#this one is for sasha <3 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

oros-ash3s · 9 hours ago

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＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⋆ Febuwhump 2025 ⋆˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Day 3 || “Pinned Down”

Exhaustion was wearing him thin.

With the drugs coursing through his veins, slowly working its way through his bloodstream, turning his limbs to lead, and his battered, bloody body, which was screaming to give up, Atlas was sure it was a miracle he was still conscious, even if barely so. Any lesser soldier would have collapsed within seconds. He was lucky, so goddamned lucky, that the drugs had only begun to take effect as the car pulled out of the alleyway.

He couldn’t keep this up much longer.

As the darkened streets of the pitch-black night passed by, his eyelids growing heavier for every minute that ticked past, Atlas knew that he was running out of time. His breathing was slowing, breaths coming out ragged and heavy. His body was giving up, the blood loss and drugs finally taking hold. He knew it was only moments before his eyelids fluttered closed for the final time, and he was lost to Eden’s clutches.

He and the man across from him both knew it.

Atlas had never officially met the man before, prior to this night. He was sure they had run into each other, or at least almost had, in one of the many circumstances he and Wren had just barely missed capture in their haste. From the uniform he was wearing, the familiar black material with jade accents, the insignia of an eye resting just above his heart, Atlas knew exactly who he was. One of Eden’s commanders.

And he had fallen right into his trap.

This mission had been intended to be a short one. It wasn’t one of their high-scale raids, with days of planning and carefully-chosen volunteers. No, it had been only the three of them: Him, Wren, and Alastair. They’d gone to one of Eden’s more low-security locations, a human building on the west-side of downtown. They’d blended in, snuck a bit of information and files out, and been done with it. There were no injuries to worry about, no attacks or pursuits they had to avoid. None of the usual issues to leave him distracted.

He would’ve been fine – should’ve been fine.

But Alastair came with them last minute, and he’d been pissed. Pissed because they weren’t partners anymore and Wren was still treating him like one, pissed because they hadn’t even bothered to tell him, just dumped Alastair on him as they were leaving, like they got to make all the decisions. Like his voice didn’t count. He’d been pissed because Alastair was a lying, conniving, traitorous piece of shit and he wasn’t about to be used. Not again.

So he’d gotten distracted, too wrapped up in how Alastair was sitting next to him all timid and nervous like Atlas was the one that had fucked things over, like Atlas was the one that had tried to sell them all out to their sworn enemy, the very man who had been hunting them down for months. The man who had burned him, and who was a drunk, and a murderer, and evil, and Alastair’s secret brother–

So when they set up camp, Wren declaring they were too tired to make the hour drive back to the base, Atlas hadn’t taken all the proper precautions like he usually would’ve, reminding them to set up an illusion. He hadn’t marched around the perimeter of their camp, checking their surroundings for anything suspicious, watching for any figures in the shadows, hidden perched on rooftops. He hadn’t noticed the cameras positioned above the van, or the odd silence that had settled over the street. He had been too angry for any of it, all of his attention set on Alastair’s slumped over figure, as he pathetically tried to make small talk, as if his weak attempts at conversation, the flitting little glances, eyes begging for forgiveness, would make anything better.

He’d let his emotions control him. It was what he had been trained against, what they had warned him about. Soldiers didn’t have emotions. They didn’t have thoughts or opinions or feelings. It was what made them weak, what made them useless. He had spent so many years of his life dedicating himself to it, ridding the weaknesses that had been ingrained into his brain, pushing down every little emotion that slowed and held him back from his true goal, his mission. And yet, still, his emotions had been his very downfall.

And now he found himself inside the sleek black van of Eden’s own, two men flanking his sides, pressing him down into the seat, their grip strong as iron as the sedatives slowly took control over his brain.

His eyes fluttered shut for the millionth time in the past minute, and Atlas sucked in a sharp breath, flexing his fingers. All rational thought had been lost long ago, left in the alleyway with the rest of his dignity. Nonsensical plans swirled through his head, each new one worse than the last. He was growing weaker by the second, the borrowed strength stolen from Wren and Alastair fading from his muscles the farther the car travelled.

The farther they left them behind.

He grunted, squirming from under his captors pathetically. They didn’t give up, their grip on his arms only tightening at his defiance.

The man from across from him sighed, straightening up in his seat with a wince. To his credit, Atlas had not gone down without a fight. The blood smeared across the man’s crisply ironed suit was evident of that. The sight of the broken nose and red caked to the side of his face brought a boost of satisfaction surging through Atlas, distracting him from his own injuries, if only for a second. The fact that the man wouldn’t be able to show his face to the general public until his nose healed, lest rumours start about one of the esteemed CEO’s of the kindly Eden Inc., almost made the capture worth it. Almost.

“Still up, huh?” He leaned forward in his seat, the streetlights from outside illuminating his face, causing the dangerous flicker in his eyes to be all the more unsettling. Atlas vaguely remembered him from the many lectures, photographs, and history textbooks he had read during his rather uneventful years at the warehouse. The face of Eden. Sasha Beneš. From the prim and proper suit, voice as smooth as velvet, and chiselled good looks, he was sure that the man in front of him was the current leader of the media branch, involved in all the politics and communications that came with running a widely known corporation such as Eden. Although he looked a little different with his nose so busted, his usually swoopy blond hair in a disarray from the scuffle.

The man didn’t seem to be bothered by Atlas’ lack of response. If anything, he was amused, chuckling softly to himself as the boy did nothing but glare through half-lidded eyes, gaze alight with hatred. “Forgot you soldier-types are all trained to resist this sort of stuff,” Sasha muttered, reaching across the seat for something Atlas couldn’t make out. “God, Cato needs to lay off you brats a bit, you’re all too invincible for your own good. That woman doesn’t ever know when to take a fucking break.” He huffed out a breath of annoyance, turning back to Atlas, his eyes gleaming, shadows cutting sharp edges across his face. A beat of silence passing through the van, he held up the item for the boy to see: A vial of swirling milky-white liquid, a needle tip at the very end of it.

Atlas’ blood froze, the restraints around him suddenly suffocating.

“Don’t try and resist, kid,” Sasha cracked a grin, looming closer. “There’s no use.”

Atlas sucked in a sharp breath, opening his mouth, to beg for mercy or tell the man to go fuck himself, he wasn’t sure. But his tongue was suddenly stuck at the back of his throat, the words gone before they could even leave his mouth. All struggle was just met with more force, pushing him down into the seat. It was smooth leather, well-cushioned and comfortable, but right now, it was the last thing Atlas needed. He blinked hard, pushing back the waves of exhaustion that were rolling over him, telling him to sleep, to give up.

Wren and Alastair. He needed to get out and find Wren and Alastair–

Sasha pushed back his hair, fingers brushing against the soft crook of his neck. Atlas shuddered, every instinct inside his body telling him to fight, to defy him, but with the weight on his legs and arms, pinning him to the seat, he was completely and utterly trapped.

“You belong to Eden, Zieliński. Don’t forget that.” Sasha whispered, his breath hot against Atlas’ skin. He raised the needle, the tip pricking against his skin, sending Atlas into a paralyzing panic. He had to get out–

“Sweet dreams.”

Sasha stabbed the needle into his neck and everything went black.

masterlist || next

✧ ೃ��*ੈ✩

I initially had a much different scene planned for this prompt, but when I sat down to write this one I wasn’t really feeling it, so I came up with this instead!! I kinda like it better, tbh. but who knows, maybe I’ll write the other one (featuring post-Elite Atlas), after this whole challenge is over……

✧ ೃ༄*ੈ✩

taglist || @febuwhump @ohagi505 @vesanal @aalinaaaaaa @fangedcinnamonroll @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @seastarblue @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @iamheretohurt @corinneglass @melodxi @thebookishkiwi @lancedoncrimsonwings @sugaredparchment @cepheusgalaxy @fizzydreamz @robinshandhurts @ieppiq @nosebleedgirlpunch @sunflowerrosy @charlachan

✩ Send me an ask or dm to be added or removed from the taglist ✩

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luckhound · 1 month ago

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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 hell warms 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.)

#the magnus archives x reader #tma x reader #jonathan sims x reader #elias bouchard x reader #one day i'll write smth similar for tim sasha and martin #but not today </3 #m writes

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