#ticklish jonathan sims

[tickled-2-death]

Tma tickles

Tma fans in the tickle community, please send me requests for any oneshots or hcs you want written! Jonmartin, LonelyEyes, Tim, Sasha, literally any of the other avatars no matter how niche? Send em my way, see pinned post for further info.

[amazingmsme]

Best Served Cold

AN: it shouldn’t really come as any surprise that I’m a Tim Stoker stan & that man needs to get knocked down a few pegs. The role reversal prompt was perfect for them, cause sometimes the tickle monster just needs a taste of his own medicine! Without further ado, here’s day 22’s fic!

Martin was on his way back down to the archives, a fresh cup of tea in hand. He was halfway back from the break room when a loud shriek echoed down the stone halls followed by shrill, frantic giggles. He smiled to himself, rolling his eyes fondly. It seems Sasha fell prey to Tim's antics once more.

Oh well, better her than him.

He walked down the rest of the stairs and around the corner, her laughter growing louder the closer he got closer. Sure enough, Tim had cornered her between the wall and a filing cabinet, giggling herself silly. She looked adorable like this, Martin had to admit, but he sympathized with her plight. He wasn't sure which of them he attacked more frequently...

A rare smirk settled on his face. Perhaps a bit of revenge was in order.

He crept up behind Tim as quietly as he could, but he was too preoccupied with the task at hand to notice anyway. He slowly raised his arms, a predator about to strike.

"Just one more piece! Come on, don't be stingYYYY! Hehehey whahat the hehehell?" His sly bargaining was interrupted by a shocked squeal that quickly gave way to confused laughter.

"What's the matter Tim? I thought you just loved tickling, seeing as you do it to us so much," Martin pointed out, surprisingly bold and teasing with his words, but a rare bout of mischief had taken root, and he was determined to put their resident trouble maker in his place. Sasha barked out a laugh at his words as she recovered, enjoying her front row seat to the show.

"Thahat's not- nohoho don't!" he pivoted mid sentence when Martin's hands scribbled down to his hips.

"I mean, it's only fair to return the favor, don't you think Sasha?" he asked innocently, continuing to hold Tim on his tickly hug. She made a miraculously quick recovery upon hearing those words, already wiggling her fingers at her previous tormentor.

"Oh I couldn't agree more! He's been extra annoying lately, maybe he was just waiting, begging for one of us to just snap," she finally struck, diving right for his belly. He immediately doubled over, bursting out into bright, bubbly giggles.

"I wahahas nohohot!" he denied, twisting in Martin's hold and trying to hold Sasha's hands away. A few quick pinches up his ribs reminded Tim that he was still very much a problem. He arched away with a shriek when he found a spot between his sixth and seventh rib that seemed worse than the rest.

“Noho, please! Nohohot thehehere!” his pleading went ignored as they continued to seek out the best spots.

“Alright then, how about here instead?” Martin asked as he plunged his hands beneath his arms to scribble at the center of his hollows.

“Ahahabsolutely nohohot!” he cried out through his laughter. He snorted and shook his head back and forth when Sasha reached up to flutter her nails along his neck, scribbling at the spot just behind his ears.

“NOHOHO! Ihihi hahate you bohohoth!” he whined through growing hysterics. But it was all for show. Being trapped in a tickle sandwich between your best friends wasn’t ideal, but it he’d choose that over filing any day.

“Awww, we love you too!” she cooed in a false honey sweet tone.

“N-nohot whahahat I said!” he choked out, trying to hide the blush quickly spreading across his cheeks.

“I know, but you forget I happen to be fluent in Tim Stoker sass,” she teased, scratching underneath his chin just to make him squeal.

“Ohoho fuck you!” he hissed through clenched teeth before another snort ripped free from his chest. He gave up on the useless endeavor of fighting back, instead focusing all his efforts on hiding his face.

“Aw, why are you hiding? There’s no need to be so embarrassed Tim!” Martin teased fondly, but he really meant what he said.

“Exactly! So stop hiding, and let me see that handsome smile,” Sasha taunted as she gently pulled his arms away from his face. His blush darkened and he immediately ducked his head to look away.

“Nohoho!”

“No? Well that’s a bit rude, innit?” she asked with a laugh of her own. She went back to poking around his tummy, drawing out jumpy, nervous giggles.

“This ihihis rude!” he argued, and they both gasped.

“What? We’re just sharing the love!” Sasha justified.

“And I’m simply returning the favor!” Martin added. An amused chuckle from behind made them all stop in their tracks as they turned to see Jon browsing a nearby cluttered desk.

“No need to stop on my account, I just needed to grab a few things,” he explained, eyes scanning the surface until he apparently found what he needed.

“Please, carry on. And don’t forget to go for his knees,” he advised with a teasing smirk, going as far as to wink at the crew. He was about to leave, when Martin’s voice called out and gave him pause.

“Or you could do it yourself.” And wasn’t that an enticing thought.

“I’m afraid I’m swamped,” he excused himself with a little shrug.

“Sounds like you could use a break then. And we have the perfect stress ball for you to try out,” Sasha insisted.

He stared at the three of them, all with varying degrees of a smile on their face. And they looked so hopeful, even Tim, that he just couldn’t refuse.

He sighed, setting down the file before cracking his knuckles, flashing a rare, mischievous smile.

They all could use a good laugh.

[stray-tickles]

All In Good Fun

Read on AO3

--

When Martin had come to live in the archives, he hadn’t really expected that there would be someone else already living there.

He said as much to Jon, on his fourth night there and the third night that he’d found the head archivist holed up in his office after eight. Jon had huffed, unamused, but did thank him for the tea, voice softer than Martin had heard before.

It was… perplexing. The only conclusion Martin could draw was that his boss wasn’t quite as much of an asshole as he’d thought. That was an inconvenient thought, so he tried to ignore it, but Jon had mellowed out considerably since Martin had moved in.

Mellowed out enough that Martin felt safe to nag him about his habits, if only a little. “You do need to go home, you know.” He said from the doorway. “You’re not gonna get rid of the circles under your eyes with more statements.”

“Yes, I know, I-” He stopped mid-snap, and took a deep breath. “Sorry. You’re right, I’m… I’ll head home soon.”

Martin nodded, then paused before leaving. He’d had friends who got sucked into things like Jon did. “Um… would you like a reminder, at- at a certain time?”

Jon looked up at him. Fuck, his eyes were deep.

Jon considered it. “Ah, I think the last train I can catch leaves at nine-thirty? So, if I’m not packing up by nine…”

Martin shook himself. “Yeah, yeah sure! Um- consider it done.”

Against all reason, Jon felt himself smile. “Thank you, Martin.”

Oh, he had a cute smile. “No worries!” Martin said, trying for casual and probably failing. Shit shit shit! Without saying anything more, he fled.

Shit. It was bad enough having some passing acknowledgment that his mean boss was kind of hot, it was another to start getting lost in his eyes and having stomach flips over his smile.

Stop it. He begged himself internally. Just because he’s started being civil doesn’t mean you have to fall over yourself for him!

Part of Martin knew though. He was doomed.

--

Martin had been through a lot. Jon knew that. He also knew that it was almost entirely his fault. He’d pushed Martin into taking more and more risks to prove himself, had admitted as much himself, and nothing had made Jon feel quite that sick in a long time.

He was trying to be better. It was hard not to snap sometimes, Martin’s good-natured inquiries into his health feeling unbearably patronising, but Jon tried to stay patient. Martin might be coping well given the circumstances, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t been through something traumatic.

All that said, when Martin carefully cracked his office door open one night with a cup of tea and a quietly cheerful, “Knock knock.” Jon couldn’t stop himself.

His hand slammed onto his desk in shock, making both of them jump. “Must you- shit, sorry, sorry.”

Martin was blinking at him. Jon chose to interpret it as surprise at his outburst rather than at his apology.

He swallowed. “I shouldn’t have- have snapped, sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Martin said that too quickly. He always did, Jon had noticed. He looked down. “Look, I know it’s not the- the most professional, it’s just… knocking on doors has been sort of getting to me lately.”

If Jon had less self-control, he might have laughed. “I… understand.”

Something in Martin’s face relaxed. It was a nice look on him. “So, it’s- it’s okay if I say that. I-instead?”

Jon cringed. How did he even begin to explain? “I… is there any alternative?” He felt like he was begging. He wished it didn’t feel like that.

Martin frowned, and entered the room fully, placing the tea on Jon’s desk and sitting in the free chair usually used by statement givers. “Um, probably? Is it, is it the talking? Don’t want me interrupting a statement?”

God, that would be convenient, wouldn’t it? “N-no, there’s um- interludes in statements all the time.”

“Okaaay.” Jon stared at the cup of tea in front of him. It was easier than looking at those big blue eyes. Martin sighed softly. “Um, can you tell me what it is that you don’t like about me saying… that?”

Jon’s throat was suddenly bone dry. He took a sip of the tea, burning his tongue but helping him gain some courage at least. “The words.”

He waited for Martin to ask, to laugh, to push or say something about how ridiculous that was. Instead, he nodded. “What if I just said hello instead?”

What?

“What?”

Martin fidgeted. “I just thought… if it’s me saying the words that’s a problem, then I could say… something else?”

Jon stared.

“Look if that’s not- if it’s not a good idea-”

“No!” Jon yelped, coming back to himself. “No, yes, um, that- that should be fine, yes.”

Martin nodded. “Okay good, and you- um- you’re alright with me not… tapping on the door.”

“Of course.”

“Cool.” He gave a little smile and pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll um- leave you to it.”

“Thank you.” Jon felt frozen. He felt like he had to say something; part of him wanted to tell Martin all of it, about the book he’d found as a child and the horrors contained in it. Why he felt that way, Jon couldn’t fathom. He hadn’t told anyone about that before, but he wanted Martin to know. At the very least, so that he felt less alone after his own terrors.

But God, actually opening up? He’d never been able to do that. “M-Martin!” He burst out, before he could leave, noting how Martin stopped at the door. “I-I do understand… how it feels.”

Martin watched him for a moment, then smiled sadly. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He murmured, and slipped out.

--

Much as Martin was sure Jon wouldn’t like to admit it, they had gotten closer. Lunches had started appearing for him at shockingly regular intervals, in conjunction with Martin ordering extra take-out of an evening, sliding noodles or pasta or curry onto Jon’s desk along with an evening cup of tea. Jon had mellowed considerably since Martin had moved in. Probably because someone had been making sure he actually went home of an evening and ate something, he mused.

It was more than that though. Jon was… kind. Martin would never have believed it before, but he was kind and awkward and adorable.

That last part was horribly inconvenient, but it was still an improvement.

They were more familiar now, Martin could tease Jon without feeling like he was being misunderstood, and he’d started to notice the subtle twitch of Jon’s cheek that meant he was joking or having Martin on. It was nice. Martin would even say they were friends.

And as Jon’s friend…

“You have to go home!”

“Martin it’s fine, honestly, I went home last night, got plenty of rest!”

Martin groaned, “You’re supposed to go home every night!”

Jon frowned, then pouted thoughtfully. “Well, that doesn’t sound right.”

Fuck you, no. Martin thought, fighting a grin. It wasn’t funny, it wasn’t cute, no matter how hard Jon tried to make it either of those things. He could see the sparkle in Jon’s eyes and the ghost of a smirk that told Martin he had noticed him trying not to smile.

Fine. Fine. If Jon was going to use his dumb cute face to get out of this, Martin could use his own tricks as well. “If you think I won’t carry you out of here, you’re sorely mistaken.” He said loftily.

Jon’s eyes narrowed. He appeared to be appraising the situation. “You’re bluffing.”

Martin laughed. “Oh, am I?” He took a step forward, delighting in how Jon drew back.

He swallowed. “I’m your boss.” But there was no bite, no annoyance. His voice was flimsy and weak and… oh? Was Jon now the one fighting against a smile?

“Mmm, I’m not actually on the clock at the moment.” Martin said. “Neither are you. In fact, I’ve got permission to be here after hours, you’re technically trespassing.”

Oh, there it was, nervousness leading Jon’s little smile to sneak through. “You-you have permission from me!”

Martin tutted. “Well, unfortunately Jon, you don’t have my permission to be here after hours, and as there’s no security guards here at this exact moment, I’ll have to do that job myself and remove you from the premises.”

Jon wheeled his office chair away with a snicker. He knew there wasn’t any real escape, but he’d known that from the moment he’d engaged Martin in this little argument of theirs. On one hand he sort of did want to get his work done, but on the other he liked his and Martin’s little fights. He wasn’t sure why, but it made him smile. Made him happy.

It also made him yelp, when Martin’s hands gripped him from behind and lifted him, struggling not to laugh from the sheer silliness, from his chair. Fingertips curled into his ribcage, making Jon snort and try to double over, and burst out, “Aahaha- don’t tickle!”

Martin stilled, and Jon realised he’d just made a terrible mistake.

Martin blinked slowly, processing Jon’s protest. There was really only one reason he’d say that, wasn’t there? “What was that?”

Jon felt his face go warm. “I-um, nothing, nothing… will you put me down?”

A smug grin had started to spread across Martin’s cheeks. “I don’t know, it sounded to me like you said-”

“I said nothing!”

“That you’re ticklish.” Martin finished, still holding Jon up like a misbehaving cat.

Jon thanked God that a blush didn’t usually show on him and that Martin couldn’t see his expression. His face was on fire. Every twitch of fingers had him trying not to flinch or squeak or melt. He got the distinct feeling that he was doomed. “W-well I’m not. That would be um- faintly ridiculous.”

“Mmm? How’s that?”

“Ah, I-” Oh no, those fingers twitching more and more. He was definitely doomed. “I mean I’m, um, I’m a grown man after all, with a lot of- serious work to do, so it’s very unlikely that I’m…” Oh dear. He couldn’t say the word.

“Hmm?” Martin sounded so smug.

Jon wriggled and tried not to smile. “Martin please, my shoulders are starting to hurt.” It wasn’t true, but he hoped it was a believable enough lie to get him out of this.

“Oh! Right, sorry, of course.” Martin sounded genuinely surprised and concerned, making Jon feel a little guilty until he realised Martin’s solution was not, in fact, to put him down. Instead, he turned Jon around in his hold, now holding him in a bear hug. He grinned smugly. “Better?”

Jon cringed back as far as he could, ducking his head in embarrassment. No, this was not better. Now Martin could see everything, including his wobbly smile and his flushed cheeks. Not long ago, the thought of Martin seeing him like this would have been unbearable, but now it… well, it was still unbearable, but not in the same way.

Martin laughed quietly. “Alright, good! Now as I was saying before, you should really go home, you agree?”

This was an out, Jon realised dimly amidst the disconcertingly powerful urge to crush his face into that soft jumper. Martin was offering him a way out of this with his dignity somewhat intact. And yet… “But I’m almost done!” He said, squirming against Martin’s hold back towards his desk.

Martin sighed, sounding incredibly put-upon and utterly delighted all at once. “Alright, if you insist!”

The moment those soft fingers dug into his underarms, Jon let out a sound that could only be described as a scream, quickly devolving into loud cackling when Martin eased off to a gentler touch. It was mad, Jon had always been embarrassed by his laugh, it was never quite what he wanted it to be, all messy and snorting and high-pitched and loud.

Martin snickered. “You, um- you’re sure you’re not ticklish?”

Jon kicked his feet weakly, more to vent out the excess energy than anything else. He tried to convince himself that he hated this, wrapped up in a warm, soft hug with laughter being teased out of him, but no part of that was anything less than delightful.

That didn’t mean he was going to be quiet about it. “Nono- no, Martin plehease!”

“Ready to go home yet?” His fingers continued their agonisingly soft scratching, even through Jon’s cardigan it was enough to have him squealing.

Jon’s hands bunched in the back of Martin’s jumper, his eyes screwing shut from laughing. “This- this is cruel!”

“Uh huh?”

He landed a weak punch against Martin’s back when one hand migrated to pinch at his side and stomach, snorting helplessly. “AHA- c-cruel and unusual punishMENT!”

Martin laughed, not quite trusting that slipping a hand under Jon’s shirt would be okay. Little steps. “Say you’ll go home and I’ll stop.” It hadn’t escaped his notice that Jon’s protests had so far lacked any pleading for him to actually stop. Good God, he was cute when he laughed.

Those awful, wonderful fingers continued to play across his stomach, sides, and ribs, not digging in, not even really lingering on some of Jon’s apparently squeal-inducing spots, simply poking and wiggling up and down his torso enough to keep him in silly fits of laughter and squirming.

He hiccupped. “Ma-Martin wahahait!”

Martin’s fingers stilled. “Hmm?” Jon refused to look at him, hiding his face in his shoulder, but he sounded unbearably smug.

The smile wouldn’t go away. “U-um, common article three of the Geneva conventions actually prohibits cruel treatment and torture of um- of civilians, so technically you’re committing a war crime.”

It was silly. It was silly, Jon knew that, which was why when Martin burst out laughing, his only reaction was to bite his lip in anticipation.

He was doomed.

“Oooh, a war crime, huh?” Martin teased. “Hey, do you think they’ll throw me on trial at Nuremberg for this?”

And then his fingers were digging, vibrating into Jon’s ribcage, sending him right into screeching cackles that he had no chance of holding back even a little, kicking and squirming as Martin’s hands moved up and down, snorting and squealing whenever he found a tender spot and lingered there for a moment longer, his cheeks aching from the wild, silly smile painted across his face.

He felt shaken up, carbonated, bubbling over with laughter and giddiness that he’d normally never allow himself to feel, let alone have a cause to, but this? Jon barely had a choice in the matter, and wasn’t that just a little bit thrilling.

Barely though, as his bones melted into goo and his resolve wavered, he was aware that the helplessness was an illusion. He could stop this any time he wanted. And, regrettably, his stomach was starting to ache. “A-alright!” He snorted, batting at Martin’s hands as best he could. “I surrender!”

Martin chuckled and stilled his hands. “Alright, alright.” He said, giving Jon a moment to catch his breath before letting him down. Seeing Jon’s giddy, bashful grin made him feel all warm and fuzzy.

He took a half step away. “Sorry if I overdid it.”

Jon’s eyes widened and he immediately ducked his head to stare at the ground. Thankfully any of the heat in his cheeks could be blamed on a lack of oxygen, but that did nothing to help him figure out what to say now. He couldn’t be angry, even if he wanted to; he was still giddy and smiling after all. And he didn’t want to be angry, he didn’t want Martin to think that he’d hated that. It was fun. Nice to be close to someone in that playful way.

And besides, Martin was very warm.

Jon coughed, embarrassed. “It’s- ah, it’s alright.” He muttered, impressed at how relatively calm the words sounded. “I-I know it’s um- all in good fun.”

Martin tried to bottle his surprise. “Oh, um, yeah.” He grinned to himself. “Good.”

Jon hoped that he’d be able to hold onto this giddy, floating feeling at least until he got home. “I suppose I should be off, then.” Though as he went back to get his bag, he noted the slight wobbliness in his legs.

The snort from behind him said that Martin had noticed too. “Sure you don’t need a minute to catch your breath?”

Jon never usually smiled this much. “Apparently so.”

“Come sit in the breakroom with me then, I can make tea. Herbal tea.” He added pointedly.

Jon huffed a laugh. “Alright.” He said softly, feeling an odd burst of affection at the offer. Heard Martin’s footsteps retreat and briefly considered going back to work if only to aggravate him, before gathering his things and joining him in the breakroom.

He entered just as Martin was adding a spoonful of honey to each cup, and couldn’t resist. “Sugar, at this time of night? Martin, how ever will you sleep?”

“Oh, ha ha.” He rolled his eyes. “As if I could trust you to ever drink anything that doesn’t have sugar in.”

Jon held back his smile. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Uh huh, of course you don’t.” Martin said fondly, tossing the spoons in the sink and turning with both cups in hand. “Go on, sit down, you’re meant to be getting your energy back so you don’t collapse on the tube.”

Jon rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. He liked how much closer he’d gotten with Martin. Liked their playful back and forth. “Thank you.” He said, taking the cup.

“Anytime.” Martin sat beside him.

“It almost is anytime.” Jon smiled, the steam swirling up into the air between them. “It’s… good of you, to make everyone tea all the time.”

Martin flushed, both hands gripping the burning ceramic. “It’s- it’s not a big deal.” He muttered. “It’s just tea.”

Jon shrugged. “It’s nice.”

“Oh.” Martin took a sip of his tea to buy time. “Um, thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

Jon smiled and had a sip of his own tea. “I do.”

Martin let out a contented sigh. “You’ve seemed… better, lately. More rested, I guess?”

There was laughter in Jon’s voice. “Well naturally, when someone’s forcing me out of here every day.”

“Oh, so I should be taking credit for you looking less like a zombie?”

“Now you’re just twisting my words.”

“Of course.” He grinned into his tea. “There’s obviously a different reason you’re suddenly getting enough sleep.”

Jon stifled a yawn. “For all you know I’ve just gotten a new mattress.”

“Mmm.” Martin hummed, putting his almost empty mug down. “Nice mattress?”

“Feather down.” Jon replied, sinking back into the couch.

Martin chuckled sleepily. “Feather mattress? Surely that’s too soft. Can’t be good for your back.”

“Maybe not.” Jon admitted, imagining the softness of such a mattress. Couldn’t be as comfortable as Martin’s jumper looked. “S’nice though.”

Martin’s limbs felt very heavy. “Sounds it.” He mumbled. It did. It was so easy to imagine being swallowed up by a big, soft, comfy pillow. Like sleeping in a cloud.

Yeah, he thought, letting his eyes rest for a moment. That would be nice.

--

Martin woke feeling quite well rested, slightly stiff, and a little cold. He shifted, blinking away the sleep from his eyes, and realised that he was still on the breakroom couch.

Ah.

And, it seemed, he was not the only one there. Jon was still there next to him, his head rested comfortably against Martin’s shoulder, one hand gripping his arm, almost cuddling it.

Before he had the time to process that, there was the subtle bang of the breakroom door, followed by what he could definitely hear as stifled giggles and shushing. Great.

Martin had just resolved to wake Jon when he started to blink awake himself, seemingly not terribly bothered by snuggling up to his coworker in his sleep. Or maybe just that groggy. “Mmm? Where- oh. I see.”

When Jon realised where he was, he shifted away, apparently awake in an instant. “U-um, I’m sorry about- about that, Martin, I um- didn’t mean to.”

Martin blinked, trying to process. Oh, of course. “Oh, uh, it’s okay,” He hoped it wasn’t obvious just how okay it was. “I mean you- it was an accident, not like your cardigan could keep you warm enough.”

“Oh… alright.” Jon hesitated, then huffed a laugh, sitting up. “How did forcing me to go home go, then?”

“Oh, shut up.” Martin groaned, shoving him. “Too early for this.”

“It’s a good thing I’ve got a change of clothes, at least.” Jon said, stretching and getting to his feet. He patted Martin gently on the shoulder. “Better luck next time!”

Martin pulled a face at him as he left, vowing revenge, and set about making himself a morning cup of tea. There was barely enough time for the kettle to click before the door opened again, this time to reveal a very smug sounding Tim. “So…”

Martin tried not to think about how Jon had snuggled up to him. Tried not to think about his eyes, his smile, oh god, his laugh? Martin had almost forgotten until that moment. That radiant smile, the squeaky, bubbly laugh. God it was so cute.

Wait…

He turned, holding up a finger to stop Tim before he could speak. “I have an offer for you.”

Tim crossed his arms, clearly amused. “Oh yeah?”

“Mm-hm!” Martin felt more confident as the seconds went by. “You don’t make fun of me for any of… that, and I’ll let you in on some fun gossip.”

Tim pulled a thoughtful face. “Hmmm, how fun are we talking?”

Martin smiled to himself. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Don’t suppose I can reserve judgement until after I’ve heard this hot goss.”

Martin stirred his tea, mulling it over. “As long as I can trust you to be fair.” He mused. There wasn’t really any chance that Tim wouldn’t be delighted by what he was about to tell him.

Tim chuckled, fishing his own mug out of the cabinet along with Sasha’s. “Hand to god, if I find this goss remotely hot, not a word about you and Jon all snuggled up.”

Just hearing the words had blood rushing to his cheeks. “Tim!” He choked, unable to come up with anything else.

He laughed, mussing Martin’s hair playfully. “Deal’s not valid until you give me the goss Martin!”

Martin batted at him, still flushed, but laughing as well. All in good fun, after all. Like Jon had said. He grinned at the counter. “Jon’s ticklish.”

Silence followed, confusing Martin for the moment. Was he wrong? Was Tim just going to tease him more, asking how he knew that? Did Tim know already? His brain had the chance to throw all those questions at him in the second it took for him to look up and register the look of stunned shock on Tim’s face.

“No.”

Martin grinned. “Yeah.”

“No!”

He snickered. “Yes! Really um- quite badly.”

Tim seemed caught between shock and delight. “No way! Mister bossman, stick up his arse, scowl-y face is ticklish?!”

Martin snorted. “I know.”

He stiffened. “And he never told me?!” With that outraged exclamation, Tim turned and barrelled out the door.

Martin let out a chuckle and, because Tim had just left them there, poured his and Sasha’s tea. And Jon’s for good measure.

He’d just stepped out into the main office when there was a loud screech from down the hall, followed by a triumphant laugh.

“Oh my god, it’s true!”

“Tim- Tim no let me go, Tim!”

That familiar bubbly laughter echoed through the archives, making Martin grin and Sasha giggle.

“MARTIN! Traitor! TRAITOR!” Jon shrieked dramatically.

Martin laughed, noting Sasha doing the same. “Sorry, what? Can’t hear you!”

Jon’s threats of vengeance were barely coherent through his giggly squeals, but Martin wasn’t terribly worried.

After all, it was all in good fun.

[rosileeduckie]

Tell Me, Love

Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding teasing.

Jon is a mean teaser. Something short to get me writing again. I’ve finished The Magnus Archives, I adored it (though the ending left me yearning for fluff; look forward to that in the future from me), and I hope this is a good entry piece to that corner of the fic world for me.

SFW. Potential warnings: swearing. The Magnus Archives/JonMartin tickle fic

Word count: 1,315

~*~

“Sorry, does that tickle?”

The only reply Jon received was in the form of stifled, shoulder-shaking giggles. He grinned, pressing a kiss to the nape of Martin’s neck before hooking his chin over one of Martin’s bouncing shoulders. Jon’s left hand remained stationary, his wrist resting on Martin’s other shoulder and his index finger ghosting slowly up and down the shell of Martin’s ear.

“Only kidding, darling,” Jon said, leaning in to brush his lips against Martin’s right ear, delightfully flushed and warm, and chuckle lowly, “I KNOW it does.”

The way Jon sat—with the couch armrest against his flank and his legs spanning Martin’s, his front molded comfortably to the bigger man’s back—he could feel the way his boyfriend shivered and tensed, jaw clenched to keep from shaking his head to escape the tickly attention as well as to keep from laughing aloud at it. Martin would laugh eventually, Jon knew. It only took persistent enough adoration of any of his many sensitive spots, or sneakily baiting him into talking, at which point he wouldn’t be able to hold any of his sweet giggles back. It was adorable every step of the way.

Jon swapped his head to Martin’s other shoulder to give the left ear the same featherlight treatment. Martin’s right ear wasn’t lonely for long, though, as Jon’s right hand began tracing its rim and ridges. “Spooky, isn’t it?” Jon teased. With his unemployed hand, Jon caressed the apple of Martin’s freckled cheek, beaming at the warmth and wrinkled smile lines he could feel beneath the pad of his thumb. “How did I know~?”

“Sh- shut up,” Martin whined, ever so subtly ducking his head further into his chest and away from the hand touching his face. An illegally cute place to be ticklish, in Jon’s opinion. The movement only leaned Martin’s ear closer to the gently fluttering fingers of Jon’s other hand, making the poor man squeak before tumbling into soft giggles that shook his large frame.

Sighing happily at the sound, Jon shook his head, letting the tip of his nose brush back and forth along Martin’s ear. “Make me.” On the hunt for more laughter, Jon sent his wiggling fingers wandering, tickling under Martin’s chin and down the side of his neck while his lips continued doting on Martin’s rosy ear. “Actually, I didn’t even have to do anything spooky,” Jon said with a chuckle. “You’re a bit of an open book, darling.”

“Shut uuuuup,” Martin said again, all the while tipping his head backward onto Jon’s shoulder and leaving himself tellingly open to his partner’s mischievous fingers.

“No, really,” Jon insisted, even though Martin was hardly fighting back verbally or physically, “it’s quite adorable.”

“You’re one to talk—!” said Martin, only to snort when Jon’s ring finger caressed the edge of his grinning lips. Knowing the touch would send tingles up Martin’s jaw, Jon’s hands darted back before Martin could crush his cheek protectively against his shoulder, rubbing away the sensation against the fabric of his jumper. Poor Martin realized all too late that he’d fully directed his right ear toward Jon, who pressed his lips against the burning skin and remained there, threateningly unmoving in a way that made Martin’s hands knot preemptively in the fabric of his shirt.

When Jon spoke, dramatic that he was, he did so so softly that Martin would feel more than hear the words. “Would you like to know what I have in mind for you, love? Go ahead, ask me. I’ll tell you.”

Really, Jon hadn’t meant to do anything ‘spooky’ while teasing Martin; generally, the archivist could read his partner well enough to know how he was feeling and what he wanted. But he couldn’t help getting a glimpse of Martin’s thoughts as the poet’s imagination ran away from him (and, quite accidentally but conveniently, within Jon’s line of Sight). Amid the tangle of loud and expectant thoughts, Jon saw a younger Martin, still curly-haired and freckle-faced and bright-eyed behind his glasses, which, in the memory, were askew on his scrunched nose by the width of his massive chortling grin. Said grin was being prompted by incessant raspberries being blown on Martin’s neck and stomach by an unseen playful assailant, and, though past Martin wriggled and swore like the devil, Jon could plainly see the memory existed in a haze of happy.

“Though, maybe what you’re picturing is coming next is far worse than anything I could tell you,” Jon said with a chuckle, leaning back to give Martin breathing room with hands resting placatingly on his shoulders. Raspberries as a finishing move against Martin—Jon pocketed that little nugget of knowledge for later. At present, inspired, he had a few other ideas that he was eager to see the lethality of.

“Don’t—” Martin said, then exhaled through his nose, slowly un-turtling but keeping eyes down on his hands and a smile pinched between his lips. “Don’t tell me.”

Eyebrows rising, Jon grinned, snaking his arms around Martin’s middle to pull him impossibly closer and purring into the side of his neck. “Gladly.”

In an instant, Jon’s lips were latched onto Martin’s ear, his teeth delicately nibbling and the stubble of his chin scratching the sensitive spot just behind. The sensations were much more intense than the teasing caresses Jon had been subjecting Martin to for the past few minutes, and he was delighted by the result of the change-up. Martin lurched forward with a second of breathlessness as his brain caught up with the devious attack the nerves just on the other side of his skull were experiencing. He gasped out the softest, giggliest little, “fuck,” before being overtaken by laughter that varied beautifully between silence punctuated with wheezing squeals that made him curl up and full-body cackles that had him flopping backward, Jon and his evil mouth clung to him and following whichever way Martin rocked. Just for fun and because he was now set on giving Martin something to be more terrified of than raspberries, Jon’s hands sprang to life where they sat at Martin’s waist, diving under his shirt and scribbling fingers into his soft belly. Snorts infiltrated Martin’s laughter, and he batted weakly at the spidering hands beneath his pullover. His attempts hardly discouraged the attacking digits, instead prompting them to seek other spots that Martin couldn’t whack so easily, like the dip in his side and beneath his arm.

Jon may have pressed close so as to tickle Martin to the edge of oblivion, but he suddenly found himself suddenly closer when Martin leaned bodily backwards, squishing Jon’s left arm and leg against the sofa back. The archivist tried to tug his limbs free, but found Martin had him stubbornly stuck. That truth became even more apparent when Jon felt a hand rest atop his foot, a thumb brushing the side of his socked arch and making his knee jerk reflexively only to stay stuck.

His hands, Jon realized upon hearing Martin catch his breath, had stilled, once more holding onto Martin but twitching for very different reasons at the sudden reversal. “Can we talk about this?” Jon said, the smile he’d been so confidently wearing having gone wobbly and giddy.

The only reply was the hand on his foot sliding to hold his sole, its fingers tapping thoughtfully before increasing their tempo to a devastating flutter. Needing less time to consider, Martin’s other hand reached back, crab-clawing Jon’s side until the seeking fingers found the spaces between his ribs and rooted themselves there. Jon’s shrieks were hardly muffled by the fabric of Martin’s shirt, and the chuckle he could feel rumbling through Martin’s back did not make the warmth in his face fade.

“Oh, I think you’ve talked enough for now,” Martin hummed, grin audible in his voice. “Unless you’d like to tell me, love, does that tickle?” 

[a-simple-lee]

Just like old times (TMA)

Tim Stoker, Sasha James, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims

Synopsis: Tim can be a bully. Sasha’s prepared to take him down a notch as part of an old tradition of theirs.

“Tim, please-”

“I’m just saying, you could’ve gotten his number-”

“His number-? wh-I-”

“If not for you, then for me, I mean-”

“Tim!”

“What? He sounds cute.”

“Oh my God.”

Sasha tries to stifle a laugh at her colleagues’ banter. Martin has his face buried in his hands, sunkissed curls peeking out over the tops of his fingers as he ducks to run them through his hair. His freckles have disappeared behind a positively glowing blush.

“Tim, stop bullying him,” 

“But it’s so easy-”

“Hey!” Martin raises his head at that, eyebrows furrowed in a way Sasha has to stop herself from calling adorable. 

“Haven’t you done enough damage?” She smiles, nodding in his direction. He lets out a sigh of relief, as if Sasha is the only one in the office talking sense (she often is).

“Thank you, Sasha.” 

“...Hold on. You’re still not over your crush, are you Martin?” Tim practically lights up with the realisation. “That’s why you didn’t make a move, huh?”

Martin lets out a squeak of indignation, dropping the pen Sasha had been watching him tap against his wrist for the past 20 minutes in what she guesses is a nervous tic. 

“Oh, Marto,” Tim rubs his hands together, and Sasha refrains from telling him he looks like a fly cleaning its antennae. 

“Tim,” She starts, stepping over to him. “Leave the poor boy alone,”

“Yes, listen to Sasha-” Martin nods frantically.

“He’s perfectly capable of embarrassing himself.” She takes a sip of her tea and listens to Martin spluttering for a second. 

“Uh-well, that’s- I- How very dare you.”

Tim grins. “If you just tell us who it is, it’d make things a lot easier-”

“Tim,” Sasha elbows him in the side. “He’ll tell us when he’s ready.”

Tim elbows her back. “Sasha,” he gestures to Martin. “He can speak for himself.”

“I-it’s fine, Sasha, you’re right-”

Sasha reaches over to pat Martin’s shoulder, and the nervous rambling halts.

“Right, are you going to leave him alone then?” Sasha gently pushes Tim.

“But who am I going to pester?” He frowns.

“We both know you only pester us when you want attention,” Sasha tosses a pen at him. He catches it.

“It’s working so far,”

Something clicks into place in Sasha’s head. 

“Alright, fine. Let’s say you’ve got my attention. Now what?”

Tim glances to the ceiling, a tell Sasha’s learned to pick up on. She knows he’s trying to think of an answer. His eyes light up, and he points to his cheek with the pen. “You could give me a kiss?”

She giggles, deciding not to point out that he’s just smudged ink on his face. “Pretty sure Martin doesn’t want to be subject to our workplace fraternisation.” 

“But Sasha-” Tim wiggles his eyebrows and lowers his voice. “It’s not fraternisation if we don’t get caught.”

There’s her cue. She reaches over and squeezes his side. 

“Tim, you’re despicable.”

He shifts away, suppressing a laugh. “Hey, now-”

“What?” She grins, stepping closer to poke at his ribs. It’s no secret that Tim isn’t one to shy away from physical affection, though perhaps less known that he’s not averse to being tickled. Every now and then, Tim will try to initiate a tickle fight through playful roughhousing or banter, and Sasha will eventually get the message. 

She certainly doesn’t mind humoring Tim’s attempts at provocation if it means getting to watch her best friend giggle uncontrollably. Her hands poke up and down Tim’s ribs, following when he leans away - he’s perfectly capable of stepping out of range, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, batting weakly at her hands and backing himself into a corner.

“Sash!” He squeaks, signature Stoker grin morphed into a beaming smile, letting out a high-pitched giggle when Sasha lightly squeezes his sides.

“Yes?”

“You’re-ha-killing me! She’s killing me, Martin!”

Martin puts down his mug and resumes typing, not even looking their way. “What a pity.”

“Please, you’ve gotta save me, Martin!”

“Leave him out of this,” Sasha tuts. “He knows not to intervene.”

Martin snorts. “Just common sense, really.”

“Fine, fine! I- SASHA!” Tim all but screeches when she moves to target his stomach, sinking down slightly and stumbling backwards into his chair. Sasha can’t help but start laughing, and Tim’s trying to glare daggers at her, only he’s blushing way too hard and smiling much too widely for Sasha to take him seriously. It’s silly, and childish, but this dance of jovial affection is theirs, and she wouldn’t change it for the world.

And then Jon clears his throat from his place in the doorway. 

Tim sits up straight in his chair, hair still askew, residual giggles still lacing his voice. “Hey, boss!”

Jon nods stiffly. “Hello.” The both of them take a second exchanging a look Sasha can’t quite decipher. She thinks of the time in Research, when she’d entered the room on lunch break to see Jon and Tim swatting at one another like siblings having a disagreement. Of the way Jon knew to prod at Tim’s torso to get him to back off, or the way Tim knew to tweak one of Jon’s ribs in retaliation. 

It feels like years ago, but she knows - she can tell - none of them have forgotten.

“You have ink on your face.” Jon observes. Tim sends a pointed glance in Sasha’s direction. She shrugs at him.

“Right, thanks. I’ll get that sorted.”

There’s a pause. 

“Did you, uh-”  Tim gestures to the pile of files Jon’s cradling. “Did you need something?”

Jonathan blinks. “Yes, actually, uh. Sorry to interrupt your lunch break. I amended the errors you pointed out in those recordings last week, Tim. I’d appreciate it if you could swap out the tapes on the shelves.” Jon starts, briskly striding to his desk and sliding two cassettes onto the free space by the keyboard. 

“Right, cheers.” Tim looks dazed. They both do. 

Jon gives another nod, heading back towards his office. Sasha watches him go. 

He pauses at the doorway.

“Oh, and Sasha?”

“Yes?”

“You should know by now to go for his neck.”

The door swings shut. Sasha grins as Tim starts trying to improvise a peace treaty on the spot.

Some things never change.

[words-writ-in-starlight]

Yo can i haave uhhh 4 and 7 from the character ask meme for jon sims, since most of that other stuff is in canon

For this ask meme!

4) Best places to kiss on their body

It comes about almost by accident, in the safehouse in Scotland.  Martin is going out early and alone--Jon is all but a permanent fixture inside, too unwilling to risk slipping up in a moment of distracted hunger and taking someone’s statement directly to wander often among the town, so Martin generally runs out alone.  It made him nervous at first to go alone, still does sometimes, but the people he passes see him and nod and sometimes smile, and he makes small talk with the old woman who sits behind the counter at the corner store, and if there’s fog, there are also people all too ready to complain about it with him.  That makes it easier.

But so he’s heading out early and alone, is the thing, and he gets himself up out of the bed--the bed that he shares with Jon, no less.  It’s funny, almost, how much the last nightmare year has led to a situation that his old self would have thought of as a delirious and impossible delight.  Jon sleeps curled on his side, not really a cuddler, but facing Martin, with one hand closed in the fabric of Martin’s shirt.  He stirs when Martin gets up, and turns his face toward Martin when Martin comes in to say that he’ll be back.  It’s that movement that makes Martin’s kiss on the cheek land somewhat strangely on Jon’s closed eyelid, instead, and Martin is ready to pull back, to laugh and apologize, but--

Jon hums, just a little, deep in his chest, and doesn’t open his eyes.  On impulse, Martin drops another light kiss on Jon’s other eyelid, and Jon hums again, and puts his head back down.

It becomes a familiar way for Martin to promise that things will be okay, a quick kiss on Jon’s eyelids, as if to say you can’t see me and I still like you.

It’s--almost funny, later.

7) Their tickle spots

JONATHAN SIMS, THE ARCHIVIST, IS DESPERATELY TICKLISH PRETTY MUCH EVERYWHERE AND HE HATES IT VERY MUCH.

It’s not even that he’s particularly averse to the feeling of being tickled, it’s just so undignified.  It’s fucking embarrassing.  Don’t talk to him about it.

[bluejayblueskies]

an ill-fitting definition

rating: M words: 4.3k relationships: jongeorgie, jontim, jonmartin, background wtgfs additional tags: canon compliant, pre-canon, scottish safehouse period, canon asexual character, fluff, kissing, implied sexual content, rumors and misconceptions

written for weeks two/three of @archivalpride for the prompts identity and doubt!

cw for misconceptions about asexuality, assumptions made about somebody’s sexuality, rumors and outing somebody without their knowledge, non-explicit/implied sexual content, mention of canonical character death, mention of canonical stalking and paranoia, gossip (including of the sexual nature), food, very mild blood, mild internalized acephobia

ao3 link in source

.

It’s three weeks and two days after they began dating, when Georgie picks up Jon’s hand where it’s clasped in hers and asks with plain curiosity in her voice, so does the ring, y’know, mean anything?, that Georgie hears the word asexual cross Jon’s lips for the first time.

It’s not a word she’s unfamiliar with; she’s run in enough LGBTQ spaces in her time in uni that she has a good idea of the breadth of identities that are out there. She rubs her thumb across Jon’s ring and thinks, in the voice of the gender and equality training instructor with sharp red heels and a “fun” black dress who’d stood in front of the seminar she’d been mandated to take for one of her courses:

Asexuality. A lack of sexual attraction. An aversion or repulsion to sexual activities.

It had been a small word on a large black-and-white slide, crammed in next to aromanticism and overcrowded by a myriad of other sexual identities discussed at length. It had been… quite a comprehensive training, Georgie thinks as she quits fidgeting with Jon’s ring and instead threads their fingers together. For a moment, she considers asking what he means anyway, but she quickly dismisses the thought. She wants to be supportive, and as Jon looks at her with open, trusting eyes and a faint smile, she decides that she knows enough. She doesn’t want to make it awkward, and with things like these, she’s found that asking Jon to explain his feelings in plain terms can be… well, awkward is certainly a word for it. Best just not to bring it up, she decides.

Still, she feels the need to ask, “Can I kiss you?” because the red no sex sign blinking on and off in her head is frustratingly vague on what, exactly, is contained within that stipulation. When Jon voices his assent, she tips her head up and presses a quick kiss to his chin before kissing him on the lips, wiping the disgruntled look off them.

So yes to kissing, she thinks, tucking that away next to no sex. Yes kissing, no sex. Yes holding hands, she adds as she squeezes Jon’s hand in hers and he smiles at her, warm and soft, that special side of Jon that she only sees on occasion. No pet names, she adds a week later when she tries out sweetheart and Jon’s nose wrinkles with displeasure. No foot rubs, when Jon swats at her and says, between giggles, that he’s awfully ticklish. Yes back rubs. Yes cuddling. No PDA. No touching with wet or sticky hands. Yes brushing hair.

That’s as far as she gets before, one year and two months after she begins dating Jonathan Sims, she stops. After which point she stops keeping track, because, well. There’s really no point anymore, is there?

.

.

.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, burying his head in his hands.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Tim says quickly, holding his hands in the air in a placating gesture. He scoots a few inches away from Jon on the couch for good measure, unsure just how much space Jon needs right now. “It’s okay. You don’t have to apologize—I should apologize. I should have asked first.”

“It’s just—” Jon makes a frustrated noise, and when he takes his hands away his cheeks are dark and he won’t meet Tim’s eyes. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s okay,” Tim repeats, watching with a twisting feeling in his stomach as Jon apparently notices that the button of his trousers is still undone and quickly goes to redo it. His eyes follow the movements of Jon’s hands automatically, and just as automatically, he notes the distinct lack of a tent in the front of Jon’s trousers. The same… cannot be said for his own. Particularly after nearly twenty minutes of kissing, which Tim had very much enjoyed.

Christ, had Jon been uncomfortable with that as well? All in a rush, Tim says, “Was the kissing bad too?” Then, he winces—fuck, that sounded accusatory—and adds, “It- it’s okay if it was, I just- I didn’t know, and I don’t want to do something that makes you uncomfortable, Jon.”

“No, the- the kissing was fine, it’s just...” Jon makes an aborted motion with his hands, like he’s trying and failing to find the words.

“... complicated?” Tim supplies.

Jon nods mutely.

“That’s okay,” Tim says, and he finds that he means it. “We don’t have to do anything more than kissing if you don’t want to.”

“I- I don’t…” Jon worries his bottom lip between his teeth. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, like he’s searching for the right words, the crease in his forehead deepening every moment he fails to find them. Finally, he lets out a long, labored breath, pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers, and says, “Yes, that… that might be best.”

Tim studies Jon’s face. It’s pinched and a bit stiff, like Jon would very much like to crawl out of his skin or melt into a puddle and disappear. “You sure?” he feels compelled to ask, placing a hand carefully on Jon’s knee. “You, uh. You seem a bit unsure.”

Jon sits there a moment more, spine straight and rigid, before melting slightly against Tim’s hand, his face slipping into something more relaxed but no less unhappy. “Yes.” He hesitates a moment, then says, a bit stiltedly, “I’m, um. I’m asexual. Since we’re already talking about this, I… I may as well get that out in the open as well.”

Oh. A few pieces slot into place, and Tim says with perhaps a bit more enthusiasm than necessary, “Oh. Why didn’t you tell—?” He cuts himself off and offers Jon a sheepish smile. “Sorry, sorry. That was rude of me. Thank you for telling me.”

“We’re dating,” Jon says bluntly. “It was going to come up eventually.”

“Still.” Tim shrugs, then reaches for Jon’s hand and holds it tightly in his. “Thanks.” He hesitates only a moment before leaning forward and pressing a quick kiss to Jon’s nose. Jon makes a disgruntled noise, which Tim thinks is adorable. Then, because it feels appropriate, he says, “Y’know, Danny… Danny was asexual. Aromantic too, actually. We had a big talk about it a few years ago where he sort of… laid it all out for me.” No sex, no romance, no thank you, had been the overall gist of it. Tim makes a new box for Jon and fills it in with the words no sex, yes romance, it’s complicated.

“Oh,” Jon says quietly, with that same sort of sadness in his eyes that he gets every time Tim mentions Danny, something much gentler than pity and significantly less cloying. If Tim notices the faint discomfort that accompanies it, something that whispers that isn’t my definition of asexuality, we’re not the same, you don’t understand if one were to listen closely enough, he doesn’t let on.

Tim does, however, notice the discomfort in Jon’s eyes—now mixed with anger—when two years, six months, and seven days later, he accuses Tim of murder. But by then, their days of hand-holding and nose-kissing are far, far behind them.

.

.

.

“Maybe he just needs to get laid,” Melanie says with a groan, lying on Georgie’s couch and staring at the ceiling. The Admiral is curled up on her lap, purring contentedly. She scratches absentmindedly under his chin.

“What, Jon?” Georgie appears in Melanie’s field of vision, wielding a damp wooden spoon and frowning.

“No. No.” Melanie shakes her head emphatically. “Martin. He’s been all… sulky lately. I think he’s still upset that Jon came to me instead of him for help, but I don’t know why he has to be all… touchy about it.”

“Ah. Well, you know, he is a bit hung up on Jon. At least, according to you.”

“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” Melanie says grumpily. “Besides, didn’t you say that Jon went on about Martin, like, all the time? Sounds like he’s got it bad as well. Maybe they could just… y’know.”

“Melanie.”

“What?” Melanie tries to shoot Georgie a glare, but it’s obstructed by the back of the couch. “I’m on my last nerve, Georgie!”

“I know, honey. But Jon’s really not… well, he’s not very open about these sorts of things. Getting him to talk about his feelings was like pulling teeth when we were together.”

“It still baffles me that you used to date.”

“He’s very sweet when you get to know him!” There’s a pause, a few clatters from the kitchen. “Besides, even if he and Martin got around to talking, Jon… well, he doesn’t.”

Melanie frowns. “Doesn’t what?”

“Have sex.”

“Really?” Melanie sits up, disturbing the Admiral, who lets out an irritated mrpp before adjusting himself accordingly and curling back up on her lap. “So when you were together…?”

Georgie shakes her head. “Nope. Never.”

“Huh.” Melanie thinks for a moment. “Is he like… religious or something?”

Georgie chuckles. “Jon? No, not at all. He’s asexual.”

“Isn’t that like… that thing that sponges are? Where they self-reproduce?”

“Seriously?”

Melanie scowls at the incredulous look Georgie’s giving her. “What? I’m not being a- a dick, I’ve just never heard of it before.”

“You were a YouTuber. Your job was to be internet famous.”

“Okay, now you’re just making fun of me.”

Georgie shoots Melanie a grin. “Sorry. Basically, it means that Jon doesn’t do sex. Like… at all. He just… doesn’t.”

“Huh,” Melanie says again.

“Yeah.” Georgie turns back to the stove. “Now, come here. Tell me if there’s too much salt?”

“Sorry Admiral,” Melanie whispers as she deposits him onto the floor and crosses the room to wrap her arms around Georgie’s waist from behind and take the bite of sauce on the spoon Georgie holds out for her. “Mm, tastes great. As always.”

And in the back of her mind, Melanie adds another line to the section labeled Jonathan Sims and writes, with careful handwriting, he doesn’t.

.

.

.

Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Martin pauses the tape and rubs his hands over his eyes. His cheeks are burning red, and he takes a few minutes to just breathe.

Doesn’t what? Doesn’t date? Doesn’t kiss? Doesn’t—

Martin stops that train of thought before it goes any further, the flush on his face growing in intensity. It’s none of my business, he tells himself as he ejects the tape and turns it over in his hands a few times before sliding it back into the small box it had come from.

He still can’t help but think about it. He thinks about it before the Unknowing, when Jon hesitates just a moment before wrapping him in a tight hug and whispering, I… I’ll be back, Martin. Then we can talk. He thinks about it when Jon’s in his coma, when Martin sits at his bedside and loses himself in daydreams and what-ifs. He thinks about it when Jon’s hand is clasped in his and he’s leading Martin out of cloying white fog and sea-salt air, his shirt speckled with bits of dark liquid that Martin tries to pretend isn’t blood. He thinks about it on the way to the safehouse, Jon leaning against his side, Martin’s hand clasped firmly in his.

He thinks about it a lot, in the confines of the wooden walls that let in the growing chill of the Scottish countryside.

Jon doesn’t.

He knows what Jon does. Jon makes him breakfast most days, eggs and toast and sometimes waffles, which Martin’s always considered a guilty pleasure but that he’s had more times in the past week and a half than he’s had for the past ten years. Jon puts his head on Martin’s shoulder when they sit on the couch and read, flipping through the dusty novels they’d found tucked in cardboard boxes underneath the bed that Jon had wrinkled his nose at but has been slowly making his way through nevertheless. Jon clings to Martin like his life depends on it when they sleep, and Martin will wake in the morning with one arm slung across his chest, a leg between his, and a sizeable portion of hair tickling at his nose.

And, nine days into their stay, Jon smiles at Martin as he shuffles into the kitchen in the morning, stands on his toes, and presses a soft kiss to Martin’s lips.

“Um,” Martin says eloquently, still half-asleep and trying to process what he’s 98% sure is their first kiss. He’d be 100% sure except for the fact that Jon kissed him like it was nothing, like it was easy, like it was something they do every morning.

The smile slips from Jon’s face, and he looks nervous. “I- I’m sorry, I should have asked first—”

“No, no, it’s- it’s okay,” Martin hastens to say, taking one of Jon’s hands in his and squeezing gently. “Just- just surprised, that’s all. I, um. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to kiss me, given that we haven’t…” He gestures absently, his face heating up. Stop talking, Martin. “Yeah,” he finishes lamely.

“Oh,” Jon says with a frown. “I… apologize for giving you that impression. I- I love you, Martin—I have no problems with kissing you.”

Warmth courses through Martin, as it always does when Jon tells him that he loves him. It all feels so unreal sometimes that he’s here, with Jon, away from it all and living in quiet domesticity. “Oh,” he says, face flushed. “A- all right, then. Great!”

“Great,” Jon echoes.

“Just- just thought maybe you didn’t—”

Martin clamps his mouth shut, face heating up more, this time in embarrassment. Shut up, Martin.

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t… what?”

“Um.” Martin rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “Kiss?”

Jon looks at Martin blankly. “Oh. Well, I- I do.”

“Right, yeah, I- I put that together. When we, um. You know.”

Jon looks amused. “Kissed?”

“Yep, that,” Martin squeaks out.

They look at each other for a moment before dissolving into giggles. Jon presses another kiss to Martin’s lips and finishes making the waffles and kisses Martin again when he hands Jon his tea, and it’s really quite lovely indeed.

So Martin adds Jon kisses to his mental list of Jon does and finds a sole remainder on the list of Jon doesn’t. And it’s fine with him, he decides, if Jon doesn’t want to have sex. He just wants Jon, in whatever way Jon will have him.

Jon doesn’t do sex, he thinks as he kisses Jon goodnight.

So, three days later, when they’re on the couch and they’ve kissed until Martin is red-faced and breathless and Jon pulls back with a pinched expression on his face, Martin assumes—with hot embarrassment coursing through him—that he’s somehow gone too far and strayed into sex territory and made Jon uncomfortable.

Then, Jon says with cheeks dark and eyes focused resolutely on Martin’s chest, “Martin, would… would you like to move to the bedroom?” and Martin’s thoughts grind to a halt.

“Sorry, what?” is all he can think to say.

Jon’s cheeks grow incrementally darker. “I am asking,” he says slowly, like the words are clunky and unwieldy in his mouth, “if you would like to have sexual intercourse. With me, of course, I- I hope that was implied.”

Martin’s aware that his mouth is quite literally hanging open in shock. He closes it quickly before swallowing and saying, “I… yeah, Jon, I- I’d love that, but I thought you—”

He clamps his mouth shut again, a touch too late. Jon’s forehead creases in confusion and he says, “I what?”

Martin hems and haws for a moment before biting the bullet and saying, all in a rush, “I thought you didn’t like sex.”

Jon’s frown deepens. “What? Why?”

And god, Martin doesn’t want to admit that he’s been thinking about office gossip for nearly a year, but he’s dug his grave—he may as well lie in it. He sighs, worries his hands on his lap, and says, “I… may have listened to a tape where Melanie said that Georgie said that you… didn’t.”

Jon looks at Martin blankly for a moment before his expression flattens into something that’s equal parts irritated and resigned. “Ah. Right. That… that makes sense, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Martin says emphatically, placing his hand atop Jon’s and squeezing. “I- I didn’t mean to hear it; I was listening to the statements and it was just there.”

“No, it’s… it’s not your fault.” Jon sighs and rubs a hand across his eyes. “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”

“What?”

Jon makes an aborted, dismissive gesture with his hand. “I’ve… never been good at explaining my own preferences. I never did with Georgie, just… told her I was asexual and left it at that. I suppose she took that to mean that I, er. Didn’t.”

Asexual. Martin has a vague notion of what that means—he’s been in enough online LGBTQ spaces to have encountered the word before, but he’s never really looked into it much himself. If pressed, he thinks he’d also assume it meant that Jon didn’t. Something a bit guilty twists within him at that thought, amplified by his next thought that Georgie shouldn’t have assumed, because, well, that’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it? Still, he feels the need to voice it; he squeezes Jon’s hand again and says, “It’s not your fault that she just- just made assumptions about what you wanted, Jon.”

“Yes, but it’s my fault that I never corrected her.” Jon makes a face. “Or Tim, now that I think about it. I… I suppose I’m just not very good at talking about these things. Particularly because my own preferences are…” Jon’s pained expression deepens. “Christ, I don’t want to say complicated again, but there really is no other word for it.”

That’s not your fault either, Martin wants to say, but he knows Jon will just contradict him again, and he’ll repeat himself, and then they’ll just be talking in circles, and that won’t help anything. It’s frustrating, but it’s the truth. Still, Martin finds the words waiting on his lips when he opens his mouth, so he shuts it again and thinks for a moment, promising himself later. I’ll tell him later. Finally, he says carefully, “Do you… do you want to talk about it? We don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I don’t want to assume.” He lets out a humorless laugh. “Well, I don’t want to keep assuming, I suppose, given that I’ve already assumed quite a lot.” Quieter: “Sorry, again.”

“It’s fi—” Jon cuts off, takes a breath. “Th… thank you, Martin.” He hesitates a moment, then says haltingly, “I- I do want to talk about it, but I don’t—” He makes a frustrated noise. “—I don’t know how.”

“Okay,” Martin says after a moment. “You said it’s complicated, yeah?” When Jon nods mutely, he continues, “Would it help if you described how you feel right now? That’s- that’s less complicated, right?”

Jon’s mouth flattens into a thin line. “I… suppose.”

“All right, then.” Martin makes a go-on gesture, then rests his hand atop Jon’s and applies a gentle pressure.

Jon takes a few deep breaths, squints at nothing, makes a few wordless noises, then says bluntly, “I want to have sex with you.”

Martin tries really, really hard not to blush, but he doesn’t think he quite succeeds given how hot his face feels when he says, “Right, okay.” His voice is a bit higher-pitched than normal; he hopes that Jon doesn’t notice. “And, um. Do you always… want to have sex with me? Or just right now.”

Jon grimaces. “That’s where it gets complicated.” He makes an I-don’t-know gesture with his free hand and says, “No? Yes? I don’t know, Martin. I’m told that not wanting sex all the time is- is normal, that- that you have to be in the mood, but apparently I’m just supposed to know when I’ll be in the mood and when I won’t be, and that- that doesn’t really work for me.”

“Are you—” Martin cringes internally, but forces the words out. “—in the mood right now?”

“Well,” Jon grumbles, “not anymore, but I was. And it’s complicated, because even if I am, I- I don’t always want to be touched, but how do you explain that to someone, how- how do you tell someone that it’s mostly no but sometimes yes and there’s a very good chance that I might change my mind halfway through and decide that it’s no after all?”

“I think,” Martin says patiently, “that you just say that.”

Jon gives Martin a look. “Martin.”

“What? It’s true!” Martin gives Jon as reassuring a smile as he can muster. “It made sense to me, at least.”

“Yes, but that’s not—” Jon makes a frustrated noise. “It’s not whether or not it makes sense, it’s whether or not somebody is willing to put up with a sexual partner who doesn’t know whether or not they’re going to want to have sex on any given day, whether they- they’ll be repulsed or interested or want to give but not receive or the other way around or- or something else that I haven’t thought of but that will likely happen because consistency is, apparently, off the cards for me entirely.”

“Hey, hey,” Martin says gently, placing a hand on Jon’s shoulder and rubbing gentle circles with his thumb. “Jon, look at me.” When Jon looks, albeit reluctantly, Martin continues, “I can’t speak for other people, and I- I can’t tell you how to feel, but I can tell you how I feel, and I… I’m willing. No, more than willing—I love you, Jon, all of you, and if this is how you feel, then I love that about you too. Whatever you’re willing to give me, it… it’ll be enough. You’re enough.”

Jon’s cheeks darken and he looks away. After a long moment, he says in a stiff voice, “Well. Thank you, Martin.” Then, a bit softer: “I… I love you too.” He looks at Martin then and offers him a small, weak smile. “It’s… well, it’s still awkward, but it’s not quite as bad—talking about all of this—as I thought it would be.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. Talk to me about it, that is.”

Jon’s smile turns a bit hesitant. “So you would really be okay if I… if I never asked again? To, er. To have sex.”

“Yes,” Martin says, without hesitation.

“Oh,” Jon says quietly. “And- and if I said that I did? Want to? That… that would be okay too? Even if I’d already said that I didn’t?”

“Yep.”

Jon looks down at his hands where they’re twisted tightly in the hem of his jumper, then back up at Martin. “All right.” He hesitates a moment, then says, “And if… if I said that I wanted to have sex… now?”

Ah. It looks like Martin’s not done blushing quite yet. “Yep, that- that’s fine with me,” he squeaks out, then cringes internally. Fine? Really?

Thankfully, Jon doesn’t seem offended; if anything, he seems amused, his mouth quirking up into a small smirk. “All right, then.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to Martin’s lips, soft and chaste and ever-so-slightly lingering before he pulls away. “I, er. I think I’d like to just kiss for a bit, though.” His smile turns teasing. “Foreplay is very important, after all.”

Martin groans and gives Jon a look, his face likely fully tomato-red by now. “Jon.”

“Need to make sure we’re fully in the mood before beginning proceedings—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve made your point,” Martin says, a giggle slipping out around the words. Then, because he’s nothing if not a little mischievous himself, he leans forward and captures Jon’s lips in a kiss, significantly less chaste and a touch more insistent, pressing until Jon is leaned back against the arm of the couch and Martin is hovering over him. Martin disengages from the kiss so he can marvel at the flushed, wide-eyed expression on Jon’s face. “Like that?” he says innocently.

Jon blinks up at him for a few seconds, like he’s not entirely sure how to process everything in front of him, before he smiles, a warm, happy thing that captures Martin’s heart entirely and steals it away. “I do believe that was adequate, yes. Perhaps you should do it again though, just to make sure.”

So Martin does. I love him, he thinks as he kisses Jon on the couch and kisses him again on the bed, kisses him in the spot between his shoulder blades where he always carries tension and in the dip of his clavicle and on the inside of his thigh. And when he’s curled up next to Jon after, he presses another kiss to the crown of Jon’s head and wraps his arms around him and quietly discards his mental lists of does and doesn’t. He’ll start from scratch, he decides, and after a moment’s thought, he comes up with two more lists, upon which it’s surprisingly easy to add item after item after item.

Jon likes to be kissed. Jon likes eggs and toast, but not jam, and likes his tea black and slightly oversteeped. Jon doesn’t like wool because he finds it itchy. Jon doesn’t like white wine, but he likes red, the kinds that are too dry for Martin’s tastes.

Jon likes Martin, and Martin likes him too. So, so much. And even when things change, when Jon finds a white wine he likes at a restaurant they visit and he takes his tea once with honey and enjoys it and he goes through a period where he doesn’t enjoy open-mouthed kisses and Martin adjusts his lists accordingly, that remains.

[nintickleswitch]

Weathering the Storm

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Words: 748

Characters: Jonathan Sims, Mike Crew

Warnings: Dubiously consensual tickling, misuse of Vast powers

Takes place in my silly AU where Jon gets marked by the Powers by getting tickled half to death by each of their avatars. Don't worry, he likes it - poor touch starved man, but he'd never admit it.

"The air doesn't leave your lungs quite like you expect it to, does it, Archivist," Mike replied calmly as he stalked over to the man who'd since fallen onto the carpet beneath his feet. He crouched down beside him, brushing a loose strand of hair out of his face. "Hm. It seems you hadn't learned your lesson from the others," he raised his trembling, bandaged hand, clutching for a reprieve that Mike would not allow him, before dropping it back down on the floor. "Unfortunate. I was hoping for an uncomplicated meeting. You'll get your statement, but before that... You need to learn some respect."

Jon gasped when the rush of air suddenly let up, not quite enough to let him move but just enough for him to get a few hoarse words out.

"What... What are you..." He managed, hearing the soft thud of Mike landing on his knees beside him, trying to twist his head around to see in a panicked motion. Another wave of vertigo hit him square on, forcing him to collapse with a low whimper just as the avatar did something he did not expect - but really should have at this point. Small, cold fingers crept up the edge of his shirt, ghosting over the Archivist's bare skin in a way that sent electricity shooting through his nerves. "No... No, no, Mike-"

"Archivist. I never said you could speak," he replied with what almost sounded like a mocking lilt. Jon imagined the trace of a cold, sadistic smile playing on his otherwise impassive face. "You wanted to hear my story, and you'll listen."

"W-why-" Jon asked, in perhaps the silliest question of his Archivist's career, his stomach twisting in knots from that giddy falling feeling even though he was no longer captured by Mike's power. His question was soon answered for him when those fingertips made contact with him and he positively howled in laughter. It didn't hurt like he thought he would - the current was gentle enough that it tickled like nothing he'd ever felt before. He could feel it tracing the paths of his nerves up his ribcage, down his sides, inflaming his whole body with the twisting sensation, but wherever Mike's fingertips struck directly was where it was at its worst - like lightning in a bottle. His laughter went silent again when the previous short, sharp squeezes right over his hip bones turned into tickly zaps. It would be a long time before Jon could finally muster the oxygen to say - Statement end.

The shriek that would have come from the terribly ticklish Archivist as soon as Mike lightly pinched just one of his ribs between his fingers was cruelly ripped from his throat by the rush of freefall. And when the rest joined to dance over his protruding ribcage, laughter disappearing into the wind, he realized that Mike's small mercy was not a mercy at all.

The following 15 minutes were a blur. Sat atop his lower back, Mike slowly recited the origin of his scar, all while inflicting the most devious tickling Jon had received yet. Between the lightning-quick pinches and squeezes and the gentle, almost breezy way Mike ran his nails all over the Archivist's exposed skin, Jon didn't have a single moment to recover, especially with the wind still whistling in his ears and the adrenaline pumping through his veins. Finally, after an agonized eternity in freefall, all of a sudden everything stopped.

"That... That was nice. I don't think I've had a chance to tell that story in full before."

With a flick of his wrist, he released the Vast's hold over Jon, letting him flop over onto his back. He took deep, sucking breaths, shaking off the remaining giggles as he stared at the ceiling still spinning before him. Mike regarded him with a smirk that was decidedly more warm and far more devious than what he was wearing when Jon entered. And then, he had an idea.

"But oh, Archivist... You've made my tea go cold. Something must be done about that."

Jon, still barely capable of even parsing words, mumbled something that could have resembled a question before Mike's face came into his field of view, pale blue eyes swirling with mischief.

"Do you know why they call me the Stormbringer, Archivist," he intoned sharply, electricity beginning to arc and crackle between his fingertips, the wind soaring behind him and catching Jon's hair in the updraft, streaming like garlands into the sky.

[voiceless-terror]

The Weight of Love (TMA)

Jon is a restless sleeper. Martin attempts to adjust.

Note: This was just a little something inspired by @janekfan‘s wonderful art of Jon sleeping in all sorts of weird positions. It takes place in my ADHD Jon Adventures universe, but is totally fine as a stand alone piece! <3

Martin Blackwood was awakened once again by a knee to his side.

Look, Jonathan Sims was the love of his life. An all-around wonderful human being. Sweet, caring, intelligent, clever. A thousand other descriptors that he kept track of in a small journal (for sappy poetry that wouldn’t see the light of day). Every moment they spent together was precious to him, even when they bickered. Especially when they bickered. So, needless to say, Martin Blackwood was a very happy and lucky man. But there was just one thing he couldn’t get used to.

Jonathan Sims was incapable of staying still, even in his sleep.

It would start out fine. Jon would curl into his side, Martin would nod off, everyone comfortable and cozy. But after about an hour or so, Jon would start to move. A restless turn here, a mumble or two there. Occasionally he would grab Martin’s hand and intertwine their fingers. A kiss to his forearm, a gentle nudge to his chin. All very cute. But that was just the prologue. 

The main event came closer to midnight, when Jon thought it was suddenly appropriate to treat Martin like some sort of jungle gym. If Martin attempted to sleep on his stomach, he very quickly acquired a Jon-sized backpack. If he moved to his side, Jon would throw himself horizontally over Martin’s hip, as if to prevent him from getting up. If he slept on his back, he would wake up to a mouthful of black curls. 

It didn’t help if Martin stayed still. Jon would find a position comfortable for about thirty minutes before he started contorting into a new one, all elbows and knees. None of this could’ve been comfortable for him and it was clear he wasn’t sleeping soundly, but he woke up with seemingly no knowledge of his late-night misdeeds. Either that, or he was unwilling to acknowledge them. Martin, however, was starting to get a bit tired. 

Last night had been the final straw, with Martin waking up to Jon trying to climb him like a ladder, a knee almost knocking the wind out of him. He pulled the man back down from what looked like an almost-successful attempt at crawling up the headboard. Jon simply mumbled in response to the manhandling, attempting to curl back up in his arms. Martin groaned aloud at the adorable display, clearly a clever ruse to distract him from the task at hand: namely, making sure Jon didn’t kill him in his sleep.

“Oh no you don’t- wake up, Jon.” A small snore, then silence. Martin ran a finger down his side, a dirty trick as it was his most ticklish spot. “C’mon. Rise and shine.”

Jon squirmed, his eyes blinking open as he quickly adopted his trademark scowl, as if he was the offended party. “Hnnh. What time s’it?”

“Time for you to stop assaulting me in my sleep, that’s what.” He instantly regretted that choice in words as Jon shot back, almost flailing out of bed in an attempt to put some distance between the two of them. Martin grabbed hold of his arm with a sigh, pulling him back to safety.

“That’s- sorry, that’s not what I meant.” Martin winced. “Well, it kind of is, but-”

“I’m-I’m sorry, Martin.” Even in the dim light of the room, Martin could make out two big eyes looking at him apologetically. “What did I do?”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re a very active sleeper?” Jon immediately looked down at his lap. That’s a yes. Martin moved to reassure him. “It’s very endearing, but er, not very conducive to sleeping. For me.” He reached out to rub at Jon’s back, letting him relax into the touch. “Honestly, I don’t know how you sleep that way. You’re not even that energetic when you’re awake.”

“Georgie did mention it once or twice, yes. But she ah, gave as good as she got, as it were.”

Martin shuddered at the image of the two of them, punching and kicking their way through the night. What a nightmare. Jon looked guilty and chastised and that wasn’t at all what he was aiming for. He just wanted some fucking sleep. He could move out to the couch, but it wasn’t particularly comfortable and he genuinely liked sleeping with Jon. When he’s still, and not fighting off some unseen enemy or climbing Martin like a fencepost. “Is there anything that helps? Or is this just...normal?” Jon shook his head and sighed, leaning into his side.

“I’m sorry, Martin. I’ve never really been good at this ‘resting’ business.”

“What if I wrapped you up in a blanket or something? Like a little burrito!” Martin framed it as a joke, but he was actually half-serious.

Jon gave a weak laugh. “I think I’d just roll out of it.”

“Doesn’t hurt to try!”

Turns out it did in fact hurt to try. Not forty minutes later did Jon roll out of his cocoon and off the bed, momentum carrying him almost to the wall. It would have been hilarious if it weren’t for the large bruise on his forehead and the ice pack he was now nursing as he sat on the couch, complaining.

It was still a little funny. And a bit of payback for all of the bruises he’d given Martin. But Martin was determined to find a solution to their little conundrum, and let them both get a good night’s sleep. If he was going to survive sleeping with Jon, he would need a little help.

_____

“What do you want, Blackwood?” 

Martin sighed. All things considered, this was a rather tame greeting from Melanie. “Hi, Melanie. How are you?”

She glared at him for a moment too long before opening the door fully, gesturing for him to come in. “Usual. Heard you’ve got someone keeping you up all night.” She snickered, collapsing onto the sofa with a smirk and propping her legs up on the coffee table. Martin gaped.

“How did you-”

“Jon’s been texting Georgie. And what Jon texts Georgie, Georgie tells me.” She patted the couch cushion next to her. Martin shuffled over, plopping down with a sigh. “Never thought I’d see the day where Jonathan Sims landed a hit on someone.”

“I have no idea where that strength comes from!” He bit out, happy to have someone to commiserate with. Melanie’s never complained to him about Georgie, though they aren’t really on close enough terms to confide in each other like that. “He’s completely still and then wham! Foot to the shin. How do you stand it?”

Melanie shrugged. “Georgie doesn’t do that anymore. Not since she got one of those weighted blankets from a sponsor. Sleeps like a log, she does.” Martin paused.

“Huh.”

“Yup.”

Why didn’t I think of that? He’d always considered buying one for his anxiety, though he never bit the bullet on the purchase. It seemed like a needless extravagance on his already limited budget. But it was worth it, for a decent night’s sleep. And being able to sleep in the same bed as Jon.

“We have another, if you want to try it out. They send us loads of free shit, it’s actually pretty wasteful.”

And so, armed with one incredibly heavy blanket and the hope of a restful night, Martin made his way back to their flat.

_______

“It’s got ghosts on it.”

“Cute, right?” Jon scowled.

“Look,” Martin sat down on the sofa, where Jon had been curled up for most of the day, still pouting over his head injury. “Just try it out! You might actually like it. And if you don’t...well, we’ll just try something else.” In actuality Martin wasn’t sure of any other options, but he figured he’d leave it open, try not to pressure him. “Here.”

He unfolded the blanket, large and black with tiny white ghosts on it, and held it out towards Jon enticingly. He rolled his eyes but still stretched out his legs for Martin to place it over. “Fine. If you must.”

He carefully spread it out on Jon’s legs, tucking it up around his waist. It was an adorable picture, really, Jon scowling and covered with all of those cartoonish ghosts. Martin felt him tense underneath it and he paused, ready for the inevitable failure of his experiment. “Too heavy?”

“No, it’s-” Jon shuffled around a bit, like a skittish animal trying to get its bearings. But then he melted before Martin’s eyes, leaning back on the couch with a look of utter relaxation that was so un-Jon like he had to do a double take. “Oh that’s-that’s rather nice, actually.”

Martin beamed. “So you like it?”

“I-maybe? Give me a minute.”

“Sure.” Ten minutes later he was passed out on the couch, utterly still. Like magic!

Mission accomplished.

_________

Jon dragged it into bed that night, noting with some grumpiness that the ghosts glowed in the dark. Martin thought he protested a bit too much.

“Childish nonsense. They didn’t have any others?”

“We can buy a different one, if you like.”

Jon let out a long-suffering sigh. “No, it’s...fine.”

And it was. Within twenty minutes, the two of them fell into a peaceful sleep. Jon had the occasional fidget, but was so weighed down and sleepy that it was never more than a twitch. It was the best night’s sleep Martin had in ages, and he reckoned the same for Jon.

He woke up the next morning to find Jon had once again migrated in his sleep, though only to lay himself completely on top of Martin, unmoving otherwise. He was a dead weight in addition to the blanket, but he wasn’t being actively kicked or climbed or otherwise maimed.

Now this he could work with. 

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28349760

[janekfan]

Fair

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28298580

Secret Santa gift for @alextblue!

This was such a lovely prompt! I hope you like it!!

Keep it together or they’ll never invite you out again.

He knew when he woke up, tangled in the duvet and soaked in a cold sweat that it was going to be a bad day. No matter how deep a breath he heaved, none of the air reached its way to the bottom of his lungs, caught it seemed on the tight band crushed around his ribs.

Relax.

Just relax.

Everything is fine.

More than fine.

Great even.

Jon was meeting Martin and Tim at an outdoor festival and with the weather for once bright and sunny, it was going to be a wonderful day. In succession, he tightened each muscle, holding himself stiff before relaxing and shoving the thrumming anxiety to the back of his awareness where it hung like a trembling red wire.

Shower. Clothes. Hair loosely tied. Tea.

Stomach unsettled, his toast remained untouched on the counter.

Keys, wallet, phone. Each in their appropriate pocket.

Deep breath. Two. Three.

“I’m alright.” Because he was. There was no reason for this. None at all and he was going to end up being too much of a nuisance for his friends. Maybe he should cancel. No. No. Who knew when he’d get another chance to prove he was more than their arse of a boss and worth having around.

The train went well. He made it to the predetermined meeting place in the park early as was his wont and checked his phone for messages. Predictably, Tim was running a few minutes late but Martin would be here soon and sure enough Jon saw him weaving his way politely through the crowd, raising his arm up to catch his attention.

“Jon!”

“Martin.” When he dug up a smile from somewhere Martin’s face lit up in response and a jolt not unlike lightning ran up Jon’s spine. A strong arm landed over his shoulders and the smell of Tim’s aftershave assaulted him right before his enthusiastic greeting.

“Hullo, gents!”

For a little while, Jon was able to lose himself in the music, the sights, the people watching, settling his nerves with a pint and prattling on about obscure music genres much to Martin’s apparent enjoyment. Tim ribbed him good naturedly and only commented on the blush (not from Martin grinning at him, thank you very much) from the alcohol traveling up his neck and settling high in his face.

“Thank you, Tim.” Voice measured and academic, Jon accepted the next pint with a hand forcibly held still, relaxing on the bench with Tim sprawled comfortably next to him. Martin was locating food and would meet them back here.

“Whoa! Slow down, champ.” Jon had downed half of it without thinking and was now looking dazedly at the plastic in his hand. “You alright, boss?”

“Mm. Yes, of course. Was thinking, is all.” A knobby elbow nudged his side and Jon suppressed a ticklish yelp.

“Thinking.” The way he drew out the word and raised a brow made Jon grateful for his already rosy cheeks.

“Stop! No!” Tim raised his hands in supplication.

“Sure, sure, whatever you say!” He all but tackled Tim when he pulled out his phone and began texting and that’s how Martin found them, tangled up with each other, Jon’s fingers in a deathgrip around the device to prevent him from spreading gossip. Tim just laughed, loud and bright and Martin, the traitor, snapped a picture before doling out the kebab.

It was shortly after lunch that Jon felt the strain of the hours spent pressed between strangers and overwhelmed by sounds and colors and the deep breaths weren’t helping anymore. Instead, Jon’s whole chest ached from how tight it was strung, tied up in knots drawn tighter with each attempt. Incessantly, he checked his watch, trying to hide it from the pair chatting just ahead of him, but the minutes weren’t moving and all he wanted to do was escape the throng, nails digging painful crescent moons into his palms as he clenched his hands into aching fists. His heart was pounding, the sun beating down without mercy and he regretted his previous decision to quaff beer like there was a drought when the nausea returned.

Jon was on autopilot, eyes fixed forward, one step after another after another after another with his heart fluttering in a throat so narrow he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. So he tugged on Martin’s sleeve, gesturing clumsy and stiff to the edge of the green.

“Just. Just be a, a minute, yeah?” The concern in his eyes was suffocating. He was ruining this.

“Everything alright, Jon?” He’d reached a hard limit. There were no more words left, no more air, so he nodded, flashed what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and walked away rigid and panting through an endless sea of jostling bodies.

Why couldn’t he just be normal? Why couldn’t he handle this like all the rest of them? Why did he have to be so difficult he needed to be invited to things out of pity?

What is wrong with you?

Jon hadn’t realized he’d yanked his hair out of its loose bun and was tugging on it until his head began to hurt. He stumbled more than once, vision going grey at the edges and what had only been anxiety before was swiftly sliding sideways into a panic attack. Dizzy. Where before he felt tense, as though breathing too deeply might crack him straight in half, now he was suffocating, arguing with himself:

Can’t breathe.

You can.

Back and forth, almost to the border and across the street to a bench, out of the way. Invisible. He’d fall apart here, scrape himself back together, and head back to find Martin and Tim. Ten minutes. He checked his watch. He’d give himself ten minutes. Panting, he pressed a hand to his breastbone, trying to force himself to calm down, relax, take in some air to prevent the black from spiraling further. Briefly, wildly he’s--

Dying.

Not. Shut up shut up shut up.

His ten minutes were almost up and it had been more like ten seconds. His chest hurt and he couldn’t breathe and his pulse was galloping out of control and filling his ears with a pounding, pounding, pounding. His fingertips were numb, he was light headed and trembling with his arms wrapped tightly around his stomach. He wanted Martin. He wanted Tim. He wanted nobody to see him like this. He couldn’t decide which was worse god he was pathetic just get ahold of yourself, Jonathan Sims!

Curled up impossibly small, wracked violently with chills and panic, Jon poured all his energy into staying silent and when a warm hand landed on his shoulder his shout of surprise was trapped behind clenched teeth. He looked up into Martin’s wide eyes and felt his own spill over with tears and a muffled sob. He’d been caught and the panic only rose higher until Martin laid a heavy hand across his shoulder blades.

“Jon. You need to take a breath.”

“C’c ah an’t.” He’d been trying. And failing. Always failing.

“You can, I promise.” And when he demonstrated, exaggerated, deep, Jon felt a pang of jealousy at how easy it came to him. “You can.” A sip of air made it through, then another. “Good, there you go, slow, good.”

“What’s happened?” With Tim came a fresh wave of tears and he sat beside Jon so that he was bracketed by the pair of them. “Oh, Jon. Okay, doing great, bud.”

“I’m,” he paused, swallowed another gulping breath. “M’sorry.”

“No reason to be sorry.” Jon wasn’t altogether certain Martin could be believed. “Just breathe, in, out. Good.”

“Okay…m’okay.”

“It’s alright if you’re not. Take your time.” Jon slumped forward under the weight of it all, exhausted and sore and full to bursting with guilt.

“I’m j’just. I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough. His apologies never were and he didn’t know what else to say, what would make this better. “I didn’t mean. I.” Martin shushed his babbling, pressing a cool bottle of water into his shaking hands and wouldn’t hear anymore out of him until he’d downed at least a third.

“Jon?” The silence was becoming too much under the scrutiny of the pair of them and he just wanted to forget his little episode and get back to the festival so they would smile again instead of look at him with pity.

“We can, we can go back now.”

“Jon?” Of course, why would they want him to tag along anymore after this foolishness?

“Or I, I can leave, uh, go home. Yes. Yes, I’ll go home and see you at work. T’tomorrow.” Ignoring their noises of distress, Jon sprang to his feet and almost went down again when a wave of vertigo tilted the street. He was guided by careful hands back to the bench, head gently pressed down between his knees.

“Why didn’t you say you weren’t feeling well?” Tears traced his nose, falling to the pavement below but he forced them back, speaking in a very small voice in an attempt to contain his histrionics.

“Didn’t want to ruin our day.”

“What?”

“I know. I, I did anyhow, I’m--”

“You’ve not ruined anything, Jon.” Martin was so kind, too kind. And here he was squandering it.

“Yeah, boss. It happens, no harm done.” They didn’t understand and Jon clapped both hands over his mouth before it could all come bursting out, how much this meant to him and how upset he was to have lost his chance. It rushed forth anyway, too big, too vast, and not wholly intelligible.

“I know I was only invited because of Martin and I. I.” This was embarrassing and he wasn’t able to stop himself. He never could. “I was hoping I'd be w’welcome next t’time? If only I, I were on my best behavior.” Good lord, he was crying again, a mess, here in the street where he was probably drawing all manner of looks. They shouldn’t have to put up with this. “I, I know I can be, be awful. I don’t, I’m rude and quick to irritation and I’m, I’m--” Gasping. He’d worked himself into another bout or maybe he hadn’t even come down from it in the first place.

“Breathe, Jon.” Stern and his teeth clicked with the force of their collision. “Breathe.” Only when he wasn’t on the verge of passing out did Martin continue. “Jon, I’m sorry. I had no idea you felt this way.”

“If I’d known--” Tim was quiet. “I shouldn’t have assumed it wasn’t your scene. I didn’t. No. I mean, I didn’t, but that’s no excuse.”

“No, no it’s. It isn’t your--I. I.” It was him. “I.” Tim swept him up into an embrace, exerting the perfect pressure across his shoulders and he melted into the warmth like he’d done back in research a time or two.

Or three.

Maybe four.

“We’ll finish talking about this later, alright? When you’ve had some sleep.”

“I, I don’t--it’s…” When Martin’s firm grip enveloped his shoulder Jon gave up, let the rest of it all go. “I’m--”

“Don’t say it. Don’t need to be.”

“You’re our friend, Jon.”

“But--”

“Nope!” Tim helped him stand, took his arm in his and set off towards the underground. “Martin, my dear, my darling, if you’re amenable, I think I’d like to finish our spectacular day with a few drinks at mine.” Jon went red. “I don’t think you’ve yet had the pleasure of meeting my good friend Three-Shot Sims.”

“Tim!” Martin had the audacity to pretend to think about it.

“You know, Tim.” And both ignored Jon’s sputtering in favor of nearly carrying him down the street. “I don’t think I have!” With no other choice and knowing he’d be under no pressure to perform that particular introduction, Jon let Tim guide him along.

“Oh, Marto, my boy. He’s a real treat.”

[ao3feed-themagnusarchives]

Remind Me Of The Babe

by Stray_Tickles

Tim finds a voodoo doll in one of his statement files and considers it his archival duty to test it.

Words: 4326, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: Gen

Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Martin Blackwood

Relationships: Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Additional Tags: Season 1, Voodoo, Tickling, Fluff, Archives crew - Freeform, background jonmartin, ticklish!Jon

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/33597517

[amazingmsme]

Like Magic

AN: So this is a bit of a different spin on the prompt, but anything to write more TMA! Idk how the rest of this month is shaping out to look like for me, but I’m gonna try to finish things. Please be patient as I try to finish these fics. Here’s my fic for day 18!

Martin rolled his eyes for the umpteenth time as Tim droned on about how such great friends he apparently was with one Jonathan Sims. Of course he wasn't buying any of it. But that didn't mean he wouldn't play along.

"Wow, ya don't say?" Martin said breathily, sarcasm still evident.

"Yup! He even said so himself!" Tim proudly proclaimed. Martin raised his brows in shock.

"He said that you are the funniest one here?" he asked skeptically. Tim scoffed.

"Why'd you say that like it's hard to believe?"

Martin shrugged. "B-because it is! I mean, it's Jon we're talking about. Does... does he even have a sense of humor?"

Tim shook his head with an amused chuckle. "Oh Martin, always so naive. Everyone has a sense of humor if you know what tickles their funny bone," he winked, nudging him with his elbow.

"Yeah but, he just doesn't seem like the giddy type," he reasoned.

"Well, you just don't know Jon like I do. What can I say? We have an unspoken bond between us. I can make him crack up with a single look," he boasted, and that was where Martin called it.

"Oh you can not!"

"Wanna bet?" he asked with a crooked grin, wiggling his eyebrows at him. Martin opened his mouth but abruptly snapped it shut when Jon walked into the break room. Tim also shut up, hands shoved in his pockets. Jon looked between them and snorted, walking to the counter.

"If you're going to talk behind my back, I suggest making it less apparent," he casually teased.

"N-no, it's nothing like that!" Martin assured him.

"I was just telling Martin what great friends we are!"

"Hm, that's news to me." Jon barely hid his smirk  at the way Tim cried out indignantly.

"Ouch. I'm hurt Jon. You hurt me," he said, pointing an accusing finger. Jon grinned smugly, turning back to the kettle. He poured himself a cup as Tim walked back to the couch, flopping down next to Martin with a pout. Martin looked about as smug as Jon.

"What?" he snapped.

"You're so full of it," he said softly, an amused smile firmly in place. Tim shoved his shoulder.

"Oh sod off! You know, that last part was actually true," he said, and something in his voice seemed genuine enough for Martin to feel inclined to believe him.

"Really?" he asked, casting a quick glance Jon's direction. Tim followed it, nodding.

“Oh yeah. It’s a little magic power of mine,” he bragged, wiggling his fingers in a twinkly magic kind of way. Martin snorted in amusement.

“Magic, okay, sure,” he said with a roll of his eyes.

“Oh you don’t believe me? Here, I’ll prove it,” he said matter of factly. He hopped to his feet, sauntering over to the counter next to Jon. He looked over his shoulder at Martin, smug smirk already in place. He turned his attention to Jon, leaning his hip against the countertop.

“So how’s your day been so far?” he asked casually. Jon snorted.

“The same as every other damn day, what do you think?” When he looked up from adding the smallest amount of sugar to his tea, he froze like a deer in headlights.

Tim was giving him The Look. The one he always gave him before he pounced and turned him into a hysterical mess. His eyes were glowing with mischievous intent, deviously smug smirk peaking out from behind his mustache. Jon took a step back, a nervous grin already tugging at his lips. He glanced over at Martin- oh God, he was going to do it in front of Martin! He looked at Tim with wide eyes, shaking his head. His smile stretched ear to ear and quite literally lit up the room. Martin stared on in shock, a faint blush dusting his cheeks at the sight of their boss looking so adorable.

“Tim-“ Jon started, hoping to negotiate his way out of this.

“You sure it’s just another boring day?” he asked, cutting him off. When he wiggled his eyebrows at him, Jon giggled, actually giggled, bumping into the corner of the fridge when he backed up further.

“Tim I swear-“

“What? I’m just asking about your day. You seem to be rather chipper, thought I’d see what that’s all about,” he teased further. Jon was starting to visibly flush, and he was at a loss for words.

“Oh you bastard,” he huffed, turning away. Tim stepped in front of him.

“Where did this hostility come from? I think someone ought to teach you some manners,” he said, winking at him. Jon felt his blood run cold.

He turned to run, but Tim hooked an arm around his waist, immediately digging his fingers in his sides. Jon doubled over, choking back laughter that still forced its way out through quick bursts of giggles, snorts, and uncharacteristic shrieks. Martin was in awe.

But he couldn’t let himself look or act as lovestruck as he felt, so he just sat there in shock.

“Tihihim! Wha- whahahat dihid I dohoho?” he asked through an onslaught of helpless snickers. Tim brought his other hand into the fray, kneading his sides like a cat making biscuits. Jon snorted, knees buckling when devious hands made contact with his ribs. Those torturous fingers prodded every space between the bones, leaving him sputtering through laughter.

“Oh nothing, nothing at all. You just looked like an easy target,” he reasoned and Jon whined. He found the uppermost ribs and Jon arched his back with a giggly squeal.

Tim only kept at it for a while longer before he released him. He gave Jon a pat on the back as he caught his breath. Tim looked over at Martin and flashed a wide, cocky grin.

“See, what’d I tell ya? Magic,” he said with a grand flourish, making Martin snort in amusement. And if he noticed the way Jon was slowly creeping up behind Tim, fingers flexed and ready to strike, well, he didn’t say anything.

Where would be the fun in that?

[amazingmsme]

You're The Mouse

AN: I was having a hard time wondering just what I wanted to do for the chase prompt, and then I met Distortion Michael & the rest is history! This was an absolute blast of a fic to write, definitely one of the longer ones you'll see this month. I already miss Tim a lot so he gets a nice lil spotlight too. Posting this at 2am because I'm excited & the one time I did that it blew up. Hope y'all enjoy day 6!

It had been a long, tiring day with some rather harrowing statements he had to hear and record himself. His back ached from hunching over the desk for hours without a good break, and he felt tired down to his bones. Even his eyes felt tired, burning from the strain of staring at small font and lack of blinking. He couldn't wait to get home and crash in the couch. It was only Wednesday, which for him didn't bode well for the rest of the week.

He should've noticed the static. That fuzzy ringing in his ears that started out quiet, only to grow in intensity. If his mind wasn't so frazzled, he would've noticed that's not his usual office door.

A chill ran down his spine when he stepped through the doorway and found himself deep in the tunnels.

"Oh God," he muttered to himself, backing up and turning to run, but it was too late. The door was gone, and he ran straight into Michael's arms. Though he didn't remain there for long.

He screamed and started trashing, managing to elbow him in the stomach and stomp on his foot. Temporarily hurt, he recoiled enough for his grip to slip so Jon could free himself. He whipped around to face him once he felt there was a suitable distance between them. Although with Michael, he wasn't sure there even was such a thing.

"What the hell do you want now?" he growled, hands gripping the strap of his messenger bag tightly. Michael let out an echoing, disorienting chuckle.

"Oh archivist, I simply want some fun."

That was quite possible one of the worst things he could've said, at least in Jon's opinion. Because when Michael had fun, people usually ended up dead or insane, or in a cruel twist of fate, both.

"Maybe you should pick up a hobby, like drawing or golfing, or literally anything that involves leaving all of us alone," he suggested, though it felt more like a plea once it left his tongue. Michael let out a shrill giggle.

"You just don't get it, do you?" he asked with a tilt of his head. His wide smile was unnerving. "You're my favorite little toy."

Jonathan's face scrunched up in disgust as he looked him up and down, clearly not amused by his statement.

"Oh get your mind out of the gutter archivist, I didn't mean it like that," he scolded. "It's more like... when you were a child and you'd build fantastic cities out of blocks just so you could watch their destruction at your own hands." He took a step closer. "I'm just looking for a bit of fun amidst the chaos."

His held his hand out in front of him, reaching for Jon. His eyes widened in fear, stumbling backwards. Michael's hand distorted and stretched before his very eyes, long fingers growing in the darkness of the tunnels. Jon was already halfway down the hall.

Michael loved the thrill of the chase. He loved hearing the rapid thud of a racing heart, the panicked gasps for air as they ran for an escape. They were all the same, really, if he thought about it. Just a mindless chase through endless, winding halls that always ended victoriously. (For him, at least.)

Jon was frantic. Why now, of all days? He was so ready to walk through his front door, kick off his shoes and enjoy a nice hot frozen meal on his couch. It really was the least he could ask for, and yet, he couldn't even have that. The only saving grace was the fact that he was in the archive tunnels instead of whatever weird pocket dimension the Distortion liked to trap people in. His lungs ached as his feet pounded against the hard, dirt floor, eyes searching through the dark for something, anything to register with him and give him a clue as to his whereabouts, but it all looked the same.

"Joooon, come out come out wherever you are!" the voice was shrill and empty, the words hollowed out and stuffed to the brim with static. It echoed through the tunnels, and Jon couldn't tell where it came from, but the echo made it sound so fucking close and that sent him into a panic.

He ran ahead, ducking in a small alcove to catch his breath. He felt like he'd put a sufficient distance between them to be safe enough to do so. He gulped down air until the burn in his lungs subsided. He raised two fingers to his neck, checking his racing pulse and willed himself to calm down. Every reaction was just giving Michael exactly what he wants.

He needed to conserve his energy, move slower to remain quiet and keep his wits about him. He was pretty sure he had his bearings now, which was a plus. But if he really was where he thought he was, then they were deep in the underground maze. It took the better part of 30 minutes to even get to this point in the tunnels!

At least he knew where he was, he told himself, forcing himself to focus on the bright side of things. He walked at a brisk pace, a borderline jog really. He wanted to get out of here quickly, but he didn't want to give Michael the satisfaction of causing him to panic.

"Believe it or not, I don't want to hurt you, archivist. I simply want to have some simple, haaarmless funnn together, ehehehehehe!" His voice went shrill and warbly and distorted towards the end of his unnerving giggle so much that it became almost inaudible. And fuck, if it didn't make Jon run.

Could you blame him though? There was no way that- that thing actually meant what it said. It was absolutely going to hurt him. And it was probably going to do so in the most terrible ways imaginable.

Jon hated the deep, guttural scream that ripped from his throat when he rounded a corner and came face to face with the blonde monster.

His feet scrambled on the packed dirt and he was already turning around, but arms that were too long wrapped around him from behind, dragging him back as they retracted to a more normal length. He was screaming and kicking the air, arms fighting to free themselves.

"Shh shh shhhh, would you relax? What part of I don't want to hurt you did you not understand?" he chastised, holding a single finger to Jon's lips to quiet him. He went silent out of shock more than actual compliance.

"I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. Now what do you really want?" Jon demanded, mustering enough confidence to glare him down. Michael just laughed.

"Like I said, I'm just looking for some fun. You humans aren't the only ones who get bored you know," he said condescendingly. Jon remained silent.

"I tend to- peak in, from time to time, just to see how my favorite sheeple are holding up," he mused, causing Jon to visibly cringe and roll his eyes.

"Good to know there's actual reason behind always feeling like I'm being watched," he grumbled.

"Oh no, I'm not the only one, but trust me, I'm your favorite."

"Quite the opposite."

"Well, I will be your favorite," he winked and giggled to himself. "But last week, I noticed you playing with your friends. You looked soooo happy then... I'd like to make you happy like that too, Jon."

What a nice sentiment from such a not nice entity, not to mention he had no clue what he was talking about. "Bullshit, you don't want to make me happy, you want to ruin my life!" he snapped, still continuing his struggle.

"Oh, but can't I do both? Life ruining is such a long process, and I'd really like to hear that laugh in person."

Realization dawned on him the same time terror wracked his body, body going stiff and eyes bugging out. Michael cocked his head, that unnaturally large smile forming into a curious pout.

"Why archivist, if I didn't know better I'd say you look frightened," he cooed. "There's no need for that. You didn't have that look when Martin snuck up on you in the break room," he pointed out.

"You keep his name out your fucking mouth," Jon growled, and in a moment he was pressing into the Distortion's space. He had grabbed him by the shirt collar and jerked him so hard his neck snapped at the momentum, their noses almost touching. A few flecks of spit even landed on Michael's cheek from the force of Jon's rage. It genuinely took him aback before a wicked grin took over.

"Your boy toy's off limits, lesson learned."

"He's not my-" Jon cut himself off, seeing no use in arguing with him. His eyes were closed and he pressed a free hand to his temple. "Look. You said you wanted your sick fun, but all you've done since capturing me is talk. I'm a smart man, I know I can't escape this. But I'm fucking tired, and I just wanna go home, so the sooner you shut up and get on with it, the better."

There was a beat of silence, and then a shit eating grin followed by, "If you wanted me to tickle you already, you could've just said so."

"No, I want to go home you assho-" Jon cut off his own rambling mid sentence as Michael started fluttering his fingers over his sides, prompting him to clamp his mouth shut. He rolled his eyes.

"I'm doing this so I can hear that cute, funny laugh of yours archivist! The longer you hold out the longer I have to tickle tickle tickle you!" his taunt echoed off the walls. Jon flushed and hid his face in his hands.

"Y-you're sohoho fucking weheheird!" His voice pitched higher towards the end of his sentence when Michael tweaked his sides before drilling in his thumb. He tossed his head back with a discordant cackle of his own, seemingly amused by the response.

"Is that really the best insult you can come up with? How adorably pathetic!" he cooed, reaching around with his other hand to knead his belly. Jon writhed in his grip, snickering and squealing with no way to escape.

"Shut up or Ihihi'll- nohoho wahahait!" the threat died on his tongue, melting into frantic giggles. He kicked his feet in the air and gently shoved at the offending tickly hands, but to no avail. He slumped in his hold, leaning back over his arm and covered his face with his hands.

"Oh? And what exactly am I waiting for?" Michael asked, cocking his head. The way he was so calm while picking Jon apart made it all the more maddening. Those long, spindly fingers were able to work their way into every tickle spot they could find, and it was perhaps the most horrendous thing he's ever felt in his life.

"I-Ihihi dohon't knohohow!" he whined, yelping when Michael pinched and prodded at his soft tummy. "Just shuhut up!"

"Hm, I don't think I will. Especially if it gets you all worked up like that," he taunted. Ironically, he started tracing a large spiral over his stomach, closing in on his bellybutton. Jon snorted, covering his face with one hand while trying to push Michael away with the other.

"Ohoho you've gotta behehe johoking," Jon groaned through his giddy laughter, rolling his eyes.

"What? It's my signature, I simply have to," he said casually, closing in on the center of his stomach. Jon's deep chuckles morphed until they were high pitched and bubbly. He was blushing like a fool behind his hand, shrieking and wiggling in Michael's arms all the while.

~~~

Tim had the worst luck. He had been halfway home when he realized he'd not only left his wallet, but his keys as well, at the institute. He backtracked, grumbling to himself the whole time.

He hated nothing more than being alone in the archives. It was bad enough being there during the day surrounded by people, but at night when those endless halls and rooms were empty? It might as well be straight out of a horror game.

He was trying to get to his office as fast as possible, but slowed as he neared Jon's office. The light was off, and he couldn't hear talking, sure, but the door was left open. Jon never left his door open.  The sight filled Tim with dread.

"Boss? You still here?" he called out, but received no answer. He walked to the door and peeked inside, greeted only by a dark and empty room.

Maybe he just forgot to shut the door when he left, he tried to reason with himself. But none of them were that lucky, especially not Jon. Still, he went back to retrieve his things and be on his way.

Execpt that's when he heard it.

Muffled screaming. Coming from below.

Tim froze, unsure if what he was hearing was true. He bent down, putting his ear to the floor and listened.

He could just make it out.

"Please, no, have mercyyyyy!"

That was someone pleading for their life. That was Jon pleading for his life... He raced to the trapped doors.

He had the sickening feeling that he'd walk in on Elias standing over Jon's body, having killed him deep within the tunnels just as he did Gertrude. Well not today.

He descended into the tunnels, pausing when he heard frantic, hysterical screams echoing down the halls, but he could swear it sounded like... laughter. And now that he was within the tunnels, he could hear that it was undeniably Jon's.

Just what the hell was going on?

~~~

Jon knew he was going to die here, in these godforsaken tunnels. He had no way of stopping this, and Michael proved to be just as relentless now as he's ever been. And those long fucking fingers of his were absolute torture. Just one hand was big enough to vibrate over his entire stomach and still wrap around to dig  into his sides and scribble at the base of his spine. Jon was effectively in hysterics, shrieking and giggling with no end in sight.

He should hate this. Should hate that it was Michael of all people doing this to him, but an overwhelming part of him was relieved that he wasn't subjected to legitimate torture. A more foolish part of him thought that maybe Michael was warming up to them: that maybe he wasn't so downright malicious after all.

And then he felt sharp nails scratching behind both his ears, and that thought was gone as soon as it had arrived. If he hadn't been cackling so loud, perhaps they would've heard Tim calling out for Jon, telling him to just hold on, he'll be right there.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

If Jon hadn't been so preoccupied, he'd have jumped and shrieked in fright, though he was shrieking for an entirely different reason at the moment. Michael on the other hand, did startle, having been caught red handed. He almost seemed embarrassed, and dropped him like a sack of potatoes. Jon landed flat on his back, the breath being knocked out of his already breathless lungs. Tim was frozen in place, taking in the scene. He was knocked out of his daze when he saw Jon hit the ground, and he immediately rushed over to help him up.

Jon was gasping and wheezing, face red and hair messy, but he still had that rare, genuine smile on his face.

"Sorry you had to see that, I had thought the archives was empty," Michael said in lieu of an explanation.

"Yeah, it was. Good thing I had to come back," Tim snapped. Michael rolled his eyes.

"Oh please, he's perfectly fine. I didn't harm a single hair on his head."

"You fucking dropped me!"

Michael let out a shrill chuckle. "And that was a complete accident! But you can't really blame me for wanting to have my own fun with you. Especially after everyone else made it look like so much fun."

"Hey, you stay away from him! Only we're allowed to torture Jon like that!" Tim scolded weakly, but it was all he could think to say. Which just made him feel stupid when Michael continued to laugh at them.

"Oh, so you're the only ones who can toy with the archivist, is that it?" he asked tauntingly, cocking his head. Tim opens his mouth to answer, but stops short. Jon is sitting curled in a ball, hiding his face in his knees.

"No, you've got it wrong. We do it because we care about him, and want him to be happy, even if it's short lived. You do it for your own sick kicks!" Tim accused. Jon's head snapped up when he admitted their reasoning for why they always seem to tickle him out of the blue. It brought a shy smile to his face as he recovered from the ordeal.

"... Well that's a rude assumption. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

Tim snorted, "My point exactly." They were all quiet, the three of them engaged in a bit of a stalemate. "Aren't you going to show yourself the door?" he boldly prompted. Jon choked on his own spit in shock.

Michael's smile widened. "You know, I wasn't quite finished yet. And I'd hate for you to feel left out," he playfully threatened, and his limbs stretched ever so slightly as he spoke. Tim took a step back, eyes wide. Jon was just now making to stand, and pointed at him sternly.

"No." He stood up and dusted himself off, glasses askew on his face. He straightened them and cleared his throat. "Haven't you had enough? You leave him, and everyone else alone." And just because he knows better than to trust Michael, added, "That includes me too."

"I'll think about it. It'd be easier if you weren't so fun to tickle. Isn't that right Tim?" Michael asked, even winking at the pair. Jon blushed and turned away, and Tim failed to fight back a smile.

"Heh. Right." He shook himself out of it, glaring at Michael as he stood by Jon protectively. "B-but you just mind your business."

"Ha! Unlikely, diet archivist."

"Hey!" Tim snapped at the insulted and Jon stifled an amused  snicker. He was just about to give him a piece of his mind when Michael opened a door that hadn't been there a second ago, standing in the doorway.

"Until we meet again," he waved at them, closing the door behind him, leaving them stunned and alone.

Now that Michael was gone, Tim turned to Jon with a teasing smirk. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah, I'll be fine. I'm honestly... more confused than anything." Tim barked out a laugh and patted his shoulder.

"You and me both."

They began their trek out of the tunnels, walking side by side quietly until Tim broke the silence.

"So, what's it like being tickled senseless by the Distortion?" he asked in a teasing tone. Jon flushed and shot a glare his way, but he had that happy, sheepish grin plastered on his fast, just like every other time they wrecked him.

"Oh, should I have let you find out for yourself?" Jon quipped to mask his own embarrassment.

Tim looked down with a faint blush. "Fair point." A beat, and then, "You know we have to tell the others, right?"

Jon choked on his own spit, and Tim stopped walking to give him a moment. He looked at him expectantly, while Jon looked at him with a floored look.

"Are you joking?" he asked.

"As much as I wish I were, no." The shit eating grin on his face said otherwise. "You heard what that thing said. We're all fair game in his eyes." Jon gave a noncommittal hum. "They deserve a bit of a warning, don't you think?" It was true, but he didn't have to be so damn smug about it.

"Yes," Jon begrudgingly agreed through a growl.

"Think it might be best if you made a statement. You know, so we have an accurate account for the record."

Jon groaned and hid behind his hair. "I would literally rather die." Tim barked out a laugh and threw an arm over his shoulders.

"Always with the dramatics! So you're saying you'd rather tell them in person? Look them in the eyes and admit how I saved you-"

"Don't-"

"From the big bad ti-"

Jon didn't think he'd ever been so embarrassed. "Stop!"

"The big bad tickle monster named Michael!" Tim rushed out in one breath, laughing at the flustered squeak he made as he marched ahead. It took him no time at all to catch up, thanks to his long legs. "Oh come on, you know it's funny!"

Jon huffed, unable to hide his lingering smile. "Only because it wasn't you, asshole."

They continued their playful banter back and forth, unaware of the tape recorder that had appeared in Jon's pocket the moment he entered the tunnels, listening in and capturing every word.

~~~

Tim was relieved when he made it back home, slipping his key in the door and stepping inside. Strange, how he didn't seem to notice the change from handle to doorknob.

His eyes flew open when he was met with the sight of an endless, shifting corridor. He felt sick. A chill ran down his spine, his ears were ringing, his head filled with static and he stumbled in an attempt to get his bearings. There was a sinking feeling in his gut, and he felt so trapped.

Michael walked out from the nothingness, grin much too wide for his face. Tim hugged his arms to his body and stepped back, fighting an involuntary smile tugging at his lips.

"Y-you stay back! I'll fuck you up!" Tim cried, bravely putting his hands up, balled into fists and ready to swing. Michael laughed, and it was a sound that unsettled Tim to his very core. He held his hands up, and Tim couldn't help but flinch at the movement.

"Believe it or not, I'm not here to torture you. I'll save that for a rainy day," he added, chuckling at his own joke. Tim lowered his arms, staring at him skeptically.

"Okaaaay. So what the hell are you doing in my home?"

"But I brought you to my home," he corrected, and that wide grin turned just a tad condescending. Tim narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.

"Yeah, through my front door!" he argued before sighing in defeat, pinching the bride of his nose. "So what do you want?"

"I wanted to give you something." Tim perked up, looking at him in shock. He jumped and yelped when Michael was standing right in front of him. He held out the tape recorder.

"A little... souvenir from earlier. I doubt Sasha and Martin will believe you without proof." He placed the tape in Tim's hand, leaving him dumbstruck. "And I really have a hard time believing Jon will corroborate your story, don't you?"

Tim didn't know what to say. "Um... thank you?"

Michael winked at him. "You're welcome." And because he couldn't help himself, he skittered his fingers over his belly. Tim jerked back with a surprised laugh, a blush and a growing look of fear on his face.

"Relax. Like I said, rainy day."

He gave him a small wave and opened a door off to the side and left. Everything melted into his flat, and he was safe in the middle of his living room.

~~~

Jon walked into work the next day as if it were any other, eager to forget the events of last night. He went to the break room for a cup of coffee to start the day and walked in to see Sasha, Martin, and of course, Tim, huddled around a tape recorder. They all wore a look of concern. Well, except for Tim.

"What're you listening to?" he asked. Sasha and Martin jumped out of their skin when they heard his voice, whipping around to meet him. They looked rather guilty, but more concerning, they looked worried.

The next thing he knew, Martin was hugging him.

"I'm sorry, what's-" A voice on the tape interrupts him.

"Joooon, come out come out wherever you are!"

"I-I'm so sorry, we left you here alone, and Tim said Michael got you and-"

"Did he now?" he asked, cocking his head.

"Now Jon, is that any way to speak to your knight in shining armor?"

"Oh please, you're not my bloody knight." He spoke over the sound of his own erratic breathing and feet pounding against hard packed dirt.

"Were you even gonna tell us Michael attacked you?" Sasha asked, brows furrowed with worry. "Because I really doubt it."

Jon floundered for an answer, face going red. "Um- it- look, it really wasn't as serious as Tim undoubtedly made it seem." He glanced up at his smiling face and said, "Would he really be grinning like that if it was?"

Of course, as soon as they looked at him, he schooled his features into a serious expression, but they each caught a glimpse of a fading smirk.

"Okay what's... what's happening right now?" Martin asked, looking between the two.

"You wanna tell them yourself Jon? Or uh, let the tape do the talking for you?" he asked, holding up the tape.

"Shh shh shhhh, would you relax? What part of I don't want to hurt you did you not understand?"

"I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. Now what do you really want?"

Jon refused to meet his friends' gaze as he spoke over his previous conversation. "Look, I'm fine. He didn't hurt me, didn't psychologically scar me, the only thing damaged was my pride."

The tape played on in the background as Jon tried to explain himself. Michael's endless talk of having fun did nothing to calm Sasha and Martin's nerves for past-Jon. "I-I don't really know why he t- uuh, did what he did, but he seemed almost... friendly isn't exactly the word I'd use, maybe tame? Toned down?" That was about the time Michael mentioned the rest of them, and how they all "played" with Jon. A hesitant smile ghosted over Sasha's lips as she thought she knew what he was hinting at, and judging by Jon's reaction, she might be right, but there was just no way... Was there?

"Jon, did Michael-"

"Yes," he cut her off before she could finish the sentence. "Yeah, he uh, said you all made it look like fun, so he decided to try it out," he said, staring at the faded break room carpet.

"Wait, so it's our fault?" Martin asked, and Jon immediately felt guilty for saying it like that.

"No! God no, you guys are just trying to make me loosen up. Michael's just... morbidly curious."

"Right," Tim agreed, suddenly more serious. "He uh, told me he was waiting for a rainy day. So obviously, he has his sights set on all of us. Which is... unnerving to say the least." He locked eyes with Jon, a soft smile on his face. "So I'm not just doing this to fuck with you. But that is an excellent perk!" Jon couldn't help but chuckle. "But I thought everyone deserved a bit of a heads up. And maybe ease some worry while I'm at it." "Where'd you even get this?" Jon asked, pointing at the recorder just as his own bubbly giggles  started pouring out.

"Michael gave it to me."

"Very funny." When Tim's expression didn't change, his jaw dropped, "You're serious."

"Where else would I have gotten it from?"

"Fair point."

A loud shriek followed by shrill cackling and snorts emitted from the tape. All heads snapped over to look at him with amused grins and fond expressions.

"Right. Well, I lived through this once already. No need to stick around for a second time," he said, cheeks burning from embarrassment. He paused in the door. "I'm never gonna hear the end of this, am I?"

"Not likely."

"Nope!"

"Absolutely not."

He gave a curt nod, lips pursed together. "Thought so."

[stray-tickles]

Snuggles

This was silly, a little voice inside of Jon tried to scold him. It was childish and ridiculous and…

And he was loving every second of it.

He buried his face in the crook of Martin’s neck, giggling quietly and constantly, his cheeks flushed bright red.

Martin’s arms were wrapped tightly around him, his fingers resting against Jon’s sides and tapping a gentle rhythm against his clothed skin, just enough to have him twitching.

Jon clung to him in return as if to a lifeline, lost in the giddy, playful feeling that Martin’s hands brought out. He couldn’t think of anything to say, so instead tried to focus on keeping as still as he could, not guarding his many sensitive spots from his amazing boyfriend.

Martin pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You,” kiss, “are,” kiss, “so,” kiss, “cute!”

Jon’s face scrunched up at the unexpected affection, and his giggles jumped. By rights that really shouldn’t tickle, but the shivery delight his kisses brought about might as well, for how much they made him smile.

He wished that all days ended like this.

Yes, there was a voice inside trying to chide him, trying to tell him that he was a grown man, but even that voice felt… amused. Happy. Apparently even his insecurities were ticklish.

Martin kissed a line over to Jon’s neck, mouthing over the sensitive skin there and making mischievous crunching noises as he did.

Jon hiccupped, turning his head from side to side to resist the urge to squash away the feeling and letting his legs writhe.

Teeth nipped at his ear and Jon squeaked in response. “I love you like this.” Martin whispered, his breath tickling too. “Wish you could be like this all the time.”

That was impractical, the trying-to-be-stern voice in his head replied. They’d never have another conversation if Jon couldn’t stop giggling for the rest of his life, and yes, yes, yes please.

Even if he’d wanted to say something, Jon knew he wouldn’t be able to. His mind had melted into happy goo, and his body wasn’t far behind. Martin’s hands moved off his sides to float just over Jon’s ribs, not quite touching but not exactly not touching either. The duality of it made him snort and hug Martin all the tighter.

Martin couldn’t stop smiling if his life depended on it. How was he expected to cope with this? His boyfriend, his Jon, clinging to him, giggling and snorting and melting and letting Martin take him apart like this, enjoying it.

Even his daydreams had never gotten this indulgent.

Jon’s legs kicked out with a squeal when his squirming accidently sent him into one of Martin’s teasing fingers, and Martin was struck by a mischievous idea. He floated his hands back down to play at Jon’s stomach, then raised his leg until his foot was level with Jon’s, and wiggled his toes against his sole.

A loud squeak escaped Jon at the touch, his leg jerking up against his will and bubbly laughter breaking up his giggles. Just to be mean, Martin squeezed at his kneecap, since it was so conveniently within his grasp.

And Jon… didn’t even flinch. He just flopped against Martin with a loud cackle, barely twitching as he continued to dance his fingers over Jon’s stomach and squeeze his kneecap. Laughter bubbled from him freely, flowing from snorts to laughs to giggles to squeaks and back again.

All of Jon’s resistance had melted away. All he could find it in him to do was lay there tangled up in his boyfriend and laugh and laugh and laugh, even the stern voice inside had been rendered mute against the tingly sensations shooting across his nerve endings and lighting his brain up with happy electricity.

Jon wasn’t sure when the touch started to slow, or later than that, once the tingles started to ease. He was floating among a starry sea of sensation, and all he knew was Martin.

Another kiss was pressed to his cheek. “Tired enough for sleep, then?” Martin chuckled.

Jon huffed a laugh in response but deigned not to say anything.

He was content just like this.

[stray-tickles]

Amorous

Read on AO3

Jon was… rarely playful. Oh, he had a devious streak which had gotten him into trouble from time to time, but it was buried deep these days. He was the head archivist after all, and had to maintain a certain decorum.

Never mind that said decorum was completely futile with his assistants, all of whom were now fully aware of how debilitatingly ticklish he was. Tim and Sasha had known for some time, and it only took Martin walking in at the wrong time for him to find out too.

Not that Jon minded their frequent attacks, per se. He’d rather die than admit it, but he enjoyed it. He liked the closeness, the laughing, the fun of it all. It was so rare in his life.

Thankfully, Tim and Sasha’s deviousness was such that he never needed to go to much effort to provoke them, if at all. They weren’t so cruel as to make him admit that he liked it, even though Jon was certain they must know. They let him get away with pretending not to want or enjoy it, for which Jon was immeasurably grateful.

He was also grateful for their frequent sneak attacks. It made it very easy to know when one of them was coming up behind him.

Tim was there. No doubt about it. He moved slightly more heavily than Sasha, and more deliberately than Martin. Jon reached for the tape recorder to at least put on a show of not knowing Tim was right there, ready to pounce.

Hmm…

Actually, why pretend when he could have a little fun himself? When he could win, if only for a moment?

Jon cleared his throat and clicked on the tape recorder. “Statement of Jonathan Sims.” He started, hearing Tim’s footsteps stop in what he assumed was confusion. “Regarding an amorous encounter with Tim’s mother the previous night. Statement given fifteenth of March, twenty-seventeen. Statement begins.”

The statement did not, in fact, begin. The only thing to follow Jon’s introduction was deafening silence, every second of which made him want to laugh. He turned his head to look behind him and had to bite down very hard on a smile. Tim was standing there, a few steps away, staring at him with wide, shocked eyes that seemed to have no thought behind them at all. As if Jon’s little prank had short-circuited his brain.

That thought got a little chuckle out of Jon, which in turn seemed to knock Tim out of his stupor. “Oh, you little shit.” He growled.

Jon rocketed out of his seat, already smiling nervously, knowing what was going to happen. “Tim, Tim- wait, TIM!” He darted out the door to the main archive with Tim hot on his heels, giggles bubbling up in his stomach.

Sasha looked up when she saw their chase across the archives. “That time of day again, huh?” She joked.

Tim all but growled. “Call an ambulance Sash, someone’s gonna need to resuscitate this smartass.”

If Jon didn’t know Tim as well as he did, he’d have missed the smile he was hiding behind that exaggerated scowl. “Tim, please, wait- it’s not what you think!” Oh damn. He’d been backed into a corner.

Tim shot forwards, seizing one of Jon’s wrists and making him break into nervous giggles. “Oh yeah?” He smirked. “Please, elaborate.”

Jon swallowed back his laughter, seeing Sasha’s fond sigh from behind Tim’s back. “Well, I’m asexual, you see, so we didn’t do any of that. I just took your mother out for a candlelit dinner and we kissed under the moonlight.”

Tim glared. Sasha howled with laughter, gripping the arms of her office chair to keep from sliding out of it. “Well now you’re in for it.” He said. “Statement of Tim Stoker, regarding the murder of Jonathan Sims.”

It didn’t take much effort for Tim to catch Jon’s other wrist in his hand, pulling both arms up over his head. Then, without preamble, his free hand latched onto Jon’s upper ribcage, fingers poking and wiggling and making Jon shriek.

He barely managed to stay standing for five seconds, his legs buckling under him, unable to keep him upright. To Jon’s surprise, Tim didn’t pin him to the ground. No, he pulled him closer, keeping his arms up above his head and his body pressed close to Tim’s in what could almost be a hug.

A hug, but for the arm wrapped around Jon’s torso, digging fingers into his ribs.

Jon cackled like mad, tugging weakly at his wrists and twisting this way and that in Tim’s grip, unable to do anything else. It was useless, he knew that and he’d dug his grave anyway. Tim’s fingers were long and clever, and he’d long known the spots that made Jon go crazy. “Nononono, ple- Tim please!”

“Got your manners back I see.” Tim teased, scratching mercilessly under his arm now and bringing tears of laughter to Jon’s eyes. “I hope you showed mum some of that.”

God, why was Tim so tall? He couldn’t even lean up to gain a little give and lower his arms, not even by an inch. And that hand kept scratching away at his armpit, laying waste to Jon’s nervous system. “Sorry!” He squeaked. “Sorry, I’m soRRY!”

Tim’s hand moved back to Jon’s ribs, one finger wiggling up and down like a worm and making him snort and flush. “Oh no, don’t be sorry for giving an older woman a lovely night. Where’d you go? Italian place? Spanish?”

Jon shook his head, unable to get a word out between snorting laughter.

“Hmm, let me check.” Fingers spidered and poked across Jon’s stomach through his shirt, dissolving him into giggles. He tried to double over, almost pulling his own feet off the ground to no avail. He was thoroughly stuck, and secretly very happy about it.

Tim grinned, not ceasing the playful torment of his friend. He loved playing like this, getting Jon to relax and let loose once in a while. “Not much here.” He chuckled, squeezing at Jon’s sparse tummy and earning a series of squeaks for his trouble. “Sushi?”

Jon’s glasses were lopsided, though at this point he was surprised that hadn’t fallen right off his face. Electricity was pulsing up his spine, lighting up his face in laughter, and it was so much, “Tickles!” He squealed, unable to think about anything else.

“Don’t think I’ve heard of that place.” Sasha mused from her desk, smiling widely.

“No, I think it’s out past Brixton, right?” Tim said, not letting up. “Caribbean restaurant?”

Jon wheezed in air. “Y-yehes, anything!” He hiccupped, not sure what they were really talking about at this point but knowing he couldn’t stand much more.

“Uh oh, we’re losing him.” Tim teased affectionately. “Got that ambulance Sash?”

She pushed herself to her feet. “Defibrillator’s right here.” She grinned, rubbing her hands together.

Jon kicked his feet weakly against the floor, knowing where they were going with this. “Ha- Sasha no, Sasha plehease, I can’t, I cahahan’t!”

Sasha paused just long enough to catch his eye, then cheerfully shouted, “Clear!” and tazed her fingers into the bottom of Jon’s ribcage.

Jon screamed, bucking violently in reaction to that awful vibrating tickle, cackling helplessly. He would almost believe he’d been shocked with a real defibrillator with how much energy it filled him with.

Then it stopped abruptly, leaving Jon to heave in breaths deeply and try to recover some of his faculties.

“Clear!”

Jon shrieked again, his legs collapsing completely and leaving his feet hanging off the floor, his arms still in Tim’s grip as he squirmed and laughed. He managed only a few seconds before hiccupping out, “Naha- stop! Stopstopstopstopstop ehehehe-”

Sasha pulled her hands away before he’d finished pleading, ruffling his hair affectionately. “He lives!” She joked. “Good to have you back with us.”

Jon continued to giggle, sinking against Tim to remain upright when his arms were freed. “Fired, both of you.”

They both laughed. “Oh sure,” Tim joked, keeping one arm wrapped around Jon in a hug. “Fire me, I’ll just go to HR and tell them what you said about my mother.”

Sasha snorted into her hand. “That was really funny.”

Tim gasped. “You wanna be next?” He threatened, then immediately backed away when Sasha took a step towards him in response. “Fair point.”

Jon smiled into Tim’s shoulder. He felt… fuzzy. Fuzzy and happy and… loved.

Sasha retreated back to her desk, still grinning at him. Jon was dimly aware that he probably looked a mess, glasses barely on his face, red cheeks, mussed hair. He could live with that, for now.

Tim chuckled and half carried him back to his office. It was almost unfair how cute Jon looked sometimes. “Sit down before you fall.” He teased warmly.

Jon huffed a laugh as Tim let him down into his seat. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” Tim grinned. He hesitated at the doorway. “One of these days, you’ll figure out that you can just ask, instead of trying to provoke us all the time.”

Jon felt his cheeks heat up and crossed his arms around his waist. He bit his lip and looked down at his desk. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Get back to work, boss.”

Taking the tape recorder, Jon chuckled and clicked it on. “We met at a lovely tapas bar by the Thames…”

Tim barked a laugh. “You son of a bitch.” He muttered, closing the door behind him.

Jon turned off the tape recorder and grinned to himself.

He really liked this feeling.

[rosileeduckie]

Itinerary

Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding a statement.

You know the feeling when you get way too into reading something? Like, when you feel so involved that you start to feel like the story’s happening to you? Poor Jon feels this sometimes. Hopefully no one nefarious finds out about this... Starting Tickletober with Day 2: anticipation! Thanks @gigglymonster for posting this sfw list for this month :)

SFW. Potential warnings: swearing. The Magnus Archives tickle fic.

Word count: 3,567

~*~

Much as he appreciated having his own space to work without interruptions, sometimes Jon really did miss the old researching days when Tim would roll his chair over to Jon’s cupboard-sized working space for company or a chat, or when Sasha would lean on the door frame, pointedly in the way and watching until Jon finished the tea she’d brought and actually took a break from his work. When his current office, cobwebs in the corners and statement stacks growing ever higher, seemed too big or quiet, he could always find relief in leaving it and walking past the open door of the assistant workroom, where there was nearly always a conversation being held over the sound of clacking keyboard keys and flipping book pages. He wasn’t the kind of boss to pop in for a check-in or a friendly hello, so Jon rarely went through the ever-open door, but he found comfort in hearing voices other than his own, even if just for a little while. Maybe he’d even go so far as to wander into the break lounge, pretending to look for something that wasn’t the human interaction of anyone he happened to meet there. These days, he didn’t have to do so much sneaking seeking someone to talk to. Throughout the day, he’d often have coworkers dropping by his office to drop off statements or inquire about information from previous cases or ask if Jon wanted tea. He appreciated that, too—the time Melanie, Daisy, Basira, Sasha, Tim, and Martin would all take out of their days to come see him. The introvert in him was glad for some time to work alone, but the sentimental part of him wished the stretches of time between visits weren’t so long.

Jon had finished reading the statement nearly a quarter hour ago. But it still lay on his desk next to a tape recorder that collected only dead air. Some statements, the ones he could rationalize or that didn’t hit too close to home, didn’t rattle Jon so much. He was the head archivist of a library of reported paranormal experiences, after all; he should have been able to read through things without feeling actually scared. Some, though, needled their way into his brain and stuck there, haunted him. Left him with an empty, hollow feeling like the downswing after a high. If he was alone to dwell on them for too long, it started to really freak him out.

Blessedly, a knock came from the office door. Pulled from the perturbed state, Jon cleared his throat and turned off the recorder, which he hadn’t realized he’d left run. “Come in.” He swiveled his chair around and brightened considerably when he saw who opened the door. “Hello, Martin.”

“S-sorry if I’m interrupting,” Martin said as he entered, seeing the usual recording supplies on Jon’s desk. “Just, um, found this and thought you’d— hi.”

Jon couldn’t help the twitch in his lips at Martin’s rambling cutting off with so timid a greeting. Even after having been in a relationship for nearly two years now, there was still a giddiness underlying the professionalism they maintained in the office. Not that anyone else did. When Jon and Martin had told their coworkers about their new romance, they became quite the targets of teasing from their friends, who were happy to see them “finally” get together. Jon could put up with teasing at work, especially when it made Martin go so adorably red, but mostly because, he knew, at the end of the day, it would be him and Martin, happy.

Martin returned the small smile with a rosier one of his own, then cleared his throat and held out his hand, drawing Jon’s eyes to the clipped-together bunch of papers Martin had brought with him. “Just found this statement I’d thought you’d want to see.”

“Oh?” said Jon, taking the pile and glancing at the information filled out at the top—the usual stuff, the statement giver’s name, address, and succinct summary of their experience to categorize the pages they’d written out—and then looking back to Martin. “Pertaining to a more imminent cosmic horror, or just interesting?” he asked, trying to guess why it required his immediate attention more than any other statement. “Funny?”

“You might get a chuckle from it,” Martin nodded.

“Ah. Okay. Thank you, Martin. I’ll—” Jon reached to set aside the earlier statement to be refiled and placed the newly delivered one before him, “I’ll add it to the queue.”

Martin nodded again, quickly adding, “If you don’t get to it today, you know, or— it’s fine.”

Jon’s eyebrows furrowed, and he quietly enjoyed the flush he could see coloring Martin’s ears. “You didn’t slip me some poetry hoping for a review or something, did you?”

“What?” Martin said with a startled chuckle. “No. It’s just the statement.”

“Right. Well, thank you,” Jon said, amusement coloring his tone. “Was there anything else?”

Pursing his lips thoughtfully, Martin shook his head. “I’ll let you get back to it. See you for lunch.”

“Alright.” Jon turned his chair back toward his desk, waiting to hear the sound of an exeunt. Instead, he heard footsteps approaching, and, when he turned his head to ask if there actually was something Martin had forgotten, he was met with a quick kiss to the forehead. Jon had seen the flash of Martin’s smile, heard it in his farewell as he left the office, and that smile and the tenderness of that kiss hung in the forefront of Jon’s mind more stubbornly than any statement could. It was moments like that when he was actually glad to have his own office, as he could practically hear Tim cooing about how adorable a pair they were and how he needed a camera to capture the cryptid that was Jon smiling, especially so shyly. In solitude, Jon could hide his smile as poorly behind his hand as he liked.

He did take a breath and try to scrub the smile from his face with his hand so he could start the statement, not wanting to sound like a lovestruck gay schoolboy when reading about horror, no matter how absurd and funny the horror was that awaited him. He was a serious archivist, after all.

“Right then,” Jon said, grabbing a new replacement tape and starting the recorder wheels spinning.

~*~

Statement of Jason Thisman, regarding his partner, and the thing that took over his partner’s body. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the archivist.

“Recently, I’ve come to really worry about my partner. Not the kind of worry that would prompt me to seek help from a hospital or couple’s counselor, but… well. You can probably infer what kind of worry, just from the fact that the place I chose to come for help was here. Not that I’m sure you guys here can help, if that’s the thing you do here. I heard of the archives from a friend, and I guess I just want to get what happened off my chest without being looked at like I’ve lost my marbles. Even if there’s no help for me, at least it will be there to help someone else. Warn them, or whatever.

My partner and I have been together for almost two years now and living together for a year of that. We have a dog and a cat, we work day jobs neither of us want, we get takeaway too often, and we go for drinks with friends on weekends. All things considered, our home life has been pretty normal. Domestic, certainly. Maybe even boring. But I don’t mind. It’s nice, to have something to come back to that you can be certain will always be there, will always make you feel a special kind of safe. At least, I was naïve enough to believe it would always be.

Don’t misunderstand me—it’s like I said, my partner and I don’t need the kind of help a couple’s counselor could provide; and I know that, because we both have individual and couple’s therapy—the ‘always’ didn’t start to show cracks because of discontent or infidelity. In fact, there weren’t any cracks. It was sudden. Like the floor under me had given way with a splintering crack like thunder, and I suddenly had no idea who I was committed to.

When it happened, when the rug was pulled, it was a normal night, just last Thursday. We’d taken the tram home, and I started making dinner while my partner took the dog for a walk. I remember he was humming…

I remember he was humming when he left, because, when he got back, I had just put dinner in the oven when I heard the front door open, then close, then… nothing. Looking back, maybe I could say something profound, that it was in that silence that I could hear when everything changed. But that wouldn’t be true. Really, I couldn’t hear anything at all.

And then the dog ran in, all happy barking and nails clattering on the floor. I bent down to pet her, and, when I looked up, my partner was standing in the kitchen doorway. For a moment, I was relieved. I’d overreacted, I was tired from a long day, I was stressed from work, whatever—but everything was fine, everything was normal. I smiled, told him, “I hope you’re not too hungry, because we’ve got a bit of a wait for dinner.”

And he said, “Suppose I’ll have to find something to snack on in the meantime.” Normally, I would have scolded him for spoiling his appetite, but the way he said it, it didn’t sound like him. There was gravel in his voice I’d never heard, and, when I looked at him, his eyes had this bright, hungry light in them. All at once, I didn’t recognize the man who stood in front of me. His fingers had grown sharp and his hands shook, and it was like his aura was bursting out of him, drenching the kitchen tile in sinister energy.

I was scared. I didn’t know what else to do. I’d thought he was joking, but I’d never seen him look that way. So I— I ran. Deeper into the flat, as fast as I could, and faster when I heard him chasing after me. He slammed into the door seconds after I’d ducked into the bedroom and locked myself inside. I knew I had precious few moments to try and escape while he got the key from atop the door frame and unlocked the door, and I was frustratingly frozen. I hadn’t made a dash for the front exit, and now I was cornered. I could have tried hiding in the closet or under the bed, but I had no hope of going undiscovered. Maybe the window. I was far from athletically inclined, but perhaps I could have shimmied down to the ground using a tree or drainpipe, anything that could offer enough hand- and footholds to keep me from sprain my ankles in a rough descent.

My planning brain betrayed me in eating up all my head start time, and I was stuck even further as arms captured me around the waist, growling breath hot against my ear. I was free for a moment as I sailed through the air, only to be pinned on my back as I fell onto the bed. The thing that wore my partner’s face had rendered my legs and arms trapped and useless with how he straddled my thighs and pinned my wrists in one hand above my head. Nothing made me feel so helpless, though, as the ravenous gaze he fixed upon my face. I could feel my blood pounding, from my heart under the clawed hand he held suspended above my ribs, through my neck and quickening my pulse when his eyes flicked to that vulnerable space, into my cheeks where heat bloomed as he pressed a suddenly tender kiss to my forehead before rearing back. He lunged, dug in with teeth and claws, and I screamed.

The shaking of my head deterred neither his nibbling mouth nor bearded chin from the sensitive skin beneath my jaw, and his fingers dug mercilessly between my ribs on the left side. And the right side, when his other hand joined the fray. I had thought he’d meant to kill me swiftly by going for such vital spots so fast, but he evidently intended to use our supper’s lengthy cook time to the fullest. He pushed my shirt up and over my heaving chest, exposing my stomach and still tingling ribcage to his hungry gaze. I hadn’t caught my breath before he’d pounced again, gnawing delicately along my lowest ribs and scribbling his claws, unbearably featherlight, over my hips. The sensations tore through my body as though his jaws and talons were ripping me to shreds, making me howl and writhe and fight until I had no strength to do anything but laugh. I’d been skin and bones before he’d begun his meal, and, afterward, I was all nerves and residual giggles. More than residual when I threatened to enjoy supper on my own, since he’d already stuffed himself, and he’d so eloquently rebutted by introducing his teeth to my hips. That final attack had left me too hoarse and happy to argue any further, so I’d given in with a nod.

After that, the night carried on. The days since have been normal again, with. I worry for my partner, though. Will this monster overtake his body once again? When? And I worry for me. I can feel this isn’t over. Whatever overtook him has had a taste of me, and I don’t think it will be satisfied with just one course of a meal.”

~*~

Jon was happy he had his own office. If he’d had to have people looking over his shoulder as he recorded what was clearly a prank statement, waiting for him to realize as much and ready to tease him about it afterward, he probably would have sunk through his chair and through the floor in embarrassment. Well. He already sort of was sunk into his chair in mortification, but the fact that no one was around to witness it was a relief.

With statements actually dealing with the possible paranormal, Jon often got wrapped up, invested, like he was experiencing the statement firsthand. That wasn’t the case here. He didn’t feel claws on his torso or fangs on his neck. He did feel his ribs tingling in anticipation of such sensations. Part of him was glad that he hadn’t felt those things the way statements usually made him feel things, since he knew the noise he’d make would only garner more teasing. The other part was irritated knowing that he soon would feel all those sensations, but that he’d have to wait for them. Damn, Martin.

It took nearly a quarter of an hour for Jon to convince his face to cool down, flustered beyond belief had the unorthodox love note his partner had tricked him into reading. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving his office to confront him about it, knowing that Martin would be all pleased hums and sunny grins about it. But then, the thought of not seeing that grin for the rest of the day, if he could even manage to hunker down away from anyone else for that long, was also sort of killing him. Maybe he could be quick, have a chat with Martin and be back before anyone saw the state the statement had left Jon in, indignant and stupidly eager for the emergence of a tickle monster after dinner.

Holding the affronting statement gingerly between his fingers as though it could bite him, Jon ducked his head and hastened from the office and down the hall. The workroom’s door was open, and, when he stepped through, Jon was met with expectant gazes and stifled smiles, the most prominent one upon the freckled cheeks of his villainous partner.

“Alright, boss?” said Tim, elbowing Sasha in the side when she started snickering beside him.

Jon shot both of them a glare in answer and beelined toward Martin, holding the statement out to him. Calmly, he inquired, “What the fuck is the meaning of this?” He remained calm even as his ears went hot at the sound of poorly hidden laughter from different desks.

“Sounds like he didn’t like it, then,” said Basira, shaking her head with a stage whisper. “Poor taste; I thought it was good.”

“At least, it couldn’t have been technically bad,” Daisy replied. “It did have four editors.”

Tim agreed, “Very good editors, at that.”

During the little sidebar, Jon took slower breaths. It had just been a joke, and only Martin—who was still smiling at him with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes—could tease him for the contents of the fake statement, where the others were surely only going to tease him for having believed it was real at all. His heart took a brief sprint at the thought of his friends and coworkers teasing him the way Martin would, by prodding, figuratively and literally, at the soft spots in his armor to prompt a smile or win an argument, and to take note of how, flustered as it made him, Jon didn’t mind it. “Yes, well,” said the archivist, snatching his hand back the moment Martin relieved him of the statement. “A very good prank.” He cleared his throat in what he hoped sounded like a scoff. “Might have slipped by that you wasted my time with a fake statement if you hadn’t used an anagram of my name in the header.”

Melanie looked up from her laptop, eyebrows raised and mouth elevated into a smirk. “If you caught it at the header, why’d you read the whole thing?”

Jon whipped his head to glare at her and reply, but he found his mouth open uselessly with no good answer. He’d read it because he hadn’t noticed that the statement was addressed to him until he’d already finished it, and, by the time he caught on, he’d wanted to finish it. Not compelled, just wanted. “It was very unprofessional. Don’t do it again,” said Jon with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose in an excuse to not meet anyone else’s eyes. “I think I’ll make some tea.”

The glimmer of hope that was an escape was snatched away—by Martin, no less—when he stood. “I’ll do it, Jon. As an apology for—” He sidled past Jon, brushing a hand casually but precariously along the back of his ribs along the way. “—wasting your time.” Jon tried not to stiffen or melt when Martin touched him, crossing his arms because he had no idea what else to do with them as Martin left the workroom, glancing over his shoulder with a smile. Jon was about to follow, only to be stopped by yet another question.

“Boss? Did Martin have it right in the statement?” Tim asked, grinning crookedly as he leaned back in his seat, fingers steepled. “Ribs is the worst spot? Thought it was always your armpits that got you to ‘screaming’ territory.”

Melanie shook her head. “And Sasha told me stomach.”

Jon wished he had enough eyes to glare at everyone in the room.

“Perhaps,” suggested Sasha brightly, “we need to record a collaborative statement to get our information straight.”

“You should feel lucky!” Daisy called as Jon power-walked out of the room fast enough to leave a cartoon dust cloud in his wake. “We agreed a statement tickling you stupid wasn’t too mean. They shot down my idea of trapping you in a haunted dunk tank!”

Martin already had the kettle on by the time Jon cornered him in the lounge, wrapping his arms around Martin’s waist and burying his face in the taller man’s shirt. He felt the soft rumble of Martin’s chuckle through his back.

“What kind of tea, darling?” Martin asked.

Jon lifted his head and stood on his toes to hook his chin over Martin’s shoulder. “I’m going to end you.”

“Mm-hm,” replied Martin, unperturbed as he selected a box at random from the communal tea/drinks cupboard and setting it by the stove.

“Seriously,” Jon said, remarkably amiable to Martin turning around and returning the squeeze. Even as Martin leaned in to brush the tip of his nose against Jon’s affectionately, Jon threatened, “Pin you to the bed and feather your ears until your head is spinning.”

Martin only smiled, pressing a kiss to Jon’s forehead. “Sounds lovely. After the plans we already have for tonight, though, alright?”

“We?”

“You read the itinerary,” Martin grinned. “Any notes?”

Feeling his face catch fire again and a stubborn smile begin to grow in the wake of Martin continuing to plant kissing on his forehead, Jon let his head fall, burying it in Martin’s chest this time. He shook his head.

“Perfect. Then, if you still feel the need for revenge after that, if you feel anything but happy and content, my ears are all yours.”

“Good,” Jon replied, tempted to spend the rest of the afternoon right there against Martin’s chest until evening could come and he could be pinned beneath Martin’s hands and monstrously beautiful smile.