#Elias bouchard tickles

[tickled-2-death]

I saw your post about tma tickle requests and I have literally never thought about lonelyeyes tickles, but now I need to see Elias brought down a peg or six by his ex-ex-ex husband(soon to add another ex) who's probably at least semi-transparent and covered in fog. Bonus points for all the sass!

Attitude Adjustment

Content warnings: unhealthy relationship, dubious consent(?), tickle torture, begging, feet content specifically, not necessarily sexual but sexual acts are mentioned.

This is a tickle fic.

“Peter, I have told you this several times before, and I will only repeat myself this once. I am not going anywhere near that pathetic boat.”

Elias just can’t seem to catch a fucking break today. First it was some shipment issue at the Archives, namely involving those two identical circus freaks with some mysterious box. Then, once they finally convinced him to sign off on it (he’ll just replace whoever dies in artifact storage, no big deal), there was some petty little catfight in the archives itself. One that he, despite all the paperwork that needed to be sorted, had to go downstairs and tell Jonathan off about. That’s not to mention that his coffee was cold by the time he got back, and-

“Darling, my love, my light. You’re thinking too hard.”

… and his husband, one Mr. Peter “just fuck off out to sea and forget it all” Lukas, simply will not shut up.

Elias pinches the bridge of his nose, propped up in their lavish bed in his silk pajamas, by all means in a position to relax that he intends not to spoil.

“I can’t stand the smell”, he begins to explain, “I cant stand the Lonely, and honestly the thought of being trapped on a giant metal hunk of rubbish with you for several months on end makes me want to disappear already.”

Peter, despite his patron and what you’d expect as a result of it, nearly never stops smiling. It’s a smug little shit sort of smile, mind you, but it hardly ever leaves his face. As of now, it droops into a frown.

“Elias, if we’re going to beat our record of staying married for four months-“

“Five months. Five months is the record.”

The captain sighs.

“If we’re going to make this work for more than five months, we’ve got to accept one another’s help! I’m just trying to think of a way to cheer you up, to get some of that tension out of you, in the only way I know how!”

Elias considers this, and ultimately decides that his husband is right. He’s a snarky bastard, even worse than Elias himself at times, but he’s trying to do the right thing. It’s the thought that counts? Right???

It doesn’t really matter. 200 years and counting, and he’s never been interested in admitting his own faults. Why start now? Especially for Peter goddamn Lukas.

So the shrewish little Beholder pulls out his bitchiest of bitch voices, and simply replies; “Well, you’d hardly like it if I recommended you to take someone’s statement, or delve into someone’s personal life for an ounce of fear, now would you?”, before rolling over and turning off his bedside lamp.

Something within Peter snaps just then. Not genuine anger, or at least not the violent sort. No, it’s simply the sudden and undeniable urge to teach someone a lesson. Elias’ eyes go wide, having Known what was about to happen, but it’s too late.

Peter roughly digs his fingers into his husband’s ribs, and vibrates them between the bones with all his might.

“OH FUCK-“ is all the poor, helpless man can manage before descending into mad cackles against his will. His dignity would never allow such a boisterous display of emotion, but there’s hardly a chance to suppress it in this position.

Instinctively, he rolls onto his stomach to escape the horrific sensation at his side. However, this proves to be the worst thing he could’ve possibly done, because Peter takes the opportunity to straddle his ass and get both sides at once.

“PEHEHETER! YOU- STOHAHAP THIS AT OHAHANCE! NOW!” Elias demands through several squeals, drumming his bare feet against the mattress behind them. Hands desperately grabbing for purchase or perhaps Peter’s dastardly wrists.

He doesn’t let up, of course, and that smile is back with a vengeance.

“Hmm- what was that kinky sex term you told me about? Where you punish someone for talking back?” Peter asks, tone jovial and unclear as to whether the question is genuine or rhetorical.

Elias, in turn, accidentally projects the answer into his mind. Mouth otherwise occupied with screams of ticklish agony.

“Brat taming, that’s right! Are you going to stop being a brat, Elias? Or is your significantly larger, stronger husband going to have to tickle you until you cry? We both know I’m well trained in regards to tying knots, so you’d better keep that in mind.”

Deciding to give the ribs a bit of a break, lest he accidentally bruise them, Peter jams his fingers into Elias’ sensitive underarms. It’s absolutely delightful, the way he screams even louder and clamps his arms to his sides. As if that will help, now that the offending digits are trapped exactly where they shouldn’t be.

“NOW! YOUHOHOHOL STOP RIHIGHT NOW! I DEHEHEE- DEMAHAHAND IT!!!” Elias tries to compel, but the concentration required to do so simply isn’t there.

Peter continues to burrow his fingertips into Elias’ armpits, wiggling and scritching across the ultra sensitive skin like worms trying to dig into the earth. He flails as much as humanly possible, twisting and snorting up a storm all the while, but Peter’s legs hold firm to his hips. He’s stuck, and completely at the other avatar’s mercy.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to keep on like this, love. That is, until you apologize, and whatever comes out of your mouth even now can and will be held against you. So let’s fix that attitude, yeah?”

Elias’ laugh goes silent, eyes screwed shut rendering his powers completely useless. Not that they weren’t already, but now he can’t even read Peter’s thoughts.

Mercifully, the tickling comes to a stop after about five straight minutes of torture. Elias takes the opportunity to breath, and to pout, while Peter continues to ramble on.

“Not going to say anything, then? That’s alright, I’ve got another place in mind. Remember that one time you asked for a foot massage, and every time I pressed too light you’d kick and tell me to do better? Well, if you can’t handle a massage I’d hate to see how you’ll handle ten fingers intentionally tickling you.”

Elias uses what little of his strength he’s got left to buck his hips. Nothing happens, so he begins to thrash any way he can, kicking and babbling out a mantra of “nononono”-

But Peter is quick, and built tough like the boat that stared this whole argument. It takes about two seconds for him to turn around, placing all his weight on the trapped ankles of his smart-mouthed partner. He cracks his knuckles, gives a quick wink in Elias’ direction, and scribbles his fingers up two shaking soles.

Elias cries out, pounding his fists against the mattress. “NNOOHOHO! PETERPETERPETER- GEHEET OOHOFF- I CAHANT!”

“Are you pleading with me?” He responds, otherwise uncaring and unwavering in his assault. He wiggles his nails against the soles of one foot, and digs in between the toes of the other.

Even now, there is the slightest hesitation. But when he adjusts his position so that he can rub his beard against Elias’ trapped feet, all remaining pride goes out the window and into the endless Vast.

“PLEHEHASEPLEASEPLEASE- SOHAHA- SORRY! DAHARLINGPLEASE-“

“Trying to appeal to my humanity, darling? I should be offended you’d use such language just to get away from me and my glorious facial hair”.

Tears stream down Elias’ face. The scruffy hairs rubbing against his soles is just too much to handle. So he does the unthinkable and gives up.

“PEHEHEETEERRRR-“ is all he can manage, all he can think in the midst of this hell, and somehow it’s enough for him to get the message.

“Alright, alright. Calm down, love, let me help.” Peter soothes, giggling at the little twitches he evokes by firmly rubbing Elias’ feet of residual tingles.

Elias, on the other hand, is utterly spent. He feels heavy as a sack of bricks, completely limp and hiccuping like a maniac. Once his awful, evil husband has decided that his feet can be left alone, he starts to rub his back.

“Poor, mean little thing you are. So sensitive for such a powerful man.” Peter coos, and despite himself Elias falls asleep to the sound of his voice and comforting feel of his hands.

[griseldagimpel]

I am absolutely tickled that The Magnus Archives made a character's villainous monolog an act of religious worship.

If Elias Bouchard went to the U.S., his villainous monologing would be a constitutionally protected act under the First Amendment of the Constitution.

[crimebell]

TMAp - 002

Thank you Lena, for being insistently cryptic about what DHPW even stands for, much less how it works. Good stuff

The case is horrifying, of course. Listening in on a therapy session feels even more invasive than half the shit The Eye did in TMA, and the actual substance of it is even worse. That tattooist has recurring minor character written all over em, but I can't pin down the self-mutilation to an obsessive and perfectionist degree. Something about observation and audience tickles here as well, but, again, vibes.

It's interesting that Gwen's somewhat mysterious nepotistic origins still have her scraping for respect and ambition. The real Elias Bouchard was a chill ass pothead, so.

Also interesting that the O.I.A.R. seems to have a high turnover rate, with maybe the exception of Alice and maayyybee Colin- completely opposite to The Magnus Institute. Intentional so no one can put any pieces together?

[waterfallofspace]

#23 from my prompt meme with E/lias (maybe P/eter deciding to make Elias sneeze)??

Thank you for the request~~

Gently humming “wreeeckkk the maannn, wreeck the maaan” under my breath~ <3

2.4k, prompt #23 from ~this list~, story under cut!

23. "You really don’t want to do that, trust me."

(References to swearing, and T/MA spoilers, so please proceed with caution for those!)

~~~~~~~

It wasn’t The Eye that alerted him to the company waiting in his office. Nor was it Rosie, though it should have been. Elias makes a mental note to have a talk with her about her job description. No, unfortunately for the head of the institute, what clued him in was an unmistakable scent of mischief in the air. Mischief tinged with a hint of salt. 

“Peter,” Elias offers with a glance at the figure flicking into focus in the corner. He steps into his office, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t recall planning a meeting for today.” 

To the untrained ear it would seem a polite yet dismissive greeting, but Peter is well versed in the many tones of Elias Bouchard. As a captain, one has to be able to see each undertow through an otherwise calm surface, a technique not limited to the ocean. 

“Your memory remains sharp as ever, Elias. We did not. However, I’ve come to you with an offer. One I know you can’t turn down.” 

Raising an eyebrow, Elias lets the image of Jon slumped over his recorder fade into the background. Pulling himself to his full height, he strides to his desk and takes a seat behind it. 

“You have my undivided attention.”

“I do, don’t I? What an honour.” The captain sinks onto the desk, a faint smile clinging to the corners of his balanced expression. His gaze falls on Elias, who in turn feels himself starting to slip into the familiar sensation. 

Peter’s eyes aren’t just dark, they’re more… empty. It’s not that the light doesn’t reach them; they aren’t bathed in shadows. Instead, they seem to soak the light from around them and swallow it whole. As they trace up Elias’s figure, it’s as if they’re trying to consume the glow from his own, taking all of him with it. 

“Well? I am quite a busy man. If you would be so kind, present your offer.”

“Oh, I did use that word, didn’t I?” Despite not a trace of illumination, a gleam dances through Peter’s eyes. “My sincerest apologies, I fear it doesn’t quite match my intentions. Perhaps a better term would be… challenge.” 

“And what sort of ‘challenge’ would that be?” 

Within a moment the faint smell of salt is replaced by a burning sort of sweetness. Elias feels his body react before his mind has a chance to catch up, a single finger raising to crush the tip of his nose. The contact only serves to exaggerate the itch, and the hand is quickly dropped back to his side. 

A smile spreads across Peter’s face in response, fingers uncurling to reveal something long, soft, and distinctly floral. His lips part with an inhale Elias finds himself unable to echo as Peter whispers, “An easy one. Don’t sneeze.” 

“Sihhh… hiH-! Simple enough, I suhhppose. And what do I ge- gehh… hH-! get if I succeed?” 

“Whatever you would like.”

“You seem quihhte confident, Peter,” Elias purrs, attempting to maintain a touch of decorum through the maddening tickle as it begins to spread deeper. Peter shifts his position, hand coming to rest against Elias’s knee, the offending blossom inching ever closer.

“Perhaps I am.” 

“I’ll be the first to admit I wahhsn’t expecting it, you caught m- me… hH- off guard,” Taking a pause, Elias swallows hard, willing the tears pooling around his lashes not to fall. With a measured breath, carefully manufactured nonchalance spread across his face, he meets Peter’s gaze. 

“Unfortunately for you, the element of surprise has passed, and I am quite able to fight off this mild irritation.” 

“Is that so? Oh dear, my apologies once more, I’m afraid things just keep slipping my mind today. I forgot to mention there’s one more rule to this little challenge,” Peter hums, the smile haunting his hollow face almost as sickeningly sweet as the fauna he waves around with precise recklessness. 

Elias feels his nose quiver as the pollen spreads through the air, an unfortunate side effect of The Eye presenting itself as each individual grain makes themselves known to him. Peter had paused, presumably for dramatic effect. Though now it’s more likely captivation, eye’s locked on his prey as Elias sniffles with increasing urgency.

“Ahh… hIH-! And what wouhhld that be?” 

“There are no limits to what I can do with my weapon of choice.” 

Gesturing to the flower hanging from his fingers, Peter’s face lights up with a smirk once more. The glow of mischief is not unfamiliar to him, but Elias still can’t seem to shake the unease that settles in his gut. Such a light seems to be at odds with the captain’s very personage in a way that makes his skin crawl. 

“If I rehhfuse?” Elias questions, lifting his thumb to swipe away a stray tear threatening to escape. The action spreads the buzzing deeper into his sinuses, a gasp breaking between his clenched teeth. Peter echos the inhale with a sharp breath of his own, turning the exhale into a chuckle.

“I suppose you could…” The sentence is unfinished, lingering in the air with almost as much irritation as the pollen. Neither need finish it, they both know the unspoken words ring true. But you won’t.

Another hitch breaks through his defenses as Elias feels his eyes start to shut, the familiar itch spreading out through his mind matching the burn in his sinuses. The all consuming itch to observe. To watch. 

“hihH-!” A finger presses against his nose, then two, until his whole palm is pressed against his face in an effort to block the cascade of tickles lining each breath. However before long his wrist is encased in a soft grip, Peter gently pulling it away from his face. 

“You saihhd nothing about not being able t- to… haHh- touch my n- nohh… nose.” 

“That’s because it’s not a rule. But if you’ll recall, I’m allowed to do whatever I desire with my weapon,” Peter chuckles again, wiping another tear that had broken free, Elias feeling his nose give a violent twitch in response. “And your hand was in the way of that.” 

Bringing the blossom up, Peter twirls it between his fingers, a faint horror flashing through Elias’s eyes as a fresh wave of pollen spreads through the air. He wants to hold his breath, but a touch of moisture starts to spread through his nose, the sensation nearly sending him over the edge. Peter isn’t holding his wrist anymore, and yet his hands seem to be frozen in place.

Before he can make a choice, Peter brings the lavender to his face, gently flicking it against one nostril. It manages to touch the inside of his nose leaving his mouth twitching and eyes snapping shut. The constant buzzing of his thoughts are suddenly swarmed with one single word. Sneeze. 

“eh’KSHH’ieu-!”

The first crawls out before Elias can raise a hand, but his fingers tighten across his nose in time to stifle the next, “hk’nGT-! ek’gNKT’dieu-!” that seize his breath. From atop the desk he manages to pick up Peter’s voice, though for the life of him he can’t make out any words between shaky gasps.

“hk’nngt’ieu-!”

“Elias, the stifling,” Peter starts, pausing as Elias manages to cast a watery glare. He offers a grin dripping with playful mischief. And yet, a hint of sincerity just below the calm darkness gives Elias the will to stall the impending sneezes long enough for Peter to finish. “You really don’t want to do that, trust me." 

“I’m quihhte.. hh’kngt-! quite sure my n- nohh… eh’dnxt-ngXT’ieu-! nose would disagree,” Elias manages, fingers still tightly gripping said nose. Each stifle brings forth a new wave of irritation, his eyes begging to open between each outburst. 

The Eye never seemed keen on something that would force his eyes shut. Unfortunately for his patron, it seems allergies were not something even body hopping could outrun. Elias often found himself figuring it as some sort of cosmic joke, or perhaps a punishment. Whatever the case, it led to quite famous attacks, no matter what body he found himself in. 

“Actually I believe your nose would be on my side with this matter,” Peter insists, running a single finger down the bridge of said appendage as Elias finds his mouth hanging open, tears now freely streaming from his delicate lashes. “Though your eyes might have a few complaints.” 

“hIHh-! P- Peter I cahhn’t… I’m… I’m gonna-” Elias feels his nostrils flare, each breath bringing a fresh wave of thickly sweetened air. His sinuses practically hiss in response to Peter tracing a single nail across them. “hh’kNGT’ieu-!”  

Before he can even manage a full breath, the tip of the lavender is pressed against his nose, Peter stroking it back and forth in a motion that has Elias damn near moaning. A light chuckle falls from the captain’s lips, the vibrations travelling through his hand into the stem. Elias just gasps in response, not capable of much else at this point. “hehHH-” 

“Much as I’m enjoying watching you prolong your own misery, I’m a bit of a perfectionist. My goal was to make you sneeze, and honestly those little squeaks feel like a hollow victory. I’m going more for the real thing.” 

“heHH-! I- I hhhave to… ahH!”

“Yes, I imagine you do.” With that, Peter sets the blossom back on the desk, pulling Elias’s chair closer until they’re sitting eye to eye. With a single fluid motion Peter secures both wrists, Elias only managing to mutter out a groan of disapproval before his features go slack. “Now, have I earned my show yet, or do you need a bit more convinc-”

“hH’KSHH’ieu-! ek’TISHhhieew-!”

Elias aims for his shoulder, spinning as far as he can manage while Peter holds his wrists hostage. Still polite, even in the midst of an allergy attack, an apology scrapes out before another desperate “heHKZSHHuh-!” 

“See, doesn’t that feel better?”

“My- my haahhh… hands! aH’KNZSH’dieuu-! ”

“Oh right,” Peter says, releasing his arms and grinning again as Elias frantically brings them to his face. Rubbing his nose against a wrist doesn’t seem to relieve the itch. Instead, Elias switches to mashing a palm against it with a groan.

“Can you imagine if people found out the ‘All Powerful Elias’ was completely taken down by a single bloom of lavender?” 

“dTZSHhhuh-!” A wave of irritation flashes through Elias’s face, though it’s unclear whether it’s from the tickle or Peter’s words.

His lashes flutter again, voice hoarse and wavering as he manages to get out a single sentence. “Oh christ, don’t even say the w- word… hh’ETSHhhieew-!”  

“Sorry, sorry. It’s quite amusing though. Not often I get to see this shade of red cross your face.”

“Glad you’re… hehh- hH’INZSH-! entertained,” Elias mutters, rummaging through his pockets with growing urgency. Apparently not finding his prize, he turns an accusatory gaze to Peter. “Do you happ- happen-” 

Elias pauses, stuck in an itchy limbo that seems to consume him. Peter waits a full minute, but soon it becomes clear there will be no progress without interference. With a glint in his eye, he reaches down and runs his nail down the bridge of Elias’s nose.

“hk’TISHH’dieu-! huhhh… heH-”

A breath, cautious sniff, then Elias attempts to resume his sentence, only to groan in frustration as the tickle chooses this moment to resurge. “Thank- eh’KSHH’ieu-! guhh…”  

Holding a wrist up to his nose, Elias coughs lightly, the water in his eyes seeming to take on a luminescent tint. Clearing his throat, he attempts to regain some of his long forsaken propriety. “As I was saying, do you happen to hahh… fuck- ih’GZSH-!”

“Elias Bouchard! What language! Even on my ship we don’t resort to such a foul tongue,” Peter taunts, savouring the scowl Elias aims his way. It’s soon overtaken by another desperately ticklish look as Elias buries his face into his collar for another round. 

“hihHZSHHhiew-! Oh bloody hell- kNGSHH’dieu-!” 

“Bless. Into your collar Elias?”

“I didn’t have much of- of a… ek’NZSH-! choice. Seems I’ve misplaced my handkerchief today.”

“Oh dear, that certainly does seem like an inconvenience,” Peter murmurs, letting his mouth contort into a grin as his tongue traces the outline of his lips. Elias offers an exasperated sigh in return.

“Quite. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. 

“ehH-! Really, agaihhhn?” Rolling his eyes, Elias reaches for his collar as the tickle swells once more, shooting the lavender a pointed glare before his eyes glaze over. “hH’KZSH’ieu-!”

“Blessings. You know what, I think I just so happen to have an extra today. Would you be interested in-” Before he can get another word out Elias has ripped the cloth from his hand, burying his face in the soft folds for another “eh’YIZSHieww-!” 

He lets a couple blows scrape out into the cloth, a heady sigh bursting from his chest as he finishes, managing to actually get some airflow through his nose. The sound leaves them both wincing, but it’s better than nothing. It also seems to mark the end of the fit, though Elias still eyes the blossom laying on the table with more than a hint of caution. 

“Are you planning on… disposing of that?”

Peter follows his gaze, another unsettling laugh spilling out as he crushes the flower in his palm. “I would be happy to. After all, it served its purpose well.”

“Well. In that case, I suppose there’s only one matter of business left to attend to before this ‘meeting’ comes to a conclusion.”

“Oh? And what would that be?” Peter asks, head tilting as he watches Elias dab at his eyes with a clean section of the cloth. Once he’s content, he brings it down to his scarlet tinged nose to give it another deep scrub. Peter gestures to his face with a smirk. “If it’s the handkerchief, you can keep it.”

“How kind. No, I was thinking more of your prize.”

“My prize?” 

“Indeed. You did win the challenge af- after… afterall- hhK’IEZSHuh-!”

Elias lets out another groan, a few curses following on its tail as he blows his nose again, the whole ordeal leaving him sniffling. Peter can’t help but feel a pang in his chest as Elias leans back in his chair with a heavy sigh, letting his eyes close in a way that just looks exhausted.

“How about you owe me a favour. I’m sure I can think of something I’d want,” Peter offers, a softness in his tone that has Elias opening a single eye to observe the captain.

After a long pause, Elias simply nods, returning his head to the back of his chair as his eyes drift shut once more. Peter stands, offering a wave over his shoulder as he doesn’t quite walk out the door, but still exits the room. 

“Thanks for the fun, Elias. Let’s do this again soon.”

[folkgirlhero]

Chapter 2 of 3 for The Unbecoming of Elias Bouchard is up :)

Excerpt:

When Elias had been a kid, he suffered from sleep paralysis. He would wake up from a nightmare, eyes flying open, to find his body fused to the mattress. His eyes would dart back and forth, his body rigid and tense under his quilt, while he listened to the faint sounds of his parents moving around the house, getting ready for bed.

This is what it’s like to be dead, he’d thought once, when he was seven, and, even after it had happened several times and he knew it would go away eventually, a part of him always believed that no, this time, this time he had actually died in his sleep.

He was sure he was doomed to haunt this horrible, too-big house, floating from empty echoing room to room, trailing behind his parents in the hopes that one of them might someday turn and see him again. Or maybe he was a ghost, only he was stuck in his body, and his parents would find him in the morning and think he was dead and bury him and he’d be trapped like this in the ground, still wearing his Thomas the Tank Engine pajamas, banging dull thuds uselessly against the top of his coffin. Inevitably, he’d terrify himself long before he could move again, salty, stinging tears flowing down the sides of his face and tickling his neck.

This was worse.

The thing that wore Elias’s body was called Jonah; he heard a man say it on the phone once during those terrible, vivid first few days. The only Jonah Elias had known was the one he learned about in school as a kid, the one who was swallowed by a whale. But if anyone was living in the belly of a beast, Elias thought bitterly, it was him. He decided to continue calling it “the thing.” After all, it didn’t want to use the name Jonah either.

It told everyone to call it Elias.

[thedreadvampy]

what do you mean elias bouchard fucked the pig head did i miss something

Ah um context

I'm assuming you're coming at this from a context of Magnus Archives fandom but if not and you need further explanation pls do ask

so I made a moderately popular post a few months ago about piggate, a 2015 scandal regarding Tories, the British upper class and the alleged fucking of a pig head as an entry ritual to an elite student social club which is one of the ones explicitly designed to groom people for power

Around the same time, I had also made a post saying 'Elias isn't hot he's a Tory' with a massive reblog chain of me and others constructing headcanons that were basically just "Elias Bouchard does [rich unpleasant Tory signifier]" and one of those was

'if Elias Bouchard was at Oxford in the 1980s he would have fucked the pig head'

which idk. just really tickled me. and then a bit later on I was looking at my theme like 'haven't updated this blog title since 2010. this isn't really my brand any more. what is? seems to increasingly be Talking Shit About A Podcast Character and also That Piggate Post I Made That Keeps Gaining Notes' so I performed Crimes in my blog header (also changed my theme and added Gay Butts on desktop)

so there's no in-canon context (also given that we've since had info about Original Flavor Elias: this was written about the version of Elias we've known through the podcast)

but the context of that I rather like 'fucked the pig head' as a gesture towards a certain type of moneyed, upper-class, power-hungry posho who's been raised and lived their whole life surrounded by other people who also all went to public school and then to Oxbridge and then into government, finance or academia, and whose motivation and expectation is the accumulation of the power and wealth they feel is theirs by divine right. Like a lot of the time it's shorthanded as 'Tory' but that does obfuscate the fact that it's almost everyone at the top end of establishment politics regardless of party - New Labour is full of them and Tony Blair is practically an archetypal pigfucker, so are half the Lib Dems, Nigel Farage is pure pigfuckery and there's even some scattered through the Greens- and there are a lot of Tories who are Not That but are working or middle class people who want to be that, or haven't really thought about it but have a clan affiliation, or are politically aligned with their policy positions or underlying assumptions. so I'm lobbying for the use of pigfucker as a generic descriptor tbqh.

[ethereousdelirious]

Fandom: The M.agnus A.rchives

Characters: E.lias B.ouchard, R.osie

Pairings: N/A

Tropes: perfume allergy, mild suit k!nk, sneeze k!nk

Summary: it’s literally just 1000 words about Elias sneezing

Warnings/Notes: Vague/mild spoilers?? Also, in case you forgot her, R.osie is a receptionist at the Institute and a VERY minor character

Ummm anyway, this is my first time writing out phonetic sneezes so pleeaaaase be nice to me jdhgdhjgd I can’t believe I didn’t die of embarrassment writing this

Elias didn’t typically keep regular hours at The Magnus Institute, strolling in when he felt like it or when he was needed and leaving when he pleased.

Today, he had actual work to do, and so came in shortly after opening hours.

“Good morning, Mr Bouchard,” Rosie greeted him from behind the reception desk.

She had a date last night. Potentially useful information. Elias filed it away in the back of his mind and approached the desk with a smile pasted on his lips. “Good morning, Rosie. Everything going smoothly today?”

“Yes.” She smiled back at him as he came near. “I’m waiting for an email back from that new custodial service you asked about.”

“Good.” Elias twitched, suddenly aware of a thick, cloying smell that immediately made his temples ache.

New perfume.

He resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose.

“I wanted to talk to you about–” Someone walked by (Gideon, human resources) and the movement of his body stirred the air, causing another wave of perfume to wash over Elias. He sniffled and passed a hand under his nose, not quite rubbing it. “–a new project I’m going to need your assistance with.” His nose was really itching now, the longer he had to stand here in the miasma of Rosie’s perfume. Trying to look unbothered, he sniffled once more and ran a finger down the bridge of his nose.

“Of course. I also have to do payroll, but I can try to have that done before lunch.” Rosie glanced at her computer screen, then back to Elias. “What do you need?”

She doesn’t know anything’s wrong.

“I need… Ah–” Elias wrinkled his nose. He couldn’t help it. “I–” His shoulders stiffened, pulling the fabric of his suit jacket taut. “I– uh'TSchuh!” Not wanting to sneeze into his sleeve, he whipped his head to the side, away from Rosie.

“Bless you, sir.”

“Thank you.” Elias straightened. “Now, what I need from you– Oh. E-excuse m– hh'KNtsch!” Again, he turned his head away, seeking to spare his £4,500 suit the indignity of being sneezed on. “Ugh.”

“Bless you!” Rosie scooted back in her swivel chair, slightly amused. Elias could barely see her through the tears in his eyes. “Tissue?”

She passed a brightly colored box over the counter.

Elias stopped searching his pockets for his handkerchief and gladly dabbed at his face with a handful of tissues. “Thank you, Rosie.”

“Of course. You were saying?”

“Right. I have some old employee paperwork on file that I would like you to convert to a spreadsheet.”

Rose nodded attentively and Elias caught another whiff of perfume. He was going to have to send out an email update about employee grooming protocols when this was done. It wasn’t even that Rosie was wearing a lot of perfume, it was just that this particular scent (Lily Dream) was particularly strong.

Elias sniffed and balled up his fists to stop himself from scrubbing at his face. His nose and eyes still itched furiously and the drumming in his temples was only getting worse the longer he stood here in the perfumed air of the reception area.

“Do you know how you want the spreadsheet to look?” Rosie bent down to open a drawer and pulled out a legal pad. “Here, let me take notes so I’m sure I have it right.”

“Oh, y-yes, um…” Elias wasn’t really listening, distracted by the frantic itch in his nose. He hastened to unbutton his suit jacket so he could take out his handkerchief. It was rude to keep sneezing uncovered like he had been, but this suit was Hugo Boss, dammit.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” Elias buried his face in his handkerchief just in time to catch another frantic flurry of sneezes. “Hh'tsch! Hh-KNsch!” A momentary reprieve. “Ah-TSCH!”

Your office phone is ringing. A representative from the Usher Foundation wants to speak with you about borrowing a file.

“Are you alright, Mr Bouchard?” Rosie’s voice cut through the ringing in his ears. “I hope you’re not coming down with something.”

“No, no.” Elias sniffled and wiped at his streaming eyes with his handkerchief. “I think I might be allergic to your perfume.”

“Oh!” Rosie looked horrified. “I’m so sorry, sir. Should I go home and wash it off?”

“No, no.” Elias waved a hand and wiped his nose. “Maybe just don’t wear that particular scent to work in the future, hm?”

“Of course.”

Elias swept a few loose strands of hair back out of his eyes and adjusted his suit jacket. Then he made the mistake of taking a deep breath to try to center himself. The tell-tale tickle flared up again. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fight it, but it was no use. “Eh'tschuh!” At this point, his handkerchief was soaked. He groped blindly for the box of tissues (slightly to the left) and clapped a handful of them to his face. “Hh'TSch!” His ribs were starting to hurt now with each violent expulsion of breath and his cheeks were slick with tears. “Eh'tSHhh!”

“Oh, dear,” Rosie said. “Are you sure I shouldn’t–”

Elias raised a hand to stop her. “It’s quite alright, Rosie.” His voice was thin, the words slightly slurred. “I’ll just go to my office. I’ll email you the details.”

“Sounds good.” Rosie couldn’t help but stare. The sneezing fit had made Elias come undone in a way she’d never seen, not even after several cocktails and an obvious fight with his partner at the last Christmas party.

His eyes and cheeks were the same irritated shade of pink and small tears sparkled in his eyelashes. His carefully pomaded hair hung in his eyes and all the sneezing had put wrinkles in the crisp, clean lines of his suit. Elias Bouchard, head of The Magnus Institute, looked disheveled.

It was something Rosie had never seen before and was never likely to see again. She almost wished she had a camera.

“Will that be all, sir?”

“Yes.” Elias turned to go.

“Wait?”

He turned back. “Yes?”

“Take these.” Rosie half-stood and passed him the box of tissues from her desk. “Just in case you need them.”

[bubonickitten]

TMA fic: Knock-Knock

While relistening to the scenes where Elias implants knowledge into Melanie's and Martin's minds, I got to thinking, "What if he did that to Jon?" and... yeah.

Summary: Statement of an unnamed childhood bully regarding a fatal encounter with Mr. Spider. Statement procured by Elias Bouchard, head of the Magnus Institute, for the edification of one Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.

More below the cut, or on AO3 here.

[Note: A lot of unsettling and visceral spider imagery in this one, so big CW for that if you have any degree of arachnophobia.]

[SPOILERS up to and including MAG 92.]

[There are a few verbatim lines I used from the podcast itself; they're all marked by an asterisk.]

ARCHIVIST

I never chose this.*

  ELIAS

You never wanted this, no. But I’m afraid you absolutely did choose it. In a hundred ways, at a hundred thresholds, you pressed on. You sought knowledge relentlessly, and you always chose to see. Our world is made of choices, Jon, and very rarely do we truly know what any of them mean, but we make them nonetheless.*

 [SILENCE.]

  ELIAS

You seem uncertain, Jon. Do you need convincing? [sighs] Very well. Shall we discuss the very first door you chose to open?

  ARCHIVIST

What are you –

  ELIAS

A Guest for Mr. Spider. A particularly nasty book, wasn’t it? How did you describe it?

  ARCHIVIST

I – how –

  ELIAS

“A violence seemed to ooze from it, sticky and pungent—”*

  ARCHIVIST

Stop it.

  ELIAS

“—I had no idea what was inside, but I knew I hated that book—”*

  ARCHIVIST

You’ve made your point.

  ELIAS

“And I knew that wasn’t going to stop me from opening it.”*

 [A PAUSE.]

  ELIAS

Your… childhood bully, I believe you called him. You don’t remember his name, of course, but you remember what happened to him – or so you think. But you don’t have the whole picture stored away in your memory, do you? No. He died alone, behind the door you ushered him through. You couldn’t face the thing that took him.

  ARCHIVIST

I – I was eight –

  ELIAS

Oh, Jon. We both know that survivor’s guilt is rarely rational. You agonize over hypotheticals, let your vivid imagination run wild with all the gruesome possibilities of what happened after the door closed behind him.

 [A LONG PAUSE.]

  ELIAS

[with a smile in his voice] Do ever wonder what his statement might have been like, had he lived long enough to give it?

  ARCHIVIST

[brusquely] No.

  ELIAS (STATEMENT)

He knows from the moment he cracks open the book that he is pinned beneath the might of something other.

  ARCHIVIST

Don't –

  ELIAS (STATEMENT)

[overriding] Before he drinks in the first page, he is flooded with dread and his only wish is to cast the book into the gutter and run until his legs fail him. Instead, he finds his eyes locked on the words, scanning feverishly left to right without his input, and when he tries to shut his eyes, he finds that he cannot even blink. He has the sudden, unshakable impression that some tacky substance is pulling on his eyelids, holding them in place; his eyes begin to dry and sting and still he stares, riveted—

 [FAINT STATIC.]

  ARCHIVIST

[compellingly] Elias, stop –

  ELIAS

[a short laugh] You need more practice before you can command me, Jon.

Besides, you’re riveted, too, aren’t you? You tell yourself you don’t want to hear this, but you do – there is a guilty part of you that believes you deserve to suffer through this knowledge, but that’s not all, is it? Eclipsing your guilt is the simple desire to know. To observe, to fill all gaps in the testimony.

So sit, and listen, and drink it all in.

 [ANOTHER PAUSE. THE ARCHIVIST TAKES A SHAKY BREATH.]

  ELIAS

[self-satisfied] Good.

  ELIAS (STATEMENT)

He turns the page. He does not want to turn the page, but he is a marionette with gossamer wire wrapped twice, thrice, a dozen times around his wrists and he turns another page, turns another page. Mr. Spider’s legs are shifting and he realizes all at once that so are his own legs, marching him steadily forward – to where, he does not know. He can see nothing except for the book.

He turns another page.

          KNOCK-KNOCK.*

 The words reach out to him like so many spindly, creeping legs.

He turns the page again, again, again and the considering, hungry eyes of Mr. Spider bore into him like botflies burrowing into flesh.

          MR. SPIDER WANTS ANOTHER GUEST FOR DINNER.*

 His knees lock and he comes to an abrupt stop. He does not know where he is; his eyes are still glued to the page.

          IT IS POLITE TO KNOCK.*

 He raises his clenched fist and reaches out.

  ARCHIVIST

[strained] Elias –

  ELIAS (STATEMENT)

[louder] When the door creaks open, something in him releases and he is finally, finally allowed to look up.

He wishes he did not.

 [THE ARCHIVIST’S BREATHING IS AUDIBLE, QUICKENING.]

  ELIAS (STATEMENT)

The spider silk winds its way through the crack and the door, sticky and writhing; slowly and deliberately it twines itself around his arms, his knees, his neck, and he is pulled inexorably toward the impossible, palpable darkness that lies behind the door. Something shifts in the shadows and he catches a glimpse of an enormous, bristly limb. It stretches toward him, curls around him in a possessive, many-jointed embrace. The click-clack of mandibles surrounds him as he is drawn in closer, closer, closer, like a doomed fish on a hook. He is pulled past the threshold, and only then is he finally allowed to scream.

 [A SHARP INTAKE OF BREATH FROM THE ARCHIVIST.]

  ELIAS

Spiders are remarkable creatures, aren’t they, Jon? Those eight skittering legs grant them such agility; all those eyes, watching and waiting; the fragile beauty of the deadly webs they spin. So many millions of years of evolution coming together to weave such a perfect little assassin.

They could be anywhere at any time – and that’s what scares you most, doesn’t it, Jon? Any tickle at the back of your neck, any subtle movement out of the corner of your eye, every tentative reach into the murky space under your bed – your mind jumps immediately to the spider. You enter the dusty storage room and it’s not a question of whether they’re there, but where they are. Did you walk through a web just then, or was it your overactive imagination? You run your fingers through your hair, dreading the moment your fingers brush against the spindly legs of an unwelcome passenger, but dreading even more the idea of not checking, of not knowing whether it’s there.

You tell yourself you can handle reading about spiders, but I see what those statements do to you, Jon. As you read, you feel the faint tiptoe of too many legs on your shoulder, the stubborn cling of web on your cheek, the many eyes watching, waiting in the corners of your office. You picture wicked chelicerae, moving independently of one another, dripping with venom that can paralyze, necrotize, tranquilize. Your skin itches, and crawls, and you shudder, and no amount of restive fidgeting will relieve it.

  ARCHIVIST

That’s enough –

  ELIAS

[speaking over him] You finish the statement and try to pretend that you aren’t gagging on cobwebs. You try not to think about the fact that spiders don’t knock, don’t even announce their presence until they’re crawling down your spine.

Unlike you, Mr. Spider’s sacrificial victim never paid any mind to spiders. But when he saw those legs… oh, the primal, gnawing fear that clawed its way out of his throat like so many needling, skittering legs. You didn’t get to hear it, did you, Jon? The door closed on his terror before you were able to behold the full experience of it.

Feel it now, Jon.

 [A PAINED NOISE; PANICKED, HEAVY BREATHING.]

  ELIAS

There you are. Hear the clicking and snickering of the monster pulling you into the dark. So many legs, certainly more than eight; so many eyes, hundreds of them – you can’t see them, but you can feel them dissecting you. You are lifted into the air and the legs begin to spin you in slow circles and you’re flooded with the image of meat turning on a spit. The spider silk clings to you layer upon layer and you think hysterically of all the times you glimpsed a spider preparing a fly, such a small and mundane thing to witness that you never spared it a second thought.

You do not want to think about how spiders feed, but the human mind is predictable and it supplies you with every scrap of information you ever encountered, filed away as insignificant and promptly – you assumed – forgot. You know with crushing certainty that you will be fully encased in web; you will feel yourself suffocating, but what ultimately kills you – slowly, so very slowly – is the spider’s bite. You feel the double puncture of fangs, the digestive enzymes injected into your body, the leisurely liquefaction of your innards. The creature sucks in the visceral slurry, transforming you into a dehydrated husk.

You are conscious for every moment as it wrings the terror and life out of your fragile young body.

 [THOUGHTFUL PAUSE.]

 Do you know what his final thoughts were, Jon? When the fear burned away into numbness, what was left was anger – dull and desiccated, but anger nonetheless, and all of it reserved for you, Jon. An infuriating, arrogant, know-it-all brat with his nose in a book and so many insolent, prying questions.

It should have been you, he thinks. This fate was intended for you.

 [THE ARCHIVIST TAKES A DEEP, SHUDDERING BREATH, AS IF FIGHTING BACK TEARS.]

  ELIAS

You still can’t remember his name, can you? He became a mystery, and you let it happen, hoarded the memory to yourself and never told a soul. For all your hungry observations, you have remarkably little consideration for the people who cross your path, don’t you? You devour the details that help you complete whatever puzzle you’re working on, and discard the rest as so much superfluous detritus. I would call it egocentric, but you don’t even prioritize yourself, do you? No, it’s all about the knowing. You would sacrifice yourself and anyone unlucky enough to cross your path if it meant satiating your own curiosity.

 [ANOTHER PAUSE, AS IF TO ALLOW THE WORDS TO SINK IN.]

  ELIAS

This isn’t a criticism, Jon. Consider it a performance review. I believe I made the right choice in appointing you as the Archivist. You had the temperament for the role long before you ever joined the Institute. You opened the book, you stood on the threshold, you just as good as opened the door. You would be making the same flavor of choices regardless of whether you became my Archivist. You never could tolerate an unsolved mystery.

If you want to stop the Unknowing, you cannot afford to stand around wringing your hands over what it means to be human. And you won’t allow the Unknowing to happen unopposed. Cling to that conscience as proof of your humanity, if you’d like. 

But more than that, we both know that the Archivist in you can’t leave a question unasked or unanswered. 

 [A HEAVY, SHAKY EXHALE.]

  ELIAS

[businesslike] Now. Do you have any further concerns, Jon?

  [LONG SILENCE, PUNCTUATED BY THE ARCHIVIST'S RAGGED BREATHING.]

  ELIAS

Good. Well, I have work to be getting on with. I’ll send you a Return to Work form, but don’t worry about the doctor’s note.*

 [THE SOUNDS OF PAPERS RUSTLING, A COMPUTER MOUSE CLICKING, AS ELIAS TURNS TO OTHER MATTERS.]

  ELIAS

[gloating] Do take care, Jon.  

 [HARRIED FOOTSTEPS, A DOOR OPENING AND CLOSING. A HEAVY, CHOKED GASP – PERHAPS A SOB – MUTED BY A CLOSED DOOR.]

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 16

Chapters: 16/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15]

Right in the middle of mild renovations, and Martin moving into the loft, Gerry has a showcase sneak up on him.

They're in the very chaotic process of turning three lives into one and it's unfortunate timing, but he's willing to cope to have his partners close at hand.

Jon is also in the process of moving in, but more slowly, having kept his flat for an extra month, hoping to ease the chaos. Two cats and several duplicate pieces of furniture clutter the space, and everything is just a bit out of sorts.

Gerry's showcases are an odd thing. As an anonymous artist, working under a pseudonym, he doesn't technically have to go to his shows, but Gertrude likes for him to be around, and she tells everyone he's one of her assistants so he can attend without a fuss. No one ever takes any notice and he gets to watch people react to his paintings with absolutely no idea that he's present. It's an odd feeling that often leaves him disquiet, but he never regrets going. As an artist, there's nothing better than seeing your art on display, with just the right environment and just the right lighting.

This time, he also has a bit of a plan brewing.

Feeling truly rooted in the foundations of their relationship after more than a year, Gerry presents Jon and Martin with very fancy, formal invitations, complete with a bow and a suggestive wink.

“Will you be my companions for the evening, gentlemen?” Gerry seems to be doing a very pompous impression of Elias, which sends Jon into instant hysterics.

While he’s distracted, Martin pulls Gerry close and they swing around the room, mimicking some kind of waltz, before bashing into a table and then a couch. They cut their losses and simply kiss breathlessly in the middle of the laughter.

"So," Gerry asks them when they've all settled down and gone back to trying to install the new storage cabinets. "What do you think? Want to be my plus two?"

Jon laughs sweetly from nearby, a screwdriver in hand. "I think I can speak for both of us when I say that we wouldn't miss it for anything."

***

There's a fair amount of chaos as the day approaches, Gerry trying to complete and send off several final pieces while Martin and Jon frantically search for their formal wear in the boxes that currently pass for their wardrobes.

Eventually giving up on trying to organize the walk-in closet to accommodate all three of them, Gerry and Tim drag both Jon and Martin's armoires up the stairs and they all unpack their clothes in their own wardrobes.

This is a rather tumultuous activity, which somehow ends with Tim shirtless and Gerry wearing a bright teal and pink Hawaiian shirt, open over a black lace bralette. No one even tries to guess where the bralette comes from, but Gerry decides he likes it, and Jon eyes him approvingly.

"You should wear that to the opening, Gerry," Martin suggests provocatively from nearby. "Give your own art some competition."

Gerry smirks at him. "I think you should come over here and say that to my face."

"Oh God, can I watch?" Tim asks a hopeful excitement not quite masked by the humour.

Jon manages to sneak a sweet candid of Gerry and Martin laughing with Tim, all looking like they showed up to different parties. Overcome to see his two partners and his best friend all so happy together, Jon decides it might be his favourite thing ever.

***

In the end, their suits are unearthed, wrinkled but intact. They send them off to be dry cleaned right in the nick of time.

The night before his event, in a pique of creative mania, Gerry dyes his hair alone at 3 A.M. Martin and Jon wake up to find his hair a slightly blotchy silver-grey, which they both coo over lustily.

Jon gently helps him even it out, and by the time his hair is clean and dry again, he looks striking and angular. In his dark blue trousers and well-fitted waistcoat, eyeliner and piercings in place, he looks downright picturesque himself- a work of art who also happens to create works of art.

Jon has a favourite black suit with a very faint pinstripe pattern, which he wears with a green waistcoat and matching green tie, to compliment his mossy eyes. His white shirt contrasts pleasantly against his tawny skin and even he agrees that he looks rather handsome.

Martin owns exactly one suit- it's a light grey colour just a little too cool to flatter his summery skin tone, and it doesn't fit quite right through the shoulders, if he's being honest. Gerry gently encourages him to wear his trousers and crisp white shirt with a warm maroon sweater. It's soft cashmere, made even softer (according to Martin's poetic side) by the fact that his lover's gave it to him for Christmas. Gerry's artist eye managed to pick out precisely the right shade to compliment his warm brown eyes and pink hair, and the ensemble leaves him looking quite lovely.

He eyes his bow ties indecisively, and Jon wanders over and hands him a dark blue-grey one with tiny white dots. He even ties it for Martin, and he offers a sweet kiss in exchange.

“You look splendid,” Jon remarks, pulling Martin carefully towards him by the elbows before pressing their lips together chastely. They kiss for several moments, lips dragging together pleasantly. Jon runs his hands down Martin’s forearms to tangle their fingers together, where they fit together snuggly.

Martin sighs as they part, all outfit uncertainty having fled. “What was that for?”

“I just couldn’t help myself.” Jon chuckles, grinning. “I see a stunning man, I have to kiss him.”

“So it’s not because my dotty bow tie fills you with incandescent joy?” Martin presses their foreheads together, simply basking in Jon’s presence.

“Everything about you fills us with incandescent joy,” Jon whispers to him. “Especially the way you can make the perfect cup of tea."

“And,” Gerry adds, coming up to place a hand at the small of Martin’s back. “The way that you can remember the love story from every book you’ve ever read.”

“I-” Martin laughs sweetly at them, blushing fiercely. “You guys.’’

They all stand together for a moment, each looking spectacular in their own ways, soft looks on their faces. Gerry vaguely wishes this was the whole day, that he could just stand here with his lovers and convince Martin that he is the most perfect man on earth. He wishes he could just tease Jon until he snaps and tries to tickle Gerry to death, and they would end up all rolling around the floor, ignoring the many extra pieces of furniture currently occupying the flat.

Gerry wishes for these soft and special moments and knows that there will be a million more of them as time goes on and that the moment coming will (hopefully) be perfect in its own way.

They each share a kiss with the others, then they grab their things and make their way downstairs, excited and jubilant, all laughter and easy affection. They pile into a cab together and Gerry tells them stories of past showcases, full of ridiculous moments and strange pride at his impossible artistic success.

The second they arrive, Gerry is summoned away and with a wink and a grin, he’s gone. Martin and Jon exchange a smile, joining hands and moving through the gentle crowd. There are plenty of people in attendance already, but the sorts of people who go to galleries are the quiet sort, and there isn’t a lot of boisterous energy flying about.

They wander around, finding many paintings which they have seen Gerry working on over the last year, and unsurprisingly, several they’ve never caught a glimpse of.

Sometimes Gerry will work on a painting for weeks and then keep it around for months, looking at it every day, and then other times he'll paint an entire piece in 18 hours, decide he never wants to see it again and send it straight to Gertrude for safekeeping.

It’s all a part of his creative rhythms, and they’ve long since grown accustomed to it.

The gallery itself is a series of thin rooms, with a bench down the middle for extended viewings. Each is filled with four paintings, even if they are wildly different sizes. They seem to be arranged by vague categories, but Jon and Martin are amused to see that a 3D piece made mostly out of torn book pages and painted to appear aflame is hung across from an oil painting of a colony of seals swimming across a galaxy in the night sky.

Gerry reappears at intervals, whispering secrets to them as they consider one piece or another. At the painting of a siren singing longingly to a falling comet, Gerry whispers something into Martin's ear which makes him smirk in a way that fills Jon with burning curiosity. Instead of sharing with him as well, Gerry pecks him on the cheek and then dashes off at the behest of a harassed looking assistant of Gertrude’s.

“What did he say?” Jon implores Martin softly after he’s gone again.

“Apparently he was thinking of us in a very specific way while he painted that one.” Martin is still grinning smugly.

“Ah,” Jon says, nodding. “Naked?”

“Very naked.”

“You know, I rather imagined that was what he was always thinking of while he painted.” Jon confesses.

“Really? That’s a lot of imagined nudity.” Martin whispers, threatening to spill over with laughter.

“Well-” Jon bristles slightly. “We’re very nice to look at naked, like- like muses!” He finishes triumphantly.

“A point well made, love.” Martin concedes.

He drags Martin to the next room after that, and they find it to be the final part of the exhibit.

There are only two paintings here, a matched pair of the same size, sitting on the end wall side by side. They’re another two neither of them has ever seen before, and Jon draws Martin to sit on the bench and simply absorb the art together. Their hands are twined, and they feel rather overwhelmed with unspeakable emotion.

There are a pair of matching sold signs beneath them, bold and unmissable.

Gerry finds them sitting there, and he sits himself on the other side of Martin, gently taking his other hand.

“Oh, Gerry.” Martin eventually whispers, awe-struck.

“Do you like them?” Gerry squeezes his hand, and Jon reaches over Martin to tangle his fingers in the pile. It’s messy, just the way they all like it.

“Very, very much,” Martin affirms.

“Gerry, they’re spectacular.” Jon offers his appreciation. “How did you get them done without us ever seeing them? They’re huge.”

“I finished them months ago, before we spent so many nights all together, then I kept them in the storerooms before I shipped them off to Gertrude,” Gerry explains. “I wanted you to see them here, like this, for the first time.”

“Why?” Martin asks, voice full of warm curiosity.

“It's the way you each make me feel, and I wanted you both to have this moment, to see them displayed to their best potential,” Gerry whispers to them, the space feeling sacred and private, despite the people wandering the gallery around them. "It seemed more poignant than simply saying 'I love you,' back in the days before we said those words so easily."

"I can't imagine being filled with so much talent that I could just…" Jon begins, voice laden with unexpected emotional fragility.

Martin continues for him, "Paint the way you love someone?"

They don't notice, but Gerry actually blushes, hot embarrassment and pleasure filling him in equal parts. His voice is smooth and clear, mercifully, as he starts his explanation.

“Martin, yours is that moment of dawn breaking, out somewhere that there are no other people. Maybe you feel alone, but you never feel lonely, because the sun is rising and it reminds you that the world always moves at its own rhythm. Like sometimes I haven't seen you in a while but I walk into the bookstore or you come through the door, and your smile fills my heart, as steady and unchanging as the rise and fall of the sun in the sky.”

The painting in question rather does convey that feeling, a foggy moor stretching towards a tree-lined horizon, dawn breaking and bringing light and warmth to the cool edges of the space. Darkness sits in the corners, but it only serves to enhance the light, drawing the eye towards the sweet sunrise.

Gerry continues, this time focusing on the darker painting, an intricate stained glass window refracting down, colourful light filling a room with books stacked haphazardly everywhere. “Jon, yours represents what it’s like to try navigating our relationship together. The books are not sorted or organized and they can be tricky to understand, but the comfort and ease of that familiarity can still fill me with peace in the most unexpected moments. The light is colourful and ever-changing, both a familiarity and yet always shifting to suit our moods and seasons together.”

"Constant, but never the same," Jon whispers in return, and Gerry is pleased to hear he knows the feeling.

They simply sit with each other a moment, the sheer scope of their emotions filling them up with warmth and a sort of profound understanding that just doesn’t come from simple words. It’s a gesture as wild and unexpected as Gerry himself, and Jon and Martin bask in it.

“They're breathtaking, love.” Martin declares, turning to him. “It's a pity they're sold. I suppose we couldn't afford them anyway, but I wish I could buy them.”

Gerry grins, pleased. “They were never for sale. They're only here to be displayed. They're gifts. I was hoping- that is, I hope you and Jon will accept them. I painted them to go in your studies in the loft.”

“They're for us?” Jon murmurs incredulously.

“Yes, as a way for me to express just how much I adore you both,” Gerry confirms, giggling a bit at his own words. “How could I pour so much love into paintings, and let them live with anyone else?”

“I’m glad you couldn’t because I love them so much,” Martin tells him earnestly.

“I feel the same,” Jon adds, voice gentle.

“They’re- They’re the best things I've ever made. I’m so glad you like them.” Gerry whispers, surprised to find himself overcome with a hot swell of emotion.

They continue to sit together, hands tangled, lives knit together. Hope and certainty, two emotions none of them have ever been allowed to indulge in, blanket around them, cementing this moment forever.

[ao3feed-themagnusarchives]

punishment

by anonone

“It’s time for your punishment Jon.” Elias unhooked his archivist from the ceiling, Enjoying the full body tremor from the man now pressed against his chest. Elias’s breath tickled Jon’s ear as he softy gave the now all to familiar command, “over the desk.” Elias set him down, Jon felt heavy, he wobbled on his feet, Elias put a firm hand on his shoulder, a possesive gesture which served to both steady Jon and keep him in place. He steered Jon over to the desk and bent him over it, Jon whined with anticipatory anxiety, and immediately cursed himself for it.

Words: 565, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Series: Part 7 of Knowing and unknowing

Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con

Categories: M/M

Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus

Additional Tags: Figging, Caning, Corporal Punishment, Birching, birch rod, Object Penetration, Punishment, Torture, Psychological Torture

source https://archiveofourown.org/works/25190119