice hadn’t been nearly as forceful as he’d hoped for, it didn’t come along with the comic book style speech bubble announcing the arrival of a hero that he’d envisioned. But the boys had been surprised enough by anyone, even a stammering ten year old girl to their eyes, daring to tell them ‘stop’ that they’d turned regardless. 

Jon had seen a glimpse of the stray cat they’d been tormenting, the same one those boys always went after when they saw her, just because she didn’t belong to anyone and they knew they could get away with it. A black streak fled between their legs the second she saw her chance, darting between some wheelie bins and disappearing. He’d felt a moment’s fierce pride, the solid certainty that he’d done the right thing. 

Until it ended the same way that feeling always seemed to. With a heavy, painful thump as his legs were swept out from under him and he went crashing down. 

Jon’s eyes were burning again. They weren’t tears but they really stung as they rolled down his face and into the scrapes on his cheeks, the split lip. He could tell himself that taste on his tongue was the salt in the air, that he couldn’t hear his own ragged, sobbing breaths over the scream of the gulls. He was alone, nothing else had to matter. 

He didn’t have to think about how silently angry daadi would be about the blood on his collar and the rusty brown trail that had dripped down his front, how it was another school shirt and jumper ruined that they couldn’t afford to replace. Though of course the skirt he hated was unscathed. He didn’t have to think about how he’d pass those boys who’d seen him cry, again and again in the tight little maze of their streets, running and hiding from them like the poor cat. How he was sitting at the bottom of that bare and empty tree, completely alone, trying to take shelter in a world that was too loud for him. 

So he decided it was a good thing. What other choice did he have?

Jon stood up, wiping his eyes, his jaw tight and determined. If the rest of the world wanted to chase him away then he’d let it. They could keep their noise and their rules that didn’t make sense, their expressions he couldn’t read, their cruelty and their wide eyed staring. He would just stay here forever and never go back. He’d sleep on a bed of seaweed, catch fish and eat seagull eggs, never having to hear another human voice full of anger or pity or disappointment or confusion.

Of course Jon knew it was a childish fantasy, something out of a Robinson Crusoe book he constructed to make himself feel better, to get the same kind of release as throwing pebbles at the cliff face to shatter. The reality was inescapable. He didn’t have any clothes or food or books with him, daadi would call the police when he didn’t come home before the sun went down, just like she always did. They’d find him as he trudged his way home, stomach growling and his whole body shivering with the cold, defeated. 

But he also knew something else, deep down inside himself in a place he hadn’t explored yet.  The place where the adult man he’d be one day was growing, half formed but crystallising slowly. That part knew he didn’t need to become a hermit on a beach to make sure he’d be alone. That he could choose it for himself, build up walls that didn’t need to be physically real to do the job. 

As Jon walked up and down the beach, the life he painted for himself in his head was imaginary but the decision he made was very, very real. 

He didn’t know how to fix the world. He didn’t know how to fix himself. 

So he would just spend his life alone. 

At least then it would be quiet. 

Two

Jon had known it was going to feel strange, going down to the beach again.

There was no other way to feel, putting his feet in furrows he’d worn into the ground a long time ago, finding he still knew exactly where to step, when to turn off, where to go. Even after saying goodbye to this place years before, so sure he’d never see it again, discovering that the way had never really left him, that he hadn’t excised his childhood as neatly as he’d thought. Of course it was going to feel strange. 

Jon just hadn’t expected something else to feel stranger. Because it wasn’t just walking in his own, smaller footsteps. 

It was looking back over his shoulder to see who followed him. 

“I thought you said you used to do this when you were a kid?” Martin’s voice was wheezy around the edges from the hike across the cliffs, but the indignation in it was clear. 

It made Jon laugh, worth the mouthful of his own hair he got as the wind whipped around them, “I did. Nearly every day.”

“Didn’t know you were part mountain goat…” his boyfriend grumbled.

Jon grinned at that, hesitating so Martin could close the gap between them. He caught his hand as soon as he was in reach, sliding their cold fingers together like two cogs in a machine that had always been meant to sit next to each other.

It was early enough in their relationship that little things like that were still surprising Jon. How natural it all felt, how their bodies fit together in small ways, how their personalities that had once seemed so different now threaded together and made something good. Something really, really good actually. 

He wondered if he’d ever stop being surprised by it, however long this thing between them lasted. 

He would hardly call it a small thing but the only reason they were even standing here was because of Martin. Jon had never thought he’d go back to Bournemouth, certainly not after his daadi passed away. The idea had always made him feel sick, like the feeling of pulling off a bandage while knowing it would make the wound scream with pain and look disgusting. 

But they were on a little road trip of sorts, driving down to Daisy’s hometown for her and Basira’s wedding. When Martin had realised how close they’d come to a piece of Jon’s own history, he’d suggested a visit with such a hopeful expression that Jon found himself caving far sooner than he’d ever expected, despite trying his best. 

He’d pointed out they could only spare a few hours, that there was really nothing to see, there was no one who would even recognise or remember or be too pleased to be reminded of him. None of it put Martin off. He’d driven them here with an unmistakable excitement, like someone following a treasure map to a treasure trove. Jon didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was going to be more of a cursed ancient temple situation. 

Of course they’d pulled up to a sky like slate and a sea the colour of a stagnant pond. Immediately the wind found every seam and minute hole on their coats, chilling them to the skin, then down to the bone as periodic showers of that infuriating thin, showering rain randomly fell. The pier and amusements had only gotten older and sadder, decrepit to the point where they’d become more like the setting of a horror movie that was being rather heavy handed with its metaphors. They’d walked up the same tight, claustrophobic streets that had taken a younger Jon home, past his old school, up to a house that looked like his daadi’s while somehow being so different that he couldn’t say he’d ever crossed it’s threshold. 

And every time Jon had turned to Martin to apologise, to promise they could leave straight away and they never had to come back, he’d found him smiling. 

He’d asked so many questions, what Jon’s favourite ice cream shop had been, which slightly malformed steed he’d always chosen on the merry go round, what his favourite subject at school was, which bedroom window had been his. Jon had given his answers, even if they’d felt small and sad to him, each one just making Martin smile wider. 

Almost like he’d found the treasure he’d been looking for and it was just Jon himself. 

So when Martin had asked where he used to play, Jon had reached out, taken his hand and asked him to follow him. He’d decided he’d show his boyfriend something real. 

He just hadn’t told him it was at the bottom of a cliff. 

“Jesus Christ, Jon, they let you do this when you were a kid?” Martin yelped, nearly slipping onto his backside as the path took a sharp slope downwards. 

“No, of course not,” Jon looked over his shoulder from a few paces ahead, grinning, “That was kind of the point. It’s not that bad, really…”

“Not that bad!” Martin scoffed before almost losing his footing completely, only saved from a very hard landing when Jon reached out and caught him, “I always thought you’d be the kind of kid who stayed indoors with a book…”

Jon chuckled, deciding it was best to keep Martin’s hand in his as they skidded down the last little part, “Not really. I’m just that kind of adult. See, the beach is right there, keep your eyes on your feet, there we go…”

Jon found himself dropping right into the middle of his own past. His knees ached more as he braced himself against the pebbles but, other than that, the beach hadn’t changed in the slightest. The curve of the shore must have been enough to shelter it from the winds and time itself, keeping it preserved, not a single stone out of place. It felt a little sacrilegious to be disturbing it now, like it had been enjoying its peace before he came lumbering back. 

Or was it glad to see him come back? Did it even recognise him after a decade and change, with a flat chest and short, greying hair and the rough stubble? This place that had always been the one corner of the world where he could escape and feel like he belonged might not even know who he was. 

“It’s beautiful, Jon.”

Martin’s voice was soft and awed, a little much for what really amounted to a skinny strip of grey sand and pebbles, a fringe of decaying seaweed and a few hollows in a cliff wall. But something in Jon lifted when he said it, a kind of relief, a sense that he’d been right to know Martin would understand. That he’d see what this place had been to him, years ago. 

“I always thought so,” Jon smiled, walking to the edge of the sea, where the water made an instrument of the pebbles as it rolled and rattled them against each other, “In a rough, rugged kind of sad way.”

“Well. That would explain your taste in men, I suppose,” Martin hummed, making Jon cackle along with him. 

Again, Jon was struck by the strangeness of having another laugh bouncing off the cliffs alongside his own, when he’d always thought it would just be him alone and the scream of the gulls. 

He picked through the pebbles around his boots, finding one that was suitably flat and correctly weighted. With a flick of his wrist that became familiar as soon as he drew back his hand, Jon sent it skimming across the water. Five times it kissed the surface before running out of momentum, five circles rippling out between the whitecaps. 

Martin whistled appreciatively, “Guess you spent a while practising that when you were a kid?”

“Well, there’s some natural talent involved,” Jon hummed, playfully smug, “But yes. When I wasn’t playing pirates or pretending to be Mary Anning looking for fossils or imagining I was a siren chewing on the bones of washed up sailors…”

Martin grinned, glancing around like he was imagining a younger Jon racing across the stones, wrapped up in his little games and the momentary freedom they brought him. He bent to pick up a pebble of his own, trying to mimic Jon’s arm motion, though his pebble crashed into the water with an anticlimactic plink. 

“See, that's how you can tell I was one of those kids who stayed inside with the books,” Martin gave a self-deprecating laugh. 

Jon smiled, eyes focused on how the ripples from his stone and the ones from Martin’s were joining together, making a harmonious little pattern, a moment of synchronized calm in the middle of the irritable sea. 

“I’ll teach you how to do it, if you like?” he offered, voice soft, “Unless you’d rather play pirates, of course.”

Martin grinned, smiling so wide the freckles in the corner of his eyes bunched up, “Maybe later. For now, how about you perform a miracle and get me to, let's say, three skips?”

Just like all those years ago, Jon felt like he could breathe easier down on the beach. All the sour memories from the town slid away, drawn off by the current, all the doubts that had buzzed in his brain over returning to the home where his name and his true self were things he’d never been able to share were blown off by the wind. Minutes passed by unnoticed, everything suddenly becoming so easy. 

This place still knew him. He did still belong here.

 “Don’t pull back so far, you’ll lose the control…that's it, just by your ear…deep breath…and go!”

The stone wobbled a little in the air and the last skip probably had a lot more to do with a gust of wind than any skill of Martin’s but there were definitely three skips before the stone sank. 

Martin looked stunned, face alight with a mix of surprise and joy, “I actually did it!”

“You did,” Jon tried not to sound too surprised, it hadn’t needed a miracle exactly but it had certainly been a tall order, “I may live to regret giving you all my trade secrets.”

Martin turned to him, eyes soft and hopeful, “And…what about coming back to Bournemouth? Bringing me here? Do you think you’ll regret that?”

Jon paused before answering, not because he wasn’t sure, he just wasn’t sure of the right words. He leaned his head against Martin’s shoulder, again marvelling quietly at how his boyfriend was just the right height for it to fit perfectly. 

“Do I regret bringing you down here? No, not at all. As for the rest of it? It was…nice to have you be interested. I kept a lot of that stuff packed away for a long time, trying to forget it happened but…it didn’t hurt as much as I thought, getting it all back out again. And I’m glad you made me do it.”

Jon felt Martin’s arm wrap around him like a warm blanket, drawing him in so close he didn’t even feel the wind anymore, “That’s what I was hoping for. It’s always going to hurt, digging through the past but I feel like it hurts more to pretend it isn’t there.”

Jon chuckled dryly, “You’ve been reading that book again, haven’t you? Supporting Your Partner’s Healing or whatever it was…”

“Well, it’s working, isn’t it?” Martin mumbled, a blush creeping up his neck over the collar of his parka. 

“It is…and even if it wasn’t, I’d still love you for it,” Jon gentled his tone, finding Martin’s hand and squeezing, “It is strange, though, being here with you. I always came here to be alone, shut the rest of the world out. It was the point of the place, really.”

It couldn’t have come as a surprise to Martin, it probably wouldn’t have surprised anyone who’d known Jon for more than half an hour. But he sounded sad all the same, pulling him in and pressing a kiss to the top of his head. 

“You were all alone?”

Jon swallowed hard against a sudden lump in his throat, “I…I thought I didn’t have a choice. I thought it was the only way someone like me could be. Whenever I tried anything else, it just hurt so…so I decided it was my choice. I acted like it was what I wanted.”

“Funnily enough, I got that impression when I met you,” Martin clearly tried for humour, betrayed by the way his voice broke just at the edge. 

Jon turned his face against his shoulder, smiling even as tears rolled down his own cheeks “But it didn’t stop you, did it? You’re still here.”

“And I don’t plan on leaving, Jon,” Martin breathed, “Not ever.”

He couldn’t quite believe that, not yet. But maybe he would, one day. 

“My daadi always used to say the world was too loud for me,” Jon rasped, “It still feels like that, sometimes. Most of the time, really.”

Martin stroked his hand up and down Jon’s arm, “I know…but it’s quiet right now?” 

Jon took a deep breath of salty air, leaning into Martin’s warmth and counting the waves until his heartbeat slowed and the blood stopped rushing quite so loud in his ears. 

“It is,” he murmured, knowing it would be enough for now. 

In many ways, Jon was still the frightened kid who’d come to this beach to hide, certain it was the only place he could be safe. He still didn’t understand the world, he was still such a long way from fixing himself. 

But right now, it was quiet. 

And right now, Jon wasn’t alone. 

Three

The beach hadn’t changed, it never did. It was a place so disconnected even time had forgotten it, leaving its stones undisturbed and its cliff faces unaging. A year passed between their visits, sometimes two, but leaning over the ragged edge of the world and looking down on it, Jon found it hard to believe.

His beach never changed but Jon did. And he never felt it more than what he was standing here. 

Because he knew the zig zag path down the sandy side of the cliff wasn’t any different from the one he used to run down heedlessly when he was a child, not a care in the world. But he’d never realised how bloody dangerous it was. 

Not until it was his child about to go careening down it. 

“Daddy!” Gertie tugged at their joined hands with a surprising amount of strength for a three year old or maybe Jon was a lot weaker than he should be, “Daddy, lets go!”

Jon bit his lip, eyes following the path warily, wondering how he’d avoided breaking his neck for so long, “We just need to be very, very careful so we don’t-”

Before he could even finish his sentence, Gertie had pulled enough to send them over the edge. They were suddenly running, kicking up clay and sand, Gertie shrieking in delight and Jon choking on a word he really shouldn’t say in front of his daughter. They half ran, half fell, having to just put one foot in front of the other and trust there would be no broken noses or chipped front teeth. For a second, it was almost like flying. 

And, by the time they landed on the stones, Jon was laughing too. 

Gertie didn’t stop, Jon finally letting her hand slip from his so she could rush towards the waves, go on when he was too out of breath to follow. He felt something of his heart go with her, torn away but given gladly. Tears blurred his eyes for a moment, making them burn along with his lungs. 

“I remember you telling me that walk was, and I quote, ‘not that bad’...”

Jon turned, smiling wryly, not bothering to hide the tear rolling down his cheek. Martin gently wiped it away as soon as he was in reach, letting his hand linger on his husband’s cheek. He didn’t ask, he knew he didn’t need to. He trusted that Jon would tell him. 

“Guess I’m old and boring now,” he leaned into that warmth, sighing softly, “Too old and boring to keep up with her, at least.”

Martin pursed his lips, tilting his head in playful doubt, “Are you sure?”

He nodded towards the shore, shifting Jon’s attention to where their daughter was standing, a splash of colour in her bright yellow raincoat and shiny new wellies, stark against the greys like she really had stepped out of those classic postcards. She was waving, buzzing with childish impatience like she’d only just noticed that Jon wasn’t by her side anymore. 

“Daddy, come on!’ she yelled, “You said we could play pirates!”

Martin smiled softly, nudging Jon’s hand, “If you are too old to keep up with her, I don’t think she’s noticed. And she certainly doesn’t care.”

Once again, Jon wondered how Martin did it. How, whenever the world started to twist around Jon and press in too close, Martin would take it and shake it out like a dusty old carpet, brushing away everything that was just Jon’s own fears and anxieties, leaving him with what was real. How he anchored him, holding his hand when the wind threatened to pull him away, showing him where it was safe to put his feet, leading him back to solid ground. 

He didn’t know how he did it and he didn’t know how he was ever going to thank him for it, not just for that, but for everything. So he kissed him, tasting the cold on his lips. And by some miracle that Jon would never understand, that kept being enough for Martin.

“Daddy! Papa! You’re being gross!”

Jon snorted, finding Martin’s gloved hand and squeezing his fingers, “Come on. Let’s go play pirates.”

Time stopped meaning anything for a little while, the oddly comforting, familiar stress of their lives back in London felt far away. Jon had forgotten how easily games had carried him away when he was the same age as his daughter. How a salt smoothed branch in your hands could feel like a cutlass, how being chased by a wave could turn into an enormous shark lunging from the depths to sink his teeth into you, how the barest hollow in a cliff wall could become a snaking warren deep underground, perfect for smuggling imaginary treasure. He’d forgotten that the images his mind created didn’t need to be terrifying, they didn’t need to be something he fought against like a riptide looking to drag him out to sea. 

He supposed it helped when the games weren’t an escape. When you were eager to return to the world you’d left behind. 

Gertie ran them breathless up and down the beach, only coaxed to stop and take a break by their picnic, a tupperware box of her daddy’s cardamom cookies and a sandwich proving enough of a pull. Jon held her on his lap as she ate, hugging her warmth close against him, face buried in her tangle of auburn curls, just like Martin’s. 

“Daddy,” she hummed, through a mouthful of crumbs, “Why are the pebbles all round here?”

Jon smiled, three years on the planet and she’d not yet run out of questions, “The sea wears them smooth, darling. It’s called attrition, the waves roll them around until all their sharp edges have been rubbed away.”

“Oh,” Gertie hummed, reaching down to grab one, turning it over in her chubby hand as she examined every nick and stripe on its surface, “It makes them very pretty.”

“I think so too,” Jon chuckled, “And it makes them very good for skimming.”

That snagged her attention, her green eyes widening, “Oh! I wanna do that! Can we?”

Jon smiled over at Martin, “Actually? Your papa ended up being the expert on that. He’s way better at it than I ever was.”

Martin snorted, blushing a little, the way he always did when he was given any sort of compliment, “Well. I had a very good teacher.”

“Teach me! Teach me, papa!” Gertie scrambled up, needing both her hands to wrap around just one of her papa’s, trying to pull him to his feet.

Martin beamed at her like he was looking at the sun, clambering up from the stones, “I’m coming, sweetie…are you going to be okay on your own?” he hesitated, turning back to Jon for a moment. 

Jon nodded, hugging his knees to his chest, feeling warm in spite of the cold, “I will be. You won’t be far.”

“Never,” Martin’s eyes softened before letting Gertie lead him down to the shore. 

Their laughter and chatter faded a little, somewhat lost in the rumble of the waves but, just like Martin promised, he never lost sight of them. They looked like a perfect pair, same softness, same muddy red curls, even the same jumper after Martin had enough yarn left over for two. Sitting here, Jon could just wonder how he was ever lucky enough to get two of them. 

He’d always feigned frustration over their daughter coming out as the spitting image of Martin, joking that he could have saved himself nine months of work and just shoved his husband into the Archives photocopier. Martin would always joke right back, batting his eyelids and saying, well, they’d have to have another kid, see if they could get one with some of Jon’s genetics. He’d never mean it, not really, he’d never push his husband about something like that. 

Jon was looking forward to seeing Martin’s face when he told him they were going to find out.

But that could wait until they were back in London, back in their lives. For now, Jon sat and listened to the waves, thinking about the little boy who’d come here to be alone, to hide from a world that refused to understand him and was too loud for him. The little boy who’d built his walls here, thinking he’d have to live behind them forever, that his only choice was between quiet and fear, that there was never any path that would lead to happiness. That he’d never be fixed. 

Jon didn’t know if he was fixed, not completely. But maybe that wasn’t how it worked. Maybe there had always been a place in the world anyway, he’d just needed to be brave enough to find it. 

He knew he couldn’t go back in time and reassure that younger version of himself, promise him it would all be okay in the end, that he would deserve all the joy that would eventually find him. That child was out of his reach. 

But Jonathan Sims could make sure, would make sure, that his own children never had to feel like the world was too loud for them. 

They would never feel like they had to be alone. 

[brightsuzaku]

I suddenly was struck by a silly poll idea. PLEASE REBLOG. I want to know...

[fairyfawm]

for people in aotearoa nz: 10 days to submit on the act party's regulatory standards bill! here is a linktree with a bunch of resources - it's got some that explain the bill, various articles/submissions from people who know what they're talking about, and the email address to send your submission to.

[katkalis-the-horror-fanartist]

What if the doorman was like a half guard dog? Like a Hellhound and is the gard of the building, I'm thinking of doing an oc about them so a penny for your thought? :)

OK WAY TO GO, BEING MORE CREATIVE THAN ME

IF YOU MAKE THIS I WANT YOU TO LINK IT TO ME-

[jenson-buttocks]

.

[lexa-griffins]

I hope wanheda's dagger has enough inches to win the poll

Inches is never wanheda's dagger problem 😉

[mollymauk-teafleak]

just that still sort of quiet

Happy Christmas to the lovely @minky-for-short! Love you sweetie <33

Want more soft jmart dads? I have you covered. Let's not think too hard about why we need this.

Please reblog and comment over on Ao3!

------

Jonathan Sims has always had trouble sleeping, even now he's left most of his demons in the past.

But tonight, he's not the only one.

-----

Jon had given up on asking why can’t I sleep a long time ago.

There were just too many answers to that question, enough that it was pointless to wonder. Like asking, of the entire house that collapsed on top of him, which precise brick had struck him in the back of the head and killed him. 

It used to just be plain old insomnia, a childish fear of what he’d see if he closed his eyes, an inability to give up that much control in a life where he already couldn’t convince people he was a boy and they’d all got it wrong. 

Then he grew and it was the bumps of coke at the weekend parties, the cup after cup of bitter black coffee, the books he’d buried himself in so he’d have an excuse to live in the university library and keep his life neatly organised and Harvard referenced. So at least the myriad ways in which he was falling apart were tucked away and organized. 

When he lost even that small amount of routine, the reasons shifted and became more stark. Suddenly, it was the tangled, hopeless mess between his ears that kept him up. It was the sticky black ink inside him that had soon leaked out and drowned him, no matter how neatly pressed his suit was or how brightly the brass nameplate on his door rang out Head Archivist . He hadn’t slept for days at a time back then, though it had actually been the least of his worries. The paranoia, the concrete certainty that the moment he closed his eyes, the horrors chasing him would sink their teeth in. Rest had been impossible, until his brain had simply boiled over. Sleep caught up with Jonathan Sims so hard he came close to never waking up. 

But now that inky blackness had a name, a neat little label and a prescription ticket. Undiagnosed schizophrenia, autism with no accommodations and a healthy dose of the bargain bin insomnia that had been plaguing him since he was a child. He saw a therapist once a week, a couples counselor once a month with Martin, he took the medications they prescribed him and was honest about when they couldn’t keep the bad thoughts out. The horrors finally crystallized, he realised the things he’d run from had been shadows on the walls of his own mind and, more importantly, there were ways to fight back. 

But Jon still couldn’t sleep some nights and he’d finally given up on wondering why. But he did know what to do about it now.

They slept so tangled together it was impossible to extract himself without waking up his boyfriend. Sure enough, Martin stirred as Jon squirmed out of his arms, threw his legs over the edge of their bed and felt around blindly for his slippers. He made a noise that was almost his name, one sleep glazed eye opening past the bird's nest of auburn curls. 

“I’m okay,” Jon whispered soothingly, putting a hand on his shoulder, “Just can’t sleep, that’s all.”

Martin scrubbed a hand against his face, “Need me? S’okay if you do, I’m up…”

The last part was an adorably obvious lie but Jon had slowly learned to believe Martin when he offered him help. If he asked him to come with him, to sit and watch the rain for a few hours or put the kettle on and talk about the weight on his chest, he would. The certainty of it, the solid, warm presence of his love was enough to make Jon smile as he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of those messy curls. 

“I’m okay, I promise,” he murmured, tugging the duvet up over his broad shoulders, “You go back to sleep. I’ll come get you if I need you.”

Martin sank back down into the blankets with a sigh, back to softly snoring by the time Jon had belted his dressing gown. So much of him didn’t want to leave that warmth, ached to be back in the safe circle of his arms, listening to his heartbeat against his ear. But the itch had firmly settled into his brain by now, the restless static that pushed him to close the door and pad as quietly as possible down the hallway to their flat’s little sitting room. 

Shelley was asleep on the sofa, curled up in her favourite place where the sag in the leather was particularly deep. She opened one golden eye to regard her owner as he shuffled past, yawning and stretching to follow him into the kitchen like he should be grateful she’d deigned to get up for him. 

And he was, scooping her up and letting her perch across his shoulders like she always did, scratching behind the one ear she had left until she was purring contentedly.

“I’d feel worse about waking you up too but you have all day to sleep,” Jon murmured softly, smiling when she butted her striped head against his rough cheek.

He flicked the switch on the kettle, wincing at how loudly the old thing rattled, but it was worth it once he had a warm mug between his hands, breathing in the lavender scented steam. He’d insisted stubbornly for years that herbal teas had never helped with his insomnia since he was small until, after weeks of searching, Martin came home with a brand that was almost exactly the blend Jon’s grandmother would give him as a child, the precise ratios of lavender to passion flower to lemon balm. How he’d done it, Jon would never know but after one long inhale, he could feel his muscles unwinding and his nerves settling, if a little begrudgingly. 

Machen and Irving were asleep on the rocking chair, the two kittens curled up so close that it was impossible to see where one began and the other ended, just a lump of soft black fur. Jon felt bad, making them move when they looked so peaceful, though their indignant cheeping settled as soon as they could curl up in his lap and dig their tiny needle claws into the terry cloth fabric of his dressing gown. 

Jon somehow juggled their two newest additions, a mug of tea and the cat around his neck without scalding anyone, settling back and reaching for one of the books on the side table. Not the books he’d usually turn to, just a stack of dog-eared romance paperbacks from the library closest to their flat, but they were perfect for distracting his brain when it wouldn’t slow down. He could send his mind to some far off beach that didn’t really exist or some quaint little fictional town, bemusedly watch two one dimensional love interests fall in cliched, inevitable love. Hopefully, while it was gone, his body could be free to collapse. 

Jon set himself rocking, nudging the chair into a comforting, rhythmic motion, one hand holding the book while the other stroked across Irving’s back. He started to flick through pages, beginning to believe it was starting to actually work, that his eyelids were getting heavy, his limbs getting that lead feeling, his breathing slowing…

Until it occurred to him that tracking his body this obsessively probably meant it wasn’t working at all.

Jon closed the book on the couple’s ridiculous miscommunication before the grand declaration of love, pinching the bridge of his nose with a frustrated sigh. It always went like this, he’d shift all his anxiety from whatever woke him to the act of getting back to sleep, pulling him further away in the process. Whatever had caused his eyes to open, a bad dream or a phantom ache from a long time ago or the new mundane stresses he’d earned, getting them closed again always felt like he was trying to climb an impossibly steep cliff. 

“What’s the matter, daddy?”

Jon jumped so hard he sent the two kittens in his lap skittering away like puffs of smoke dissipating. Shelly dug her claws into his shoulder, hanging on grimly and giving Jon a low rumble of annoyance like it was his fault for having a heart attack.

And of course Gertrude Sims didn’t even blink, just staring up at her daddy like she was just waiting for him to collect himself and answer her question. 

“You’re going to have to stop doing that to me, darling,” Jon wheezed, only just remembering to whisper, “It’s that or we tie a bell to you.”

“Like the kittens,” Gertie beamed that sunshine smile she had, the one that erased any lingering doubt that she was a clone of Martin. 

The only thing she’d gotten from Jon was his eyes.

“I suppose so,” Jon chuckled softly, reaching out and putting his hand on her cheek, “What are you doing out of bed, darling? It’s so late.”

Gertie leaned into his hand, so close her little cheek squished, “Daddy was up so I thought maybe it was time to be up? Time to go to the museum and see the butterflies?”

Jon felt a prickle of guilt, shifting so he could take his little girl in his arms. She clambered up excitedly, sitting in his lap and resting her head against his chest so her fluffy hair tickled his nose. She’d grown so much in the four years she’d been alive, Jon would always miss the days he could hold her in one hand, but his arms had always found a way to fit around her. He’d make sure they always did. 

“I’m sorry, darling, it isn’t time to go to the museum just yet,” Jon sighed, “I should be in bed, I just…I can’t sleep.”

“Oh,” Gertie plucked at his dressing gown, “How come?”

Jon hesitated for a moment before deciding to answer honestly, “I…I don’t really know. All sorts of reasons, I suppose.”

Gertie absorbed that, he could almost hear the gears clicking inside her mind. Jon felt the same sense of needling dread he always did when he’d tried to explain the way his mind worked, to teachers, to doctors, to the therapists he’d tried in the past. That feeling of cracking open his chest for them, having to watch the poorly disguised horror on their faces as they examined all the parts of him that were wrong. 

There was only one person who he was able to open up to without that fear. And fortunately, Gertie was just like her papa.

“Daddy’s scared?” she mumbled, turning her face towards his. 

Jon swallowed, feeling his hands shake as they lay against her back, “Yes. Sometimes I’m just scared, Gertie. And it makes it hard to sleep.”

His daughter shifted, sitting up and craning her little neck to clumsily kiss Jon’s forehead. 

“It’s okay to be scared,” she hummed, her voice bright with that sunshine she always seemed to radiate, “I’m right here.”

Jon felt his throat close, a rush of emotion surging up from his chest. It wasn’t constricting like fear, like panic, it was an embrace, something solid and sure that anchored him when he was drifting away. The kind of tightness that said I’ve got you and I won’t let go.

Because how many times had he said those words, kissed his little girl in the exact same spot on her forehead as he pulled the covers up to her chin and tucked them close around her. On nights she couldn’t sleep because of bad dreams or the rain drumming too loudly on the windows or the colic she’d had when she was small, Jon and Martin had dug furrows in their carpet walking her back and forth, feeling her grow heavy in their arms as sleep finally found her. No matter how early in the morning it was, how long she’d wailed, there would always be that twinge of regret as he’d laid her down in her cot or her bed. 

So Jon had made that promise for both of them. I’m right here. And he’d meant it with every cell of his body. 

“Thank you, Gertie,” he rasped, holding her little face in his hands, “I feel a lot better now.”

Gertie nodded happily, all perfect confidence, “Always does!”

Jon held her tight for a moment, just because he needed to. The kittens came slinking back over, jumping up and curling against Gertie’s side, Shelley began to purr like a busted old engine. Jon rocked them for a long while, listening to his daughter’s steady breathing, feeling his anxious heartbeat slow to match her own. For a perfect half hour, he didn’t need anything more than that.

“We should try and get some sleep, I think,” he eventually murmured, “We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

Gertie gave a little wriggle of excitement as Jon stood with her in his arms, walking her down the hall to her bedroom, “Going to the museum! See the dinosaurs and the butterflies and the big whale!”

Jon chuckled softly. The Museum of Natural History was their daughter’s favourite place, she’d been looking forward to their visit all week. 

“We are…” he settled her back down into the bed, smiling as Shelley immediately unwound herself from his neck to snuggle up next to Gertie, “Sweet dreams, darling, I love you.”

“Love you too, daddy,” she smiled as he kissed her forehead, in just the right place, “And you have sweet dreams too.” 

“I think I will,” Jon waited until her eyes were closed, until the rising and falling of her chest settled into something soft, “I’m right here.”

Jon knew he should go back to his own room, leave the door ajar so the streetlight filtering in from the living room windows would soften the darkness. He should curl up in Martin’s arms, relax into the warmth of the people who loved him most, he should be finally, finally sleeping. 

But he would stay awake just a little longer, perching on his daughters bed and watching her dream of butterflies and blue whales.

There were plenty of reasons Jon couldn’t sleep. But she was his favourite.

[optionalcausality]

Was thinking of elf&human friendships and then cat&human friendships and then intergenerational friendships and then this happened.

You are old, and I am old, but we two are not the same. / Our lifespans greatly differ, time has made this plenty plain,

But we are fond companions and our friendship's just as true / As the dewdrops in the morning twelve years past my last adieu.

You're not old, you say, but are we not as old as we have been? / As experienced as ever of this world we both live in? / Starlight has never seen us with such scars as we have now, / Dawn has never found more wisdom nestled gently neath our brows.

Music means a gentle ending of some notes to make more room / A painting's just a canvas that gets covered up to bloom. / As time weaves its graceful passage, there is beauty built anew / where once stood a mighty structure only memory can view. /

This moment in the present is as real as real can be / So tomorrow and the years gone by are true as you and me / When the fogbank comes between us we exist despite the haze, / time and years can pass between us but won't lessen our todays.

And where you go, I send my wish that you find wonder where you are / That you find both joy and comfort in the light of distant stars / That you find new companions and they in turn broaden your world / That your ship may travel boldly on the sea with sails unfurled.

They'll be old and you'll be old and the two won't be the same, / And your lifespans may quite differ, as time wends around again, / But you'll be with fond companions and have friendships just as true / As the dewdrops in the morning twelve years past our last adieu.

You'll be old and you'll know joy and the two will be the same, / The great now that fills the universe should make that plenty plain, / We remain fondest companions and our love remains as true / As the dewdrops in the morning decades past our last adieu.

[skywarpie]

Deep down in my heart I know 10000% that before the girls were born and the ghouls were nesting with copia, he ate that shit up