#aspecarchivesweek

[cocoabats]

A little thing for the @aspecarchivesweek

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #AspecArchivesWeek #magnuspod #I care him

[dickwheelie]

heyyyy coming in a few days early with the “expression” prompt for @aspecarchivesweek! just a lil something about jon wearing a shirt he doesn’t like. enjoy!

(also on ao3)

_______________

All of Jon’s clothes are in greyscale.

Well, this isn’t entirely true—some are a very light tan, or a dingy brown. One mothbitten vest is a glaring 70’s orange that Jon deeply dislikes, so it stays at the back of his closet. These are the clothes he inherited from his parents and possibly also his grandparents, which he can’t bring himself to throw away. The rest, however, strictly range from white to black, practical to a fault.

Jon has a working theory that he may be the first person in history with an allergy to clothing stores. Entering one instantly stresses him out, and all he wants is to get what he came for and get out as quickly as possible. Figuring out how to match colors, as he eventually learns by the time he’s in uni, is a waste of time and consideration. Much easier and simpler to only buy clothes in shades that match no matter how you swap them out.

Of course, there are exceptions, and as life goes on in its chaotic and unaccountable way, he acquires items of clothing he wouldn’t otherwise have picked for himself. A colorful sweater from Georgie as a birthday gift. A free T-shirt from a uni event. He keeps these things for their sentimental value, but rarely wears them out of the house.

However, sometimes life is not only chaotic but also utterly unmanageable. And sometimes Jon finds himself with a promotion he doesn’t really know what to do with, an entire archive to organize, and less time than he’s ever had to do laundry.

And, well. One has to wear something to work, doesn’t one.

This is what Jon keeps telling himself as he miserably pulls on the last clean shirt left in his flat. He should know; he’s checked four times, and if he checks a fifth he’ll be late for work. He gives himself a glance in the small, dirty mirror stuck to the inside of his closet door, and looks away almost immediately, strangely embarrassed.

It’s just a long-sleeved, striped T-shirt, which is maybe a bit unprofessional for the workplace, but it’s not as though anybody minds how the people who work in the basement dress. The problem comes from its colors. Well, one of its colors. Three of them—black, grey, white—are perfectly suitable for Jon. But following those, at the bottom of the shirt, is a glaring, bright violet.

The shirt is a casualty of the aforementioned chaos of life. A friend of an acquaintance had given it to Jon to wear to a pride parade several years back, which he had ended up skipping out on anyway. Since then the shirt had been kept out of sight and mind, packed into the back of Jon’s closet for a rainy day that he’d never really expected to arrive.

There’s a first time for everything, Jon thinks, almost reflexively. The words don’t mean much to him, philosophically speaking, but they are a steadying mantra nonetheless. He goes to pull on his coat; by some measure of luck, it’s a cold day out. He plans not to take it off again until he’s safely back in his flat that night.

The trouble is, of course, that wearing one’s coat while making tea in the break room in an adequately-heated basement looks rather conspicuous to one’s coworkers, and leads to questions.

“You feeling alright, boss?” Tim asks, as he retrieves his bagged lunch from the fridge.

“Yes,” Jon says, stiffly. “Perfectly fine. I’m just cold.”

Sasha, who has followed Tim in, says, “Not sick, I hope.”

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Jon says again, though he is beginning to feel a bit overheated. “It’s just cold in here. You don’t feel cold?”

Tim and Sasha shake their heads, looking concerned.

“I’m fine,” Jon says for the third time in thirty seconds, and promptly flees the break room.

By late afternoon, Jon is sweltering, and has no choice but to take off the coat. He’s careful to close his office door before he does so, resolving to put it back on if he needs to be seen by anyone for the rest of the day.

Though the garish violet stripe in his periphery is distracting at first, he loses himself in his work soon enough, spending an hour or two tearing through a stack of statements that are, by and large, utter nonsense.

He loses himself in his work so much, in fact, that when there’s a knock at his office door, he says “Come in,” without thinking.

“Hey, Jon,” says Tim as he enters, “d’you have a copy of statement zero-one-three-two . . .”

Tim’s voice drifts off, and Jon looks up, irritated. “Zero-one-three-two-what?”

Tim’s staring at him, an eager expression on his face, and Jon’s stomach goes cold. He looks down at the shirt, remembering, and stops himself from groaning. If he doesn’t react, maybe Tim will leave it alone. “What number were you looking for, Tim?” he says instead, very calmly and professionally.

But of course it doesn’t work. Tim’s face breaks into a smile, and he gives Jon a big, showy once-over. Jon rolls his eyes even before the words are out of Tim’s mouth. “Looking good, boss.”

“Tim, I have even less patience for sarcasm than usual, so if you could please—”

“Who said anything about sarcasm? You look good! Casual, ah, Tuesday suits you, Jon.”

Jon puts his elbows up on his desk and massages his temples. “I ran out of laundry.”

“Ah, been there.” Tim seems to have taken Jon’s resignation as an invitation, because he helps himself to the chair opposite Jon’s desk. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the pride flag type, though. Don’t even think I’ve seen you with laptop stickers.”

“No,” Jon says, “I’m not. Not usually. This is just the only thing I had lying around. It’s from years ago, I never wear it.”

“Aw.” Tim genuinely looks disappointed. Jon wonders if perhaps he’s losing what remains of his tenuous ability to read people. “That’s a shame. You look good in purple.”

Jon has reached a point in his life, he’s fairly certain, where he ought to have heard such a comment before, or at least know the proper response. In actuality, he cannot recall a single instance of someone in his adult life complimenting his choice of fashion. He looks down at the shirt again. It’s the same as it was before: too-bright and obvious. He highly doubts it could look good on him in any shape or form. “Um. Thank you?” he says, sounding more bewildered than grateful.

“Really! It, like, brings out your eyes, or something. I dunno, but I think it’s nice on you. Not sure why you went through all the trouble to hide it all day.”

Jon shifts in his chair. “It’s . . . I mean, it’s very loud, isn’t it. And obvious. It’ll just attract attention.”

Tim looks at him for a moment or two. “Jon,” he says, “is this just about the shirt? Or is it also about the shirt?”

“That makes no sense, Tim.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jon, admittedly, does. One of the things he appreciates most about Tim is that they can be honest with one another, if only after some customary back-and-forth. He sighs deeply. “It’s—it’s just . . . a lot. I know it isn’t, really, in the grand scheme, it’s just you and Sasha, a-and Martin, too, I suppose. And it’s London, no one’s going to—it’s safe. I know that. B-But it’s a lot, being seen with everything—out in the open. By strangers. To know that they know. And even if they don’t know, they’ll . . . they’ll probably be able to guess.” He stares down at the scratched, cheap wood of his desk. Long ago, someone had carved a tiny pentagram on the lip of it. If Jon’s sense of humor weren’t buried under three layers of anxiety at the moment, he’d probably find it funny. “And I know it’s childish, to care what a bunch of strangers would think. But I can’t . . . I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t just let it go.”

There’s a painfully long pause before Tim speaks up again.

“Well, I’ve got good news for you, Jon.”

Jon looks up at him warily, and finds that Tim is smiling at him. “What?”

He points at Jon’s coat where it hangs off the back of his chair. “You can put that back on.”

Jon blinks at him.

“At five,” Tim goes on, “you can put your coat back on, button it up, and walk out of here, and when you get back to your flat, Jon, you can do your bloody laundry. And you never have to wear that shirt ever again. Problem solved.”

“But . . .” Jon’s voice peters out before he can come up with a real protest.

“If wearing pride colors makes you feel like that,” Tim says, his voice gentler, “then don’t wear them. Simple as that. Not everybody’s got to carry a flag twenty-four-seven. Or ever. Doesn’t make you any less queer. Hell, even I take the pins off my bag sometimes.” Tim squints into the middle distance, muttering, “I can never seem to get the laptop stickers off, though.”

“But—what about what you said about me wearing purple?” He’s grasping at straws, he knows, but Tim’s argument is quite good. And the thought of never wearing this particular shirt again does sound rather appealing.

“So wear an aubergine button-down every once in a while!” Tim shrugs. “Or don’t! It’s none of my business.” He tilts his head to the side. “Actually, please do wear an aubergine button-down sometime. You’d turn some heads down here.” He pauses. “Figuratively, I mean. I’m sure everyone would be very respectful.”

Jon lets out a startled laugh. “Alright,” he says, feeling lighter. He runs a hand through his hair. “Maybe, sometime, I’ll . . . I’ll try it.”

“I know you like your blacks and whites, Jon,” Tim says, “and I’m not here to tell you how to dress. But if you ever need advice, or want to borrow a colorful, strictly nondenominational shirt . . .” He points both thumbs at himself. “I’m your guy.”

“Okay,” Jon says, and is surprised to find that, in this one, specific case, he is.

“And,” Tim adds, pointing a professorial finger in the air, “it’s not childish to care about what other people think of you. Pretty sure it’s the most universal thing there is. Welcome to the human race, Jon. You’re among us peons, now.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “How unfortunate,” he says, drily, and Tim cackles.

Jon wears his coat home, keeping it carefully buttoned, and when he gets back to his flat he tosses the shirt into the back of his closet from whence it came. He’s not going to throw it away altogether, of course. It has sentimental value. Someday, maybe, he’ll dig it back up, if only just to look at.

For now, Jon does his bloody laundry.

#tma #the magnus archives #AspecArchives #aspecarchivesweek #gwyneth writes #it's ok jon i'm allergic to clothing stores too

[rosy-cheekx]

Peeling Labels

Aspec Week, Day 7: Something New-- @aspecarchivesweek

an exploration of Jon and demisexuality! As a demisexual mspec person, a lot of this is based on my own anxieties as an aspec person and not being “ace enough.” (thanks to @ombreblossom for listening to me try to parse out how being demi feels and how to word it for the fic.)

Rated T for reference to a sex dream, but no explicit language/smut words used!

-

Jon has a weird relationship with labels. Labels are good, they categorize and compartmentalize feelings, situations, states of being. An archivist’s dream, really. But when they are applied to Jon, either by himself or someone else, they feel non-Newtonian, as if holding onto the word for too long causes it to slip through his fingers.

Usually, it’s fine. He knows that labels don’t really matter, but they still feel good. It’s comforting to know that he isn’t broken or a liar or confused; there are people in the world who share a word with him. They are bonded under a flag of black, white, purple, and grey.

Jon had set the precedent quickly, with Martin, on the first night they had been in Jon’s flat, pressed against a doorframe and exploring each other with gentle urgency. “I-ah, Martin,” he had broken away from Martin’s lips, eyes shining with a mix of adoration and anxiety. “I don’t think I’ve told you before, but I’m asexual. Just-uh, well. Thought you should know.”

Martin had nodded, eyes soft and full of understanding. “Okay. Do we have a boundary I should know?” The answer was yes: anything below the belt was strictly off limits, to give or to receive. And that was that. Martin was the perfect gentleman, checking in constantly whenever they were in the heat of a moment. The rule remained and was never crossed. Rules have labels and that label was: asexual.

 Except, it wasn’t that easy. God forbid anything was easy for Jon. Labels are nice and they’re helpful to the part of Jon that craves structure, order. He’d found his ace identity while dating Georgie, after she gently asked him what was up after his third gentlemanly refusal of her advances. He had stammered out that he liked her, but didn’t want sex, at all, and he didn’t want her to be upset with him. And of course she wasn’t, because she’s Georgie, and she helped him find the word asexual, that glorious, blessed word that made so many frustrations and doubts slot into place.

Their romance didn’t end because of his aceness, far from it in fact. In fact, honestly, they were probably together as long as they were because their friendship was the strongest part of their relationship. But god, they were too similar to be in love. They were both too stubborn, too determined, unable to reach compromise when it came to the silliest things like movie nights (Jon found Georgie’s Lord of the Rings box set far too long and far too pretentious for his taste) or how their cupboards should be arranged. Their relationship was something they could win, and they were both determined to be the victor.

In the end, they both lost.

--

While Jon and Georgie had been a couple first, friends second, he and Martin had a foundation. There was friendship, shared trauma, a love that surpassed romantic and dug into something deeper. When they’re in bed and the dark is warm and heavy, limbs intertwined, Jon is reminded of the Greek myth of soulmates: a four armed, four legged being split in two, deemed to be too powerful by the gods. Sharing an essence, completing each other, making two halves whole. It makes Jon smile and kiss Martin’s forehead affectionately. They had been too powerful for the gods, hadn’t they? Unstoppable, really.

All this to say…what he has with Martin? It’s new. Something he has never experienced before. And it’s leading to a host of new, confusing experiences. He’s been in a relationship with Martin for nearly six months now. Jon really thought that at 32 years old, after battling down fear entity after fear entity in an apocalyptic hellscape, there were no new feelings he could experience. But here he was, lying awake, trying to trace patterns in the ceiling and understand the dream he had woken up from.

Not a nightmare. No, quite the opposite. Nightmares he knows how to deal with: slip out of bed, make a cup of tea or a glass of water, slip on the lamp by the bed, and cuddle into bed, reading quietly until sleep steals him away. But he does not know how to deal with this new dream of Martin, hovering above him, low voice stealing his breath and pressing kisses along his jaw, collarbone, shoulder as delicate, warm, strong hands brushed his body, dipping low with confidence. Jon woke up to a heat pooling in his core, tight and powerful, one he hadn’t experienced in such a way.

Jon has a libido, sure, but it’s always been a bodily desire, not a…what would you call this? Emotional one? He certainly never fantasized about another person, especially not someone he knew, that felt so invasive. He felt a flush heat his cheeks and chest as he pictured that image of Martin his subconscious has supplied him, above and around him with that concentration face he wears whenever he’s starting a puzzle or stuck on a particular difficult crossword, the one that always makes Jon grin and kiss his wrinkled forehead. But this one looked more heated, more filled with lust. And it… it affected him. Jon realized with a dawning that he liked it. A lot.

Jon glanced at the bedside clock and sighed at the blinking green 5:15 on the LED screen. Good a time as any to get a hot shower and let his feelings wash away with the soapy water. He extracted himself carefully from Martin’s warm arms and slipped into the ensuite, stripping to the sounds of water pounding from the showerhead and letting the steam and hot water envelop him. He scrubbed himself down harshly, watching suds rinse down his legs and down the drain, trying desperately to keep his mind off whatever that had been.

Once his skin was blotchy from heat, Jon decided he had enough. He slid into the flannel trousers he’d left abandoned on the floor of the loo and slipped back to bed, trying to do so without disrupting his sleeping boyfriend. Martin looked so lovely like this, auburn curls streaked with white plastered against the pillow and his forehead, mouth hung open and naked torso splayed so openly, so unguarded. He looked so lovely, the freckles smattered on his shoulders and stretch marks carving beautiful lines across his skin; the stars and the rivers below, a whole world in the work of art that is Martin Blackwood. How would he feel if he knew Jon had had that dream about him?

Jon’s staring, the lowercase-b-beholding of the man he loved was broken by Martin sleepily opening his eyes, a moment of confusion followed by focusing on Jon, who was kneeling on the edge of his side of the bed, captivated.

“Mmm. Hi there, love,” Martin mumbled, running a hand through his hair and sleepily glancing over at the clock. “You alright? Bad dream?”

Jon nodded; the spell broken. “Ah, yeah.” He couldn’t tell Martin, it was just a dream; he didn’t want to confuse Martin or worse, convince him he was a liar, that he wasn’t asexual, that it had all been to avoid-

Oh. Martin had spoken. He was staring at him expectantly, waiting for a response. “Sorry, say it again?” Jon asked meekly, sliding back under the covers.

“Do you want to talk about it, Jon?” The voice was patient, so patient. Jon shook his head and tucked himself into Martin’s side, tying up his damp, freshly brushed hair out of the way.

“I don’t really remember it anymore.” Lies. “It mustn’t have been that bad.” Martin’s hands were cool on his skin, still warm from the shower, as they brushed over the planes of his face in a slow way, stroking his nose and cheeks and forehead in the way Martin always did when he wanted Jon to go back to sleep. With some reservation, Jon let himself fall back against the pillows.

--

Jon thought about “The Dream” quite a bit in the week that followed. He wanted to understand it: why it had happened at all, but also, why it was still affecting him. Every so often, between emails sent and papers graded, his mind would drift back to the image of Martin, cheeks ruddy and eyes glassy, gazing down at him with such affection and Jon’s whole body would freeze up. Why was he suddenly attracted to Martin in such a new way? He loved that man with his whole being and yet, there was suddenly a new element, something unexpected, coming over the horizon. It’s been almost six months with Martin; why now?

The implications scared Jon. He had always identified as asexual; it was a core part of who he knew himself to be. Had it all been an unknowing lie? Had he just never been attracted to Georgie properly? Was it like when people get STIs; would he have to ring Georgie up and say, “hey, sorry to bother, I was never asexual, oops!”? He really didn’t want to have to do that. Would Martin be upset, angry that he had missed out on six months of potential sex just because Jon was…what? Prudish? Naïve? Afraid?

The worst part was that this…desire hadn’t come on all at once, he realized. He hadn’t even noticed the way his stomach would flip when Martin’s hands brushed his thighs, blaming his touch-based love language. It was in the way he stared at Martin when he couldn’t see it; eyes tracing his form and wondering what it would be like to feel every inch of him, in a way he had yet to experience. 

God he…had to tell Martin, didn’t he? He didn’t want to feel like a pervert in his own relationship, observing and imagining from afar without Martin’s knowledge. It felt…dirty.

--

Jon made dinner, nine days after the dream. Nothing extreme, tikka masala, rice, and garlic naan. Martin’s favorite. As he cooked, he vacillated between trying to plan out what he wanted to say and very-much-not-thinking about how the evening could end. The worst outcome, he imagined, was Martin storming out, betrayed and heartbroken. That…that probably wouldn’t happen. No, he knew Martin Blackwood. Better than anyone else in the world. That definitely wouldn’t happen. Lo-fi techno crooned through the speakers as Jon cooked and he let his thoughts float away with the music, trying to focus on the spices of dish he was making and not the knowledge that Martin would be home in ten-

Oh. Jon heard the shhlik of the door sliding against the welcome mat and felt his whole body tense up.

“Jon? You making dinner?” Martin’s voice was warm as he called through the entrance, he didn’t know yet what Jon was going to tell him, that it was all a lie-

“Yes!” Jon called back, determined to keep his voice light and casual. “Your favorite. Be ready in five, so get out of your work clothes.”

“Smells delicious,” Martin was behind him now, voice low against the shell of his ear. Jon felt a shiver run down his spine, to where his stomach and pelvis met and a ball of electricity crackled there, unbidden. Martin kissed the crook of his neck chastely and Jon froze, unsure how to reciprocate.

“You okay?” Martin’s chin was on his shoulder now, voice soft.

“Fine, fine. You smell like crayons. The cerulean one.” Jon nudged Martin away casually, trying to pass off a witty remark.

“Hazard of the job, I suppose. You know you love it,” Martin mercifully pulled his hands from Jon’s waist and retreated to the bedroom, and Jon exhaled in relief.

Jon plated the masala. Martin poured the wine. They sat down to dinner. Jon felt it all happen, was there for it all, but it passed in strange jerky stop-motion, and he couldn’t seem to slow it down. He couldn’t see to find the words, so elected for none at all, eating silently. Eye-contact would give away the anxiety brimming inside him, so he kept his eyes on his plate and the wine and the sleeve of Martin’s sweatshirt, anything but Martin’s warm hazel eyes that he knew so well.

“Jon.” He could hear it in Martin’s voice, the gentle prompting. He could hear the worry, the confusion. God, it was going to happen wasn’t it? He was going to tell Martin and what happened happened and he couldn’t do anything to change that. “How was your day?”

“I-ah. Martin.” He said, voice jerky, unable to find a rhythm that felt right. “I have something to tell you.” The words fell from his mouth in a tumble.

“Oh?”

“I. I had a dream?” Martin’s eyes widened and he set his fork down. “N-not one of the Eye’s dreams,” Jon reassures quickly. He really wished dreams weren’t such a theme in his life. “Not a statement dream, but a… different kind of dream.”

“I…I don’t follow.” Martin was confused, eyes searching Jon’s face.

“A dream…about you?” he tried, unable to add the words “sex dream” into his vocabulary quite yet.

“Oh. Oh!” Martin understood at last, eyebrows raised and forehead that adorable, confused wrinkle. “That’s, well, nice, I guess?” Jon’s face must have given way to his thoughts, as Martin tried again. “O-or maybe not?”

“Martin,” Jon steeled himself. “I…I think I’m maybe not asexual.” The words rang sharp in his ears, grating; they didn’t feel right. But it was true, wasn’t it? He didn’t know what sort of explanation there could be.

When Jon dared to look into Martin’s face, he saw an expression he didn’t know how to parse. Furrowed eyebrows, eyes searching Jon’s face, head cocked slightly. “Okay. Because of the dream?”

“Um-kind of? But also…” Jon felt blood rush through his cheeks, was certain the Desolation had picked now to tear its way through him, and was grateful. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About you. In-in ways asexual people shouldn’t. A-and I thought you should know, because I didn’t want you to think I was lying to you and I don’t want to be having those thoughts without you knowing because that feels rude, in a way? Like I set a boundary but have been crossing it in my head this whole time?” Tears stung the corners of his eyes.

Martin’s voice was even, level, hard to parse as he spoke. “Jon, can I ask you a question? Only because you seem upset and I want to try to help you.” Jon was frustrated. Why wouldn’t he have the decency to be upset? At a nod, Martin’s chair scraped backwards, and Jon found Martin kneeling him beside him, hands on his knees as Jon swiveled to face him. Taking his pockmarked hands in his own, Martin rubbed Jon’s knuckles slowly, tenderly.

“Have you ever felt those feelings before?” Jon shook his head meekly, certain the lump in his throat would betray him. “Have you had those feelings the whole time we’ve known each other? Like, since the Institute?”

This time, Jon shook his head. “Not-not until after we were dating. The safehouse, maybe?”

“This one’s gonna sound a little rude, Jon, but bear with me. Do you think you’ve ever been as emotionally close to anyone else as you are with me?” He squeezed Jon’s hands warmly, adding: “And I am with you?”

Jon shook his head. Of course not. Martin was something new to him, something untapped in the world. A treasure, a diamond in the rough. There was nothing that compared to their relationship.

“Jon. I don’t want to tell you how you identify, that’s not my place, but I, I think you’re still asexual.” Jon’s eyes snapped to meet Martin’s; it was his turn to furrow his brow. “After you came out to me, remember? I started looking into asexuality. I wanted to be able to impress you at Pride this summer,” Martin ducked his head, wincing at the cheesiness of his words. “But did you know there’s a bunch of subtypes of asexuality?”

What? This was news to Jon. There’s wanting sex and not wanting sex, right? He shook his head numbly and felt a comforting, grounding squeeze of his hands again.

“There was one I researched a little extra, because it confused me, and I wanted to understand the difference,” Martin continued, moving a hand to stroke Jon’s cheekbone, to guide his face to meet his. “Demisexual, Jon. It’s a subtype of asexuality, and it’s when-” Martin’s eyes rolled back in his head, as they were want to do when he was struggling to recite something from memory. “-you don’t even have to option to feel sexual attraction until an emotional bond is established. And it’s not, like, a one-to-one thing, either. There was a woman talking about her experience on a forum and she basically explained it like sex being a door, right? And the door has a padlock on it. Emotional connection opens the padlock, but you still have to open the door.”

Jon’s mouth was agape. He…there were so many things to parse out here. “You…you looked all this up for me?”

Martin’s cheeks pinked slightly. “I wanted to make sure I understood asexuality. It’s a whole subgroup of its own; it was interesting.” Martin had been a Researcher for a reason, Jon supposed dimly.

“I. I want to research for myself, but demisexuality?” He rolled the word in his mouth as he spoke. It felt nice, weighty. “And it’s still asexual?”

Martin nodded, vehemently, pulling out his phone as he spoke. “Yeah! Its flag is the same colors too, just arranged differently.” He showed him the white and grey flag, divided with a smooth purple stripe and a black triangle on the edge. “A-and, I mean, if you realize you’re not asexual, or you’re something else, you know I’ll still support you regardless, right? I don’t love you because of your sexuality, or your identity. I love you because you’re Jonathan Sims, and everything else besides that is bonus.”

Jon exhaled, feeling the Choke release the hold on his chest. “Demisexual. I…Thank you, Martin. For listening and believing me. I love you too.” He pressed a kiss to Martin’s forehead, carding fingers through the tumbled curls. “Let’s eat, and maybe you can show me that forum afterwards?”

#cw: internalized acephobia #cw: sex dreams #tma #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #georgie barker #fanfic to a tea #ace week #aspecarchivesweek #aspec archive week

[voiceless-terror]

Pinning it Down

@aspecarchivesweek Day One: Pride

Characters: Jonathan Sims/Georgie Barker

Jon fiddles with the pin in his hand.

He and Georgie had only been dating for six months. They were still getting to know each other, at least, from Jon’s perspective. When she suggested going to the pride parade he’d blanched- the concept itself was fine, of course he supported it. But the crowd, the noise, being surrounded by drunk college students on a hot day; well, it wasn’t really his scene. Georgie must have read the hesitation in his face and quickly changed track, instead suggesting a quiet brunch with a few friends from class.

Georgie’s friends, not his. They tolerate him well enough, but he can see they’re perplexed by Georgie’s choice in partner. Quiet, pedantic, acerbic Jon. That’s what they think of him, he’s sure of it.

He’d had one friend before Georgie. It was his first year, he’d felt even more out of place than he did in Bournemouth, surrounded by kids eager to socialize and participate. Jon was in the library at some forced mixer, mumbling his way through ice breakers and trying to ignore the titters his answers brought. But he’d caught the eye of one girl from the floor below his; tall, with long brown hair and a wicked gleam in her eyes. She barked out a laugh at one of his answers, gave a commiserating smirk. He smiled tentatively back.

From that moment on Maria latched on to him, despite his many efforts to push her away. She was one of those people for whom intimacy came naturally. She studied with him in the library, they bantered back and forth over drinks she’d dragged him to, attended shitty concerts together where Jon had to duck out early, too overwhelmed by the flashing lights and sweaty bodies. She was easy-going, quick with a laugh and even quicker with a smile. It was nice to have someone who appreciated him, flaws and all.

One night over too many drinks, he confessed to her- he’d never felt that pull you were supposed to, that primal attraction that seemed to govern the lives of those around him. He confessed it like a dirty secret, something you kept close to the chest. But she just nodded, gave him a tap on the wrist as she always did when he got nervous. “My girlfriend’s asexual too,” she said, in the most nonchalant of tones. “You want another round?”

He blinked. He’d done his own research as a teenager, trying to find out what made him so different and how he could ‘fix’ it. There weren’t many resources back then, and though he’d seen some helpful information he felt too nervous to delve deeply. He’d heard the term only in science class, and he didn’t like the connotations that brought. But to hear someone use it so casually, as if it was something to be accepted, something completely normal, almost made him weep with relief. Here was someone like him, in a relationship with Maria, who was practically his idol in all things. 

The next day she passed him a pin in class: black, grey, white and purple. “My girlfriend’s got a ton of ‘em, thought you might like.” Later that night he stared at it, turning it over in his hand. He thought of putting it on his backpack, but instead decided to tuck it away in his drawer. 

At the end of the semester, Maria transferred to a different university to be closer to her girlfriend. She made him promise to keep in touch, but, well- Jon’s never been good at that. 

And now here he is, standing at Georgie’s door as she laces up her boots. Her fingernails are painted pink, purple, and blue, just like Jon’s. She’s even convinced him to let her braid his hair, threading it with similarly colored ribbons. It looks nice, Jon has to admit, and he found he liked the feeling of her fingers in his hair. She’s much more flashily dressed, but bright colors have never been Jon’s style.

“What’ve you got there?” Before he can protest, Georgie’s grabbed the pin out of his hand, staring down at it with some consideration. He sees something briefly flicker in her eyes- a dawn of understanding, and what he hopes isn’t disappointment. Georgie’s face is anything but unreadable most times, she wears her emotions plainly for all to see. But Jon’s not so sure of his ability to decipher them now, not with all of these thoughts rushing through his brain at hyper-speed.

“I-I really-” he begins to babble, hands fluttering nervously as the silence stretches on. “I should’ve told you, I mean-”

Georgie interrupts him with a gentle hand to his chest, pulling at his sweater. He looks down to find her delicately pinning the button to his chest, right above his heart. He shivers at the carefulness of it, looking up to meet her eyes.

“Yes,” she says, each word considered. “You should’ve.” His heart drops and he anticipates her next words, as heartbreaking as they will be.

“I want you to feel like you can trust me with these things,” she continues, and Jon pauses in his panic. What? “I sort of figured, honestly- you’ve been quite the gentleman these past six months. Even when I came on to you in that bar.”

Jon remembers that night. How could he forget? He’d never had someone approach him, want him so brazenly. It was strange. “You’re not mad?” His voice is tentative, though luckily clear of its usual stutter.

“No.” She shakes her head, her hand dropping from its place on his chest. “I just wish you’d told me, but- communication’s not our strong suit, is it?”

Jon lets out a weak laugh. “No, it isn’t.”

“We’ll just have to work on that. And maybe discuss boundaries, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. I know you’re fine with cuddling-”

“Yes, please. Don’t stop that.”

“I won’t,” she laughs, taking his hand in hers. “But we can talk about this after brunch.” She looks down at their hands, suddenly unsure of herself, her grip loosening. “Is...this is okay, right?”

The trepidation in her tone is so uncharacteristic, completely foreign to him. They’ve done this a million times, but he finds the sudden hesitance almost sweet in its own way. She’s assessing his comfort level, making sure he’s not just going along with it to please her. After all, Georgie’s always telling him he needs to be more assertive.

“Yes,” he says, bringing her hand to his lips and delighting in the blush it earns him. “It’s more than okay.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28699863

#aspecarchivesweek #tma #the magnus archives #jongeorgie #jonathan sims #georgie barker #precanon #cw internalized acephobia #but not a major component #asexual jonathan sims #sfw #aspecarchives

[haberdashing]

Opposites Attract

Biace Jon and biaro Sasha talk about their respective inclinations during the workday. Written for @jonsimsbipride for the prompt “Solidarity”, and also fits into @aspecarchivesweek.

on AO3

Every day working for the Research department of the Magnus Institute was different than the last. Sometimes researching involved consulting old, esoteric books in the Institute’s library; sometimes it meant searching the darker, less reputable corners of the Internet; sometimes it meant long phone calls or in-person interviews with those who had evidence (or claimed to have evidence) of the supernatural.

Today, as it happened, Jon’s work involved studying another man’s body.

The body in question belonged to Adam Arneson, member of a cult... trying to end the world, was it? Or just trying to kill a lot of people in strange, supernatural ways? The evidence was iffy either way, but some understanding of the cult’s true aims might--might--be achieved through detailed analysis of the cryptic tattoos worn by members of its inner circle, including Arneson, who had also made the potential misstep of showing off said tattoos while on holiday at the beach.

So yes, Jon had his work monitor set to a close-up view of another man’s mostly unclothed body, and yes, it was in fact for work purposes, thank you very much. But it wasn’t terribly surprising that somebody just passing by might not reach the same conclusion.

As it happened, that somebody just passing by turned out to be Sasha; Jon hadn’t even heard her approaching (though that said less about how quiet her footsteps had been and more about how focused Jon was on decoding the tattoo symbolism rather than on his surroundings) until she spoke up to say, “Enjoying the view there?”

Jon jumped a little at the sudden sound, and he could feel his face heating up--he’d never been one to blush easily, but then, this was an unusual occasion, and it might well be the exception that proves the rule (in the original meaning of the phrase)... “No! I mean, er, perhaps a little bit, but not- not like that, I don’t think.”

Sasha’s hand rested against her hip as her gaze darted between Jon’s face and his computer screen. “Define ‘like that.’”

“I mean, he’s an attractive enough man, sure, but I don’t want to- to kiss him, for instance, or, or even-”

“Bed him?” Sasha’s word choice seemed calculated, there, a wry smile forming on her face as she waited for Jon to elaborate.

“...that, yes. I’m not attracted to him in that way. But that doesn’t mean I can’t see that he’s good-looking, or even enjoy the thought of myself going on a date with him--well, if he wasn’t part of an evil murder cult, that is.”

“Yeah, that’d be enough to make anyone a hard pass in my book too, no matter how hot they were.” Sasha said, a slight nod accompanying her words. She drummed her fingers on Jon’s desk for a moment before adding, “But you are into guys, then. Dating-wise, anyway.”

“Guys and girls, yes... anyone, really. I...” Jon looked at Sasha for a long moment, really looked at her, as he tried his best to judge how she would react to his next words. He hadn’t come out to too many people over the years, but Sasha always seemed accepting enough--and she knew about Tim, and they were still best friends, right? “I’m bi. Well, biromantic, technically. And asexual.”

“Oh!”

Jon’s heart skipped a beat as he heard Sasha’s voice, as he noted the excitement in it but was unsure of the exact source of said excitement, as his mind filled with possibilities both positive and negative.

“Oh, I’m the other way around!” Sasha laughed a little at her own statement, and though Jon was still processing it, the implications of it, and of that laughter, were enough to bring a shaky smile to his face.

“So you, you understand. You’re like me.” Jon’s heart fluttered at the thought of it. He wasn’t sure anybody had really understood before, though a few had tried, at least.

“Well, sort of. Like I said, it’s the other way around for me--bisexual, aromantic. So I’ve got no interest in being that guy’s girlfriend-” Sasha pointed in the direction of Jon’s computer monitor; Jon blinked a few times as he was suddenly reminded that there was still an image of a mostly-naked man currently displayed on his computer. “Or having candlelit dinners with him, or having a crush on him, any of that sappy stuff, but I do want to-”

Sasha’s grin was growing with every word, and Jon didn’t terribly like the look of it, didn’t like where this sentence seemed to be headed.

“Do things you probably shouldn’t be discussing on the clock?”

Sasha blinked in surprise, pushing her glasses up a bit before responding. “I suppose, but where’s the harm in it, really?”

“You know Elias has cameras all around the Institute, right? There are probably microphones in them, too. Whatever you were about to say, imagine Elias listening to it.”

Sasha made a face. “Alright, fair enough.” Jon thought she might continue on the same topic of conversation for a minute there, but instead Sasha leaned in closer to the computer screen and added, “Who is that guy, anyway?”

Jon let out a low sigh of relief. “He’s a high level member of the Serpent’s Fang. I’ve been trying to decode his tattoos, but they don’t seem to make much sense. See, that’s an ankh there, a symbol of life from Egypt, but right next to it is algiz, which is a Norse rune of protection...”

Sasha nodded along as Jon explained the bizarrely meshed symbolism of the cult’s tattoos, and as she kept listening, and as Jon thought about the conversation they’d just had, his anxiety about coming out to her evaporated, replaced with satisfaction and belonging and a soft warmth.

#jonsimsbipride #tma #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #bi jon #bi jon sims #jon sims #ace jon #ace jon sims #sasha james #personal #my writing #aspecarchivesweek #aspec archives week #aspecarchives

[cuttoothed]

For day 1 of @aspecarchivesweek for the prompt “wish”. Someday I will write something that isn’t jmart, but that day is not today.

Ace Martin character exploration; Jon/Martin; some Martin/OMC

Warnings: internalized homophobia (brief); internalized aphobia (ongoing); reference to having sex while intoxicated; reference to having sex reluctantly (though not coerced); outing of ace character in their absence

*

Martin spends a long time wishing he was normal.

It starts when he’s fourteen. Well, no, it starts much earlier than that, but it’s when he’s fourteen that the nebulous muddle of feelings coalesces into something impossible to ignore. That’s when all the boys and girls in his class start making eyes at each other while pretending they aren’t; start talking about who they’d like to snog behind the bushes at the bottom of the sports field, and Martin feels something twist in his stomach when he realizes that the person he’d like to be behind the bushes with is Stephen Dowling, who has dark hair and blue eyes and snaps gum between his teeth all day long.

Martin never says anything about it, of course, tries not to even think about it, but he knows it’s not normal. As if he needed one more weird thing about him along with all his sick mum and his jacket that pulls tight across his shoulders, the seams fraying because he needs to get another year out of it before they spend money on a replacement. He keeps his head down and secretly believes that this part of his life will never be over.

*

Eventually, this part of his life is over.

He is nineteen and living in London in a cheap flatshare with three other people, he has a job at a real academic institution, and he has a boyfriend.

Ramesh is sweet and funny and has soft brown eyes with the longest eyelashes Martin’s ever seen. His heart flutters in his chest every time they’re together, his breath catching in his throat and spilling out as laughter. Martin feels normal, because this is London and nobody cares if he walks down the street with Ramesh’s hand in his, if he kisses his boyfriend in the queue for the chippie. It’s like a weight Martin never knew was there lifted off his chest and he can breathe properly for the first time in his life.

He and Ramesh go out for almost a month before they’re in Martin’s flat alone one night, all the others gone out, and Ramesh presses him down on the sofa and kisses him and crawls a hand inside Martin’s jeans. Martin feels hot and cold all at once, his stomach coiling sick and every muscle in his body tensing up for fight or flight. He pushes Ramesh away—too hard, too clumsy—and guilt courses through him at the hurt look in Ramesh’s soft eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Ramesh asks, and Martin can’t say, his heart pounding and his hand clenched painfully tight against the arm of the sofa.

“Sorry,” he’s able to say eventually. “I just, umm…”

“It’s all right,” says Ramesh, though he still looks hurt and confused and Martin has the feeling it’s not actually all right. “I probably surprised you. We can wait for next time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” says Martin, grateful at the reprieve. They sit on the sofa and watch a film instead, and Martin scarcely follows the plot as he tries to calm the adrenaline rushing through his veins, making him want to flinch every time Ramesh’s shoulder touches his.

Next time is the same. Martin apologizes again, and Ramesh says it’s all right again and then two days later breaks up with him.

“I just don’t think it’s working out,” he says, and Martin knows it really wasn’t all right after all.

*

Martin’s sick of wishing he was normal, and what is it they say: fake it ‘til you make it?

He gets drunk and takes home a man he doesn’t know and has sex. He scarcely remembers it the next day and he’s too hungover and miserable to try, but he’s proven to himself that he can have sex and that’s the important thing.

Having sex is normal. It’s what people in relationships do. Martin doesn’t know why he has the hang-ups he does, but he just needs to get over them and learn to relax a bit. Having a couple of drinks helps, he finds.

He has a few boyfriends here and there, and having sex really isn’t a problem. There are better things he could think of doing with his time, but it’s fine. There are even some nice things about it, like feeling close to someone. Intimate.

Eventually, he thinks, maybe he’ll stop feeling like he’s faking it.

*

It isn’t that he gives up on relationships. It’s just that there are so many expectations that Martin feels he always fails to live up to, so many rules that it seems like everyone but him instinctively knows. Trying feels like more hassle than it’s worth.

And then he gets transferred to the Archives and there is Jonathan Sims with his imperious glare and devastating voice and Martin is fourteen all over again watching Stephen Dowling snap his gum in Geography class.

“You really need to stop mooning,” Tim tells him. They’re at the Institute holiday party and they’re all a bit sloshed, and Martin can admit to himself that yes all right he was mooning a bit over Jon, who’s stood at the bar with his back to them, talking animatedly with Elias.

“I am not mooning,” he says, because there’s no reason he has to admit it to Tim as well. “I was just...contemplating.”

“Contemplating Jon’s arse,” Tim snorts, and then Sasha plonks down three shot glasses on the table in front of them and sits down in a rush.

“Who’s contemplating Jon’s arse?”

“Martin, of course.”

“I am not—” Martin begins to protest, but Sasha shushes him, pushing a shot into his hand. It smells of cinnamon and the liquid inside is bright red.

“Hopeless case,” sighs Tim, and drinks his shot. Sasha does the same and then gives Martin a sympathetic smile, her eyes a little bit unfocused.

“If it’s any consolation, Jon doesn’t shag anyone.”

“Sasha!” Tim scolds, and she suddenly seems to realize what she’s said, her eyes going wide.

“Shit,” she says. “Sorry, god, I shouldn’t have said anything. Martin, please pretend you never heard me say that.”

“Okay,” Martin promises but his brain is snagged on ‘Jon doesn’t shag anyone’, how she said it so easily, matter of fact, as if it wasn’t a big deal at all. He looks up at the bar where Jon is still standing with Elias, his slim hands gesturing as he talks.

“Drink your shot,” Tim tells him. “It’ll help you forget about Sasha’s big mouth.”

Martin drinks his shot, which is absolutely sickening, but he doesn’t forget.

*

There is one bed in Daisy’s safe house.

It’s evening when they arrive and Martin is exhausted, a bone deep weariness that might be from the travel or the fear or the fog that’s seeped under his skin. Jon looks tired too, dark circles under his eyes and now that Martin’s really looking at him for the first time in months, he’s amazed Jon hasn’t just shivered apart at the seams by now. He is filled with the desire to take Jon in his arms, as if he might hold the fragile pieces of him together, and he thinks that he could.

He saw Jon, in the Lonely, even if they haven’t talked about it since. Saw how Jon felt about him, so yes, Martin thinks he could put his arms around Jon and it would be welcome. He isn’t sure why he doesn’t, except that there’s a part of him that still feels like it’s trapped behind glass, abstracted and numb, and it keeps his arms by his sides while his heart yearns against his rib cage.

In the meantime, there is only one bed, and they both stand looking at it for a few moments, considering the implications and the fact that they have only just found each other again after months of absence.

“There’s enough room,” Jon says eventually, his voice soft and tired. Martin nods; there is enough room.

It’s cold, and they both climb under the covers in socks and tracksuit bottoms and long sleeved t-shirts, pile the thick feather duvet and two blankets over them. It feels like being cocooned, their combined body heat gradually warming the mattress, the slow even sound of Jon’s breathing warming something in Martin’s chest.

He’s here, he’s here with you. You’re here with him.

In the gentle dark they gravitate together, drawn close by the longing that’s suffused all their months apart. When Jon’s lips press gently against his, Martin thinks his heart might burst. He kisses back, and at last that trapped part of him breaks free and he lifts his arms to wrap around Jon, pulls him against his chest. Jon makes a soft, surprised sound and he breaks the kiss.

“Martin,” he says, careful the way he has been since he brought Martin back, as if a wrong word might shatter him. “I need to tell you, before this goes any further—”

“It’s okay,” Martin tells him. “I don’t want to have sex with you either.” It feels so good to be able to say it that Martin could cry or laugh or both.

“Oh,” says Jon, and then huffs a soft laugh. “Well that’s—that’s good, then.”

He kisses Martin again, and leans in against him, close and warm and filling every part of Martin’s awareness. Martin knows he left all hope of normal behind years ago, before worms and fog and evil circuses. But the fact that he gets to have this—just this, with the man he loves; no expectations and nothing to fake; and for the moment at least, no fear. This is far, far better than normal.

And Martin couldn’t wish for anything else.

#the magnus archives #tma #aspecarchives #jonmartin #my fic

[zykaben]

Words: 4.9k Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims Tags: Friendship, Fluff, Getting Together, Canon Asexual Character, Aromantic Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Aspec Archives Week (The Magnus Archives), No Fear Entities (The Magnus Archives), It's just soft and cute all the way through

Summary:

Tim was out of his depth, but Jon was too. That was why he’d come for help in the first place. “Wait, hold on. I may not be an expert with crushes but that doesn’t mean I can’t help with it. We just need to do some research.”

(Or: Ace Jon and aro Tim solidarity as they try to find the best way for Jon to woo Martin.)

For @aspecarchivesweek Day 7: Solidarity

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #tim stoker #aspecarchives #it's solidarity baby!! #my fic #my writing #i am SO happy with this one lads

[seachanqe]

A fluffy season 1 qpr polycule fic featuring Jon/Martin/Sasha/Tim. Originally started for @aspecarchivesweek and based on an amazing prompt by @kieren-fucking-walker! Thank you!

---

Sasha was still staring at the notebook in Jon's lap with the very familiar expression of burning curiosity. "You're always writing in it in front of us," Sasha said, gesturing towards the notebook, "but then you won't tell us what you're doing. It's killing us," Sasha groaned. "Well, me, at least."

Martin shrugged. "I mean I get it, I don't always want to share my poetry."

"This isn't poetry!" Jon said, affronted.

Martin gave him a kiss on a cheek. "Yes, I know, dear. If you were writing poetry, I would assume something was very wrong and be appropriately worried."

#the magnus archives #my writing

[teeholding]

Here with an ace pride Jon for @aspecarchivesweek !

[also crossposted to twitter]

#magnuspod #tma #the magnus archives #tma fanart #aspecarchives #jonathan sims #first time drawing the jarchivist in a skirt bc I’m deep in my nonbinary feelings rn #there’s so many characters I wanna draw for this week #I’m gonna try to fit the time in!!! #teeholdart

[dathen]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gerard Keay & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, JonGerryMartin (QPR), side Jon/Martin Characters: Gerard Keay, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood Additional Tags: Aro Gerry, Gerry lives AU, Angst with a Happy Ending Summary:

As time went by, he found himself seeking out some kinds of stories above others. Some made him ache with jealousy—wholesome families, protective siblings. Some felt distant and dull, especially when “coming of age” seemed to mean “find a girlfriend.” But friends—friends could be found. You didn’t have to be born with them. There was still hope, away from home, away from his mother...

He kept reading stories. Stories were all he had. He fought back the loathing that the touch of a book cover sometimes gave him, tried to fill his dreams with things other than nightmares.

--

Gerry Lives AU, spoilers through TMA 111. Written for @aspecarchivesweek, “stories” prompt.

#tma #the magnus archives #gerry keay #jongerrymartin #jonathan sims #aspecarchives #QPR #aro gerry #I WILL MAKE THIS MAN HAPPY AND LOVED OR DIE TRYING

[artsying-ifer]

@aspecarchivesweek day 7: solidarity!

I’ve made posts about ace Jon and aro Sasha this week, so it only feels fitting for my last post of the week to be about the two of them being ace/aro solidarity!

(reblogs > likes)

#aspecarchives #the magnus archives #tma #magnuspod #magpod #jonathan sims #sasha james #og archive crew #art #digital art #fanart #artsying #i meant to make more content for this week but alas #much to everyone's surprise i ended up Actually Doing Things with my flatmates this week #so didn't have so much time to draw

[asexualzoro]

Title: and if it rhymes, it’s true, but i hate poetry

Author: driflew

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood

Words: 3512

Tags: Sex-Averse Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Acephobia, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Discussion of Boundaries, Mild/Implied Almost Sexual Content, which is to say no actual sexual content just talking about it / starting it but not going anywhere, Author is Asexual, AspecArchives

Summary: "If the Institute was a nightmare, then Jon hopes Scotland is not a dream. Dreams, as he knows so well now, can be stolen. Worse, still, is that even the most wonderful of dreams is fleeting, and when they end, they’re so very rarely remembered. Those which remain in the light of day rarely hold up under scrutiny—They’re impossible, and worse, they leave a lingering bafflement. What was I thinking? Was I even thinking at all?

At the back of Jon’s skull is the doubt that he’s just one wrong move away from finally waking Martin up."

Sex-averse ace Jon oneshot written for @aspecarchivesweek day 6, Support! 

some asexual / sex-averse Jon hurt/comfort

#AspecArchives #the magnus archives #tma #tma s4 #lew writes #jonmartin #ace jon content tag #jon sims #martin blackwood #tma fanfic #what else do you even tag shit as i still dont actually know #and if it rhymes

[rosy-cheekx]

Hypothetically

 @aspecarchivesweek Day One: Wish

I wish to make you happy.

Jonathan Sims/Georgie Barker

This was it. Jon fiddles with the pale green collar of his shirt; eyes focused resolutely on the version of himself in the mirror that hung on the wardrobe in his student flat. Tonight’s the night I’m going to ask Georgie to…

He shakes his head to himself, wincing at the end of that sentence. He knows what he’s going to do tonight, what he wants to do tonight, what difference does vocalizing it make, even if it’s just to himself?

Glancing down at his watch, Jon chews his lip. He was meeting Georgie at the bar in thirty minutes. The bar was ten minutes away…He should probably leave now, right? In case he needed to find them seats or use the loo or if the walk ended up taking longer than the dozens of times he’s been there before? He doesn’t want to be late, that would just make everything worse-

Huh. He’s pacing. Jon forces himself to stop and stands in the middle of his bedroom, wrapping his hands around his sides, thumbs digging into his back, feeling his diaphragm push his ribs out and in as he breathes, focusing on the solid movement of his body. Why am I so nervous? His therapist had talked to him, years back, about identifying sources of his anxiety. He hates that it works, hates that it means confronting his own brain and acknowledging his faults.

Is it the bar? No. This bar, The Addison, is one of the few pubs Jon actually enjoys. It’s always got a bit of a draft so even in the busiest nights it never feels like the heat of the room is inescapable. Jon’s not the biggest fan of beer, per se, but he can knock back a pint with the best of them, so long as he has something in his stomach first, and the pretzels and beer cheese The Addison makes are his favorite. The thought of them make his stomach growl.

Is it Georgie? No. He has a lot of strong feelings for Georgie, feels comfortable being himself around her. He drops his stuffy academic persona and can be his regular, less-stuffy-but-still-academic self, the one who speaks to her flatmate’s cat in a higher-pitched voice but still with proper Queen’s English, because “they deserve to be treated with respect, don’t you Madame?” She cares about him, too, he knows that, and he’s enjoyed their months as friends and the past few weeks they’ve been a couple.

As a couple…He feels a twinge of anxiety in his chest that makes him flap his hands instinctively, a quick stim to ward off the impending doom building in his belly. Ah. Found it. He and Georgie have only gone on a few dates: a coffeeshop on a Saturday morning, and a movie night in Georgie’s flat, an evening which had been planned to be a movie marathon of Georgie’s favorite bad horror movies, the B and C rated films that were truly just a vehicle for half-naked women sprinting down alleyways and gratuitous fake blood effects. Any excuse for them to laugh over popcorn and predict the plot points, except Jon had fallen asleep partway through the second movie and had woken up the next morning on Georgie’s couch, a worn fleece blanket over his slumped form. But this? This was a proper night-time date, involving alcohol and a walk home and, Jon was sure, a “mind if I come in?” and it would be different because it wasn’t a friend he was talking to, it was his girlfriend and there were expectations and he was a virgin and didn’t want to disappoint her because he knows Georgie is experienced and she deserves to have a good time and it’s his responsibility as a boyfriend to do that, even if he’s terrified because he hasn’t before—

Woah. Jon takes a deep breath. That was a lot. He did a full Sims, as Georgie would say, letting things snowball in his head until he explodes. He closes his eyes, wringing his hands again, just a gentle flutter at his sides. It’ll be fine. She’ll understand. She has up to now. Georgie has understood his weird studying habits, his deep aversion to spiders, his need to be early everywhere, his sudden shutdowns and stimming habits and how he loves to be held and touched. She can certainly handle him being a nervous virgin.

Jon slips a condom in his wallet and then, hesitating, tears off two more and throws them in. In case he messes up the first time. Checking his watch, he sees its quarter to eight. If he leaves now he’ll only be five minutes early. Perfect.

--

The Addison is a healthy dose of busy on a Thursday night in late autumn, the hum of conversation and music floating over Jon is just the right amount of chaos for him to reach equilibrium, feeling enthused by his nervous energy. He’s sitting at the bartop, spinning the cap to his beer bottle, watching it whirl, whirl, whirl, clattering on the stained wood and spinning all the while. It’s entrancing.

Georgie is speaking to him now. She smiles warmly at him and feels his stomach flip. God, she’s gorgeous when she smiles. Her hair’s in braids this month, pink and orange weaved tightly together, contrasting with the tight black turtleneck dress she wears. He catches himself staring at her profile, the planes of her face animated as she tells him a story about her professor and his alleged vow to fail her this semester. His face is warm. See, he soothes himself, you are attracted to her. You’re just nervous.

“Jon. Jon?” Georgie’s eyebrow is quirked up and she’s smirking at him, like she’s caught him in a lie. “Everything alright? You’re staring.” Jon feels another rush of blood to his cheeks, prickling at how exposed he feels to have been caught up in his thoughts about her.

“Oh-uh, yeah,” he nods, hesitating before reforming his own features into a smile. “I-I was just thinking. Well. How nice you look tonight.” Georgie isn’t immune to compliments, he knows this for certain, and its reaffirmed as she ducks her own head briefly, smile shifting from teasing to soft.

“O-Oh. Thank you, Jon.” She sips her drink, preferring something a little harder than Jon’s beer, usually a vodka cranberry she can nurse throughout a night or throw back when she needs a little something more in her bloodstream, fogging her mind. “You look really nice too, you know. Your green shirt is my favorite.” She gestures to the button up and he nods absently, glancing down at it. When he looks up, her face is close to his, hand weaving into the curls by his ear. He sighs and leans into the touch, feeling a shiver run through him when they kiss. He tastes the cranberry on her lips, vodka on her tongue, her liquid courage enthusing him as well as her (not that she needs any excuse to be bold, really), and makes a choice.

When they pull away for air, he grins wildly at her, the face he makes when he knows he’s about to a very Not-Sims thing. When the bartender makes his rounds again, a pale man in a black button-down, Jon orders his own ruby-red drink. Georgie’s eyebrows meet her hairline as he does so, folding her hands together. “Who are you and what have you done with Jonathan Sims?” The chuckle behind her voice balances the sternness of her words. He just grins at her and takes a sip of his newly-acquired vodka and cranberry juice, the dry flavors curling on his tongue and making his head feel light and warm after even half the glass.  

-

Jon is drunk. It doesn’t take a genius to see that. He knows he’s a lightweight and even the divine soft pretzels he’s been munching on since his arrival can only handle so much. He’s finished his second hard drink on top of the beer and is feeling properly light and airy. Like a cake, he giggles to himself. He’s having fun, chatting with Georgie about life and cats and uni and their plans for the future. Jon’s entertaining a couple of options, a few research jobs in London, and Georgie is poking his side, making him laugh as she teases him about his studying skills being useful for something more than exams.

“At least I have studying skills!” He says, pushing her off his side, linking their fingers together to inhibit her from poking him again. “You can’t ride my coattails forever, you know.”

“I won’t have to! It came in today.”

“What did?” His thoughts are clouded, edges of anxiety smoothed over into something more ignorable.

“My microphone! So I can start my podcast about spooky shit, remember?” Georgie squeezes his hand and finishes her own drink, far along as Jon in liquid consumed but not nearly as affected as he is. “I’m going to uncover the world’s mysteries and teach my faithful audience about the supernatural. I’ve got the title nailed down, too.” With her free hand she paints a banner in the air. “What the Ghost. ‘Cause it’s like ‘what the fuck’ and I can talk about all sorts of weird shit.” Georgie swears a lot, and more when she’s tipsy.

“Can I see it?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think them through. “The-the microphone, can I see it?”

Her eyes widen and she nods, “Oh, yeah of course! I haven’t been able to test it out yet, so maybe you can help me.”

Jon insists on paying. So does Georgie. They resign to splitting it, each vowing to pay next time and knowing they will never outsmart each other.

-

Jon doesn’t realize how drunk he is until he’s walking the five minutes to Georgie’s flat. Tucked into her side, the air is cool around his face, the wind an icy hand cupping his cheek. Everything feels smeary, liquid, warm. Hands in the pocket of the peacoat he knows he bought for the aesthetic and not to keep him warm, he fingers his wallet, feels the circular outline inside, and feels…nothing. Good. He can do this.

He’s always loved Georgie’s flat. It is warm, all orange and yellow lamplight, houseplants, and a cosy cluttered look. Her roommate exists only in residuals, the sneakers she leaves by the door and the dishes she does at odd hours more proof she exists than anything like conversation. Jon respects that. Georgie’s room is a lot like the rest of the flat, which means it’s a lot like Georgie herself. Warm, dark, soft, and scattered, with hidden elements of cat hair no matter how many times she cleans. Jon throws his coat over his desk chair and collapses onto her bed, reveling in how her pillows feel under his back. He takes a moment to greet the weird smile-faced stain on her ceiling before sitting up, watching Georgie fold herself next to him and open a carboard box, taking out a chunky black microphone with a USB cable. She brandishes it like a sword, before angling it to her face.

“This is BBC 4 with breaking news,” she intones into the microphone, putting on a crisp RP accent and lowering her voice an octave. “Ghosts and ghouls have been discovered at King’s College, Oxford, residing as university professors. News anchor Jonathan Sims has the story. Sims?”

Jon presses back his giggles and leans into the character, accent already pretty close to the posh voice she puts on. “There’s been an error, actually. They’ve been the students all along. Journalism student Porgie Parker has been found out to have been a ghost. These discoveries were made after her boyfriend, English Literature student…Bonathan Bims, realized she had never picked up a textbook because she couldn’t! Her hands went right through them!” By the time he’s gotten to the word textbook, Georgie has pounced on him, microphone forgotten as she wrestles him to the bed, alternating between poking and tickling him until he lets the bit trail off, voice a mix of giggles and pleas for her to stop.

When she lets off, Jon abruptly realizes the intimacy of their position. She’s straddling him, her hands pinning his wrists to the plush pillow behind his head. They’re both breathing hard, cheeks flushed, and smiling.

Jon isn’t sure who started the kiss, but it doesn’t really matter. His arms are wrapped around Georgie’s neck and her hands are cupping his face, cool to the touch, nails lightly scratching his jawline. The bed is soft and Georgie is warm, pressing in from all sides, and it feels good. This he likes.

She kisses along his jawline and he feels heart rate pickup, flexing his hands (when did he curl them into fists?) as she presses against his neck. He wishes vaguely she’d put her hands back in his hair, he likes that soft feeling of pressure on his scalp. The smile on the ceiling is smirking at him now, the curve of the water stain looking more vicious than it had earlier.

Her hands are on his chest, she’s unbuttoning his shirt. Her hands feel too cold now, the shiver running through him one of anxiety, not desire, and Jon is sitting up before he knows what he’s doing. Fuck. Georgie, the saint, backs off him and kneels beside him on the bed. Jon’s hands flit to the undone buttons, fingertips circling them, suddenly unsure what to do.

“Are you okay, Jon?” Georgie’s voice is softer, eyes searching his face as she wedges her hands underneath her knees. He watches her wrists, the swing of her braids as she cocks her head, anything to avoid her eyes.

“I-” he gestures to her vaguely. “Y-You know I haven’t before, right?”

“Oh. Oh.” Georgie nods, understanding maybe a little better than he expected. “No offense, but I kinda figured, Jon. Not in a bad way!” She backpedals. “I just figured, you know, there’s no rush.”

“I mean, there’s a little of a rush,” he admonishes under his breath. At her hum of confusion: “You know, the whole-” he gestures again, as if he could pluck the word from the air. “-third date…thing.”

“Jon,” Georgie sighs his name, voice soft and so patient, a voice he doesn’t think he’s heard used anywhere else. “There’s no rule saying what we have to do when. Or how. Or ever, for that matter. It’s no one’s business what we do except ours.” She reaches out a hand, waiting for a slight nod, before taking his thin hands in her own. “Is that why you drank more than usual today?”

Jon nods, feeling a sag of relief spread throughout his body. “I just- I want to make you happy.”

“You do make me happy, you twit. That’s why we’re friends and it’s why I’m dating you.” She presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t need sex to be happy. Is it fun? Yes. But not necessary.”

Jon frowns, chewing on his lip and eyeing the window of her bedroom, tracing the rectangle with his eyes over and over again. “I-hmm.” Georgie watches him search for words; she knows how he ticks well enough to know they’re coming if she waits. “What if, hypothetically, I never had sex with you? Ever.”

“Well,” she gave his hands a light squeeze. “Hypothetically, I’d be totally okay with it, though I’d ask if you were asexual and make sure we had appropriate boundaries.”

“Huh?” The word draws him back to her face, the deep brown eyes that search his own. “Asexual. Like, no sex?” She nods, again, ever-patient. “Huh. Asexual.” He drops the pretense. “Maybe.”

Asexual. The word felt good as he rolled it around in his mouth. He traced the letters with his fingertips in cursive against his thigh as Georgie let go of him, rolling off her bed to pull on sweatpants and a t shirt instead of the dress she was wearing 

“Let’s look into it, if you want. Together.” Georgie grins at him now, rye and warm. “I will have to ask you if want hypothetical crisps, because I’m hypothetically fucking starving.”

#aspec archive week #jonathan sims #Georgie barker #cw alcohol #cw internalized acephobia #/confusion #just some good confusing feelings #based on my own experiences? said who? #also! important note: Jon's stims are reflective of my own habits #just sayin #asexuality #ace #ace flavor: who knows? not even Jon

[voiceless-terror]

Recognition

@aspecarchivesweek Day Five: Something New

Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood, Season One

In which Jon and Martin are more alike than they thought.

Jon, in spite of himself, was starting to get used to Martin living in the Archives.

Offering him shelter had been almost instinctual- after listening to his story, who wouldn’t? Terrorized for almost two weeks and no one, no one noticed. There was also the matter of Jon’s guilt; Martin thought he needed to put himself in danger to be thorough, to please Jon, and now he was homeless. Jon owed him this at the very least. No matter how much Elias disapproved of the situation.

And despite the occasional trouser-less wanderings, his presence was...appreciated. Late nights in the Archives were wearing him down: the statements were getting to him, and the unshakeable feeling of being watched when he knew he was alone was putting him on edge. Now he can blame that feeling on Martin, who he’d caught staring on more than one occasion. Jon was not surprised; he hadn’t been looking or feeling his best, highly unprofessional with his three-day stubble and rumpled clothes. Not a good look.

He’d be lying to himself if he didn’t enjoy the cup of tea when Martin joined him in his worst bouts of insomnia. He would sit on the tiny couch in his office, nursing his own mug and chattering away in a low tone that Jon was starting to find soothing instead of irritating. At first Jon clammed up, uncomfortable with the sudden intrusion on his late night routine, but he soon found Martin didn’t expect him to respond or contribute, save the occasional grunt of acknowledgement. Sometimes Jon even craved the company, the familiar rhythms of Martin’s voice had become an unconscious comfort. 

Tonight he was looking particularly exhausted, slumped in his seat with deep purple bags under his eyes. It sent an unwelcome pang through Jon’s chest; Martin should be sleeping, not entertaining him because he chose to stay late. He said as much.

“You don’t have to stay up on my part.”

“Hm?” Martin looked up from his lap, eyes finding Jon’s. “Oh, no. It’s fine. I like the company, to be honest. Unless…?”

“I don’t mind,” Jon assured him. Shockingly, he found he meant it. Still, it didn’t ease his guilt. Martin was always here, never leaving the Archives for more than an hour to get food or other necessities. He considered his next words. “That being said, I hope you know you’re allowed to have a life outside of the institute. I won’t judge if you want to have a...late night, or go out. It’s not my business what you do in your free time.”

Martin squinted his eyes as if he didn’t understand the words Jon spoke. Christ, do I really seem that out of touch? He knew he could be severe and well, a bit of an ass at times. The stress of the job got to him more than he cared to admit. But he didn’t want his assistants to think they should follow his example. He was Head Archivist, it fell on his shoulders to get this place in some semblance of order. 

“I’m not really one for nights out, Jon,” Martin gave that familiar, self-deprecating laugh as he leaned back in his chair, an almost defeated-like set to his shoulders. “Well, besides the occasional drink with Tim and Sasha. And even those are sort of...I don’t know. They have their own thing going, and I feel like-”

“A bit of an outsider,” Jon provided before he could activate his ‘word to mouth’ filter. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply-”

“No,” Martin cut him off. “You’re right. Feels like I’m intruding.”

“Their banter can be overwhelming for the, ah, uninitiated.” On the few times he’d gone out with them in research, he’d felt more lonely than included. His awkward attempts at interjecting could make a conversation fall flat and he felt the need to accept every drink they handed in him the hopes of ‘loosening up.’ It never worked. They were never mean about it, no- or at least had the decency not to do it in his presence. 

“Tell me about it.” Martin gave Jon a tiny little smirk that sent his heart stuttering in his chest for no particular reason. “I’m used to it, is all. This isn’t much of a change in routine, worms notwithstanding.”

“You, er, don’t have friends you can meet up with? Or maybe a partner?” Christ, why am I prying? What’s gotten into me? Jon felt curious, the man practically lived with him and yet he barely knew him.

The bark of laughter he got in reply was sudden and more than self-deprecating. “A partner? Are you kidding me?” Martin’s tone threw him off-balance; it was jaded, bitter, not like him at all.

“I didn’t mean to pry-”

“No, it’s- to be frank, I don’t think I’m cut out for all that.” Martin toyed with the mug in his hands, gazing into it like it held the answers he needed. “I’ve uh, tried to go on a few dates, meet people, that sort of thing. But they all expect something at the end and it just never feels right, I can’t explain it. Like there’s something missing. ”

Jon paused; the words and their sentiment were not unfamiliar to him. In fact, they resonated quite deeply, if Martin meant what Jon thought he did.

“It’s always been that way- I get a crush, I get to know them, they want to, y’know, and I-I don’t know what's wrong with me, but I can’t-” He cut himself off, sitting up straighter as if suddenly remembering where he was and who he was talking to. “God, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this-”

“It’s fine.” And it was. Martin looked at his hands and Jon recognized the sadness in the set of his shoulders, the lines etched in his face. He never thought the two of them would have much in common but that- that was a feeling Jon knew all too well. “I think I understand what you’re getting at.”

Martin somehow managed to deflate even further, curling up as if trying to disappear. “Yeah, well- I think it’s time to admit that I’m going to be alone for the rest of my life.”

The words hit Jon harder than expected. His fists tightened in his lap; he was sixteen again, wondering why the kiss he stole in a backroom felt more invasive than intimate. He was reading romance novels, understanding the words but not the feelings they were supposed to invoke. He was in college, being called a ‘tease’ or a ‘prude’ when he pulled away at the end of the night. And it was all accompanied by that deep, crushing fear that he’d never be enough. 

No, you’re not that kid anymore. 

And Martin shouldn’t have to be either.

“What’s that look for?”

He was drawn from his thoughts at Martin’s words, looking up from the scratched wood of his desk. “Sorry?”

“You’ve- you’ve got that look on your face, like you’re const- like you’re thinking really hard.”

Jon tried to think of a way to word his query delicately, but ‘delicacy’ had never been his strong suit, according to Georgie. Come to think of it, it was never hers either. “Have you ever considered that maybe- that you’re- you’re of the persuasion, that is-”

Martin shot him a deadpan look, unimpressed. “Yeah, I know I’m gay, Jon.”

“That’s not-” He sighed in frustration, fuming at his inability to communicate. “It’s okay to not feel that way. I never have. It’s normal.”

Martin blinked. “Sorry?”

“Asexuality, that is,” he said, finally managing to get out the words. “I was...in a similar position, I guess you could say. I didn’t feel the way you were ‘supposed’ to feel, like how all the books and TV shows describe it. Zero interest in anything sexual, and I thought...well, I thought something was wrong with me.” Jon felt a lump building in his throat, much to his horror. “But being able to put a name to it, an identity, it just felt right.” Martin’s face was unreadable- had he spoken out of turn? Did he have this all wrong? 

He tried to clarify. “What I’m trying to say is that I know what it’s like, that...feeling you described. But it doesn’t mean you’re not cut out for love. You...you shouldn’t have to feel that way about yourself. You’ll find people who accept you. You’re not doomed to be lonely.” Now you’re just getting sentimental. Jon wasn’t one to dole out advice. He attempted to reign it in, get himself back on solid, familiar ground. “Maybe don’t take me for an example, though. I assure you, my isolation is very much self-imposed.”

Martin didn’t laugh. For a brief, panicky moment Jon thought he might have offended him, assumed the wrong thing, taken him out of context. But Martin met his eyes and Jon saw it- a look of dawning understanding, of comprehension and knowing and as much as Jon wanted to look away he couldn’t, because for the first time in a while he thought he might have said the right thing. 

_____

He watched as Martin puttered about in the break room and took a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. Martin hadn’t said much after their conversation, just thanked him in a choked voice and mumbled some excuse about going off to bed. Jon felt a bit conflicted- he now had time to ruminate on the conversation, pick it apart and wonder if he said anything wrong. He didn’t think he had, but his instincts had been proven wrong before.

Still, the thought of helping one person, sparing them from that crippling self-doubt and inadequacy, made any embarrassment or awkwardness well worth it. So here he was, shuffling his feet and holding a stack of paper, stapled and neat and in some cases, annotated. He cleared his throat and Martin turned away from the sink to face him.

“Oh, g-good morning, Jon.” He wiped his hands on a dish towel, throwing it lightly on the counter. “Did you sleep well?”

He’d gotten two hours tops on the lumpy couch in his office. I need to invest in another cot. But he nodded anyway, walking forward and thrusting the pile out for Martin to take. Martin looked down at it quizzically but took it all the same, his face softening as he flipped through the pages.

“I, um- I printed out some articles that I thought might be of interest,” Jon rambled, feeling more awkward by the second. Was this too forward of me? “I’ve always found it easier to read on paper instead of the screen. For ah, concentration purposes. This- this isn’t required reading, or anything. Just might be helpful for, uh, figuring things out.”

Martin didn’t look up from the pages in his hand, instead zeroing in on them with a more intense stare. When he finally spoke, his voice was tight with sincerity. “Thanks. It uh, it means a lot.”

“Yes,” Jon replied nonsensically, having no response to the emotion in Martin’s words. “You- you don’t need to talk to me about this, if you’d rather not. But I’m available if you’d like to.” He paused. Best to keep this somewhat professional- it was almost nine. “Outside of normal working hours, of course.”

“Of course,” Martin echoed, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he finally met Jon’s eyes. He fought down the urge to smile back, instead muttering an excuse and turning to flee the room. I think I’ve filled my emotional quota for the week. 

They don’t talk about it again, but a few days later a sticky note appears on his desk. Thanks- MB. Underneath the clear script he’d doodled a small flag- black, grey, white, and purple. 

Jon puts it in his right-hand drawer next to an old polaroid of the Admiral, where it stays.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28782318

#my writing #aspecarchives #tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #cw aphobia and internalized aphobia #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #asexual jonathan sims #asexual martin blackwood #jon helps martin figure out he's ace

[haberdashing]

By Your Side

In the safehouse, Jon and Martin navigate discussions of Jon’s orientation and what that means for their relationship. Written for @jonsimsbipride and @aspecarchivesweek.

on AO3

Jon and Martin were laying side by side in the safehouse’s lone bed once again, alternating between flipping through the handful of mediocre-at-best novels that Daisy had left there and making small talk to kill time before they both felt ready to go to sleep for the night. (Jon had just abandoned the last book he’d tried reading, a hokey Western that seemed to use every cliché out there, while Martin was checking out an old romance novel that had come as almost more of a shock than the knives in the closet when they first went through the place.)

Jon heard Martin setting his book down on the nightstand beside him, and Jon assumed that he’d just lost interest in it before hearing Martin speak up.

“Can... can we talk about something? Something kind of personal?”

Jon was glad now that he’d abandoned his own attempts at reading for the time being.

“Sure, what is it?”

“You’re, er... you’re asexual, right?”

Jon nodded. His sexual orientation (or lack thereof) had come up some time ago, long before he’d even imagined the present context for that information might be possible, during an outing with Tim and Sasha back when working in the archives was fresh and new to them all. “Yes, that’s right.”

Martin’s shoulders slumped down a little. “I thought so, but... I just... I thought we were together.”

Jon blinked a few times, looking right at Martin. Was that fear in his dark eyes? “We are.”

“Not just, just together in this safehouse, I mean, but together. As-” Martin grabbed a blanket and made a fist, squishing the blanket’s fabric within his hand. “As a couple.”

“We are.” Jon repeated, adjusting his position slightly so that he could get a better look at Martin. “Both can be true, Martin. Both are true.”

“Wait, but, but I thought...”

As Martin’s sentence trailed off, Jon realized what must be confusing him so much, realized that he had incorrectly assumed they’d already discussed something that Jon had long since taken for granted.

“We haven’t gone through what my being asexual actually means yet, have we?”

Martin wrinkled his nose a bit before shaking his head. “What d’you mean?”

“Me being asexual doesn’t change my romantic feelings for you. When it comes to romance, I’m bi, not aromantic, so I can still, you know, date people. Be together with someone.”

Martin looked away from Jon’s gaze, staring pointedly at the wall in front of him instead. “Oh.”

“It just means that I’m not sexually attracted to you--or anyone, for that matter, so don’t take it personally. Never have been, never will be. But romance is another story.”

Martin looked back Jon’s way, though he still didn’t quite meet Jon’s gaze. “So... no sex, yes dating? Is that the gist of it?”

“Sort of. It is possible to...” Jon started fumbling around with his hands, trying to make vague gestures to explain what he struggled to put into words. “To be asexual and have sex. Or even to be asexual and like sex. But I, I’ve never cared for it personally, though if, if you want-”

“Jon.”

Jon’s half-finished sentence died instantly as he heard the certainty in Martin’s voice. “Yes?”

“I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do. If, if sex is a problem... that’s not a deal-breaker for me. It’s nice, sure, but not as nice as...” This time Martin was the one gesturing vaguely towards their surroundings as a whole. “Well, as all of this. As just being here, by your side, no matter what.”

Jon let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “That’s... that’s good to hear. Maybe I should have said something sooner, I know it- it can be a deal-breaker, for some, has been before...”

Martin shook his head emphatically. “No, no, I knew you were asexual, if anything it’s my fault for not understanding that.”

“Well, a lot of people don’t get it, actually, it’s... it’s a common enough misunderstanding, really...”

Jon laughed a little, and Martin gave him a strange look in response.

“Is my ignorance really that funny?”

“No, no, it’s just... I’ve had this talk before, about how being both bi and ace works, it’s... it’s normal, for me to have to explain this to a potential partner. Despite everything, we’re- we’re getting to do something normal.”

Jon reached out and grabbed Martin’s hand, and Martin gave Jon’s hand a tight squeeze as he let out a soft laugh of his own.

“Of all the words to use for our relationship, I never thought normal would be one of them.”

“Neither did I, but here we are.”

Jon shook his head, and soon enough both of them were laughing, the two holding hands tightly as their laughter filled the room.

#tma #tma fic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #the magnus archives fanfic #aspecarchives #aspec archives week #aspecarchivesweek #jonsimsbipride #ace jon #bi jon #ace jon sims #bi jon sims #jonmartin #safehouse fic #safehouse period #personal #my writing

[radiosandrecordings]

Didn’t get time to write anything for it myself, but afaik @aspecarchivesweek is ending today? So gonna stick out another reminder that there’s an ao3 collection for ace Jon fics that specifically have him as averse/repulsed ace for anyone who made content for that recently who might want to have it added! Intro and FAQ can both be found through the link, but I’ll stick the FAQ here for convenience: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/repulsedacejon/profile

Q: My fic features ace Jon, but he has sex in it- Can I add it? A: This collection is specifically for fics which contain averse or repulsed ace Jon, however some may allude to him having sexual relations and him expressing discomfort about it, or like several fics already in the collection, have scenes in which he believes himself to be willing to have sex and something is initiated, before it is realised that he's really not comfortable with that.

Q: My fic contains sexual content, but not in relation to Jon (E.g a fic in which Jon is averse/repulsed ace, but there's an explicit Timsasha scene, or Jongerrymartin with an explicit Gerrymartin scene that Jon is not involved in), can it still be included? A: Yes! As long as Jon is not the one involved then it's fine if there is content involving other characters

Q: My fic is not primarily about Jon's aceness, can it be added? A: As long as it's mentioned in some capacity that he's ace and not comfortable with sex himself, then of course

Q: Jon isn’t the POV/Main character of the fic, can I still add it? A: As long as he’s in the fic and mentioned to be averse/repulsed ace then go ahead! Hell, even if he’s only in once scene you can throw it in if it meets the criteria 

Q: Jon never says the word averse/repulsed ace in my fic, is that okay? A: As long as he says something that implies it, e.g saying he “Doesn’t” like in canon then it’s fine! He doesn't need to use specific terminology as long as the concept is referenced

Q: This is curated - Do you read every fic before allowing it in? A: Unfortunately I do not have the time for that! It’s just curated for practicality, I just trust your judgement as an author and give the tags a cursory glance 

#My Post #Jonathan Sims #The Magnus Archives