#not a step head of the magnus institute

[jmartatkmart]

s4 martin headcanon i just KNOW he ran that institute like THE NAVY. either to not provoke peter to make more people disappear or to not make anyone too suspicious. and since peter was never around and his little sneaky ass hid behind "oh im just an assistant, im passing the word from the Boss Man :(" while being in everyones business about missing deadlines. archives was a mess sure but there are other departments!! someone needed to approve Debrah motherly leave!

[midwesternnerd]

Newest episode of Magnus Protocol revealed that Jonathan Sims died in a bicycle crash.

Idk about you guys but I think that’s prime meme material

[klm-zoflorr]

Beginning of season 4, locked up elias but now everything's falling apart 😭 none of them can handle a life without eye daddy 👁️👁️ (except melanie........)

[draco-renn]

I'm totally capable of keeping my interests separate and not mashing them together like a madman (lying)

[Edit: Transcript below the cut]

Statement of Kim Gyuguk, regarding a suspected dokkaebi attack on his nightly commute from work. Original statement given March 30, 2023. Audio recording by Kim Minjae, Apprentice Archivist of the KQ Foundation, South Korea. Statement begins.

[sigh]

[intro to Tricky House by xikers starts to play]

[pleiades-cabin-talk]

// open rp, anyone is welcome to join!! //

Rose was on his way to deliver the books he had brought to London for the Magnus Institute. He wasn't sure if to be excited or really, really unhappy about having to pay that place a visit.

For one, Rose remembered the way things went in their own, old timeline. Where this all as just some silly podcast about horrible things. One someone very dear to them had shown him. A person that didn't seem to exist anymore. Rose took a breath of air, trying to ignore the ache that came with that particular set of memories. That time was gone. Rose is pretty sure that it technically never existed now, considering he'd found exactly 0 people who remembered any of what he did. All his old friends, the people that had been like a second home they...didn't know him. Didn't remember him. Didn't seem to have an interest in doing so. Rose wasn't too keen on repeating their path as exact as possible, and so...after thoroughly making sure they were all okay, left them be. But there was one person he couldn't seem to find, as if erased as much as everyone else's memories. Memories that, Rose reminded himself sternly, didn't exist to begin with.

Either way, Rose had liked the podcast plenty back then, and a part of them was excited to meet some of the people they'd grown to love by listening. Another was pained with the knowledge that the Fears and Horrors were now real and these people were suffering.

Given Rose remembering forgotten things, their Eye Mark weighs heavy on their shoulders at times. So, they are not afraid of being seen by It, watched by It, in the Institute. They're a tad bit more worried about being Seen by others.

They're just down the road now, seeing the building creep into view, growing larger with each step he took towards it.

Clutching his bag tight, he made his way inside, pushing down the shiver that threatened to race across the entirety of their body when they stepped inside, feeling watched from all sorts of corners.

Time to head to the reception, he supposed. Wondering just who they'd get to meet during his visit.

[0bticeo]

jonathan sims | get some rest (tomorrow is already here)

summary:

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk. but jonathan sims is a stubborn man, so he must be coaxed into doing so. 

“a massage.”

"a what?"

wc: 2.5k

tw: massage, making out, reader being a horny mess, jon being exhausted and a cranky bastard, hinted at elias' voyeuristic tendencies, usual tma ominous feelings, fluff (shocking, i know)

the analog clock reads 3:27, stark red embedded upon your retina. you sigh, fingers rubbing at the back of your neck as you step into the archives, weary bones aching.

it’s not your fault if you fell asleep in a secluded corner of the archives departement, squeezed between two shelves and piles upon piles of unlabeled statements. scratch that: they’re labeled. chronologically.

they do not make sense, however, because jonathan sims’ predecessor - whose name you curse with every breath and sleepless night you spend organizing her damn mess - left the whole department in such a state of disarray you might spend the rest of your life making sense of it. damn her. and damn your boss for being so uptight about it all.

you feel the weight of the institute, a looming force of knowledge pressed at the back of your neck, sweet pinprick of pain. you’re watched. oh, orwell, how right you were.

you make your way towards your desk, stepping over sasha’s pink slippers and picking up an empty mug. grab your keys, get out, and walk home. you’re not too far away from the institute. no trouble.

as you lean forward, palm pressed flat against a manila file, something catches your eye.

light. 

thin rays of it crawl, seep out from under the wooden door of the head archivist’s office, stark golden in dull gray penumbra.

he’s there, jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute. holed up in his office, recording a statement, voice poised and measured and controlled in every way he isn’t upon being confronted with his poor sleeping schedule. 

you should leave.

you hear the soft click of a tape recorder being stopped. a long, deep-suffering sigh. a drawer opening, more muttering, some shuffling, rustling papers - oh no he won’t.

in three decisive steps, you’re before his door, your sharp knocking rinnging like gunfire in the quiet of the office. 

“who-who’s there?”

unease. suspicion.

you’re quick to answer with a long suffering sigh of your own, forehead pressed against the door.

“it’s me, jon.”

a pause. an exasperated sigh.

“what do you want?"

you take it as your cue to step inside his office, dimly lit by a lone desk lamp, dust particles turning midas-gold under its rays. your foot catches on a discarded paper - another statement, this one regarding a gambling fool of a soldier. 

(he who tries to cheat death gets the fruit of his labor and weeps upon tasting it.)

you pick it up, and let your gaze roam about the place.

a cork board takes up the majority of a wall, red strings twisting and turning in a web of confusion.

bookshelves align themselves in neat rows, cramped against one another, overflowing with statements, indigestions of facts made up and real.

a cluttered desk - a switched off tape recorder, manila folders, an open computer casting its blue glow upon the sharp edge of jon’s face.

he’s glaring at you.

“have you grown deaf since the last time i saw you?”

you let out an amused breath and make a move to put the statement on his desk. finding an uncluttered space is harder than it proves to be.

jon all but snatches the damn paper from your grip. if looks could kill, you’d be in bad shape. you lean back, arms crossed over your chest, hip pressed against the edge of his desk.

“no, merely mute with shock upon your wretched appearance.” you smile, teasing edges fading into concern. “seriously, when was the last time you slept?”

“that does not concern you-”

“it does, actually. you’re my boss. i can’t let you waste away, who would pay me otherwise?”

“elias pays all of us-”

“and he probably would have me promoted as a glorified secretary if you were to overwork yourself to death. i hate accountance, jon.”

he pinches his nose with long, deft fingers, glasses riding up ever so slightly. they reveal the deep circles under his eyes, embedded in his olive skin. you can practically see the tension oozing from him, the knots in his shoulders.

“if you’re determined to waste my time-”

“i came to help, actually.”

he raises a quizzical eyebrow, the living embodiment of judgment.

you feel his gaze rake your form, the own dark circles under your eyes, the crumpled shirt, the dust that clings to your skirt, what he’s sure is the imprint of the shelf you fell asleep against on your cheek.

you raise your hands in mock surrender. (you miss the way his gaze softens a little.)

“you’re exhausted. hell, i can feel your nervous energy from here.”

he opens his mouth, frowning, protest ready on his tongue. you cut him, merciless.

“when was the last time you’ve gotten more than three hours of sleep?”

that shuts him up. his frown deepens. you want to smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead.

“that - look, if you have nothing better to do than pester me-”

“it’s three in the morning and we’re the only living souls in this institute.”

maybe. you don’t really want to know what lies in the tunnels. or in the artifact storage. or what’s watching you.

“you’re not going to sleep at all at this rate - no, i know you’re not, because i know you. kinda.”

he sighs, exhaustion crawling out of his very marrow, and leans back in his chair. you take in the wrinkles in his shirt, now exposed because lo and behold, jonathan sims’ jacket is not sewn to his body and - 

and he’s loosening his tie, two fingers digging in his windsor knot, smooth silk gliding away under skilled fingers. you wonder what they might feel like slipping under your shirt.

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk and into bed. but jonathan sims is the living embodiment of stubborness, so he must be coaxed into doing so.

“a massage.”

“a- a what?”

you laugh a little.

“don’t pretend your neck isn’t stiffer than the stick up your ass.”

“i do not have-”

“jon, please let me help.”

silence. again, he pinches the bridge of his nose. at least, he’s considering it.

you eye the piles of statements on his desk, half-discarded, half-classified. there’s a pattern in the way jon operates, even if he’s not conscious of it.

he only ever calls for your help when he’s sure the statements at hand are lelgitimate. this means he rules out those he deems written by lunatics and madmen. this means he does most of the work. this means-

“all right. but under one condition."

you tilt your head to the side, curious.

“one last statement.”

“only if i massage you while you record it.”

a glare.

“we’re wasting time, jon.”

“fine. get over here.”

you smile, palms smoothing out the pleats of your skirt as you make your way behind his desk.

he pays you no mind, long fingers selecting a manila file from a pile, opening it with care. there’s a certain stiff grace with which he carries himself, you muse as you step behind him. 

you watch the ripples of tension in the back of his neck, the fine strands of auburn hair tainted penumbra-dark brushing against his nape, and gently run your knuckle against his skin. he’s warm.

“whenever you’re ready,” you breathe, fingers resting on the back of his chair.

he coughs a little. composes himself. hits record.

“continued statement of trevor herbert regarding their latter years as a vampire hunter. original statement given july 10th 2010, audio recording by jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute.”

you watch with fascination as the calm, composed, formal voice slips into something… else. something between jonathan sims and trevor herbert, and it’s fascinating, because for a brief second, split second instant of Knowing, you can See him, the tramp and his collapsing lungs, writing away his youth and hunts on bland institute paper.

you blink and it’s gone. 

there’s only you, the “lofi charm” of the tape recorder, and jon. his nape is bare. intimate knowledge settles in your mind, the fragility of mortality. bury a sharp needle there and his body collapses. 

you frown. push it back. roll up your sleeves and rub your hands together, warming them up because they’re always cold, and the least you can do is give him a modicum of comfort.

slowly, carefully, you put your hands over his shoulders. he tenses at that, briefly, until you start rubbing away the years of tension gnawing at him.

slowly, surely, you knead poor, exhausted muscles. slowly, surely, he relaxes under your touch, head leaning back ever so slightly.

from this close, you can smell him, you realize. cold coffee, dusty paper, cedarwood aftershave and something like a hint of sweat. 

“good?” you whisper, almost silent, voice lost in the quiet static of the tape recorder, in the dust-soft penumbra.

he nods, cheek brushing your wrist. your heart hammers in your chest. a strand of hair brushes the back of your hand - they’re graying a little. you wonder why he exhausts himself so. why he spends nights buried in his office, burrowing himself in piles and piles of files. 

hypocrite.

the only reason as to why you’re here, massaging your fucking boss and growing desperately wet at his deep sighs of content, is because you, too, spend much more time than reasonable trying to make sense of it all. 

the only reason as to why you’re here, taking in the gentle mess that is jonathan sims, is because you both leave at ungodly hours. because he can keep his eyes on you and so he knows that you cannot be responsible for gertrude’s murder.

you think he might trust you.

his hand settles over yours, and you startle.

he’s warm, palm large enough to cover the entirety of your hand, from wrist to fingertips. you don’t know what to do with this knowledge.

you don’t want to think of what you might do in the quiet death of the night, your hand slipping under your covers, down the apex of your thigh-

he slides your hand lower. oh. oh. 

you lean forward, until your cheek brushes his, skin on skin, and unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt. you think he might be leaning into your touch. you think you might cut yourself on the edge of his jaw, on the sharpness of his words. 

your hands meet his bare skin and you feel like you’ve caught fire, breath stolen away as you feel him in a way the cotton of his shirt didn’t allow. there is a sharpness to him. you can feel his jutting clavicles under your fingertips, sharp angel wings of bone, and your heart tightens. 

he works too much.

it’s quiet, for a while.

you don’t know what sets it off. one moment, you’re massaging him, relishing in the feeling of his skin under your hands. the next, your fingers catch a particularly tight spot in his shoulders and he groans , and fuck, you should not feel familiar heat curling in your lower belly but you do. 

you should stop. bid him good night and leave him with his precious recording. 

you don’t. 

instead, you rub at that spot, tentatively, and watch as he bites his lip mid-sentence, voice catching on a word. he’s a little breathless.

you are, too, heart hammering in your ribcage, hummingbird trying to flee its bones.

his hand wraps around your wrist and tugs you forward, free hand settling on your lower back, guiding you until you’re in his lap, looking up at him.

you think you might be dying of a heart attack with the way he looks at you, with eyes so dark you can barely make out the beautiful green of them.

“just what do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

you feel like you're on fire with how close you are. how his hand still encases your wrist in an iron hold. how you can feel warmth of him. how you can see the fluttering pulse of his throat, adam apple bobbing up and down as he swallows and fuck you want to take a bite.

your mouth feels dry.

“i- i don’t-” 

his grip tightens on your wrist. 

“answer me.”

somehow you’re closer. close enough to feel his breath on your lips, to find yourself staring up at him through hooded eyes, to find him staring back with parted lips. 

whatever’s left of your resolve dissolves into a puddle of desire. 

“jon, please, let me kiss you.”

a pause. the faintest glint of disbelief in his eyes.

then his lips crash on yours. 

you startle, hand shooting forward to grasp the nearest thing for purchase and find only him, him and the crisp cotton of his shirt, all exhaustion and boiling frustration.

he puts his mouth to you like one would to a lover’s and kisses you slowly, deeply, unraveling you like a beloved mystery. 

your body sings for him, and it’s so right you dismiss the ever-present pinprick pressure at the back of your neck. 

his palm cups it, your nape, warmth consuming that pinprick pain, until the only thing you can do is sigh in his mouth and press yourself closer.

his lips part from yours, briefly, a breath away, and it’s too damn far, so you tug at his cravat and pull him down. your fingers dig in his shirt, his hair, and he groans at the way your nails rake his scalp.

your lips part for him in a soft, whisper-quiet moan of his name, and he swallows it down almost greedily. you feel his tongue brush against yours and let out a low, needy sound, molten desire coursing through your veins.

his hand slips under your shirt, reaches for the soft skin of your side and presses up, up, up until it meets your breast and his thumb presses against your nipple in tight circles and you’re almost sobbing against his lips. 

you’re not aware that your hips are grinding against the hardness of him until his hand settles on your hip, slowing you down to a stop, and you part from him, breathless, and so, so needy.

there’s a thread of saliva between you, thin little spider-web intertwining your fates.

he looks at you, disheveled, glasses slightly askew, their lenses foggy, shirt half-opened for your gaze to meet tantalizing skin. a feast for the sore eyes.

“you might want to make me breakfast instead.”

“not like this,” he mumbles, thumb swiping against your bottom lip. “not- at least, let me treat you to dinner first.”

he chuckles at that, a little breathless, a little exasperated, definitely fond.

“cheeky.”

you peck his lip, sweetly. his hand tightens over your hip.

“look at the time, jon.” 

he rides up his sleeve ever so slightly to reveal his watch and with it, the tantalizing softness of his pulse, beating wildly against the tender skin of his inner wrist. almost four in the morning. you press your lips there, feel the yearning of his beating heart. 

he doesn’t think he’s seen you this beautiful. you, disheveled, on his lap, almost chest to chest with him, bringing his palm to your cheek and pressing fluttering kisses to his fingers. you, smiling up at him, exhausted, worn to the bone, but happy, and -

“oh.”

“what is it?”

your gaze lands on the tape recorder. oh.

“still recording. i should -”

“go home, get some sleep and finish what you started - me included - later.”

he sighs. there’s still a smile on his lips, exhaustion melting down to affection. 

"fine. end recording.”

[laora-ryn]

Chester, [ERROR], and Jonathan Sims: The Anthill Theory

Hello Tumblr, may I present a follow up to my initial thesis that [ERROR] is Jon? As well as a rebuttal to the argument I've seen floating around:

"[ERROR] can't be Jon! Jon is in the computers!"

Why are you treating these like two distinct eventualities?

Jon died as an omniscient, omnipotent demi-god half a step down from The Eye itself. Jon died at the exact moment that he was pulled through a rift in space-time. If Jon survived that, I doubt he'd end up human on the other side. He'd probably end up as something else entirely.

Something none of us, and none of the Protocol-universe characters, have ever seen before.

"Imagine you are an ant, and you have never before seen a human - "

1. We have Chester, who has Jon's voice, and has shown signs of autonomy and a personality where Norris and Augustus have not.

I have another meta post picking apart the fr3-d1 stuff, but for the sake of staying on topic, I will show an abbreviated, summarized list from that post below:

Mystery emails sent to various OIAR employees:

Episode 4: Gwen receives an email from an unknown source showing Lena trying to kill Klaus

Episode 4: "the system" sends Alice a notification that Sam searched for "Magnus" and "protocol"

Episode 7: Sam receives an email from a "John" with an internal email address, with Gerry's name and address

Episode 20: Sam receives an email from a garbled email address, with documents from 1999 regarding Starkwall and TMI

Error messages:

Episode 3: Alice receives a jmj error that Colin troubleshoots. Freddy snarks back at both of them

Episode 17: Alice receives a jmj error that Gwen troubleshoots. There are plenty of error noises, but imo it comes across less snarky than it did in episode 3

Other miscellaneous interactions:

Episode 5: Alice: "what the hell is wrong with everyone today?" OIAR computer, not having been touched or interacted with: [error noise]

Episode 17: Chester reads a universe-hopping statement to Celia

Episode 19: Sam asks Alice to talk with him about the Magnus Institute. Immediately, Alice's computer throws an error, like it wants her to stop working and talk with Sam

Magnus Institute Statements read to Sam:

All of the below statements are read out by Chester, and are (meant to be, in 21) read out to Sam specifically:

Episode 1: RedCanary

Episode 9: the cursed dice Magnus statement. This one starts on its own, while Sam is doing the Response Dept paperwork

Episode 14: the snake emporium. I'd almost mark this one as too much of a stretch, but Sam himself caught the Institute mention and was bothered by it

Episode 19: the one with Newton's alchemical tree that talks about the Protocol

Episode 21: the one about the Dome construction in the 90s, which Alice intercepts on Sam's computer

As far as I can see, the only statement that mentions the Magnus Institute that isn't read by Chester to Sam is the one that is read by Chester to Celia, as mentioned above

In terms of Norris and Augustus:

Martin was pulled through the rift at the exact same time as Jon, except as someone mostly human. Relatively human.

Jonah was too, but Jonah was already a static dead body at the moment of the rift - it wasn't the released potential energy of his death that catalyzed and pulled everything through the rift.

It makes sense, to me, that if all three of them are here, Jon is in a uniquely powerful/sentient position in comparison to the other two. Which leads us to point 2:

2. We have [ERROR], exhibiting characteristics that are indicative of Jon and no one else

See my other meta post for more info, but in summary:

The tape recorders spawned specifically for Jon in TMA, via the Web

Did even Elias show abilities to compel people to give their statement? He could tell people their statement, and force images into their heads, but could he force it out of their mouths? I don't remember seeing that

Along with the other evidence that isn't Jon-specific but is indicative of a TMA character:

They were initially trapped underneath the Magnus Institute - which could also be Jonah, or Martin

Their apparent desire to protect Gwen and "all of them" - which could also be Martin, or some non-familiar benevolent being

Jon being Chester and Jon being [ERROR] are not mutually exclusive.

Who's to say Jon, the Archivist, or what's become of him, or what's left of him, isn't the fingernail, and the boot, and the eye? Maybe he's even something else we, the ant, never live to see, or don't have the senses to perceive at all!

Additionally!

I think this might even tentatively explain why [ERROR] is voiced by Beth Eyre instead of Jonny - beyond "it would be way too obvious if they want it to be a plot twist"

If Jon/the Archivist is split into multiple parts of the same whole, in this universe. If, in the chaos of interdimensional travel, traits/attributes/parts of Jon were not distributed equally or correctly. For our anthill example, perhaps the color of our gazing eye, or the rubber material of our stomping boot, was applied to our fingernail instead. Maybe [ERROR] should have Jon's voice, but they don't. Maybe they didn't have a voice at all. We didn't hear them say anything at all in episode 10, only take a deep breath

Maybe they had to take a voice from one of their victims. Do you think there was a reason that we heard the autopsy statement secondhand, after the doctor transcribed it, rather than the victim's voice herself?

(When, as far as I know, the common ways to record information during autopsies is either with a voice recorder, or dictating to a secondary person to write, who was demonstrably not present? When, by all rights, there should have been a voice recorder present?)

I'm currently working on a master TMAGP timeline (and a TMA one otl), but an extremely abbreviated, specific version of it is as follows:

9 March: Sam and Alice visit the Magnus Institute and release [ERROR]

20 March: the autopsy victim is found dead in a park

22 March: Alice encounters the drowning woman

12 April: [ERROR] appears during Ink5oul's attack on Gwen

How many victims do they have, since Sam let them loose? Is it just the ones we've already seen, or were there others too?

This could go off in about 5000 different directions so I'm going to cut it here, but what I'm getting at here is - it makes a LOT of sense to me that we might be looking at another "creatures far beyond our comprehension" here; it'd make a lot of sense thematically; and it's just really freaking cool, if I'm being honest!!

[angelcqre]

CoD TMA AU

ARCHIVIST

Statement of [Name Redacted], regarding her camping trip in The Grampian Mountains. Original statement given January Fifteenth, Two Thousand and Fifteen. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

Now, before you say anything, I know how I sound. I know that it was stupid to go out into the middle of uncharted wilderness and get piss drunk. Believe me, I'm not interested, the park ranger gave me an earful when he found me and the cops did the same. Especially now. But.. something happened, something bad, and if I don't - if I don't say it, I don't know. I'll explode.

So…

I'm not really an outdoors type. I'm an inside cat, I like to curl up with a good book and a cup of tea and my cat, but Farah insisted for her birthday that we go camping. She's always been like that - hiking, caving, camping, it's her thing, and when Farah wants something, she's set on it. Doesn't let it go, especially because she knows how to cash in favors.

So - we went. I didn't want to go, but we went. Me, Farah, her boyfriend, Alex, and her boyfriend's friend. John. I didn't really know him, but he seemed nice enough. We were supposed to spend a long weekend roughing it, three days and three nights for the holiday. We packed plenty of booze, plenty of food, all the proper first aid crap.. and we spent four hours hiking to what John said was the perfect spot.

He was strange from the get-go. A little too touchy-feely, a little too in your space, but he seemed… enthusiastic, I don't know. Eager. He was obviously passionate about it, kept stopping me to show me edible plants, poisonous mushrooms, whatever caught his eye. If it was notable, you'd best believe he was stopping to point it out. It was almost kind of cute, if it wasn't so.. feverish. [VOICE DROPS, ASSUMING SCOTTISH ACCENT.]

"Look, bonnie, look here," and he kept saying it, over and over. It felt like he was trying to prove something - like that he could take care of me, maybe? I don't know.

He just.. didn't stop. He had so much energy, kept moving, expression bright and eyes wild, kept insisting I call him Johnny. It wasn't.. flirting - I don't know what it was. Too familiar. He was so big, just this huge guy, looming over me, smiling with these insanely white teeth that..

Is it crazy to say they looked sharper than.. normal? I know, cliche, but they looked.. sharp. Like fangs. Whatever.

So we settle down on the first night, and of course we all start drinking, set some sausages over the fire, the whole deal. Farah is a clingy drunk, so she disappears with Alex into the woods as soon as she's got some booze in her, and then it's just me and John - Johnny. He hasn't drank a sip the whole time we've been there, just clutching the same beer bottle, nursing it for hours, just.. watching us, and his gaze is so intense. Like he's sizing us up.

At some point, he gets up. Says something about it being "about time", offers me this wink, and then he's strolling off into the woods, whistling to himself.

A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go…

He doesn't come back for naarly an hour. They don't come back for nearly an hour, and I start to get a little worried. I mean, look at me, I would not be able to, like, fight a bear if it came down to it, you know? I just keep feeding the fire, getting jumpier and jumpier, but eventually, he comes back, and..

At first, I don't know what it is. He just looks.. dark. His mohawk looks wet, and his clothes are stuck to him, outlining every muscle, but he doesn't step out into the firelight, stays in the shadows, so only his eyes and his teeth are visible, reflecting the light, and it feels wrong, feels sick.

He asks me, point blank, if I'm tired, and angles his head towards one of the two tents, and I tell him no, not yet, I'm waiting for Farah to get back, and he, uh.. he tells me she's not coming back.

When he steps into the firelight, it's like he's prowling, stalking more than walking, you know? He's moving like… like a predator, all smooth and uncanny, and now that I can see him, I can see that the wetness is.. blood, and he's covered in it, like, head to toe. It's worse at his mouth, his teeth are totally stained, like he was just.. ripping into something, I don't know. Biting. And his teeth are too sharp, and with the way he's moving, and the blood, and.. the look on his face, I just.. bolt.

And he laughs.

I can hear it echoing through the woods, bouncing off of every tree, but I don't hear him running after me. No, he just.. starts walking, and that scares me more, because he's so casual about it. Like he knows I won't get away.

But I run, and as I run, I can hear it, bouncing off of every tree, and it's December, right, so there aren't any leaves to block the moon or muffle the sound. I can hear him whistling as he walks, always seeming to be too close to me, no matter how fast I run, just out of sight, and eventually, I get to a clearing.

Everything feels too still. No nightlife - and there hasn't been any wildlife, no birds, no squirrels, nothing, and I'm realizing how bad that is.

And of course, I trip. My foot gets stuck in a gopher hole, of all fucking things, and then I'm dropping down, and he's on me.

His hand on my wrist, leaning down, and he's -

I don't know.

His eyes are blown out, manic, his teeth so large, ears.. pointed? I don't know, but he's drooling as he ruts against me, all but frothing at the mouth, mumbling about mates and calling me his little bunny, telling me that I had my fun, but that he's ready to have his prize, and-

And I have my bear mace still.

Because I can't fight bears.

He starts fidgeting with my clothes, and I just.. I pull it out, spray him, and he's so big, so unnaturally big, his muscles all.. I don't know, tense, wrong, and I spray him until he's howling and then I run.

I don't think the park ranger was happy to see me, but I was sure as shit happy to see her.

The thing is.. and why I came to you guys..

I keep.. getting this feeling.

Like I'm being watched. Hunted.

Like I never really escaped him.

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends. We attempted to contact Miss [REDACTED] following a similar statement we'd received months ago, regarding a man fitting the same description, but when Martin spoke to her, she informed him that all was fine, and that she was happy now.

That she was expecting pups.

Knowing Martin, he likely misheard her. I'm likely to dismiss this as a hallucination; with the mushrooms she discussed, perhaps she ingested some. The police seemed to think the same, and administered a drug test upon her statement, which came back... clean.

There isn't much more we can do here. If Miss- er, Mrs. MacTavish, doesn't wish to aid in further investigation, we, unfortunately, are stuck at a standstill.

Recording ends.

[CLICK]

[barry-j-blupjeans]

Lucretia would love to say that there wasn't much that surprised her anymore, but that was horribly inaccurate and incredibly easy to prove false. Last week, she had been surprised to tears when Merle held her hand, even though Merle held her hand all the time (he did that even with his memories gone, though it had been much more weird for both of them then). And even two days ago, she had nearly startled herself to hell and back when Angus told her that "you actually don't hide your depression symptoms very well, ma'am" and "maybe you need to seek some professional help? I have some great therapists I can recommend!"

Anyway.

No, Lucretia couldn't say she wasn't hard to surprise. But despite knowing all of that, standing in the tiny living room of Magnus's childhood home, getting hugged by two women whose arms wrapped around her the exact way Magnus's did? Cut her some slack, why wouldn't that be surprising?

"Thank you for staying with him," one of Magnus's moms said— Amelia? Fuck, of course Lucretia knew it was Amelia, she had drawn her dozens of times, recreating and refixing the worn-down photo that Magnus insisted on keeping on him the first few years of their century running from the Hunger.

The words, "but I didn't" got stuck in Lucretia's mouth. She swallowed around the, and couldn't bring herself to do anything more than just nod. Gods. Fuck.

Magnus had been the one to tell her of the Planar Belts. Lup was supposed to have, apparently, but Magnus caught her first. An hour in their home plane wasn't a lot but the seven of them had far grown used to working under weird, constrictive time limits. And while they were still tracking down Lucretia's brother, Magnus's moms hadn't been hard to find at all. Story and Song had stretched across their planar system, yes, but the Hunger had already touched down when it did. And thus, every single planar system inside it heard it, too.

Lucretia had spent a lot of time after that wondering what her brother thought of her. And standing here with Magnus's moms doubled the thoughts' intensity. Would he be proud? Teary, like Amelia? Speechless, like his step-mom? Had he been worried about her? Had he given up on her coming back? Was he even still alive?

A small gust of wind caught against her skin and Lucretia looked up to see they were outside. Gods, she needed to get a grip on herself. How much time had passed? How much time did they have left?

A hand tugged on hers, leading her to sit down. It was Magnus. She settled onto a picnic bench in their back garden, surrounded by dozens and dozens of flowers.

This was not the first time she had been to this house. The memory was old, but the scent of rosemary brought it back. She and Magnus, much, much younger than they were now, still in their Institution days, back when the Institution of Planar Research had yet to tack the "And Exploration" onto the end of their name. They had been roommates for a semester, back when they both started out. Magnus had convinced her to spend Candlenights out here and she had felt much the same as she did now.

Yearning. For her brother, for a life she didn't yet have, and a life she hadn't begun to know.

Helplessness. Away from home for the first time, in the wake of her mother's death and her father's withdrawal into himself. Trying to figure out who she was in the world.

And hopefulness. Winter had been bitter, but it hadn't snowed, and Amelia was, in Magnus's words, "an expert at seasonal plants." Their garden had still been full and lush and while she had been invited to help tend to it, she hadn't wanted to, in fear of breaking something by accident.

That version of herself felt foreign now. How could Lucretia possibly break anything worse than what she had already done to her family?

Magnus nestled into her side as she lifted her head, trying to blink away tears.

"Ma said she's gonna get some new plants," Magnus said. "As 'celebration'." Lucretia snorted a little bit at the way he said it— Amelia Burnsides thought every event, no matter how big or small, was worthy of new plants. "You still like cornflower, right? 'Cause I told her to get cornflower for you."

"I—" Lucretia said, her throat suddenly a little tight. She turned away. Magnus didn't budge, merely wrapping an arm around her and holding tightly. Lucretia cleared her throat, trying to get a hold of herself. But instead of answering, her mouth said, "thank you for staying with me."

Magnus didn't respond, just squeezing her slightly. She wiped at her eyes, looking up towards the horizon. The two suns overlapped like flower petals. The wind chime played a little melody in the wind.

"Cornflowers are good," Lucretia said at last. "It's— tell her that'd be great, Magnus."

"Tell her yourself," Magnus said.

[alexanderlightweight]

Could you write something with Alec interacting with nephilim children

I like how you write him being careful with his words towards downworlder children so I'd like to know how'd you write him with nephilim kids as well

so i've known how i wanted to fill this for a while but i couldn't figure out hw to like, contextualize it and write it until now but here it is!

i hope you enjoy!

<3 lumine

-

Magnus doesn’t realize there is a difference with how Alexander treats children until nearly a year after first seeing Alexander with Madzie and then — slowly — other downworlder children.

It never occurs to him to consider how Alexander might treats nephilim children, until now.

There are a dozen adorable little figures who perk up the moment Alec steps after Magnus through the portal and they instantly swarm him.

“Commander!” They call and Magnus hides a smile with a hand, expecting Alexander to break into the normally warm smile he shares with Madzie.

“Debrief!”

It takes Magnus aback, to hear Alexander’s normally low and soothing voice — the voice he uses with children — take a gruffer edge. It’s still much softer than what he uses with adults, but it lacks a delicacy that Magnus has learned to recognize with Madzie and other particularly vulnerable children.

Despite his — what Magnus considers — abrasiveness, the children seem only more delighted. They form a double line and wait for him silently and with minimal shifting as Alexander walks through their ranks and… oh.

Magnus’ heart breaks as he realizes that he is not watching Alexander with nephilim children.

He is watching Alexander with shadowhunter trainees.

Bright eyed and newly runed children who are expected to soon be capable of running messages to Institutes, learning to take portals without getting sick, and who have long left their childhood behind.

If they ever had one at all.

Alexander treats them as the tiny soldiers they are until he’s through inspecting them — stopping to listen to quick and quiet sentence from each of them — and then his face softens.

“You did well, all of you.” He tells them and his hand falls on the tousled hair of the closest trainee and he looks down, mouth curling into a gentle smile. “I’m proud of you.”

They all light up at his sincerity, at the depth of his words.

They look as happy as Madzie when Alec lifts her onto his shoulders at the aquarium or when he stumbles over youtube tutorials to carefully twist and oil Madzie’s hair into appropriate braids.

“Any injuries after sparring?” Alexander asks and there is a chorus of proud denials and then two hesitant affirmations. “Status report,” Alexander says, dropping to rock onto his heels before the two with a calm face and voice.

“I broke my wrist!” One of them finally exclaims and she seems almost pleased about it, something eager in the way she presents her ‘report’. “And I told the trainer immediately! I didn’t try to ignore it this time!”

Magnus internally winces at the ‘this time’.

“Well done Elise,” Alexander murmurs and he pats her head as well. “You did excellent. After all if you hide an injury, then it will only get worse.” He says but it’s in a fond, pleased tone as if he’s repeated it quite a bit and is happy that it’s sunk in.

The boy next to her nods his head eagerly, “I lost a tooth! But the medics said it was still a baby tooth.” He gives a little gap-toothed scowl at that and Magnus now sees the lines creasing around Alexander’s eyes that mean he’s holding back a chuckle as he pats the child’s head.

“Well done, all of you. Remember to keep an eye on yourselves and each other. Elise and Loyiso both need to check with a medic before sparring tomorrow, can I count on their teams to make sure it happens? I’ll expect a report about what the medic says after training.” There is a chorus of determined agreements and then the children depart, all of them sending a last glance to Alexander before disappearing down through a hallway.

“I didn’t realize you had trainees.” Magnus says as they walk to Alexander’s office.

“Shockingly enough, I have one of the lowest death rates per Institute’s.” Alexander tells him quietly, though Magnus hardly considers that shocking. Alexander holds himself to a higher standard than almost any shadowhunter Magnus has ever met and he holds his Institute to similar quality. “Especially for an Institute in such a populated area as this. I train my hunters hard but beyond that and the fact that I won’t allow nepotism—” Alexander grimace here makes Magnus wince, he knows why Alec is so strict with it. “I’m known to be fair. People have been petitioning me to take trainees for months. I insisted on waiting until we were no longer an active warzone.”

Alexander rolls his eyes here and Magnus bites back his own scathing response to hearing that.

They manage to make it to Alexander’s office without any further delays and instead of his desk, Alexander slumps into the sofa he normally joins Magnus on.

“Alexander?”

“They’re practically babies, Magnus.” Alexander murmurs, “it wasn’t so bad when I wasn’t around other kids. Now I see Madzie and the rest and I just— what am I supposed to do?”

“Oh.” Magnus breathes out, his heart breaking because of course Alexander can’t risk softening around shadowhunter children. He’s going to be their commanding officer or at the very least, he’s going to be the standard of every commanding officer and trainer that they meet from now on.

These aren’t children who can grow up as slowly as they want or need.

These are nephilim babes.

Shadowhunters bred for battle.

Alexander can’t treat these children as actual children.

Not only would it be viewed as disrespectful or cast a bad light on the children themselves, it would only coddle them to the point where another Institute might throw them out or they might get themselves killed.

Spares, Alexander called them.

Fodder is what the clave considers them.

Not the heirs who will learn politics first, but the backups, the ones the clave might use as sacrifices and suddenly Magnus understands why they’ve been sent to Alexander.

Alec Lightwood does not sacrifice his people without cause.

Shadowhunters cannot understand duty without sacrifice but even then, it’s a relief to know that it’s just, especially for their children.

Alec is known to protect his people viciously. Oh, if they betray him and his code, he’ll bleed them himself, but those under his authority are also blessed by his protection.

Magnus understands better now, why parents would risk sending their children to Alec, even in the middle of a warzone.

Alexander won’t use them simply as bait.

It would cross his mind — the clave and Maryse trained him too well for it not to — but as soon as he became aware it was an option, he wouldn’t truly consider it and instead use it as fuel and strive to find and create other options until it was the last.

Unlike more clave-minded Institutes, who would rather save time than lives.

“I’ve put a note on their files, none of their teams will be allowed solo missions until all of them have met and matched their estimated growth spurts and then be evaluated. That will give them some more time at least, out of the field without supervision.” Alexander is rambling now, but Magnus merely sits next to him and rests his hand on Alec’s thigh, massaging the tense muscles gently. “I can get away with it because I used my siblings and I’s records and then scoured the database of submitted reports. Half of the injuries during a trainees missions are due to themselves or a member of the team being unprepared for a sudden growth spurt. On their part or on a teammates and so they all move out of sync. I’m also going to be rotating teams to ensure they can fit into other teams in case of emergencies with minimal friction.”

They’re good points and more so, it leaves Magnus aching with the knowledge that the reason Alec found this loophole is because of precedent.

What age was Alexander when he decided that he would change things?

That he had to change things so that it would be different for those under his protection.

Magnus knows Alexander isn’t perfect.

His darling is far from it and Magnus loves him viciously for it.

Alexander is raw with wounds from his childhood — or rather the lack of it — and ingrained prejudice still poisons the very base of his formative thoughts and yet he tries so very hard.

And yet all Magnus can think about is an Alexander, young and unable or perhaps even forbidden to speak up about his injuries as he forced himself to train.

Looking for praise or at the very least, reassurance and only being met with vitriol and bitterness.

Alexander may not be able to take these children to a park and push them on a swing until they think they’re about to fly, but he does right by them.

These children don’t need a bright plastic playground and pressing their noses against the glass of a captured ocean.

They need stability and protection and they need a Commander and leader willing to praise and acknowledge their efforts. They need someone who will remember their names and their accomplishments and — as Magnus listens to Alexander’s murmurs — who will know what they need.

Already Alexander is furthering a training plan, his mind nurturing strategies that will train these children to their very limit but not beyond — never beyond.

Alec will be a shield between them and the clave and perhaps even the expectations of their families until they are strong enough to do it on their own.

Magnus can already see the specializations that Alexander is considering for each child and how seriously he’s taking the fact that he’s responsible for not only their wellbeing, but their futures.

Competence is a beautiful look on Alexander and one he wears well.

[zodiyack]

Pregnancy (A drabble)

Pairings: Jace Wayland x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, pregnancy

Words: 526

Author's note: Just a little idea. I can make this a full fic / miniseries. Only Y/N and Clary have gone in to see Magnus in private.

Masterlist | The Mortal Instruments Masterlist

Taglist: @matth1w, @redspaceace-writes, @fandom-puff, @darling-i-read it,  @simonsbluee,  @thewarriorprincessxo,  @sebastianstanslefteyebrow,  @livlaughquinn,  @bubsonnobx,  @bunnyweasley23

Magnus hesitates when he passes Y/N. His expression shifts to one of concern and curiosity. "I'm surprised you're here."

Her brows furrow. "I'm a Shadowhunter, of course I'm here."

"Not that." He chuckles. "Given your predicament, I wouldn't expect you to join them on this journey."

"Why's that?" She asks, genuinely curious.

Magnus looks at her with amusement, then hovers his hand over her stomach. "You're with child."

Clary gasps in place of Y/N, who is too in shock to even react.

"No- I'm not... I mean, I've been sick lately, just... I'm not pregnant." She shakes her head, in denial.

"Y/N, I may not like your kind, but I would not deceive you. You. Are. Pregnant. I recommend that you withdraw from any strenuous missions, avoid putting stress on you and your baby, as well as putting yourself in danger if you wish to keep your child." He orders her. The topic is simply dropped when he returns to Clary.

(After the fight with the vampires)

"You really shouldn't have come, after what Magnus told you?" Clary announces to the group, but directs to Y/N.

Y/N widens her eyes and whips her head in Clary's direction. "Don't."

Jace looks at the two in concern and tilts his head. "What did Magnus tell you?"

Clary opens her mouth to speak. Y/N quickly replies, warning the redhead. "Don't. It's not yours to tell."

Izzy and Alec look at each other with confusion, but wait for Jace to reply. "What did the warlock tell you, Y/N?"

"Do we really have to do this right now?"

Clary rolls her eyes and speaks up, "How long are you gonna hide the fact that you're pregnant? They'll notice eventually! I mean, what about Jace?"

The three's eyes all widen at the reveal. Jace looks upset, but Y/N is livid. Seeing her reaction, Alec's expression darkens and he steps forward.

"Even if that is a concern, it's none of your business, Clary." Her name drips with venom when it comes from his mouth. "You've been ogling Jace since you got here. Your jealousy cannot hide forever either."

"But- Jace, she lied to you!" Clary averts her gaze in shame when he doesn't acknowledge her.

"Alec is right. Though I'm upset Y/N hid it..." Jace looks toward her with a sorry nod, "I still wish it would've been her to tell me, especially since it's between us. I've tried to brush off your advances, but I suppose I must be blunt now. I plan to stay with Y/N and my unborn child. The fact that you've known of our relationship and continued to pursue me has made me question whether I want to train you or not."

It's Izzy's turn to step forward. "We can talk about this later. For now, we need to get back to the institute and put Simon in the infirmary."

"Yeah." It's the only word Y/N lets out before she walks past Clary, bumping her shoulder on the way. Jace follows, also ignoring Clary. The girl can only watch and realize how much she's hurt him.

[kenphobia]

YOUNG AND RECKLESS!

"here's an idea! let's buy a cake, lure Elias out and throw it off a cliff. watch him get it."

summary. when the new hire and the hottest archival assistant become besties, all hell breaks loose.

contents. really really old content; somewhat ooc since i was too lazy to fix dialogue; wholesome, general fluff; there's not much of a plot tbh; not edited

The job were boring, you knew that from the very start.

When you first stepped into the Magnus Institute, a weird feeling had crept up on you like a snake slithering pass the halls and jumping at you with fangs sinking into your shoulder. Yet after the terrible, terrible interview with Elias and getting accepted into the job, that funny feeling slipped away once you settled into the notion of things.

You worked in the Institute for far longer than you would've liked, always having to look around corners because that sense of dread and foreboding death trickled in at the worst times possible (AKA when you're idly standing in the corner, waiting for the printer to finish its job). But the pay was good enough to pay your stupidly costly london rent AND your necessities at the same time, so you had to room to complain.

Though, you wish your boss wasn't so weird and creepy all of the time. Makes sense since this is an Institute known for collecting statements and artefacts regarding otherworldly, and dare you might say 'spooky', beings and events. And also for holding the highest MIAs/deaths record among all other academic institutes, but you digress.

Working in the library department was fine, nothing really big like the artefact storage or the achives. Like you mentioned, it paid a hefty amount and the place was quiet enough for your introverted self to get comfortable in.

Well, until you were brought into the archives and met the one and only (and possibly the hottest person in the archives), Tim Stoker.

After another excruciatingly awkward meeting wth Elias regarding your sudden promotion, you sighed in relief as you pass those doors and hear it close on you. You tried shaking off the feeling of being watched, but the loud pounding of your heart echoed louder than what your mind is trying to tell your body.

As you try to silently pass through the halls, squeezing yourself into tight corners despite having no one but you around, your body suddenly came into contact of another. You stumbled, nearly falling to the floor until a hand grabbed you and pulled you closer by your arm.

"I get that I'm charming, but really is no need to fall head over heels for me." You looked up and saw a man with bright hair. He was tall, taller than anyone in your family and his colorful outfit choice really made stand out from the boring, nearly barren hallway.

You raised a brow at his words. "Oh please. With how you bumped into me while being in a spacious hallway, I'd say you're the one who's head over heels here." You played along to his sudden flirtatious move, rolling your eyes and flipping off a strand of hair with the back of your hand. "You seemed like the type of guy who'd pay someone just to have a mary sue moment with their crush."

"Oh, you wounded me!" The man cried out dramatically, putting a hand on his chest and letting you go in the process. You were alreayd standing on your two feet and yet you still nearly stumble backwards. "But yeah, maybe I was or maybe I wasn't. I'm Tim, Tim stoker by the way."

Tim offered you his hand and you gladly accepted it, shaking it gently but firmly. "(Name) (Last name), it's nice to meet you, Stoker."

"Please, call me Tim. And the pleasure's all mine." He laughed, winking playfully.

And from that day moving onwards, you and Tim were practically stuck by the hip at every hour of the day. Wherever he went, you were there as well. And wherever you ended up at, Tim was closely following behind you like a unassuming bodyguard with a few tricks up his sleeve.

Oh, Tim's at the police getting evidence for a report? You were there as well, merely for fun and also you can secretly record police officers fucking up for laughs. You're out in the woods for a camping trip, getting wood for fire? There's Tim guarding both of your tents, rehearsing alpha male jokes to tell you when you come back.

It was almost impossible to split the two of you up. Well, almost impossible.

"Hey, (Name). Did you see the email Elias sent to everyone?" Tim called you from across the room, sitting relaxed in his chair while you turn your gaze away from the bright screen of your laptop.

"Hm? No, not yet. Why?" You asked him, despite knowing it was either about you and Tim or random changes being implemented into the Institute.

The bright-haired man struggled to contain his laughter, even bringing up his wrist to bite at his cuffs but even still he wheezed through his teeth. "Hgh— Listen to this!" Tim coughed, breathing in before displaying a poor impression of Elias.

"May I remind everyone that bringing in alocholic beverages are strictly prohibited in the archives, as well as bringing in any lighters or any item alike that could potentially set fire to 'important materials'. Sincerely, Elias Bouchard."

You raised your brow in amusement, chuckling all the while Tim stopped himself from bursting into laughter when he was impersonating Elias. "Is that so? Surely, no one has been bringing in alcohol or lighters into the archives. Right, Tim?" You teased, poking him with your words as to hint him to cough off his crimes.

Tim composed himself. "Yes... No, of course not. I mean, that would be stupid, wouldn't it?" He sighed, leaning on the office chair. "But... If you hide it well enough, then it's not so stupid anymore." He grinned mischievously, pulling out a flask from his pockets. It looked a lot like a calculator in his hands rather than a little alcoholic bottle as the metal shimmered under the buzzing, yellow-ish lights.

As he shook it, he didn't realized the looming shadow over him until you divert your eyes from his form and hold back a snicker. Tim looked at you with confusion, closw to saying something before he turned and saw no other than Elias' percing pale blue eyes.

"Is that so, Tim?" Elias spoke callously, though a wide smile was attached to his face, stretching skin across his facial bones like plastic covering. "Why don't you meet me in my office for a little chat, wouldn't that be lovely?"

Tim shrinks in his seat, averting his gaze down to the ground. "Yes. of course, sir."

You watch in half amusement, half concern as Tim is dragged out of the office by Elias. A familiar face peeked out of the corner, carrying a tray of tea and donning a blue cloud-patterned sweater.

Martin raised a brow as he settled the tray down. "What just happened?"

You pour some tea for yourself and drink from it, doing a dramatically loud slurping sound before smacking your lips. "The cycle of life, Dear Martin."

notes. this was supposed to be for a request but hhhh i need to fill the space somehow oopsies i'll do the req later maybe

[ao3feed-jonmartin]

Good so easily fades away

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/VUEx6Tq by RavenXavier "[...] his husband, but not his husband, suddenly sitting up in bed, staring straight at him with raw fear only rivalled by his curiosity; his Archives, but not his Archives — the fumbling steps of a younger Archivist, too caught in in his dream walk to fully process Jon studying him, sleeping too still in a little cot just above Jon’s head. And then further — the Stranger, threat still looming close by, the Dark, gathering a laughable, pathetic band of cultists, and… Oh, the Spiders. Those damn spiders, still crawling everywhere, trapping him here—" (A remorseless, fully-fledged Archivist!Jon is thrown into a universe where his alternate self struggles with what he's becoming while working with his assistants to fight against the Unknowing and their evil boss. Admist trying to find his way back to his own home and husband, Jon decides he might as well have a little bit of fun with everybody here and wreak havoc through the whole Institute.) Words: 2615, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Categories: M/M Characters: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Basira Hussain, Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Melanie King Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Additional Tags: Rating May Change, no beta i'm pretending to be a native speaker again, The Magnus Archives Season 3, Alternate Universe - Evil, Seduction to the Dark Side, Canon-Typical The Beholding Content (The Magnus Archives), there might be a plot brewing, more tags to come because I genuinely don't know how evil Jon is going to behave, Evil!Jon, warning that both jonelias and jmart are treated as equal loving relationships read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/VUEx6Tq

[lurafita]

Look alike contest

Magnus and Raphael coming back from a trip to Germany, stepping out of the Portal into the loft. Alec, who didn’t want to come because he didn’t like the head of the Berlin institute and just knew the woman would find a way to bump into him, greets them, but is a little surprised at the indignant look on Magnus face and a cackling Raphael.

Alec: "So, how was Germany?"

Magnus: "Unbelievable! The audacity! Idiots. All of them."

Alec, looking to Raphael as Magnus is storming off in a cloud of dramatic outrage: "Did something happen?"

Raphael: "The local downworld was hosting an impersonation of prominent downworld figures contest. When it came to the High Warlock of Brooklyn, Magnus entered as a contestant. He lost."

In the apothecary something explodes.

Raphael: "To Ragnor"

Magnus, shouting: "Unbelievable!"

[myfandomscollide]

An Examination of Richard Mendelson

For @obscuravoid as part of the Jonah Magnus Fic/Art Exchange 2024

The institute’s halls were filled with stifled murmurs. The rustle of paper and scratching of pen, muted conversation filled the air with quiet contemplation.

A man strode through the vestibule and into the foyer, arriving at the near desk. He stood there, looking down at the worker entrenched in folders and lists as they filed paperwork. “Eh, hem.” The figure drew his hand to a fist and coughed, emphasizing his importance. The receptionist glanced up from their work, glaring at the newcomer. “Who are you?”

“Angus Stacey.” The man boasted. “I have an appointment with the Director of this institution.” He produced an envelope sealed with the institute’s sigil. 

“Right…” The receptionist responded in feigned interest, hiding his own annoyance. “He’s currently engaged in a meeting right now. You may wait for him should you desire.” The receptionist pointed across the hallway to a couple of chairs adjacent to a large carved door fixed with the relief of an owl. “He should be done soon.”

Angus nodded at the man, then crossed the room to sit in the indicated chair. He settled comfortably into the seat, while he looked around the room admiring the architecture. He marveled at the construction of the walls and the vaulting of the ceiling, his vision trailed up to the paintings on the wall.

The first was an impressionistic painting hung imposingly on the wall with its heavy, dark varnished frame. It depicted an older man with tired, sunken eyes peering down through spectacles on his nose. He was dressed in a green suit, with brocaded accents. The brass plaque was etched in calligraphic script, ‘Founder, Jonah Magnus’.

The other painting was of the modernist style, framed in a simplistic metal, etched with a geometric art deco style. The figure was a younger lithe man with a wry smile. He wore a three piece suit with a double breasted vest, maroon with red pinstripes. The accompanying plaque, ‘Director, Richard Mendelson’.

Looking at the two paintings slightly unnerved Angus as he continued to wait. He idly scratched his chin as he observed the receptionist completing their work. In the corner of the room a grandfather clock ticked punctually away at the passage of time.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Click , went the handle belonging to the door next to him, snapping Angus of his concentration. His head jolted to see the source of the noise.

“And that’s how Mr. Fairchild finally made his investment in my future…” An old man with white hair and a cane stepped out of the office along with a familiar faced man. 

“Fascinating as ever, Simon.” Richard said with a smile, which belied indifference. “You should really call the next time you're in town.”

“You know, I might.” The stranger, Simon, grinned. He looked across the room at the clock then to the side down at Angus. “Oh dear, the time flies… I do hope you haven’t been waiting too long for mister Mendelson here.”

While standing up from the chair Angus looked between the two men and shook his head.

Simon smiled widely, “Splendid, I do hope you have a brilliant day.” He held out a hand amiably which Angus accepted. 

Angus's voice lilted in confusion, “Thank you.” He found that Simon’s hand was slightly chilly, as if a breeze scurried up his forearm.

“Simon…” Richard pointed, annoyed.

“Alright, alright I’ll be off.” Simon conceded, donning a top hat. He turned to Angus and winked. The tap of his cane against the floor echoed as he left through the doors.

“Come on in,” Richard beckoned, ushering Angus into his office.

The office was lit warmly with an orange glow from the few lamps in the corners in addition to the one illuminated on the central desk.

Richard sat in the leather chair and motioned for Angus to take the opposite one.

“Now I trust the missive informed you enough for the nature of the work that we do here.” Richard steepled his hands as he rested them on his desk.

“Of course, the transcription of oral testimony for collection and preservation is paramount for safeguarding the availability of information through time.” Angus replied.

“Correct, though it's customary that I must ask… what are you afraid of?” Richard leaned closer.

“I beg your pardon?” Angus cocked his head to a tilt, a chill rushed up his spine. “Why should that matter?”

“Because the subject matter we collect are of sensitive matters.” The corner of Richard’s lip drew up imperceptibly.

The back of Angus’s throat dried up, he stifled a cough. “Sensitive how?”

“Do you not know what it is we hold here?” Richard tilted his head quizzically.

Shaking his head, Angus spoke, “Folk stories, old maids tales..”

“Not quite.”

“Then what?” Angus demanded.

“Mr. Stacey…” Richard began.

----

For a drawn out moment Angus recalled sitting in his professor’s office, a quizzical look on his senior’s face.

“Mr. Stacy, surely you were informed about the selected presentation?” Spoke the professor.

“I believed it to be the one regarding the transcription process…” the pitch of his voice rose with a tinge of nervousness.

“Believed or knew?” The professor’s eyebrows raised as he cocked his head in interest.

“W-well… Tobias and the others told me…” Angus stammered.

“Let it not be the words of others that dictate what your studies should ought to be.” His old eyes narrowed, while pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry, professor.” Angus bowed, crestfallen.

“You’re a bright lad, see that you don’t lose focus.” He tapped his temple.

“Yes, sir.”

“Unfortunately I must remove marks for the incorrect assignment, Mr. Stacey.”

----

“Mr. Stacey? ” Angus heard gently in the recesses of his mind as his attention snapped back to the present.

“Mr. Stacey…” Richard’s eyes focused as he repeated. “Are you quite alright?”

“Eh, hem. Yes sir.” Angus repeated hastily, composing himself amidst the conclusion of his daze. He struggled to recall what Richard had been asking him about, failing that, he opted to nod agreeably; a weak smile crossed his face.

“I trust that you have the requisite experience for the tasks I’ve outlined.” The corner of Richard’s lip twitched upward in a slight smirk.

Tiny rivulets of moisture pooled down the back of his suit. Angus nodded again with more vigour.

“Good.” Richard grinned. “Then I shall return to my earlier query, what are you afraid of?”

----

Echoing from another recess of his mind. An earlier memory floated up from childhood. A candle lit dormitory with several boys reclining in their bunks.

“Go on, Angus, tell us what you're afraid of…” Tobias’s eyes lit up with keen interest, wrapping his bed covers around himself like a nest. “We’ve all shared ours…” Tobias’s grin twisted stretched a bit too far across his chin, as he leaned closer.

Hackles pricked up his spine, Angus leant away reflexively. ‘Why must he always stare at me like that?', the question resonated through his thoughts. Angus glanced off to the side of Tobias’s face, to avert his returning eye contact. He struggled to confront his peer’s question. ‘I can’t really tell him the truth… Can I? No.’

“Well… I…” the youth swallowed down his nerves as he spoke up. Finally meeting Tobias’s penetrating gaze he exhaled heavily and weakly supplied, “… clowns.”

“Oh really, what makes them so scary?”

“I don’t like their make up… can’t trust them because they’re hiding themselves.”

“Well, well, well.” Tobias smirked. “Fascinating that is.” The memory faded back into the corner of his mind.

----

“Well…” Angus hesitated, “it’s clowns.” 

Angus momentarily thought he saw Richard shift in his chair, leaning imperceptibly forward.

“What a rather strange thing to be afraid of.” Richard remarked and waived his hand dismissively, “but it’s not out of the ordinary.” Richard pressed his lips together in a small curt smile. “A rather pragmatic choice .” Richard stressed the final word, laden with weight, but Angus detected unexpected approval in Richard’s tone which unnerved him even more.

“Thank you?” Angus replied unsure if it was Richard’s desired response.

Richard coughed as he covered up a snort. “I do believe that brings our interview to a close.” Richard spoke, extending his hand out.

Angus, with trepidation, placed his hand in Richard’s and the pair shook.

“You’ll be informed if you’ve been selected for the position.” Richard replied with a broader smile.

Angus stood nervously and was ushered to the door by Richard. Richard’s hand appeared on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Be seeing you.”

Angus stepped out the office door, crumpled invitation in hand. Parchment soaked in moisture.

I wanted to draw something, and have a fic to go with it!

[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."