#elias bouchard x reader

[angelyuji]

smart, genius yanderes making their obsession feel stupid and dumb so they rely on them for everything???? bimbo reader is one of my fav tropes becuz... i am stupid :)

tw // yandere content, emotional abuse, just being mean, yandere stuff u guys know the deal

constantly belittling you, demeaning you, as a way of lowering your self-esteem. making you second-guess everything you do as a way of making you depend on them for the simplest of tasks. snapping at you and immediately turning around and comforting you.

"don't be stupid. you should know better than that." he snaps, snatching the pen from your hands.

"what? what did i-" you feel your face heat from embarassment.

"(y/n), this is a job application." he snatches that paper from your hands.

"i know what it is..." you try to reach for it, but he holds it away. "i just want to help you."

"help me? i don't need your help, (y/n)." he grabs at your hair, pulling you off your chair to the ground. you yelp in pain as his fingers tangle in your hair and yank at your scalp. "why would they hire you? what qualities do you have that they would want? you're an idiot, a fucking idiot. you can barely cook a decent meal without my help." his voice was laced with venom. you feel tears slip down your face.

"i'm sorry." you meekly whisper. "you're right, i'm too stupid." you choke out a sob. he smiles before shushing you, letting go of your hair. he sits down next to you and pulls you into a hug. you melt into his touch.

"it's okay, that's why i'm here. to take care of you."

definitely: spencer reid (post-prison), bruce wayne, tony stark, 707, elias bouchard, gojo satoru

maybe: dick grayson, sam winchester, charles xavier, jason todd

[0bticeo]

elias bouchard | bloodied hands may mend the flesh

summary:

“i’m fine, elias.”

“you pulled your stitches two streets after coming out of the hospital.”

“yes, because you wanted to see me.”

tw: blood, hurt/comfort, elias being somewhat manipulative, one (1) kiss, reader's french and done with life, non graphic descriptions of stitching up wounds, the mummy returns (2001) references bc why not.

wc. 1.3k

silence.

you stand in elias bouchard’s office, heeled boots digging uncomfortably in a decadently expensive carpet. persian. a deep green.

tick; tack.

you’re watched. 

before you is a lone silhouette sitting at his desk, framed by an oval window. it stretches and stretches in the shape of an eye and stares at you.

hello, Big Brother.

you stare back.

tick; tack.

you breathe in.

tick; tack.

your fist unclenches, fingers smoothing out the pleats of your skirt. you wince at the small motion. breathing's hard. huh.

elias barely acknowledges you, fountain pen scribbling away in neat, impeccable cursive on what you know is his precious scheduling. you find yourself detailing him. taking him in, tracing his features with a tired gaze. 

behold, the head of the magnus institute, with his perfect posture and crisp black suit. 

behold, the olive skin and long, slender fingers fishing a sheet of paper out of a neat little pile on his side. 

behold, he’s staring back at you, green-grey eyes sharp behind his glasses.

“i was wondering when you’d come back.”

you scoff.

“apologies, i was busy rescuing my godson from being kidnapped by a mummy-ressurrecting cult.”

“i know.”

you consider punching him. him and his stupidly perfect face. you wonder how you’d go at it. maybe you’d slam your knuckles against the sharp edge of his jawline, where he’s defined the contours of his goatee. maybe you’d go for the gut. see if he’s as toned as you think he is. 

“your thoughts are loud today.”

“don’t turn your gaze upon me if it bothers you that much.” 

a beat. he has set aside his fountain pen. a mont blanc. how cliché. he’s watching you, hands neatly folded in front of him. waiting.

“well?”

you sigh. there’s a headache building behind your poor, poor ocular globes, and by the looks of it, your cerebrum might decide to liquefy and run down your ear.

“why am i here, if you already Know where i’ve been?”

silence. you want to scream. you might be, actually. a long, low, guttural thing, exhaustion dripping down its jagged edges.

as it is, you know you’re silent, so it dies down in your throat and scrapes your tongue bloody. you stay still. you stay still, and your nails dig in your palms, mind reeling.

you’re feeling dizzy. why are you feeling dizzy?

you startle. 

a wide palm has settled on your shoulder, broad and comforting. you haven’t seen him move. he’s standing in front of you, something like concern flashing in his depthless eyes. there’s a pinprick pressure at the back of your neck, bearing down on your senses.

“were you hurt?”

“i don’t- what?”

“miss leblanc. were you hurt?”

you open your mouth when his hand comes up to cradle your head and his thumb presses against your temple, hard, and he Sees.

(you, stepping out in the dark, cigarette a molten dot in the cold london night. something flickering in the corner of your eye. metal slamming upon your skull.

hands closing on your throat, old, old, older than the sands surrounding you, dirty, chipped nails scraping the skin, scraping and scraping until you bled, until you slammed your torch upon an eyeless skull.

a khopesh slicing the air, the fabric of your shirt, your flesh.

a temple rising from aeons of sands, glorious, glorious until it collapses, until you have to run-)

“reckless, reckless you,” he tuts. 

you look up at him, leaning in his touch, his palm warm, so warm and safe. his eyes are narrowed, and in the velvet quiet of the sunset, they seem to glow a soft green.

“i’m fine, elias.”

“you pulled your stitches two streets after coming out of the hospital.”

“yes, because you wanted to see me.”

a beat. then, he chuckles, the sound deep and warm, melting over your ears. you feel the rumble of it against your chest and realize with a start that you’re pressed up against him, his arm wrapped around your waist to support you. 

he’s cradling you against the warmth of him, and you don’t know when your vision started to blur at the edges to the point you can only see him. 

“’you give me no choice but to stitch you up myself.”

“you don’t need-”

“and you don’t want to go back to that hospital lest they ask questions.”

“fine.”

you settle on his desk, shuffling around so that you don’t mess up his neatly organized workspace. your knuckles dig in the wood, whirling fibers printing themselves in the pad of your fingertips. 

breathing hurts, actually. the painkillers must be wearing off. you feel a trickle of blood sliding down your side. ah, there goes your white shirt. blood’s a pain to clean up, so it’s pretty much ruined. 

shuffling. elias is behind his desk, palm pressing down on a spreadsheet a few words away from your hand as he opens a drawer. you can feel his warmth. you decide you must be having a fever.

“take your shirt off.”

heat creeps up your cheek.

“not even treating me to dinner? where are your manners, monsieur bouchard?”

his last name rolls off your tongue à la française, with the rasp of the “r” and the final “d” left silent, melting under the weight of his gaze. in there, even through the gauze-veil of exhaustion shrouding your vision, you glimpse a hint of fond exasperation as he pulls out a first aid kit.

with a low hiss, you unbutton the blasted thing, slowly revealing the bruises beneath, and the gauze wrapped tight around your chest. blood spreads there, clings to you, uncomfortably viscous. there’s enough of it that you have to peel off your shirt, shed it off, fabric coming away like old skin.

when his hand brushes your side, you almost scream.

“broken ribs, too,” he mutters. “what happened?”

you’re not usually this sloppy.

you take in a sharp inhale.

“what, do you want me to make a statement?”

“nothing so formal, no.”

a beat.

depthless green-grey eyes focus on you, and you alone, and you feel the weight of his gaze in your very marrow, burrowing and burrowing until it reaches your psyche.

it’s like having someone standing at your front door, elias knocking at the forefront of your mind, waiting for you to tell him. he could pry it out of you. he doesn’t.

there’s silence, for a while. stretching, stretching, only troubled by the sound of hands brushing against one another because of course elias bouchard would have hydroalcoholic gel in his first aid kit. absently, you watch, eyes following his long, clever fingers twining and intertwining as he sanitizes his hands. 

he takes a pair of scissors and starts cutting away the soiled gauze. the blade is cold on your flushed skin. you shiver. slowly, he peels the bandages away and reveals the bloody, bruised mess beneath. out of the fourteen stitches, eight remain untouched. 

he sighs.

“this will hurt.”

“i know.”

so he sets to work, bending at the waist to clean up the bleeding wound, gently, so gently you might break under the careful press of the cotton slab on your skin. 

your breathing is uneven, sharp, irregular intakes of air like shards digging in your lungs - it hurts. 

the worst has yet to come.

when he presses the next slab on the wound itself, you cry out, hand clutching at his forearm, teeth gritted in agony. he continues, unrelenting, your grip on his forearm tightening. you think you might tear at his expansive shirt - egyptian cotton. oh, irony…

finally, he withdraws.

your lower lip is bleeding with how hard you’ve bitten down on it. 

“i got sloppy,” you mutter.

“tell me.”

you do. your eyes focus on the needle in his hand, on the blood clinging to his fingertips, crimson droplets highlighting the contours of his veins. in the quiet sunset light, they're golden.

“it was two weeks ago. evelynn o’connell, an egyptologist who so happens to be a very good friend of mine, called, in tears, while i was recording a statement. her son had been kidnapped, and she was begging me to help. so i did.”

a sharp inhale as his hand cradles your hip, fingers splayed on your lower belly as he steadies himself, sharp gaze narrowing down.

“turns out, the kidnappers were a cult of sorts. they knew enough of me and my work at the institute to deem i was a threat.”

“so they kidnapped you.”

“yes. but hey. i found alex, safe and sound.” 

the needle penetrates the flesh. you exhale, strained, knuckles turning white where you’re gripping the edges of his desk.

“tell me about the mummy they unearthed for the second time.”

“imhotep. high priest of seti I. condemned to the worst of punishments for having an affair with pharaoh’s wife to be. mummified alive and left to rot.” 

two stitches done.

he’s close, elias. closer than you expected, the sunset framing the sharp angles in his face like a modern masterpiece. there’s a strand of graying hair falling in front of his eyes, unkempt. you want to push it back and run your fingers through his hair.

“i don’t know all the details. they had knocked me out hard enough to give me a mild concussion - i think. i…”

a beat. four stitches. elias’ thumb traces abstract patterns on the low dip of your hip. when he speaks, his breath is warm, brushing against your ear.

“take your time.”

“i was dead weight, elias.” your head presses against his shoulder, pinprick pain burning, stinging your eyelids. “couldn’t even protect my godson, couldn’t even get him back home in one piece alone, the o'connells had to come.”

six stitches. all done, all bandaged up, and you’re still talking, so, so very fast.

“that temple crumbled upon us and i had Seen it coming, but i didn’t even have the time to act, it all went down so fast-”

your name is sharp on his tongue. you raise your head, and it’s heavy, and you’re all raw nerves exposed under his ceaseless gaze, with tears streaming down your face and god, why are you crying-

“are they dead?”

“what?”

“the o’connells. are any of them dead?”

“no, but-” 

“are your enemies dealt with?”

there’s a pernicious voice, little screaming thing, that burns the words across your mind. death is only the beginning. you think of imhotep falling down in the duat and nod, slowly.

“then why do you keep worrying?"

“because the mere thought of losing the people i cherish ruins me.” you raise your head, and you’re exhausted, and the small space between his arms looks so very inviting. “because if i slip up, they die.”

“they didn’t.”

“no, they didn’t. not then. but, gods, elias, i’ve Seen them die, death waiting at every corner of this damned temple-”

his lips press down on yours. slow, soft, and so very warm. you let out a muffled sigh, hands digging in the collar of his shirt as he leans in closer, as he breathes you in. with a teasing nip at your lower lip, he withdraws, licking away the blood coating his lips.

you look up at him, eyes widening.

“you need to get better at Seeing. i can teach you.” a glance at his watch. “how about i treat you to dinner?”

you can only stare at him, mouth agape in shock.

“dear?”

“oh. oh, um. yes, that’ll be lovely. seven tonight?”

a low chuckle as he wraps his suit jacket around your shoulders.

“eager, aren’t we?”

“oh, you unsufferable-”

he shuts you up with a kiss and sends you on your way, hand settling on what little part on the small of your back is left without bruises.

“take the rest of the week off. i’ll pick you up at seven.” a beat, as he holds the door open for you. “do try to get some rest, dear.”

a beat. you peck his lips and smile.

"will do, boss."

[emma045]

[1awkwardpotofsoup]

Cockwarming HCs with Elias Bouchard

I’m sorry, I need to fuck the stinky bastard man :(

(Minors DNI)

Elias isn’t girthy, probably around 6 inches, curved, and skinny with a few prominent veins along the side and his hair is probably trimmed and well kept much like the rest of him

While he’d definitely be into facefucking(controlling every movement of your head for his own pleasure is probably his favorite thing) this man would also have you cockwarm him for hoursss

He’d have you straddling on his lap all pretty, one hand working you open nice and slow while the other types away at his laptop

Your coworkers will be wondering why your “performance review” is taking so damn long

He wouldn’t kiss you while doing this. Instead undoing his tie and the first few buttons of his collar allowing you to nip and suck desperately at the skin where no one could see as you tried to stifle your mewls

He’d fingerfuck you till the brink of orgasam, only pulling out right as you were ready to cum and leaving you desperate for any friction.

Then he’d slip his cock in you and his free hand would clamp down on your hip ensuring you couldn’t move, all while murmuring gentle reassurances that you just needed to wait a bit longer

God forbid his phone rings and you have to hear his stupid sexy voice go on about something completely mundane for hours while you sat desperately waiting for release

His voice is hot, no matter what he’s saying it’s so smooth and velvety that it only leaves you more strung out

If you’re really good, don’t try to elicit any reaction from him or complain, and just sit patiently waiting for your treat his slender manicured hand will slip from your hip to pinch and toy with your clit

He won’t let you cum yet, obviously, but you deserve a few sparks of pleasure for being so good

When he finally decides it’s been long enough he’ll place both hands on your hips and lean back in his fancy leather chair, letting your rut against him till you finally cum all while he watches

He won’t move till you’re finished, too twitchy and overstimulated to complain, then he’ll fuck you so hard the slap of skin reverberates off the walls

When he finally comes in you, only then will he kiss you. Chaste and sweet as your trembling fingers clutch at the lapels of his stupidly expensive blazer

And as you nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck he’ll gently card his fingers through your hair and tell you how absolutely perfect you felt for him

Oki that’s it, I’m sorry for being a menace to society, I will not stop

[icarusignite]

Adding to the list of villainous little shits of a concerning age who I'm in love with, I present to you, Elias Bouchard, from the Magnus Archives. Is he a manipulative mind reader who murders ppl in cold blood? Sure.

But consider this, he has a hot laugh so he has me there.

Anyways yeah now I wanna do a fic for him lol. But knowing me it'll be angsty

[miyuskye]

Turn your eyes (from your hands to the heavens) - Elias/Reader

You want to live a peaceful life during college, but things starts a bit rough with one of your flatmates, Elias Bouchard. You don't get along well with his laid-back attitude, but eventually you manage to start warming up to each other. In the meantime, a sudden inheritance from one of your ancestors, Robert Smirke, leads you to come in contact with a painting of one of his closest friends, a certain Jonah Magnus. Smirke has been dead for at least a century, and Magnus should be as well, but there's something in his painted eyes that draws you in… Set before canon TMA events, from 1987 onwards

(link in reblogs)

wow, here I go again posting another Reader x Canon fanfic. I did not choose the cringe life, the cringe life chose me

[roxxy-29]

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

Stay with me on this one.

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

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

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

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

That's it, send tweet.

[macncheeseass-blog]

elias bouchard is a fucking dick. i hate him, he's a bastard who i'd relish every second if given the chance to strangle the jerk. but tell me why, im fantasising about cooking together in our shared kitchen? matching rings? calling him ''ellie'' as a nickname? stopping by during his work hours to drop him off some homemade lunch? do i have a thing for coddling ominous scary dangerous mean men? yes?

[maximwtf]

“Sticking your hand where it doesn’t belong?”

Art by: ggracee (Tumblr) (pls yall go check them out, their art is the coolest !!)

Elias Bouchard x Reader

words: 1400

google docs pages: 3

Warnings: A burn, I think Elias should be a warning too, he’s kinda mean but that’s why I like him :"D

opening: You crawl back to the institute after trying to get a follow up on a statement, and ending up with a pretty bad burn on your hand. Hopefully it’s late enough so Elias shouldn’t be in his office so you could patch yourself up…

AN// Any pronouns for reader! I’m quite certain I’ve read almost every Elias fanfic out there and I’m getting desperate, so I’m writing some myself. (Also, any requests for Tim and I’ll be at it at the speed of light)

    “Sticking your hand where it doesn’t belong?”

Maybe you had miscalculated something or perhaps preparing for getting the follow up would have been a good idea, but pondering those topics was no use anymore. The damage was done and all you could do was try and fix it. 

Whoever it was that you had met, had most definitely not been the same person from one of the statements that had been assigned to you. If you could even call the thing that had burnt your hand a ‘person’.

It was hard to keep your thoughts away from the sheering pain that was coming from your right hand. Your left hand shook as it fiddled with the keys before finding the right one for the institute door. It was rather late, so you assumed no one should have been working anymore. At least no one from the archives, and that was enough to ease your mind. 

You knew the closest first aid kit must have been in Elias’ office, remembering when you had been an assistant to him, your office hadn’t had one. Not that you had the original keys to his office anymore either, after being transferred to the archives. But you had gotten a spare made before that, which you had ‘forgotten’ to return. Whoops? But also because you never came across a time when you would have needed them, before now of course. 

You climbed the stairs to his office, finding it hard to look for the old pair of keys from the bottom of your bag but there they were. Your shaky left hand reached to unlock the door in front of you, a sigh of relief escaping at the sound of it clicking open. With a gentle push the room behind the door opened up and even with a quick look inside you could spot someone. Elias Bouchard sitting at his desk, leaning on the familiar wooden table ever so slightly. “Ah, Y/n. A surprise to see you here so late?” His voice rang out, the expression on his face almost impossible to read. He was talking as if he had known you’d be coming. 

You didn’t say anything at first, not even sure as to what to do. Run off? It honestly almost felt like you couldn’t, and even if you did…how could you bring yourself back to work the next day? “Elias.” You nodded politely as if to greet him, every muscle in your body trying to hide how uncomfortable you were. “Do you have a- uh-” You stammered with the words, feeling awkward as it was but the knowledge that he had basically watched you break into his office was making the feeling worse. “A first aid kit? Yes.” He finished the sentence for you, raising his eyebrow slightly at your expression. You didn’t even know why you felt so surprised that he seemed to know what you were looking for, surely he had just seen the state of your hand… “I- yes, that. Could I have it?” You asked, taking a careful step into the room. “Could I have the key you used to break into my office with?” He asked, seemingly calm but still so hard to read. Elias stood up and with his back turned to you, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and kneeled down a little to pick up the kit from a drawer. You bit your inner lip, placing the keys on the table. The silence in the room made the sound of the keys hitting the table feel like it was echoing. “Y-yes. Of course.” You could have just gone home and all of this could have been avoided, you thought to yourself while watching him turn back to you. “What happened?” He asked, but his voice seemed to be filled with something other than any real concern or interest. You wish you had an answer to his question, but even you weren’t sure as to what had happened. All it took was one handshake and it had felt like the blood inside of you had been boiling. “Not sure if I’m being honest. I’m going to talk to Jon about it tomorrow.” You sighed, struggling to open the red bag Elias had placed in front of you but managing to do so in the end. “Sticking your hand where it doesn’t belong?” Elias’ voice asked, but it sounded almost mocking. As if he was making fun of you for getting injured? Either way, you didn’t say anything of it, not that you even could. The burning pain from your hand was keeping your full attention on it.

Elias’ presence was always intense, but it felt even more so now. Now, that he was watching you pull out a bluish bag from the kit, snapping it against the table and watching the motion cause the chemicals inside form into ‘ice’. He didn’t say anything, not until you started to struggle placing the bag on top of the burn properly. A sharp sigh left him and you could have sworn he rolled his eyes at you. “Let me.” He said and almost instinctively you let go of the bag and allowed him to do it for you. While Elias’ other hand was holding the bag in place, his free hand took a cotton pad and a bandage from the kit. You had thought about doing that yourself later on, but doubted you could have done it with one hand so you had already dropped the idea. Was he doing it for you? Without him even giving you a look, he began to open the bandage. “I’ll be fine without it- I mean, I can do that at home. I was just looking for an ice pack or something.” But even this comment didn’t seem to bring his gaze upon you, he kept his focus on the bandage. “From the state of your hand, I highly doubt you’ll make it home without injuring it further.” He sighed again, but to your surprise he didn’t seem too bothered. As much as him not looking bothered said anything about his true state of mind. 

Elias took the bag from your hand, making you miss the cooling effect it had given you, easing the pain. He leaned on the table a little while pulling you closer by the wrist, making you stumble. But you let him, no use in telling him no either. At least that’s what you told yourself was the reason for allowing him to do so. You felt almost dumbfounded, maybe from the exhaustion the day had caused but also because on top of all that, the last thing you had expected was having Elias, Elias Bouchard, your boss treat a burn on your hand. 

He placed the cotton pad on the spots he had deemed as the worst, and wrapped the bandage around it all, covering it to keep it safe. “There. Perhaps next time, do a little more research on the people you meet, hm?” He said, tone still oddly calm. You had questions burning at the back of your mind, but the hand still hurt enough to keep you from asking any of them. “I-  yes. Thank you.” You stuttered out before picking up your bag again. “I’ll…see you tomorrow.” You added, not quite sure what to say. Why was he so calm about all this?

No, none of that mattered now. The intense feeling around him had grown even worse from the start of this interaction, and you wanted away from it. “Good night, Y/n.” Elias’ voice rang from his office and down the first steps of the staircase as you descended away from him. 

AN//I’m sorry if this sucks, I’m studying for my matriculation exams and wrote this in a hurry :”D

[tma-reader-inserts]

Elias Bouchard x Hunt Avatar! Reader

Tw: cannibalism

Being one of the file storage and reference section assistants at the Magnus Institute is not a glamorous job. It’s a lot like being a librarian, which is what you got your degree in (along with a minor in folklore), so at least the filing system is familiar to you, and you’re not saddled with unnecessary responsibility like Diana is being the head of the department.

Fortunately, your boss, Mr. Bouchard, is very understanding. You couldn’t control others actions, and as long as something gets returned he’s not too upset over the matter.

He often came to check up on you, to take your inventory report personally and give a stern talking to to those who fail to return their borrowed material. It was nice, to know your boss was looking out for you, to have some backing. People don’t really take you seriously, with your meek nature, at least Mr. Bouchard did.

Jon was concerning you, though. He’s been visiting more and more often, ever since the Prentiss incident. He’s been asking slightly invasive questions since he’s learned you worked closely with his predecessor right before her death. You even think he’s been following you after work; which is highly worrying because of your… odd habits.

You pray he hasn’t noticed your trips to the butcher.

—

You were entering fight or flight when Jon locked the door to the storage room, and were in full on panic mode when he stomped over to you and demanded you answer for your strange eating habits. How you never ate lunch at the Institute but visit a certain unreputable butcher every other day.

He crowded up to you so closely you could count the worm scars the littered his tan skin.

“Do you have any idea how often that shop appears in statements? How- how many people disappear there? You must know, you work here!” He yells, eyes alight with fury.

You curl into yourself, fear stilling your to tongue. You were never good with men yelling at you.

“Gertrude was investigating the place before she died, did you do something to her to keep going there?” He accuses.

The blood drains from your face. You for sure never harmed a hair on Gertrude Robinson’s head. You’re not sure if you even could back when she was alive. But yes she was investigating your butcher. Yes. Even she confronted you about it, and just like when she accused you of your… strange diet, you flinch at Jon’s words.

You felt hot tears well up in your eyes. You were now fully afraid of your coworker. Gone was the hard core skeptic, the ineffable Jonathan Sims and in his place was a maniac.

“It’s not like that-“ you stutter out. “I never laid a hand on Gertrude-“

“She was shot! You wouldn’t need to touch her!” He continues. You felt sick to your stomach as he continues to rave.

You couldn’t tell him that there was no way you killed Gertrude, that as soon as you even smelled blood you lose control of yourself. If you killed Gertrude, she wouldn’t have just bullet wounds.

You were seconds away from sobbing, so terrified of Jon and how close his accusations were, ready to spill your guts and let him call the police or the press or maybe he’d just try and kill you the same way Gertrude did-

The door broke open, and in hastily strolled a very angry looking Elias Bouchard. You shook with relief and a shaky breath rattled through your body. A firm, ring adorned hand was placed on Jon’s shoulder and the Archivist was pulled away from your personal space.

You weren’t even registering what Elias was scolding Jon for, but after some rebuttal from the archivist and back and forth from both men, Jon eventually left in a huff. After he slammed the door closed, the tears in your eyes finally spilled.

Elias was quickly by your side, his voice was sturdy, and his hand rubbed your back in a comforting manner.

“It’s alright, my dear, let it out.” He hums. “Let us retreat to my office, give you some privacy to calm down, hmm?”

—

One cup of tea and a box of tissues later, you’re now sniffling helplessly in Elias’s office. He waits for you patiently to calm down, as you alternate between wiping your cheeks and sipping your earl grey.

When it’s seems you’ve finally settled enough, your employer speaks.

“I am truly sorry for Jonathan’s actions. It seems that he’s not quite himself since the Prentiss incident, although that is no excuse for his behavior.”

One thing you’ve always like about your boss was how he was concise with his words and how put together he was. Nothing seemed to get to him. Always prim and eloquent.

You sigh heavily, the fear and sadness in your system expelling itself through the breath. “It… I’m fine now, I guess. I’ve never seen Jon act so… erratically.”

Elias nods, a warm hand placed itself on your knee. “Erratic is one way of putting it, I suppose.” There was a beat of silence before Elias removed his hand and settled his gaze on you. “Jon does raise a fair question, in regards to your relation to the butcher shop you visit.”

Your heart stops, and you felt very sick.

“The shop in question is central to several statements over the years, not to mention has been investigated by the police many times for related and unrelated reasons.” He says easily. “Is there a particular reason you frequent this specific shop?”

You couldn’t exactly tell your boss that it’s one of the only butchers near your house that can supply your high demand for copious different kinds of meat and blood; that it’s certainly the only place that doesn’t question why you need so much. That it feels safe to you because the owner can smell the strange on you and doesn’t curl away in fear the way most do.

“… I… have a crush on the butcher.” You lie. It’s an awful lie, you sound horrifically unsure of yourself and you could feel the bead of sweat roll down your temple traitorously. Not to mention it felt gross to even say it.

Elias raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “The man is well above you in age.” He points out. How he knows that off handedly is beyond you but you don’t dare question his knowledge right now.

“… I’m into older men.” Not a lie, exactly. You felt some peace with yourself with this truth exposed.

He tilts his head in consideration before sighing. “Be that as it may; you’re still not telling me the whole truth.” He says sharply.

You flinch, and cast your eyes downward.

“It’s-“ you choke on your words. “It’s a lot more complicated than that.” You confess lowly, under your breath. “I can’t tell you, I-I just can’t.” You sigh roughly, pointedly looking away from the man across from you. “You wouldn’t believe me, anyhow.”

Your wording intrigued Elias, as he leaned in closer to you, the perfect expression of sympathy on his face. “We work here, my dear, I’m sure I’ve heard for more unfathomable tales.”

A frown yanks the corners of your mouth downwards as you try not to start crying again. You’ve kept your secret so close to you all these years, so afraid of how people would react. How it would change others perception of you. You’re more afraid of speaking the incident aloud than of the incident itself, and the idea of confession finally chokes you up.

The hand returns to you knee as Elias says you name, so tenderly it makes you ache. “You’re safe here.” He urges. “Think of it like a statement; we’ll lock it away and keep it hidden from public.”

That… does assure you a bit. You’ve had people confess to murders here. It is the Magnus Institute after all.

“I… I don’t want it investigated.” You murmur, one hand of yours coming to your mouth in anxiousness. “There isn’t anything left to investigate, there’s no point.”

The older man nods in understanding all too readily. “I understand.”

You felt like you were going to throw up. You’ve never even toyed with the notion of confessing of what happened to you, now here you were, locked in your boss’s office, tea lukewarm and you ready to let your heart bleed.

“I was… six or seven, I can’t be sure.” You start. “My family has relatives in Canada, on my fathers side. We always visited them around the end of summer, and we’ve been going there so often that even as a child I was familiar with their land. We usually rented a small cabin in the woods not far from my uncle’s house and we’d stay there for a few weeks; me and my parents.

“We didn’t usually sleep in the cabin truthfully, we tented out in the wood by the place. It’d be right before hunting season and the forest would be littered with all kinds of animals that my dad would hunt idly with the assortment of guns his brother owned. We ate off of deer and rabbit and-“ you laugh at the memory, “squirrels if you can believe it. Anything dad could catch. We’d eat the wild berries and vegetables and fish from the creek. It was… nice.” You sigh, thinking of your father’s methodical hands as he skinned rabbits and your mother’s careful explanations of identifying plants that were safe to eat.

You swallowed thickly, preparing to speak of the unfortunate bit. “One night, we heard a noise. Nothing that would indicate… the danger that followed… but somewhere nearby there was something snapping twigs as it walked. It sounded so close.” You shudder.

“My father grabbed one of the guns near him and went to investigate. That was the last I ever saw of him. His last word were ‘wait here.’” Your eyes glass over as you relived your memories, and Elias moves his chair closer to you, nodding for you to continue. “He never even had the chance to shoot the gun. So deep in the shadows I didn’t see him- see him get killed.” You choked up again.

“My mother grabbed me and ran. She apparently saw something I didn’t and lugged me up into her arms and started to sprint to the tree line, to the cabin. But she tripped. I fell from her embrace and she was dragged back into the darkness.” The recollection was making you numb, and perhaps now it was easier to speak of your trauma. “I don’t think she had time to scream. To plead or beg, because I felt warm liquid splash on my face mere moments after I managed to stand up.

“I didn’t want to run, I was too scared too. Evidently that’s was the best choice. The thing that had killed my parents finally emerged from the darkness. I couldn’t see it clearly, but it loomed over me so greatly in height I thought it was a moving tree. Its limbs were long and thin, like bones or branches, and it was almost red with how richly brown it was. I couldn’t see its face, but I saw red droplets fall from somewhere above me.

“I-I’m not sure why exactly it didn’t kill me. Maybe because I wasn’t moving. Maybe it could only see me if I moved and I was so still I was sure my heart had stopped all together. It just… walked away from me; slowly, snapping branches and twigs underfoot as it retreated back into the woods… I wish that was the end of it.” You sigh.

“I spent hours in the woods, days. I was so lost I couldn’t find the tree line at all. I couldn’t even find our camp site.

Whatever direction my mother started to run in was wrong, and I was sure it spelt my doom. I’m not sure how long I wandered in the daylight but I eventually found a cave, a large tree sticking out from the mouth.

“Well, I thought it was a tree at first. Until I saw it move. I heard no noises in the area. No birds, or bugs, or animals. Like they were all afraid of being in the vicinity of this great beast; and my parents and I were just too stupid to sense the danger.

“I was… so mad, seeing it. I was furious. This… thing destroyed my life and it was sleeping! It was resting as if my parent’s bodies weren’t in its stomach. I’m not sure what possessed me; a very child like rage, I’m sure, and the determination to get back at it, somehow. To make us even. It ate my parents.” You clipped coldly. “I was wanted to eat it.”

Elias watched you patiently. And you continued.

“It must’ve been used to not being disturbed while it slept. So used to being left alone that it didn’t notice me at all as I crawled into the cave. When I crawled in as far as I could until its mass was so large it plugged the cave. I had no weapon, I had nothing sharp, not even a stone or a stick, but I was so angry and so hungry…” you hiss.

“I… I didn’t know what to expect of it. It looked leathery, but when I dug my fingers in between what I thought was it’s rib, the flesh gave away easily, with hardly any resistance at all, like pulling slow cooked meat off the bone.” You swallow here. And Elias looks at you with rapt attention.

“How did it taste?” He inquires, voice not above a whisper, and you answer.

“… it was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

You confess, eyes closing tightly, trying to conjure the experience to your mind. “It was so rich, and soft and warm. I kept pulling bits and bits off of it until there was a hole in its side, and I could see into its hollow chest cavity. It… ignited something in me. A fierce kind of hunger. It felt like I’ve never eaten since before that moment and I was starved. I just… kept eating. Pulling meat from its arm, its legs, the fingers. I must’ve spent hours slowly feasting away on this creature, piece by piece consuming it. It never woke up, never even stirred. I wondered if it died in its sleep as I licked my fingers between bites. I ate more than I thought possible, more than I should have been able to feasibly consume. I ate everting I could reach until all that remained was a skeleton, a black, brittle skeleton that cracked easily when I knocked into them too hard.

“When there was nothing left to eat, I was still so, so hungry. It was like I didn’t even pick away at the monster for hours on end. I crawled out of the cave on my hands and knees. There was still no sound of life in the woods.

“… I don’t remember being found. They say I was missing for weeks. They say a mountain lion killed my parents because their corpses were found mangled in the trees.” You scoff, bitterly, eyes welling with tears. “It never actually ate them. It killed them. For fun. And now I’m… this.” You gesture ruefully to yourself.

“What are you now?” Elias asks gently, hand never once leaving your knee.

You sniffle. “I don’t know. When I managed to come back to England, to be placed in the care of my grandparents, it was obvious I wasn’t… normal, anymore. I couldn’t manage to eat anything for the first few weeks, I kept throwing it all up. And whatever I managed to keep down, it never satisfied me. I always felt so hungry, so… hollow. I was almost dying of malnutrition, when in a fit of starvation I tore into a package of raw ground beef. For the first time since being in Canada, I could feel my stomach being to fill and take to the food, even if it was bloody, raw meat.”

You laugh ruefully next, the sound not even startling your boss. “When my grandmother found out, she told me I was better to starve to death than be that… some kind of freak, monster.” You look away to let the tears fall freely. “My grandfather thought a monster of a grandchild was better than no grandchild at all, so he moved me and himself to the country side, where he could feed me in peace. Live cattle and lots of butcher shops. A place where no one really noticed when a pig or sheep go missing.” You wiped at your face as you calmed down. “I grew up relatively normal besides that. Got good grades in school. Had friends. My grandfather was willing to experiment with my diet to see what I could eat and how to disguise my meals.”

Elias nods along. “What else can you eat?”

Shrugging, you answer. “Raw foods. Non processed vegetables, fruit, and grains, although they only curb the hunger pangs, I could eat pounds of them and never be full. Eating… live animals is what fills me up best.” You confess carefully, trying to gauge Elias’s reaction without fully looking at him. “Raw meat is more convenient, easier to buy and to consume in peace.”

There was a moment of silence as Elias considers your words before speaking. “What do you mean by, ‘best’?”

You look to him, confused.

“You said live animals is what satisfies you best, but does it satisfy you enough? Does it actually fill you up?”

A tremor of fear wiggles down your spine. In for a penny you assume

“No.” You answer honestly. “I’ve… never actually been ‘full’ since before the accident. Meat helps greatly but…” you trail off, afraid to finish your thought.

Elias speaks for you. “Is it because it’s animal meat? Do you think of you ate other meat, it would fill you?”

‘Other meat.’ What a funny way of saying humans.

Your face twitches in to a scowl before you answer. “I know it would.” You sigh again, fresh tears forming along your wet line. “I know if I ate human meat I would finally be full, but…”

Elias nods. “But you’re not sure if you’d be able to stop yourself.” He concludes. And you shake your head negatively.

“Not that.” You whisper, dread filling your voice. You finally look into Elias’s eye and almost burst into tears when you confess your greatest sin. “I know I can stop because I have before.”

This stills Elias, but you barrel through, afraid if you stop you’d never be able to say it again.

“A man followed me home after my grandfathers funeral. All the way from the burial to town. I thought he had left but, when I went into an alley for a shortcut to the house, he-he attacked me.” Your breath hastened as you recall the details. “He said awful, awful things to me. Called me all sorts of names and said what he was going to do to me. I haven’t been that scared since my parents died, and-“ you gasp, “and I just- I chased him.”

Elias’s eye brows scrunched together in confusion. “You didn’t run away?”

You shook your head. “I bolted at him. I was so scared but also so furious, I couldn’t believe someone was trying to accost me on the worst day of my life, and I just,” you shrugged, “I took after him. He wasn’t expecting that and ran away, but the more he ran, the more it felt like I needed to chase him. It was like it was the only thing I could do, the only logical decision. I’m my head was just a mantra of ‘catch, catch, catch,’ so I kept running in the town’s back alleys. He didn’t hit a dead end, didn’t trip; I pounced at him and-“

You swallow again, mouth thick with saliva. “I caught him by the throat. I tore it out like it was nothing. He didn’t even have time to scream.” You whisper, horrified. “As I chewed on his flesh, felt it slid down my throat into my stomach, I could feel it. That this is what I needed to finally be full. This is what the creature tasted like all those years ago.” you shudder. Ashamed, you turned from Elias, hiding your tearful face into your hands, but you couldn’t stop taking now. “I-I didn’t know what to do. It re-sparked a hunger in me and I was digging into his stomach when I finally gathered my wits and ran away. No one could see the blood on my black dress and gloves and my face was covered by a veil.

“When I got home I scrubbed every inch of my body to rid it of blood and burned my clothes, I ended up eating a sow I was so famished. It felt so… good. To chase, to hunt. It felt like I should’ve been doing it my whole life. Like I was born to take down prey. Like I was a spoiled house cat, finally in the woods hunting mice.” The analogy makes you pause. You weren’t a cat, and other people weren’t rodents, but it was the closest and less gory way of verbalising your emotions.

When you were done, you eyes Elias carefully. This was it. He could have you put into prison, the looney bin. You confessed to monstrosities and crimes that have been weighing you down for years, and now Elias Bouchard was going to judge you.

The man nods, and considers his words.

“And the butcher?” He questions.

“He knew my grandfather.” You say, “He’s been helping to feed me since I was a child. He knows all about me and my… condition. Goes out of his way to get, uh, exotic meats to keep me fed.”

Elias nods again. Snatching a tissue from the box, the man dabs away your tears and looks at you in what seems to be acceptance and sympathy.

“Well, no wonder why you were so anxious about Jon confronting you.” He mumbled to himself, pushing your mused hair out of your face.

“Will you tell anyone?” You whisper, terrified of the answer.

He shakes his head. “Not a soul, my dear. This isn’t the worse confession this Institute has seen. But it does explain some things…”

You don’t ask what they explain. You’re too scared. Elias managed to fix your face, and calmly refills your tea. You sip at it half heartedly as your boss easily promises that your secret was safe within his office walls.

It… doesn’t exactly feel like a weights been taken off your shoulders. You haven’t been that vulnerable in a long time, and you hoped that Elias would never betray you.

—

Weeks later

—

You felt cold, staring down at the body. Incredibly hot blooded and cold simultaneously. Bile threatens to rise from your actions but you swallow it down. Gore sticks under your finger nails and teeth, and it tastes divine; like manna from heaven. You wanted to cry from how hungry you were, how there was sustenance right in front of you and you cannot bring yourself to eat.

The other woman ran ages ago, darting down the alley as soon as you threw her attacker against the wall and punched a hole into his stomach. She certainly didn’t stay long enough to see you pull out his intestine and bring it to your mouth.

You fucked up. Badly. There was no possible way to get out of this situation by yourself. Your mind was drawing a blank and you were beginning to panic. You just killed someone, again. And this time you don’t have the giant lake to hide the body in.

You needed help; you needed guidance. Someone who always had a clear head and means to help you.

You knew exactly who to go to.

—

When Elias opened his office door, he certainly was not expecting to see you standing there, covered in blood, eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“Mr. Bouchard?” You said lowly, almost in a trance. “I did something bad…”

Elias could see the body in your minds eye. The corpse with his insides spilled out and chewed on. Some brute of a man with a bruised sternum and his skull shattered from the back, brain matter smearing the wall behind him.

He nods, slowly, taking into account your clothing, your guilty face, and your extremely vulnerable mind.

“Come, in my dear…” he couldn’t fight the smile which inched across his face. “Tell me what happened…”

—

Disposing of the body was easy enough. A few calls and the whole problem was swept under the rug. You didn’t exactly know the details, but whatever they were Elias just smoothed your hair and told you not to worry.

I’m a matter of an hour, the man never existed, and you were still in Elias’s office, gripping your now cold tea cup. He just stared as you, bemused.

After several long minutes of silence, he moves, straightening up and weaving his fingers together, gazing upon you steadily.

“Would you like to have dinner with me on Friday?”

You stared at him, shocked and confused.

“I’m sorry?”

“I don’t think you’ve been taking care of yourself properly.” He states. “I’d like to make sure you’ve eaten well, for once.”

He looks like he might eat you instead.

Your breath hitched. “Wh-why?”

He winks at you. “Don’t worry about that, darling.”

[unassociated-to-me]

I get that everyone wants to fuck Elias Bouchard... but to Me I want to fuck Jonah Magnus so much... like panopticon body Jonah Magnus.

I know that people usually go for 'ha ha evil corrupt boss Jonah/Elias' but that lacks the otherworldly nuance that comes with his life as a whole.

One of the few headcanon self insert ideas that I always think about because of his unique situation is him returning one of his eyes back to his old body, and enjoying life shall I say.

I only wish I had better skills to write that properly... anyway, food for thoughts.

[angelyuji]

heyy guyss... how y'all doing.... anyway here are some elias thoughts sorry if these are ooc... i havent listened to tma in a month and im on episode 161...

tw // spoilers for tma, creepy boss bouchard, nothing too crazy actually which is new for me lol

im watching smallville and catching up on another podcast and also taking 3 summer classes.... what if i kms guys... jk ;)

also hey babe this is for u @soupyboiii

the only way to meet elias is if you work at the archives. so the very first time you meet him is at your job interview. he's not creepy in a pervy sort of way but creepy in a... horror movie kinda way lol you felt like he was staring into your soul but he was hot so you forgave him.

you sit patiently, waiting to be called. you needed the job, with your savings account running low and your degree being of no use, you’d be willing to get on your knees and beg for a job. ‘if im gonna beg, i hope he’s hot at least.’

“(y/n) (l/n)?” you look up to see him. ‘oh fuck, he is hot’ he tilts his head at you and you jump up.

“hi! mr. bouchard, right?” you reach out your hand to shake and he takes it. his hand was cold and you felt a chill go down your spine. he doesn’t move, keeping your hand in place. you feel an uncomfortable prickling on the back of your neck.

“follow me.” he smiles and lets go of your hand. you follow into his office. he gestures to a chair in front of his desk. once you were both settled in, he looks over your file and gives you a once-over. “what made you want to work here?”

‘crushing loans’ “honestly, i’ve always wanted to work at a library! it’s very peaceful and i love to be surrounded by books, so when i saw the job listing, i knew i had to apply.” you smile.

he hums, “would you want to work with people or be down in the archives?”

you pause to think, ‘i’d rather work with people than a dingy basement, i guess…’ “i’d rather work with people. i’ve had a lot of-”

he interrupts you, “i’m glad to hear. do you have any other questions?”

‘are you married? do you date younger people?’ “i can’t think of anything right now.” you smile and shrug, sheepishly. he gives you an unnerving smile and you can feel your smile falter.

“you’re perfect.”

you rarely see him after that interview and the few times you do see him, it'll be glimpses of him leaving his office to meet the archival team or back.

in my mind, the day that like really sets him forward on persuing you would be like a one-on-one performance review or smth like that (im definitely not taking this from a fanfic i started and never finished or posted)

he listens to you talk about how much you love the job and get into your head to actually see what you mean... and what you mean is "i wanna fuck this guy". that piques his interest so he asks you the million dollar question.

"would you like to work in the archives? i think they could really use your skills down there." elias stares you down.

"sorry, what?" you were surprised at the offer. you hadn't said anything about wanting to work there, happy and content with your currect position and paycheck.

"of course, you would get a raise and a couple of other benefits, but i would love to work more closely with you (y/n)." he stands and moves in front of his desk, leaning against the table.

'more... closely....' your thoughts run wild as you feel heat creep up your cheeks. "i'm not sure how i could help, mr. bouchard." you wring your hands in your lap. elias leans down to grab your hands, softly. you feel his breath on your neck as he leans to whisper in your ear.

"please, love, call me elias."

need him!!!!

he kinda reminds me of william afton like when i think of boss willy i think of elias

except boss willy afton creep factor leans more to pervert while elias creep factor leans more into mysterious boss who also raises the hair on the back of your neck yk? iykyk as they say

anyway thats all i can think of rn bye :)

[0bticeo]

j. sims, e. bouchard | knowledge is a double-edged sword

part two of four. (part one.) (part 3.) (part four.)

summary:

a low hum. there’s something sharp in elias' smile. his gaze feels like it’s cutting you open. you hold your ground, unblinking, watching him and his annoyingly handsome face. 

“you’re wearing a mask, dear.”

“aren’t we all?”

wc. 3k

tw. reader's creeping paranoia, shockinlgy nothing smutty happens in this chapter, manipulation, graphic description of eyes, mild ptsd, nightmares, elias bouchard being a creep.

working in the archives has always been… a little off, for a lack of a better word. you are supposed to research and archive statements regarding “supernatural happenings” in a world where said supernatural has been swiped under the carpet, dismissed with a haughty scoff. still, it pays well. which is why you find yourself clocking in day after day. 

your colleagues… you don’t know what to make of them. not really. sasha’s been… off. you think there’s a void in the shape of her roaming about the place. she’s calm and focused. formal. has trouble logging in her computer - that’s… not right.

martin seems to be taking it well enough for someone who’s spent the past two months sleeping in the archives and then getting attacked by worms. sounds silly. definitely wasn’t. you think there’s much, much more to him than meets the eye and and accept the cups of coffee he hands you with a warm smile. you mean them. you like martin. his poetry a bit less. 

tim… is silent. he’s lost his smile. you haven’t fallen victim to one of his pranks in ages and fear you won’t ever have to worry about a sketchy statement being one of his little jokes. you feel anger bubbling inside of him at the mere mention of having to work in the archives. yet…

yet he’s helping you. 

the library is a quiet affair, the muted sort of silence that hangs like a comforting blanket over your shoulders. dust flutters away in the air, drawn by your steps. tim’s sigh cuts through the silence like a knife.

“why are we doing this again?”

you tuck back a book in its shelf. thankfully, not a leitner. still, nothing to do with architecture.

“because it is our job, tim.”

he scoffs.

“yeah, right. i wasn’t aware it involved risking my life.”

“look, you’re not forced to help me. if it makes you feel better to slack off, then i’m not stopping you.”

he laughs, mocking, almost cruel. the pressure at the back of your neck is near unbearable. you want to scream. you want to tear something apart.

“look at you! acting like everything’s normal! three months ago, you were bleeding out on my lap! how can you-”

“it’s either i focus on something else or i go mad.” you snap a book shut with a sharp intake of air. “you won’t like me mad, tim. now shut up and help me find robert smirke’s books, will you? i’m pretty sure they were there, but-”

his hand clasps around your wrist. 

“hold on. why are you looking for smirke’s books?”

“follow up on a statement involving urbex in the former church of saint james in west hackney. built by, you guessed it, robert smirke himself.”

you watch a flash of… something in his eyes. it looks like guilt in mourning, and you’re itching to pry, pry him open and unearth whatever secrets he keeps buried under a thick layer of good humour turned bitter. 

“it should be around here.”

you end up with three heavy volumes in hand, none of which feel like they’ll help with erin gallagher-nelson’s statement. then, something catches your attention. a small leather volume, tucked away behind the books you’re currently holding. tim’s already on his way out, much to your chagrin. you don’t feel too guilty when you reach for the small little book and tuck away those he’s helped you find, neatly ordered in their rightful place.

the little book in your hand is… not a leitner, which is a relief as you are not wearing gloves. no, it’s bound leather, with no title in sight. you open it, carefully, cradling it against your breast like something fragile, and cast your gaze upon its first page. the juts out in ink far too dark for its age.

the fears that bind us.

turn another page and see the summary. fourteen entries, neatly labelled. the Web. the Dark. the Spiral. the Buried. you pause.

the pinprick pain at your neck sharpens. you’re Watched. there’s nobody but you in the library, but there’s something, watching, always watching, and you can make eyes in the corners of the shelves and they’re peering down at you and they Know you’re starting to suspect something’s terribly wrong with this place and-

thud.

the book falls from your trembling hands. dust rises up, clings to the hem of your trousers. you stare at the dull, unassuming little leather cover and feel its magnetic pull. you Know there’s more to it than it lets on. you pick it up.

(somewhere, the chittering mass of the many-legged mother of puppets spins a chain of events into motion, weaving a pretty plan.)

*

these days, stepping in the institute feels like being strapped down to a vivisection table and having your brain prodded at. it’s oppressive. you become aware of just how many eyes there are in the institute. coworkers from other departments glancing disinterestedly at you. strange motives in the nooks and crannies of the wooden doors and shelves and corridors and floors, eyes half-lidded. pictures and their faded edges, you, tim, martin, jon and sasha (?) huddling close, smiling. portraits - jonah magnus, high and mighty, immortalised in his seat of power. you think his painted lips are curled up a little more than they normally are. you’ve seen that floating smile before.

you take to having your lunch outside of the institute. you find you can breathe easier through the sharp cold of london’s winter air. needle-sharp, it pierces your lungs, scrapes your throat with every mouthful of curry you swallow. you don’t mind. you have jon to huddle close to, no matter how much he rolls his eyes and tells you to take a warmer coat with you. still, he wraps his arm around you and intertwine his fingers with yours.

tim and martin make no comment - you do feel the weight of their gaze on your shoulders as you make your way back to your desk ten minutes sharp after jon comes back to his office. doesn’t matter. by now, you’re used to being watched.

you’re growing tired of it.

going home is no relief - that damned gaze is there, too. you clench your teeth and turn all the mirrors around and tuck away what little pictures you have. your breathing stutters in your throat. there’s a cork board on your wall, now, and you think of the one that lies in jon’s office, red strings stretching and stretching and it still doesn’t make sense. not yet. 

gertrude’s dead - somebody’s murdered her, three bullets, bang, the body falls, bang, bang just to make sure the old bat is dead, a waste of an Archivist. 

jon wants to know who. he tells you, fingers threading through his hair, tape recorder still running, that it could be anyone at that’s been working at the institute since five years. you’ve been hired two years ago, so you’re good, but tim? martin? sasha? elias?

(you’ve pressed your lips to jon’s and sworn to help him, forehead pressed against him in the sweetest oath.)

there are scraps of hastily jotted down notes, pictures faded at the edges. recurring people from statements - gerry keay, michael shelley, simon fairchild, prentiss, salesa. hilltop road. recurring themes, artefacts you took pain to research, asking sasha for help - she did work in artefact storage before, right?

(her smile was sharp when she nodded. too sharp. she laughed as she led you to the basement floor, something like a deadly private joke. you didn’t ask for her help again.)

you take a step back and stare at the board. the strings make no sense, red over red over red, and you have an eye staring back at you, unblinking, thread burned in your retina. 

smirke’s book lies open on your couch. your cat wisely stays away from it. you’ve named him socrates for a reason. you wish you could be blessed with the sage’s foresight.

fears bind you. there’s a classification, Entities that sometimes bleed in the corners of this world, out-of-sight-but-there. you’ll only notice when they strike. when they show themselves, when you realise there’s something terribly wrong with the stranger’s edges peering out of an alleyway, anglerfish luring its prey. poor smoker’s fate. 

a classification. fourteen primal fears straight out of the lovecraftian mythos. the stranger. the Spiral - think of michael, smile curling endlessly in all his sharp edges, laugh like an alarm bell ringing long after he’s gone. the Corruption - jane prentiss and her loving smile and worms burrowing in her flesh and in yours. 

the Eye.

you take in a sharp intake of air and read. 

IT KNOWS YOU.

*

you cannot move. you’re crushed by the sheer magnitude of the structure spreading around you in concentric circles of power. panopticon. he who stands in the centre watches and knows all. is there anyone at all in its centre?

you. you’re kneeling, skin bare and bruised and scraped, the stone harsh and unforgiving, scraping the tender skin of your knee. humidity seeps in through the open pores of your skin. 

you can’t see. it’s too dark, the penumbra stretching and stretching for miles, near corporeal with how thick it is. you think it might be reaching out for your eyes with too long fingers, chipped claws sinking below your eyelid to rip them off. 

you startle.

eyes.

so many eyes, staring at you from the darkness encasing you, with no eyelids so they do not blink. there’s the dreadful suspicion that their optic nerves join, mingle into something you do not want to see. ocular globes, little gelatinous spheres surrounding you, Watching you, Knowing you. you, on your bloody knees, heart stammering under your ribcage like a chased rabbit, your bare flesh cold, cold, cold. 

it’s cutting you open, scalpel gazes making careful, careful incisions in the marrow of your psyche. they’re carving open your head, your skull a neat, organic little box housing the grey matter of your brain. cerebrospinal fluid drips down your cheeks.

you shudder. you can feel them, Watching, Knowing, the mere thought of it a burning streak in your consciousness, they’re picking you apart, they Know what you’ve done, how you break-

you only start screaming when you look up and See.

you startle awake with a shuddering gasp, trembling so badly you can’t even make out the familiarity of your bedroom. breathe in. the darkness isn’t cloying, the street lights worming their way beneath your shutters. breathe out. you can hear the cars running, the nocturnal hustle and bustle of london’s night life. the chatter, the laughter. 

you let out a trembling sigh and run your hand over your face. you find it damp with sweat and tears. a beat of silence. you rest your forehead on your palms, hands gliding down until the heel of your palm is over your socket and you push there until you feel the bone, the gelatinous fragility of your eye. it is not the first time you have these dreams. you wish you could sleep.

you trace the edges of your temples, those you know were left gaping, those you know had been wrenched open- closed. no scar. only those on your thighs, on your forearms, on your hands from these wretched worms.

you close your fingers, nails digging in your bandaged palm and feel a pinprick of pain. the other side of the bed is cold and empty. you glance at the analog clock on your bedside table. the time blares, angry red flashing 5:32 in your retina. three hours left before going to work. 

you get up from the bed and set about changing your sweat-soaked sheets. you’re not going to fall back asleep. might as well get ready for work. you do, body set in autopilot. breakfast. shower. lather hydrating cream over the expanse of you. disinfect the many, many patches of scarred tissues left by the flesh-hive. get dressed - black tailored pants, cream crispy ironed shirt. a spritz of perfume. white flats. a quick glance in the mirror - there you are, the epitome of professional perfection, little miss trust-me-i-have-everything-under-control. 

you don’t.

you’re tired. so, so very tired. exhaustion settles like a heavy weight in your bone marrow, anchors you down until your whole world is clouded. foggy. you don’t remember the last time you’ve pushed the door to the archives without a thin veil clouding your eyes. 

you think of the Narrator, unnamed, bone-deep tired, staring emptily in the camera in a film you can’t say the name of. first rule: you do not talk about it. second rule: you do not, talk about it. everything’s a copy of a copy of a copy.

as it goes, you push the door to the archives, step inside the quiet room, shrug off your coat at your designated desk, and go about making yourself some coffee. nobody’s there to plot your bloody murder as you blankly explain that, to you, tea is nothing but bland leaf juice. not that tim or martin would bother these days.

it’s quiet. nobody’s here to see you climb the stairs to the break room on the second floor. the one used by the human resources department. lucky bastards. bastards, period. refusing to hand over the necessary funds to buy another coffee machine for the archives after the first one broke during prentiss’ infestation. and they say their mission is to foster a safe work environment. such a shame your morning murderous urges are only quelled by your second cup of the day.

you grab a mug and press the button. whirring rises in the dry silence of the room. slowly, slowly, the mug is filled up. you inhale and feel your shoulders relax by half a fraction. the heavenly scent of grounded coffee beans percolating feels the room and you find yourself smiling. it doesn’t ease the fogginess clouding your mind. it will do.

large window panes offer a wide overview of the streets below, the early morning fog clinging to humid asphalt, the rare cars passing by. you let out a slow exhale, your breath clouding the window.

your mug is ready.

“is that one for me?”

you startle.

elias bouchard stands behind you, hands clasped behind his back, picture perfect manager in a crisp suit - too stiff, too out of place in his employee’s break room. he’s wearing a phthalo green suit, the one that brings out the green-grey of his eyes. your favourite. and he’s waiting for your answer, you realise after an embarrassingly long amount of time.

there are two mugs in front of you. you blink.

“oh. oh, yes.”

you hand him the first mug and reach for your own. he thanks you with a floating smile and takes a sip. a low hum. 

“so you do have taste.”

you blink.

he’s reclining on a table, watching you. you and your impeccably ironed shirt, cradling your mug like one would something precious. you and the bags under your eyes, so dark they might be embedded in the preciously thin skin below your eyelids.

you snort. 

“just because i have a massive sweet tooth doesn’t mean i’d put sugar in coffee. i’m french, not a complete barbarian.”

you earn a quiet chuckle. something like satisfaction purrs inside of you - you made him laugh, the sound low and rich and deep.

“one might argue that you are, in the literal sense of the term, a barbarian.”

“one might argue that the etymological definition of a barbarian doesn’t apply to me, as i speak your language.”

you watch him, from over the steaming rim of your mug. something like… elation flashes in his eyes. the thrill of debate, maybe.

“do you, now?”

you tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing by a fraction as you assess him. the perfect curl of his lips in that damning razor sharp half-smile. the relaxed slope of his shoulders. the soft stillness of his long, gloved fingers on the table. the glint in his green-grey eyes, daring you to take the bait.

you do, crossing your legs at the ankles, leaning back against the window.

“at first glance, yes.” you point an accusatory finger towards him. “but you, monsieur bouchard, don’t like sticking to first glances and faux-semblants, you’re sharper than that.”

a low hum. there’s something sharp in his smile. his gaze feels like it’s cutting you open. you hold your ground, unblinking, watching him and his annoyingly handsome face. 

“you’re wearing a mask, dear.”

“aren’t we all?”

he shakes his head.

“it’s convenient, isn’t it? not to have to bear the weight of your mother tongue.”

your shoulders tense. there’s that pinprick pressure at the back of your neck, standing poised and sharp against your vertebrae. he’s watching you, needle-gaze pinning you like a butterfly to a wall. 

“it’s a pain. english and french bleed into one another too much and it messes up my syntax.”

“you’re deflecting.”

“wasn’t your question rhetorical?”

silence. it feels like a loss. one beat, two beat, unsteady, hammering wildly like your heart, beneath layers of flesh and fabric, all perfectly controlled thank you very much.

he’s before you before you know it, close, close enough for you to smell his cologne - something sharp and cold with a faint hint of ink. you raise your eyes and meet his gaze. you think there’s a faint glow to it, irises flashing green for the briefest moments. 

“you’re hard to pin down, my dear.”

you can feel the heat of him, creeping closer and closer as he leans down ever so slightly, one gloved finger curling under your chin, tilting your head up, up, up until the angle makes you wince.

“coming from you, i’ll take that as a compliment.”

a low hum. the building pressure at your nape has you clenching your teeth. then, finally, he lets go, apparently satisfied with whatever it is he’s found in you.

“thank you for the coffee. it has been most… insightful.”

with that, he leaves, and you stand alone in the break room, coffee mug now cold. even without the unbearable weight of his gaze on you, you feel watched. the only thing remaining in the room with you is the portrait of jonah magnus, peering down at you with storm-grey eyes. somehow, it feels familiar.

you want to scream. you gulp down your coffee and leave an empty mug behind.

[panicroomsammy]

So I wrote self insert fan fiction despite having every x reader tag blocked:

Sometimes the OCD coded characters override the aromanticism, okay?

[1awkwardpotofsoup]

Oh boys we’re really in it now

What started off as just some self indulgent head cannons has turned into an entire fic outline with a plot TwT

[noobartshit]

ummmmmmmmmm so i have a new chapter if anyone wants to read it lol

https://archiveofourown.org/works/36337810/chapters/90592210

in case anyone wants to read an elias fic lol