#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

[tma-reader-inserts]

Can u do Elias x gn spiral avatar reader plzzz

Here’s a quick littl diddy for ya homie

—-

A knock on the door didn’t even cause Elias to raise his head. There’s only two doors in his office, one directly in front of him across the room, and one to the right of him, leading to a small personal water closet.

The knock came from the left.

“Come in, darling.”

A creak sounded throughout the otherwise silent room, and through his peripheral, Elias sees the figure cross the room with excited speed.

“Ellie~” a crooning, distorted voice crackled like radio static. “It’s been aaaaaaages. You never knock for me anymore.”

The figure was heavy and warm, warm, warm; awkward and almost human but not quite. Certainly looked human enough, when they were like this. With a deliberate gaze, Elias turns to see his companion, peering at them through his glasses.

This way he could see you properly, in all your mangled, incomprehensible beauty.

With a huff, you pull the glasses off. “I work so hard to look normal as I can for you.”

Elias hums. “But dearest…” he purrs, a hand curling around your deceptively tiny one. “I love the mess you are.”

You peel into manic giggles as Elias watches with cool affection.

[peonysgreenhouse]

-`♡´- silent archives.

summary: mistletoe kisses. (gn!reader x jonathan sims, martin blackwood, tim stoker, sasha james, and elias bouchard + helen/peony)

tags: kissies, fluff, helen distortion x my oc (peony) for funsies :], happy holidays everyone!!! <3

The stairs down to the Archives are narrow, dimly lit; you watch your feet over the stack of manila folders in your hands to make sure you don’t miss a step. You can hear the buzz of the old fluorescents, the clean smell of linen and parchment of the upper floors making way to something less pleasant and dusty; like the smell of a page starting to yellow. 

You’re a step behind them, elbows tucked close to your body, trying to avoid the cobwebs woven between the wall and the handrail. No matter how many times you had dusted the place, come morning the webs would be spun anew. Whatever spiders made their homes down here were winning the war of attrition. 

You stop when you reach the bottom step, lingering by the entryway to continue your discussion about… something that slips from your mind the moment you look up. Taped clumsily to the top of the entryway, tied with a small red bow is a fistful of mistletoe. 

Their gaze follows your own upward, and…

-`♡´- jonathan sims

...And Jon scoffs.

“Tim put this up, I presume?” Jon says dryly, readjusting his glasses. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world but here.

“Dunno. I haven’t seen him today.” You say, adjusting the files in your hands. “Sooo…”

Jon lets out a breath, then rubs at the bridge of his nose, under his glasses. This close, you think you spot a few more greys that weren’t there the last time you saw him. “Tell him to take it down, if you see him. I’d rather not have people… fraternizing in the Archives.”

If he didn’t sound so tired, you might’ve laughed. “Right. But, uh, just so I don’t get cursed, do you mind if I…” You shift the files to one hand, and reach your free hand up to point at your cheek. 

“If you really believe such a superstition, I question if this job has affected your discernment.” Jon rubs his hand over his own cheek, as if contemplating. After a moment, he sighs again. “Fine. You can…” He makes a vague gesture, then turns his head closer to your own. 

You hesitate for a moment, finding the sight of your boss waiting expectantly almost… cute. You lean over and press a kiss to his cheek; soft lips against rough stubble. 

“...You’re ridiculous.” He says, reluctantly fond. For a moment, he looks like he might say something else. Instead, he settles on: “Get back to work.”

-`♡´- martin blackwood

...And Martin’s eyes go as wide as saucers.

“Oh, uh, I wonder who put that there.” Martin coughs into his fist anxiously, then rubs his hands together as if to soothe.

“I wonder.” You say playfully, though you have an idea of who the culprit was. 

“We don’t have to… do anything, that is if you don’t want to.” Martin scratches his neck anxiously, playing with the baby hairs on the nape of his neck. The action is almost performative in its cuteness. “It’s just a silly tradition…” He laughs sheepishly. 

“And if I want to participate in this silly tradition?” You respond, stepping just a bit closer, the edges of the manila folders in your hands tapping against his chest. “...With you?”

“Oh!” He nearly squeaks out. You don’t ever think you’ve seen him quite so speechless. “Oh, that would… That is to say… I would…” Martin groans, seemingly annoyed at his own inability to speak clearly. Then he leans down, pressing his lips to your temple, a sweet display of affection.

You lean into his lips, almost chasing them as he pulls away. “That was nice. I almost want another.”

“Ah, well, I’d be… happy to provide.” Martin visibly brightens. “Just… Maybe not in the Archives? I’d hate to have Jon walk out, and uh…”

You laugh, picturing Jon’s exasperated expression. He’d probably send Martin away for good if he had to see that. And you as well, for good measure. “Mm, after work then? Maybe we could get drinks?”

“Yes!” He says, over eager, then he adds, “I mean, yes… That sounds lovely.”

-`♡´- tim stoker

...And Tim gets the goofiest grin on his face.

“Well, well…” He wiggles his eyebrows, sounding overly amused with himself. “Look what we have here.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, but you can’t deny his attitude was infectious. “...Really?”

“Don’t give me that look. I certainly didn’t put that up there.” He holds up his hands, the picture of innocence. “But I’m certainly not complaining that I was caught underneath it with my gorgeous co-worker and best friend. Perhaps this is… destiny.”

“You’re so dramatic.” You respond, playfully dry. Still, you can hardly even pretend to be annoyed at him. “C’mere.” You lean up and press a lingering kiss to his cheek. He smells like something clean and floral, and his skin warms underneath your lips.

When you pull back, he touches the spot you just kissed, as if to chase the slowly fading feeling of your lips against his skin. The corners of his eyes crinkle as his smile turns almost sheepish.

“Do I get to return the favor?” He asks, cheekily, his hand brushing against your shoulder as he steps closer, encroaching in on your space. Not that you really mind.

“I’m waiting.” You say, and Tim doesn’t wait a second after getting your permission. He grabs your cheeks in his hand, his lips kissing the side of your mouth with an unnecessarily loud smacking sound. You can’t help but laugh as he pulls back, his hands still cradling your face, unable to look away. 

“Maybe one more for good measure, yeah?” His thumb strokes down your cheekbone. “Maybe it’ll make us extra lucky.”

“Excellent idea.” You say, already moving in to kiss him – proper, this time. 

-`♡´- sasha james

…And Sasha gasps, playfully scandalized.

“My, my…” She says. “A real predicament we’ve gotten ourselves into, hm?”

The look in her eyes makes you nervous; like she’s expecting something, and she’d hate for you to disappoint her. Or perhaps that’s your own projection – she’s so close, and so beautiful. Your arms tighten around the files you’re holding.

“Seems like it.” You respond, the words more confident than you feel. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to…”

“I’m well aware.” Sasha laughs, and for a moment it looks like she might tease you further. You can feel your cheeks warm. “But lucky for you, I think you look quite adorable right now.”

Sasha moves in closer, and you close the gap, your lips meeting her own. How could you ever forget the gentle way her lips move against yours? Soft, sticky; her lip gloss tastes like peppermint, and it makes your mouth tingle. When you pull back, her hand is covering her mouth as she laughs.

“You have a little…” Her hand comes forward, and wipes her smudged gloss off of your lips. It feels almost as nice as the kiss itself.

-`♡´- elias bouchard

...And Elias looks at you, unreadable as always.

“Ah.” He tuts. “I suppose this was someone’s idea of a prank?”

Just your luck to be the first victim. And just your luck to be caught underneath it with Elias. You pretend to have not noticed, looking up again after he poses his question.

“Oh. That…” You lie, rather lamely. “I’m not sure, I haven’t seen it until now.”

“I see.” He pauses, and you shift your feet, the silence growing uncomfortable as he watches you. 

“Would you… like me to take it down?” You ask, moving to make yourself useful. Before you can get too far away, he speaks up. 

“No, no. It’s just harmless fun.” He makes a dismissive gesture, and you visibly relax. You don’t want to think about how ridiculous you would look balancing on an office chair trying to take the mistletoe down. “Might… improve morale down here, as it is.”

“I’m surprised you’re alright with it.” You say, giving him a sideways look. “Sounds like a HR problem waiting to happen.”

Elias laughs at that. "I assure you it will be fine.” He pauses, then. “It would only be inappropriate if someone like me initiated, so to speak.” Elias looks down at you, the ghost of a smile on his lips. His words are suggestive, challenging almost. Before you can lose your nerve, you lean over and kiss his cheek.

“So… that’s alright, then?” You ask. The scent of his expensive cologne follows you, even as you pull away.

“Precisely.” Elias says, sounding pleased with himself, pleased with you. "Though, if you'd like a little... reciprocation, I recommend we go back to my office."

You can't find it in you to say no.

-`♡´- helen/peony

Helen is the one holding the little bundle of mistletoe over Peony’s head, a sharp-toothed grin on her face.

“Look what I found, darling.” Helen says, shaking the plant overhead, as if Peony didn’t see her approach with it. It looks comically small in Helen's unnaturally large hands. “This does bring back memories, doesn’t it?”

“Those memories aren’t yours.” Peony corrects, moving past Helen to her desk. When she sets the stack of folders down, Helen is leaning over Peony’s shoulder, boxing her in.

“Spoilsport.” Helen tuts, feigning disappointment that she’s not playing along. “I don’t want to argue semantics with you again. I’m in a good mood, after all.” 

Peony turns, looking up at Helen; Helen’s features shift ever so slightly the more she focuses on certain points of the Distortion’s face. Sometimes she looks like the Helen Peony remembers; or perhaps Peony is just searching too hard for something that was never there. Still, she can’t help but look every time. 

“Did you come here just for…” Peony motions to the mistletoe, still held out in Helen’s palm. 

“Is it so wrong to want some affection from my favorite person?” Helen says, sweet as honey. “I get lonely too, you know.”

It’s so ridiculous Peony almost laughs, like it wasn’t the Distortion’s fault for Peony’s own loneliness. 

Still, the Archives were much too quiet nowadays. Peony aches for the familiar comfort of another, and she’ll take it even if it’s from something as cold and inhuman as Helen. Peony’s eyes flick down to Helen’s lips. Yes, they almost looked the same. Would they taste the same as her Helen’s once did?

“...You just want a kiss?” Peony asks, quietly. Helen narrows her eyes, looking far too pleased with herself. Peony can almost hear the sound of metal teeth snapping shut.

“If that’s what you’re willing to give me, darling.” She bends down, her face just above Peony’s. Peony doesn’t give herself any time to think this through, instead moving forward, pushing her lips against Helen’s in a slow, tentative kiss. Peony feels one of Helen's fingers run down her back, sharp, even through layers of clothes, and she shivers.

With Peony's eyes closed, it was easy to pretend that this is a stolen moment of normalcy; for a moment, she's back in her Helen's house, pressed up against her on the couch as they wind down from their long work days.

"...Now, was that so hard?" Helen muses, and Peony's eyes flutter open. Peony touches her lips, feeling her smudged chapstick, and she sighs.

Peony leans in for a second kiss.

[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.

[luckhound]

like a carnivorous flower.

↻ pairing ✦ elias/reader

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

↻ word count ✦ 3.9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ignorant.

Like you once were.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It feels strange to shirk your responsibilities. Even now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Probably.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s not what I was referring to.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You wanted to.”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An idea, half-formed, occurs to you.

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

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

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

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

That doesn’t happen.

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

Neither of you move.

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

Then slowly, deliberately, Elias leans into your touch.

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

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

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

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

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

The question elicits a scowl from you.

“Not even close.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

During the Christmas party, you had almost found out.

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

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

Your stomach drops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(When will you stop reminiscing about the past?)

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

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

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

[stardustedseas]

ik have so many half baked fics floating around im so sorry but I've been brain rotting tma lately so have some non proof read thoughts. as always i tried to keep it gn. this is deeply horny so nsfw under the cut

-elias using his powers for evil but in a horny way, him making you keep a vibrator in while you go about work in the archives, him turning it off and on sporadically and very much enjoying the show from the comfort of his office, no matter where you are. unfortunately for you he will Know if youre about to cum so he always gets you riiiiiggghhtttt to the edge before turring it off, laughing at how you get more and more frustrated throughout the day. if youre amab, he would Very much love watching you try to hide your hard on from the others all day, making sure to turn the vibe up when you try to discreetly readjust yourself. if youre afab, he likes to see how soaked he can make you, aiming to try and get you to soak through your pants or have slick all over your thighs under your skirt that you need to keep cleaning away. he is an absolute MENACE, if you come to his office begging him to let you cum, he will, But, he wont stop aftee just one orgasm, he is going to keep turning the vibe on and off, up and down, no matter how many times you may have cum. either way, whether hes edged or overstimulated you, you will be a shaking, crying, begging mess in his office by the end of the day </3

-you guys know how he put the truth of melanies fathers death into her mind? and how he said he could make her see it? not to be a degenerate whore but imagine him putting scenes of like you two fucking or what he wants to do with/to you into your head while you try to work or go about your day. always waiting for the worst possible moment before bam you are now imagining yourself tied up in the prettiest shibari while elias fucks your brains out. couple that with the remote control sex toys he has you wear and its a miracle you havnt just keeled over by lunch.

-oughhh also imagine him bringing you to his office 'for your performance review' where he instead has you on your knees under his desk, keeping his cock warm in your mouth while he talks about how youve been doing work wise, sounding completely composed and normal as if he isnt throbbing in your throat. if youve been good, he will finish off the review by taking you over his desk and letting you cum as many times as youd like. but if youve been bratty or slacking off? hes face fucking you and sending you off with no underwear, not allowed to even get yourself off for a couple days either. god he would be soooo mean about it too, hand tangled almost too harshly in your hair and using your mouth like a simple toy, doesnt matter if your face is an absolute mess of tears and drool, that only makes him harder. he just looovvessss the way you feel choking on him, your own hands gripping his pant legs for dear life and trying desperatly to breath through your nose as your eyes roll back, makes him feel so powerful.

ofc he isnt shutting up the entire time either, making fun of you with that stupidly sexy voice of his for how messy you are and how he can tell that you feel like you can almost cum just from getting your throat used. i know that man is great at dirty talk i just know it.

afterwards, he would continue to relentlessly tease you, cooing about how despite not being the best archives worker, you are still such a perfect little whore for him. maybe he should promote you to just being his cockwarmer while he works. he isnt totally cruel tho, while hes bullying you he would sit you on his lap or desk and gently clean your face and brushing any knots he left in your hair out, leaving you almost completely free of amy evidence of his harsh treatment. before you go, hes placing one single soft kiss to the corner of your lips(you havnt earned a full on kiss yet) before sending you on your way. he does still make sure you leave your underwear behind unfortunately, just for that extra humiliation :3

-hhhrgrhegeggrgrrgg or him bending you over his lap and spanking you for each little transgression, making you count them and apologize for each thing you did. yes he overreacts some stuff too, just so he can draw out the punishment. that time you accidently spilled a little coffee on his desk? one strike for each paper you 'ruined', no it doesnt matter it was just a receipt for his breakfast and a couple of scrapped letters. yes he is using his tie to keep your hands in front of you and his belt to really get some good hits in. oh how he relishes in your voice, how pathetic you sound begging for his forgiveness and choking out each number between cries. thank god his office is soundproof (i dont think it actually is but idc this isnt about canon)

-him making you hump his freshly cleaned and polished shoe if you want to get off, if youre gonna act like a bitch in heat may as well go all the way. he wants to see you wrap your arms around his leg and lay your head on his thigh, desperately rutting yourself against him as he uses one hand to pet your hair like one would an animal, still just writing or typing away like normal with the other.

-lord imagining him still mostly dressed besides his suit jacket off, tie gone (its shoved in your mouth), and a couple of his shirt buttons undone. GUARDS🗣‼️ NUKE THIS MAN🗣‼️

-i wanna tease him by touching myself knowing hes watching from wherever he is atm, making sure im all spread out so he can see clearly.

(slight cnc and condubcon in next part, its all enthusiasticly consentual but skip to the 💜 if you dont wanna read it)

-sometimes, if hes really feeling mean or having a shit day, he will take it out on you via even more rough scenes. instead of just spanking your ass, hes including your chest, thighs, cheek and crotch. nothing helps him destress like coming home to tie you to the bed, breaking out the toy chest and absolutely ruining you. the louder you moan and plead for him to be gentle or slow down, the rougher he gets. sigh i need that man squeezing my throat with one hand and slapping me around with the other

-i know in my heart he is a masochist as well as a sadist, like just look at him. he would love it when you leave scratch and bite marks all over (non visable spots ofc,he still has a reputation to uphold) and how sore they feel the morning after. he just adores the bruises that show up from when you fight back, trying to get away from the overwhelming pleasure he was giving you. one of his fave things is finding all the little works of art you two left all over eachothers bodies. him rubbing cream onto the spots he struck a little too hard while you softly kissed the bite on his shoulder from when you ended up cumming for the 4th time in a row.

i hate him sm hes the absolute worst i need him to fucking explode

💜

-if you are an avatar or heavily influenced by one of the entities too, he will absolutely incorporate it into the play as well. the hunt? hes chasing you down and fucking you(or vise versa). the desolation? fire play. the slaughter? the roughest kink scenes you could dream of. the flesh? there will be blood drawn from how hard yall bite eachother. and so on and so forth.

-that being said, he also absolutely loves to be pegged/fucked in return, i dont make the rules. sometimes he just needs someone else to take control for a bit so he can shut his brain off some and just Do. put him in his place‼️

[constanttea]

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

[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."

[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

[emma045]

[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

[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 :)

[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

[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?

[luckhound]

wardrobe mishaps.

↻ pairings ✦ jon/reader, elias/reader

↻ summary ✦ You get ready for a date after work, only to run into a little trouble. Your boss graciously helps out.

↻ wordcount ✦ 3.4k

↻ warnings ✦ reader leans more masc or fem depending on scenario, elias being elias (meaning: a freak)

author's note: got back into tma thanks to my friends and found myself more immersed in it this time around. hence this lol. big thanks to @peonysgreenhouse and her lovely christmassy scenario for inspiring this fic. happy 2025!

You double check the time on your computer before you shut it down. It’s officially the weekend, and you ended up staying a little longer than usual, but you’d been determined to complete your report before you left.

Jon expects your findings on his desk come Monday morning, so he can wrap up the case at hand, and you don’t want to hand it in late. Having seen the verbal lashings that Martin has endured in the past for such a transgression, you intend to stay on your boss’s good side.

(If such a side even exists, a voice in your mind—one that sounds suspiciously a lot like Tim—adds. If it does, though, Sasha manages to remain on it somehow. You should ask her for pointers.)

Thankfully, you won’t be late for your reservation if you leave within the next twenty minutes. Good thing you brought everything you needed to work for this very eventuality.

You rise from the chair and stretch your back, wincing at the many cracks and pops that ensue, before poking your head out of your office. The Archives appear to be empty. (Well, you can see light spilling out weakly from beneath Jon’s door, but you expected that. The day he leaves before you is the day that Hell freezes over.) You faintly recall some of the others popping in to say their goodbyes, and you had to have responded, but you must’ve been too immersed in work to pay proper attention.

That’s fine. You will be seeing them on Monday, after all.

You grab your bag and head to the loo. There, you put the final touches to your outfit. Taking a quick look in the mirror, you exit, the door swinging shut behind you. All that’s left is to grab your phone and jacket from your office. Once you’ve gathered your things, you can head to the restaurant and meet your date.

You pick up the pace a little, eager to leave the Institute...

Before you can reach your office, however, the door nearest to you opens. Jonathan Sims steps out. You gasp, digging your heels into the wooden flooring to prevent yourself from barreling into him. You succeed in the nick of time.

Had you not been so startled yourself, the way his eyes widen behind his glasses and his mouth parts in shock would have delighted you.

These days, Jon oscillates between two expressions: like he’s trying to fight off a headache and failing, or is one slight inconvenience away from snapping at the next person to approach him. You aren’t sure when was the last time you saw him smile, or relax. Before he became Head Archivist, that’s for certain.

Everyone is working hard to manage the disorganized chaos that is the Archives, but Jon puts you all to shame. It’s as if he’s working on a strict deadline that is fast approaching, one he has neglected to inform the rest of you about.

You admire his work ethic; it may not seem like it, but you do. You just wish he’d slow down once in a while, for his sake as well as yours.

To his credit, Jon gathers himself quicker than you do. He sighs wearily. “I understand you’re in a hurry to get home, but please, try to watch where you’re stepping.”

“Hey, I stopped before I knocked into you, didn’t I?” you say with a crooked smile. “And anyway, I’m not rushing because it’s a Friday night. I happen to have a date that I don’t want to be late for.”

Jon blinks, taken aback. “A date?”

“Yeah. A date. You know, that thing you plan when you want to enjoy time off work with another person?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you for the definition, Tim.” After a moment, his gaze sweeps over your outfit. “Well, that explains why you’re so dressed up for a change.”

You frown, offended. “Hey, what is that supposed to mean? I might not look like a professor on his way to lecture, like you always do, but that doesn’t mean I never dress up.”

“You’re exaggerating. I do not look like a professor.”

You say nothing, only stare pointedly at his lanky frame. He’s wearing a dress shirt with a tie knotted at his throat, a jumper thrown over top for good measure. His pressed slacks end an inch or two above his Oxfords. It’s the end of the day, so his clothes are somewhat rumpled, but it only adds to the look. You can clearly picture him dressed as he is now, standing behind a lectern and scowling at a lecture theatre full of petrified first years.

Jon shakes his head with a huff, his gaze almost absentmindedly falling on something below your chin, before he meets your eyes again. Then he does a double take. To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches, as if he’s stifling a smirk. “At least I know how to correctly tie a tie.”

“What?” You look down at the tie you’d laboured over in the loo, pressing a self-conscious hand over the silk. “What’s wrong with my tie? It looks fine.”

“It looks like you tied it in the dark. Have you never worn one before?”

“I have!” you retort. “Just, you know... It's been a while.” You had even watched a tutorial on your phone while munching on your breakfast this morning. Not that you’ll admit it to Jon, of course.

The man in question doesn’t respond, only stares at your tie as if it insulted him personally. With a put-upon sigh, he motions you closer. “Allow me, then.”

It takes you a second to understand the meaning behind his words. You consider rejecting the offer; you don’t know what time it is, exactly, but you know you’re getting late. Surely your date won’t mind if your tie looks a little sloppy.

Instead of following through, you find yourself shuffling forward.

Long, tapered brown fingers make swift work of unknotting your tie. Once the fabric is unwound, Jon gets to tying it once more. His hands are more practiced than your clumsy ones had been. Almost like he ties other people’s ties for a living, or something.

You duck your head so you can watch, take a mental note of how it’s done, only to freeze when your chin brushes against the curve of his thumb. There’s a faint smell of fresh pine—the hand soap that the Institute religiously uses. The touch is slight, like the times your fingers overlap with his when you hand over a file or report. Yet it feels more significant, somehow.

It must be the proximity. There isn’t a desk separating the two of you, as is often the case. He has breached your personal space in order to assist you, the tip of one Oxford resting between your loafers. Or maybe it has to do with how close his hands are to the vulnerable stretch of your throat. You swallow involuntarily at the thought.

Either way, you are aware of him in a way you tend not to be. In a way you have instructed yourself not to be.

Jon is no longer the cute co-worker you like to steal glimpses of; he is your boss who must be held at a certain distance. He certainly has no trouble acting professional and aloof, so neither should you. Even if the two of you have been bantering for the past few minutes in a way that you haven’t in some time.

Regardless, you shouldn’t be mooning over your direct superior. You should be interested in other people—like your date, who had asked you out last week. You’d dithered over accepting, but eventually decided to make plans with them. It’s time for you to move on from your ridiculous crush.

(A stubborn part of you can’t help but note how smooth his skin feels against your own. How warm.)

When you feel the digit twitch, nearly grazing your bottom lip, your head snaps up. “S-sorry,” you say hastily, unable to meet the archivist's gaze.

“...It’s all right,” Jon murmurs. He resumes twisting and folding the silk around your throat, as if nothing happened. Because nothing did happen. It was an accident, and the smallest of touches at that.

You still have some difficulty getting your heartbeat to settle, as if you’re some Victorian nobleman who just caught your first glimpse of an upturned ankle.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), it doesn’t take much longer for Jon to finish. “There,” he says, eyeing your collar critically one last time before he lets go of the tie. He pauses with his palms hovering over your chest, like he wants to smooth the material there down, before he lets them drop. His arms hang limply at his sides. “All, ah, all done.”

“Thanks,” you say, glancing down to inspect his handiwork. You have to give it to him: he knows how to tie a tie. The half-Windsor knot looks crisp and sits nicely over your shirt, not at all as frumpy or lopsided as your own attempt had been.

Jon nods and steps back, widening the gap between you. “See you on Monday.” With that, he goes to walk off, interaction already forgotten.

“Let me guess,” you say, stopping him in his tracks. “You’re not leaving yet.”

He looks over at you. “Very astute,” he replies, a hint of amusement suffusing his dry tone. “I am just finishing up some last minute work. I’ll be heading out shortly.”

You hum at his response, crossing your arms over your chest. “Good. Best not to go to the break room and brew any tea, then. If you’re ‘heading out shortly.’” The way he shifts his weight from one foot to another, his eyes flitting away from yours, that must be exactly what he was planning to do. Bullseye.

Jon clears his throat unnecessarily. “Yes, well. Don’t forget that I’ll need your report—”

“Bright and early on Monday, I know.”

“Right.” He shuffles backwards. Slowly, as if reluctant to. “Have a good night. Enjoy your... date.”

“Good night, Jon.” You watch, smothering a grin, as he enters his office and shuts the door.

You aren’t in high spirits for long. You are fifteen minutes late for your reservation, to the annoyance of your date. Though you try to make up for it with your sparkling personality and witty repartee, you get the feeling that a second date is not in the stars for you.

You feel very little disappointment over it. You refuse to think hard about why that is.

Upon entering your office, you spot your earrings on your desk. You must’ve forgotten them. With a groan, you touch an ear and feel the stud nestled there. You like them just fine, normally, but they aren’t fancy enough for a dinner date.

All of a sudden, the back of your neck prickles. The tiny hairs there stand at attention. You glance over your shoulder, at the open door to your office. It’s empty. Your brows furrow, but you shake it off. It’s not fun, feeling like you’re being watched, but you’re used to it by now. It tends to happen from time to time, especially when you’re in the Archives. Must be nerves or something.

Best to focus on the issue at hand.

You briefly consider returning to the loo. No, you decide; it’ll be faster to switch earrings here. You get to work on removing the first stud. It proves harder than expected. After a few more fumbled attempts, you scowl to yourself. Other than pinching your earlobe somewhat painfully, you have achieved little.

Has it always been so difficult to take these off without a mirror?

“Stupid things,” you mutter crossly under your breath. “Would you... just...”

“Having some trouble?”

The question, voiced from directly behind you, startles you. You yank at your stud. Hard. Your earlobe twinges sharply, causing you to yelp in pain. You let go and whirl around to see Elias Bouchard standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Bouchard!” you blurt, blinking owlishly at him. Then you regain your composure. “Sorry. I, uh, thought I was alone.”

“No, I should be the one to apologize. I should’ve announced myself sooner.” His head tilts to the side. “And it’s Elias, remember? Mr. Bouchard was my father.” A small smile plays upon his lips, as if he’d told a particularly amusing joke.

“Right, of course. Elias.” The name feels strange rolling off your tongue. You have always called Jon by his first name, never Mr. Sims, but it’s not the same. Maybe because Elias is your boss’s boss. Yes, that must be it.

You wait for him to say something, explain why he’s here. He just stares back, silent. Under the weak fluorescent lights of the Archives, which cast shadows over his tall frame, his grey eyes appear darker than usual. You resist the urge to shiver.

As the silence stretches on, pulling taut between you both, you come to the realization that he expects you to break it.

“I, um,” you say lamely, “I was just on my way out.”

Elias hums, but continues to regard you with that piercing gaze. “It appeared as if you were busy, though.”

“Ah, yeah. I wanted to switch my earrings, except these damn studs refuse to budge. It’s been a while since I took them off, I guess.” You chuckle, even though it’s not funny. His smile widens a touch, but he doesn’t join in. “I can just do it in the car.”

Before you can turn back to your desk, Elias speaks. “Would you like some assistance?”

You stare, caught off-guard. You hadn’t expected him to offer. “Oh, um. If you aren’t too busy...?” You glance in the direction of Jon’s office. Elias must have come down to see the Head Archivist before the weekend. Had he already spoken with him, or had he noticed your door open and thought to check in on you first?

“Not at all.” He lifts a pale hand. It resembles a pianist’s, slender and elegant. “If I may?”

He’s asking for permission to remove your earring. To touch you.

You tilt your chin up and to the side, to make it easier for him to reach over. No need to make this any more awkward. “Please.” You hoped that you would feel less nervous if you weren’t staring into those eyes, but looking away does little to help. He’s in your peripheral vision, his dark suit and hair rendering him an ink blot. A very tall, very intimidating, very handsome ink blot.

This situation, you realize, does nothing to quell the teeny tiny attraction that you’ve been harbouring for your boss. Quite the opposite. You have only had the opportunity to speak with him a handful of times, but you admire his dedication to the Institute. His intelligence and extensive knowledge of the paranormal. The fact that he’s easy on the eyes only further complicates the matter.

You’d been certain that you could dispel your wildly inappropriate feelings for your boss. Going on a date with the first person to catch your interest was step one. Now you aren’t so sure.

Elias steps forward, so he is closer to you. The scent of his cologne, spicy and rich, washes over you. You hold unnaturally still when his forefinger grazes the shell of your ear. For some reason, you expected his skin to feel cold, but it’s not. His hand is as warm as anyone’s would be.

Belatedly, you recall that you haven’t instructed him on how to remove the earring. His own ears aren’t pierced, so he might not know how. “It’s a push-pin stud,” you explain. “I think it might be secured too tightly, so you should hold both ends and—”

“Twist it,” he finishes for you. “Don’t worry, I know.”

“Oh. Great.”

His forefinger rests against the top of the stud as his thumb gently rolls your earlobe over, to expose the flatback. To your horror, your breath hitches. Please let him not have heard that. He pauses, causing your heart to nearly shrivel up in your chest, before resuming his ministrations without comment. False alarm.

The thumb and forefinger on his other hand pinches the post, holding it firmly as he begins to twist. Your earlobe twinges again, but you grit your teeth. You refuse to make another embarrassing sound.

Finally, the two ends pull apart. Your eyes almost close in relief. Thank God.

Elias’s lips turn up at the corners. “There you are.”

You hold out your hand, palm up. He carefully places the silver ends on it. “Thanks.” Your fingers curl into a fist, caging them inside.

“Of course.”

There’s still the other ear, though, so you tip your chin to the other side. Elias shifts a little too. Now you’re leaning towards him instead of away, his form inches from yours. It’s the nearest you have ever been to him.

His suit is made out of thick wool. You have the craziest urge to reach out and rub the material between your fingers. Find out if it feels as soft and warm as it looks. Elias removes the other stud before you can give in to the impulse. Which you wouldn’t have. Obviously.

He places the last two ends in your palm as well, watches as you move to your desk and tuck them away.

“Thanks again, Elias. I appreciate it.” You pick up your fancy earrings. They glimmer under the overhead lights. “I don’t think I would have been able to take them off without a mirror.”

“It was no trouble.” He clasps his hands together, observing idly as you put on the first earring. The fish hook goes through with little issue. “Any big plans for tonight?”

“Just a dinner reservation,” you say as you move on to the other ear. It’s as easy as the first, but you wince when you feel a dull pain. The lobe must be sore from when you’d yanked on it earlier. “I need to be out of here within the next...” You glance at the clock situated beside the door. Your eyes widen. “Five minutes ago.”

Elias arches his brows, looking faintly amused. “You’d best hurry up, then.”

You have already started throwing your things into your bag. Once you’re done, you grab your phone off the desk and make a beeline for the door. Your boss is kind enough to step outside so you can turn the lights off and shut the door.

“Drive safe,” he says, inclining his head. “I hope your date goes well.”

“You too,” you respond automatically. It’s only when you’re turning the corner that you realize your goodbye made no sense. Your eyes fall shut briefly in mortification. Oh well. Nothing you can do about it now. He’ll have forgotten all about it the next time you see him.

In the end, you are only a couple minutes late to the restaurant, but you find yourself distracted. You’re unable to focus on your date or your food. All you can think about is that moment you shared with your boss. The long line of his body so close to yours, his fingers brushing your jaw...

But that is not what your mind lingers on the longest. There is one burning question that remains with you, even once you’re tucked into bed, unable to fall asleep. It must have been a good guess, that’s all. Yet you’re convinced there is more to it than that.

How had Elias known that you were going on a date? Hadn’t you only mentioned a dinner reservation?

(Earlier:

Elias watches as you turn the corner and disappear from view. He huffs a quiet laugh. He had come down to the Archives to touch base with Jon, when he noticed that you were here. What a treat it had been to speak with you, provoke you into abandoning your pitiful attempts at professionalism. Perhaps he should drop by more often.

He looks down, inspects his thumb. A small bead of red glints back at him.

Your right earlobe had been bleeding, just a little, from when you’d gotten startled and pulled too hard. The blood had transferred onto the digit when he removed the stud.

Elias smiles at the drop of blood. Then he raises his thumb to his mouth and licks it off.

Though the Head Archivist is his main priority, he intends to enjoy the time he has with you.)

[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.”