Prompt Post: The Magnus Archives #1

[gertrude_robinson]

Rules

1. All comments to the meme must be anonymous. Linking to fills on AO3/Tumblr/website of your choice is allowed, but comments here must still be posted anon.
2. Concrit is welcome if the author requests it, but character bashing, kink shaming, and hijacking threads by derailing prompts with contrary comments or asking for additions to the prompt are not allowed.
3. Warning for spoilers and subjects such as non-con, incest, underage, character death and worms is highly recommended, but not mandatory.
4. Crossover prompts between Rusty Quill Gaming and The Magnus Archives may be posted to both posts.
5. Please link all fills to the fill post.
6. Don't be an asshole. Mods reserve the right to freeze, screen or delete at their discretion.
7. While it should go without saying (kink meme and all) please be advised that much of the content here may not be appropriate for individuals under 18.
8. Update: All prompts can be filled by more than one person. Two cakes (or three, or four) are always appreciated.

While spoiler warnings are not required, if you would like to spoiler cut anything, you can use the following code:

<div tabindex="-1"><b>spoiler title</b><div>Some spoilery content.</div></div>

Prompting Guidelines

1. The prompt should begin with "Prompt:"
2. The fill should begin with "Fill:". Otherwise there should be no change to the title.
2. Include the names of the character(s) or pairing(s) in the title, followed by the kink or trope if applicable. Pairings should be formatted A/B(/C/D).
3. If you would like to provide warnings, please put them in the first line of the comment to prevent the titles from getting too long.

And example title: Prompt: Jon/Plant monster, sex pollen

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Comments

Prompt: Nikola/Jon, Elias/Jon, non-con, taunting, humiliation

[(Anonymous)]

Elias can't see, so Nikola very helpfully describes to him what she's doing to his Archivist. (Can invole B&H as well if you want!)

Re: Prompt: Nikola/Jon, Elias/Jon, non-con, taunting, humiliation

[(Anonymous)]

Seconded, this sounds so hot

Prompt: Mr. Spider/Martin, bondage, mind control

[(Anonymous)]

Mr. Spider invites Martin over for dinner. Martin likes spiders very, very much, and there's something hypnotic about Mr. Spider's eyes....

Re: Prompt: Mr. Spider/Martin, bondage, mind control

[(Anonymous)]

I'm trying to write something, and: are you okay with mentions of Martin having a crush on Jon? Or would you like better if it stays focused on the main pairing?

Prompt: Not!Jon/anyone, impersonation, manipulation, creepiness...

[(Anonymous)]

What-if fic where the thing that wasn't Sasha does replace and "wear" the Archivist (at any point of the plot), and then procedes to have fun with any of his acquaintances.

Preference and obvious choice and would be Martin (who feels that there's something not right with Jon suddenly paying attention to him, but is very weak to it), but Tim could be really fun too.

Fill: Not!Jon/anyone, impersonation, manipulation, creepiness...

[(Anonymous)]

Sasha had never been loud, but Martin still felt her absence as an echoing silence. Ever since she’d vanished, Tim had been even more distant, with the occasional sharp word impaling Martin’s attempts at good humor. But he didn’t really mind. It dug at the hollowness in his chest, and maybe that was good. It distracted him from his worry.

The police had taken Jon, after finding the old man dead. He hadn’t tried to run, or even protest, just used that disarming charm that made Martin’s heart flutter, and went along with them. Before he left, he’d rested his hand on Martins arm, fingers lingering on his wrist, and he’d said they’d talk when he returned. And he would return. No one had any reason to suspect a man like Jon of anything.

Least of all Martin.

He stared down at the page in front of him, and tried to think. Dark, erratic scribbles marred line after line of his attempts, but he had to keep trying, had to get it just right.

Odd how my eyes never find you.
Stranger still how your skin,
Softer than a baby’s breath,
Slips over mine like a glove.

It was utter tripe. Martin lifted his pen to scratch it out again, but before he could, the paper was snatched out from under him, the pen scoring a jagged line through the words, but not covering them.

“What’s this?” Jon peered down at the paper with that funny little smile that always made Martin’s stomach roil. He pressed his lips together, trying to hold it back.

“Well, it’s just—well, you know, I write a bit of poetry, and—” Martin made a vain attempt to grab the paper back, but Jon danced out of his reach, ever graceful. A lock of golden hair fell into his eyes, and Martin itched to reach out and touch it. It was so perfect, sometimes he wasn’t sure if it could be real.

“This is lovely, Martin.” He set the paper back on Martin’s desk, and Martin shivered. “Is it about me?”

“I—I mean.” The words stuck in Martin’s throat, and he tried to swallow them back down. Jon was smiling. That couldn’t be bad. “Yes, it is.”

Jon’s smile widened, and Martin froze in place, terror shooting through him. What would Jon do now, that’d he’d pretty much confessed he fancied him? It wasn’t right, was it, to fancy your boss. And Jon was a good man, he’d never take advantage. Even if Martin wanted him so much he ached.

But Jon just gave him a conspiratorial wink. He’d always been a bit of a flirt, but had never turned it on Martin before. The sick feeling was back in full force as Jon conspicuously scanned the room. They were alone, so alone. Martin wrapped his fingers around the edge of the table as Jon walked around it to stand behind him, placing a clammy hand on the side of his neck.

“Don’t tell Elias,” Jon whispered into his ear, then bit down lightly on his earlobe. Martin actually squeaked, and then winced. But Jon only laughed softly, rotating him so they were facing each other. His eyes were glassy, probably from lack of sleep. But it didn’t matter. Martin wanted nothing more than to stare into those eyes forever, in the hopes that someday, Jon would look back.

But Jon’s eyes disappeared from view as he leaned in, waxy lips brushing against Martin’s, hand tightening on his neck.

“Later,” he murmured. Martin shut his eyes, and felt Jon pull away, like he’d never been there at all. Martin didn’t look until the door shut behind him.

Strange, how Martin couldn’t bear to watch him leave.

Prompt: Tim/Dancer!Danny, incest, dub/noncon, manipulation

[(Anonymous)]

MAG104 spoilers

Tim gets kidnapped by Nikola/seeks her out for revenge. Predictably, things don't go as expected, and now he's her helpless prisoner. She decides to cheer him up with a bit of family time! Cue Tim being gifted to the dancer wearing Danny's skin, to do with as it pleases. This turns out to be 'pretending to be Danny as convincingly as possible while fucking Tim'. Any level of consent is fine here. Tim can hate every second of it, or maybe the monster gets inside his head and convinces him that this is the closest he'll come to getting his brother back? And maybe when Nikola decides Tim can be let go, he no longer wants to leave his brother...

Prompt: any of the archives team, workplace sex + library fetish

[(Anonymous)]

Just some good old unprofessional conduct in the archives.

Bonus options: hurried and messy, half-clothed, standing and pinning against wall/shelves, semi-public kink, almost-getting-caught, knocking things down, messing up files, incongruous comments about the weird job, ...

Re: Fill: any of the archives team, workplace sex + library fetish

[(Anonymous)]

Filled with Tim/Martin, link to AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15485604

Prompt: Elias/Tim, hatesex

[(Anonymous)]

Spoilers for ep 104.

Elias tries to stop Tim again. Reasoning with Tim fails again. Only this time, it goes somewhere rather different. (And hey, maybe Elias can teach Tim a little respect, this way.)

Also I love the idea of Elias secretly wanting to keep Tim controlled for now, but wanting him as the sacrifice to stop the Unknowing in the long run. If you could throw that in, that'd be awesome.

Fill: Elias/Tim, hatesex

[(Anonymous)]

“I hope you’re happy.” Tim’s voice drips with acid as he yanks up his trousers. He barely had time to lower them before his hands – especially his fingernails – were busy elsewhere.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve felt worse,” Elias agrees. It’s true enough, even though his lips feel deliciously bruised, and there are bite marks on his shoulders and thighs to complement the scratches, as if Tim wanted to know how much he could make Elias bleed. “Did you get what you needed?”

“Like you’ve ever cared about anyone else’s needs,” Tim snarls. “Too busy sending us to die like good little acolytes, so the Stranger doesn’t win the game before your god has its turn.”

“You said it; I didn’t.” Elias shrugs. “But if I did want such a thing, I’m sure you’d find a way to stay alive, simply to spite me.”

“Well, fancy that.” Tim widens his eyes. “You must be psychic.”

“Were you keeping that line in reserve?”

“If you want to know what’s been on my mind, chew on this.” Tim sounds noticeably calmer. “Maybe you really didn’t know why I joined the Institute. But if you’d held back information about the Circus – about my brother – then I’d have killed you. I don’t care what it would do to me.” He turns away, as if he thinks it will make the slightest difference. His remarkably carved sculpted shoulders are trembling.

Elias places his hand, very gently, between them. Everything is still proceeding exactly as it should.

Prompt: Martin/Jon, post Martin/ Monster or Jon/Monster

[(Anonymous)]

DEALER'S CHOICE! Include the less-than-consensual monster lovin' or don't, make it or the recovery the emphasis, Jon or Martin as the victim, previous relationship or just begining - or related poly pairing, I don't care! But someone's had a bad-touch bad time with an entity, and it's time for Martin and Jon (and associates, if the writer so desires!) to pick up the pieces after it's all gone down.

Fill: Martin/Jon, post Martin/ Monster or Jon/Monster

[(Anonymous)]

Filled with Martin/Corruption, Martin/Jon

Link to AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15828216

Prompt: Jon/Martin or gen, a statement about the Archivist

[(Anonymous)]

How does Martin feel, the first time he takes a statement from someone, and realizes the supernatural being they encountered was Jon?

Re: Prompt: Jon/Martin or gen, a statement about the Archivist

[(Anonymous)]

Would this be them encountering him as the Archivist, possibly compelling them or something similar, or a hypothetical scenario where Jon became something more monstrous than he is now (whether serving the Beholding or otherwise)?

Tim/Martin, angry sex

[(Anonymous)]

Tim takes some of his anger out on Martin. Preferably not noncon, but dubcon is okay.

Re: Tim/Martin, angry sex

[(Anonymous)]

Set directly after episode 104, so spoilers if you're not caught up. Also dubcon-ish.



“Tim are you alright? I heard you yelling at Elias-”

“What is it you always say, Martin? ‘I'm fine,’?” Tim's tone is vicious and biting. He lets out a bitter huff of laughter. “Yeah, I'm fine.”

He's not fine, obviously. Martin can see him faintly vibrating with anger, his movements jerky and uncoordinated as he paces their small shared office. Martin bites his lip unsure of how to deal with Tim acting, for all intents and purposes, like a caged animal. There’s a wild look in his eyes that Martin doesn't like and he has a feeling Tim is going to go out and do something stupid if Martin doesn't head him off right now.

He steps into Tim's path. When Tim gives him a dark look, he swallows but holds his ground. Slowly he reaches up and places a hand on Tim's darkly stubbled cheek. He doesn't look away when Tim frowns at him, eyes slightly confused.

“Tell me what you need,” Martin says quietly. He watches a tumultuous wave of emotion pass over Tim's face before the anger settles there again. Martin can feel the clenched muscles in Tim’s jaw jumping under his hand.

Tim's mouth works for a moment, as if he's chewing on his words, before sound comes out. “Bend over the desk.” His voice is low and throaty and it makes Martin shiver.

Martin knows what Tim wants, it's obvious in the way his eyes have taken on that bright, lust filled, predatory sheen and Martin can't say he's surprised. He'd heard Tim bragging on numerous occasions of the women and men he’d taken to his bed. Now that he knows about Danny, Martin is pretty sure Tim's been using sex as a coping mechanism for his loss. He just never expected to get caught in the crosshairs.

He doesn't want to tell Tim no. He's spent so long, days to weeks to months, trying to get through to him somehow, trying to help him, and Tim's been shut tight against his attempts, reacting only with anger or depression. If this helps him, even if only a little, Martin will do it.

He makes his way over to the heavy wooden desk, far too large for the room, and bends over the front of it. He hears the click of the door latching and the slide of the lock settling into place and tries not to squirm.

“Pull your trousers down,” Tim says and Martin obeys, hands fumbling with his belt for a moment before he's able to get the button and fly undone. He pushes the dress pants and boxers down to just below his ass and waits, breath held in burning lungs, for Tim's next command.

His job must have not been good enough because Tim stalks up behind him and yanks the fabric down aggressively until it's around his knees. Then Tim kicks his legs apart as far as they can spread, trapped as they are.

Martin closes his eyes against the sound of a cap opening and exhales loudly when a finger, slick with what smells like lotion, slides into him without preamble. The scent is sweet and cloying, and Martin knows he's not going to be able to smell it again without thinking about this.

Tim slides another finger into him, not giving him a chance to get used to the first and Martin holds in his whimpers. It hurts. Tim thrusts his fingers in and out a few times then pulls away. Martin knows what's next and he's not ready, there wasn't nearly enough preparation, but before he can say anything Tim I'd already pushing the head of his cock past the tight ring of muscle of his hole.

Martin gasps and jerks forward, hips trapped against the edge of the desk, soft flesh against unyielding, cold wood. Any beginnings of his own arousal quickly disperse from the pain. Tim has his hips in a too tight grip, and Martin knows that, come morning he will have finger shaped bruises there.

Tim doesn't give him time to adjust before he starts viciously fucking him, the hard sound of flesh on flesh loud in Martin's ears. Martin lets out what sounds like a sob, might actually be a sob if the burning of tears in his eyes is anything to go by. He reaches out and grabs the edge of the desk above his head, knuckles turning white.

Tim is utterly quiet behind him aside from the occasional breath, but when Martin turns his head to look, Tim puts a hand on the back of his skull and pushes his face into the desk. His cheekbone digs into the paper and leather of the large calendar sitting on the surface.

Martin reminds himself that he is doing a good thing for Tim and it helps him focus on something other than the pain. If this is what he needs, Martin is more than happy to give it to him, as much as he is able.

The angle that Tim fucks him changes abruptly and Martin gasps at the sudden shock of pleasure that makes his knees weak. Tim hits that spot again and again, the head of his cock bluntly hitting Martin's prostate with every thrust and Martin doesn't even get fully hard before he comes with a loud moan. His whole body shakes with it, and if Tim wasn't behind him he'd surely sink to the floor as his knees buckle.

“Jesus fuck Martin,” Tim groans, shoving against Martin roughly once, twice, three times before he shudders out his own orgasm. Martin can feel the pulsing of his cock inside him. He stays completely still, letting Tim revel in his release.

Martin can't help the whimper when Tim suddenly pulls out. He feels raw and open, the lotion stinging what are no doubt tears around his hole. He waits for Tim to say something, anything, but all he hears is the faint rustle of fabric and the door opening and closing as the other man leaves.

It takes an effort to unclench his fingers from the edge of the desk and he raises himself up onto shaking arms. He looks down at the smear his face made on the calendar and takes in one deep breath, then two, before letting the tears fall.

Prompt: Martin/Jon, hurt/comfort after injury

[(Anonymous)]

Preferably set during season 3, but alternatively, Martin treating Jon's injury after he got attacked by Michael in A New Door.

Re: Fill: Martin/Jon, hurt/comfort after injury 1/2

[(Anonymous)]

cut for nasty seeping wounds

When Jon at last emerged from Elias's office, he looked half the size he'd been when he went in.

Tim left immediately after Elias dismissed them, hands in his hair. Basira and Daisy followed, Daisy suppressing a raw, shocked anger Basira seemed patiently tolerant of. Martin supposed they were looking for a place to shout out Basira's decision to sign the contract. Melanie had lingered longer, until the silence between she and Martin got awkward enough, she nudged his ribs with an elbow, told him to holler if he heard any gunshots, and left with his glare on her back.

So Martin was the only one there to see the mess left of Jon.

God, he wished he could write a poem that felt the way Jon had looked charging down the hall and up the stairs. It'd be called "Furie" and contain the phrase "his razor-licked multitudes of mouth and eye" and maybe the phrase "livid fingers turned to tear." (But not the phrase "tongue of flame that lashes my flesh." Martin and his flesh should be left out of this poem.)

If Jon had been a fire, this was the ash. His skin was nearly grey, even. Something that had gone on in that office had snuffed him out, leaving nothing but an empty kind of sadness. He seemd startled to see Martin.

Martin had never really had a strong feeling about Elias (except confusion when he'd confessed to Gertrude's murder,) but he suddenly wanted the man dead with an insistence he'd never managed in his life.

But he wasn't really made for wrath, and Jon was standing there with a gash across his neck and a hand wrapped in dirty, twisted bandage that had unraveled half of the way to the floor, and, while both of those wounds had existed earlier, they hadn't seemed like wounds at all. They'd seemed like paint and armor and power.

Now they were wounds.

"Jon," Martin said, clambering to his feet, "Let's get that cleaned off and see what we can do for your hand. Come on."

It spoke to how bad a state Jon was in that he followed Martin to the elevators without argument--without seeming even to have heard.

When the door dinged and rumbled open, Jon startled out of his trance.

"If you can find me the first aid kit, I can take care of it myself."

Bullshit. The injured hand was his dominant hand, and, now that Martin got a good look, there was blood spotting through the dressing, as well as the dirt, and what appeared to be a yellowish drainage around the edges. But he wasn't going to argue the point. He was afraid, with Jon in this state, he'd win.

"I'll grab it for you," Martin promised.

Jon nodded and followed him into the elevator, where he leaned against the back wall next to Martin.

"What happened to your hand?" Martin asked, hitting the button.

"I was polite to someone I shouldn't have been." Jon's head went back against the wall, eyes sliding shut. He laughed at himself.

"Guess you should have been ruder," Martin replied. "Lesson learned?"

"Ha. I suppose. That just got me flung through the sky. No injuries."

"Riiight."

Jon opened his eyes, looking cross. Martin was relieved he was coming back to himself. He resolved to keep him talking instead of brooding. "To answer your question, it was a burn. I spent the afternoon digging a grave, though, and now I'll be lucky if it's not a flesh slurry." He shuddered. "On the positive side, I felt an especially stubborn blister finally pop."

Martin gave him two thumbs up and an unconvincing smile. "Um. Yay?"

The elevator arrived in the basement. Martin just barely stopped himself offering his hand as Jon pushed off the wall a little unsteadily.

"So, I don't know if you know this," Martin said, leading a confused-seeming Jon toward the opposite end of the hall from the Archives, "but Artefact Storage has an incredible first aid setup. Seems someone's always in danger of getting burnt by something. Or bitten by something, or infected--well, you get the picture."

Martin led Jon past the emergency eye wash and sink to the first aid station. There were a couple kits. Better to attack the less serious issue first, Martin thought, eyeing Jon's throat. Imagine having your throat cut be the least of your injuries.

"So Detective Tonner did that?"

"How'd you--" Jon's eyes widened.

"Lucky guess." Oh, Martin did have a little space left inside him for hate. "How'd it happen?"

Jon explained briefly what he'd been up to since his disappearance as Martin prepared his supplies. Martin had spent too many hours of the past several months speculating about what Jon was doing, but he never would have guessed he'd been baiting monsters.

"You remember back in Research when I climbed over the garden fence of the wrong house and that old man pulled a shotgun on me?" Martin asked, wetting a paper towel in the sink.

Jon managed half a laugh. "I remember you showing off the picture."

"He wasn't that bad! He gave me most of the information in that file. I remember you saying something at the time about me treating my life like cheap toilet paper."

Jon looked at him narrowly, "I did? Well, I stand by it. You always had some ridiculous story like that."

"Look at yourself, though." Martin leaned in a bit, dabbing at the rusty scunge of blood that had been rubbed across the front of Jon's neck. "If you had to talk to people you knew were monsters, you shouldn't have gone alone."

"It'd hardly be fair or safe to drag Georgie into it." Jon's adam's apple bobbed beside Martin's gentle fingers.

"You could have got in touch."

"Well, I am now," Jon said, looking down at Martin, head tilted back to let him work. And Martin suddenly thought about the fact they were touching. The fingers of Martin's left hand were actually resting on Jon's neck, holding the skin taut while the other cleaned it.

It's not something he would have been able to do if he'd actually thought about it, and now that he had, he could feel a shiver wanting to push its way out of him to the surface of his skin. Breaking eye contact helped.

"So does this mean you're back?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'm--" Jon swallowed and his throat moved beneath Martin's fingers. "I'm not sure how much I actually left."

Jon ended on an even weaker laugh. More of a sigh. Martin wondered whether he was thinking back on his and Elias's talk.

Martin didn't say how much he missed him. How much time he spent speculating on Jon's location. His safety. There was some amount of that behavior that would be normal for a subordinate with a somewhat friendly relationship with his boss, but he wasn't sure how much. He knew, wherever the line was, he'd left it miles behind.

Plus, it'd sound like a guilt trip.

"You might be able to salvage this shirt, if you get it soaking right away," he offered instead, turning aside to discard the bloody paper towel.

"Oh. Um. Yes. I'll--I'll be sure to do that once I get home." Jon's hands came up in front of his chest, fingers of his good hand feeling at the stiffened rim of blood at his collar. Puzzlingly, he seemed a little flustered.

Oh. He'd thought Martin was trying to get his shirt off. Martin turned to the counter, concentrating much harder than he needed to on soaking a cotton ball with rubbing alcohol. How fucking obvious was his crush? Tim, of course, knew. But Martin had pegged Jon as blessedly unobservant of others' feelings.

He offered the soaked cotton ball to Jon, standing carefully back. "Did you want to do it?"

"I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to see what I'm doing, so if you could, I'd -- um, I'd appreciate it."

"Sure." Martin felt his left hand trying to come up to touch the side of Jon's neck as he stepped closer and stopped himself. Jon threw his head back again, opening the edges of the score slightly, showing the pink grain of the flesh. Thankfully, it had been shallow and was bleeding no further. "This is going to sting."

Jon handled whatever pain there was well. It wasn't until Martin got to the widest part of the cut--in the center of Jon's throat--that Jon hissed and his lip came up to reveal the shrarp white edges of his teeth. Martin's hand came up instinctively, fingers beneath Jon's jaw.

"There," he said softly. "You're fine." Martin fought his nerves down. Jon had asked him. It was alright to touch.

"Sorry." Jon tried to smile. "You can keep going."

Martin finished, washed his hands, and easily dressed the wound with pads of gauze and surgical tape. Jon's hand came up to feel it afterwards.

"Thank you, Martin. Does this look as conspicuous as it feels?"

"Well, yes. Even if it weren't for the bandage, the blood on your collar--" Jon was trying to do up his top shirt button one-handed. Oh well, Martin thought recklessly, and did it for him.

"Actually, it looked less conspicuous unbuttoned," Martin said when he'd finished. "It doesn't come up high enough."

Jon sighed. "I don't know what I'll tell Georgie."

"You cut yourself making a sandwich?"

Jon's look of reproach made Martin laugh and, after a moment, one side of Jon's mouth quirked up as well. "I'd have thought I'd been abused enough today," he muttered.

"What'd you tell her about the hand?"

"That I grabbed a pan from the oven barehanded."

Martin sighed. "Honestly, Jon, what's wrong with the truth?"

"Besides the fact it makes me sound like a maniac?" Jon winced. "I feel like knowing will put her in danger."

Martin made a noise of acknowledgement. He didn't want to point out, if there was danger, Jon was already exposing his friend to it by going to her. Jon might do something reckless that would leave him totally alone.

"More danger, anyway. I don't like Elias knowing where she lives…."

"So! How about that hand?"

"I have the stuff for it at home."

"Tell me what you use on it."

Jon explained the care routine, Martin hunting up each item as he named it. They had everything they needed.

"This is too much of an imposition." Jon looked outright ashamed.

"It's really not." Martin said firmly. "I don't want you walking around the city like that."

Jon nodded. "Alright. If we're really doing this, we'll need one more thing."

"Toby! Hey!" Martin flagged down one of the practical researchers on his way out the door. "Sorry to keep you. Just wanted to check that chair against the wall's not haunted."

"Naw, that one's ours."

"Actually," Martin tried, "Have you guys got anything stronger for pain than what's in the first aid kit?"

When Martin returned with a pill and a chair, Jon had already begun. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow and he was soaking his remaining dressings under the tap. Martin could see the livid edges of the burns where Jon had managed to pull the old dressings loose.

"Jon," Martin chided. "I got you a pain pill. You should have waited."

"I wanted to do this part myself," Jon explained over the splash of the water, "it's not that painful, but it is disgusting."

"Well, fine," Martin said, a bit exasperated, "but you should have it now. It'll take a few minutes to kick in."

Jon wavered, hands still under the water, then turned to Martin and put his tongue out for the pill. It was a miracle Martin didn't drop the thing. He wasn't able to stop himself watching Jon's throat move as he swallowed.

"Haaa! Alright!" Martin looked at Jon's hand to distract himself, and wow, was that a potent dick-shriveler. Jon gently tugged a piece of the gauze loose from where it had crusted to the edge of his palm, and when it came away, the water ran temporarily brownish pink.

"Can I see?" Martin managed.

"You want to?"

"I want to know what we're getting into."

Jon brought his hand out of the water, turning it over for Martin to examine. Martin took it all in with much more composure than he'd have thought himself capable. Some of the wet dressings still hung from the other edge of Jon's palm. Martin could see the weight of it pulling at the flesh. The fingers and back of the hand, which weren't as burnt, were puffy with fluid. The palm, in contrast, was leaking freely from around the ragged edges of soggy flesh. Without the water's continuous washing, a dozen little spots of crimson were starting to blossom among the mottled pink, yellow, and red. Oh, Martin noticed, There's where the blister had burst, on the thumb between the knuckle and palm.

"That's.…colorful." Martin hissed in sympathy as the hand moved, fingers flexing inward. "Jon! Should you--"

"I've got to move it. I can't lose mobility as it heals. Let me just…" Jon turned his hand palm down and began peeling the rest of the dressing carefully away. He was breathing hard around his gritted teeth and his face had gone greyish again. Martin pulled the chair closer in case he needed to fall into it, but Jon finished and got the tap off before letting himself sit.

And Jon finally told Martin about the conversation with Jurgen Leitner that had precipitated his death while they waited for Jon's painkiller to kick in. Martin himself felt numbed by the magnitude of the revelation.

"….I like the metaphor," he said at last. "The anthill being pulled apart."

"Ha. Maybe you would have liked Leitner," Jon said, flexing the fingers of his burnt hand. He'd continued to every couple minutes, despite the pain it so clearly caused him. Despite the clear, yellowish fluid beading on the surface of his ruined flesh where it twisted and pulled with his motions.

"No, I don't think I would've. So in the scheme of that giant creature, we--the Institute--we're--"

"The Eye, yes." Jon had turned his palm over and was looking at it distantly. "Elias said.…Elias said I've some special responsibility."

Before Martin could do anything to prevent him, Jon had driven the index finger of his good hand into the base of the opposite thumb. He let out a thin, quiet scream, and curled up like a pillbug.

"Jon!"

Jon straightened up almost immediately, regaining his composure, though his eyes had a worrying febrile brightness.

"Testing! Just testing!" He exclaimed as though that was supposed to reassure Martin.

"Testing what?! Jesus, Jon, were you trying to make yourself bleed again?" Martin didn't realize he was angry until he heard the edge in his voice.

"Of course not. That spot.…it was numb. It had been numb since Jude. I thought it was nerve damage."

"So, it wasn't?"

Jon tried for a smile, and shouldn't have. It looked ghoulish on a face still sharp with pain. "Oh no, I'm fairly certain it was. The nerves must have grown back in!"

"Oh." Martin thought it best not to contest him. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. A little longer on the pain medication, I think."

Martin bit his lip against the desire to call Jon a goddamned idiot and say that wasn't how pain medication worked--you couldn't just willingly reinjure yourself.

"Jon, you were going to say--what's your responsibility? Your "special" responsibility?"

"To experience and chronicle.…terror, I suppose."

"Oh. Huh." He leaned against the sink, watching Jon stare dully into space, and thought about it. The connection came to him suddenly--to experience terror fully, it'd be helpful to have the full sensory apparatus in good working order. He wasn't sure why that one tiny detail--the patch of skin that should have been dead, but wasn't--was what finally brought his hair to an end. Perhaps exactly because it was such a small detail. "We're really fucked now, aren't we?"

"Martin!" Jon said sternly.

"What is it? The language?"

Jon scowled. "We're not. I am. I'm going to do what I can to deal with this without involving you and Tim and the others in any more danger than is necessary."

Prompt: Elias/Jon, face slap

[(Anonymous)]

During a heated argument, Elias ends up slapping Jon in the face. Conflicted feelings ensue.

(Either POV is fine.)

Re: Prompt: Elias/Jon, face slap

[(Anonymous)]

He hadn't meant to do that.

Jon can tell that almost as soon as the sound returns to his ringing ears, as soon as the eyes he'd automatically closed open themselves again. He doesn't turn his head back to face Elias, but neither does Elias drop his hand from where it's still suspended in the air. Neither of them move.

Elias has done many terrible things in his time. But he has never struck his Archivist. Never struck Jon, not even when he's had due cause to do so. No matter how they've argued over the centuries, Elias - Jonah - has never cast harm upon him directly.

Except now that's no longer true. And maybe it's the final straw, or maybe the final straw was the argument itself, but Jon finds he no longer wants to be in the Archives. In the Institute. Around Elias. He can't exactly quit, but he can run to the farthest corner of the Earth and stay there until Elias pulls his head out of his ass and apologizes. ​

"Jon."

Elias finally speaks. He looks... shaken. Jon takes a step back, turns.

"Jon?"

He moves towards the door, closing the numerous eyes along his back and shoulders as he goes. Closing all his extra senses down, locking himself out of reach of Elias, even as he can feel the man frantically scrambling after the connection like a drowning man chasing after the last bit of land before the water seizes him. "Jon, wait--"

Jon doesn't wait. He doesn't stop, and he doesn't let Elias get another word in. He throws the door open, and slams it shut behind him, and strides off into the night.

By the time Elias runs outside, he's gone.



x-x-x-x-x-x-x



He stays away for three months.

In the grand scheme of things, it's not that long of a time. The world turns, the Entities feed, the things that were once human beings continue to scream and cry and thrash and suffer as the universe reshapes itself to fit everything. Jon drifts from one place to the next, never staying long, never interfering in the natural order of whatever Entity has seized onto the populace. He keeps his mind shut, keeps his eyes quiet, and even if he can feel Elias pounding at the mental door between them, scratching and begging through action to be allowed inside again, he keeps it shut.

Let his Heart suffer for the pain he has caused. For the trust that has survived all of this, a trust that shouldn't have survived. A trust Martin tells him he's foolish to have, and he knows is foolish to have, but he can't stop himself having it.

Elias has broken faith with him. So Jon lets him scrabble and scream and wallow in the silence between them, as he drifts and feeds and lets himself turn the argument over in his mind.

Sometimes he drifts back into the Eye's territory, or skirts it. Never long enough for Elias to lock his location, to Call him to his side. By the second month, there's a terrible sense of anger brewing behind the door, but that only lasts until he drifts close to the Eye again, and then the anger gives way to a rush of relief and panic so sharp it steals his breath from his lungs. He's gone again soon enough, and the relief and panic gives way to a horrible ache of dread, so raw and open it would make him weep if he hadn't hardened his heart early on this.

It's so strange, to think of the Elias that looks at Jon like he is the world as the same Elias who once murdered a man with a pipe and then called it an overreaction. That the Elias in his head, having entire swings of emotion about the disappearance of his Archivist, is the same man who once shot Gertrude Robinson, another of his Archivists, dead. The same man who regularly goes from calling Jon darling and dearest to getting into nose-to-nose snarling fights with him, where they look into one another and Know until one of them backs down. Fights that have never escalated beyond that.

He doesn't know what to do, now that it has. He's always... relied on Elias to be that one cornerstone that didn't try to lash out at him in this new world while he got his footing.

By the third month, he thinks he has an idea of what to do. He can't ignore the Archives, and he can't truly even really ignore Elias - the Eye tends to get upset if its key players are not all on the same page, and things are already tricky enough as is. But he can make Elias work to earn his trust again.

So when he drifts back to the Archives, and Elias makes an immediate beeline for him, stark relief and terror and anger all balling up behind his gaze as he practically yells Jon's name, Jon turns on his heel and heads for his office, knowing Elias will follow. The door shuts behind him, and then Elias is gripping his shoulders, turning him about, and demanding, "Where did you go?!" while wrapping himself around Jon like he's the Flesh and not the Eye. Jon would normally return the grip, press their cheeks together, inhale Elias' scent. But this time he keeps his head turned away and his hands down at his sides, and doesn't open the door between their minds.

Elias pulls back. "Jon?"

Jon doesn't meet his gaze. And when Elias tries, Jon just turns his head again. "Is there something you want, Mr. Magnus?" he asks, evenly, and tries not to feel the satisfaction when Elias twitches like he's been slapped his own self.

"...I see. I suppose I deserve that, after what I... I'm sorry, Jon. I had no right, and I never meant to-- but that doesn't matter, does it? I'm sorry. I won't do it again, please believe that, if nothing else." He steps back, letting Jon go, and its a fight for Jon to keep his resolve as the sense of presence behind the door between them gradually backs away, until Jon can barely feel Elias, even as the man stands in the literal door to his office, and smiles at him.

"Thank you," Elias says softly, and there's that gentle worship in his eyes again, a sad understanding that makes Jon ache. "For coming back. I'll see you later Jon."

And then the door shuts, and Jon breathes out, knowing his message and terms have been received loud and clear. But still it hurts. It hurts and it'll keep hurting until Jon trusts him again. Maybe the distance will be good. Maybe it'll put some of that foolish trust to rest at last, and the paranoia and anger will come back.

Far more likely it won't, and Jon will go on trusting the man who made the world like it is, even as everyone outside burns and dies and suffers and the Entities drink the fear down and grow ever-stronger.

But that's the price you pay when you refuse to become a monster, he supposes.

Prompt: Jude Perry/Agnes Montague, religious kink

[(Anonymous)]

Can be just Jude's fantasies or can actually happen. It's hard to resist when the avatar of the god you love is a hot girl (pun totally intended). If it actually happens, I'd like better for it to be after Jude left her girlfriend.

Jon/Tim - Hate!sex, pity sex

[(Anonymous)]

They both want it rough, for very different reasons - Tim still focuses his anger on Jon; Jon feels deeply guilty for everything that Tim has been through. Tim is not aware of Jon's motivations, (at least not until after.)

Fill: Jon/Tim - Hate!sex, pity sex

[(Anonymous)]

Hey so this is my first time posting on a kink-meme but why not right? Here's what I have. Not sure if I'll continue or not, but tell me what y'all think! Warnings for rough oral and not really enough communication. But full con throughout.




Tim stalks to his front door, half-empty bottle of whiskey still in hand. Whoever was out there was persistent. He'd stubbornly ignored the first few knocks, but they just kept coming, not loud or angry, just a few determined taps every minute or so, like they knew he was there — that he could hear it — and was making clear they wouldn't be leaving until he answered.

He reached the door just as the sound came again, and when he jerked it open it was to find his boss at his doorstep, hand still raised halfway through a knock.

He wasn't sure who he expected to be there, but it certainly wasn't Jonathan fucking Sims. "What the fuck do you want?"

The smaller man winced at the venom in Tim's voice, and part of Tim was viciously glad of that. He'd made very clear in the last few months that Jon was the last person he was interested in seeing, and by the guilty look on his face, Jon was perfectly aware how unwelcome his presence was.

"Ah Tim. I was just–" It was odd to see Jon stumble over his words, unsure, like he was when he first took the Head Archivist position. Back when it was just the four of them, and Tim would tease him, trying to get under that stuffy professionalism Jon wore like a cloak. Sometimes Tim would make a game of it, see how long he could tease until Jon would turn pink and start sputtering. Martin would always roll his eyes at him after — and usually go make tea as a not-so-subtle excuse to check on Jon — but Sasha would be holding in laughter the whole time.

Or did she? Even after all this time it was hard to figure out which memories were of the fake Sasha, and which were gleanings of the real one.

The reminder of what had happened to her shook him out of his memories and back to the man in front of him. Jon was still fidgeting, not seeming to be able to get his words in order.

Tim didn't care why he had come, he just wanted Jon gone so he could drink himself to sleep in peace. "What. Do. You. Want." Jon flinched again, but the snarled question seemed to center his unwelcome guest as Jon took a deep breath, and looked up.

"You haven't been to work in a few days." He stated it firmly, but even with his head up Jon's eyes didn't meet his, instead seeming to stop around Tim's chin. Jon had never been one for eye contact, but for some reason this combined with what was said had his gut clenched in anger.

He stepped forwards, into the smaller man's space and tilted his head to make Jon meet his eyes. "So? What are you gonna do? Fire me?"

He knew he was being stubborn, staying away from work this long. He had missed 3 days and already his head was pounding all the time. Another day and he'd have to return unless he wanted to really get ill, like on his jaunt to Malaysia. But he refused to admit that, refused to let Jon see how much the separation was wearing on him.

Jon was meeting his eyes now, though the flickering of his gaze showed how uncomfortable he was with it. Before all this Tim had been careful with Jon, not forcing him to make eye contact, making sure Jon could see his hands before mussing up his carefully groomed hair. Tim was good at reading people and took pride in being able to make them comfortable with him.

Well, he used to, now Jon's obvious discomfort fuels the angry part of him that reminded him that this was Jon's fault.

It seemed Jon had convinced himself to continue, as he squared his shoulders and forced himself to meet his gaze.

"I am perfectly aware of the effects staying away will have on you and am willing to -" his jaw jumped, but he continues, "negotiate your return to work."

Tim looked Jon up and down, taking him all in for the first time since he opened the door. The man looked disheveled, his collar open and uneven in a way the old Jon would never have allowed. His hair was slightly damp from the mists that covered London this time of year, and his good hand was clutching at the strap of his worn-out messenger bag. His other hand, the one with the burn he had never explained, was tightening methodically around the hem of his large coat. His clothes had always been loose, but they had gone from hiding his form to hanging off him in a way that showed how much weight he lost in the last year or so. Between that and all the new scars, he looked so different from the awkward boss Tim had teased and poked at.

Then again, Jon wasn't the only one who had changed, and the circular scars scattered across his body just reminded Tim of the ones on his own. His anger surged again, and he thought about slamming the door in Jon's face. But he knew that even if he drank until he passed out, which he had been planning on, he would not be able to stay away from the Archives another day. The tug in his gut was too strong, the pain in his head getting too sharp.

Although his headache seemed to have retreated a bit now. Rather than relieve him, the realization made him want to snarl. That his boss is so far from human that just his presence was enough to soothe the withdrawal of avoiding the Magnus Institute.

Jon was still looking at him cautiously, not pushing but the set of his jaw showed he was not planning on backing down.

"Fine." Tim told himself he was doing this because he wanted to see Jon squirm. That if he had to go back he might as well make Jon work for it. That it had nothing to do with how nice it was to not hear the pounding in his head grow stronger every hour he stayed away. "Fine. Come in then."

He turned and walked back towards the kitchen, didn't bother to look and make sure Jon was following. Either he would or he wouldn't, and Tim honestly couldn't give a damn either way.

But as he arrived in the kitchen to grab the glass he had taken out before being interrupted, he heard the thump of his door closing, and soft steps in the hall. The creak of the baseboard by the kitchen door told him Jon was standing there. He thought of asking if he wanted a glass but couldn't be bothered. He grabbed another one; if Jon insisted on being here he may as well drink Tim's shit whiskey.

With both glasses and bottle in hand, he turned away from the counter and began striding towards the door. Jon slid out of his way as he approached, allowing Tim to walk right past him into the main room. He dropped into his couch and dropped the two glasses on the table. Focusing on popping open the bottle and sloshing a heavy pour into each cup, he was only tracking Jon's movements in the periphery. Jon had hesitated at the doorway before following him in, but when Tim started to fill the second cup he walked over to sit in the chair opposite where Tim had placed himself.

Tim grabbed his drink and leaned back, arms draped over the back of the cushions and eyes narrowing as he watched his guest. Jon rarely drank and was always very cautious the few times they had convinced him to join them, so when Jon took his drink and immediately downed half of it Tim was thrown off for a second. He knew a wish for liquid courage when he saw one, and began to wonder what Jon had meant by "negotiating" his return.

He took a sizable sip of his own, enjoying the sharp burn as it first hit his tongue. He gave it a moment to sink in, then turned back to Jon. "So talk. Why did you come here? Or did Elias send you, since you're his obedient little dog now? You can tell the bastard he can shove his threats, I heard him the first time and I. Don't. Care."

Jon seemed confused for a moment, starting to say "Wait, did Elias threaten–" But cut himself off. Probably in response to Tim tensing at the threat of a question. Jon bit his lip hard for a moment, before continuing. "That is to say, no. I came here of my own volition, and I've no interest in threatening you."

"Then why." Tim had relaxed his muscles when Jon cut off his question but still eyed him attentively with angry caution. He continued in a flat voice, "If you aren't here to threaten me how do you plan to make me go back."

Jon took another gulp of whiskey before putting his glass down with a firm thunk. "You have to come back; We both know it. I can see it's already affecting you, and it will only get worse. I thought–" he paused, grasping his hands together tightly in his lap. "That it might be easier if you had a chance to... express your frustrations before you return."

Tim leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees with the glass hanging between, the look on Jon's face made clear what he was suggesting, offering? It had been a long time since he had looked at Jon in that context, but he was not opposed. The few times he messed around with Jon in the past, back before the world had gone to hell, they had only gotten to heavy makeouts, and once a rushed handjob in a supply cupboard. Back then he was kind, and happy to go at Jon's pace and not push for anything, but even then he had fantasized about taking Jon apart. Those little moments when Jon lost some of his careful control and began to fall apart were gorgeous, and Tim knew immediately he wanted to fuck Jon until he begged, to make him come until he was shaking apart in Tim's hands.

But then Martin had moved into the archive, and the worms, and Jane Prentiss attacking and Sasha and–

And Jon. It all happened because of Jon, and he had the nerve to accuse them of murder, to stalk them and shut them out and he didn't even notice that Sasha was gone.

He let that anger fill him and looked up with a sharp gaze. "Are you volunteering?" Because fuck it. His whole life had gone to shit and for once Jon was right, it would be satisfying to express his frustrations. He may have to go back to that hell hole tomorrow, but at least he'd have the consolation of watching Jon limp through the office, trying to hide how thoroughly he'd been screwed the night before.

Jon squared his shoulders and looked at Tim, a flare of what looked like a challenge in his eyes. "Yes."

Tim blew a breath through his teeth, looking over the scrawny man. He was hardly conventionally attractive: too thin and sharp, with unflattering cardigans doing as much to make him look older than he was as the early gray streaks in his hair. But Tim had never cared much about looks. The stubborn chin mixed with the challenging look in his eyes made Tim flush with the thought of making him beg.

"Get over here. On your knees." It was partially a test, to see if Jon was going to obey. And he did. He looked almost graceful as he rose from his chair and walked to stand in front of the sofa. He seemed to hesitate for a second, before slowly lowering himself to his knees between Tim's feet.

Meanwhile Tim was already feeling himself stir in his trousers. He lifted himself just far enough to shove them and his pants down to his ankles, before casually kicking them to the side. He left his legs spread open, knowing he had nothing to be ashamed of. Jon began to lean forwards before glancing up at him, eyes asking permission. Tim raised a derisive eyebrow, "Go on then." He settles back, making clear he was planning to watch the show.

Jon's eyes flicked back down, and he lowered his head until his lips were just a hair's breadth from Tim's cock. He exhaled a warm breath over it, causing Tim to shiver, before tentatively sliding his mouth over the exposed head.

Tim hissed. It had been a while since he had gone out for a shag, not exactly having been in the mood to hunt down a hookup recently, and watching his boss start to gently suck him – cheeks hollowing slightly as he let the head gently rub over his tongue – It was hotter than it probably should be. For a while, he let Jon continue without interference. The archivist seemed to approach giving head the way he did everything else: with determination and obvious curiosity. His tongue would dart over different areas, noting how Tim's muscles jerked when he teased along the underside, the hiss he made when Jon's tongue flicked over the leaking tip, or how his cock twitched involuntarily when accidentally grazed with sharp teeth.

At a particularly hard suck, Tim's hips jerked forwards and forced more of his cock in. It seemed to have caught Jon off guard as he jerked back and started coughing when Tim knocked against the back of his throat. His eyes looked a bit bright when he looked up, and Tim raised a mocking eyebrow. "Too much for you, boss."

Jon narrowed his eyes but didn't answer, just leaning back in and enveloping him again in the wet warmth of his mouth. Tim swore and fucked forwards again. Jon stayed on him, eyes watering slightly but not gagging this time. He started bobbing his head up and down, slowly going deeper until it grazed the back of his throat with each stroke. He looked up at Tim challengingly, but Tim was focused on the streaks of tears dripping from his dark eyes.

Tim growled and finally moved his arms from where they had been thrown over the back of the couch. He reached forwards to tangle his fingers in graying curls, guiding Jon's mouth up and down his cock. Just as Jon had settled into the rhythm, Tim tightened his grip and thrust forwards, forcing the head of his cock into Jon's tight throat. He held him there for a moment, grunting at the feeling of it fluttering around him as Jon started to gag, before letting Jon jerk back. Jon gasped for a few moments, obviously fighting back his gag reflex as he glared up at Tim, but didn't protest when the hand still in his hair pulled him back down.

He opened his mouth and let Tim guide his motion, rubbing the vein on the bottom with his tongue as Tim fucked his mouth with jerky movements.


"Fuck, should have known there was a better use for that mouth. All this time I wanted you to shut up, and I could have just stuck my cock in you instead. If only I'd known you were such a slut, I could have had you sucking me off under the desk whenever you thought of doing something stupid." He thrust forward hard as he imagined it, just pushing Jon under the desk and fucking his mouth. As his cock again slid into Jon's throat he groaned in earnest, fingers tightening to keep him from pulling away. Jon managed to fight back his gag reflex for a moment but as Tim pushed a little deeper he began to choke, mouth hot and tight, and another groan was forced out of Tim as Jon's throat convulsed around his cock. Only when Jon started slapping his leg did he pull back.

Jon looked wrecked, tears dripping down his face and a line of drool on his chin as he coughed and gagged. His eyes were red under his knocked askew glasses. When he recovered enough to breath he raised his hand up to drag it across his mouth, then said scathingly, "Is that all then? All the things I've done and that's it? I thought you were going to punish me; or has all this moping made you go soft? I killed Sasha, and the best you can do is–"

"Shut up!" Tim had jerked him up so forcefully that Jon's hands immediately jumped up to grab at his wrist, tugging as Tim jerked him towards his face. "Shut the fuck up. You don't get to talk about her. You keep your slimy words away from her, or I'll make you." Tim had pulled him so high that his whole body was bent back, looking up at Tim with tears and drool still streaking his face, but Jon just glared directly towards him and spit out three words.

"Then make me."

Prompt: Tim/Melanie, complicity

[(Anonymous)]

Bitching about the Archive and conspiring against Elias leads to kissing or more

Prompt: Elias/Jon/Beholding, Ritual Sex

[(Anonymous)]

Elias wants to bring Jon closer to their Master.

(Any level of consent is fine, but for noncon, I'd prefer the "magical influence" variety to others.

Bloodplay and marking are welcome!)

Fill: Elias/Jon/Beholding, Ritual Sex

[(Anonymous)]

“What do you want from me?” Jon asks.

He puts all his power in this simple, almost casual question. Elias could be annoyed at this act of defiance, but he loves the game too much. The need to answer him sparkles in his whole body, concentrates on his eager tongue. He has to suppress a moan. Jon has an idea of what it does to him, doesn’t he, channeling the power of their god to invade his mind? Can he be that oblivious, when Elias was so clear about it?

Lots of things, he thinks, but right now I want to fuck you against my desk. He refrains from saying it. He’d like to see Jon’s reaction, but his Archivist is so strong now. Elias is not sure he could stop there if he actually started talking.

He waits. Doesn’t answer. Smiles. Shows him who is in control here. Waits for the urge to speak to lessen enough. Looks at Jon’s lips, concentrates on how much he’d like to silence them with a kiss. The want is almost as strong, and the balance between the two actually helps.

“Didn’t you send for me? Why?” Jon asks, frustrated and awkward, flinching under the weight of his gaze. Elias can breathe again. This question is easy.

“I did,” he confirms. “I wanted to talk to you. About religious matters.”

“Did your god ask you for something from me? Usually it’s more direct about it. Making me feel ill if I don’t read enough statements, and treating me like an errand boy in general, if I want to live.”

“Jon, this attitude is exactly the problem. You’re serving well, no one is doubting that. But you lack respect. You don’t offer worship. It’s not the same.”

“And why would it care? I thought we were like ants to these Powers.”

“Ordinary humans certainly are, maybe even your little assistants. It’s different for you and me.”

Jon winces, clearly not taking that as a compliment.

“You should apologize, you know.”

“Oh. Of course. And how do I do this? Do I need to say by the way, I’m sorry I wasn’t more polite to you, if you had informed me of your existence I would have made more effort at the end of every statement?”

Elias would say this is only making things worse, but where Jon stands, he doubts it makes a difference. It’s probably him getting offended, only half at the Beholding’s behalf.

“You will do it. If you want knowledge, and with it power - power to protect people, because it’s unfortunately what you wish for right now - you need to worship our God,” he says. “I will show you.”

It’s not a request, never an order, it’s a calm certitude. Jon looks at him, wants to contradict him. He can’t. Elias doesn’t even need to put in his head the knowledge that he’s not lying. Jon can feel it.

“Just don’t make me waste my time,” he says, rolling his eyes, but it’s a mark of defeat, of acceptance. He follows Elias through a door he never saw open.

The walls are covered in eyes, engraved, painted, irises of every colour. It sings in Elias’ mind, being watched with such intensity, being pried open, every inch of his body, mind and soul opened to his God.

He looks at Jon. His Archivist looks, if not exactly humbled, impressed and wary. He feels the power here, without a question. Curious too, wanting to know more, to see what happens next. And even as he feels, he questions and analyzes his own feelings, puts them in words, for a future statement maybe.

He’s perfect.

Elias leads him to a polished stone altar, marked with eyes too, asks him to lay down on it, to remove his vest and shirt.

“Can I at least ask why?” Jon asks.

“Of course you can.” Elias touches Jon’s chest gently. His heart is beating very fast. And his skin is incredibly soft. Nikola’s mark, but it will fade easier than Jane Prentiss’ marks or Jude Perry’s burn, and Elias is the one enjoying it now. “It’s even very appropriate. But don’t wait for any easy answers.”

“What will you do to me?” Jon asks, using the full strength of the compulsion again. Elias shudders.

“I will mark you,” he answers. “You’re wearing too many physical marks of other Gods. You need to show who you belong to.” It would be delightful to say, these words of domination and ownership, even if the compulsion wasn’t making his whole body shiver in pleasure. And Jon’s look of fear adds even more to it.

“Does your Master…”

Elias slaps him. Jon stops midsentence, out of surprise more than pain.

“You’re in a place of worship. You will tell the truth as you know it. Not as you want it to be.”

Jon sighs deeply as he touches his burning cheek. “Does our Master want pain? It doesn’t seem the type. By the way, that applies to you slapping me too.” His voice is very defiant and angry again, with a hint of contempt, but still pressing for an answer.

“It wants sacrifice,” Elias answers eagerly. He’s stronger in this place, but Jon is too. “You already gave It your safety, so many of your thoughts, so many hours of sleep. It always wants more.” It’s been many years since Elias slept, but he no longer needs to. “And I slapped you because you have so much potential, and it’s time to stop pretending to be an ordinary human, with me at least. Or even pretending that you want to. Also, because you’re so tempting…”

Elias didn’t intend to say this last part. He manages to stop himself. He half-hopes, though, that Jon will ask more about his burning lust, will feel curious about it. Every defiant glare and angry question only makes Elias want him more, and part of him wants to confess.

He’s allowed that. It’s a human urge, but Jon is his Archivist, and directed at him it becomes all mixed up with the worship, both the urges kindling each other. He never wanted any person or any piece of knowledge more.

Jon doesn’t ask, even when Elias takes hold of the knife.

Elias makes it short, carving a simple eye picture in Jon’s torso, his hand skilled, used to this. It’s not about the time it takes or even the pain. It’s about the willingness, and the scar. Jon doesn’t scream or protest. He doesn’t close his eyes either, following Elias’ hands.

The cuts are not deep, but it still bleeds noticeably. Elias covers the wound with the palm of his hand, and the eye shape inscribes itself there, in Jon’s blood. It won’t be smudged or erased, not while he’s in this room.

“Is there… is there more?” Jon asks in a strained voice.

“First I will put some salve on your wound. It will heal fast, but you can’t be too careful. You’ve been brave, Jon.”

He does as he says, puts a bandage on it. Instantly the blood gets through it, draws the eye again. Jon is uncharacteristically pliant, and Elias knows the ritual has been taking him in, digging inside his mind. He pleased his God, and he felt it. And he probably still doesn’t admit that he loved it. That it felt right. But it will come, with time.

“Is there more?” Jon insists. And Elias kisses him. Jon asked. It’s brief, and before Jon wants to protest, to stop him, it has already ended.

“What about you show It how grateful you are to me?” he asks. “How well we work together ?”

“You’re just a pervert, actually.”

Elias strokes Jon’s cheek. “Ask your question. I know you want to.”

“Is it really for y… for our God’s eye?” Jon asks. “Or do you just want to fuck me?” His voice is now assured, commanding, and he looks at Elias with an intensity that pierces his soul. For the first time, Elias really sees the dangers of giving Jon more power. He wants to tell him the truth, the whole truth, even more than before, and he wants Jon to surrender to it, to accept it…

Not yet.

“I do want you for myself, more than you can imagine,” he confesses, still caressing Jon’s cheek, descending on his neck. “You’re everything I wish for and more. But yes, it would please our Master, to see us... bonding. Creating new dark secrets out of weakness and need.”

Jon recoils at the thought. It’s a bit hurtful actually.

Elias can easily search for each of his employees’ most secret fantasies, and he would take advantage of this without hesitation, taunt and seduce and offer Jon anything he loved or shamefully wished for, if only Jon had any kind of sexual desires.

Here he will have to resort to other, more advanced methods. He prepared for this moment.

“I will show you,” he says again, in a soft, seductive voice.

Those are dozens of ritual sex accounts for the Eye, memories and images, accounts and feelings, desires and fears, some of them from before the Institute, and he puts them all at once in Jon’s unprepared and unexperienced mind.

It does what the cuts didn’t. Jon screams and writhes on the altar stone, in shock and pleasure.

It’s so easy for Elias to take him by the shoulders, to get their faces close. When he kisses Jon again, his delightful Archivist kisses back, frenzied with a lust that is not his.

“What did you do?” he asks weakly. He doesn’t resist when Elias has him sitting on the altar, moans when he puts a firm hand on his thigh.

“You did ask a question. You doubted my answer. I offered proof.” He opens Jon’s trousers, finds him fully hard. He strokes his cock very softly - he wants this to last.

“Please, Elias…”

He doesn’t know how to beg very well. Elias intends to teach him. Not with an easy shortcut this time - the slow, long way.

“Remove your trousers first.” And Jon does, wanting this more than he wants to rebel.

Elias puts some more of the salve on his fingers, spreads Jon’s legs, circles his entrance. “It will be good,” he promises.

He opens him slowly, and Jon clings to his neck, trembling, moaning sometimes.

“You know what’s going to happen,” Elias murmurs with satisfaction.

“I would know even if you hadn’t put these things in my mind! How stupid do you think I am?” But even as he tries to defy Elias, his trembling body seeks his touch.

“Ask me to do it.”

“Stop this and fuck me anyway. You want it, you made me want it, and I admit you were right. Our Master wants it too. Oh fuck, you planned all of this.”

Maybe it’s a question, but it’s too weak to have any effect.

It’s hard for Elias to make him wait. But he wants more from this time. It’s the first, maybe the last if it backfires on him. He just opens his own trousers, lets Jon see his hard cock.

“Once more, nicely this time.” He gently kisses Jon’s neck.

Jon gives a frustrated moan. “Please?”

And Elias enters him. It’s hot and tight and Jon is moaning in pleasure, exactly like Elias imagined it, wanted it. He starts thrusting slowly, taking one of Jon’s legs over his shoulder, forcing him to lie down. He’s got control, he will make Jon his, and the Beholding is looking at them, giving this moment of triumph an additional exaltation.

And then Jon asks, between gritted teeth. “How many times have you wanted me before… without being able to have me… tell me about them.”

Elias tries to resist, he really tries this time. But he’s lost in his pleasure, and he’s weak, so weak, to something that will give him so much more of it.

He realizes he lost only when he hears his own voice remind Jon of their first job interview, of how he read into his soul almost on a whim, how he saw the depth of his thirst for knowledge and was drawn in, already wanting to undress him slowly, to kiss him hard, to be known for what he is.

And it only makes him more aroused, more frantic, as he tells Jon of every day he had dirty and shameless fantasies about him. He should hate it, confess how desperate he was, as the power balance shifts under the countless eyes of his God's, but the delight of answering the compulsion, the way he reminds himself how much and how long he has wanted this, only adds to his ecstasy. Soon he’s no longer sure whether he can’t stop himself, or just doesn’t want to.

His movements become faster, erratic, as he gets close to his orgasm. He grips Jon’s cock, gives it some wide strokes, and manages to make him come on his own stomach, in long, white streaks of semen. He wishes they could leave a mark too. Then he lets himself come at last, and he hasn’t finished talking.

He tucks himself back in his trousers. He helps Jon to get up - the hard polished stone was not tender on his back. He kisses him on the mouth, softly, shortly too, because he’s still confessing his most depraved desires and it never stops being too good to resist. Even when Jon has put back his clothes, even when he just listens to him without a word, looks at him with a severe face.

Only when he stops does he realize how fully he lost this battle for power, how deep was his humiliation in front of their God - and with it his awe of Jon only grows. He doesn’t regret a thing when they get back to his office. Not really.

“Did you like listening to all this?” Elias asks. Jon only mumbles, doesn’t even give him an answer. He seems confused and scared, not even appreciating his temporary victory.

“You don’t have to tell me now,” Elias says again. “I will hear it in your official statement.” He relishes the way Jon looks at him with horror. “Of course you know. You felt your Master’s presence, you worshipped It. This can’t go undocumented. You can keep it secret from your assistants, you can even pretend you’re hiding it from me. If it makes it easier for you. But you will record it.”

He exults, when Jon doesn’t even try to pretend he won’t.

Prompts: asexual!Jon/anyone, negociation of sex

[(Anonymous)]

Jon is asexual and gets with someone who is not. Confused and careful but 100% consensual navigation ensues.
(eg: "does this work, because i genuinely can't tell what's hot", "huh, that sounds weird but i can do that i guess", "yeah, sorry, i'm not getting aroused, but that doesn't mean i don't like you or am not appreciating this", "uughh no i don't have the energy today", no touching but watching, open relationship... etc. etc.)

At least a little smutty, please.
Any pairing is game if you can make it work, would be v. happy with an exploration of his relationship with Georgie before or during the series (see below).

MAG 106 spoilers

This request coming from one asexual anon who likes to read smut and is officially giving y'all permission to still request and write smut of a canonically asexual character if you want to ;)

In the case of the relationship with Georgie, canonically she has said "Jon just... doesn't", in general. Most straightforward interpretation would be that they never did anything sexual at all, but it could also mean for example "he just doesn't want nor need sex but sometimes he'd help her get off when she wanted to", or a lot of variations.

Fill: asexual!Jon/anyone, negociation of sex

[(Anonymous)]

Filled here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24573220

Elias/Jon, dubcon, exhaustion

[(Anonymous)]

I kinda just want Elias taking huge advantage of our favorite Head Archivist when he's totally exhausted from all his Beholding. Or, when he's on the verge of collapsing from all his not Beholding.

Either way, he can't do much in the way of resistance, and maybe he doesn't entirely want to?

Fill: Elias/Jon, dubcon, exhaustion - oral sex, cockwarming

[(Anonymous)]

Elias had never been one for detailed instructions. Gentle nudges in the right direction, providing different options, that was what he preferred. Jon hated him for it, he knew as much, even though the approach had worked wonders for him.

It was the reason why Elias, upon realising that Jon had forgotten his Institute keys as he’d started making his way there, had left the door at the main entrance open for him. And for the same reason, he’d left the one to the Archives locked. Jon could have easily waited a couple of hours; Martin liked to come in early. But apparently, Jon didn’t want to wait any longer.

There was no surprise on his face when he saw there was still light in Elias’s office, shining invitingly through the crack in the slightly opened door. Jon didn’t even bother knocking.
“Give me the keys!” he demanded as he entered.

Elias, in turn, did not bother looking up from the statements he was going through. “No.”

There was silence for a couple of seconds. Then brisk steps across the room, and Elias barely managed to gather up the files and put them out of reach before Jon could pluck one from the desk. Frustrated, Jon slammed his hands onto the polished wood. The stench of cigarettes wafting from Jon forced Elias to finally look up, wrinkling his nose, and take in his appearance face to face.

Jon was in pretty bad shape, barely able to stand upright. The dark shadows beneath his eyes were even more pronounced than usual against his ashen skin. Elias couldn’t suppress a smile.

“You look a mess.”

“Just… stop.” Jon sighed. “I’m so tired.” Elias briefly wondered if it was an act to incur his sympathy. But no. Jon was a terrible actor, barely able to keep his emotions in check, let alone feign any.

“Then you should go back home and sleep.”

Jon balled his fists against the desk. “I can’t!” Then his head dropped. “I tried, but…” His voice nearly cracked. “Elias, I can’t sleep.”

It wasn’t the reaction Elias had expected. If Jon had simply asked for statements, Elias would have happily continued antagonising him. After all, Jon needed to learn restraint, much as Elias approved of any development that tied him closer to the Institute and their Master. But to hear such an earnest confession, his vulnerability so plain on display… Perhaps the lateness of the hour and his own fatigue were making Elias sentimental.

He tapped against the drawer where he’d stored the files. “You will get your statement,” he said benevolently. “I just need to make sure that I am making the right choice.”

“Why don’t you just give me one to read while you make your choice?” Back to the disrespectful tone it was, the thanks for his lenience. But Elias couldn’t be angry. Not when a soft hint of compulsion beckoned at his lips. He wondered if Jon had intended it. If not, a lesson in control was sorely needed.

“We’re running out of time, Jon,” he answered truthfully, relishing the pleasure of giving in. “If I let you go down to the Archives now, you’ll pick the first statement off the stack, and with your luck, it will be poorly conceived fiction. Besides, I don’t want you reading statements that have nothing to do with our cause. The others can take care of those. So, take a seat. And wait.”

Jon did not sit down. And he seemed to have no intention to wait.

“Why don’t I just take your statement, then?” His voice was more forceful now, and Elias shivered. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than let Jon do just that. He had to struggle against the compulsion, gritting his teeth, dreading the sound of the tape recorder turning on, a subtle order to obey. And oh, how he wanted to obey. But the tape recorder stayed silent.

“Because my statement is hardly relevant to the Unknowing,” he said, trying to keep the breathlessness out of his voice, to ignore the tingling of his lips.

“I will be the judge of that,” Jon countered. “Give me your statement.”

Another tug, but it was weaker than before, requiring barely any willpower to resist. Jon seemed to have reached his limit. Out of the corner of his eye, Elias glanced at the clock, mentally calculating how long it had taken Jon to reach this stage.

“Do you think you can survive out there with such a pitiful performance, Jon?” Elias asked. “All you would achieve is to rile up the wrong person. But you already know what this is like, don’t you?”

Jon’s right hand trembled.

“In many cases, you will only get one chance,” Elias continued. “You should be grateful that I’m the kind of person to… overlook your frankly impertinent attempts to impose your will on me. But what you will need to learn is to find other ways to get what you want when using your powers is not an option.”

For a moment, Jon just stared at him. Then his stance lost some of its aggressiveness, though he still looked wary. “What other ways?”

A wicked smile spread across Elias’s lips. “Instead of asking questions, you could use your mouth in other ways to persuade me.”

It took Jon a second or two to understand. Then he pushed himself away from the table with a look of disgust. “You can’t be serious,” he said.

“I very much am. I want you to show me just how much you need a statement, Jon.”

Jon let out a huffy laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Absolutely not.”

“Then I suppose you’ll simply have to wait a little. Feel free to leave.”

“Gladly!” Jon turned and stepped outside, slamming the door. Elias simply shrugged and retrieved the statements again. Jon would find a file lying on his desk in the morning. Unless he managed to exhaust himself with his restless pacing up and down the hallway. At one point, he seemed to decide to simply go get his own key, but by the time he had exited the Institute, he hesitated again, checking the time on his phone. It was then that Elias diverted his attention to the statements.

It was a mild surprise when Jon turned up in front of his office again. Elias looked up in time to see Jon pushing open the door.

“Okay, fine,” he simply spat, as if the conversation had never been interrupted.

“What makes you think I haven’t changed my mind?” Elias simply asked. For a second, Jon looked taken aback. Then he shook his head. “You haven’t.” The desperate note in his voice was satisfying enough.

“Seems like today is your lucky day, then,” Elias said with a smile. “But next time, you will have to ask a little more nicely.”

“What makes you think there will be a next time?” Jon was already rounding the table, the knuckles of his clenched fists visibly white. Elias’ twisted curiosity silenced any warnings he might have directed at Jon as he stepped closer. He simply turned his chair towards him.

“You insisted there wouldn’t be a first time either. And yet, here you are…”

Jon didn’t reply. When he finally stopped in front of Elias, he hesitated briefly. Then he sank to his knees. Carefully, without breaking eye contact, he pushed Elias’s thighs apart, so he could inch just a little closer. His hands shook slightly as he opened Elias’s trousers and pulled out his cock.

Just as he lowered his head, Elias grabbed a fistful of Jon’s hair and forced him to look up again. “I don’t have to tell you not to get any pesky ideas about abusing the trust I am showing you here, do I?”

Jon glowered at him. “No.”

“Good.” Elias loosened his grip slightly and let Jon continue. But the interruption seemed to have thrown him off course. A flush spread across his cheeks and his expression turned from anger to uncertainty. Elias did not move a single muscle. He was eager to see what Jon would do on his own.

Jon’s touch was clumsy, insecure. The first lick across the head of Elias’s cock was too dry. And still, he was growing hard as Jon continued his ministrations, more aroused by the sight of him, kneeling, lips tentatively closing around his erection, than by his actions. All the while, Jon kept looking up at Elias, seeking his guidance, his approval. Elias decided to indulge him. And as always, it was a pleasure to give in to Jon’s demands.

Elias stroked his hair, gently twisting his fingers in it. Then he started pulling Jon down his length, just until he hit the back of his throat. Jon coughed and quickly retreated, and Elias did not try to stop him. After taking a deep breath, Jon took him in his mouth again. Inexperienced. Hesitant. Elias relished it nevertheless. But Jon’s movements were too slow and tentative to satisfy him, nor sufficiently calculated to be an effective tease. That would be another lesson he would have to learn.

Once Jon had taken him in deeper again, Elias tightened his grip on his hair. “Stay like that,” he said quietly. Jon looked at him quizzically. But then he nodded ever so slightly and let his hands rest on Elias’ thighs. His mouth was warm and soft, his lips pleasantly tight around Elias’ cock. Jon glared again when Elias coaxed him under the desk, resentment plain on his face as he had to shuffle across the carpet on his knees, with his head still bowed. But the blush remained on his cheeks, deepened even, and Elias could feel him breathe faster.

After settling in a comfortable position, Elias turned his attention back to the statements on his desk, one hand lazily tangled in Jon’s hair, playing with it from time to time when he felt like it. Or when he needed a distraction from the words that threatened to draw him in. While he did not experience the need for statements the Archivist did, it could get difficult to resist the urge to read the words aloud. Besides, he had no intention of making Jon wait for too long. He wanted to show him that good behaviour would be rewarded.

And his behaviour was very good indeed. He barely moved, barely fidgeted. Only occasionally did he draw back to take a proper breath. Once he’d relaxed his jaw and changed his position, he would obediently engulf Elias with his warmth again. And he made the most delightful little noises when Elias caressed his cheek, thumb teasing at the stretched corner of his lips.

Elias had made his choice already, but he couldn’t resist keeping Jon in place for a little while longer, committing the shape of his face to memory with his touch, the heat radiating from his cheeks, the softness of his skin where it wasn’t covered by poorly shaved stubble. But he memorised the feeling of that beneath his fingertips, too.

The increased affections seemed to catch Jon off-guard. Or maybe it was the fact that Elias was getting fully hard, now that he was able to give Jon his undivided attention, to truly focus on the feeling of his mouth around him, the involuntary movements of his tongue against the underside of his cock, the soft gasps when Elias fingers ghosted over the side of his neck. Jon looked up at him, a question in his eyes, and when Elias nodded, he started tentatively sucking on his cock.

Elias let his head drop onto the back of his chair with a breathless laugh, letting himself get carried away by the wave of pleasure. And after a while, he tightened his hands in Jon’s hair again, held his head still as he thrust into his mouth at a faster pace, a rhythm that was an edge more demanding, pushing just a bit deeper than Jon had been willing to take him. But he could feel Jon was having trouble keeping up. So when Elias felt his orgasm building, he pulled out and stroked himself to completion, spilling over Jon’s flushed face. This, too, was an image he would remember fondly.

Jon gasped, blinking, jaw trembling in preparation to voice his disapproval, no doubt, but Elias cut him off. “Next time, you’ll swallow,” he said. Jon simply gave a small huff. But he didn’t object.

“You did really well, Jon,” Elias said and handed him tissues to clean up with.

Jon wiped at his eyes first, lips pressed together tightly, as if he refused to let a single trickle pass his lips. But when he started wiping at his mouth, Elias saw his eyes flutter shut briefly, and in the silence of his office, he heard Jon let out a quiet sigh. Then his fingers nearly scrunched up the tissue as he continued wiping furiously.

His legs were shaking as he stood with a groan, but all his irritation melted away when Elias finally handed him the statement. It was then that Elias spotted the bulge in his trousers. The urge was strong to pull Jon closer by his belt loops and push him up against the desk in front of him, to take him in his mouth and show him what would be expected of him the next time he showed up in the middle of the night in need of a statement.

But Jon was already leafing through it, barely paying Elias any mind as he sat down opposite him with a slight wince he didn’t quite manage to bite down. His hand wandered automatically to the tape recorder to switch it on. And just like that, Jon was fully absorbed in his reading.

Elias sighed and stood, leaving Jon to his own devices while he went to clean up properly. And on his way back, he got Jon a bottle of water from the canteen. When he returned, Jon was still reading the statement. His voice was rougher than usual, but it sounded firmer than when he had arrived. And when he finally announced the end of the statement, he leaned back with a content sigh. Smiled.

After drinking some water, Jon turned back to statement to go over the follow-up notes at the end. But Elias could see his eyes were nearly falling shut. The papers were threatening to slip from his hands.

“I’ll take over from here,” Elias said and walked over to take the file out of Jon’s loose hold. Jon looked up at him, blinking against the light, and Elias couldn’t stop himself from running his fingers through his hair one last time. “Good work, Jon.” Jon let his eyes fall shut.

Satisfied, Elias sat down at the desk and continued the recording for Jon. Later, he would wake Jon and offer him the keys to the Archives so he could lie down in an actual bed, and Elias could finally go home and get some sleep himself. But for now, he would gladly let Jon rest. If his calculations weren’t off, another long night at the office would be in store for him soon enough.

Prompt: Elias/Jon, cockwarming (anal), appreciation

[(Anonymous)]

Elias enjoys being inside Jon while he's reading statements. But he doesn't want to distract him too much either; his work is very important, after all.

Fill: Elias/Jon, cockwarming (anal), appreciation (cw: dubcon ish)

[(Anonymous)]

It's statement day.

This never used to happen. Jon would read statements all willy-nilly and exhaust himself, or go without for long tracts and Elias would be forced to send them to him so he wouldn't break down. But with the Unknowing passed, Elias has enforced a strict and regular schedule: one from the backlog every week on a Friday, regardless of how many Jon takes in the field.

Jon is already ready when Elias gets back from his morning meeting with Accounts about some errors in the payroll. His trousers are down around his thighs, and he's bent forward over Elias' desk, thighs and ass shiny from where he's been fingering himself open. Elias locks the door, walks around the table, taking his time to just enjoy the sight his Archivist makes.

"Good," he says, and Jon shivers: he doesn't seem to care much about his own sexual gratification, but below all that repression and asexuality Elias has discovered a praise kink the width of England itself.

Elias unbuckles his own belt and strokes himself hard, soft noises of skin on skin behind Jon. Then he finally pushes in, slow and relentless, pressing and pressing despite Jon's clenching and gasping until he's seated root-deep in his Archivist. He rubs a gentle circle at the small of Jon's back, soothing. "Lovely," he says, a hint of a happy sigh to the words — it's been a long week, and he's been looking forward to this.

Then, for a little while, Elias fucks him. Not particularly hard or fast, not even with intent to get off, just splitting Jon open because it's relaxing, and he likes the noises Jon can't suppress. When the stimulation is enough to knot tight behind his balls and Elias starts to make his own wrenched noises over the sound of their bodies colliding, the tape recorder turns on, and Elias laughs breathlessly. Smacks Jon's ass cheek for the joy of it, the sound of his stinging palm, Jon's indignant yelp. It's obvious he wants to say something, Elias can feel him biting his tongue, but he must know better by now. That's good too.

"All right," he says, like he's agreeing with something unspoken, and then gathers Jon up and sits back in his desk chair. Jon leans back into it, splayed across his lap; Elias can see the heat at the back of his neck.

"You've been so well-behaved," he says, unable to keep the pride from his voice. When they first started this, Jon had needed to be wrestled into submission, dragged down with both carrot and stick until he succumbed. But a little discipline and he's learned to — well, to be more lovely, as it were, for Elias at least. It truly is amazing what magic a schedule can wrought.

Jon is half hard, anal stimulation and Elias' approval apparently enough to get a reaction. Elias takes him in hand, works his fist lightly over Jon's long cock until he's squirming a little in Elias' lap. "Are—" Jon tries, voice hoarse and a little waspish. "Are we doing this? I can't read when you're distracting me."

"Oh, of course, my apologies," says Elias pleasantly, and stops, makes himself comfortable instead. Leans back in his chair and closes his eyes, relaxing; his cock is still filling Jon, and he's ready to be filled in turn. In his lap, Jon pulls the statement on the desk over. The recorder is already running. None of these tapes ever seem to make it into the publicly accessible Archives.

"Statement of Lillian Ong, regarding the punishment closet at her school in Cheltenham. Statement given 23rd of July, 1973. Recorded by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins."

Elias loves that easy cadence, the way Jon's voice drops for the boilerplate, the way it lifts again into something girlish for the statement. It takes him almost immediately: he's sixteen, a lesbian and a bookworm, in love with a rebellious girl who is frequently disciplined by the staff. One punishment that is a particular favorite of the school's Headmistress is a narrow closet that could easily have stood as inspiration for the Trunchbull's chokey in Dahl's book Matilda. It has an unpleasant and horrifying impact on the girls' life—

But Elias has heard plenty of similar stories. Entombment, entrapment, burial, claustrophobia, isolation torture, the fear of the dark, the steady loss of innocence, all of these elements of fear and torment he already contains within him, along with the multitude of other statements Beholding has collected. They can't touch him — the parts of his humanity necessary to be affected by this story were worn away decades ago. Instead he just listens to the cadence of Jon's reading voice, the steady flow of the words into somewhere deep inside him, sating their master and therefore sating them both. It is a moment of connection between he and Jon that is more intense and vulnerable than any sex they could have could be.

He's still mostly hard, is Elias, Jon warm and alive around him, insides flexing occasionally, though not deliberately. Jon's own cock is understandably soft when Elias reaches for it — he just wants to play, but it makes the statement come to a grinding halt.

"Could you perhaps manage to keep your hands to yourself?" he asks primly. "I can't read this with you — feeling me up."

"So sorry," laughs Elias, pinching his thigh lightly and withdrawing his hand. "Do go on."

"You're an impossible menace and a terrible distraction," Jon sighs longsufferingly, and Elias just smirks to himself and grinds a slow circle with his hips. "Ugh," says Jon, and, refusing to rise to the bait, returns stubbornly to his reading — and if he bounces just slightly in rhythm with the words of the statement, well it probably serves Elias right.

Eventually: "Statement ends," says Jon, dropping out of the lived experience of poor Lillian and catching his breath. Elias snakes arms around him, holding him against the cold shadow of terrible powers, the shadow of the whale that passes beneath their tiny human boat. This, Elias knows, is why Jon agrees to their statement day ritual. He reads his follow up research and conclusions slowly, as he grinds back onto Elias's cock.

"It feels like you're bigger every time," Jon remarks, sounding annoyed by it, and then remembers he's still recording and manages — "Recording ends," abruptly, smacking the tape off. "There. Are you happy?"

It sounds passive aggressive, but Elias knows it's a question Jon genuinely wants an answer to. "So much," he tells him, kissing the back of his neck. "You do such good, important work, and I love to listen to you." He reaches around Jon's hips again. "Good Archivists get a reward, you know."

Jon takes a shaky breath, leaning back into Elias, and he's the one person whose mind Elias can't read but he knows he's thinking that he shouldn't love this as much as he does. Jon is always guilty, especially about sex, and especially about sex with his murdering monster boss. Elias sucks on his earlobe and curls his fingers around Jon's soft cock.

"Come on now," he murmurs. "Relax. It's Friday afternoon. You've managed your statement. You deserve to feel good. Let me make you feel good, Jonathan." He's stroking in time with his words, slow and tight, long pulls to work blood back into the shaft and get Jon hard again. "I know it must be uncomfortable, sitting stretched open like this for so long. Plugged up with me. But I love the way you feel around me. One day I'm going to put you on your knees under this desk and just leave my cock in your mouth all day long."

Jon groans at that, kinky bastard, and tries to move between Elias's hand and his dick, thighs trembling as he tries to strain for friction. "What's that?" Elias asks, amused, "You want to be properly fucked?"

Jon's voice sounds like his teeth are gritted. "Yes, damn you."

"Oh no, we'll need to do better than that," Elias says, and pushes Jon up with surprising strength, forcing him back over the desk. He doesn't press back in, though, just teasing his cock over the crease of Jon's ass, holding him in place with one hand to the back of his neck and another tight at his hip. "What do we say?"

"... Please," spits Jon. "Please fuck me— ah!"

The vocalization is because Elias has sunk in again all at once, bottoming out with a rough noise before starting a brutal place. His expensive shirt will be stuck to his back with sweat before he's finished, the demanding fuck standing in contrast to his earlier lazy movements. He gets a knee up on the desk, over Jon, mounting him, and snarls. "You're mine, Archivist."

"Yes," Jon pants. "Yours, Elias — fuck —" All the horrors of the statement and restless energy are stripped away now, and he's arching under Elias's onslaught, overwhelmed by all these physical sensations making demands of his body, until finally it peaks and his release washes over him. Elias rides him to his own completion, white light bursting behind his eyes, and then finally pulls out and slumps breathlessly back into his chair, panting, recovering, watching Jon do the same. A trickle of come slides down the back of Jon's balls and threatens to drip. Elias thumbs it away, and Jon makes a wounded noise and finally forces himself up.

"Well," he says stiffly, almost immediately awkward. There's nothing to really clean up with; he just pulls his trousers and boxers back up over the mess, to be endured until he can get home. They both tuck themselves away, doing up belts, piecing their professionalism back together.

And here's his favourite part: Jon leans over the chair, as he does every week, and kisses Elias lightly on the mouth. "Have a good weekend, Elias," he says, surprisingly soft post-coital. Elias smiles at him.

"And to you, Jonathan," he says, getting tissues from his drawer to start to clean the mess on his desk. "I'll see you next Friday." In fact, he'll be looking forward to it.

Prompt: Elias/Jon, D/s with subspace

[(Anonymous)]

Pretty much exactly what it says on the tin; Elias fucking (or even just touching) Jon until he's totally out of it and compliant.

Prompt: Michael Shelley, hurt/comfort, recovery

[(Anonymous)]

[MAG 101 spoilers]

'Helen' does some house cleaning and boots out whatever's left of Michael Shelley, and the institute find him. He's not really in a fit state to be taking care of himself, but he's legally dead and a huge target for supernatural nasties, so Jon and the assistants end up looking after him for the time being.

Bonus points for: Elias being a creepy git, Jon angsting over how close the parallels between Michael and Martin are, and Michael providing unexpected help against the Unknowing.

Re: Prompt: Michael Shelley, hurt/comfort, recovery

[(Anonymous)]

I've got started on a plotbunny that could fit most aspects of this into a mid season 4 canon-divergence, and I'd like to ask for confirmation on the details of the kink and any DNWs if that's okay? Since the outline is flexible enough at this stage to accommodate a few ways of taking it, and the result might be a better fit for the prompt if I check:

* Do you want hurt/comfort smut, or is an emphasis on non-sexual recovery okay? The outline includes some Jon/Michael discussion of sex, and they decide not to go there until at least after working out some issues with boundaries, to make it healthy enough to fill the 'recovery' requirement. If the prompt is for 'sex in the context of h/c and recovery', I can plot for that. If it's more a kink for the most careful comfort & recovery possible, it'll probably lean towards the characters erring on the side of caution, with Jon wanting to give Michael plenty of time to process his identity issues, and Michael growing better able to recognise that Jon is ace and pining for Martin too and it'll take time to figure things out, even if he hasn't given him a hard no.

* Are there any DNWs for low points and backsliding on the road to recovery? The plotbunny includes some common triggers (suicidal moments, alcohol, vomiting), but they could be cut if necessary.

Prompt: Martin/Jon, fluff, Martin was raised by Mr Spider

[(Anonymous)]

Once upon a time, a boy wandered into a spider's lair. But the boy loved spiders, and wasn't afraid. So he spoke to the spider, about his sick mother, his trouble at school and his love of tea. By the end of his visit, the spider had grown quite attached to the boy, and almost didn't let him leave. But he did, and the boy continued to visit as he grew older. His boy does have a knack for getting into trouble though, so Mr Spider made sure to keep tabs on him boy, even now that he has wandered into the domain of the Eye.

Martin grew up partially being cared for by Mr Spider. He's not truly claimed by the Web, at least not yet, but does have a degree of supernatural protection that comes with a mother-henning monster spider making sure you don't end up someone's meal.

Other than that, just Jon/Martin fluff with the world's most awkward meet-the-parents ever.

Fill: Martin/Jon, fluff, Martin was raised by Mr Spider

[(Anonymous)]

filled on ao3 bc it was too long to fit on here! https://archiveofourown.org/works/22670875

Prompt: Martin/Jon, magical AU, demon!Martin

[(Anonymous)]

Jonathan Sims, apprentice to the great sorcerer Elias Bouchard, summons a demon. But somewhere along the way he must have messed up the ritual, because this is not the demon he meant to summon. In fact, this may be the least intimidating demon he's ever heard of in his life. And now he's stuck with it.

Martin really shouldn't be doing this. It should have been so easy; the binding was utterly scrambled, he should have taken the sorcerer's soul and been done with it. But...he really likes Jon. Really likes him. So now he's just following him around, not quite sure where he's going with this.

Re: Prompt: Martin/Jon, magical AU, demon!Martin

[(Anonymous)]

oh, that's cute as hell! Op, are you okay with nsfw, and do you have any dnws?

Prompt: Basira/Nikola, mutual non/dubcon, turnarounds

[(Anonymous)]

Nikola non/dubcons Basira, but Basira has enough tricks up her sleeve to turn the tables and demonstrate all the ways Nikola could have done better.

Prompt: Daisy/anybody with a vagina, pussy spanking.

[(Anonymous)]

Daisy spanks someone's cunt and clit until they come. Female, non-binary, or trans guys are all fine, can be a BDSM relationship or some dubcon punishment... whatever your heart desires, honestly. Points if the spankee has to count aloud, extra points if it's in an incredibly inappropriate or public location.

Re: Prompt: Daisy/anybody with a vagina, pussy spanking - Daisy/trans!Martin

[(Anonymous)]

Elias was calm enough, and Martin tried to take some solace in that, but it was difficult to feel like their victory had been anything but hollow when most of the Archival staff was hospitalized with uncertain release schedules.

Martin had escaped the Unknowing with just a broken wrist--a pretty bad break, the nurses had said, at high risk for complications--but it felt as if he had cheated somehow, to get away with just a few screws in his arm when Tim had been half-flayed and Jon--

Martin didn't want to think about Jon. He'd been the one to find him, eyes open and glassy, lips working with no sound coming out, soaked in far more blood than could have been just his own. Elias had had to pry Martin away from him once they'd made it to the hospital.

He'd been told to go home, to get some sleep, but he couldn't stand the thought of it, and so he found himself in the hospital gift shop, staring blankly at a wall of Get Well Soon cards. He was rereading one with a little googly-eyed owl on the front ("OWL BE THINKING OF YOU!") when he felt a presence at his back and turned, jumping and just barely suppressing a yelp to see Detective Tonner lurking at his shoulder. She gave him a level stare.

"Uh--um--Detective Tonner," Martin stammered.

"Daisy."

"...Daisy. Are you..." She blinked slowly at him, waiting for him to finish his sentence. She looked like she'd just barely won a fight with a wood chipper, stitches along her jawline, a black eye, a few bloodied bandages visible beneath her shirt. "...How are you holding up?" Martin tried.

"Fine. Better than most."

Martin gnawed at his lower lip. "How...how's Basira?"

Daisy let out a terse breath through her nose. "She woke up, for a little while, at least. Nurses told me to let her sleep." She shifted her weight; Martin wondered if there were bandages up her legs, too. "Everyone else?"

Martin shrugged distractedly. "Melanie's up, I think, but Tim's still in surgery and I...I don't know about Jon. They told me to go home," he added, and hated how choked his voice sounded.

Daisy was silent. Then, without preamble: "Interested in de-stressing?"

Martin stared at her, feeling for a long moment as if he were missing a punchline; she quirked an eyebrow at him and he felt blood rush to his face so fast he went dizzy, her implications hitting him all at once. "I--I--I--"

"Christ. I'm not going to make you, calm down. Just need to burn off some energy, I can go to a bar--"

"No," Martin said quickly, with more conviction than he actually felt. "I mean, I--I was just...I don't really do this kind of thing, and I...kinda thought you and--and Basira...?"

"Not really your business, is it?"

Martin swallowed. "I...I guess not."

"You interested or no?"

"I...um..." He took in a shaky breath. "Yes. Yes, I think I--"

She shut him up with a firm kiss, mostly chaste but for the domineering undertones--her lips were hard, unyielding, and Martin gasped as she pulled away, his eyes darting towards the front of the store, where the cashier was flipping through a magazine. Daisy closed a hand around his wrist, snatched the card from his hand and tossed it aside, and dragged him back out into the hallway.

"Wait, Daisy, there's--"

She shoved him into a supply closet and he stumbled, sitting down hard on a box of cleaning supplies. "Are you serious?" he squeaked as she shut the door. There was the sound of fumbling, then a bare light bulb overhead flickered on and suddenly Martin had a lapful of hardened ex-cop. She kissed him firmly, swallowing his protests, one hand tangling tightly in his hair and the other dipping below the waistband of his jeans to grope at the curve of his hip.

"Are we really...in a closet...?" Martin managed between kisses, gasping and tilting his head back to let Daisy suck bruises into his neck.

"Don't get all sappy on me," Daisy mumbled into his throat.

Martin hardly thought objecting to fucking in a public closet was "sappy," but his reply died on his lips as Daisy unbuttoned his jeans and pressed a hand between his thighs. "Daisy--" he started, his voice cracking.

Her fingers paused, then pressed forward to glide gently between the folds of Martin's cunt, exploratory and soft. Martin hadn't realized how stiff he'd gone until Daisy bit his earlobe. "Relax," she said. She passed a thumb over his clit and he jolted. "You're fine. I won't bite."

Martin elected not to correct her. "I--we're still in a closet."

"For god's sake. Stand up and take your clothes off."

Martin stood, and apparently was not quick enough for Daisy, who spun him around and yanked his jeans and underwear down and off in one smooth motion. She yanked him backwards, grinding her hips against his ass, and shoved a thigh between his legs to force them open. She brought her fingers to his lips. "Get them nice and wet for me?" she purred, and Martin's jaw fell open immediately, his tongue darting out to lick at her fingers even before she pressed them into his mouth. She wrapped an arm over his chest to hold him still, coaxing his head back to rest against her shoulder, and pulled away from his mouth to press her spit-slicked hand between his thighs, stroking in teasing circles around his cunt. "Good?"

Martin let out a low moan in response, tilting his hips to try and get more friction. "M-more, please?"

Martin could feel her smirking against him; she just barely pinched his clit between two fingers, just the slightest bit of pressure before easing up again. He turned and buried his face in her neck, panting against her as she slowly and tortuously rolled his clit between her fingers, squeezing and stroking in languid movements until Martin thought his legs would give out beneath him.

"Close?" Daisy murmured sweetly in his ear.

Martin, oblivious to the trap he'd stumbled into, nodded frantically against her.

He felt Daisy smile; felt her pull her hand away at the last second; opened his mouth to beg for it back, and instead clamped a hand over his mouth to try and smother a yelp as her palm smacked against his cunt. It wasn't a particularly hard smack, more surprising than anything, and Martin was still processing it when Daisy hit him again.

His moan took him by surprise. Apparently he was into it.

"Okay there?"

"Do that again," Martin gasped. He tried to spread his legs further and nearly lost his balance, clinging to Daisy for support. She laughed at him and obeyed.

Martin's hips jolted as the next blow landed, Daisy's fingers catching his clit. She didn't hit hard enough for any one blow to hurt, but she was relentless, giving Martin no time to recover between hits, and she made up for it with finesse. She worked her way down his cunt, slapping him so that just her fingertips hit his clit, then incrementally lower until her fingers sank between his lips with each strike; then she rubbed her palm over him, easy soothing circles until he was squirming and twitching against her, and she started over.

It began to hurt soon enough, a low, sore ache punctuated with sudden, glittering stinging. Daisy smacked his hole, harder than she had been, the sound seeming very loud in the confined space, then splayed him open with her fingers, making an appreciative noise. "You're a fuckin' mess." Her voice was less controlled now; there was a bright hunger in it, something that might have unnerved Martin more if he were not, as she said, a fucking mess.

"Don't stop," he whimpered. "Daisy, Daisy please--"

He broke off with a stuttering moan as she landed another blow, then pinched his clit cruelly, stroking him just once before he came, biting down on his wrist to smother his cries.

Daisy waited until Martin could support his own weight before she stepped back. He still stumbled, leaning heavily against the wall, unwilling to sit back down on anything until he at least had underwear on again.

"Uhm," he said, and his voice shook. "I--I didn't know I was...into that."

"You're welcome," Daisy said, a slow, self-satisfied smirk curling on her lips. "Always happy to aid in self-discovery." She leaned back against the door, sliding her hand down her torso to dip just the tips of her fingers below her waistband, tilting her head back to take in Martin's reaction. (He stared. He knew he was staring and couldn't make himself stop, mesmerized by the thin strip of skin she had exposed above her belt.) "Care to pay it forward?"

Martin's knees hit the floor before she had finished asking.

Prompt: Jon/Martin/Tim, ace!Jon watches his partners fucking, BDSM overtones

[(Anonymous)]

Jon watching Martin and Tim from nearby, eventually going over to pet them/praise them, and taking care of the two of them in the aftermath.