#this was mostly to practice drawing jon bc i feel like i never get his face right

[angsty-art-ist]

replicant, replicant, what have you done?

[tired-beholding-bitch]

"jon has no idea how to take care of someone but GODDAMN he’s going to try" bestie tell me everything immediately

hello hi hello!!! you will be delighted to know that's the safehouse longfic I should totally be writing actually! I haven't touched it in a while but! I should be!

it's my love my darling my repository of Jon thoughts and also probably the only one I'm working on currently that has potential to practice my fight writing skills - they aren't communicating well <3 naturally <3 it's a mess <3

mostly it focuses on healing and recovery and the aftermath of the Lonely, as well as being the food-as-a-love-language fic since the common thread is Jon cooking as a way to express his feelings because what are words, and on firsts and general tenderness. also the separation anxiety is real.

I'm atm halfway through chapter 2, and the titular food for it is palak shorba, a spicy, creamy spinach soup that can be garnished with ginger and/or fresh cream and lends itself well to warm you up after, say, a cold autumun day spent perusing the wares of the local farmers' market. for example. a totally random example.

here's an extract bc ily

There are other traces of the Lonely, in him, that are much harder to shake.

The way he'll get quiet all of a sudden, withdrawing into himself like he can't bear to be aware of his surroundings anymore, flinching away at unexpected noises. How he'll press his lips together, conflicted, annoyed but trying not to show it when he needs space but won't say it – more times than not, he'll end up snapping anyway, worn down to almost nothing by the grating sound of other people's voices.

Usually it's towards him. It makes sense – they share everything, these days, spend all of their time together.

Jon tries to not let the sting of it sharpen him in turn, draw out a defensive response. It isn't difficult, when his eyes widen in horrified regret every time, apologies falling from his mouth like bruised flowers. The guilt eats away at him for days after, brings him to stretch himself too thin yet again, in a loop feeding on itself with constant inevitability.

He starts recognising the signs, after a while – his answers getting shorter, his hands shaking.

He forces himself to ignore the rising anxiety that chokes him every time Martin isn't in his direct line of sight, then, and casually leaves to do the dishes, or fold the laundry, or have a lie-down in the bedroom, and after an hour or two he'll come to him of his own accord, a bit more relaxed, and Jon will be able to breathe again, and pretend he hasn't been straining to hear him in the other room, afraid he'd vanish the moment he couldn't see him anymore. He never does, but Jon can't help himself, low-grade distress buzzing along his nerves like swarms of ants under his skin, making him restless.

He never tells Martin.There is no point. He can't ask more of him, can't take more from him than what he has, not when he's terrified he already is taking more than he would ever be allowed, if things were different.