Martin SEES Jon for the first time ASMR
The first thing Martin notices is that the high ceiling is open to the night sky, strewn impossibly with a billion stars and the distant, round moon. It steals his attention as surely as anything, and his stomach swoops with sudden vertigo as he struggles to understand the impossibility presented to him. After a few seconds of staring, it clicks that it's a painting, an immaculate rendition of the heavens done with a skilled and loving hand.
He tears his eyes from the nightscape and looks at the floor beneath his feet, but feels no better. The floor is polished black marble as smooth as glass, and Martin blinks rapidly, trying to dispel the irrational fear of drowning in it should he step foot into the room. He can see his reflection in it, faint and dishevelled. To distract himself, he casts about the room for something that makes sense. Thereās lamps on the bare rock walls with crystal shades that cast the space in a soft, inviting electric glow, even though electricity should not be running this far underground, varying pieces of furniture, curtains but no windows, and every wall is covered in bookshelves that are packed from top to bottom. Martin inhales, and the faint scent of aged paper and cardamom fills his lungs.Ā
Is he dreaming now? Did he hit his head somewhere when he was running, was he actually lying concussed in the tunnels? Becauseā¦this just doesnāt seem real.
The quiet rasp of a page turning has him jumping almost out of his skin. Heās not alone, but heād entirely missed the thin figure draped comfortably over the chaise lounge in one of the corners.Their long, elegant brown fingers turn the page again, and Martin stares. Heās never seen someone soā¦pretty and it stalls his thoughts to a grinding halt. So it is a dream, then.
The person has long, curling black hair shot through with what Martinās poet heart can only describe as āstarlightā grey streaks, and the white clothing draped over their form is styled in a way that seems both effortless and also consciously done. They lift a hand to gently brush a twisting lock of hair from their face and the fabric, which Martin is realising might just be a sheet or other loose garment, slips down over their slender shoulder. They seem so engrossed in the book, that Martin doesnāt know if he should clear his throat or make an ungraceful exit.
He just takes in their face in silence, their high cheekbones, soft looking lips, long lashes, aquiline nose and heavy eyebrows drawn down with concentration. Their eyes are dark brown, almost black, and again, it might be the poet in him, but they bring to his mind ponds of murky water. Peaceful but perilously and deceivingly deep. He watches their irises dance back and forth across the pages and feels some kind of way.
Another page turns, and then the person shifts, lets out a soft breath and Martinās attention is drawn to the soft grey blanket he thought had been laying over them. Then it moves. The wing shakes itself, lifting up off their hip and extending in a stretch, revealing subtle green and blue grey eye spots decorating the feathers, like the most modest of peacocks, and Martinās mind refuses to comprehend what heās seeing. Heās frozen in place as the angel props themself up on the chaise lounge, their hair falling down like ink and silver waterfalls, and he watches them grip the page they were reading and in one smooth motion, tear it free.Ā
The ripping sound breaks Martin from the spell. He makes some kind of noise, and the figure stills what it is doing, which is placing the small, folded page onto its tongue.
They lift their head and stare directly into Martinās eyes, jaw working smoothly, chewing.
Martin feels pinned by the intensity of that stare, and his lips part to apologise for intruding, or to demand to know what the hell is going on, to say something, anything, but he canāt. The angel swallows, Martin tracking the bob of their throat, and registers dimly that it ate the page.
And then, after a moment of staring, a look of confusion and uncertainty crosses the creatureās face, and it speaks, voice soft. ā...Jonah?ā
