#rosy cheekx

[ombreblossom]

I'm tagging @morning-softness, @rosy-cheekx, @maliciously-delicious, @twisted-pride, and @wernnaa! However, please feel free to do it regardless of whether you're tagged or not!

Alright, now for something completely different. Today is National Handwriting Day! So we thought it'd be fun to do a classic handwriting meme, you know - the style where the meme asks a series of questions and you're supposed to answer them by hand-writing the replies.

A Very Duck Prints Press Handwriting Meme

Rules: answer the following questions by handwriting your replies then posting a picture to Tumblr (or the platform of your choice). Then, tag five friends to do the same!

Questions:

Write your url.

Write the name you write under.

Write "The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog."

Copy out a favorite book quote.

Write anything you want using your non-dominant hand.

Draw a duck!

Tag five friends.

GO!

[ombreblossom]

Lygerastia—Jmart ?

This prompt has been in my inbox for about a year and a half, and this fill I wrote for it almost finished for the past several months, and I figured what better time to post it than Jon x Martin Week 2022! Thank you, @jonmartinweek, for organizing the event, and I’m posting this for Prompt 7: Forehead Kisses. A day late, I know, but I was exhausted yesterday and forgot to post this on Tumblr haha.

AO3 link here.

Summary

Lygerastia, or one who exhibits amorous affection only when the lights are out.

When else has Jon been able to show his increasingly deep and desperate affection for Martin if not late in the night when no one else is awake to disabuse him of the crueler notions he hugs to his chest at all times?

It's the middle of the night that first night of Jon and Martin's respite in the Scottish Highlands, and Jon is having a think. Too much of a think, if you asked Martin, but Martin isn't awake to offer his input.

Thanks for this very first prompt all that time ago, Bryce! And thank you @morning-softness for beta-ing! Your feedback was and is thoroughly appreciated~

.

A whistling wind blows across the Scottish Highlands as Jon stares intently at the back of Martin’s head. They’d only been inside the quaint, sparsely decorated cottage for a scant few hours, and so much has happened already. Through much painful stumbling and knocking and cursing around the inside perimeter, they found the electrical cabinet and brought light into the unfamiliar space. While Martin made faces at what was now ostensibly their paltry stash of canned foodstuffs, Jon found the sofa and discovered it housed a pull-out bed. A thorough inventory of the rest of the cottage revealed a small bedroom in the corner of the first floor furthest away from the main entrance. Jon stared at the double bed in the center of the room, bemoaning its existence while simultaneously grateful that it left them with options.

A short, awkward conversation later saw Martin nearly dropping both their things in an unused corner of the room, exhausted as he was—they both were, really, lest they forget that Jon had eviscerated another avatar with the power of his mind not 24 hours earlier. Martin had given him a look that probably would have slain Peter just as easily in its naked pleading for Jon to stay with him, just for this one night, while he adjusted to existing in the real world again.

It’s now several hours later, by Jon’s distracted count. The urge to kiss Martin’s unruly cowlick is nigh overwhelming, but Jon has a lot of experience in denying himself the things he wants—the things he needs. And he needs this just as much as Martin professes to, this closeness after so long of having no one beside him, no one to touch him, no one to anchor him, no one to care that Jon was suffering too, no matter how much he probably deserved it in the grand scheme of things.

That last point, he was sure, Martin would argue, if only on principle—and it’d have to be on principle, wouldn’t it? Martin’s now seen (and heard) Jon at his worst; there was no reason to believe that he didn’t have a full picture of Jon by now. Jon compelled Martin to See him, after all, in a last-ditch effort to rip him from The Lonely’s grip. There was no question in his mind that it was worth it to have Martin back in this dimension safe, but the act of being Seen has left him in a constant state of waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Martin slowly flips over to face him, a warm and solid presence, draping a heavy arm over the natural dip in Jon’s waist and pressing his broad hand into the small of his back. Electricity races down Jon’s limbs, nerves alight with a bright tingle. Thankfully, they’d already been in contact as Martin slept—Jon’s forehead buried in the divot between broad shoulders, one arm slung over Martin’s side, and the other curled up against his own chest—otherwise Jon might have instantly woken Martin up in his violent haste to scramble out of bed.

He’d already done that when they were both awake, and he refused to talk about it then and thankfully Martin was already so tired that he not so much fell as plummeted into sleep and Jon hates that he’s thankful for Martin’s exhaustion he never wants to see the man he lov—

It’s been a long time since he’s shared space with another person like this.

Was Martin awake? He had to wonder, the timing of his new positioning a little on the nose, but Martin’s eyes dart to-and-fro beneath delicate lids, clearly dreaming. Soft moans and subtle twitches bring to mind a warm vision of The Admiral napping in the sun. He can be a good actor when he wants to be and lead people on when the stakes are high enough, but not even Martin could fake sleep this well.

At the same time, Martin has locked Jon in place, ensuring Jon can’t move away even if he wanted to. And he doesn’t want to. Not really. If asked, he’d say it was the last thing he wanted to do. If pressed he’d say the same. But he can’t help the sharp whispers in the back of his mind that warn him to dramatically increase the distance between Martin and himself.

Jon’s desire for physical contact has, for the past couple of years at least, been something of a Schrodinger’s paradox: impossible to predict, for a start. The potential for him to want to touch and accept touch exists just about as much as the potential to be completely uncomfortable with such things, and which potential actualizes in any given moment is, for all intents and purposes, random, decided upon by some unseen force. (And isn’t it a kicker that it’s observation that collapses a superposition of states into a single definite one, as in the case of Schrodinger’s poor cat.) Jon himself doesn’t decide so much as he observes his body reacting, detached, and then proceeds to deal with the aftermath.

With Georgie, it was easier; those were less complicated times, when Jon’s trauma hadn’t extended past a single supernatural encounter. (The perfunctory traumas annoying children tend to collect from growing up with resentful guardians were nothing compared to witnessing Mr. Spider encircle its long, black-as-night, bony limbs around his childhood bully and drag him through a bloodied door.) On their way to class in the oppressive, cold damp of winter, Georgie would sling her arm around his scarf-wrapped neck with ease and bring him in close. He’d let himself get caught in the well of her gravity, let her pull him in like a satellite on a decaying orbit around her. Wrapping his arms around her and pressing his face into her chest quickly became a staple of their time together.

Mouth kisses…he could do without. His reluctance toward them, he theorized, stemmed from the same part of himself as his broad indifference to sex did. The attraction Jon knew many other people felt, the pull to engage in those acts with a specific person, wasn’t ever there; that wasn’t really part of the proceedings for him. He hadn’t been attracted to Georgie that way, and he hasn’t thus far felt that pull of attraction toward Martin, either—not that he’d know what it felt like, anyway. He might be able to extrapolate from existing data, but, well. It wasn’t likely to ever come up. He knew himself well enough by now.

Touching, embracing, existing in the intimate space of another, on the other hand: these were all things that had grounded Jon in the past, irrespective of his relationships with other kinds of intimacy, things he looked forward to from others and initiated himself on occasion.

He can’t count the number of times he crawled into Georgie’s lap as they watched some documentary or other and basked in her radiant warmth. It was a great source of amusement for her, really, especially so once they’d jointly adopted The Admiral. He could only laugh at the comments she made about how ridiculous it was that she’d somehow managed to adopt two cats in as many years. Jon didn’t mind the teasing, though, as long as Georgie promised to run her fingers through his hair and smother him with sweet kisses up and down the length of his body.

He wants that with Martin. Not what he had with Georgie, exactly; they’re two different people, after all, and Jon has changed as well. Being away from the Institute could be the chance Jon’s been waiting for, a chance to bare himself to the one person who might stick around after having done so. A chance for Martin to do the same, in his time. A chance to explore the languages of their bodies—if only his own would cooperate.

All of this rumbles around in Jon’s mind as he contemplates what lies ahead for him and Martin. If Basira and Melanie’s comments are to be believed, and if his scrambling to understand Martin’s past actions have been worth anything, then Martin has been harboring feelings for him for…quite some time. Without him knowing. Or Knowing, for that matter, which is a bit of a shock given all the nasty ways The Eye could have used that information to siphon fear from Jon.

The point is: Martin stuck with him through the unearned cruelty of their early working relationship, the stalking, the murder accusations, the months of traveling, the longer months still of being (for all intents and purposes) dead, and almost an entire year of suffering as a pawn in whatever wager Elias and Peter had agreed upon. Martin is here. Now. Not shying away from Jon—actively positioning himself as close to Jon as possible, in fact, even if only in sleep.

And Jon is letting him. He can’t necessarily change how his body reacts in the moment, but he can decide to relinquish control and just let this happen. And only time will tell whether his desire to remain untouched by the dangers inherent in submitting to vulnerability or his desire to be fully subsumed by this burgeoning…thing he has with Martin will take Jon over in the end. And time does march on, cruelly hastening the dark’s surrender to bright oranges and yellows.

A reckoning awaits him. Morning will see the safe house fully illuminated, shadows banished to the smallest corners of each room, leaving nothing to comfortable ignorance, nowhere to hide from all that wants to peel Jon open like an old orange still attached to the tree long past its prime.

What is Martin going to make of everything in the morning? No longer soft with sleep, fully cognizant of the situation in which they find themselves, will Martin still choose this? Choose him? Did Martin see a choice in front of him? Or simply a soured inevitability?

The warm body next to him stirs, and the hand keeping Jon in place pulls him closer into Martin’s space, into Martin himself. It’s an odd thing: Jon is both close and far away, neither ceding to the other or diminishing the other. A bundle of nerves wills itself into existence just under the skin of the small of his back and immediately flood his brain with unintelligible nonsense. He’s about to buck, he’s about to levitate out of the bed if Martin doesn’t move right this second. Jon notes all this and rides out the sensations.

He settles again. Was the room always this bright? No. He’s just been awake too long and given his eyes too long to adjust to the low light.

And there Martin still is, breathing with his whole body against Jon.

It relieves Jon to feel, not just see or hear, Martin’s chest ebbing and flowing with slow breaths. The heavy knowledge that Jon can and is embracing Martin leaves him just this side of breathless. He can touch him now, actually, after months and months of being just out of reach, just around the next corner, just out of earshot, and still Jon hesitates. But he wants this! His reflexive responses be damned; he’s wanted this since at least the Unknowing and in all likelihood even sooner, if Georgie is to be believed. Why can’t he….

The possibility of touching Martin with intent is so much scarier than anything else he’s contemplated tonight. It’s one thing to throw an arm around someone for want of anywhere else to put it or to let oneself be cuddled out of necessity by one’s touch-starved bedmate, and it’s another thing entirely to—

Jon reaches out with his burn-scarred hand and places it flush against Martin’s swelling chest. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he was feeling Jude’s desolate fire wreaking havoc on his hand once again. In and out—almost luxuriously—they breathe together. It is a luxury that they’re able to rest like this at all in the wake of everything that’s happened at the Institute.

Though no longer in London, where the night sky is washed out by millions of streetlights and LEDs of all colors and configurations, the light reflecting off the moon is more than enough to give shape to Martin’s face, if not the reason he continues to keep Jon at the forefront of his mind. An inexplicable urge to take Martin’s head in his hands and get a good look at this sleeping face overwhelms him. It’s an awkward fit with how close they are, but awkwardness, false starts, bad timing—Jon met their acquaintance long ago and became fast friends.

Jon watches as his hand bumbles through the air between them and stops at about the midway point, withdrawing slightly in a defensive curl. The scar tissue braid around his hand is unforgiving in its inflexibility, in the insistent pull against itself. Jon can relate.

His hand lingers. He can’t bear to lose any progress he’s made toward Martin, just as he can’t bear to think about Zeno and the trick of logic that made him think an infinite expanse lay between him and all points around him. All he had to do was halve the distance once, then twice, and again, ad infinitum. He’d get there in time to experience the heat death of the universe, missed opportunities haloed around him in perpetual stillness as all entropy and hopeful opportunity diminish to nothing.

Jon doesn’t move and instead watches his hand curl on itself and then pause, unable to answer the impossible question: backward or forward? It’s an amorphous thought in Jon’s mind that his hand will ache in the morning. Instead of giving that thought form, Jon gazes at Martin.

Dark hair curls around Martin’s sleep-smooth features; freckles mottle the skin around his eyes and cheekbones, reminiscent of the wash of stars Jon has scarcely had opportunity to witness himself since leaving Bournemouth, and living in London is hardly conducive to star-gazing. Clumps of melanin, as beautiful as the sky’s most luminous nebulae, have always caught Jon’s attention—even in those moments when Martin tried to minimize his own presence and hide himself from the world and even more so when Jon would rather have nit-picked Martin’s performance than admit a connection to the man, a fondness. They shimmer now, bathed in pale moonlight.

(Which reminds him: if he wants Martin to sleep well into the morning, and he certainly does, then he’ll have to get up to close the heavy drapes behind him before falling asleep himself. He’s not looking forward to disentangling himself from Martin, and he’s looking forward to the prospect of waking him up even less. They both need sleep, admittedly, but, as The Eye likes to shove through the door in his mind, Martin stopped short of awakening as a full-fledged avatar of The Lonely and is, thus, still quite human. And Jon Knows that Martin had developed his own workaholic streak working under Peter, not to mention the burden of unceasing loneliness he carried for the long months between the Unknowing and, well, recent times.)

A plaintive moo meanders into the room; Jon blinks away his wandering thoughts and returns his focus to the present. Only in the dark of the night would he dare touch Martin like this. Jon’s…issues with touch aside, he doesn’t want to further muddle the already nebulous nature of their relationship, and, perhaps more to the point, Jon’s needs are rather secondary at the moment, aren’t they? They both had escaped a metaphysical realm of all-encompassing isolation, but Martin had courted The Lonely for far longer than Jon had spent inside it himself. There’s no need to complicate things before doing so becomes necessary.

So, Jon cups Martin’s face. The distance between them collapsed in an instant. Soft stubble meets him there; he loves how it feels on the pads of his fingers, loves just feeling Martin against him and gazing into him. Brushing a pockmarked thumb against Martin’s cheekbone, Jon sighs, feeling what he could only describe as peaceful.

He wants this, dammit, and he means it. Lifting himself away from the bed and shifting their blankets ever so slightly, Jon places a tremulous kiss on Martin’s forehead—no matter that the hair there tickles him. He lingers there for a moment, shaking slightly with the effort of keeping himself still on an altogether too pliable mattress. He’s so grateful for this, but he wishes he were able to initiate the same when they were both conscious, when it wouldn’t feel like he was stealing something precious from the one who lay beside him.

The moment is over. Jon lays back down and begins laying the brickwork for a dam in his mind to stem the flood of regret that would overwhelm him if he let it. He still has to get up to close the drapes, but that can wait. Or perhaps he’ll find them closed when he wakes up, Martin having woken up to knowing light pouring into the room and onto their intertwined forms. Maybe he’ll gather what happened and feel guilty for leading Jon on—“I’m sorry I left you,” he’d said after Prentiss when he’d done nothing of the sort—and close them to give Jon one final kindness: more time to sleep before Martin lets him down gently and finds another corner of the Highlands to hide in until things blow over.

Once again fully ensconced in Martin’s embrace, Jon spends the rest of his waking hours building up the dam in his mind and hoping that the worst of what slips past doesn’t come to fruition.

---

It’s whatever hour it is that the sky’s curtain of black begins to give way to lighter shades of navy and cerulean blues. Martin’s eye that isn’t smooshed into Daisy’s eons-old pillow opens to a beautiful sight: his love asleep (snoring, no less! Albeit gently, but goodness. That’s adorable) and nestled under his chin, the two of them touching, forming a continuous line of contact from the top of Jon’s head to where their legs lie entangled further down the bed. Martin could tell, though, that Jon was thinking way too hard last night, the grip Jon has on his shirt so firm that Martin hopes his hand doesn’t cramp.

A weary smile makes its way onto Martin’s face. Warmth blossoms in him at the thought of beginning their rests this way, too, instead of unwittingly grasping for the nearest source of warmth available to them in the depth of unconsciousness.

Though he will silently complain when it wakes him up later, the sun peaking above the horizon draws out the sparkles of silver in Jon’s wavy, otherwise ink-dark hair, like the ice and dust that make up a vast swathe of the Milky Way. It requires no thought at all, no active decision-making on his part, to place a kiss on Jon’s hair. It’s a short-lived thing, as tired as Martin is, but he vows to do it again.

As the sun deigns to reveal more and more of itself, Martin considers getting up and closing the drapes. He’d rather have this with Jon, though, than sleep a couple extra hours. Let the outside world observe them. They’ve nothing of themselves to hide.

The drapes remain open, and Martin closes his eyes, positive that this is the beginning of something wonderful. Martin Saw Jon in The Lonely and wants nothing more than to spend the rest of their lives understanding each other.

[j-mart]

Hey! If you like jmart stuff/archive crew content, I have a LOT of fics (like 30?) about Jmart, jontim, timsasha, etc etc etc under the tag “fanfic to a tea!”

hey, so, i actually love of a lot of your work! your fic and podfic alike :D but in case any of my followers aren’t familiar, i’m gonna answer this ask publicly.

rosy-cheekx’s work comes highly recommended from me, folks! if you’re looking for something light and fluffy, she’s got something for you. if you’re looking for post-canon goodness, they’ve got you covered. if you’re looking for podfic, they’ve got a whole lot of podfic as well!

and if you’re someone who prefers ao3 to tumblr for fic, her ao3 can be found here under the same handle if you wanna check her stuff out.

and just a couple personal recommendations:

Peeling Labels, in which jon explores his demisexuality

I Want To Be A Real Fake, where jon must attend a formal institute party and, much his dismay, tim insists on coming along

Drawn To You, where martin’s a guidance counselor at the local primary school, and he and jon attend the school’s science fair as a couple (and jon makes fast friends with one of the students)

and here’s their podfic collection as well :)

[voiceless-terror]

(I’m picking a number randomly) 54 for the kiss prompts 😘

this turned out to be ‘against a locker,’ so have some jonmartin apocalypse never happened silliness <3

“You didn’t have to come in, I was just about to leave.”

“Heard that one before.”

Jon rolls his eyes but nonetheless gets to his feet, wincing as his joints protest the movement. Martin’s not entirely wrong; it’s easy for Jon to lose track of time, and what’s ten minutes to him could in reality be an hour.

He likes staying after school for a few hours, when Martin gets a late shift at the store. He’ll wander the stacks, humming as he re-shelves any misplaced books. The students who occasionally stay after don’t cause much in the way of trouble - the library isn’t exactly a hub of socialization. It’s unexciting, but there’s always something to keep his hands busy. He enjoys the routine of it.

“Besides, I kind of wanted to scope out the place. You’ve been here for a half a year and this is the first time I’ve been inside.” Martin pokes at a cart of books, making a startled grab for it when it moves. Jon stifles a chuckle as he makes his way over to the circulation desk to grab his coat and bag.

“As dull as expected?” Jon gives him a sardonic smile, throwing his bag over his shoulder. 

“Not at all, actually. Cause it’s got you.”

“Sap.”

“Naturally.” He bends down and presses a kiss to Jon’s head, intertwining their hands as they start down the hallway. “You know, I used to feel bad about dropping out. Not so much anymore, but...I feel like I missed out on some experiences, y’know? Memories.”

Jon snorted. “You couldn’t pay me to be a student again. I do not miss those days.”

Martin nudges his side. “Worse than being an archivist?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jon replies, butting his head against Martin’s shoulder in retaliation. The halls are barren at this hour- most sport practices are done, and clubs generally disperse around five. He finds himself appreciating the blessed silence, their voices echoing around the empty hall. “It was a different sort of bad. Mundane. The terror of the everyday.”

“Bringing home a B to your Nan?”

“Oh, she didn’t much care about that,” Jon dismisses. “And I never brought home a B anyway. I was thinking more about the whole ��getting shoved into lockers’ business.”

Martin’s grip around his hand tightens incrementally. “I probably would’ve too, if I didn’t hit my growth spurt at age eleven.”

“Would’ve been nice to have you around,” Jon murmurs, giving him a sly glance. “I’d have much fonder memories of the place.”

Martin pauses his steps, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he tugs on Jon’s hand, coaxing him towards the lockers. “Yeah? You think we would’ve liked each other back in secondary?”

Jon smiles, allowing himself to be led. “I think you would’ve worn me down, maybe. Some cheesy love poetry-”

“I’ll have you know I wasn’t cheesy, even back then-” a gentle nudge and Jon’s against the lockers, Martin towering over him with a smirk. He pretends his heart does not skip a beat, he’s not some teenager. “How about we give you a fond memory now, hm?”

Martin, when he wants to be, is irritatingly suave, and Jon falls for it hook, line and sinker as Martin places one finger under his chin and tilts it up, leaning down for their lips to meet. It’s warm and sweet, just like the man himself, and Jon’s tempted to take a fistful of his jumper before a cough has him springing away.

“Sorry!”

It’s Sophie, a sixth former who spends most of her mornings in the library. She looks between the two of them, shooting Jon a sly grin. “Stayed late for practice - I just needed to get my textbooks-” She gestures to the locker that Jon’s currently slammed against.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry-” He tugs himself out of Martin’s arms, who’s looking at him with nothing but amusement in his face and not a hint of embarrassment. He watches awkwardly as Sophie spins the combination and grabs her book, giving the two of them a wink. “I’ll let you get back to it, Mr. Sims and...friend.” With that, she dashes around the corner, leaving a gaping Jon and a smiling Martin in her wake.

Martin shrugs it off, moving in to kiss Jon once more before he bats him away.

“Oh my god, I’m never going to hear the end of that.” He puts his head in his hands, bemoaning his sudden lack of control. Martin, it would seem, brings out the worst in him.

“It’s fine, it’s not like we were full-on making out or anything-”

“You know I hate that phrase-”

“Fine, snogging-”

“Stop!”

“Alright, alright.” Martin laughs again, grabbing at Jon’s hand. “Any other places you hate that I can fix up for you?”

“Never really liked the boy’s locker room, but I doubt you’ll want to go in there.”

“Home it is!”

[ombreblossom]

I find it somewhat disorienting being referred to as an “adultier adult” (not in a bad way but a holy shit I forgot I'm an adult sort of way), but I'm very glad I could offer some useful advice!! And I hope they help :D

Having friends who are older than you is really genius level life hacks. Because sometimes you say “I hate the way wet food feels when I do dishes and it makes me procrastinate doing them” and they say “have you tried dish gloves?” And like that is the level of thinking I need from an adultier adult

[inklingofadream]

“It’s cute that you tried to protect me and all, but you’re like a foot shorter than me, you know?”/“Do you think just because my feet don’t touch the bottom of the pool that I need a floatie?”/“The stepping stool is unnecessary.” SHORT JON RIGHTS any /combo of these + any of the og archive staff members?

(doubling as an answer to an anon prompt from months ago for "marry me?" + Jonmartin)

-

“The stepping stool is unnecessary.” Jon resisted the urge to plant his hands on his hips, glaring up at Tim.

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Just trying to make the Archives feel more like home, Boss.” His grin was easy and entirely too innocent.

“I appreciate the consideration, but even if I required a step stool, I doubt we’ll be getting enough use out of the upper breakroom cabinets to warrant one’s presence.” He tried to keep his voice even; if he let any frustration or amusement show, Tim would win and Jon would never hear the end of it.

Tim shot up out of his seat as though that was precisely the cue he was waiting for, gesturing at the little assemblage of plastic and metal like a veteran showman. “That’s the wonder of it, Boss! It’s portable! All those difficult-to-reach statements, right at your fingertips!” His grin was wide and plastic, eyes widened to the point of absurd earnestness.

Jon gave in, snorted, clutching his hands together and to his heart in an equally dramatic gesture. “Thank you ever so much, Tim. How can I ever hope to repay such a considerate gift?”

“A raise wouldn’t go amiss!”

Sasha hip-checked Tim into the table- Jon grinned, having seen her approach where Tim had not-making him squawk and wheel his arms. “We’ve been here a week and you’re already asking for a raise?” She shot a look at Jon, dropping her box full of drinkware on the table with a slight clatter, “Sounds like insubordination to me. Practically a fireable offense!”

“Traitor!” Tim clutched at his heart and collapsed back into his seat.

“I think you’re both being overly frivolous on company time,” Jon cut in. “I ought to fire you both and just run this Archive myself.”

“Not entirely by yourself! You’d still have Martin,” Tim waved a finger like this was an earth-shattering point.

“Ah yes,” the other two laughed as Jon’s expression soured, “Whatever would I do without Martin?”

-

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, and I don’t ever want to have to find out.” Jon rested his head against Martin’s shoulder, tired by the short walk to the courtyard.

“I mean,” Martin blushed. Jon gazed up at the pink flush and smiled. “I’m not really religious? And I don’t think you are either. And at that point, marriage is more a legal contract than anything else.”

Jon frowned, but his tone was joking. “Are you saying you don’t want to marry me?”

Martin looked appalled, shaking his head. “No, sorry, I,” he glanced at Jon, loosening his shoulders at the other man’s smile, “No, I just. I’m not actually sure we can?I mean. We don’t legally exist, here. We’re really lucky we’ve gotten away as long as we have with being John Doe 1 and 2 on the hospital records.”

Jon snorted. “But barring any legal or existential questions?”

“Well, I don’t know. I always fancied a bit of romance, myself. You know, one knee, ring, that whole bit. Significantly fewer bedpans and IV stands.”

Jon shifted, making to get off the bench, and Martin grabbed for his waist, hands feather-light and gentle. “Don’t! You’ll rip your stitches!”

Jon rolled his shoulders and sat back, huffed. “Well, if you don’t want me on the bench and you don’t want me on one knee, you really ought to put me out of my misery and give me a direct rejection.” He crossed his arms gingerly and stuck his nose in the air, smile twitching at the edges of his mouth.

Martin sighed, though it came out a bit less exasperated and more besotted than he’d intended. “Here.” He stood, kneeling and groping about the base of the bench for a bit of grass before twisting it into shape and propping one knee up in the appropriate pose. “Marry me?”

Jon grinned, solemnly holding out his hand for the makeshift ring. “I’d be delighted.”

[bluejayblueskies]

“Rampage” for microfics!

Martin flung the door to Jon’s office open, half-expecting to see a monster or a murderer or- or something in there that warranted the alarming crashing, thumping noises that had cut through the air suddenly and without warning. Instead, he sees statements--and the rest of the contents of Jon’s desk--strewn on the ground in an array of white paper and black ink, and Jon standing precariously on his desk chair, staring at his now-empty desk in mute horror.

Martin just stands there, his mouth opening and closing for a few seconds, before he finally says, “What are you doing?”

Jon jumps like he’s been hit with an electric shock and nearly falls off the chair. “Martin!” he says, his voice pitched a bit higher than normal. “I, er.” He clears his throat. “Just- just knocked some things off my desk. Nothing to be concerned about.”

“Right,” Martin says slowly. “And the chair?”

“A- a better vantage point,” Jon says, the lie painfully obvious. “To see the statements. To, er. Put them back in order.”

“Right,” Martin repeats. The skepticism in his voice is practically palpable.

Jon clings to the lie for another moment before sighing heavily. “There was a spider. It, er.” He shudders. “It ran across my hand and disappeared into the pile of statements. I will admit I... reacted quite poorly.”

“Right,” Martin says. He’s starting to feel rather like a broken record. “I can... I can pick them up? I really don’t, uh, mind spiders. So if I see it, I can get rid of it?”

Jon’s cheeks darken, but after a moment, he nods. “That... may be for the best, yes. Er. Thank you.”

Martin tries to pretend like a simple thank you doesn’t make affection curl in his stomach. He doesn’t think he succeeds. “It’s no trouble at all.”

[archivistbot]

Martin, Gerry and Jon: Do you have a favorite food?

ARCHIVIST:  What do you mean, food?

GERARD:  Fruit, vegetables, you know?

ARCHIVIST:  [Enunciating each word carefully] What?

[maliciously-delicious]

Tagged by: @ombreblossom !!!!! Hi!!!

Relationship status: Taken

Favorite color: purple and green

Favorite food: Bacon, Egg, and Cheese sandwhiches, Buffalo Chicken dip

Song stuck in my head: "Venom" by Icon for Hire

Last thing i googled: "What county do I live in"

Dream trip: literally anywhere with @rosy-cheekx, and also like,,,!!! A castle!!! I want to go to New York as well :)

Last book enjoyed: The Emperor and The Goddess

Last book hated: truly can't remember the name of it. It had surprise SA like halfway in after getting me super invested. Not epic or cool.

Favorite thing to cook/bake: OMELLETE!!! I love chopping up all my silly lil ingredients, truly nothing else on this earth gives me greater peace.

Most niche dislike: Mayonnaise 🤢

Opinions on the circus: Rad!!! I've only been to one once! I remember it vividly, very cool experience.

Sense of direction: dogshit, I have gotten lost 5 times I can think of in this past week

@rosy-cheekx DO IIIIT DO IT DOIT DO IT DOIT

[suttttton]

WIP Game

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

evidently I’m much more organized now than the last time i did this because these working titles are,,, actually descriptive?? incredible what an innovation

Groundhog Day

Fairy Fic

The Little Mermaid

Enchanted

Little Black Bird 2

Magnus Archives 90s Halloween Special

Stardew Valley

Basira + Jon

Mom

Day ?? - Hidden Scars

Day ?? - Suffocation

Day ?? - Used As An Experiment

Day ?? - “Help Them”

Day ?? - Nightmares

Day ?? - Black Eye

Day 28 - Presumed Dead

i can’t count so i’m just tagging @this-is-such-a-bad-decision @inklingofadream @bluejayblueskies @rosy-cheekx @morning-softness @dathen @storm-does-stuff @measureyourlifeincake @scatteredheroes and anyone else who wants to do this!

[read-watch-sleep]

WIP Tag game

I was tagged by @morning-softness Post the last line of your WIP and tag some friends!

“Juno, I don’t believe that noticing beautiful women is the point of this exercise-” Nureyev started, the emotion climbing in his voice was carefully, but just barely contained.

“No, listen.” Juno cut him off. “Hey big guy, doesn't she seem kind of… familiar?” He rolled back the tape. In a moment of mild distraction, the woman’s face turned ever-so slightly to the camera. They could barely see more than her nose.

@cinnamoniic @kaiserkorresponds @rosy-cheekx

[ombreblossom]

You had one chance for the microfic

Hey, Bryce! You sent this to me like 8 months ago! But here’s a thing!

Please enjoy some fluff (with a little bit of negative self talk and assumptions on Martin’s part).

(The prompt was to write 3-10 sentences based on a word or short phrase. Prompt post found here.)

.

“You had one chance, Martin, and you fucked it up,” he mutters to himself and to the weapon of his own destruction, the communal kettle.

It all started last week. The chilly Wednesday morning saw the two of them sipping eclectic blends of loose tea at this hole-in-the-wall teahouse. Jon’s look of unmistakable contentment as he gently clasped his warm navy speckled mug convinced Martin to return after work to pick up a sachet of the blend Jon had been drinking. For the next several days, the scene played and replayed itself in his mind—to his utter distraction. Martin would do anything to entice that small, unguarded smile to return to Jon’s otherwise careworn face.

And so, he finds himself fidgeting across from Jon in his office, a steaming mug (partially drunk) sitting heavy between them—a well of gravity drawing all attention to itself. No one moves, and no one speaks, which itself speaks volumes to Martin. He can’t leave the room fast enough, the tea’s scent taunting him as he goes.

Martin thinks himself alone in the Archive’s kitchenette, head in his hands and cursing his hubris, when he feels two willowy arms grasp his shoulders and turn him around to face a flushed and beaming Jon.

“You’re too kind, Martin,” he says and helps Martin to understand just what it is that Jon likes about the tea.

[j-mart]

Hey! I’m the one who wrote Alone Again Naturally and BRUH I’m so glad you noticed the nuances of the Tim’s desk scene. No one else had caught the emotion I tried to imbed in that and I’m so happy you saw the hardship in that.

oh! i wasn't entirely sure if that was intentional or not. i'm glad to have noticed, then! :D martin's really going through it, isn't he? :sobs:

thank you for the ask, and thank you for the lovely and heartbreaking fic! <33

[voiceless-terror]

Comfort food for Jmart microfic. Re your post about Jon being happy and gaining weight please I’m dying for it

“Can I have another?”

“Course. Made ‘em for you.”

He passes Jon another biscuit; he spent the afternoon making a batch after a throwaway comment from Jon about how much he liked them. Martin has been indulging Jon’s recently discovered sweet tooth, and it’s starting to show.

Jon feels warm and solid on his lap, and Martin remembers a time not so long ago when Jon was all ribs and sharp edges, liable to break. But he’s here now, with a round face and an easy smile, getting crumbs all over the jumper he stole from Martin and relaxing in his arms. He can’t help pulling Jon closer, rubbing a hand over his newly-soft stomach.

“You’re awfully touchy these days.” 

“You’re awfully handsome,” Martin replies, pecking his cheek. “I like having more of you to squeeze.”

“So you’ve said.” Jon takes another prim bite, leaning back into Martin’s chest. “And I aim to please.”

“I’m very pleased.” He plucks the biscuit out of Jon’s hand, taking the last bite and ignoring his affronted gasp.

Jon’s elbow may be less pointy, but it still hurts when he jabs it into Martin’s side.

Worth it.

[inklingofadream]

*eyes “s1 poly angst”* I would love to know more or get a clip from this one

ok ok it’s the vague title for the jon time travels to season 1 and doesn’t know how to interact with tim or sasha story. and the actual written content stands at 160 words atm, so instead an Incident that occurs during it’s plot is:

Tim and the Admiral are: The Archives! Next! Top! Bestiessss!!!

aka trying to coax jon out of whatever funk he’s in leads to jon mentioning georgie and sasha being Nosy, and now georgie’s hanging around the archives crew and her cat likes jon’s coworker better than her and also he’s somehow even Weirder than when they broke up (but more considerate, which is nice)

[bluejayblueskies]

“Total control” for the microfic prompts!

“I have the situation totally under control, Martin.”

“Tim, you literally just saw worms under your desk. Under your desk! As in not outside anymore!”

Tim grimaces and glances at the silver-colored stain on the tile. “Yeah, well--they’re dead now! So, uh, totally under control.”

Martin’s eyes are wide, and he’s still pressed against the wall, as far from Tim’s desk as he can get. “Tim.”

Tim sighs and crosses the room to Martin, putting a hand on Martin’s shoulder. Martin seems to relax slightly at that, the contact grounding him and erasing some of that blind panic. Still, his eyes are fixed on the floor beneath Tim’s desk when he says, “I just... I live here now, Tim. If the worms are inside...” Martin takes in a long, shaky breath. “Am... am I still safe?”

Tim debates between the lighthearted approach and the serious approach before deciding that now is probably not the time for levity and jokes. “Document storage is airtight,” he says, “and you’ve got, like, a dozen fire extinguishers in there.” At Martin’s sputtering, he says with a small grin, “You’re really not good at hiding them.”

“Yeah, well.” Martin crosses his arms across his chest in a gesture that could be annoyed or could be protective. Probably both. “If you got trapped in your flat for two weeks by a- a worm queen, you’d also take precautions.”

“Hey, no judgment,” Tim says softly, placing just a bit more pressure on Martin’s shoulder. “So you’re prepared.” Tim meets Martin’s eyes and gives him a warm, wide smile. “And you’ve got me to smash some worms for you if need be.”

Martin takes in another breath, exhales, and says, “Yeah.” He nods once and repeats, “Yeah.”