#magnus archives x reader

[roxxy-29]

Zero thoughts, just Elias Bouchard (Johna Magnus) who sometimes lets his northern accent slip when he gets rilled up.

Stay with me on this one.

He's had a long day in the office. Nothing worked, his computer crashed several times, Rosie called in sick, someone forgot to drop off some very important fiscal papers off, the weather outside is shite. Basically it's a horrible day and he's at his wits end.

And to top it all off, the a new library recruit just missplaced like 20 books so now he has to pay the other library assistants about 5 hours of overtime to get that mess sorted. If they even find the books at all because we all know that a missplaced book in a library is as good as burnt. (and yes he could use his powers but he's exhausted and does not want to go through the trouble today).

So he just tears into the poor sucker in front of everyone right there in the library. And of course it slips. His original Manchester accent just slips through. He never means it, of course, knows it could be detrimental to maintain his identity but alas it happens.

And that's when you walk by. You were just returning a book and you overhear him. So you just cock your head from around the corner, and all you have to do is say "Cool it Manchester" and in the 0.5 seconds it takes for the rest of the people present to process your words he's already calmed down. Tells the recruit to not let something like that happen again and walks back into his office.

That's it, send tweet.

[a-ghost-really]

If it’s also the, may I request something with Jonathan Sims where he has a younger sibling? Maybe teenage years?

Thanks for the request!! So with this one it will be set throughout each of the seasons and be mostly about how their relationship evolves. Since Jon's parents are dead, his younger sibling will be living with him since he is legal adult and they are around 16. I'll try to keep him as in character but he might be little ooc. Also reference college band au and his younger sibling likes angry girl music. Enjoy!!! -🦝

note: this was written by the other owner of the account. Editor (hi -🐀) got lazy and stopped editing halfway through. sorry

Season 1-Readers POV:

Jon told me he got moved to the Archives earlier today! So I've been preparing; I got his favorite takeout and some movies to watch. I waited quietly by the door with a party popper in my hand. I hear the floor outside the door creak and see the doorknob turn.

"Congratulations!" I exclaim as Jon walks through the door, pulling the string on the party popper and throwing my arms around him as confetti falls though the air.

Jon rolls his eyes, "I shouldn't have told you before I got home," He grumbles, then pats my back as a sign to let go.

I take a step back and smile at him.

"Welp, it's too late to regret that now," I smile proudly. "Now, there's takeout on kitchen counter and plethora of DVDs in living room. So get food and pick a movie while I clean this up."

"Okay, okay," he says simply and heads towards the . I get broom and clean up the colorful confetti before getting my own food and joining Jon in living room for the movie.

I flop down on the couch with my food as Jon is on floor looking though the DVDs.

"Alrighty, what are we watching tonight?" I asked happily.

"Well, since the only genre of movie you rented is 'chic flicks'," he sends a joking glare towards me as my laugh tumbles from my lips. "Our choices are either legally blonde or 10 things i hate about you."

"Ooh, we watched 10 things I hate about you last week, we can watch legally blond!" I answer excitedly, and Jon nods and stands up to put the DVD in the player.

"Legally blonde it is."

_________________________________________

Season 2 - Jon's pov:

I know I shouldn't have left Georgie's in the first place. But I owed them some sort of apology for all of this. I gripped the plastic bag in my hand, my younger sibling's favourite candy and drink contained inside. As I finally reached Georgie's door I took a look around before slowly opening the door and stepping inside.

My ears are immediately greeted with Bad Reputation by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts blaring full-volume. I nearly jump out of my skin, whipping around to figure out where the sound was coming from, only to see my sibling singing into a broom like it's a microphone and dancing around the kitchen. I lean against the door and put my hand to my chest, taking a deep breath to steady myself.

They hadn't heard me come in yet, and if the noise I hear coming from their speaker was any indication, they probably aren't able to hear anything at the moment. I sighed and looked at the Admiral, who was sitting on back of couch and enjoying the show.

The sight of them like this lightens my mood by a fraction. I still felt bad for uprooting their life and having them hide in my ex's house, but I couldn't risk putting them in the hands of somebody else. I had to take care of them.

I straightened myself out and walked further into the house. I walked over to couch, crossed my arms, and waited. They turned around and screamed.

"Jesus, Jon! You scared me," they complained, trying to catch their breath.

"Turn down the volume. How many times do I have to tell you, you're going to burst your ear drums," I sighed.

"Whatever you say, Dad," they mock me as they turn down the volume and pause the song. I roll my eyes "what are a starting band in here or something?" I ask jokingly.

"You would think that, Mr. Jonny D'Ville," they smirked.

"How do you know about that?"

"Oh, there is a very interesting box in the attic with some photos and CDs from your college days," they were smiling ear to ear.

I looked over to the hallway door and booked it to get rid of the evidence.

"Don't you dare, you rat!" They yelled and chased after me.

I wasn't able to get to attic before they tackled me. They are now eating their candy and playing a recording of a concert I did back college. I am suffering.

EXTRA:

Reader: Supplemental! My brother is weirdo.

Jon: ...Don't.

[Reader snickers.]

Reader: Supplemental, Jonathan Sims looks like a cat.

Jon: I swear, if you don't put that down I will hit you with a pillow.

[A pause.]

Reader: Supplemental, Jonathan Sims has threaten me with his noodle arm.

[Jon quickly walks closer to the recorder.]

Reader: Supplemental, Jonathan Sims is trying to kill me.

[Recorder falls.]

Reader: Jon! Jon, no!

[Running, followed by a thump on ground.]

[Reader bursts out laughing.]

Reader: Jon, stop! Don't hit me with pillow. Georgie, save me!

Jon: No one can save you now!

Season 3: Reader's POV

I was walking back to Georgie's. I had gone to the gas station and gotten some snacks for all of us. Jon seems to be feeling better these days. I'm glad, I turned the corner on Georgie's street when I saw it. The door was open, I didn't even realize I drop the bag all I could feel was panic. I ran though the door yelled for Jon.

"Jon! Jon, are you here?" Nothing.

I fumbled with my phone trying to find Martin number. Jesus, where was is it come on. Finally I found it clicked the phone icon. It rang ...and rang ...and ra- "hello?". ' Martin do you know where Jon is?" " What?" " I just got back from the gas station and Jon is not here. Where is he". I had started pacing I needed to know my brother was safe. " Hold up coming over I'll let the boss know. We will find him" with that he hung up I was alone. I hate being alone.

.....

It has been a day, they didn't know where he was and they keep talking about something called avatars. I don't understand but I do know there here and not looking for my brother. Why won't anybody look for him!

.....

They found him... he looks shaken ... He seems off ... But he is here ..he is alive... I can hear his heart beat, I can feel his arms around me ...he is alive.. he came back.

I don't know how long I was crying, how long I was standing there in my brother's arms but he didn't pat my back so I cling on. "Shhhh, I'm okay, I'm okay" he chanted in my ear. I pulled back and wiped my eyes. "Come on wanna watch the princess bride'' he asked and all I could do his nod. We were back at Georgie's... for now at least he put on princess bride and I slowly fell asleep. He was back and that all that mattered.

Season 4: Reader POV

Why does he keep doing this! Coma, coffin, ALASKA for gods sake and he never tells me. I always hear it from Martin, Melanie, Basira for goodness sake. But never my own brother he just leaves me.

...

It's been awhile since I contacted any of my friends. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I don't know why... I miss them ... Why can't I call them.. im so tired...

...

After Jon's kidnapping, Martin message me at least once a day and kept me up to date on things. I saw him in hospital when Jon was in coma. We would talk we both missed him we both loved him. But I haven't heard from him awhile he stop I don't know. I feel so alone. I know people are out there but I can't reach them. I think that makes it worse.

...

Jon been around more but I can tell he is keeping something from me. He always sounds sad and paranoid. Why is he acting like this?

...

Jon fell asleep on the couch, he hasn't slept in while. He is a talking in sleep something about saving Martin. Is Martin okay?

...

Basira came by today she was angry, she drop off a tape and left....Jon's been 'feeding off people's trauma' apparently. What the hell is going on. Martin is okay, I guess or at least he seams okay.

...

He is leaving me again! For Scotland! With Martin! He says I have to stay here! What is his problem!? Why!? Why is leaving me ?! I don't want to be alone! WHY!? Why!? Why? Why... Why does he leave me?...I'm alone they're out there...but I can't be with them... It does make it worse...I just wanna cry ...I'm scared... I..I

Season 5: Reader's POV :

The world is disarray, it a literal apocalypse... I hate it..but I'm powerful.

It is a quiet neighborhood perfect houses, perfect yards, perfect roads, perfect neighborhoods. Venessa is home alone but it's been days. She hears them, her family. She even seem them outside but every time she goes out there is nobody. There is never anybody. No friends, no family, no neighbors nobody is here.

It like that for all of them glimpse and whispers just enough to know there is somebody but they can never reach them. They are afraid, their fear makes me feel powerful. I hate it.

...

I see him I know it's him. It been to long for it be fake. He coming this way. He is covered eyes and looks stuffy but it is here, right?. I can't move what if not him. What if I'm really just alone. Why if- I feel him he is hugging me he is cold. I hear him his voice is soft. He was here,Jon was here.

I look over shoulder when we pulled apart. I see Martian he's roughed up, but it still looks like him a little different but him. "Hey" I feel nervous and relief. "Hey" Martin answers, Jon just smiles at me. "Do you guys know what happened?" They side eye each other, Martin glances at me and nodes his head towards me. "What's up to with you two?".

Jon sighs and takes a step closer.

"I'm-" he takes a deep breath "it's my fault"

A pause.

"Hey Jon, quick thing that's not an answer"

"Excuse me?"

"You're excuses, but really you going all ' it's my fault, I'm a shitty person, blaah' doesn't tell me what happened"

I hear Martin snicker and glares at him

"well there not wrong, Jon." Jon groaned and ran his hands down his face. " Elias tricked me into bringing all the fear entities into the world so they can cause and feed on all the fear".

" Okay, follow up question, why do I not feel soul and mind crushing fear"

"cause though me you have a connection to the eye. So instead of being terrorized, you feed off of the fear of the people in your territory"

"who?"

"The people in town "

"Oh, okay."

"I don't like it Jon."

"...I know."

"it feels wrong."

"I know."

"They're suffering and I'm benefiting form it."

"Yeah."

"I hate it."

"I know." He sighs. "I know... and I'm sorry."

I look up to him.

"I know you are," I softly reply.

"You're going to leave?" I ask; it been clawing at the back of mind since he got here.

"Yes."

"Can I come with?"

"No, you're safer here."

My heart stopped. He was going to leave me. Again.

"You're going to leave me here?"

"Yes."

No, no, no, no-- he couldn't.

"...No, please don't me here."

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't leave me!" My heart was going to beat out of my chest-- he wouldn't leave me here. "Not again, take me with you."

"No, you're safer here."

"Jon, just think-"

"No, Martin, they're my younger sibling, and I'm not putting them in harms way."

"Jon!" I yelled.

I needed him to take me with. I was so scared to be left alone again.

"No!" he yelled at me- he never yells at me. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, but I cannot and will not put you in danger."

I just stared at him, betrayed. He is leaving me again. I tore my eyes away from him and looked at the ground. My eyes filled with tears and body shook. Jon wrapped his arms around me.

"Please Jon, don't leave me alone."

"I can't, I'm sorry."

"You have to leave now?" I asked, hoping he would say no.

"Yes."

Wishes never did come true, did they?

I sighed and pulled away, then whispered, "Promise you will come back for me?"

"I promise."

I sighed and nodded.

"Okay, well see you later then."

"I'm sorry, see you later" with that he states to walk away with one last look and wave from Martin. they where gone. I'm fully alone my brother was gone I'm scared.

...

I woke up they world was back to normal-ish some thing changed but it wasn't apocalypse anymore. I got up with a jump and ran down the street I had to find him. I took a bit but I found Georgie by the old Magnus building it was in ruins tho. " Georgie!" She looked back and saw me

"Hey!" She opened her arms and gave me hug. I was so happy to see her.

" Hey! Oh my God how are you?"

She laughed "I've been better but I'm alive ".

I laughed with her "yeah, I guess have you seen Jon?". Her face became one full sorrow " Georgie? Where is Jon?" She looked at Basira and Melanie. Melanie shift form foot to foot and Basira shook her head. "Georgie, what happened to him?"

"I'm so sorry" she said

"Georgie, no please no"

"he didn't make it"

" No,no,no,no, this can't be happening". My breath quicken. I searched for him he couldn't have... "No,no,no,no. He promised!". He's not he couldn't be

"hey, take a deep breath it will be okay" Georgie put her hand on my shoulder. No,no it wouldn't not if he's .... I pulled harshly away from her falling on the ground. I didn't even feel the gravel under me as I got up and ran away. It couldn't be true it just couldn't be.

I ran for what felt like forever, I ran till couldn't anymore. I turn into a ally and slide down wall curling into myself. It couldn't be true it-he promised he-. But he wasn't here and I was alone. I did only thing I could do and cried and cried. He was gone, my last bit of family was gone. why? Why? WHY?. WHY DID HE LEAVE ME? why did he leave me alone.

I hope you enjoyed

-🦝

[emma045]

[guess-i-ll-die-then-blr]

Imagine a Wayne (either by blood or adoption) who becomes a victim of the Spiral.

Doors leading to endless hallways inside the manor (and school and the mall and the subway is anywhere safe?), long infinite limbs reaching for them in the dead of night (perpetually twisting and turning the fingers coil in on themselves), dreams that bleed uncomfortably into reality—

Bruce “bastion of logic” Wayne has no idea what’s going on, never mind what to do about it. [Reader] becomes irritable towards friends and family alike, their grades slip as well as they lose hobbies. Several interventions have been held to no avail, always ending back up at square one no matter how many times he and the rest of the family assure [Reader] its not real and how they would have noticed if something suspicious like that was in the manor. It Is Not What It Is makes sure to pay [Reader] a visit after every one of them.

[Reader], now on the cusp of being sent to Arkham as a last resort, now hides several weapons under their bed and pillow, mostly stolen from their siblings to their annoyances. No [Reader], I need those more than you do. That thing isn’t real, how many times do we have to tell you this?

Add that to the underlying fear of [Reader] becoming a future rogue. Barbara and Jason get reminded of the Joker’s own references to his self-proclaimed insanity and can’t look [Reader] in the eye anymore.

Its awkward all around when [Reader] gets admitted, the Waynes love them but it’s gone on for so long that everyone’s exhausted of it. [Reader] comes in praying that the psychiatrists and patients can help them, either through fixing whatever it is in their brain that keeps these hallucinations coming or by head-on fighting the Spiral itself.

Little did anyone know, through their admittance to Arkham Asylum, the Wayne family had delivered [Reader] right into its jaws.

[falconsgf]

He is me and I am him.

[deathbyhertouch]

Kinktober 2024 list

all of these will be shorter fics, as i need multiple days for the normal longer fics i usually do

characters will be a surprise! as i think it will be fun!

I will update links to each post as i release them

hope you enjoy!!

day 1: squirting Phoebe Bridgers x f!reader

day 2: bondage Katie Gavin x gn!reader

day 3: mirror Wanda Maximoff x f!reader

day 4: hair pulling Hope Van Dyne x f!reader

day 5: free use Sasha James x afab!reader

day 6: public Natasha Romanoff x gn!reader

day 7: threesome Emily Prentiss x f!reader x Jennifer Jereau

day 8: milf!reader x daughter’s girlfriend Milf!reader x Daughter's Girlfriend! Jo Maskin

day 9: dirty talk Basira Hussain x gn!reader

day 10: sex pollen Yelena Belova x f!reader

day 11: creampie (g!p) Julien Baker x f!reader

day 12: power Agatha Harkness x gn!reader

day 13: spanking/impact play Naomi McPherson x f!babydoll!reader

day 14: corruption Chloe ST200 x afab!reader

day 15: somnophilia Lucy Dacus x gn!reader

day 16: sloppy/ spit Steve Rogers x f!reader

day 17: praise Danny Wagner x f!reader

day 18: thigh riding Jackie Taylor x gn!reader

day 19: cockwarming (g!p)

day 20: hate fuck

day 21: perversion

day 22: lactation

day 23: choking

day 24: uniform

day 25: food

day 26: monsterfucker

day 27: deity

day 28: pantysniffer

day 29: sex toy

day 30: breeding

day 31: body worship/aftercare

fandoms that will be included for this (please comment if you want another one included)

-boygenius

-criminal minds

-muna

-brooklyn 99

-marvel

-detroit become human

-the magnus archives

-yellowjackets

-greta van fleet

[aimiesposts]

I see no difference

[peonysgreenhouse]

-`♡´- mine all mine.

summary: kissing blurbs (gn!reader x daisy tonner, helen distortion, tim stoker, & jonathan sims)

tags: kisses, suggestive content & hunt-typical violence for daisy's, helen is manipulative, cleaning tim's worm holes (lol), jon finally gets a little bit of sleep.

-`♡´- daisy tonner

Daisy smells the blood that thrums just underneath your neck and hungers. Her teeth graze over the soft skin over your neck; she can feel your carotid pulse in response to her touches. So rhythmic, so alive, and she hungers so. It would only be a few centimeters beneath your skin, it would be so easy to bite down and taste.

And how delicious a meal you would be.

Daisy’s tongue darts out and drags just underneath your jaw. You tug gently at her hair, and her hands grip tighter at your sides. No, no, she would be gentle with you. She would try, at least, she thinks, nipping at the side of your neck as if to show you she could be restrained.

Bite inhibition was something she had never properly learned, but for you, she would try.

When you pull Daisy up for a proper kiss, she hopes you don’t taste the blood on her lips, on her teeth, on her tongue. She fears it lingers no matter how many times she brushes them clean. You bite her bottom lip, pulling the chapped skin between your teeth, and Daisy can’t help but press herself against you; a different form of hunger settling low in her gut. She lifts you onto the desk and thinks that this is a type of hunger she doesn’t mind sating. 

-`♡´- helen distortion

You had been wandering the corridors for hours… Or had it been days? Months perhaps? It’s easy to lose count when you’ve nothing to go off of. No phone to check the time, nor window to the outside world – if there even was one here – to see the setting sun or rising moon. Just an endless stretch of elastic corridors and doors that were locked tight.

Then, a figure. Tall and slender, and you can't help but stumble forward towards it. It had been so long since you saw anything but empty hallways, you nearly sob in relief.

As you get closer you realize that she looks… familiar. Like someone you once knew. Maybe you had once gone for coffee together? No, that wasn’t right. Your mind must be playing tricks on you. Your heart hammers within your chest as she reaches out to you. 

“Poor thing…” She coos, bending at an unnatural angle to look down at you. “You seem lost, my darling. Do you need help finding your way?”

Oh, she was friendly. She wants to help. The Distortion smiles at you, with much too many sharp teeth, but you find she looks… kind. You nod, desperate, and approach her, gripping onto her sleeve.

“Yes.” You breathe out, frantic. “Yes, please. I’ve been lost here for… for a long time. Do you know the way out?”

Helen pulls you into her arms, her voice comforting in your ear as she reassures you everything would be okay. Those long, sharp fingers of hers gentle as she strokes your hair. It feels nice, so nice you can’t help but nuzzle closer into the Distortion that holds you tight, almost like a lover. 

Yes, yes, you had known her before. Helen, that’s right. You had been on a few dates before she had ghosted you. Why was she here now? She shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be here. Perhaps you could escape together!

“Helen.” You say, the name sounding right on your tongue. “I knew you before… we…”

Helen looks a little taken aback that you remembered. Still, she smiles that same, wide smile. “You remember me, darling? How… cute.” Her dark pupils seem to swirl around and around inside her eyes, winding like the corridors themselves, and you can’t help but find comfort in that pattern. “Let's get you to the exit, you look like you need a rest, hm?"

She takes your hand in hers, her hand dwarfing your own in size, and leads you to an unassuming door. You're sure you tried that one before; you can even see the chips in the paint from where you had tried to pull off the handle. If Helen notices, she doesn't say anything.

"Here we are, darling." She says, in that same chipper tone. You can't help but feel a rush of relief as she pulls open the door. Through the frame you can see your room, as neat and tidy as you left it. You could almost cry.

"Thank you." You say, your voice choked up with relief. "Thank you." You wrap your arm around her neck and stand on your tiptoes to kiss her cheek. Her skin is cold under your lips.

"No need to thank me. I'm just glad you're all safe now." She says, booping your nose with a finger. You can't help the way your heart races as she ushers you through the door. “I’ll be seeing you soon, my darling.” She gives you a once-over, and then closes the door behind her. It disappears into the darkness of your room.

As she closes the door, you can’t still your racing heart. You feel an overwhelming sense of dizziness, but all you can think about is that you need to see her again.

-`♡´- timothy stoker

“So… How do my worm holes look, doc?” 

You pull one of his bandages off, taking a peek at the wound just under his jaw. “Stop squirming.” You say, firmly, holding his jaw in place as he tries to move away from your prodding around the wound. It looks less angry than it had a few days ago, but it was still a bit red. You wrinkle your nose. “Does it hurt?”

Tim lets out a playful scoff. “Oh yeah, I feel just great. Nothing quite like being riddled with holes.” 

“Hm, deflecting again.” You say, brushing your thumb over his pulse point, just below the wound. Tim hums in response. “Adding that to your, uh, file.” 

“Oh, you’re keeping a file on me now?” He says, his eyes flicking down to your hand as you smear ointment onto your finger. Tim sucks in a breath, bouncing his leg anxiously as he awaits your touch.

“Yeah, it’s almost big enough to knock you over the head with when you’re being stubborn. Like now.” You say, gently grabbing his wrist and pulling him forward. “Sit still.”

Tim dramatically throws up his hands, but he does as you say. You give the wound another once over, just to make sure it looked like it was healing, before smearing the antibiotic onto it. Tim tenses, his eyes closing as if in pain. You pull your hand back, wiping the excess ointment onto the closest towel.

“All done with this one. Just let me put a clean bandage on.”

“...You never did answer, you know.” He says, watching as you dump the box of bandages onto the table. It would probably take all of them, knowing how many open wounds were left on his skin in the aftermath of the attack. You fear you'll never rid yourself of the image of the worms wriggling underneath his skin; you were thankful he was high off his ass for the worst of it. “How do they look?”

“You’re still handsome, if that’s what you’re worried about.” You lean forward as if to prove a point and kiss the fresh bandage lightly, making an exaggerated ‘MWAH’ sound. Tim gives you the goofiest smile. 

“Hm… I might need a few more of those before I really believe it. I’m so insecure and all that.” Tim says, tilting his head up so you can reach the next spot.

"Sit still for me and I'll give you all the kisses you want, Stoker."

-`♡´- jonathan sims

You know better than to wake the Archivist.

It’s not often that Jon’s mind quiets enough for him to sleep, and even now as you watch him, you can tell he’s watching back. It’s eerie, the way you can see his eyes shift behind closed eyelids. You think it would be less creepy if he slept with his eyes open.

Still, you wish he would sleep in a more comfortable position. Slumped over his desk, head laid in the bend of his elbow, it’s a recipe for Jon complaining about his back when he wakes up. You reach over and pull his glasses off, folding them and setting them on top of one of the stacks of old statements on his desk. 

He looks so much older without his glasses on; the dark circles under his eyes and worry lines much more prominent. You almost want to reach over and smooth them out, but you resist, not wanting to wake him by accident. Still, you can’t help but brush back his bangs from his forehead and place a quick kiss to the now exposed skin. Jon stirs, mumbling something under his breath, but does not wake.

While he’s asleep, you take the time to clean his office a bit: putting books back on their correct shelves, taking half-empty tea cups to the break room’s sink, organizing the miscellaneous statements he has messily scattered around the room. It’s almost relaxing, working quietly while he sleeps. You feel like you can catch your breath for the first time in a long while. 

Before you leave, you take your jacket, warm from your body heat, off and place it onto Jon’s shoulders. You lean down and press one more kiss to his forehead, and swear you can see the corners of his lips twitch up.

[heliads]

Words Unspoken - gerard keay

Gerry isn't used to the Archives being quiet. Good thing he's got you, then.

masterlist

a/n: back from hiatus w a podcast fanfic out of nowhere. yippee enjoy

Gerard isn’t used to quiet.

He doesn’t usually get a lot of it. Not since he started working at the Institute. Certainly not since his mother started plaguing him, even before the books took her skin and soul. He’s been a Keay for longer than he’s been conscious. He doesn’t think he’s truly been at peace since he first opened his eyes.

He takes what he can, of course, bits and pieces in between the forays out into the world to find the books, the fucking Leitners, and burn them. He’s always been calmest when he can watch the pages turn into ash, crumbling away on the wind. The words inked within are twisted, vile things, bringing only ruin to those unfortunate enough to read them, but Gerard almost feels jealous when he watches them go up in smoke. It would feel extraordinary to be light enough to coast away in open air, he thinks. The weight would be nothing then. Certainly not enough to crush him whole like it does every other day.

He hasn’t burned a book in a month, maybe that’s why he feels so uneasy. He runs his fingers over the holes in his ripped jeans for the nth time that day, dark fingernails accelerating the ruin of the threadbare hems. The eye tattoos on his knuckles appear and disappear as he bends his fingers, as if they’re blinking over and over again. Sometimes, Gerard tells himself this ill-gotten stalemate in between terrors is the reason he stays here, in the Magnus Institute, in this world of fears and statements and book-burning. He can barely handle quiet when he gets a few days of it. He’d probably go mad if peace and calm became his whole life.

The door swings open behind him, and Gerard has to fight not to flinch. He’s not quite sure he manages it. In between reminding himself how to breathe, Gerard has enough time to notice the identity of his visitor. His shoulders drop a little in relief when he recognizes the even footfalls of Y/N L/N, Gertrude’s latest hire. Y/N’s another archival assistant, primarily engaged in researching statement givers. Their paths don’t always cross, but when they do, Gerard finds himself happy for it. Y/N– Gerard can’t describe it, really, what they do to him. They make him feel normal, almost. Almost, until he remembers the eldritch all-seeing overlord they serve, or the myriad disasters they catalog every day, or any other detail of their insane lives.

Y/N smiles at him, taking a seat on a nearby chair. They’re holding two mugs of tea, one of which is slid across the table to a grateful Gerard, and a few file folders full of various notes.

“How’re you?” Y/N asks pleasantly. Most find the labyrinthine underbelly of the Archives too cold and austere for words, but it never seemed to bother Y/N. The Institute, much like everything else, just seems to make them that much better and brighter in Gerard’s eyes.

Gerard takes a sip of tea to avoid answering. “I’m alright,” he murmurs at last. “A little restless, but that’s nothing new.”

Y/N hums in agreement. Not for the first time, Gerard finds himself wondering why on earth someone like them would end up somewhere like here. He could find out, if he really wanted to, could look past the pretty face and encouraging smile to read the truth like another printed line from a cursed book, but for once, he doesn’t give in to the urge. He’d rather have Y/N tell him. He’d rather be the willing keeper of their secrets, not the thief.

Y/N catches his musing stare and Gerard coughs, embarrassed to be caught, and points his chin towards the stack of file folders in their hand. “What’ve you got there? More statements?”

Y/N nods. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about them. There’s somebody, a banker out near Bradford, who’s been having weird encounters with one of his neighbours. I don’t think the banker has read a Leitner directly, but I wanted to see if you thought his neighbour might be a victim of a book. He’s been describing weird, erratic behavior, odd patterns–”

Y/N flips open one of the manilla folders and slides it across the table. Gerard leans over to take a look, his tattooed fingers tracing the lines where they point. For a few carefully held breaths, their two hands brush, and Gerard has to fight the urge to wrap his fingers around theirs and never let go. It’s a right pain to make himself focus on the statement again, especially when there’s someone vastly more interesting right next to him, but Y/N is diligently focused and so Gerard reluctantly follows suit, peering at the description of the banker’s worries.

He tilts his head to the side, considering the statement. “Yeah, might be. He says his neighbour was doing, like, weird rituals, right? Could be the People’s Church of the Divine Host, but given how closely it all seems to relate to, uh, meat, it’s probably Flesh-adjacent.”

Y/N snorts. “Flesh-adjacent?”

Gerard rolls his eyes. “Fine, you come up with a better way to say he’s been reanimating random corpses or bits of corpses without seeming silly. I’m just trying to help.”

He’s grinning, though, and Y/N laughs too. He likes it when they laugh. It makes him feel better about himself. Can’t be that fucked up as a person if you can make someone like that smile.

“Alright,” they say, still humored, “Flesh-adjacent it is. So you’re thinking all this stuff was started by a book?”

Gerard lifts a shoulder. “Might be. The neighbour guy’s probably learning some spells from a Leitner, thinking he’s the next big thing in witchcraft, when in reality the book is just draining his measly little soul to do it. I’ll go take a look around in a few days, see if I can track down the thing.”

Y/N’s face falls. “No, I can’t ask you to do that. It might be dangerous!”

“No, it’s quite alright,” Gerard says. “Like I said, I’ve been getting restless. It’ll be good for me to get out and do something.”

Y/N arches a dubious brow. “It’ll be good for you to track down someone reanimating corpses using evil spells from a murderous book?”

“Are you worried about me? That’s sweet of you,” Gerard teases, noting with a thrill of delight up his spine how Y/N’s face heats up when he leans ever closer to them. “I’ll be fine, I promise. Plus, I’ll run it by Gertrude first. Downright cautious. How’s that sound to you?”

Y/N flips closed the file folder, smoothing down any errant paper corners with a deliberate movement of their hand. “I guess. I just didn’t want you to think that I only came down here to send you on another death mission.”

“Of course not, I know you love my company,” Gerard grins.

“I do,” Y/N insists, their eyes rising to insistently meet Gerard’s gaze, like it was incredibly important that he know how they felt. Like it might even matter as much to Y/N as it does to Gerard. Like for once, they feel the exact same way, and it’s– it’s–

Up one floor, a door closes a little too loudly, the reverberation of the slam echoing down to them. Y/N flinches away, and just like that, they’ve both lost their nerve. Y/N stands up quickly, gathering up the folders again and their tea. “I’ll see you around, then,” they whisper, and head out, stealing one last glance at Gerard when they think he doesn’t notice.

He does notice, though, and he does notice the plaintive sigh they let out once the door closes behind them. It’s alright. He’s got plenty more chances to say what they both want to hear.

all tags list: @wordsarelife, @supervoldejaygent

[luckhound]

like a carnivorous flower.

↻ pairing ✦ elias/reader

↻ summary ✦ You are approached by Elias in the Institute’s break room, after the confrontation in his office. It does not go well.

↻ word count ✦ 3.9k

↻ tags ✦ gender neutral reader, elias being elias, toxic dynamic, mind games galore

note: can you tell i got to #106 and felt a certain way about it? after reading all 3k words of this, probably. the sloppiest of kisses to sierra for her suggestions and encouragement + liya for keeping me sane while i agonized over this fic.

“Damn, look at the time. I should go, my break’s nearly over,” Hannah informs you, waving as she heads out. “See you! Don’t be a stranger!”

You wave back anemically, hoping your expression resembles more of a grin than a grimace. With the last straggler gone, you are finally alone in the break room of the Magnus Institute, London. The pressure that had settled over you dissipates.

You had never been a social butterfly to begin with, but neither had you been a total recluse. Yet nowadays, you vastly prefer solitude over interacting with the Institute staff. Their gripes and concerns are so far removed from your own that it’s almost grating. You have to stop yourself from scowling the entire time you’re around them.

You feel a little guilty for being such a curmudgeon, but they’re so... chipper. Oblivious.

Ignorant.

Like you once were.

Sighing, you shuffle deeper into the kitchenette and swing open a cabinet. Now that you’re on your own, you want to finish what you came here for and leave. Before you have to make more small talk with your colleagues.

The kettle whistles all of a sudden, piercing the quiet of the break room. Though you’d anticipated it, you still flinch. Your fingers squeeze tighter around the handle of a ceramic mug; you force them to relax, loosen one digit at a time.

With your free hand, you reach over and take the kettle off the stove. It stops screeching almost immediately. You should feel relief, but the abrupt absence of sound puts you further on edge. Given recent developments, you’re more aware than ever of how heavy silence can be.

Though the Magnus Institute hosts over a hundred people a day, from staff to researchers to visitors, the same cannot be said of the Archives, nestled like a secret—or grave—underground, beneath layers of concrete. Only the Head Archivist and his archival assistants, with the occasional statement giver, stalk those corridors.

You had not minded the seclusion. In the past, it could be quiet in the Archives, but you seldom felt isolated or uncomfortable. Sure, Jon sequestered himself in his office for much of the work day; your fellow archival assistants, however, tended to be nearby, thanks to the open office floor plan. If you needed advice or wanted to chat, you merely had to crane your neck. It would even irritate you, sometimes, how often Tim would pipe up with a comment when at his desk.

Now you’d gladly welcome his familiar chatter in your ear.

An oppressive silence has fallen over the Archives. That had been the case for some time, but now there is a sense of hopelessness to it. A sense of despair.

It’s rare for the archival staff to be at their desks. Most prefer going out for drinks or conducting personal research elsewhere. You on the other hand have elected to bury yourself in work. Though you spend time with the assistants now and then, you can’t stay away from the Archives for long.

It feels strange to shirk your responsibilities. Even now.

You grit your teeth in frustration, pushing the offending thoughts far into the dark recesses of your mind. You don’t want to contemplate your new normal. You’ve done enough of that in the last few months, over stacks of case files or in the middle of the night, when sleep eluded you.

At this moment in time, you just want to brew some tea.

You set the mug in your hand on the counter. Then you grab another from the cabinet. Martin was in the basement, last you checked; he had been preparing to record a statement. He’d appreciate a hot drink once he’s done.

As you go through the motions of making tea, you try to empty your mind. Focus on adding the teabags to the mugs, then pouring in boiling water. The sharp, earthy fragrance of chamomile wafts up soon after. The taut line of your shoulders loosens.

You fix your cup the way you like it, then begin to do the same for Martin. Milk and one sugar. Makes the chamomile too sweet, you think, but he prefers it that way.

You stiffen when the unmistakable sound of footsteps on linoleum reaches your ears. Oh, great. Time to field yet another coworker’s questions and comments. Irked, you go to peer over your shoulder at the interloper.

Only to freeze in your tracks when a familiar voice calls out to you.

“Ah, so you’re here. On your lunch break, I take it?”

It takes a minute for your limbs to thaw. Gaze trained on the mug in front of you, you mechanically stir in the sugar with a teaspoon. “Yeah.”

He hums. “I assume Tim, Basira, and Melanie are out.”

“Probably.”

“Martin is still in the Archives, isn’t he? I wanted to have a word with him about the, ah, recent changes around here.”

You clench your jaw. Stir the spoon for longer than necessary. “I’ll let him know.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that. I’ll head down with you. He is nearly finished recording the statement.”

The certainty in his voice, the knowing in it, makes your skin erupt in goosebumps.

The spoon clangs against the side of the mug. You toss it in the sink, resolving to wash it later, despite the cheery note from management taped to the fridge reminding staff to clean and put away any dirty dishes. Someone might spot it before you can, but you could care less.

Grab the tea, keep your head down, get out. That’s what your mind is more preoccupied with. If you walk a little faster than normal, you might be able to lose him in the winding corridors of the Institute. He can make his way to the basement on his own.

You pick up the mugs, square your shoulders, and turn around.

Your plan falls apart quickly. You have taken all of two strides before you realize that your escape route is blocked. At some point during your plotting, he must have moved closer, with you being none the wiser.

Instinctively, your head lifts. Your startled eyes meet cool grey.

Elias looks the same as ever. He’s dressed in a tweed three-piece suit, an emerald green tie knotted at his throat. His black hair, greying at the temples, is perfectly coiffed save for an errant lock that falls over his forehead. The corners of his lips are raised, his features soft. As if he’s actually pleased to see you.

Once, not long ago, you would’ve smiled at him. Greeted him warmly. Asked him to join you if he had the time. You would’ve offered to make him a cup of tea. You know exactly how he likes it: black with no sugar.

You do none of those things. You flinch and stumble backwards.

Then you recall, much too late, that you’re holding cups of hot liquid in both of your hands.

The pain is instant. There is no time to brace yourself. Thankfully, only the tea from Martin’s mug scalds your palm; yours managed not to spill over. Still, you hiss out a pained breath, wincing.

As you struggle to maintain a tight grip on the drinks, Elias sighs. “Really,” he says. “There was no need to overreact so severely.” The mild reprimand in his tone would have made you bristle had you not been distracted.

Then he reaches out a long-fingered hand and wraps it around your own, over the ceramic handle. You restrain the impulse to rip your hand out of his gentle grip. Instead, you let him take the mug from you. He sets it aside before taking the other one as well. It joins its twin on the counter.

When you don’t move or say anything, he looks down at your injury. “You should run that under some cold water. It’ll only get worse.”

You curl your fingers into a fist. Do your best to ignore the throbbing pain. “It’s fine. I... I need to get back to work. My break must be over by now.” You’re not sure if it is, to be honest, but your priority has not changed. You want to be as far away from him as possible.

To your dismay, Elias doesn’t step aside. Your back is to the counter, and he stands between you and the sole exit.

These past few weeks, he would never linger long in your company. When you made an excuse, he’d dismiss you immediately. Nothing like how it used to be, when you’d hang back in his office or he’d loiter near your desk, chatting about whatever came to mind. Stolen little moments that you tried to make last for as long as you could.

He must have realized—with or without his powers of omniscience—that you were avoiding him.

This is the first time he has stopped you from beating a hasty retreat. You feel a sense of foreboding, like a cold finger running down your spine.

Elias folds his arms behind his back, his stance widening. Each movement precise and economical. “I have been giving you space to come to terms with the situation. I understand that you’re upset. You think I deceived you.”

His words are so baffling that you can’t bite back a scoff in time. “I don’t think, I know. You’ve been lying to all of us—for years.”

“That’s not what I was referring to.”

“This whole time, you’ve been keeping the truth from us. About the Institute, the paranormal, everything. What more is there to be pissed off about?”

You have difficulty discerning what Elias is feeling or thinking at any given moment. It used to perplex you. Captivate you. You’d spend countless minutes puzzling out what a particular word or glance had meant, only to come to no proper conclusion.

That penchant for observation, coupled with your current proximity, may be why you’re able to catch the subtle reaction. One of his eyebrows twitches, the lines around his mouth tightening before smoothing out. From irritation, possibly. But at what?

“You know,” he begins, his tone as sedate as ever, “I find your dedication to your work commendable. I’ve felt that way from the start. But you have been especially diligent as of late.”

“Learning you could literally die if you try to quit your job can do that.”

“Mm, no. I don’t believe that’s the reason.” His head tilts in a birdlike motion, his gaze intent on yours. You want to look away but you know it won’t help. You can’t hide from him. You’re starting to realize you never could. “You tend to use your duties and responsibilities as a shield against anything you find unpleasant. A way to avoid your parents’ inquiries into your life, your friends’ attempts to force you out of your shell, your own anxieties over how dull and threadbare you have become.”

You cross your arms over your chest, fighting hard not to react outwardly. “Is there a point to this, or do you just enjoy listening to yourself talk?”

“Of course,” he continues as if you hadn’t spoken, “no one has bothered with that for some time. Still, you find comfort in steady work. In routine. Though that has been tested since the day Jane Prentiss disturbed the peace, hasn’t it? Learning more about this place hasn’t helped matters either. You wonder if you should continue as you always have, or if you should follow Tim’s lead. Perhaps doing what the Institute wants, what I want, is wrong.” His lips spread into a small smile. “But you do so loathe to disappoint an authority figure.”

You become deathly still. “That’s not what this is about.”

“You’re right, it’s not,” Elias agrees, to your surprise. “Though I must admit, when you were hired as an archival assistant, that’s what I thought it was. Surely the reason you went out of your way to speak with me, fetch me drinks, learn what I liked was because you wanted to ingratiate yourself with your employer. That’s how you saw it too. Then Tim and Sasha”—don’t bring her up, you want to snarl, leave her out of this, but your breath is caught in your throat—“teased you over it, called it a crush, and you knew it was different. And so did I.”

He takes a measured step closer. “It all came to a head at the annual Christmas party last year. You had a little too much to drink—to make conversations more bearable, especially after the Prentiss attack—and when we happened to find ourselves under the mistletoe, it was like fate... Except you couldn’t bring yourself to close the distance, and I didn’t make a move, so you convinced yourself it was a bad idea. A momentary lapse in judgement. Better to pretend it never happened.”

Another step. There are mere inches of space left between the two of you. “Then Tim insisted there was something strange about the Institute, something I must know about. You refused to entertain the idea. Though privately, you wondered.” His eyes remind you of smoke before a fire: the first sign of danger. “Which brings us to recent events. You were as shocked as the others when Jon reappeared out of nowhere, after being suspected of murder, and confronted me. When I finally revealed my hand. But that’s not all, is it?”

You shake your head, your arms dropping to your sides. “That’s enough, Elias.”

“You felt betrayed. I must have lied to you, encouraged your affections, for some nefarious purpose. Worse, you couldn’t unburden yourself to anyone. What would they think if they learned that you once held such tender feelings for me?”

“I mean it,” you say, voice low and warning. Your hands ball into fists, your injured palm twinging in protest, but it’s a distant feeling. “Stop.”

His gaze flays you. Cuts through flesh and sinew to your bone-white center. “Yet underneath all of that, what upsets you most is that you feel like a fool. You prize yourself on your intelligence, your diligence, your meticulousness. The very idea that someone may have been able to manipulate your thoughts and emotions... It infuriates you. Frightens—”

It happens so fast that not even your mind can keep up. One second, you’re standing across from Elias in the kitchenette of the break room. The next, you have him pinned against the opposite counter, your hands gripping the lapels of his suit jacket.

You’re not sure what you meant to accomplish with this act of aggression. To make him stop talking. To see him lose his composure. To throw him off-balance for a change.

Except you’re the only one who seems affected. You’re panting for breath like you’ve run a marathon, the fists you’ve made around his lapels unable to disguise the trembling of your hands. Meanwhile Elias smiles at you, completely unruffled, looking almost indulgent. Like an adult allowing a child to throw a temper tantrum, content to wait until they’ve tired themselves out.

Is there anything you can do that he won’t already see coming?

“So you knew,” you say hoarsely. “That this entire time, I...” Your mouth is unable to form the words. “Which means you were going along with it. What I don’t get is what the point was.”

Elias sighs, the force of it causing his waistcoat to brush against your dress shirt. “You still have no idea, do you.”

You don’t like the sound of that. “Have no idea about what.”

“I have a finite amount of free time on my hands. Extremely finite. The reason I entertained your affections is simple.” He waits a beat, no doubt savouring the suspense, then says, “I wanted to.”

You blink at him, uncomprehending. He says nothing more.

“You wanted to.”

“Yes.”

You don’t ask what he means; you have a feeling you already know. The issue is that it makes no sense whatsoever.

You shake your head. “That’s not true. You never... But I thought...”

Elias adopts a puzzled mien. “Did you wish for me to announce my feelings? That would hardly be very appropriate. I am the Head of this Institute—your employer—for one. Not to mention that once you learned of my plans, it’s highly unlikely you would be receptive to pursuing a relationship. As does appear to be the case.”

He says all of it in such a calm manner. So matter-of-factly. As if he had considered the state of affairs between you and come to a conclusion about it long before.

His response should clear up your confusion, but you can’t bring yourself to believe it. Not completely, anyway. Suspicion continues to tug at you.

For years, he has kept secrets and misled everyone, for reasons you are not entirely privy to. Could this be another attempt at deception?

You had wondered whether he felt anything stronger for you than a boss does for their employee. Sometimes you got the inkling that he did. But when you had nearly kissed him at the Christmas party, he hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t smiled, or closed his eyes, or leaned in. He’d just stared. Watched as you had shifted nearer, before you lost your nerve and backed off.

Because it wasn’t appropriate. Or so he says.

Are you supposed to believe him without question? After everything he’s done?

You wish you had a way to check, to be certain.

An idea, half-formed, occurs to you.

You don’t let yourself consider it. You’re unsure how his power works, but you get the feeling that if you mull it over for too long, he may learn what you’re planning. So you move, pure instinct guiding you.

You shift closer to Elias, until your chest is pressed flush against his, and rest your injured hand on his cheek.

He hadn’t been moving much to begin with, but you feel him go unnaturally still at the sudden contact. The bone of his jaw tenses under your palm. His eyes widen a touch in what seems to be genuine surprise. For once, you don’t shy away from his gaze; you stare back.

You study him carefully, waiting for a twitch of the shoulders or twist in his features that will give him away. Prove his words false.

That doesn’t happen.

Instead, you watch as his pupils dilate. Black threatens to swallow grey whole. You don’t think you have ever seen his eyes look so charged, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. All of that intensity, that emotion, remains fixed on you.

Neither of you move.

For a few heartbeats, all that you can hear is the sound of breathing. Yours and his.

Then slowly, deliberately, Elias leans into your touch.

“Well?” he asks, his voice a deep murmur. “Are your concerns assuaged?”

His facial hair is thick and neatly groomed, but his cheeks are clean-shaven. The skin there is smooth against your palm, and warm. It might have even felt nice, had you not burned yourself just moments ago.

The contact aggravates your inflamed skin, but that’s fine. Preferred, even. It shouldn’t be pleasant.

You swallow against a dry throat. “Is this supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, I doubt the sincerity of my affections provides any comfort to you,” he answers. “But it is the truth. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

The question elicits a scowl from you.

“Not even close.”

Elias barely bats an eyelash when confronted with your ire. “As... riveting as this has been,” he says in a drawl, “we will be joined by other Institute staff within the next minute. I doubt you’d want your colleagues to walk in and see this.”

You furrow your brow at him, confused. His gaze falls to look meaningfully at something between the two of you. You follow it.

You still have him pinned against the counter, your front moulded to his and a knee parting his legs. Your hand is clutching his lapel, while your other cups his cheek, thumb resting just below the mole under his right eye. One of the buttons on his waistcoat has been digging uncomfortably into your stomach this entire time.

You had been so caught up in your thoughts, your emotions, that you hadn’t considered what this could look like to an outsider.

Should someone stumble upon you two right this second, their first impression wouldn’t be that you were physically accosting your boss over his duplicity. They would think that you were up to something far different.

Unconsciously, your attention is drawn to Elias’s mouth. His bottom lip is slightly fuller than the top. You wish you could say that you’d never realized it before, but it would be a lie. You have fantasized about how those lips would feel against yours more times than you can count.

During the Christmas party, you had almost found out.

You’re jolted out of your musings by Elias releasing a breath. You snap your head up, meeting his eyes once more. There’s a gleam in them that you can’t decipher.

“I see,” he says. Two words that you have come to dread hearing from him.

Your stomach drops.

“I was certain that your infatuation would end the moment you learned the truth about me. It appears I was wrong.”

You let go of him as if he, not the tea, had burned you. “What? No.”

He arches his brows. “No?” he parrots, a mocking edge in his tone. “Just now, you were considering—”

“Stay out of my head.” You only realize that you’ve been backing away when your hip meets the counter behind you.

He chuckles. “Rest assured, I didn’t use my abilities to deduce your intentions. It was practically written all over your face, my dear.”

You’re frozen. Caught off-guard by both his insinuation and the term of endearment. You want nothing more than to deny his absurd accusation. Of course you aren’t attracted to him, not after everything he has said and done. But something holds you back.

Perhaps the dawning horror that it might not sound very convincing.

You stare wordlessly, helplessly, as Elias adjusts his cuffs, then straightens his tweed jacket and fastens one of the buttons. Just in time for a small group of Institute staff to enter the break room, spot the two of you, and greet you cheerfully.

You somehow manage to muster a smile and return the greeting, before turning to the mugs of tea on the counter. They must be cold by now. It doesn’t matter. You’re no longer in the mood to drink anything. You empty them in the sink, then start to clean them.

Behind you, Elias exchanges pleasantries with his employees. He sounds like his usual self, the polite but distant Head of the Magnus Institute.

(Not like how he would speak with you. You had privately thought that his gaze was more keen, his tone warmer. Enough for you to notice, but be left wondering. Uncertain if you were seeing what was there or what you wanted.)

(When will you stop reminiscing about the past?)

You stiffen when you hear your name, spoken by that too-familiar voice. Though you don’t want to, you glance over your shoulder.

Elias lingers in the doorway of the break room. He smiles, a baring of teeth. “I enjoyed our discussion today. It was very enlightening. Let’s continue it another time.” He knocks twice on the doorframe, a parting sound.

Then he’s gone, and you’re left with the mess you made.

[1awkwardpotofsoup]

Just thinking about being held by Micheal, to have your entire head cradled in his clawed hand, to be caressed by a razor’s edge as you stare into the spiraling unknown

[the-smut-mongerer]

ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴏʟ' ᴛɪᴍᴍʏ Qᴜɪᴄᴋɪᴇ

a/n: I was possessed by the writing gods and was forced to write this at 3 am. I was so tired, but I literally could not put my phone down.

tags: quickies, public sex, library sex, anal, spit as lube, male/amab reader, no pronouns used.

characters: tim stoker and reader

read on ao3

wanna support me or commison a fic? check out kofi!

You were tired, hungry, and most importantly horny. Being teased all day with very scandalous pictures from Tim during his many coffee breaks while you slave away, sorting the archive.

You had your final straw when he sent you a picture of him holding his half-hard cock. You slammed your phone down so fast and hard(ha) it scared Martin. You apologized profusely to the man leaving the room, not bothering to bring your things.

You're quick to text Tim again, covering your phone so the cameras couldn't see anything. Not as if that would stop a certain someone anyway.

'get your ass to the library.'

';) knew you couldn't resist me'

With your speed walking nearly jogging pace, it took you no longer than 6 minutes to reach the library. Slipping into the area and to your usual corner.

You've done this a few times before, and there's no point in stopping since you've never been caught. The spot is thankfully not a well traveled section. Even the clerks choose to stay out of it unless they have to go in. It was a small area, tucked into the farthest corner of the vast library.

Tim is already there, sitting in one of the chairs. His shirt partially opened, showing off his cleavage. He smirks when he sees you, leaning back and spreading his legs, clearly inviting you to feast.

And feast you do.

You waste no time in diving down. You place a knee on the cushion in between his legs as you steal his lips for a sloppy kiss. You can still taste the faintest bit of coffee on them.

Your hands move up his thighs and under his shirt. His stomach flexes when your cold hands touch his warm skin.

Tim curls his arm around your neck, intangling a hand in your hair. He tugs, you hiss, allowing his bold tongue to slip in and feel the inside of your mouth.

You take your hands from under his shirt and move to unbutton it. You fumbled with the buttons a bit but managed to get it undone soon enough.

He whines when you part from the kiss, and you shush him. Kissing down his neck and to his chest, you latch onto one of his nipples, a tongue swirling around the bud.

Tim bites his lip to muffle his whines. Christ, he keeps forgetting how sensitive they are— and the fact you're so skilled at using your mouth doesn't help.

You pull off the nipple. A long thing of saliva follows you for a moment before you latch onto the other. With a little more bite into it, you managed to squeeze a low moan out of the man.

He already felt like he was getting close, but he couldn't cum not yet. Not until he had you inside of him.

He tugs at your hair, pulling you away to look at him. "Please, I need you." He begs, you comply.

With ease, you unbuckled his belt and undue his pants. He lifts himself up slightly, so you can help pull his pants down, fucker went commando.

His dick was long, slightly thick, and a slight curve to the left. His tip was a pretty pink that matched his nipples.

You began to unbuckle and unzip your pants, ignoring the inpatient grinds of the man before you. Pulling your pants and boxers down your cock springs free, hard against your stomach.

Tim drools at the sight.

You pause for a second, digging through your pants pocket for a condom.

When you pull it out, Tim frowns.

"W-Whats that for? I thought you were going to creampie me." He says, talking in a low volume just above a whisper. He's right. You were planning on that.

"Since you decided to go commando, I won't risk a stain appearing on your pants. Unless you brought a plug."

He sighs, he wouldn't mind it no... but he'd rather keep his poor excuse for a job. He nods, understanding.

You lean forward, mouth close to his ear and whisper, "Wait for me after work, I'll take you home n' give you a real one." Tim shivers.

Tearing the wrapper off, you roll the condom on until it's secure enough to saty still.

"Prep?" You ask, you know he likes having the ability to choose depending on his mood. His mood now is that he needs you, no matter how much it'll hurt.

He shakes his head.

You hold your hand out, "Spit." You ordered.

He complied, watching as you smeared it all over the condom. You straightened up slightly, grabbing a hold of Tim before turning him around. It'd be easier and more comfortable, for the both of you, to fuck him this way.

His hands were holding onto the top of the chair, knees now on the cushion. His ass down and flushed against your pelvis. You spit on his hole, and he clenches at the feeling.

He looks over his shoulder, grin wide on his lips as he wiggles his hips. His mouth opened to taunt before shutting close when he felt you press into him.

Tim lurched forward, his knuckles turning white from how strong his grip was. It hurts, burns, and holy hell, it feels so good.

You lean forward, resting your head against his shoulder and your hands resting over his as you bottom out.

No matter how many times you've fucked the man he will always surprise you with just how tight he is. The way his ass sucks you in like a vacuum, walls clenching around you, not wanting to let go.

You begin to move slowly. Wanting to have Tim adjust to the feeling before going faster. Tim let's himself be rocked to your movements, eyes shut to try and feel more of it.

You press kisses into the back of his neck, sucking in a hickey as you increase your pace. He turns his head to you, resting his temple against your forhead.

His eyes are filled to the brim with lust and yearning. Gods, he looks beautiful like this. Unbuttoned shirt, slightly messy hair, and lovely ass clenching around you.

You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his lips as you had before. You brush against his prostate, causing him to moan loudly into your mouth.

You move your hands from his, one goes to his dick and the other to his chest. Twirling a nipple in between your pointer and thumb, you can hear your balls slapping against his rear.

Now, with your hand on his dick Tim was not going to last. You swirl your thumb around the tip, feeling the tip leak more precum.

You start to stroke his cock matching it to the rhythm of your thrusts. Tim whimpers, a shakey hand moving to tangle itself in your hair again. He was going over the edge and needed to feel grounded.

The chair squeaked under you, stressing under the power of your thrusts. Tim feels himself get lost in your mouth, barley leaving your addicting lips. The tight knot of arousal pools into his stomach, as it does yours. Parting from the kiss, you keep your forhead to his, eyes shut and enamored in the pleasure.

Your hips stutter and with a final thrusts you cum. With a few more strokes, Tim lets himself relase into your hand, uncaring if any spills out.

His chest is heavy as he breathes out, "That was...so hot." He mutters, with a knowing smile on his lips.

You grunt in agreement, pulling away with one more kiss before you carefully pull out of his ass. His hole instinctively clenches around the now empty space.

You bring the cum covered hand up to your mouth and lick until it's cleaned. Salty as expected, but not an overbearing kind.

You peel the condom off of your cock and tie it. Leaving it hidden on the ground to dispose of later. You look to Tim, who smiles back at you, giddy.

"How're you feeling?" You ask, rubbing soothing circles into his hip.

"Really good...sleepy now though." Tim did look tired, his eyes drooping ever so slightly as he sways.

"Let's get you dressed first, and I'll take you to the room in the Archives." You wipe any excess cum off of his dick before tugging his pants back up. Buckling and buttoning it. You do the same to yours.

He groans as you turn him back around to button his shirt, leaning the top two unbutton just like he prefers.

You grab the condom, hiding it in Tim's lap, using his hands as a cover for it.

Tim leans into your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut as he falls, sleep to the white noise of your breathing, and the Institute.

[a-ghost-really]

I was wondering if I could request michael dating hcs where reader and Michael have been dating pre distortion but then he dies or whatever and is the distortion now and comes back to them

Of course! Sorry for the late response.

Thank you for the request :)

-🐀

I think pre-distortion Michael would be incredibly sweet towards you.

Like, worships the ground you walk on kind of sweet.

If you work at the Institute, especially if you work in the Archives, he'd check up on you whenever he gets the chance :)

He'd bring you tea and make sure you're doing well

Even if you don't work at the Institute, he'd be the kind of person to double-check that you're doing okay when he gets the chance to see you.

He would show his love for you mostly through words (though it might take him a couple tries) and through things like holding your hand or leaning on you when you're sitting together

He'd be less outright, less like he needs you to know that he loves you, and more like he trusts that you already do

I don't think he'd tell you about going to Sannikov Land with Gertrude before he left, if you didn't work in the Archives

I think he'd do his best generally to keep you out of the things that happen there

Once the Spiral takes over, I think it'd wait to come back to you

He would eventually, but it wouldn't be right away

Distortion Michael doesn't like to be viewed as human in general, so I don't think that would be any different with you

I think he'd still appear to you as "human" at first -- it plays this off as a tactic to get closer to you and allow the Spiral to consume you, but it's really just because Michael's pre-distortion emotions still interfere

You'd notice small things, like how it's hands feel... strange. And how he rarely lets you touch him.

If you work at the Archives, it probably wouldn't take long to connect the dots

He took a mysterious trip with Gertrude, disappeared, and came back acting weird -- in that line of work, it's not that difficult to realise what's going on.

If you react well (as in you don't immediately try to kill him) he'll stop disguising himself as human around you

It's not like he enjoys it anyway

I think the main difference in how he treats you would be that he's much more obvious about letting you know that he loves you, like he's trying to convince you

Like telling you he loves you more often than is needed, making a point of keeping physical contact whenever he can, etc.

He still wouldn't tell you exactly what happened at Sannikov Land

Either he flat-out wouldn't tell you anything, or he would, but he'd change little details about the story each time, just enough that things don't add up

Otherwise he'd still generally act with you like he did before; just more cryptic, and less head-over-heels devoted

[0bticeo]

jonathan sims | get some rest (tomorrow is already here)

summary:

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk. but jonathan sims is a stubborn man, so he must be coaxed into doing so. 

“a massage.”

"a what?"

wc: 2.5k

tw: massage, making out, reader being a horny mess, jon being exhausted and a cranky bastard, hinted at elias' voyeuristic tendencies, usual tma ominous feelings, fluff (shocking, i know)

the analog clock reads 3:27, stark red embedded upon your retina. you sigh, fingers rubbing at the back of your neck as you step into the archives, weary bones aching.

it’s not your fault if you fell asleep in a secluded corner of the archives departement, squeezed between two shelves and piles upon piles of unlabeled statements. scratch that: they’re labeled. chronologically.

they do not make sense, however, because jonathan sims’ predecessor - whose name you curse with every breath and sleepless night you spend organizing her damn mess - left the whole department in such a state of disarray you might spend the rest of your life making sense of it. damn her. and damn your boss for being so uptight about it all.

you feel the weight of the institute, a looming force of knowledge pressed at the back of your neck, sweet pinprick of pain. you’re watched. oh, orwell, how right you were.

you make your way towards your desk, stepping over sasha’s pink slippers and picking up an empty mug. grab your keys, get out, and walk home. you’re not too far away from the institute. no trouble.

as you lean forward, palm pressed flat against a manila file, something catches your eye.

light. 

thin rays of it crawl, seep out from under the wooden door of the head archivist’s office, stark golden in dull gray penumbra.

he’s there, jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute. holed up in his office, recording a statement, voice poised and measured and controlled in every way he isn’t upon being confronted with his poor sleeping schedule. 

you should leave.

you hear the soft click of a tape recorder being stopped. a long, deep-suffering sigh. a drawer opening, more muttering, some shuffling, rustling papers - oh no he won’t.

in three decisive steps, you’re before his door, your sharp knocking rinnging like gunfire in the quiet of the office. 

“who-who’s there?”

unease. suspicion.

you’re quick to answer with a long suffering sigh of your own, forehead pressed against the door.

“it’s me, jon.”

a pause. an exasperated sigh.

“what do you want?"

you take it as your cue to step inside his office, dimly lit by a lone desk lamp, dust particles turning midas-gold under its rays. your foot catches on a discarded paper - another statement, this one regarding a gambling fool of a soldier. 

(he who tries to cheat death gets the fruit of his labor and weeps upon tasting it.)

you pick it up, and let your gaze roam about the place.

a cork board takes up the majority of a wall, red strings twisting and turning in a web of confusion.

bookshelves align themselves in neat rows, cramped against one another, overflowing with statements, indigestions of facts made up and real.

a cluttered desk - a switched off tape recorder, manila folders, an open computer casting its blue glow upon the sharp edge of jon’s face.

he’s glaring at you.

“have you grown deaf since the last time i saw you?”

you let out an amused breath and make a move to put the statement on his desk. finding an uncluttered space is harder than it proves to be.

jon all but snatches the damn paper from your grip. if looks could kill, you’d be in bad shape. you lean back, arms crossed over your chest, hip pressed against the edge of his desk.

“no, merely mute with shock upon your wretched appearance.” you smile, teasing edges fading into concern. “seriously, when was the last time you slept?”

“that does not concern you-”

“it does, actually. you’re my boss. i can’t let you waste away, who would pay me otherwise?”

“elias pays all of us-”

“and he probably would have me promoted as a glorified secretary if you were to overwork yourself to death. i hate accountance, jon.”

he pinches his nose with long, deft fingers, glasses riding up ever so slightly. they reveal the deep circles under his eyes, embedded in his olive skin. you can practically see the tension oozing from him, the knots in his shoulders.

“if you’re determined to waste my time-”

“i came to help, actually.”

he raises a quizzical eyebrow, the living embodiment of judgment.

you feel his gaze rake your form, the own dark circles under your eyes, the crumpled shirt, the dust that clings to your skirt, what he’s sure is the imprint of the shelf you fell asleep against on your cheek.

you raise your hands in mock surrender. (you miss the way his gaze softens a little.)

“you’re exhausted. hell, i can feel your nervous energy from here.”

he opens his mouth, frowning, protest ready on his tongue. you cut him, merciless.

“when was the last time you’ve gotten more than three hours of sleep?”

that shuts him up. his frown deepens. you want to smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead.

“that - look, if you have nothing better to do than pester me-”

“it’s three in the morning and we’re the only living souls in this institute.”

maybe. you don’t really want to know what lies in the tunnels. or in the artifact storage. or what’s watching you.

“you’re not going to sleep at all at this rate - no, i know you’re not, because i know you. kinda.”

he sighs, exhaustion crawling out of his very marrow, and leans back in his chair. you take in the wrinkles in his shirt, now exposed because lo and behold, jonathan sims’ jacket is not sewn to his body and - 

and he’s loosening his tie, two fingers digging in his windsor knot, smooth silk gliding away under skilled fingers. you wonder what they might feel like slipping under your shirt.

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk and into bed. but jonathan sims is the living embodiment of stubborness, so he must be coaxed into doing so.

“a massage.”

“a- a what?”

you laugh a little.

“don’t pretend your neck isn’t stiffer than the stick up your ass.”

“i do not have-”

“jon, please let me help.”

silence. again, he pinches the bridge of his nose. at least, he’s considering it.

you eye the piles of statements on his desk, half-discarded, half-classified. there’s a pattern in the way jon operates, even if he’s not conscious of it.

he only ever calls for your help when he’s sure the statements at hand are lelgitimate. this means he rules out those he deems written by lunatics and madmen. this means he does most of the work. this means-

“all right. but under one condition."

you tilt your head to the side, curious.

“one last statement.”

“only if i massage you while you record it.”

a glare.

“we’re wasting time, jon.”

“fine. get over here.”

you smile, palms smoothing out the pleats of your skirt as you make your way behind his desk.

he pays you no mind, long fingers selecting a manila file from a pile, opening it with care. there’s a certain stiff grace with which he carries himself, you muse as you step behind him. 

you watch the ripples of tension in the back of his neck, the fine strands of auburn hair tainted penumbra-dark brushing against his nape, and gently run your knuckle against his skin. he’s warm.

“whenever you’re ready,” you breathe, fingers resting on the back of his chair.

he coughs a little. composes himself. hits record.

“continued statement of trevor herbert regarding their latter years as a vampire hunter. original statement given july 10th 2010, audio recording by jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute.”

you watch with fascination as the calm, composed, formal voice slips into something… else. something between jonathan sims and trevor herbert, and it’s fascinating, because for a brief second, split second instant of Knowing, you can See him, the tramp and his collapsing lungs, writing away his youth and hunts on bland institute paper.

you blink and it’s gone. 

there’s only you, the “lofi charm” of the tape recorder, and jon. his nape is bare. intimate knowledge settles in your mind, the fragility of mortality. bury a sharp needle there and his body collapses. 

you frown. push it back. roll up your sleeves and rub your hands together, warming them up because they’re always cold, and the least you can do is give him a modicum of comfort.

slowly, carefully, you put your hands over his shoulders. he tenses at that, briefly, until you start rubbing away the years of tension gnawing at him.

slowly, surely, you knead poor, exhausted muscles. slowly, surely, he relaxes under your touch, head leaning back ever so slightly.

from this close, you can smell him, you realize. cold coffee, dusty paper, cedarwood aftershave and something like a hint of sweat. 

“good?” you whisper, almost silent, voice lost in the quiet static of the tape recorder, in the dust-soft penumbra.

he nods, cheek brushing your wrist. your heart hammers in your chest. a strand of hair brushes the back of your hand - they’re graying a little. you wonder why he exhausts himself so. why he spends nights buried in his office, burrowing himself in piles and piles of files. 

hypocrite.

the only reason as to why you’re here, massaging your fucking boss and growing desperately wet at his deep sighs of content, is because you, too, spend much more time than reasonable trying to make sense of it all. 

the only reason as to why you’re here, taking in the gentle mess that is jonathan sims, is because you both leave at ungodly hours. because he can keep his eyes on you and so he knows that you cannot be responsible for gertrude’s murder.

you think he might trust you.

his hand settles over yours, and you startle.

he’s warm, palm large enough to cover the entirety of your hand, from wrist to fingertips. you don’t know what to do with this knowledge.

you don’t want to think of what you might do in the quiet death of the night, your hand slipping under your covers, down the apex of your thigh-

he slides your hand lower. oh. oh. 

you lean forward, until your cheek brushes his, skin on skin, and unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt. you think he might be leaning into your touch. you think you might cut yourself on the edge of his jaw, on the sharpness of his words. 

your hands meet his bare skin and you feel like you’ve caught fire, breath stolen away as you feel him in a way the cotton of his shirt didn’t allow. there is a sharpness to him. you can feel his jutting clavicles under your fingertips, sharp angel wings of bone, and your heart tightens. 

he works too much.

it’s quiet, for a while.

you don’t know what sets it off. one moment, you’re massaging him, relishing in the feeling of his skin under your hands. the next, your fingers catch a particularly tight spot in his shoulders and he groans , and fuck, you should not feel familiar heat curling in your lower belly but you do. 

you should stop. bid him good night and leave him with his precious recording. 

you don’t. 

instead, you rub at that spot, tentatively, and watch as he bites his lip mid-sentence, voice catching on a word. he’s a little breathless.

you are, too, heart hammering in your ribcage, hummingbird trying to flee its bones.

his hand wraps around your wrist and tugs you forward, free hand settling on your lower back, guiding you until you’re in his lap, looking up at him.

you think you might be dying of a heart attack with the way he looks at you, with eyes so dark you can barely make out the beautiful green of them.

“just what do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

you feel like you're on fire with how close you are. how his hand still encases your wrist in an iron hold. how you can feel warmth of him. how you can see the fluttering pulse of his throat, adam apple bobbing up and down as he swallows and fuck you want to take a bite.

your mouth feels dry.

“i- i don’t-” 

his grip tightens on your wrist. 

“answer me.”

somehow you’re closer. close enough to feel his breath on your lips, to find yourself staring up at him through hooded eyes, to find him staring back with parted lips. 

whatever’s left of your resolve dissolves into a puddle of desire. 

“jon, please, let me kiss you.”

a pause. the faintest glint of disbelief in his eyes.

then his lips crash on yours. 

you startle, hand shooting forward to grasp the nearest thing for purchase and find only him, him and the crisp cotton of his shirt, all exhaustion and boiling frustration.

he puts his mouth to you like one would to a lover’s and kisses you slowly, deeply, unraveling you like a beloved mystery. 

your body sings for him, and it’s so right you dismiss the ever-present pinprick pressure at the back of your neck. 

his palm cups it, your nape, warmth consuming that pinprick pain, until the only thing you can do is sigh in his mouth and press yourself closer.

his lips part from yours, briefly, a breath away, and it’s too damn far, so you tug at his cravat and pull him down. your fingers dig in his shirt, his hair, and he groans at the way your nails rake his scalp.

your lips part for him in a soft, whisper-quiet moan of his name, and he swallows it down almost greedily. you feel his tongue brush against yours and let out a low, needy sound, molten desire coursing through your veins.

his hand slips under your shirt, reaches for the soft skin of your side and presses up, up, up until it meets your breast and his thumb presses against your nipple in tight circles and you’re almost sobbing against his lips. 

you’re not aware that your hips are grinding against the hardness of him until his hand settles on your hip, slowing you down to a stop, and you part from him, breathless, and so, so needy.

there’s a thread of saliva between you, thin little spider-web intertwining your fates.

he looks at you, disheveled, glasses slightly askew, their lenses foggy, shirt half-opened for your gaze to meet tantalizing skin. a feast for the sore eyes.

“you might want to make me breakfast instead.”

“not like this,” he mumbles, thumb swiping against your bottom lip. “not- at least, let me treat you to dinner first.”

he chuckles at that, a little breathless, a little exasperated, definitely fond.

“cheeky.”

you peck his lip, sweetly. his hand tightens over your hip.

“look at the time, jon.” 

he rides up his sleeve ever so slightly to reveal his watch and with it, the tantalizing softness of his pulse, beating wildly against the tender skin of his inner wrist. almost four in the morning. you press your lips there, feel the yearning of his beating heart. 

he doesn’t think he’s seen you this beautiful. you, disheveled, on his lap, almost chest to chest with him, bringing his palm to your cheek and pressing fluttering kisses to his fingers. you, smiling up at him, exhausted, worn to the bone, but happy, and -

“oh.”

“what is it?”

your gaze lands on the tape recorder. oh.

“still recording. i should -”

“go home, get some sleep and finish what you started - me included - later.”

he sighs. there’s still a smile on his lips, exhaustion melting down to affection. 

"fine. end recording.”

[written-in-the-clouds]

notes: teen intern at the archives; just a random short scene i thought of bc im being normal about michael..

“Why do you stay?”

You exhaled, and slowly turned around. A familiar blond figure stood, illuminated by a street lamp. He looked almost normal, almost like the quiet Michael Shelley from the photo you found in the back of the archives. Then you saw his reflection in the empty store window, and reminded yourself what he is.

“Stay where?” you asked.

“The archives,” he said, “after everything. You’re an intern, you’re free to leave. And yet…” He trailed off, expression expectant.

You looked down to your feet. Michael did not move. You met his gaze again, the faint spiral etched in his eyes spinning idly. Not mesmerizing, just nausea-inducing. “I don’t think I can leave now. If I leave… there’s a whole other world that I’ll miss, you know? It’s—“ you broke off, frowned, then grinned. “It’d be lonely, knowing about everything and not being able to tell anyone. And, um… I’m curious.”

Michael giggled. “Of course you are.” He tilted his head. “Curiosity killed the cat, you know.”

“And satisfaction brought it back.”

Michael’s laugh hurt your ears, but you stayed still, grinning back at him. It finally tapered off and the streetlight flickered. “Perhaps,” he mused. “But somehow I doubt it. That’s the nature of the Eye, after all… never satisfied.”

“I don’t intend to become an Eye avatar,” you said, and Michael grins like you’re joking.

“You work at the archives.”

“So did you.”

Michael’s grin grew further, splitting his face in two. “You’re… amusing.”

You mock-bowed. “I try my best.” Your eyes darted to his reflection again. “What do you really want, Michael?”

“Nothing, really.” He paused. “To know why you stay, despite it all. You aren’t bound like the others. And I suppose I have my answer.”

You still waited, and he grinned. “I’m not lying, you know. Unless you’re waiting for a door…”

You didn’t have to look to know that one had appeared next to you, and you snorted. “No, thanks.” You turned away. “See you around.”

The last thing you heard was Michael’s laughter ringing in your ears before the street light above him flickered and he vanished.

[constanttea]

every night before bed I check the elias bouchard x reader tag and every night there is nothing new. I was reading one shots on deviant art the other day