rusty_kink | Prompt Post: The Magnus Archives #1

Prompt Post: The Magnus Archives #1

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You allow Martin to walk underneath the open sky for a time.Then, smelling death in the distance, you encase all of London in a protective dome.

“What’s that about?” Martin asks. “I wasn’t going to--I know that you won’t let Jon go if I get razed to the ground.”

You knew that already. The Archivist knew that already too, and you can feel his pulse quicken for a moment. But Martin quickly moves on.

“If you’re so worried about it, why don’t you just--” He swallows. “You can’t—I mean, you aren’t—?”

You’re not just teleporting us there.

Martin regrets the question, but it’s already slipped out. You stop the Archivist, pausing for a moment. It did not even occur to you to “teleport” before, but immediately you know you can't.

“Really?” Martin asks, testy at the silence. “You don’t just automatically know? Or did you even plan to take me there?”

You struggle. “It takes time,” you say. “It is a journey to realize the implications of a choice, and to commit to it anyway. Also, it gives us time to make sure Magnus is… presentable.”

Martin squints. “Why? What’s… wrong with El--Jonah?”

Elsewhere, you continue to tweak the neurons of Magnus’s brain to ensure that he will be able to process thoughts into verbal statements Martin will find comprehensible. “Nothing,” you say. “Magnus is fine.”

“Sure. Great. Cool.” Martin decides to let this go. “Okay, in plain language then—how long should this take?”

“However long it takes for you to stop hoping someone will sweep in and prevent you from making this choice.”

Martin swallows. “Right. Right, then.”

He takes a step ahead. Behind, the Archivist’s head turns away from the path, towards the smell of death wafting in the distance. He staggers toward it, unbalanced. For a second, he nearly veers off the path, but then you re-balance him, and focus him ahead.

The first stop Martin takes he sits down on a nearby rock. It’s not to rest from physical tiredness, but an attempt to rest from the cold, creeping dread crawling through his spine.

"Why me?" he asks, eyes fixed on the ground. "There must be other people you...got obsessed with torturing."

Might as well ask now. He thinks. It'll be better than hearing the answer from Elias.

You tilt the Archivist's head.

"You are beautiful in ways you can’t understand,” you tell him. “But I will try. You feel so strongly, so vibrantly. You are deeply imaginative; every possible pain you anticipate is as strong as though it were actually inflicted. "If I were to call human minds ‘lights,’ you would be the sun. If I were to call fear blue, you would be the brightest shade of the sky.”

"So you love torturing me. Big shock. But you can do that to anyone.”

"Yes. We do. We-I have. But I don't have to," you say. "I know you, Martin. You are evolved and conditioned to torture yourself. All we had to do was nudge, and then watch you go."

Martin doesn’t say anything to that.

"It's more than that now, though,” you explain. “I love your hope and love, your pettiness and anger. I love--” oh, it hurts a little now, thinking of it all. “I love how in the midst of your fear, you still find ways to smile."

Martin still will not look at the Archivist’s face. It is easier, he finds, to separate the Archivist from you when he dissects the Archivist into pieces: a voice that speaks higher and fonder than 'Jon's', disembodied hands that reach out at the edge of Martin’s vision.

“I’m not smiling now,” he says.

“No." It gnaws at you. "You aren’t.”

Martin gets up, and walks forward. You have the Archivist follow, knees locking up as you try to move him.

"There are other humans with hope and love and imagination," Martin points out, wryly. "Other people who torture themselves in their heads."

“And I enjoy them. But I don’t love them. I love you.”

“Hm. Right.”

You sense his doubt, and stop to cross the Archivist's arms. "There are other bitter, witty academics with graying hair, yet you fell for this one specifically. Why? Is your love less real because you hypothetically could have fallen for someone else?"

Martin juts his head more forward, trying to hide the way his lip wobbles at that. It’s no use of course. You can always see it.

"I love you, Martin," you say. "You're the first and only one we have loved like this. It doesn't have to be a punishment," you say. "You can live happily with us.”

Martin only keeps walking.

The next stop is an open door frame. Not one of your twisting sibling’s, but one of heavy wood and intricately engraved patterns: a door frame Martin can easily recognize from the Archives.

“What’s this about?” Martin asks, tiredly.

But he knows. Through the doorway he sees the bare sketches of a memory exposed under your watchful sky. The desk. The waste bin full of ashes. The rickety chair that refused to sit solidly even when Martin had put a napkin under its shortest leg. The lighter Martin had used to burn the statements, fallen on the floor forgotten.

"This isn't--This isn't funny," Martin snaps. "What are you--?"

Martin doesn’t finish, because when he looks down at the chair he’s back in the moment of Magnus’s punishment. Specifically, to how Magnus had touched him.

First, both hands on his shoulders, pressing on Martin to stop him from collapsing in on himself. Then, one of those hands moved to Martin’s face, stroking his skin there lightly before turning his head up.

Martin had not actually seen into Magnus’s eyes. His vision was blurred by the sparkling white dots of sensory and emotional overload. But Magnus had been looking deep into his eyes, savoring his pain through touch and sight and sound.

Martin grip the chair to support himself.

"I thought it--" Martin says. "I thought maybe I had imagined that part. The touching. It didn’t seem real.''

"It was."'

Martin's memories of the incident were fractured. Not forgotten, not repressed, but only recalled in pieces. The carvings on the doorframe, when his vision had cleared enough to look up and see Magnus leaving. The way the chair had ricketed back and forth. The smell of ashes in the dustbin. The detail of Magnus’s touch always slipped in and out, vanishing before Martin could dwell on it.

Martin grips the chair harder.

"So," he says. "This is intimidation. A threat."

"No. It was just on your mind," you say. "A reminder. The reasons you find it so difficult to continue."

Martin, again, rolls his eyes at you.

"Yes, of course I'm terrified of Elias. Congratulations. What a--revelation about myself! I had no idea before."

"Martin," the Archivist says. "You don't have to...i-if you want to go back..."

"Shut up. No. That's not how this works," Martin takes a breath. "I'm terrified and I'm going anyway. That's it. That's all. Fear won’t stop me."

"Why?"

Instead of answering, Martin continues his trek.

Martin doesn’t stop again until he sees the cabin in between himself and the tower.

"Oh fuck off. Really?"

“It was on your mind,” you tell him, honestly.

“Right, of course,” Martin snipes. “Certainly has nothing to do with you trying to purposefully derail me.”

Still, Martin enters rather than going around.

All is as they left it. The same floorboards creak as Martin steps on them, the same blankets are thrown haphazardly over the couch, the same mugs are cleaned and turned over to dry by the sink. Martin walks through, numbly regarding every detail like someone walking through a museum.

It’s the smell of burnt french toast (first breakftast Jon made) that makes Martin burst into tears.

“Martin,” you tell him, reaching out. “I’m going to hug--’’

“Don’t,” Martin spits. “Don’t you dare.”

You let the Archivist's hands drop, waiting. Instead Martin hugs himself, sniffling pitifully.

“We can stay here,” you say. “I know this is what you want.”

“No,” Martin says.

“You want to live in a cottage with the Archivist,” you say, narrating the painful flashes you see in him. “You long to wake up every day next to the one you love, to sit beside him quietly reading, to cook together or surprise each other with meals made with love. You want--”

“Okay! Okay I want that,” Martin's voice breaks. “I want it. Of course I want it."

"Then..."

"But this isn't it! You think it is, but it's just a, a twisted imitation. A lie."

He wipes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. "Jon never loved me. Jon never would have even liked me as a person if it had been entirely up to him."

“That, that’s not…”

"You can't dangle what I want in front of me like some carrot," Martin says, "Because you are--are incapable of giving it to me. You can't even understand, or you'd realize this isn't it."

You struggle with this for a moment, running it through all of the knowledge you have and looking for some new insight to navigate this. You find nothing.

"Are you really sure you don't want to stay here?"

Martin storms forward and opens the cupboard. There is whiskey in there, he knows. Left over from the hunter, nearly untouched by him and Jon. He brings it out and opens it, but doesn't make to drink any.

"The lighter," he says. "Give it to me."

"Martin..."

"You said that this 'journey' is about my own doubts. Bullshit," Martin says simply, voice cutting clean through his tears. "You never cared about Jon's doubts or reservations along the way, or anyone else's. My own decisions don't actually matter. What matters are yours. You’re the one waffling here, not me."

"That’s…” this turns you to think about yourself, which makes you hiss out of the Archivist’s mouth, discontented. “That’s not… untrue.”

"So when I say, if you're going to keep me no matter what, I'd prefer to stay with Elias and let Jon go to Hill Top Road, will you actually listen?" Martin challenges. "Will you actually make an effort to do a single thing I ask? Or will you keep stalling and trying to derail me while pretending to care about my feelings?''

You try to move the Archivist's lips, but they feel thick and numb. Failing that, you take the lighter out of his pocket, and hand it to Martin.

Martin pours the whiskey over the couch, and shortly after watches his dream of comfort go up in flames.

It is only a short way to the Panopticon, after that. As Martin approaches, his head stays low, eyes on the road ahead of him.

He has one more question before he goes.

"Did anyone love me?''

"I love you," you tell him. "The Archivist loves you."

Martin shakes his head. "In the human way, I mean."

"That's an oversimplification. Our love is as human as it is not. Drawing distinctions doesn't make any--"

"Stop. Just answer.”

"It isn't a fair question," you whine. "You say 'did anyone love me' but you think 'am I lovable, as a person?' and 'is there something wrong with me?' And simply answering the surface level will imply answers to..."

"So. No one, then.”

How can such a pronouncement hurt you?

You search your extensive collection of knowledge regarding Martin: every memory he has, every memory others have of him, every cherished moment you caught him on security cameras.

“It’s not that you are unlovable,” you say. “Or that you put people off, or that you did anything ‘wrong’ from some kind of moral standpoint.”

Martin’s lips are already pursing miserably, eyes glistening.

“Many people found you charming, attractive, sweet--but when they reached out with kindness or interest…”

“I..” Martin finishes. “I was--I was afraid.”

“When the assistant Tim started to invite you out, you had a recurring nightmare that he was setting you up for a massive ‘Carrie-style’ humiliation,” you recall, your smile curling guiltily up the Archivist’s lips. “When your library supervisor gave you a gift--”

“I get it.” Martin snaps. “No need to rehash the greatest hits.”

He wraps arms around himself again.

“It’s not your fault," you say, because that seems to be the thing to say.

“Like that matters. I’m--no one loves me now, no one will miss me o-or…”

“I love you. Now, I’m going to...” you trail off, rethinking your wording before holding out the Archivist’s arms. “Would you like a--?’’

“No.”

“But--”

“Don’t,” Martin says, squeezes himself tighter. “I don’t want you doing--doing anything with Jon. Hear me?”

You tilt the Archivist’s head, and frown. Then, having an idea, you mold a nearby lamppost into a scarecrow-like figure with outstretched arms. Martin jumps, and hisses in surprise.

“What--?!”

“Is this better?" you ask.

Martin stares at the stuffed, headless thing with eyes blinking in and out of its arms for a second. Then, he laughs. Shrieking, sobbing laughs that wrack through his frame.

“That’s--that’s not,” he gasps. “That’s, you’re--you complete idiot.”

You are about to withdraw the figure, but then he practically throws himself on it. He holds it tightly, burying his forehead where its head should be, and sobs. It’s cold, it’s creepy, it squeezes back just a little too tight, but none of that matters now. Martin just needs something to hold.

But something curls in you, watching this; something sweet and stinging and sickly warm. For now, it is enough.

A curiosity: the Archivist’s races at the foot of the Panopticon.

His eyes dart about, looking for shadows or cracks along the lattice around London. His legs seize up, and he threatens to fall over.

Martin knocks on the reflective obsidian of the tower, and it opens to a doorway.

Another curiosity: you know how these knocks sound both to Martin, and to the Archivist. To the Archivist they are far louder, loud as bell tolls, blaring out all other noises.

Magnus, of course, is already waiting on the other side.

“Always so polite,” he drawls. “I always did like that about you, Martin.”

“I-”

Martin is cut off by Magnus cupping Martin’s cheeks and kissing him on the forehead. A violent shudder runs through Martin’s body.

“Lovely, as always.” Magnus grins. “Do come in, Martin. Shame Jon won’t be joining us, of course. Imagine the fun we could have with you between the two of us.”

Martin freezes up. “Don’t--Jon isn’t…”

“Come,” you and Magnus say. “Or are you getting cold feet?”

Martin takes a first step up the tower, and finds the Archivist’s hand on his shoulder. He flinches.

"Stop that," Martin says.

The Archivist grips harder instead. Martin attempts to shrug him off, stomach bottoming out.

“You said--” Martin swallows. “I thought you were going to let him go.”

Magnus answers for you. “We are.”

You try to remove the Archivist’s hand. It stays. Tugs Martin back, even. His eyes dart around wildly, looking for shadows (shadows, blindspots, the eerily hopeful smell of death) but there are none.

Martin trembles for a second, caged in between them (you). Then, his shoulders drop.

“Let go, Jon.”

And then, as though burned, the Archivist does.

Martin does not look back at the Archivist, before the tower closes. It is for the best. The look on his Archivist's face would have hurt him.

“Goodbye,” is all he says.

The tower closes behind them. The Archivist is left outside. At that, all of the churning inside him flatlines, as surely as if he’d passed out.

There is nothing in him as you walk him away from the tower, nothing in him as you walk him to Hill Top Road.

It hurts to push him through the chasm there. It makes cracks run through the lattice around London. But you have gotten used to doing what hurts, these days.

For a moment, you see a red door through the Archivist's eyes. Then, nothing.

[CLICK]

JON

I’m not. Going.

[LAUGH] That’s the thing. That’s what Georgie said. You have to walk through the door yourself. You have to choose it.

Well, I’m here. I’m in this--house. I can tell it’s like the… the other places. I can feel that the Eye is cut off. I can feel myself slipping. Can’t go back out, or I’ll lose myself again. But if I go forward, Martin will still be...

[DEEP BREATH] I see… I see the way out. The way to the other world. But I won’t take it. I can figure out something, some way to… to save...

I won’t leave--I won’t leave another person behind.

I can’t.

[CLICK]

this is my first time doing a fill on dreamwidth, so i hope this is okay. tw for martin's god-awful sense of self-worth, Lonely bullshit, and uh. canon-typical worms?

In psychology, there's this thing known as the ironic process theory. Martin remembers learning about it during his first– and only– semester of uni. It describes our tendency to fixate on those thoughts or ideas that we deliberately attempt to suppress.

Another way to put it is this: the brain is well-intentioned. It is also sometimes very bad at its job.

When you try not to think of something, what you’re really doing is pitting your conscious and subconscious minds against each other. In a haphazard attempt to accomplish the same task, your thoughts will ricochet off of one another, vaulting through a complex display of mental gymnastics that will eventually drag you, kicking and screaming, towards the very thing you're trying not to think about.

Don't think of a pink elephant.

Martin's... good at thinking. That's not to say that he's particularly smart or anything, just that he has a lot of thoughts and most people aren't overly keen on hearing them. So he keeps to himself, mostly, keeps his head down and his mouth shut and tries to be useful.

It's easier that way.

Right, so. There's a thing at his door. It looks like it used to be a woman, but it's made of worms and it stinks of rot and love. Martin is in his flat and he's thinking.

More specifically, Martin's on the floor of his bathroom, pressed against the far wall with his knees tucked up to his chest, because he'd really needed to piss and there aren't any windows in here anyways.

The door is locked and there's an afghan stuffed under the crack. He can still hear the low, insistent thud of the woman-shaped-thing at his door.

Knock.

Martin's afraid. There's no use pretending otherwise, not when it's just him and the worm lady and the cheery purple bath mat he'd bought from Ikea last month. His palms are clammy, his heartbeat rabbit quick in his chest.

He'd stopped crying ages ago though, which is a plus, even though he doesn't have much in the way of context for how long it's been. His power's still out and he'd dropped his phone and he's staying away from the windows just in case.

It's been more than three days. Not a week. Probably.

Knock.

God, has anyone even noticed? It's not like he has many– or any– friends, but surely his co-workers must've picked up on the fact that he's been gone. Sasha's observant. Tim tolerates him.

Jon is... Jon. Which is fine.

Knock.

Then again, he thinks somewhat hysterically, they could just be enjoying the reprieve. Martin knows he gets in the way of things, knows that he's clumsy and not particularly good at his job. He has rotten luck and a tendency to make things worse, even when he's trying his best to help.

It's possible that his co-workers haven't noticed. It's equally possible that they have noticed and that they don't care.

He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that it takes a moment to notice what's changed.

The knocking's stopped.

Martin tries to focus on staying as still as humanly possible. He holds his breath, straining to hear something, anything, over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. Minutes pass in sluggish increments.

If she's stopped, this might be his chance to grab something from the kitchen. He's pretty sure there's a bag of crisps in the pantry somewhere. He could even secure the windows with another towel, or give booting up his laptop another go–

The sound of the door giving way is a curious thing.

From the bathroom, Martin hears a wet, muted thud, followed by the pulpy splat of rotting wood.

Then comes the smell.

It's earthy and cloying and sweet, like overbrewed tea mixed with mulch and decay. Martin slaps a hand over his mouth and tries not to gag. Even through the door, he can hear the steady thump-drag of footsteps, the barely-there whisper that insects make as they writhe on the ground.

They're getting louder.

He's going to die.

Martin is going to die, holed up in this shitty, overpriced one-bedroom in Stockwell. He's going to get eaten by worms or keel over from sudden cardiac arrest because the fear might just win out before his bathroom door has a chance to fold like a wet paper towel and he's not cut out for this.

He's not a hero, he's not anything, and he's going to die and–

And—

And no one is coming for him.

No one is coming for him.

Thinking it hurts, and Martin tries to course correct, to steer clear of that line of thinking. He's well-acquainted with this particular flavour of existential despair and knows that it never leads anywhere good.

He doesn't want his last thoughts to be pathetic, self-pitying rubbish, but he can't help it, not here, not right now.

Don't think of a pink elephant.

No one is coming for him. This isn't an epiphany; this is a statement of a fact he's spent his whole life running from.

The sky is blue and the grass is green and no one is coming for him.

There's only a handful of people in his life that are going to notice he's dead, and none of them will care, not really. Why had he spent so long pretending? His own mother can't stand the sight of him. For fuck's sake, the last person he'd spoken to had been his vaguely anti-Semitic landlady, and it's not like she's going to sit shiva after they find his maggot-riddled corpse in the bathtub.

It's not that Martin's scared of dying.

It's that he's scared of dying alone.

The doorknob rattles. The musky scent of rot sticks to his lungs, makes his head swim and his chest hitch. It smells like cough syrup, forced down his throat, like spoiled milk and honey, and it... it calls to him.

He's alone, isn't he? He's always been alone, but they can help. They can love him and they can keep him safe and isn't that all he's ever wanted? To be kept, accepted, consumed, unconditionally and without reproach.

They can help.

A thousand writhing minds urge him forward in symphony, their promises buzzing under his skin and behind his teeth. Every part of Martin wants to reach back, wants to take what they offer. He wants a family, he does; he wants to belong, more than anything, but–

But.

He doesn't deserve it.

Why would he? There isn't room for his mistakes and his doubts, no space for his ham-handed, fruitless grabs for connection. He is a wrench in the works, a walking complication, a liability. He doesn't deserve their acceptance, not when he knows they'll come to regret it.

No one is coming for him. No one has ever come for him.

It’s better like this. Here, no one looks down on him as he hugs his knees a little tighter closer to his chest and tries not to sob. Alone, he doesn't have to bear the weight of other people's expectations, their judgement and inevitable disappointment.

Here, at least, he can be himself, even if that isn't much of anything in the end.

The door crumbles. The worms rush in.

This is what comes after: a dull rush of static, a high-pitched whine. Pressure, unbearable for a moment, allayed by the peculiar feeling of something coming loose in his chest. Martin squeezes his eyes shut.

When he opens them, all he sees is white.

The timelines don't make sense, I'm aware, but: Jonah rewarding his favourite employees by (forcing) letting them give each other a good time. He doesn't participate, the reward's not for him after all, and it wouldn't be right for him to intrude on their leisure like that, but he does watch. Just so he can supervise, of course.

- Some level of mind control so they have no choice but to keep wrecking each other into exhaustion.
- None of them have very much sexual experience due to age or just lack of interest, so Jonah has to keep mentally giving them ideas.
- Jonah provides them with just a stupidly expensive and comfortable bed for it.
- Very inspired by an earlier Jonah/Rosie fill, so if you know that one, I'm very into that sort of tense but soft atmosphere.

Oh I’m so excited to see where this goes, I love your narrative voice for Martin—I can almost hear it!

OOOO: OP HERE THANK YOU FOR MAKING MY DAY!!!!!! aaah I love this so far...Martin's internal monologue...the push and pull in his thoughts between the influence of the Corruption and the Lonely...the extra pressure of Martin being trapped not just in his apartment but in one ROOM of his apartment...the visual of one final "but nobody came." moment seconds from death being the catalyst for transformation 🙏🙏🙏 the drama!!!! chef's kiss!!!!! very eager to see where you go with this

Jon is quite small and lean, but he likes his partners Big.

Big enough that he can see the bulge their dick makes inside him.

Go wild with this any scenario is fine I just think Jon should get some fun.

DNW: water sports, scat

So, imagine the original Elias, stuck as a passive observer in his own life, not able to do anything but watch and have disembodied thoughts. And then, during the drama of the series.... he finds himself becoming Attached to one of the Archives crew. He has no agency over what happens in his interactions with this person but, for whatever reason (personality, style, looks, sense of humor), he Likes them.

But then, Elias's attention/interest in this person makes Jonah's interest piqued. And the way Jonah responds to having his interest piqued in a person is usually by fucking them up psychologically.

Can be any kind of interest (platonic, romantic, etc.) on Elias's part.

+the Target being Melanie, purely for the hilarity of Elias seeing someone sticking a knife at him/Jonah and going "oh Big Mood."

++Jonah fucks this person up REALLY bad specifically because feeding off Elias's passive horror as an observer is a Tasty Fear Snack.

+++Elias originally liking it when he/Jonah spends time with the Target, but after Jonah starts to do his thing he starts to internally dread having them around.

+++++If you want to go canon divergence, Elias having control back at some point and wanting to Help this person, and they just. Do not believe him or trust him.

I just read the latest chapter of the door was always open by dykonic and now I need soft/sweet jon/jared. can be smutty or not, I just want to see jared developing a crush on jon after jon does something kind for him/thanks Jared for doing something kind for him.

I would really appreciate it being quite clear that jared is an Avatar of fear despite being very sweet towards jon, though it isn't a deal breaker if not included.

extra points for this being pre-canon/research era where jon's only exposure to the supernatural has been with the web so far

Late comment! Very late! Apologies!

Anyway this chapter was amazing, gosh, the slow evolution of how the Eye relates to Martin and respecting his volition, I feel like it (they?) wouldn’t have done the lamppost thing just a chapter or two ago. (Which apart from being hilarious was just so perfectly dorky, and somehow in line with Jon-style romantic gestures of the ‘gouge your eyes out and run away with me’ variety. Who’s having an influence on whom, I wonder?)

Also “...to ensure that he will be able to process thoughts into verbal statements Martin will find comprehensible” made me laugh, Jonah’s always the second favourite. Not to mention it throws a different light on him being there watching/listening; what the Eye means by that is definitely not what Martin understands by it.

Ohhh and the journey, because Martin’s already made those choices but the physical gesture of burning the cabin in particular was so satisfying. I love the way you portray him with both the insecurity to ask if anyone had ever loved him and the strength to be able to straight up say “these are your doubts, not mine.”

And I already yelled @ you about this but YEAH Jonah being his delightfully terribly self :D. I really can’t wait to see how the Eye’s affection looks filtered through a different lens. (Unfortunate enjoyment of Martin’s suffering:
The Eye 🤝 Me )

...it has come to my attention that I really need to be checking the ao3 updates as well as I missed an entire Georgie scene. I’m worried for her going End?

I am so glad you liked the chapter! Writing the Eye’s slow evolution to recognize and respect Martin’s boundaries is… interesting, because I want to write the Eye as a complex, growing being capable of change while also not… undermining the damage or horror of the situation. But yes! The lamppost thing would not have happened a chapter ago, even. Good on you for picking up on the “who is influencing whom?” thing :D

(Also, I like that your hesitant (...they?) for the Eye. “They” might actually be more accurate than “it” in some ways. Not due to gender, but due to… plurality.)

The Eye scrambling to fix up Jonah so he can, uh, talk? Was a fun detail to throw in. I am glad you were delighted to read it! And, yes--Martin conceptualizes ‘Jonah is watching’ in a way that’s… different from what it Actually means for Jonah to be there watching.

Martin burning the cabin was so satisfying to write in this fic, because it’s--well, basically it takes the decision Martin has made and solidifies it into an action/image. Martin is a complex person! He’s both very vulnerable and wanting to be loved is such a weak spot for him, but he’s gotten enough of a spine to look an eldritch god in the eye (ha) and be like “no fuck you, YOU’RE the one with doubts.”

Jonah’s two little lines were fun to write. The way I see it is like--Jonah is definitely a different Lens, and he leans hard on the wanting to Poke and Taunt Martin to see what pretty fear colors he makes. (Unfortunate enjoyment of Martin’s suffering: The Eye 🤝You 🤝 Me ).

I do sometimes add things to the AO3 versions that aren’t here because it’s Easier, but I’ll try to not cut out anything so important in the future. You are right to be afraid for Georgie, though! She’s walking a bit of a line right now.

Thank you SO MUCH for the comment. ♥♥♥♥♥

You know the traditional ace reasoning for having sex of “I wonder what they’ll do if I do this” and how Beholding a vibe it already is? (But also how being really truly Beholding would require that also be indifferent to consent and/or fundamentally about pain and fear?) Because I keep thinking about Jon and Jonah being somehow in a position to a) both be interested in Martin like that, b) be aware they’re both interested, and c) …share, so to speak, instead of one of them monopolizing the experimenting on/torturing/toying with the Ceaseless Watcher’s favorite no-longer-quite-human subject.

Martin can be weirdly into it or an unwilling victim or somewhere in between, but I do want both Jon (probably thinks this is for the best, somehow, still?) and Jonah to be genuinely interested in him (albeit with the latter being somewhat more complicated/unintuitive). Established JE and/or JM and/or ntr elements of the intersection of the two: not required, but inspiring?

Sex optional, sexual overtones inevitable, I would like the Eye monsters to have a nice time.

HELL YEAH! Love the image of this meaty boy falling hard for this tiny nerd.

just a short thing, but i hope you like it!

-

There was a statue in Elias’ office.

This in and of itself wasn't so strange. All manner of peculiarities had found their home there, handpicked from donations or storage to be put on display. But the statue was chief among them. A centerpiece, even.

Jon stood on a small, stone base, legs bent and knees splayed in a low squat. He was nude, of course, the ivory of his skin shaved bare and exposed. His nipples were noticeably pebbled, both tugged and pulled by his own unmoving fingers. But his cock remained small- embarrassingly small- and soft, though the rock that trapped it was hard to the touch.

Clearly peeking out from between his clenched arsecheeks was the end of a thick, smooth rod, about the size of a fist in width. The other end left a small bulge in Jon’s stomach. If one looked, they could see the exquisite detail of his rim as it stretched around the rod, pulled permanently taut.

His face was a mask of fear and humiliation, frozen to be appreciated. And appreciated he was. Elias was a busy man, and he had numerous meetings. All in his office, of course. Donors and employees, associates and colleagues, each and every one would get full, unobstructed view of the statue. Especially the silver plack at his feet, which read “Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist” in bold letters. Some visitors would comment- cruel jabs at the man’s fate or lewd appreciation of his forced display. Most would simply stare, eyes trailing along his stone form.

Those were the worst days for Jon, when no one would even acknowledge his existence. He’d be left to his own devices, no distraction from the unending moment of sexual torture he stood trapped in. The muscles of his legs were sore and strained, the buds of his nipples twin, sharp pains on his chest. And his poor arse. Impaled and stretched on a foreign object, stuck bearing down but unable to move an inch, his prostate squeezed practically flat.

To top it all off, his cock was begging to be touched. Jon would’ve thought it was driving him mad, if Elias hadn’t assured him his clarity would remain forever intact. There was no relief. The only thing that came close was on the days Elias used him. It was a singular use. To pull the stone rod from his arse before going home and get himself off to Jon’s helplessness, eventually painting his come along the walls of Jon’s still-gaping hole. Then Elias would plug him back up, turn off the lights, and leave.

Jon could always feel the come, an ever-growing reservoir inside him. It was burning-hot.

From then, the only contact he’d get until Elias arrived in the morning was from the cleaning staff. They dusted him off every night, snickering, the tickle of dusters agony on his cock and nipples.

Then, the next day, Jon’s torment would begin anew.

I AM SO HUNGRY FOR THIS...

CWs: pregnancy horror, breeding, mentions of xcon and forced pregnancy.

Jon can have little a horrifying monster pregnancy... as a treat.

Some ideas:

+ Jon/Nikola xcon pregnancy during Jon's kidnapping, potential for some Stranger aspect with body dysmorphia.

+ Jon/Elias manipulative dubcon.

+ Jon/Martin consensual pregnancy... But wait a second I don't think that's a normal pregnancy thing.

++ Pregnant sex with body worship.

++ Anything with an aspect of wholesomeness, or dubious wholesomeness. Perhaps Jon gets attached the monster baby and is determined to birth and actually raise it. Maybe the pregnancy was consensual and the horror is from a POV Outsider.

+++ Traumatic birth, maybe some hurt/comfort.

DNW: scat, rot

i crave this with a mighty need

I feel like this is the kind of idea someone would have already done, but I can't find any evidence of it existing, so???? Archive roleswap! Melanie, Georgie, Daisy, and Basira as the original archive crew, and Jon, Martin, Tim, Sasha as the outsiders who slowly get roped into the madness.

I've seen a few fics recently where Gerry and Mike run into each other while looking for Leitners, and I'd love to see a sexy take on that. The two have been chasing down the same Leitner for a few days now, trying to outpace the other in finding it... only to realize that the book is more seductive than usual, and now they're craving some skin-to-skin contact.

The specifics of how and what the book does are up to you, but definitely some kind of sex pollen effect would be great - I'm thinking a typical "fuck or die" effect, or just general Extreme Horniness, but feel free to take it in any spooky or sexy direction you want!! As long as the boys get hot and steamy with each other by the end, I'm good with whatever.

+ bottom Mike, or both of them switches, and both cis (just personal headcanon!)
+ rough, kind of desperate sex, but not anything BDSM; more influenced by the book if anything
+ only one of them (Mike?) is initially infected by the book; maybe it's contagious, or the other is infected later/is just DTF without supernatural influence.
+ bonus points if the two of them viewed each other as book-collecting rivals before this happens; speedrun enemies to supernatural hookup
+ ultra bonus points for dirty talk and multiple positions/rounds; the book doesn't wear off quickly

DNWs: super dubcon/noncon, bathroom kinks, emeto

Martin and Jon both see the other as extremely attractive, but don’t feel great about themselves in comparison.

Like, Martin thinks Jon is beautiful, but himself Jon thinks he’s too bony and scarred to ever look anything besides ghastly.

Similarly, Jon sees Martin as tall and broad and handsome, but Martin is insecure about his size and feels like Jon likes him despite his looks.

Both of them want to find some kind of physical intimacy together, but they’re extremely nervous about the other seeing their nude body.

Oh, I LOVE this prompt so much!! OG Elias and Melanie would be such a fun dynamic... No promises on when/if I'll finish it, but it's definitely going on my list 👀

OP here!!! I would be Thrilled if you wrote anything for it. I am Looking 👀👀👀👀👀👀

Magnus, in particular, had always found Martin to have a pretty face.

In the walls of your tower, he absently wonders how that pretty face would look if he had no air. The moment that curiosity stirs, you twitch unthinkingly into action.

Martin struggles and thrashes at first. He throws everything he can get his hands on, beats his fists against Magnus—all useless. Then, he falls to the floor, writhing, spitting, eyes fluttering helplessly and lips turning purple.

Martin crawls to Magnus. Grabs at his leg, angrily at first and then pleadingly. He tugs and looks up at Magnus with tearful eyes, begging soundlessly.

please no no no no more, air, need air

“Dear, sweet Martin.” Magnus says, fondly stroking Martin’s hair. “So quickly, when you wouldn’t deign to touch Jon? I’m flattered.”

Martin punches Magnus one more time. It lands weakly, and instead Martin flails and has to support himself there, clinging to Magnus’s legs. Magnus chuckles, lovingly bemused at seeing the sweet humiliation of this position wring through Martin’s thoughts.

“No need for that, love," Magnus says.

Magnus takes Martin by the hair and pulls him higher. Martin would scream in panic, if he were not so effectively muted.

For all Martin's racing thoughts, there is nothing in Magnus's mind or in his eyes that Martin expects. There is no vengeance, no hatred, not even the desire to take further physical advantage yet. There is only rapt fascination and fondness at Martin's pain, and how beautiful he is under it. And also, a sudden paradoxical fussiness when Magnus realizes Martin's neck is getting sore.

Martin is precious, and Magnus feels he must be a Gentleman after all—in his own style. And so as Martin is limp from suffocation, Magnus arranges him to rest comfortably, Martin's head laying in his lap in the most comfortable angle possible. Martin spasms, thinking to get away only to find he doesn't have the strength.

“There go. Much more comfortable,” Magnus says. “Relax now.”

He makes no move to let Martin breathe again. Instead he scratches Martin’s scalp, exactly where you used to lovingly have the Archivist caress him. It wrings out a stream of hot tears.

(You love Martin’s tears, but—)

You hurt, and it runs through Magnus like hot lava through his veins. He shudders at the intensity of it, but not for a second does stopping ever come to mind. He is lost cataloging the texture of Martin’s hair, the convulsions of his throat as he tries to scream but can’t draw enough breath to whimper. Your paradoxical pain at seeing Martin like this only loops back into more agonized joy.

Like a nerve pressed so that it cannot help but spasm, you watch, and watch, and watch.

[CLICK]

MELANIE

Absolutely not.

GEORGIE

(GENTLE) It's just how it is, sometimes. We’ve already left so many people behind.

MELANIE

You didn't abandon me.

Don't tell me it was because I was easy to help. I screamed at you over the phone, banged on your door in the middle of the night...

GEORGIE

It was a different world, though. There was more time. More help to go around.

But now we're in the apocalypse. So—

MELANIE

No. I won't.

[TRUDGING FORWARD.]

GEORGIE

I'm slowing down, Melanie.

MELANIE

Not listening!

GEORGIE

It's harder to move. Harder to want to. Eventually, I'm sure I'll become like Alex. I'll just sit down, unfeeling, and wait—

MELANIE

I don't care! I don't care what happens with you. I'm not. Going. To leave you.

GEORGIE

(QUIET) It won't save me if you die too.

MELANIE

(ACIDLY) Then you better factor that into your calculations if you plan to sit down and die.

[SHE STOMPS FORWARD FOR A MOMENT. THEN STOPS.]

Oh, for fuck's sake—

[SOUND OF TAPE RECORDER BEING PUNTED.]

[CLICK]

[PAPERS RUSTLING, CUPBOARD DOORS OPENING, AND SLAMMING SHUT.]

JON

There has to be something—

[OBJECTS CLATTERING TO THE FLOOR.]

Something that could block out the Eye. Come on, think. Think.

Georgie can. But she isn’t here.

Whatever the thing that was protecting Salesa. A… camera? If I had that, I could walk right up to the Panopticon, and—

(BITTER LAUGHTER)

But I don't. Have it. And I certainly can't go back and get it! Should have thought of that at the time. Could have at least asked, figured out some plan. But no, it didn't seem important.

(SELF-MOCKING) Sure, the Eye is torturing everyone in the world, but it’s not hurting me . I suppose it’s altering my thoughts just a tad, but certainly that’s just fine .

I should have—

[PHONE RINGING]

[JON SCRAMBLES, DIGGING THROUGH CUPBOARDS. THE RINGING GETS CLEARER, AND JON ANSWERS WITH A BEEP. ]

JON

Who is…?

MARTIN

Jon?

[JON’S BREATH CATCHES.]

MARTIN

Can you hear me? Jon? Jon?

...Please say something. Please.

JON

H-here?

MARTIN

(RELIEF) Jon. I...

Listen to me. You have to go through the door.

JON

I—(STALLING) Sorry, how are you making this call? Did you escape? Is there something…?

MARTIN

No. No, I’m not pulling one over on the Eye, Jon. (SIGH) I just asked? Asked to talk to you.

Annabelle arranged the call, though. Jona—the—my um, unfortunate admirer can’t actually reach in here. But she has wires everywhere. She was.. Smug about it.

JON

They really just let you call? Just like that?

MARTIN

More or less. Look—I—can you tell me what’s wrong? Why haven’t you gone through the door, yet?

[PAUSE]

Maybe you can't remember, but the door is the way out. The red door, like in the picture Georgie and Melanie…

JON

I remember just fine, thank you. No need to talk to me like I’m your goddamn mother after the dementia kicked in.

(INSTANT REGRET) Shit.

MARTIN

Okay. (QUIET) I just wanted to—

[LINE DISCONNECTS. DIAL TONE PLAYS.]

JON

No, no, no, no, no. That’s not what I—Martin!

[DIAL TONE CONTINUES]

[JON THROWS THE PHONE ON THE FLOOR.]

JON

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

[CLICK]

[DEEP BREATH]

JON

Okay. The memory loss and disorientation is going to set in, so I’ve taped notes… everywhere. I’m making every kind of record I can. Lots of reminders to not go outside until I have formed a plan.

Hopefully Georgie and Melanie will show up. If not, then I don’t know if I can…

I don’t know what I’ll do.

[CLICK]

[PHONE RINGING]

[JON ANSWERS WITH A BEEP .]

JON

Martin?

MARTIN

(SUBDUED) Jon.

JON

I am so—our last call. I’m…

MARTIN

It’s fine.

JON

No, it’s not. I, hold on. (NOTE CRINKLES) I shouldn’t have—

MARTIN

(WEARY) We don’t have time for this, Jon.

JON

I—Alright.

MARTIN

I need you to promise me if you hear anything… worrying over here… you won’t charge out here and endanger yourself.

It’s…if anything happens, it’s probably going to sound worse than it actually is. So… promise? Because if I think you will, then I can’t… I won’t continue this.

JON

Okay. I—okay. (SCRIBBLES A NOTE)

Are you alright? Has Jonah…?

MARTIN

Please. Don’t.

Why haven’t you left, yet?

JON

You’re serious? Because I’m not leaving until I get you out of there!

MARTIN

Right. So do you have an actual plan regarding that, or…?

JON

N—well...

If Melanie and Georgie show up, I can… maybe. Or-or! (SCRIBBLES) Melanie can move through the apocalypse unseen.

MARTIN

You just said she’s not— (REALIZING) No.

JON

There are several different objects I could use to uh, quit. Here.

MARTIN

No, no, no, no—don’t you dare. That’s not—Jon, how would you even find the tower?

JON

Melanie gets around fine.

MARTIN

(SHRIEKING) Melanie had to be hospitalized! For weeks! She would have died of blood loss otherwise. She had time to recover. She had-had support, people around her to help her.

She was not waging war on an all-powerful terror entity right after she blinded herself!

JON

...Could I--could Melanie die of blood loss now, though? In this world? Where everyone is kept alive regardless of their physical state.

MARTIN

Yes! Yes she could, Jon, she almost did when some rubble fell on her! She and Georgie mentioned it the first ten minutes after we…

Right. You can’t remember.

JON

I didn’t get it on tape, so…

MARTIN

You didn’t get it on--

Why aren’t you just..? Why can’t you just leave?

JON

Why—sorry? (PACING) Everything that happened to you is because of me!

MARTIN

Is that all? That’s not remotely tr—

JON

Yes it is, Martin! I… I was… I did all those things.

MARTIN

That wasn’t you!

JON

(MISERABLY) It w--It’s... I should have… if I had resisted more, earlier, if I hadn’t given so much of myself over to it early on, if I had told you my suspicions...

[MARTIN AUDIBLY STARTLES.]

Martin?

MARTIN

...Sorry. Sorry, I-I-I’m still here.

JON

Martin, are you…?

Is Jonah listening?

MARTIN

...I told you, this is happening with his… permission. So, yes.

JON

How, how near is…?

MARTIN

(QUICKLY, LOUDLY) Look, Jon. We’re dealing with a being that can snap its metaphorical fingers and rewrite people’s brains. It’s—I don’t think any human choices can really stand against that.

I need you to understand that the things that… happened to me aren’t your fault. (SHAKY) Okay? Please?

JON

But I—

[FABRIC RUSTLES ON MARTIN’S END. MARTIN EXHALES PAINFULLY.]

MARTIN

(TEETH GRITTING) I don’t have time to argue the point. I wish I did. I wish I could sit there with you and tell you again and again that it isn’t your fault, but I-I-I—can’t? So I have to ask you to believe me the first time.

it’s not your responsibility to endanger yourself to atone for something you didn’t do. Just. Go through the door. Promise me you aren’t going to gouge your eyes and die of blood loss.

JON

I won’t promise that.

MARTIN

No. No, no. You wouldn—

(VOICE BREAKING) Don’t do this? Please. Please.

JON

If there’s no other way, then…

MARTIN

Jon! Making sacrifices that can’t accomplish anything isn’t heroic, it’s just—

JON

(SNARL) Like you’re one to talk. As though I ever asked you to do this to yourself! As though I wanted you to shuffle me off to die somewhere you wouldn’t have to look at me!

[QUIET. THEN, A MUFFLED HICCUPING CRY ON MARTIN’S END.]

JON

Wait. No. Martin, I’m—

[DIAL TONE.]

[JON SLAMS A FIST ON THE DESK.]

[CLICK]

MELANIE

Absolutely not.

GEORGIE

(GENTLE) It's just how it is, sometimes. We’ve already left so many people behind.

MELANIE

You didn't abandon me.

Don't tell me it was because I was easy to help. I screamed at you over the phone, banged on your door in the middle of the night...

GEORGIE

It was a different world, though. There was more time. More help to go around.

But now we're in the apocalypse. So—

MELANIE

No. I won't.

[TRUDGING FORWARD.]

GEORGIE

I'm slowing down, Melanie.

MELANIE

Not listening!

GEORGIE

It's harder to move. Harder to want to. Eventually, I'm sure I'll become like Alex. I'll just sit down, unfeeling, and wait—

MELANIE

I don't care! I don't care what happens with you. I'm not. Going. To leave you.

GEORGIE

(QUIET) It won't save me if you die too.

MELANIE

(ACIDLY) Then you better factor that into your calculations if you plan to sit down and die.

[SHE STOMPS FORWARD FOR A MOMENT. THEN STOPS.]

Oh, for fuck's sake—

[SOUND OF TAPE RECORDER BEING PUNTED.]

[CLICK]

[PAPERS RUSTLING, CUPBOARD DOORS OPENING, AND SLAMMING SHUT.]

JON

There has to be something—

[OBJECTS CLATTERING TO THE FLOOR.]

Something that could block out the Eye. Come on, think. Think.

Georgie can. But she isn’t here.

Whatever the thing that was protecting Salesa. A… camera? If I had that, I could walk right up to the Panopticon, and—

(BITTER LAUGHTER)

But I don't. Have it. And I certainly can't go back and get it! Should have thought of that at the time. Could have at least asked, figured out some plan. But no, it didn't seem important.

(SELF-MOCKING) Sure, the Eye is torturing everyone in the world, but it’s not hurting me . I suppose it’s altering my thoughts just a tad, but certainly that’s just fine .

I should have—

[PHONE RINGING]

[JON SCRAMBLES, DIGGING THROUGH CUPBOARDS. THE RINGING GETS CLEARER, AND JON ANSWERS WITH A BEEP. ]

JON

Who is…?

MARTIN

Jon?

[JON’S BREATH CATCHES.]

MARTIN

Can you hear me? Jon? Jon?

...Please say something. Please.

JON

H-here?

MARTIN

(RELIEF) Jon. I...

Listen to me. You have to go through the door.

JON

I—(STALLING) Sorry, how are you making this call? Did you escape? Is there something…?

MARTIN

No. No, I’m not pulling one over on the Eye, Jon. (SIGH) I just asked? Asked to talk to you.

Annabelle arranged the call, though. Jona—the—my um, unfortunate admirer can’t actually reach in here. But she has wires everywhere. She was.. Smug about it.

JON

They really just let you call? Just like that?

MARTIN

More or less. Look—I—can you tell me what’s wrong? Why haven’t you gone through the door, yet?

[PAUSE]

Maybe you can't remember, but the door is the way out. The red door, like in the picture Georgie and Melanie…

JON

I remember just fine, thank you. No need to talk to me like I’m your goddamn mother after the dementia kicked in.

(INSTANT REGRET) Shit.

MARTIN

Okay. (QUIET) I just wanted to—

[LINE DISCONNECTS. DIAL TONE PLAYS.]

JON

No, no, no, no, no. That’s not what I—Martin!

[DIAL TONE CONTINUES]

[JON THROWS THE PHONE ON THE FLOOR.]

JON

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

[CLICK]

[DEEP BREATH]

JON

Hopefully Georgie and Melanie will show up. If not, then I don’t know if I can…

I don’t know what I’ll do.

[CLICK]

[PHONE RINGING]

[JON ANSWERS WITH A BEEP .]

JON

Martin?

MARTIN

(SUBDUED) Jon.

JON

I am so—our last call. I’m…

MARTIN

It’s fine.

JON

No, it’s not. I, hold on. (NOTE CRINKLES) I shouldn’t have—

MARTIN

(WEARY) We don’t have time for this, Jon.

JON

I—Alright.

MARTIN

I need you to promise me if you hear anything… worrying over here… you won’t charge out here and endanger yourself.

It’s…if anything happens, it’s probably going to sound worse than it actually is. So… promise? Because if I think you will, then I can’t… I won’t continue this.

JON

Okay. I—okay. (SCRIBBLES A NOTE)

Are you alright? Has Jonah…?

MARTIN

Please. Don’t.

Why haven’t you left, yet?

JON

You’re serious? Because I’m not leaving until I get you out of there!

MARTIN

Right. So do you have an actual plan regarding that, or…?

JON

N—well...

If Melanie and Georgie show up, I can… maybe. Or-or! (SCRIBBLES) Melanie can move through the apocalypse unseen.

MARTIN

You just said she’s not— (REALIZING) No.

JON

There are several different objects I could use to uh, quit. Here.

MARTIN

No, no, no, no—don’t you dare. That’s not—Jon, how would you even find the tower?

JON

Melanie gets around fine.

MARTIN

(SHRIEKING) Melanie had to be hospitalized! For weeks! She would have died of blood loss otherwise. She had time to recover. She had-had support, people around her to help her.

She was not waging war on an all-powerful terror entity right after she blinded herself!

JON

...Could I--could Melanie die of blood loss now, though? In this world? Where everyone is kept alive regardless of their physical state.

MARTIN

Yes! Yes she could, Jon, she almost did when some rubble fell on her! She and Georgie mentioned it the first ten minutes after we…

Right. You can’t remember.

JON

I didn’t get it on tape, so…

MARTIN

You didn’t get it on--

Why aren’t you just..? Why can’t you just leave?

JON

Why—sorry? (PACING) Everything that happened to you is because of me!

MARTIN

Is that all? That’s not remotely tr—

JON

Yes it is, Martin! I… I was… I did all those things.

MARTIN

That wasn’t you!

JON

(MISERABLY) It w--It’s... I should have… if I had resisted more, earlier, if I hadn’t given so much of myself over to it early on, if I had told you my suspicions...

[MARTIN AUDIBLY STARTLES.]

Martin?

MARTIN

...Sorry. Sorry, I-I-I’m still here.

JON

Martin, are you…?

Is Jonah listening?

MARTIN

...I told you, this is happening with his… permission. So, yes.

JON

How, how near is…?

MARTIN

I need you to understand that the things that… happened to me aren’t your fault. (SHAKY) Okay? Please?

JON

But I—

[FABRIC RUSTLES ON MARTIN’S END. MARTIN EXHALES PAINFULLY.]

MARTIN

it’s not your responsibility to endanger yourself to atone for something you didn’t do. Just. Go through the door. Promise me you aren’t going to gouge your eyes and die of blood loss.

JON

I won’t promise that.

MARTIN

No. No, no. You wouldn—

(VOICE BREAKING) Don’t do this? Please. Please.

JON

If there’s no other way, then…

MARTIN

Jon! Making sacrifices that can’t accomplish anything isn’t heroic, it’s just—

JON

(SNARL) Like you’re one to talk. As though I ever asked you to do this to yourself! As though I wanted you to shuffle me off to die somewhere you wouldn’t have to look at me!

[QUIET. THEN, A MUFFLED HICCUPING CRY ON MARTIN’S END.]

JON

Wait. No. Martin, I’m—

[DIAL TONE.]

[JON SLAMS A FIST ON THE DESK.]

[CLICK]

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 109 of 139

Prompt Post: The Magnus Archives #1

Re: Apple of Your Eye 12/??? (part 2)

Re: Apple of Your Eye 12/??? (part 3)

FILL: Lonely!Martin, power awakening 1/?

Prompt: (Jonah)/Jon/Rosie/OG Elias

Re: FILL: Lonely!Martin, power awakening 1/?

Re: FILL: Lonely!Martin, power awakening 1/?

Prompt: Jon/Any, stomach bulge

OG!Elias/(or &)Any Archives Crew Member, getting attached while having no control of his body

soft jon/jared

Re: Apple of Your Eye 12/??? (part 3)

Re: Apple of Your Eye 12/??? (part 3)

Prompt: (Jonah | Elias)/Jon/Martin, dark!Jon, Beholding kink

Re: soft jon/jared

Fill: Prompt: Elias/Jon, statufication

Re: FILL: Lonely!Martin, power awakening 1/?

Prompt: Jon, Jon/Any, monster pregnancy

Re: FILL: Jon/Martin - cuckolding kink 2/?

Prompt: Archive cast roleswap

Prompt: Gerry Keay/Mike Crew, Sexy Leitner Encounter

Prompt: Jon/Martin, mutual insecurity

Re: OG!Elias/(or &)Any Archives Crew Member, getting attached while having no control of his body

Re: OG!Elias/(or &)Any Archives Crew Member, getting attached while having no control of his body

Re: Apple of Your Eye 13/??? (part 1)

Re: Apple of Your Eye 12/??? (part 3)

Re: Apple of Your Eye 13/??? (part 2)