gertrude_robinson: (the magnus archives)
gertrude_robinson ([personal profile] gertrude_robinson) wrote in [community profile] rusty_kink2018-06-02 12:37 pm

Prompt Post: The Magnus Archives #1

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Prompt: Elias/whoever you like, trans!Elias, dildos, strap-ons

(Anonymous) 2018-07-14 08:16 pm (UTC)(link)
Elias has a frankly impressive collection of 'aids', and decides to test them all on his partner.

Prompt: Michael Shelley/'Michael', identity issues, selfcest

(Anonymous) 2018-07-16 06:35 am (UTC)(link)
Michael Shelley isn't dead, at least not yet. He wanders the corridors, unravelling, with only a monster that's slowly becoming him for company.

Michael Shelley/distortion!Michael semi-selfcest angsty mind-fuckery as they slowly bleed into one another.

Fill: Michael Shelley/'Michael', identity issues, selfcest (plus mild body horror)

(Anonymous) 2018-07-17 09:55 pm (UTC)(link)
Following orders had always come naturally to Michael. The simple pleasure of fulfilling a task someone had given him provided him with sufficient motivation to act, even when he was not particularly keen on it. That was one of the reason he enjoyed working for Ms Robinson so much.

Or had enjoyed. He wasn’t sure anymore, as he wandered through the corridors, all the same and yet subtly different in ways he often couldn’t have spotted with the naked eye. He must have been walking for a while. Was Ms Robinson still waiting for him, on that strange island? Had she gone back to wait by the boat, where it was safer?

Maybe she had abandoned him. She probably had. But he couldn’t let himself think like that. Because if she had, then what was the point in walking around in this strange place? What was the point of shattering the mirrors and opening the doors and for a purpose he simultaneously understood and didn’t if he wasn’t doing it for her?

He shattered a mirror to his right and realised that he hadn’t even looked at the map first. A brief flash of panic broke through the mechanical routine he’d grown accustomed to in this place. But he hadn’t made a mistake. Perhaps he’d finally seen through the pattern, if there even was one.

It was then that the monster started following him. Or perhaps it was only then that he’d finally noticed, his gaze no longer glued to the map he still held onto, even though there was no use to it anymore. This last, tangible reminder that there was meaning to what he was doing.

The monster followed him all the time now. He could see its reflection in the mirrors, see it lurking just around the corner when he turned, its large, sharp hand tearing gashes into the wallpaper. First, he’d always run when he’d spotted it, run until he could taste blood in his mouth.

Now, he didn’t even bother changing his pace anymore. The monster was approaching, but if it truly wanted to harm him, then it would have done so long ago. It could have done it in his sleep, though he did not remember sleeping recently. Or needing sleep. Or needing anything, really. He could have stopped and let the monster catch up, but there was still a reason he was doing this, even though it was merely an echo in his mind at this point.


The door was not supposed to be there, and it was not supposed to look like that, dark yellow, a plaque handle, rusty hinges. It was a break in the pattern Michael immediately recognised. He wanted to consult the map, but when he reached for it, it was gone. Had it fallen out of his back pocket, or had the monster plucked it away when he hadn’t looked? It didn’t matter, because he knew this was the last one to open. And so he did.

There was a mirror behind the door. And on the other side of the mirror stood the monster. Michael stepped closer, and so did the monster. He raised his hand, and the monster mimicked him. He could see its face that wasn’t a face so clearly now. But he was most captivated by its hands, the only part that remained solid while the rest seemed to shift in his perception, the fine grooves in the bone that spiralled down from its sharp fingertip.

Michael reached out to touch it and placed his hand on the glass. There was an odd click when their fingers met, but looking down, he still saw his human hand, and in his human fingers, he felt the pain of getting punctured by sharp claws. Blood dripped down the mirror.

A long time ago, it would have frightened him, because he’d always hated the sight of blood, and he remembered stammered excuses to… someone.

The monster laughed, and it was Michael’s laugh, ending on a drawn out note with a pleased sigh. His face imitated the expression exactly.

Michael did not know who gave the impulse. But at some point, they both surged forward, towards each other, into each other. Lips met something that wasn’t lips, and something that wasn’t a tongue crept into his mouth. It tasted like nothing and everything at once, short-circuiting his taste buds. Solid flesh turned into a viscous liquid, cloying to the insides of his mouth and throat.

Michael retched but he didn’t pull back, because there was nothing to pull back from. He felt hands on his skin, through his clothes, as if they were a mere illusion, not even worth shredding. His skin burned and froze where the monster touched it, melted and evaporated and settled again on his shifting bones. Agony and pleasure coursed through what remained of his body, last glimpses of human arousal, his cock hard and straining against nothing as he was engulfed by a non-presence that pushed him open and entered him, filled him, made him moan, made him scream, made him scrabble against the glass for purchase and for more, until it shattered under the force of his yearning, and with it, his entire being.

The door was not a door; it was the remainder of Michael’s humanity that made it perceive it as such. And now, it could open it to whichever place it wanted.

Except to wherever Gertrude Robinson was, the one place where it wanted to be, and where it could never again be.

Prompt: Elias/Jon, possessiveness, marking, claiming

(Anonymous) 2018-07-17 05:40 pm (UTC)(link)
Elias wants to overwrite the marks, visible or not, others have left on Jon's body.

(I'm fine with any consent level, but I would like Jon to be into it by the end.)

Fill: Elias/Jon, possessiveness, marking, claiming (part 1/2)

(Anonymous) 2018-09-26 03:13 am (UTC)(link)
This one...got away from me a bit. Explicit consent, tw for light blood/injury and major character death, post-119 AU. I tried to stick to the prompt fill but it ended up with a lot more metaphysics than I was initially going for, as well as a weirdly human Elias.

at the edge of chaos, part 1/2

It’s dark, in the Archives. Each step Jon takes crunches on glass, and his fingers dragging along the walls comes away stained black with ash. Here and there the ceiling has collapsed. He wonders faintly what happened while he was gone.

It doesn’t really matter. They stopped the Unknowing, but he’s not sure that matters either, not when it cost—Jon flinches at the images. Tim’s skull, caved in so he could see the grey twists of brain inside; Daisy’s head lying by itself on the floor, near something that might be Basira’s arm. The rest of Basira—well. Jon’s breathing is speeding up, and he’s not sure where his feet are taking him until he finds himself stopping in front of Elias’s office.

There’s rubble blocking the door, but from the inside Jon can hear a faint scratching noise, and if there’s someone in there, he wants to find them. He doesn’t want to be the only one left in this cold, burned-out tomb. So he starts moving chunks of stone and burned charcoal off to the side.

He’s not sure how long it takes him to move them, because without a window outside, there’s not really any indication of the passage of time. His mobile did not survive the aborted Unknowing, unless you count the weird image he has of it growing legs and starting to dance, but he has no idea how grounded in reality or unreality that image is. But at some point, he manages to clear enough of it that he’s able to pull open the charred door. Elias looks up at him from behind the desk. He has a stack of papers in front of him, the edges of several curling and charred and dark, and his pen is making the scratching sound as he wearily writes on what appears to be a mostly undamaged legal pad. For a long moment, he simply stares at Jon, his eyes wide, his shoulders slumped. Then, hoarsely, he says, “Jon. Good god.”

“What happened?” Jon asks, because of course he needs to know, no matter how much it hurts.

“Melanie,” says Elias, blinking slowly, almost dazedly. “Martin tried to stop her. Neither of them survived, and I am afraid most of the Archive did not either.”

“Right.” Jon nods and keeps nodding. He’s not quite sure why, and a moment later, he’s not quite sure how he ended up bent halfway over with his head between his knees.

Hands reach beneath his elbows, holding him up. “A number of the statements were damaged, but I believe quite a lot of them survived,” Elias says in a tone of voice Jon has never heard before from him, almost a kind of forced cheerfulness. “I was transcribing what I could find in my office, thinking perhaps my memory would—” his voice petered out. “Jon, you’re alive,” he says. “You’re the Archivist, you’re—” And then he’s holding onto Jon, no longer supporting him, but pushing his face into Jon’s chest, arms encircling him as he sinks to his knees on the floor. “If you’re alive, there’s a chance,” he whispers, and Jon has never heard him sound so desperate.

There’s a wall behind him, at least; with Elias’s weight bearing him down Jon sinks to the ground and pulls Elias to his chest in a clumsy sort of embrace. He doesn’t know long they stay in that position, either; Elias’s face pressed into Jon’s chest, his hands clutching at Jon’s shirt front. By the time he moves, Jon’s legs are cramping up from crouching, and he slumps even further to the ground with a groan.

“Get up, please, Jon,” Elias tells him, with a flicker of his usual meticulous authority.

“Why?” Jon asks him stupidly, reaching out and looping the compulsion around Elias’s throat with strange ease.

“Because you are what is left of the Archive; you are Beholding’s; you are mine,” Elias tells him. “Because every statement you have read is lurking in the back of your brain, and I can see them and feel them, and I will not let them burn.”

“You—you want me to rerecord them?” Jon asks, casting about for his tape record. “I…don’t know if I can do that, I’ll try…”

“The patterns are inside you,” Elias tells him, holding out a hand. “If you let me, Jon—I can draw them out. If you will give yourself to the Beholding now, whole and entire, and keep nothing back.” He pauses for a moment, squinting a little. “I do know it is asking a lot of you as you are now. This process should not be done so rapidly, but—” A shaky exhale.

“But we’re a little low on options right now,” Jon agrees. The prickle of watching fear on the back of his neck has intensified beyond anything he’s ever felt before. “All right,” he says, and the words fall easily from his mouth, far easier than he would have ever expected of himself before he saw—this. This shredded husk, the lurking pain in Elias’s eyes, even in his motions, in the shaking of his hand as he looked up and set down the pen. “What do I need to do?”

“A blank canvas,” Elias mumbles, as if he’s speaking to someone else, and he passes a shivering hand across his forehead. Then he looks up, puts his hands on Jon’s shoulders, and steers him backwards until his knees hit the edge of the desk. Jon’s not sure what he’s expecting, but it’s not for Elias to press his mouth to Jon’s, kissing him like he’s drowning and Jon is air; it’s not for Elias’s hands to reach up and start to undo what buttons remain on Jon’s shirt front.

“Ah—” He’s pushing the shirt down, running his hands across Jon’s shoulders, and Jon flinches as Elias’s long fingers brush across the first of the round tender scars he carries. “Elias,” he groans, somewhere between pained arousal and fear; not fear of Elias, not fear of the careful touch of those probing fingers, but fear of what those fingers are feeling, fear of himself, fear of the stigmas left, the imperfections—of course Elias knows about the scars, and of course there was nothing Jon could have done to stop them, but he still feels nothing so much as an obscure fearful shame.

“Shhh,” Elias murmurs, rubbing a thumb across Jon’s lips as he breaks the kiss. “Shhhh.” He ducks his mouth down and now it’s not his hand on the scars, it’s—

Jon swears as Elias bites down, hard; hard enough to hurt. Liquid trickles across the spot, and he doesn’t know if it’s Elias’s saliva or his own blood. He jerks as Elias lathes his tongue across the spot and then mouths his way over to the next. “Oh, god,” Jon manages, and it’s the last coherent thing to make its way out of his mouth for quite some time. Elias bites down on one scar after another, and Jon is crying out and squirming and in such a mess of pain and unfamiliar arousal he barely knows which way is up.

Jon/, & Any Assistant, withdrawal symptoms

(Anonymous) 2018-07-26 02:37 am (UTC)(link)
Not picky on ships or lack thereof! Jon goes through extreme withdrawal after being unable to take statements for too long, and one of the archival assistants makes a statement to get him through. Ideally this would be voluntary, though depending on who it is it might be very grudging, and the statement includes personal history they wouldn’t otherwise have revealed.

Bonus points for fainting, extreme dizziness, and other excuses for H/C, however poorly given or received the comfort might be.

Prompt: Jon/, & Any Assistant, withdrawal symptoms

(Anonymous) 2018-07-26 02:40 am (UTC)(link)
Sorry, messed up the subject line.

Fill: Jon/Martin, withdrawal symptoms

(Anonymous) - 2018-08-28 00:46 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Jon/Martin, withdrawal symptoms

(Anonymous) - 2018-09-01 02:27 (UTC) - Expand

Prompt: Jon/Elias+Martin, Voyeurism, jealousy, angst

(Anonymous) 2018-07-30 08:54 pm (UTC)(link)
Martin accidentally catches Jon and Elias having sex and continues guiltily spying on them, simultaneously shocked, hurt and aroused. Preferably, Jon remains oblivious, but maybe a completely aware Elias decides to subtly (or not so subtly) mess with Martin, just to make things a little worse?

Fill: The Flesh and Bone and Truth Within (1/2)

(Anonymous) 2018-08-05 09:58 pm (UTC)(link)
((Warnings for voyeurism, misuse of mystical artefacts, tentacles (not sentient), bondage, begging, Martin's pining, Elias being a massive asshole.))

Artefact storage didn’t really freak Martin out. At least, not as much as he knew it freaked some of the others out.

It could be sort of peaceful, actually. As long as you didn’t, you know, touch anything, or look at certain things for too long, and you had to keep on your toes a bit, because some artefacts were prone to falling – or rolling, bouncing, any sort of movement – into the path of whoever might be nearby. And it was really, really tempting to pick them back up. To find where they are meant to go.

To bring them there.

So, yes, artefact storage. Not as creepy as it was often toted – more dusty, really. And quiet. Martin came down here to think. Or maybe to put distance between himself and others, since there were lots of quiet places in the Archives. Martin was a social person. He would consider himself a social person. But sometimes he just needed time to himself.

Like now. Jon had been acting weird. Distant again, in a way that made Martin’s stomach clench with anxiety. In a way that made him do stupid, annoying things that he knew bothered Jon but still did anyway, like asking how his day was going or bringing him tea. Martin wasn’t great at keeping secrets at the best of times, and it was worse now that he felt pulled between two extremes.

Because Jon seemed to be getting along quite well with Elias lately, and Martin was still sure he was vaguely meant to… do something about that. Not Jon and Elias, specifically, but Elias generally. They all were. Jon too.

Things felt complicated. Martin wanted to tell Jon- well, there was a lot he wanted to tell Jon. In recent days, it was mostly their plan that had him stumbling over his words around the Archivist. Jon didn’t need the extra stress, Martin knew that, and then there was the fact that Elias had this whole weird thing about Jon. Still, he deserved to know, didn’t he? It pretty directly concerned him.

And it would be nice, maybe, to get some reassurance from Jon. That things hadn’t changed as much as they felt like they had. That he was still on their side, and the thought made Martin queasy from guilt, that he was doubting Jon at all.

He could bring it up casually. Outside of work, obviously. Martin could invite him out for lunch. Or dinner? Just drinks – if he mentioned that everyone was going, Jon might be more inclined to say yes. Team-bonding and whatnot. And then the others could just not show, and Martin would be able to have his private conversation, and feel a little better, and by the time they were finished maybe they’d both be tipsy, not drunk, and from there-

Martin sighed, running a hand through his hair. Wasn’t that a pathetic line of thinking? He was sitting in an old wooden armchair – a caquetoire, he’d taken the time to look it up one day – that he was about 90% sure wasn’t haunted and was in fact meant as place for employees to sit. Killing time nestled amongst stacks of miscellaneous items.

This part of storage looked more like an overstuffed attic than anything ominously malevolent. Items that had been deemed less overtly dangerous and were imbued with powers that were uninteresting enough to not be considered a theft risk. Martin had been watching a chess set that played itself, but the pieces only changed when one forgot to pay attention. It was kind of a game, to see how often he could get so completely lost in thought that the pieces moved.

He stood and stretched and felt like he had accomplished anything he’d wanted to. Had come to closer to any decisions. Well, it had been relaxing, at least. And he did feel a little less like he might end up doubled over with unfortunate word vomit the next time Jon looked at him. Martin was just leaving when he heard a noise. Well, a noise that continued, becoming noises, he guessed.

Martin froze. He turned, staring out across the room. Silence lapsed, for long enough that Martin was sure he’d been hearing things, and then it came again. Kind of unidentifiable. Maybe human? Definitely coming from deeper in artefact storage.

The prudent thing would be to just keep going. Let it sort itself out. Artefact storage was probably the last place anyone should be following strange sounds. Martin could picture the face Jon would pull if he told him he’d even considered it.

But if it was a human… If it was, and Martin could help, and he’d just left instead-

Martin couldn’t do that. Perhaps he couldn’t help, but he could at least find out what was going on. Maybe he could witness something weird. Give a statement. Sit across from Jon while he pried Martin open with his tongue-

Like, with questions. He was thinking about Jon asking questions.

Mostly decided, definitely not acting to distract himself from his own thoughts, Martin crept towards the far door. Down a hallway that felt like it should be darkened, but was as well lit as every other part of the Institute. The noises were getting louder but no more distinct. Except now, he could also hear a voice, speaking lowly enough that Martin couldn’t quite make out the words.

It was coming from the next room down. Martin paused just outside the doorway. Another silence had lulled, and he wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing, or a bad thing. He peeked around the door.

The room was mostly empty. It was one Martin had never looked in before, and it took him a moment to realize it was because he’d never seen the door opened. One of the heavy, oaken doors with the old school brass knob and thick, iron wrought key hole. Clearance level: higher than Martin would ever get. Not that it bothered him.

There was a man kneeling on the ground in the center of the room, and black, indistinct things twisted and coiled in the air around him. They wrapped securely up and down his arms, which were tugged tight behind his back, and slunk across his form in various loops. Coiled like ropes around his thighs, keeping his legs spread, up around his chest in scintillating patterns. One that Martin could see pulsing around his neck, dragging him forward and slightly down.

Not exactly what Martin had been expecting. He couldn’t tear his eyes away, certain that his mind was playing tricks with him. Because it looked like that was Jon, kneeling there, muscles trembling in the grasp of what seemed to be living ropes. Did he… Did he need help? Was it even him? Was this all some elaborate trap, or dream?

Not that he’d dreamed about anything like this. He might in the future.

Martin was still debating going in when he heard footsteps and flinched, ducking back out of sight.

“Jon,” he heard Elias say, and something in Martin’s chest gave a lurch. “How are you doing?”

A muffled groan answered him. Martin leaned back in, to see Elias standing before Jonathan now, the rope-things pulling Jon upwards in a long, arcing curve. Elias had one hand rubbing up and down the front of Jon’s throat and- and one of those things was in Jon’s mouth, and Jon moaned when Elias squeezed his hand.

“Any more ideas?” Jon jerked, and Martin could see his fists clench behind his back. Elias chuckled. “Ah, my apologies; it’s unfair to expect you to answer with your mouth so thoroughly occupied.”

Elias wrapped his free hand around the black tendril leaking out of Jon’s mouth and began pulling. The other he kept on Jon’s throat, winding the thing round and round his hand. Jon coughed as it finally came free, the tip of it writhing and curling in the air, like it was fighting to shove back down his throat. Jon took a few deep, shuddering breaths, while Elias stroked his hand through his hair.

“Th-the Darkness,” Jon said, his voice rougher than Martin had ever heard it, its smooth edges chipped away from recent misuse. Elias raised an eyebrow. The thing he’d pulled out of Jon was dissipating around his hand and he sighed.

“And what makes you say that?” Martin watched his hand tighten in Jon’s hair, pulling him back.

“Well, it’s black, and cr-” -something happened that made Jon’s whole body twitch, but Martin couldn’t tell what, precisely, it was- “-creeping, and v-vaguely oppressive, makes me want to sleep with the lights on tonight.”

“Are you even trying?” Elias asked, but he sounded amused. And with his now free hand he was stroking his cock, pulled out from the confines of his slacks.

“I was trying,” Jon snapped, and his body shook again. He probably was going to say more but Elias dragged him onto his cock instead, not stopping until Jon had swallowed him to his base.

Martin felt a rush of heat scatter through his body, shoot down to pool low in his stomach. He should- he should go, he should definitely go. This was – whatever was happening – it really didn’t have anything to do with him. Elias was moving his hips now, hand in Jon’s hair still guiding him, and Jon was making all these noises, deep in his throat, every time Elias thrust into him.

Martin would be gentler. He could even imagine it now, Jon on his knees in front of him, dark eyes gazing up at him, while Martin would sigh and pet him, hold himself still to let Jon take what he would – which would be all of him, Martin wanted to give Jon everything he had to give.

“You should be able to tell these things,” Elias said, his words spread between thrusts, his own voice taking on a breathless quality. He sunk himself in deep, holding Jon flush to his body and releasing some small sound of satisfaction. “An Archivist should be able to tell when a Power has claimed – infected – an item in our world.”

Jon shook again, his hips shifting restlessly, and after a long moment Elias pulled himself free, allowing Jon to gasp for breath again.

“You’ll have to forgive me for a bit-” -that thing happened again, punching the air out of Jon’s lungs- “-distracted.”

“Please, Jonathan. This is hardly the worst artefact I could have exposed you to.” He was back to running his hand through Jon’s hair. This part was worse, somehow – worse than watching Elias fuck Jon’s mouth was watching him look at Jon almost fondly. Watching Jon take obvious comfort from his touch.

“I think I’ve suddenly remembered all the statements I’ve taken regarding a fear of being fucked to death,” Jon sniped. Elias snorted.

“You’d be surprised what can be found in the Archives, Jon.”

“…You can’t be serious.”

“You’re clearly not; is this you telling me you forfeit?” Elias was smiling. They were playing some kind of game? Something about the Powers and their artefacts, Martin gathered.

“The Flesh?” Martin could hear Jon’s eye roll from here.

“You’re not going to win by guessing. It’s all right if you can’t tell yet; they all feel different. How did your friend put it? They’re like colors. Soon, you’ll be able to spy the variance between their hues.”

Jon let out a long sigh, his breath hitching at the end. Martin was definitely not disappointed that it sounded like they were winding down. Then Elias tipped Jon forward, and the black things around his body rearranged him, Jon ending up with his shoulders and the top of his chest on the floor, hips and ass in air.

“E-Elias,” Jon began, but was cut off by a moan, and from the new angle, Martin could see that those things were inside him, and a new flood of heat surged through his body at the thought that they’d been fucking Jon this whole time, causing all those little gasps and twitches. Martin squeezed his cock through his pants, hissing out a breath, his other hand white knuckled around the trim of the door.

“But for now,” Elias continued, as if he had never stopped, “unfortunately, that means you lose.”

As he’d done before, Elias gripped the tendrils writhing in Jon’s body, pulling them out at a leisurely pace. Jon quivered and shook, incoherent noises spilling endlessly from his mouth. With Elias finally quiet, it was easier to imagine Jon making those noises for Martin, picture them rising in intensity to the snap of his hips, to assume that the cut off sounds that stuck in his throat were unfinished versions of Martin’s name.

Again, as the tendrils slid loose, their ends twitched and pulled, yanking at Elias’ grasp. This time, Martin saw Elias’ grip slacken, allowing them to surge back into Jon in one sharp thrust. Jon cried out, his muscles shaking as he struggled against the things holding him tight. Elias shushed him, stroking a hand along his back while he pulled the tendrils free once more, holding them clear of Jon’s body and allowing them to dissipate into streamers of smoke.

Elias shifted to the side, both of his hands on Jon’s ass now, spreading him open. Almost like he was putting him on display, the angle perfect for Martin to see everything, the pale expanse of Jon’s flesh, his dick hard and leaking between his legs – and a jolt of arousal hit him, seeing those black things slinking around below the head of Jon’s cock, twisting and constricting.

“Jon,” Elias murmured. He settled into position behind Jon, his hands running up and down Jon’s bound sides, hips only barely teasing forward. “Would you like me to fuck you now?”

Jon made a pained sound in his throat. Waiting for Martin’s cock, so desperate for it he couldn’t even find the words. A strangely appealing thought – to make Jon utterly speechless.

“You don’t get anything you don’t ask for, Jonathan,” Elias said, and Jon moaned again. Martin didn’t know how Elias was able to hold back, couldn’t imagine being heartless enough to not give in then and there.

“Please, Elias,” Jon gasped, straining around his restraints. “What are you waiting for?”

Martin watched Elias shudder now, a tight smile on his face showing straight, even teeth.

“For you to beg me for it,” Elias answered. Martin wondered what it felt like – to be compelled like that, willingly. It seemed horrifying, tantalizing to place that kind of power in someone else’s hands. In Jon’s hands. To trust him not to misuse it.

“And if I don’t?”

Elias rolled his hips forward slowly and Jon threw his head back. “You will.”

“W-what makes you so sure?”

“Because you want to, too,” Elias said, quiet and sure. He slipped a hand between the two of them, rubbing at Jon in a way that had him jerking.

“Fuck,” Jon sighed. His chest heaved with quick, shallow breaths. “Elias, fuck me, please fuck me, please-”

Jon was cut off by Elias finally snapping his hips forward, burying himself in the Archivist, immediately beginning a brutal pace that gave credence to just how sorely his own patience must have been tested. One hand curled around Jon’s hip, the other twisting around the thick black thread crisscrossing Jon’s back, dragging him roughly onto his cock with every thrust.

Re: Fill: The Flesh and Bone and Truth Within (2/2)

(Anonymous) - 2018-08-05 21:59 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: The Flesh and Bone and Truth Within (2/2)

(Anonymous) - 2018-08-05 23:50 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: The Flesh and Bone and Truth Within (2/2)

(Anonymous) - 2018-08-13 11:23 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: The Flesh and Bone and Truth Within (2/2)

(Anonymous) - 2020-09-28 11:57 (UTC) - Expand

Fill: Jon/Elias+Martin, Voyeurism, jealousy, angst

(Anonymous) - 2020-05-07 04:37 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Jon/Elias+Martin, Voyeurism, jealousy, angst

(Anonymous) - 2020-05-07 05:35 (UTC) - Expand

Prompt: Elias/Jon/Martin, Praise kink, gentle!dom Elias, Elias directing Martin sexually

(Anonymous) 2018-08-08 12:08 pm (UTC)(link)
Inspired by another prompt on here; Martin walks in on Elias and Jon having sex. Elias invites Martin to join them, and instructs him on the best way to 'take care of' his Archivist, all the while praising both of them.

Prompt: Jon/Martin, the spiders ship it

(Anonymous) 2018-08-08 12:16 pm (UTC)(link)
The spiders that live in the archives adore Martin, and are getting fed up of Jon and Martin awkwardly dancing around each other, so decide to intervene. Spider shenanigans ensue; one crawls on Jon's collar so Martin has to remove it etc. Eventually they just give up all subtlety and wrap one of them up naked so that the other has to rescue them. Humans really don't understand what's for their own good.

Fill: Jon/Martin, the spiders ship it (1/?)

(Anonymous) 2019-10-11 10:15 pm (UTC)(link)
Feeling encouraged by the recent comments welcoming wip posts, and I've made a start at a s3 plotbunny for this prompt. It's kinda pre-slash bonding and spider creepiness, and the spiders have complicated motives.

---

"Do you have a second, Martin?" Jon asked hesitantly, his right hand resting on the open door of the assistants' office.

"Oh, sure. What do you need?" Martin shifted his chair back and took a second to study Jon's appearance. No new injuries, no particular signs of distress... He was spinning his lighter in his burned left hand, a nervous habit that had gotten worse since his return to the Institute.

"I - I was just in the library, and both copies of Gussan's Almanac are checked out. Basira said you might have one of them."

"Ah, yeah. Sorry, I was using it the other day, I keep meaning to take it back upstairs. It'll be here somewhere..."

Martin rifled through the set of drawers under his desk, shifting folders and loose papers aside. After checking beneath the pile of cassettes and notebooks in the lowest drawer, he hesitated, trying to recall whether he might've left the book in the cafeteria or brought it home. Should he double check the other drawers? If he admitted to losing it, then Jon...

Well, maybe Jon wouldn't snap at him. He hadn't taken that tone much, recently. Not since they'd found out about Leitner, and Sasha. Not since the kidnappings, plural, and Jon's apology for a series of absences that hadn't even been his fault, for the most part. Not since they'd learned about the apocalyptic ritual looming over their heads, and finally pulled together as a team to prepare. As far as Martin could tell, Jon was treading carefully, testing the soundness of half-burned bridges, but unpleasant surprises could still test his patience.

Honestly, it was silly to worry about a misplaced library book. He could deal with Jon at his worst, and things were getting better between them these days. One little misstep wouldn't set them back, right? Right?

Gritting his teeth, Martin checked the top drawer again, just in case. Gussan's Almanac lay on top of his paperwork, covered in cobwebs. Huh.

"Here it is!" Martin tried to rub away the worst of the webs with his sleeve before setting it on his desk.

When he looked up, Jon had taken a step back. His grip on his lighter had turned white-knuckled, and his stare was fixed on the book.

"Why don't I clean it up and stop by your office later?" Martin suggested.

"Ah, yes, that would be... Later is fine." Jon backed away another step, then disappeared from the doorway in a hurry.

Martin glanced around the ceiling until he spotted a cobweb in the far corner.

"Was that, uh, did you just...?" Wait, what sort of reaction was he expecting? It couldn't hurt to be polite, at least. "Thanks, I guess?"

Re: Fill: Jon/Martin, the spiders ship it (1/?)

(Anonymous) - 2019-10-12 05:21 (UTC) - Expand

Prompt: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

(Anonymous) 2018-08-08 10:57 pm (UTC)(link)
Elias decides it's time to take measures to discourage Nikola from skinning his Archivist for her frock - Beholding imagery that would disrupt her ritual should do the trick. And maybe it does a little more than that, too.

Re: Prompt: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

(Anonymous) 2018-08-13 11:24 am (UTC)(link)
Ohhh shit I’m. I’m really into this. I don’t know if I can figure out how to write it but I’m so, so into this.

Re: Prompt: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

(Anonymous) - 2018-08-15 11:54 (UTC) - Expand

Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing (1/???)

(Anonymous) - 2018-09-01 10:34 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing (1/???)

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Re: Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing (1/???)

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Re: Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing (1/???)

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Re: Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing (1/???)

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Re: Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing (1/???)

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Re: Prompt: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

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Re: Prompt: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

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Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

(Anonymous) - 2019-08-09 11:07 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

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Re: Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

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Re: Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

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Re: Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

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Re: Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

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Re: Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

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Re: Fill: Elias/Jon, dub-con/non-con tattooing

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Prompt: Martin/Tim, Michael/Jon, matchmaker Michael

(Anonymous) 2018-08-09 12:39 pm (UTC)(link)
The Archivist spends too much time worrying about his assistants, and not enough time paying attention to Michael. Michael's not jealous, of course he doesn't feel jealously...but maybe if the assistants were wrapped up in each other there would less rivals for the Archivist's attention. The two survivors from the tunnels, the way they interacted and held close to one another within his corridors...yes, this could work.

Re: Prompt: Martin/Tim, Michael/Jon, matchmaker Michael

(Anonymous) 2019-08-20 07:45 pm (UTC)(link)
oh I loe this idea please someone write it

Prompt: Michael/Mike Crew, possessive

(Anonymous) 2018-08-11 02:52 am (UTC)(link)

Before he belonged to the Vast he was the Spiral’s, as Michael loves to remind him.

Fill: Michael/Mike Crew, possessive

(Anonymous) 2019-11-10 11:11 pm (UTC)(link)
[read on ao3, if you'd prefer] (https://archiveofourown.org/works/21387910)

There is something very pleasing about mapping Mike’s scar with his fingers, Michael reflects. It presses the sharp edges of its false skin to his pale, ordinary flesh, matching every branching pathway that marks him. Michael fancies it can feel electricity humming, vicious, below his skin.

“Oh, dear Michael,” it croons. “It seems you’ve lost your way.”

Mike’s eyes are the defiant brightness of flickering lightning. He doesn’t say a word — sensible, really, since Michael’s fingers would probably cut his throat if he tried. How boring, though. Michael is an excellent conversationalist.

They’re falling, of course. The swooping sensation in its stomach — or the part of its anatomy most closely aligned to the stomach — is a novel thing, and Michael graciously allows Mike to indulge in the pointless comfort of a cloudless sky. Madness is not bound to any one location, after all, and the endless blue is a mind-bending impossibility Michael enjoys.

It brings another hand up to card through Mike’s hair, doing its very best parody of a soothing caretaker. It likes being friendly, even if its friends so often seem to perish.

“It is a shame, really. Perhaps if things had been different, you could have avoided all this unpleasantness. Ah, well, such is life, isn’t it?”

When Mike opens his mouth to speak, Michael presses its fingers closer to his skin. He lets out a low whine of pain, eyes flashing in a delightful mixture of terror and anger.

(So similar to the Archivist, this one, but the games they play will have very different ends.)

“Wh—” Mike can’t even get his first word out, interrupted by his own fallible human agony. Crimson seeps from underneath Michael’s touch as Mike’s throat shifts. Michael had been half-expecting him to bleed lightning, but blood is equally acceptable.

“Use your words,” it instructs, caressing his cheek with its palm.

“What— do you mean?” Mike’s voice is strained, but admirably even-toned.

“Who’s to say that I mean anything? I am not in the habit of meaning anything at all.”

Michael laughs, and the sound makes Mike flinch, blood beginning to trickle from his nose. It is Michael’s nature to prevaricate, of course, but it decides to take pity, just this once.

“I mean that you’re buried. Not Buried, precisely, although I suppose any confinement must feel like the worst of Too-Close-I-Cannot-Breathe to one who serves your master.”

Mike’s breaths grow shallower, and Michael tightens its fingers around his throat. It has never met anyone with such a fetching scar. Perhaps it should have been more artistic when it left its mark on the Archivist. A fractal would look very striking on his skin, and the Eye would abhor it.

“Did you not remember?”

By the horror in Mike’s eyes, it’s clear he did not. Michael isn’t inclined to speculate on why exactly his mind has played this trick on him; it just savours the taste of his fear. That claustrophobic self-delusion dances through all the impossible geometries of Michael’s being.

“I’m afraid you can’t escape It-Is-Not-What-It-Is forever. Madness is a tenacious thing.”

“No,” Mike says, but it’s clear he’s uncertain.

There is a smudge of mud against his forehead that was not there before. They are still falling, but the walls are closing in. Michael leans across Mike so the soil doesn’t choke him.

Where Michael reopened his scar, blood drips slowly down his face, and Michael runs fingertips along the cut until Mike hisses. The fractal extends far beyond flesh, and Michael is quite tempted to keep opening and opening until Mike can do nothing but submit to the Spiral’s hold on his being. He could be something quite breathtaking, if only he gave in. In the hungry press of earth, Michael considers its options. It has never been very decisive.

It could kill Mike. Very easily, in fact. It could do worse, and leave Mike underground, too weak to free himself from his torment. But Michael can sympathise with being trapped. It doesn’t want to leave him in this cage of dirt and stone. He will be more interesting when allowed to roam.

It would be difficult to open a door underground, but not impossible — or rather, it would be impossible, and that is exactly why Michael can do it. It is just a question of where to lead him. He will find the constricting madness of the corridors deeply unpleasant. Michael smiles again.

“Whatever you want, you’re not getting,” Mike says. His voice is lower now that Michael has stopped wounding him, but he is no less panicked. If he isn’t careful, he’ll use up all his air.

Michael presses a palm to his blood-slick throat, feeling him swallow at the pressure.

“But what if I want to save you?”

Mike manages to summon a tired laugh, and Michael frowns. It strokes its hand across his scar again, wiping away his distrust and replacing it with shuddering pain. Through the dark, his eyes gleam with an echo of that lightning, though he’s clearly weaker than before, poor thing.

Yes, it decides. It wants to save Mike.

“I can set you free,” it sing-songs. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Mike stares up at him. It might be hatred in his eyes, buried underneath layers of resignation.

“I don’t believe you,” Mike says. He’s too clever to trust the Twisting Deceit, though Michael has no intent to do anything more than obfuscate the truth. Outright lies are so often boring.

“And?” Michael lets the earth shift around them until it weighs Mike down. His breath turns shallow with panic, though Michael obligingly presses its palm over his mouth and nose so he doesn’t choke. His eyes have turned desperate, darting from left to right, up and down, sweetly hopeless. “I could easily leave you here. I assure you, no one else is coming for you.”

It can feel the movement of Mike’s lips against its palm. It suspects he wants to bite in some instinctive retaliation, but he knows better than to consume unknown substances. Besides, Michael’s proclamation engenders a fresh wave of terror in him; with significant struggle against the heavy dirt, he moves his hand up to grasp at Michael’s wrist, keeping it in place.

“I won’t ask anything in return,” Michael says. “I swear on, hm, my heart. How does that sound?”

Mike makes a sound of resigned agreement. For all their commonalities, he is more sensible than the Archivist — he knows when is the correct time to give in.

“Excellent.”

Michael hums a Shepard tone as it considers how, exactly, it is going to pull Mike from the soil’s grasp. Given the confined space, some abstraction will be required.

“All you need to do is open the door,” Michael murmurs.

It smiles at Mike, gently tugging its hand from his grip as it leans downwards. Before the earth can rush in to suffocate him, Michael presses its lips to his. A mouth is an opening is a door, after all, and some would argue that Michael’s door is a mouth in turn.

Mike jerks like he’s been shocked. He tastes of dirt and blood and the upper layers of the atmosphere, all thin air and vertigo. The dizziness is pleasant, and Michael is happy to reciprocate. Mike’s eyes go unfocused, and he makes a sound of pure desperate need. Michael laughs against his mouth, feeling how it resonates between them.

The earth parts for Michael easily as it shifts a hand to the back of Mike’s neck, urging him upwards into the kiss. This is up to Mike, now. Michael is just the door.

Mike is delirious, of course. Michael’s touch frequently has that effect, and they have been in close proximity for quite some time now. It is— gratifying. Frustrating, given what Michael is trying to achieve, but gratifying.
Michael pulls him impossibly closer. Mike’s eyes flutter shut, lashes stuck together with soil.

It doesn’t take long for Mike to yield, lips parting on a breath that tastes of ozone. That acrid-tang capitulation is all Michael needs. One moment, they are entombed together, and the next, Mike is tumbling head-first through a vertical stretch of corridor. Never let it be said that Michael is not accommodating of the needs of others.

Mike curses, but when Michael peers out of the mirrors, there’s something of euphoria to his face. The earth has left stains like bruises on his skin, but those will fade. The Spiral’s mark — Michael’s mark — will remain etched on his skin forever.

Re: Fill: Michael/Mike Crew, possessive

(Anonymous) - 2019-11-10 23:54 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Michael/Mike Crew, possessive

(Anonymous) - 2019-11-12 01:33 (UTC) - Expand

Prompt: Tim/Not Sasha, general creepery

(Anonymous) 2018-08-16 07:33 am (UTC)(link)
Because the Not Them was an emotional sadist and this would have been extra awful. Maybe it even tasted the mark of his previous brush with the Stranger on him.

Prompt: Gertrude/Michael Shelley, Power Imbalance

(Anonymous) 2018-08-18 12:00 pm (UTC)(link)
He's just so devoted and eager to please her, right? Maybe she takes advantage of that, sexily. Or maybe it's an act of mercy on her part, giving him what he wants. Maybe she'll just watch him get himself off for her.

Any level of consent is fine, as well as any level of awkward and uncomfortable.

Prompt: Peter Lukas/Michael Shelley, sharing warmth

(Anonymous) 2018-08-18 12:37 pm (UTC)(link)
While Peter is taking Michael and Gertrude to Sannikov Land, Michael gets really, really cold and Peter warms him. With sex.

Bonuses for Gertrude's réaction.

Re: Prompt: Peter Lukas/Michael Shelley, sharing warmth

(Anonymous) 2019-08-20 07:46 pm (UTC)(link)
yes please

PROMPT: Onesided Elias/Jon (Jonah Magnus) Reincarnation. Obsession

(Anonymous) 2018-08-20 04:01 am (UTC)(link)
For the last 200 years, Elias has been there, Guiding his Archivist. It's an onerous job. Jonah, In whatever form he takes, will always be Jonah. Unfalteringly curious and prone to putting himself in danger. Jon is no exception. He'll take the hateful glares and impertinent remarks as he has done so a hundred times. It's the same song and dance really, Its all a matter on time before he is Elias' once more. And besides, Jonah always settles down once he's lost an assistant or two. Focus on current day Jon/ Elias or even 1800's Jonah/Elias! (Hell you can even pick a reincarnation in the middle). Smut or no smut! It doesn't matter! Just please give me more creepy Elias!

Prompt: Jon/Tim, inexperienced!Jon, teasing, praise kink

(Anonymous) 2018-08-20 07:23 am (UTC)(link)
Tim decides what Jon really needs to unwind is to get laid. Jon's only been with one or two people, and it was a while back, and Tim figures this out quickly. Cue lots of Tim-style teasing about how responsive and eager Jon is, and lots of praise he clearly enjoys but refuses to show he enjoys.

Bonus points for Jon coming early/coming in his pants and being embarrassed about it, only to have Tim work him up so he comes again.

Re: Prompt: Jon/Tim, inexperienced!Jon, teasing, praise kink

(Anonymous) 2018-08-20 07:04 pm (UTC)(link)
Intriguing! At what point in canon were you thinking?

Prompt: Martin/Tim, prostitution, loss of virginity

(Anonymous) 2018-08-26 08:51 pm (UTC)(link)
Could be either an AU or pre-canon. Martin figures he can sell his virginity to help provide for his mum, but when he goes out to look for a client he's spotted by Tim (either wandering the area or a sex worker himself), who can immediately see that Martin's going to get himself hurt or killed. He tries talking him out of it, but Martin's stubborn, so Tim pays him twice what he was asking for and proceeds to make sure to give him the best first time he possibly can.

Prompt: Georgie/Jon, Rough Sex, Kitten Play

(Anonymous) 2018-08-30 08:07 am (UTC)(link)
Courtesy of the prompt generator. Georgie actually calling Jon "kitten" is a huge bonus.

Fill: Georgie/Jon, Rough Sex, Kitten Play

(Anonymous) 2018-08-31 12:46 pm (UTC)(link)
content warnings: internal self-shaming by jon about his own kinks.


This should be embarrassing. Strike that, this should be humiliating. What sort of man is he, that he can't get off by the usual means? That he needs this from his partner, to go away in his own head?

The first time they tried it, he hadn't been able to stomach it. Used his safeword, stomach turning, and refused Georgie's attempts at comfort — simply took his clothes and left. He couldn't look her in the eye for a week after that, certain that this was it again — he'd ruined their friendship for good because even after all these years he was incapable of just being normal for her.

Of course, when he'd tried to express this sentiment she'd been indignant. "Maybe I don't want 'normal'. Maybe I'm not 'normal', Jon, and maybe I don't think there's anything wrong with that!"

The second time they tried, it went... better. He was flustered at first, found it difficult to play the part however much he wanted to, but Georgie offered to help take him out of his own head a bit—

("You don't have to, ah," he demurs, not meeting her eyes.

She grips his chin and makes him, full lips crooking. "Not a hardship," he tells him, fingernails biting into his jaw so sharp his eyes water. "Promise.")

— Which is why they have always started with pain. It gives structure to what they're doing that Jon enjoys: she'll hurt him until he's mindless enough to play with her, and then in return he gratifies her in some way to end the scene. His own orgasm is fairly incidental, not what he's seeking from this, but he'd insisted on pleasuring her being a part of it—

("Not a hardship," he tells her, words breathed against her bare shoulder, both hands dipped between her legs. "Promise.")

So by now he doesn't blush when she puts him on his knees, doesn't curl up inside with shame when the open crack of her palm across his face makes his cock twitch upwards. Georgie is well aware of the way his body responds when she slaps him like this. Her affect is careless, as though this is as thoughtless as running a hand through his hair, but she's taken all her rings off and each strike has a calculated deliberation.

She slaps both cheeks with firm, heavy blows, and though the end result is Jon all flushed with his eyes watering from the sharpness of the sting, he isn't humiliated. He doesn't fear her. His wet lashes fall closed, and he keeps his shoulders back so she can look down and see that she's got him fully erect, cock ready for use.

It's not really a surprise when she pushes him backwards. He goes, legs still under him from the knee, thighs burning as she pushes him flat on his back. "I've had a long day," Georgie explains, maybe a little apologetically, "And I just, I need to come, all right? I'm not going to be any good to you if I don't get off first."

Jon nods, looking up at her, serene and adoring. She hasn't given him paws and tail yet, hasn't taken him to that place where he's no longer Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London, but he's definitely already skirting the edges of sub-space, and even if he wasn't... well, his feelings for Georgie are as complicated as ever, but he cares about her. He wants to make her feel good. Aversion to this intimacy was never part of what he still quietly thinks of as his dysfunction.

Georgie pinches his nipple suddenly and he gasps, snapped back from chasing that thought down its rabbit hole. She's knelt over him, and parts the lips of her cunt with two fingers so he can see the glimpse of damp pink, bright in contrast to her dark skin. He watches, fascinated, as her other hand lifts his erection from tapping at his abdomen and she sinks onto it with an exhale. Not all the way down — this isn't fucking. She just angles him to where the head of his cock rubs inside her in just the right way, and grinds there.

"You like that, don't you, kitten," Georgie murmurs, sweet and a little mean. Jon's gaze trails up her body; she's arced over him a little, hand on his chest to steady herself, nails digging in hard enough she might draw blood. "You like being my dildo."

"I do," admits Jon, because he thinks sometimes she needs the reassurance herself — that she's not being selfish, that he gets something from this. He sucks on two of his fingers and slips them between her legs, public hair rough against his palm as he finds her clit and just presses gently there, letting her rub on them as she grinds.

"Fuck," Georgie exhales, eyes screwing shut, and he thinks he might love her like this, getting frenetic over him, the hair she spends so much time on in wild sweaty strands against her forehead, baby hairs re-curling a little with the moisture, her lower lip between her teeth, her tits bouncing, her cunt flexing around him as she rides him selfishly to her own rough climax. It's vulnerable, and human, and it makes him feel good to be allowed to see this — and to please her.

When she's done she seats herself on him wholly and goes rigid-tight around his cock, and then stays there, shaking and panting through the aftershocks. Jon watches, eerily unblinking, touches her until she winces and bats his hand away.

"You might have to," he starts, voice half an octave lower, husky. "I may need you to move— off."

She understands what he means, thankfully, and he shudders as she slides off him, his cock popping out of her and flexing upwards again. He can feel his pulse in every blood-hot inch of it — dangerously close to coming. He presses his hand to it quietly, closes his eyes, unsure. He's wet from her — it would only take a couple of good strokes.

"Let's get you ready," says Georgie gently. She always seems to understand what he needs, maybe better than he does. When to push and when not to.

She starts with the paws — they're just mittens, really, but they take away the use of his hands, and with it the tension as to whether he's going to jerk himself off. He lets his arms splay up over his head, passive again, and she rubs his stomach approvingly. Jon's eyelids go heavy.

Next is the gag, the whiskers of it brushing his cheeks. They have other accessories — ears, tail, more a costume than bondage, but he shakes his head when she offers them. Some days he needs them, others they just feel clunky, a little silly. So the final piece today is the collar, just a scrap of pet store plastic with a little bell.

"There," Georgie says, coaxing him up. "What a handsome kitten."

Jon snorts, and if he did have a tail it would be raising. Even with the pain and the sex he's always a little ornery to start with. He ignores her praise and stretches up, hearing his spine pop, and then goes on his hands and knees on the bed, puts his paws forward and his ass in the air, stretching that way, too. Georgie slaps his ass lightly and he makes a noise.

"Please," she laughs, "You know exactly what that little pose looks like. Come on, kitten. I'm going to wash up and get something to eat."

He follows her. It's very freeing, to have nothing to do except follow her — but also not be beholden. He's a cat, he could go and curl up on the bed, or join the Admiral in front of the radiator, or bother Georgie until she fed him or pet him. For now he's content to trail her into the bathroom and wait on the mat while she takes a quick shower — and he doesn't have to be embarrassed about watching her, fascinated by the slope and curves of her body, the way water beads and slides across her skin. It's not unusual for cats to stare.

After, she slips into panties and an old t-shirt, reheats them some tuna bake, puts Jon's in front of him on the floor but doesn't watch as he dips and eats it from the plate with delicate bites. He has to focus intently so as not to make a mess, and afterwards he sits and cleans his face, licking the back of his paws.

Georgie washes up their plates — he'd done the dishes while she was out today, so it's not long before she's retiring to the couch to watch the telly. He rubs at her calves with his cheek, allows her to coax him up onto the couch with her. There, it's so easy to just rest his head in her lap, breathe in the scent of her sex and the warmth of her thighs, her fingers playing soothingly through his hair. Jon's never cared about television before, and hasn't started now — it's just background noise as he sinks into the comfort of Georgie's touch, the bliss of mindlessness.

It's late when she wakes him, so she must have dozed off herself, though at some point she tossed a blanket over his naked form. Jon no longer feels like a cat, and he sits up properly so she can take off the gag and collar and mittens, pliable and a little sleepy.

"Could I, um," he says hoarsely, faltering, words coming slowly. "Could I request..." He knows Georgie prefers specificity from his requests, which means no euphemisms, but he still can't meet her eyes when he admits, "I'd like to come tonight, I think." The absolute on-edge need of earlier has faded, his cock softened, but he can still feel the itch under his skin, a physical restlessness that makes him want to squirm and rub against something.

"Course," Georgie says, always generous. "Come on, kitten, you're sleeping in my bed."

Jon follows her — walking, this time, though he sticks close, feeling very slightly awkward in his nudity now. Georgie gets them both a glass of water, and a damp cloth for Jon because she knows he hates being messy, and god it makes him feel warm inside, the way she knows him and cares about him in her own rough way.

"You're tired," he says, trying to show a little empathy of his own. "We don't have to—"

"Shut up, Jon," Georgie says. They lie down together and she tucks up behind him, one arm curling up across his chest to wrap a hand around his throat, the other dipping over his hip to grip him roughly. He groans helplessly as she works him hard, tight fist relentless except for the occasional twist of his balls, her nails sharp at his throat, hand squeezing occasionally to leave him dizzy. The only thing that would make this better would be if she was fucking him, using him again, and he imagines her soft grunts as thick silicon penetrated both of them, imagines how good he could make her feel, his lovely Georgie, and gets frantic, bucking into her hand.

"Come now, kitten," Georgie tells him, nipping his shoulder, and he cries out as he does, curling into the sensation. She works him until his cries are from pain instead of pleasure, and then just a little more after that, before finally letting him go. Jon sinks into the white noise of the aftermath gratefully, barely aware of her cleaning him up, tucking them in. He tosses a leg across her thighs, gives a long sigh.

"You okay?" Georgie whispers in the dark.

"Yes, thank you," Jon replies. Nuzzles against her chest through her t-shirt — she strokes his hair.

"I worry about you, you know," she tells him. "I mean, much as I can, considering."

"I know," says Jon. There's not much else he can say, even if he was feeling more verbal. It's not as though this changes anything, really. Tomorrow will bring with it all the usual stressors and fears, the slow loss of his humanity to something hungry... but for now Jon, relaxed, allows himself to be content.

Re: Fill: Georgie/Jon, Rough Sex, Kitten Play

(Anonymous) - 2018-08-31 18:29 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Georgie/Jon, Rough Sex, Kitten Play

(Anonymous) - 2018-09-01 02:20 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Georgie/Jon, Rough Sex, Kitten Play

(Anonymous) - 2020-10-27 04:15 (UTC) - Expand

Prompt: Mike Crew/Michael Shelley, Flowershop AU, Kink discovery

(Anonymous) 2018-08-30 08:35 am (UTC)(link)
From the prompt generator.
Michael Shelley goes to buy flowers for someone, and starts asking the cute guy at the language of flowers. Mike Crew doesn't know the first thing about it, he just works the counter, but this gawky tall guy is adorable so he bullshits his way into something to make Michael happy. Michael in turn is really impressed and develops a bit of a crush, so keeps making excuses to come back and talk about flowers more. Mike has to continue to act like he knows what he's talking about, or he's worried that cute tall guy will leave.
When sex does happen, Michael learns that despite people assuming that due to his height he would want to be in charge, he is actually very submissive. Sensation play with a flower would be nice too, as well as playing off of the height difference (about one (1) and a half feet!)
Bonus points for name confusion shenanigans.

Prompt: Martin/Jon, came back wrong, accidental marriage

(Anonymous) 2018-08-30 08:37 am (UTC)(link)
When Martin dies, Jon attempts a ritual to bring him back. It works, in a way, but to prevent Martin from being claimed by the End Jon accidently bound their very souls together.

Prompt: Peter Lukas/Martin Blackwood; Lukas family gang bang, oviposition, breeding.

(Anonymous) 2018-09-01 01:49 am (UTC)(link)
How does the Lukas family keep finding spooky singles to breed with? Peter takes his newest acquisition home to meet the family and they welcome Martin by filling him with monster eggs and/or come.

Bonus points if Martin is fully informed in advance but goes anyway, extra bonus points for inhuman anatomy.

Fill: Peter Lukas/Martin Blackwood; Lukas family gang bang, oviposition, breeding.

(Anonymous) 2020-02-13 12:03 am (UTC)(link)
filled on ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/22685554

Prompt: Daisy/Basira, K-9 unit AU, fluff.

(Anonymous) 2018-09-01 01:52 am (UTC)(link)
Daisy and Basira are part of the K-9 unit and have German Shepherds. They don't get along at first but their dogs are bonded siblings so they are assigned as partners.

(DNW bestiality, thanks!)

Prompt: Jon/anyone, omorashi/desperation/watersports.

(Anonymous) 2018-09-01 02:05 am (UTC)(link)
Jon records a statement that is longer than expected, and wets himself or comes close to doing so. Someone catches him and one or both parties realize they have a big kink (could be for watersports or just for Jon being desperate/humiliated/messy.)

Fill: Jon/Elias, omorashi/desperation/watersports. (1/2)

(Anonymous) 2018-09-11 01:36 pm (UTC)(link)
(Contains dubious consent, humiliation, mild bladder torture, characters kinking on compulsions, and vague spoilers through most recent episodes.)

Jon’s office is in a state of what he likes to think of as organized chaos. The last few weeks have been a particular sort of torture, and he supposes his working – and, if he is honest, living – spaces have adjusted to reflect this reality. He never has been a fan of the wait and see method. Sitting on a bed of figurative pins, flinching at shadows; none of that his ideal.

At least, if they were doing something - if there were anything to be done - Jon could have something to occupy his restless mind. Something that might stymy the erratic flow of his thoughts, stifle the low-brewing dread that seems to cling to all of them, anymore, lending teeth to Tim’s increasingly rigid smiles, setting a tremor in Martin’s hands that makes teacups rattle and shake when he extends them kindly, and misguidedly.

The effect is less pronounced on Daisy, who prowls the halls with the manner of some loping, misplaced predator. She continues to stalk along in his shadow, skulking at his peripheries, serving whatever ends Elias has decided she must pursue. Waiting, to her, seems to come naturally. If waiting is the right word for what she does, seeped in carnage and intent. When he considers her, he thinks of animals crouched in underbrushes, still save for their eyes, gliding to track unaware and unassuming prey.

Unfortunately, and doing little and less for the state of his mental well-being, Jon most often feels that gaze locked onto himself. Pinned between his shoulderblades. A fine place for a knife to slide between his ribs.

Melanie avoids them all. Or perhaps she’s avoiding Jon, specifically.

Basira – she’s caught Jon off guard. She comes by every so often, with statements she’s read but not recorded, dropping them on his desk with a practiced air of disregard. Jon had bought it entirely the first few times she’d saddled him with a stack and then found reasons after to linger in his office. Browsing his bookshelves or whittling through the short array of topics that either of them might engage with for small talk. Her eyes constantly ticking back to Jon as he sorted through what she’d offered him. As he let something that was almost instinctive, but not quite – too new, too unfamiliar for it to be natural – dictate whether he discarded them or saved them for later, already considering the stack of blank tapes tucked into his desk drawer.

“How do you do that?” she’d finally asked, thumping her palms flat onto his desk as she leaned into his space.

“I-I beg your pardon,” he’d said.

“The statements,” she said. Paused to tear her gaze away from his own. “How do you know which ones to read? Which ones won’t- record, properly.”

“I- I don’t know,” he’d said, and stopped. “I just… do.”

She’d studied him, brows furrowed a little bit, as if by looking long enough she could find a statement writ in the lines of his face, the awkward twist and twitch of his lips – the way he could only hold eye contact for so long before he was driven to flick his gaze away. Maybe she could.

Jon doesn’t know if his answer satisfied her in any way. He rather suspects it hadn’t. Honestly, he’s not sure why she cared at all, what question was lurking unsaid between her words. He’s never been good at figuring out that kind of thing. Well, now that he can pull secrets out like loose teeth, it’s a moot point, isn’t it?

Jon frowns, shaking his head. He reaches for his cup of tea and finds it empty, and instead takes a sip from a water bottle Martin had dropped off earlier. Something about staying hydrated, Martin had said, and Jon’s still thinking about hidden words, disguised meanings, how he wants to pin every syllable down and ask them to say what they mean, what they want from him. Of course, when it comes to Martin, all he means is that he’s worried about Jon.

His water bottle is close to empty, too. Jon’s been holed up in his office most of the day. Before that he’d scoured the still boxed and uncatalogued statements, hoping for something – anything – that might give them more clues as to what they can expect from the Stranger and its circus. Some statement that had been misfiled, or misplaced, forgotten and overlooked by both Gertrude and Elias that would have a key detail hidden within its narrative.

Yeah. Jon isn’t exactly holding his breath.

Still, it has kept him occupied, and a glance to the clock shows that he’s nearly managed to fritter away another day. This might all be borrowed time, he knows. These next few weeks may be the last he has to be impatient for the day to end, and some part of him is convinced that he should be more- something. Appreciative, maybe? Savor the normalcy he can before he dies, or worse. Easier said than done.

Easier to not think about it at all. He sighs, setting the last statement he’d looked through to the side. It hadn’t been a real one, anyway, but a cursory glance through the tagging system (a sophisticated series of post-it notes plastered to its front page in various people’s handwriting) had made it seem promising from the outside. Clowns, in particular, was a word that had shown up multiple times – once, even, underlined, with three exclamation points the only punctuation.

Worthless. Jon drums his fingers on the desk. There’s only one statement left, and honestly, it’s a bit intimidating. One of the larger statements he’s seen, with little to no supplemental materials or readily verifiable facts, but at this point he’s come to expect that from the Archives. He drags a finger down the front of its manila folder, feeling that sensation he couldn’t name for Basira, his mouth dry.

The tape recorder is already on his desk. It’s almost the end of the day. He could leave it until tomorrow. More than likely, there’s nothing more of interest in this one than the last, and if he’s really honest, he’s not expecting to find anything at all.

More embarrassingly, but also more pressingly, he feels a familiar twinging in his bladder, a discomfort deep between his hips that’s been on and off for the past half-hour or so already. It’s a minor issue, nothing worth interrupting his workflow over. But something that he should probably take care of if he’s going to be recording something. And if that’s the case, well, he might as well just end for the night-

The tape recorder clicks on. Jon blinks, startled, before glaring at it. He’s not going to let an inanimate object dictate what he does, and he opens his mouth to say so before pausing. This would be the first actual statement he’s read this week. And it’s right here. He wants to walk away, what, because he has to use the bathroom? Because he’s irritated that the Archives are being more sentient and micromanaging than normal?

“Statement of Paul Verveen, regarding a blind date,” Jon begins, pausing to clear his throat and take another drink of water, “and their subsequent, unusual encounters.”

The statement is long, and meandering. Jon finds himself sinking into its depths in an almost hypnotic kind of way. Another person’s story – another person’s fears, their life – washing over him, lapping across him like waves. It’s always a bit unnerving, to find his cadence shifting to unfamiliar rhythms, his heart pounding as if these were things he had experienced, had known for himself.

The thrill of meeting someone new, the soft rose-colored world of newly blossomed infatuation (these were not things Jon had much experience with). The slowly dawning realization that something was not right with the world, that at some point reality as he’d known it before had shifted ever-so-slightly, an off-kilter feeling that warped all things inward towards itself, until the entire universe seemed bent and strange (these were more familiar).

“Statement ends,” he says, grateful as he ever is to come back into himself. Except this time that comes with an unfortunate stab of something that is skirting the edge of pain, the pressure in his bladder nigh short of unbearable and causing him to gasp quietly and press his legs together beneath the desk.

It seems that issue has become more pressing over the past – Jon’s gaze jumps to the clock – forty minutes.

“Well,” Jon says, “Paul Verveen seems to be a singularly… verbose man. Can’t say I’m surprised to hear a tale of a blind date ending poorly, though I suspect that most people don’t find themselves set up with a- No-Face, as he called it. Obviously-”

Jon stops, sucking in a breath, digging his fingers into wood of his desk. It’s hard to concentrate. His body keeps drawing his attention back to itself, giving a sudden pulse of clenching tension before fading back to a dull, baseline ache. And all he really keeps thinking about is relaxing his muscles, how it would feel, how much a relief it would be to just-

He needs to finish this.

“Obviously, facts in cases such as these are difficult to verify,” Jon says quickly. “Records of Paul Verveen and the woman he- was seeing, are able to confirm the existence of both. Mr. Verveen has since moved out of London, and has stated he has no further interest in being contacted by Institute staff.”

The transcript log of the follow-up call with Paul Verveen specifically noted the words fuck off as featuring prominently in their discussion. Jon shifts in his seat, tilting his weight from one leg to another. There’s no easing of his… predicament to be found, and in fact the moments of movement only make it worse, but he can’t stop, it’s either that, or-

“Miss Ekers did indeed reside at 45 Baldock Street at the time that she and Mr. Verveen were meant to have been dating, and she has since dropped out of communication with friends and family.

“All told, it seems like a pretty straightforward case, and it definitely has all the hallmarks of a creature associated with the Stranger – but nothing to do with the Unknowing, which is the more pressing matter at this time. Maybe we can revisit this one at a later date – assuming we’ve all survived to a later date, that is. End Recording.”

Jon jams his fingers on the stop switch a bit harder than necessary and sighs. He rushed through that. The knowledge doesn’t sit easily with him, and he thinks maybe he’ll have to come back and do it again – or perhaps just add on a supplemental recording, when there’s a knock on his door.

He freezes. Considers ignoring it entirely, but there’s no one at the Institute that would actually be dissuaded by him not inviting them inside. Maybe it will be quick.

“Come in,” he says, feeling like he’s making a mistake even as the words leave his mouth, and Elias stepping through his open door all but confirms that suspicion.

“Jon,” Elias says mildly in greeting. He shuts the door behind himself. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you. I had actually meant to do so, earlier, but-”

“-Yes, yes, pressing matters to attend to, right? We’ve all got to do our part to stop the end of the world,” Jon says. He shifts restlessly as Elias settles into the chair across from his desk. The man is chuckling, like Jon’s being amusing and not just a prick.

Like Elias is a man at all and not just a monster.

“Indeed. I see that you’ve kept yourself busy.”

Jon slaps the folder closed. A feeling similar to getting caught at something making him want to slip the fruits of his useless labors out of sight. “Yes, well, we need all the information we can get.”

“Of course,” Elias says smoothly. “I would never discourage your attempts to learn more for yourself, Jon.”

“Except when they come from sources you don’t approve of,” Jon snaps. He wants this conversation to end. His bladder hurts, and he keeps making these automatic, half-aborted starts at getting out of his chair before he remembers that he can’t go, not just yet.

And he hasn’t been alone in a room with Elias since before he’d left for China. Has barely said more than few words to him since he’d come back, and the weight of everything unspoken is heavy between them. Jon doesn’t even know what to say – what he would want to say. If he wants to hear Elias’ thoughts on their plan or not, if Elias thinks they can do this, if Elias knows what else they have been arranging over the past weeks.

None of it matters. None of it would change anything.

“It’s not the sources I disapprove of, but the method,” Elias says. “You know that.”

“No easy answers,” Jon recites.

“Precisely.”

“Why tell me what you already know when you can waste time neither of us have watching me figure it out on my own?”

Elias huffs out another laugh. He leans back in his chair, and every line of him exudes languid indulgence. He certainly doesn’t look like he’s preparing to leave any time soon, and another pulse of that not-pain flares up between Jon’s hips, has him gritting his teeth and squirming minutely in place.

Elias inclines his head to one side. “Is everything all right?”

“Fine,” Jon forces out. “Everything is fine.”

It is fine. It would be fine. It would be better, even, if Elias would just leave. Allow them to go back to their mutual unspoken avoidance, allow Jon to stop thinking about all the things he wants to say, to ask. Allow Jon to flee and take a bloody piss already.

“Are you sure, Jon? You don’t look fine,” Elias says. He’s watching Jon carefully, and if Jon didn’t know any better, his expression could almost qualify as concerned, and-

And Jon does know better. His eyes narrow. “You know exactly what’s wrong, Elias. Don’t you?”

He doesn’t bother to keep the compulsion free from his question. There’s no reason to hold back against Elias, of all people. The snarling, electric snap of it on his tongue, between his teeth, is barely enough to distract him from the sore-muscle throbbing in his groin, the anticipation of being answered in kind mixing strangely with the other unanswered needs pulsing through his body.

Elias shivers in his chair, no doubt delighted.

“I do.”

“Get out,” Jon demands, cold with fury – and hot, twisting in his stomach, embarrassment, warming his cheeks. He forces himself out of his chair and has to freeze, horrified, as the movement threatens the integrity of his self-control.

“Come now, Jon,” Elias says. He’s still watching Jon, though he doesn’t look nearly as relaxed as before. He’s sitting up straighter, eyes intent and- hungry. Devouring. Fixated on Jon, and it sends a shudder down his spine that does absolutely nothing to help. “There’s no need to get upset.”

“Why did you come here? Just to- what, make me uncomfortable? One last little game before you find yourself short an Archivist - again?”

Jon’s made them all compulsions, throwing his irritation and desperation behind them, and he marches carefully – slowly – across the room, to the door, feeling every step keenly in his bladder. He’s got one hand on the doorknob, is pulling it open when Elias steps up behind him, reaches a hand over his shoulder to shove it back closed.

“No, Jon, that’s not why I came here,” Elias answers.

His voice is low, and he ducks his head so his breath shivers down the side of Jon’s neck. He leaves his hand against the door, caging Jon in one side, and the other slides around the edge of his hip. Around to his front, and Jon almost thinks Elias is going to slip his hand into his slacks, but instead he just hooks his fingers around the lower edge of his pelvis – the backs of his knuckles brushing his dick - uses them as leverage to grind his thumb in, hard, against Jon’s bladder.

The effect is electric, and Jon jerks back against Elias, who wraps his other arm across Jon’s chest, holding him in place as he shoves down again and Jon moans helplessly at the pressure, shocks of something that might be pain or might be pleasure shooting through his groin.

Prompt: Peter Lukas/Elias Bouchard, sex slave.

(Anonymous) 2018-09-01 02:07 am (UTC)(link)
Elias has to keep the Institute's sponsors happy. This year it's Peter's turn.

Prompt: Jane Prentiss/Helen/Nikola Orsinov/Jude Perry (or any combo). Transformation, body horror.

(Anonymous) 2018-09-01 02:11 am (UTC)(link)
Monster women building each other anew. Taking each other apart, putting each other back together again.

Points if there's smut. Double points for actual worms.

Jon/Elias, compulsion, gags, any consent level is fine

(Anonymous) 2018-09-01 05:24 pm (UTC)(link)
The prompt is ‘Jon compelling a gagged Elias who physically can’t answer’. That’s it. That’s the prompt. Is this the intended outcome? Did they both opt into it? Has Jon horribly miscalculated a nonlethal revenge plot, does it go horribly right, or is it just a convenient masterclass in domming while ace? All this and more we can discover, together

Fill: Jon/Elias, compulsion, gags, any consent level is fine

(Anonymous) 2018-09-01 05:36 pm (UTC)(link)
Filled at AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15863283
Surprisingly consensual, considering? It's mildly dubious but heavily implied to be fully consensual

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