#oliverjon

KISSES! Kisses for my boys~

Yes, I do just want Oliver to kiss everyone.

This’ll probably work best with other avatars, but it doesn’t have to be if you prefer to write about that. So, imagine, it’s around season 2, 3, or 4 (depending on who you want included in the fic, how much you want everyone to know, and how much of an avatar you want Jon and Martin to be) and Jon feels/is isolated from everyone. He’s going through his whole angsty “I’m all alone and everyone hates me/is trying to kill me” thing.

Then, suddenly, he gets approached by another person. At first, Jon thinks that this person will try to kidnap/kill/yell at him, but instead they offer to help him. Obviously, Jon doesn’t trust this at first because nobody in the past has tried to help him (at least, not without a cost). Although, in the end, he does get help from and work with this person. After a while, they gain his trust, and they start dating.

Jon doesn’t know why his feet take him there but they do, each step slow and purposeful. He knows what’s waiting for him, who’s waiting for him. He’s expected.

And Oliver- he’s never seen him before, has only the vaguest memories of his voice, stilted but pleasant. He’s curious to see his ‘hero,’ as Martin put it. But the sight of him standing, silhouetted amongst the dead trees with his back turned, gives him pause. Oliver knows he’s here. He makes no move to run.

And Jon takes his place beside him, hazarding a glance at the man; his angular features, the sad glint to those dark eyes offset by the grim smirk on his face. Yes, best that Martin’s not here to see him. Jon wouldn’t hear the end of it.

And Martin surely wouldn’t have appreciated Oliver’s next move. He takes Jon’s hand within his own in one smooth motion and raises it to his lips for a gentle kiss, as if declaring fealty, or maybe devotion. His eyes close and his lips linger. It make’s Jon’s throat run dry.

“Archivist.” Oliver’s voice is as he remembers and his eyes flit up to meet Jon’s, mischievous and teasing. Jon should scowl in irritation. He doesn’t.

“Call me Jon.”

“Jon, then.” Oliver hasn’t let go of his hand though he drops it to his side, keeping it in a light hold. Jon should pull away. He doesn’t. “Have you come to kill me?”

“No. I don’t think so.” 

“I suppose you’ll be wanting the tour then.” He feels the pulls on his hand and allows himself to be tugged along, following the branching, black roots as they flicker at their feet. “Beautiful, aren’t they?”