#but he will | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

plush-rabbit · 12 days

Text

Word Count: 3.5K A/N: No name again!! Part Three this time. Woo! Um, I just miss writing. I have some request that I wanna do, and like honestly, i need to make time. And I'm slowly making time! So, one day. I wanna write an Adam chapter, but like idk. Like I could. I'm the writer, but like also, I wanna do this other one, and like i thought it was gonna be super quick, but ya know me. I like words and sounding deep. So who knows. It gets like updated whenever its slow at work, so one day.

You pace around the room that you occupy. It doesn’t feel like home. You’re afraid nothing will ever feel like home again. You look at yourself in the mirror, and trace your tongue over your sharpened teeth, and you can’t recall the change to them- whether they grew into fangs during your fall, or when you were in your unconscious state.

“‘S probably why my jaw hurt so much,” you mumble to yourself.

Despite not showing much interest in most things, Lucifer has brought it upon himself to make your room as comfortable as possible. He’s brought candles, and pillows to add color. He’s brought you different types of creams and perfumes for you to try, telling you to let him know what scent you like best. The shower adjacent to your room is kept clean, and stocked full of sweet smelling soaps. Your closet is full of clothes, so soft that you played with the fabric between your fingers until you feared you’d ruin them with your nails.

While your back no longer aches like it once did, you still avoid looking at it. The morbid curiosity to touch it grows every second, but you can only let your fingers ghost against the edges of the scars, feeling the pulled skin against yours, chills making your body rise. You feel bile in your throat when you touch a scar that runs thin and farther down your back- skin that stayed stuck and only released when it was far too thin and weak to hold on any longer.

It’s sensitive, and almost ticklish. The tags of shirts make you uncomfortable, and you gently pat yourself dry after showers. You stare at the fogged mirror after every shower, and you have yet to wipe it clean and turn around to see what you’ve lost.

Lucifer has assured you that it’s not nearly as rough as it once was. Perhaps he’s right about that. Yet, you hate that he knows what you’re going through. You hate that you can’t be angry at him, that you can’t throw a fit and tell him that he doesn’t understand. But he does. He’s one of the few that will understand what you’re feeling, and you can’t bring yourself to talk to him.

There’s a knock on your door, and you look away from the mirror. “Come in,” you say out loud, already knowing who is on the other side- speak of the devil, and he shall appear. You give a small smile as Lucifer walks in with a tray of food, taking careful steps to not let the drinks topple over.

“I brought dinner,” he says with a smile.

You sit on the bed, legs crossed and watch as he places the tray over your lap. “Thank you, Lucifer,” you say. There are two plates, two sets of cutlery, and two drinks. Once again, he’ll be having dinner with you in the confines of your room.

Lucifer takes his place in the chair beside you, and with a wave holds the plate in his hand, carefully balancing it as he holds the silvered fork in the other hand. Your fingers wrap over the silver, as you poke and prod at the food.

“I hope you like it,” he says. “It’s been a while since I cooked anything, so I’m hoping it’s good for you.”

You pierce the food with the prongs of the fork. “I didn’t know you cooked,” you mumble, before taking a bite of your meal. The taste is savory, melting on your tongue, and you cut another piece before even swallowing the first one.

“It’s been a while.” Silver clinks against porcelain in a melody, behind his words. “It’s been ages since I’ve had proper meals.” You catch his eye, and he clears his throat. “Running Hell is a bit of a task. Hardly ever lets me enjoy my peace,” he says quietly, nudging his food with the sharpened point of the fork.

“I can’t imagine the type of work it takes to run it all,” you reply, wrapping your lips around another forkful of food.

Lucifer hums in response, and you take a sip of your drink. He hardly ever talks about Hell in detail. He’ll focus the conversation on you, trying to pry out your interests and likes. At times, he’ll talk about his daughter, Charlie. He tells you how she’s off somewhere in the Pride Ring, about how she was when she was young, how he would have her sit on his lap and watch as he’d tinker in his office. The stories are always in past tense, and you never like hearing the sorrow that are entangled in his words. Not only that, there’s a lack of mention of his wife, despite the ring that he still wears.

The conversation comes to a still, and you frown.

Dinners in Heaven were hardly ever quiet. There’d always be some type of noise, some gentle hum of a song, laughter, talk about slaughter that made you queasy. You’d eat with Adam most nights. Some nights you were accompanied by Lute and you always welcomed those shared meals, where she’d sit beside you, her wings folded neatly behind her, compared to Adam’s prodigious wings which graced the floor. She’d remove her mask when dining, and would grace you with a gentle smile.

Home was the only place you’d ever see Adam without his mask. The horns curved and the bright lights a warning against others, looking down on others with heavenly light. He’d wear his mask in public, it was loud and showed who he was. Newer souls always looked at him with awe, and he hungered for the way that they would trip over themselves to speak to him. They may not have known his title, but they knew he was important, they felt the power that he held, the authority that he carried. He was someone to be admired. He was someone that you wanted to be around with.

Even though you were just an angel, you didn’t hold power that others didn’t already have. But Adam still chose you, and you chose him.

You should have chosen to run away when you had the chance.

The food tastes bitter, and you drop the fork, the clinking making your flinch and turn your head. Your name is whispered, and a hand places itself over your arm. Your eyes are shut tight, and you feel like a fool. “Are you all right?” Lucifer asks in a soft voice.

You suck in your lip, teasing it between your teeth. “No, I’m sorry, Lucifer.” You shake your head and blink back the tears that threaten to spill over. Turning to him, you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand. “I’m fine, I’m sorry. I was-” your voice wavers, and you cover your eyes with your hand- “remembering Heaven. I remembered how my meals-” tears drip down, and you wave your hand. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to cry.”

With a wave of his hand, the tray of food, and his own plate disappears from your sight. It’s quiet for a moment, and he pushes his seat closer to your bed before breaking the silence. “Do you think of Heaven often?” Shamefully, you nod. “What do you miss?”

Adam. You peek at him between your fingers, and when he hands you a tissue, you take it wordlessly. “The view,” you answer. The tissue dabs at your eyes, and you let your hands fall beside you. Fingertips nudge against your hand, a silent encouragement to continue to speak. Your fingers jump, and there’s a sudden urge to take his hand in comfort. Rather, you let your nails scrap against the bedsheets.

“When I was still-” Lucifer’s voice pauses to take a breath- “I would sneak off to this forest. I’d watch all of his creations frolic among the fields. I’d have a few of my own creations rest against me. It was serene.”

You stretch your legs, and pull the blanket over your lower half. “I was a lower rank angel,” you start. “No one hardly needed me unless they wanted me to fetch something. But there was-” you bit your bottom lip and flicker your eyes towards Lucifer who listens with his attention on you- “an angel who would take me to see the stars.” You smile softly, and rub the corner of the tissue between your index and thumb. “It was a vast space, where the sky was lit by the radiance of the stars. It was the first time anyone thought of doing something for me,” you say out loud.

“You were an angel, were you not?” Lucifer asks, his body leaning towards you, a hand wrapping around your wrist, and you let him take your wrist.

“Just an angel, nothing more. I don’t even know why he was so nice to me.” You smile at him, but you look away, smiling at the end of the bed. “I still don’t get it.” He was praised for so much, given everything and perhaps that’s what made his ego bigger than what it needed to be. “But he was kind to me.”

“Another angel?” He sounds surprised. You wonder what angels were like back in his days.

“A higher ranking than I,” you shrug with your answer. There’s a reason why he was able to get away with so much.

“For all that Heaven was, the views were ethereal.” You hum in response. It’s silent, and his shoes tap against the floor. “I’m sorry that Hell doesn’t have views like those.” His thumb arches over your wrist, and you dig your nails into your palm.

You stay silent beside him. Heaven’s land and warmth, nothing but a memory for you to return to. The room smells of rosemary and wine, and your blankets are thick in the stench of it. You turn to him. “Lucifer, why don’t we eat at the table?”

He stiffens at your voice, his mouth opening and closing without an answer. “I didn’t know you wanted to,” he replies.

“I’m stuck in this room all day, I want-” more is what you want, more than the four walls of your bedroom- “I want to see the other rooms. I’m not like I was before. I can move now.”

His eyes scan over your body, and with a nod, he clears his throat. “Okay,” he nods once more. “Breakfast will be in the dining room. I’ll be here to walk you at the usual time that I arrive.”

“Thank you, Lucifer,” you say kindly, a smile ghosting over your lips.

“You’re welcome,” he says your name softly, twisting meaning into the syllables and letting it fill the air.

Your room is shrouded in darkness, vast and consuming. Perhaps it’s because you’ve spent so much time awake in the night, that you can recognize what’s beside you, or maybe it’s your vision, heavenly eyes now able to see in the night, almost as if it were day. You aren’t sure which option brings you more comfort- that you’ve spent so long in a place that you should call home, or that parts of your angelic nature have contorted into something else.

Sleep has yet to take you into its arms. You lay awake, unable to do much else, hoping that if you’re still long enough then maybe you rest. However, you do nothing all day but read and draw in a book Lucifer had given you. The television remains in an opened box, pressed against a wall. He had attempted to attach it to the wall, but grew frustrated when he could not figure out the wiring. When you offered that he call someone who could, he just placed everything back in the box grumbling under his breath.

His pride is the reason you still rely on books and his company for entertainment.

The scars on your back are no longer tender as they once were. They’re soft, and ticklish. You squirm against the cotton of the bed and feel a chill pass when you think of them for too long. Your arms coil themselves around you, fingertips tracing over the scarring lines. You wipe your hands on the comforter, filth still etched into you.

Your legs kick the bed, and you find yourself unable to sleep. If it were Heaven, you’d have Adam beside you. It would be hours until he finally rested, staying up until dawn peeked through the blinds in gold. He’d keep you company. Even if he was tired, he’d grumble and whine, but would continue to hold a conversation with you until he could no longer.

Truth be told, it was rare for you to struggle to fall asleep. You had no trouble resting your weary head, but when you did, you at least had Adam with you.

As much as other angels complained about not being given bigger tasks, you hardly minded them. You had no real power over anyone, no real responsibilities. The only real duty that you were given, was to calm Adam when he became crass- at least more so than usual. Heaven was blissful, the only worry being whether Adam would call you a crass nickname in public.

He hardly listened to anyone. He might have quieted down when a Seraphim or even Lute would give him a look, but when it came to you, he would mumble under his breath, still simmering, but at least he'd hold your hand. A chill runs through your body. In quiet moments, you can feel the weight of his wings over you, the heaviness, the softness of his feathers, how they would cover you like a blanket.

Moments with him were plenty, never did you ever have to miss him unless he was called out. The few times you both were separated, he was bitter- snapping and complaining to anyone who was unfortunate to speak to him. and you felt pride at being the one that he wanted, being the one who could calm him. All these weeks- conscious and unconscious- is the first you’ve ever spent without him- without knowing that you would see him again. You wonder what he’s doing. The thought hurts, a sharp pain in your chest that makes it difficult to breathe.

You wonder if he’s upset with Lute. A part of you wants him to be, to know that he did care for you, enough to be upset at another for hurting you. And the other part, hopes that he isn’t. You hope that he understood that it was a task given to her, that he doesn’t hold it against her. You hope that she doesn’t hold it against herself. You close your eyes, and your hands scratch against the comforter.

You need to think of something else.

There has to be something else that you can think of. Something that doesn’t have to do with him. Anything at all would work.

Mornings.

How the sunlight would cast gold in the room, peeking between the blinds and making his wings shimmer. The warmth of the light would only encourage you to dig deeper into bed, pulling yourself closer to him. Your wings would brush under his, and they were never as grand as his were. Where yours were iridescent, and fit to your body perfectly, his shined in gold, carved by Father and molded to be fitting of the first soul to ascend to Heaven.

You cry, and a sob escapes, whimpering past your lips. You need another distraction.

Your wings.

Think of how your wings were ripped from you. How Lute was the one to perform the severance and how Adam was adamant to watch. How he wanted to be there for you. You think of how you’ll never have your wings again. You’ll never fly again. There will always be a scar to serve as a reminder of what was taken. And despite not having them, you can still feel them. You feel their weight, and in the mornings, you can feel a ghost of an ache, as if you’d slept on them wrong.

You sob, crying like a child and you press yourself against a pillow, trying to dull the cries. You can’t recall ever being so teary-eyed, so sad and lonely. Even after your creation, you were greeted with love and open arms, and past the time when you were simply an angel, you at least had Adam and Lute to keep you company.

Crying seems like a foreign concept. You never cried much in Heaven. Not out of sadness, at least. You hadn’t realized how exhausting it was to cry. You heave, whimpering and clawing at the bed sheets. Your chest is tight, bones constricting themselves around everything delicate, gold burning inside of you. When you laid in bed with Adam and spoke of your fate, and even when your wings were removed, you hadn’t cried like this. You shed tears, and you begged for forgiveness under your breath, but you accepted it until you cast out. Some nights, you wake up and you think it’s all been some horrid dream, only to be reminded when you wake to a ceiling that is not yours.

Your door swings open, the back of it smacking against the wall.

“What’s wrong?” Lucifer asks, his voice tense. His presence serves as a reminder of where you are, and where you can never return to. “Are you okay?” He’s inside your room, and the door closes with a smack the further he goes.

You are unable to answer him through your cries, mumbling incoherently. A hand places itself over your arm, and flutters away when you flinch. He sighs your name, and the side of your bed dips under his weight. “Do you want to be alone?”

You hiccup, and after a pause, you shake your head.

“Is it okay to touch you?

You nod, and turn over. Your hands grasp and pull at his clothes, you make a note that he hasn't changed out of his daytime attire, and that his eyes sag with exhaustion. Despite it all, you need him here. You want him here. His hand cups overs, and he lets his thumb arch over the back of your hand. Lucifer shifts under your touch, unable to be comfortable in your bed. Your nails scratch against the fabric of his clothes, fisting the shirt in your hand, and you need him to stay.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he promises, another one of his hands cupping over the corner of your head, gently stroking you. “Just cry it out,” he whispers.

You cry beside him, the touch of his clothes barely enough to keep you satisfied. Your face is barely hidden between the pillow and the mattress. You weep, unable to catch a breath, unable to think of anything more than just missing home.

“I hate crying,” you mumble, hiccupping and hiding your face.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, tracing shapes over your forearm, “you get used to it.” Your body still shakes, whimpers and other pathetic sounds filling the room. “I- Um, I remember that angels were rather touchy- always together in flocks, and never really alone, so I-” he clears his throat, and you peek up at him through teary eyes. “I hope I’m not overstepping, but do you want a-” His face deepens in color, and he squeezes your arm, unable to manage the word out loud. “Or I can get you a pillow or something?”

Your hands let go of him, and the push against the mattress. “Lucifer?” You say softly, picking yourself up. He hums in response, his eyes wide and focused on you. “Can you hold me?” You gasp, your chest tight.

“Yes- Yeah,” he croaks. “Of course. Whatever you need- Oh!” He gasps, when you cling to him, your arms snaking around him, pulling at the fabric of his clothes. You hide yourself in the crook soft curve where his neck and shoulder meet, your dewy face kissing his exposed skin. “It’s-” you can feel his hands pat nervously at your back- “okay.” You pull him closer to you, desperate to not have him leave you. “You’re-” at the sound of another of your cries, his arms tightening around your shaking figure, hands pressed into the soft of your skin- “You’re okay. I got you, you’re safe,” he coos.

He’s warm, and he holds you close to him, his head knocking gently against yours. Your cries soften into whimpers, gasping breaths tickling over his skin. In a room where the glow of red peeks into the room, letting glass and skin flame under a dim hue, you find yourself reminded of home. You find comfort in someone holding you, you find yourself held together by sin, stitched and handled with care. Hands are gentle against your back, the pressure against the scars enough to make you crave for more, to have him touch more of you. You let your eyes close, and you tell yourself that you’ll ask him to leave, but you need a few minutes where you can feel safe, where you can feel wanted.

#hazbin hotel #adam x reader #hazbin adam #adam hazbin hotel #hazbin adam x reader #hazbin x reader #hazbin adam x you #hazbin hotel adam #i like that i tag this as adam #even though he hasn't appeared #but he will #hazbin hotel lucifer #lucifer morningstar

72 notes · View notes

karuvapatta · 1 year

Text

So this is me, trying to write some light and fluffy Jon/Elias.

....yeah.

***

“Uh, Jon? You okay?”

“Yes,” Jon says, through gritted teeth, and wonders if it’s too early in the day for another smoke break. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Everything’s just great, isn’t?”

Martin takes a hesitant step back.

“Well, actually—”

“I was being sarcastic.”

“I know that!” Martin’s face twists into a scowl, and Jon feels a well-deserved stab of guilt. He was supposed to stop that, wasn’t he? Stop keeping people at arm’s length, stop being mean and short-tempered, stop with the suspicions and stalking and baseless accusations—just. Stop.

Jon forces himself to breathe, imagining sharp taste of smoke filling his mouth, creeping down his lungs. He exhales, almost able to watch the puffy little cloud—

“Elias called. He wants to see you.”

Jon bites back a string of curses, because it would be unprofessional. He isn’t fooling anyone, though, not even Martin, who just pats him on the shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world, for him to touch Jon. For anyone to touch Jon.

“I’ll make tea, shall I?” Martin says brightly.

“Oh, great,” Tim says. “I didn’t feel like doing all this work, anyway.”

He has been slacking off as much as possible, these past few days (weeks?), straddling a fine line between plausible deniability and outright disrespect. Jon cannot even pretend to fault him for that. Sasha’s own hunger for knowledge prevents her from following in Tim’s footsteps, while Martin’s overall efficiency hasn’t wavered in either direction.

Most of the time, though, they act like everything is fine. They drink tea and eat lunch and follow up on statements, they make jokes and smile and laugh – somehow managing to ignore the fact that all this work is in the service of a powerful, malevolent entity, that they are bound to an evil cult, that their own boss is holding them hostage.

And they ignore this: that it’s all because of Jon. Stupid, short-sighted, arrogant Jon, who damned himself to this life, and then damned his assistants, too. Who cannot do anything to save them. Whose breakdown was understandable, apparently, whose behaviour was unacceptable but everyone’s willing to move past it anyway, so long as he promises to be better in the future.

Except he doesn’t know how. He just doesn’t. And they know that, and he knows that they know, and every time Tim or Martin or Sasha smiles at him in spite of all of this, Jon just wishes they’d punch him instead.

“Tea’s up!” Martin says, after the timer beeps. He has his own little ritual, preparing the tea to everyone’s liking. Despite his best efforts not to stare or catalogue their behaviour, Jon realizes now that it calms him, that the faint tremor in his hands stops when he’s preparing tea, that his posture relaxes and the smile tips over from slightly forced to genuine. It’s—sweet. Worryingly so.

“Thank you,” Jon says.

“So what pissed you off earlier?” Tim asks.

“HR called about health check-ups,” Jon says flatly. “Apparently, we’re due one soon. They asked if I’d describe our work environment as ‘particularly stressful’.”

Tim laughs, a short, unpleasant sound. Sasha just frowns.

“Do you think HR knows what’s really going on here? Or Library, or Research? It can’t just be us and Elias, right?”

“Ask them next time,” Tim says. “Maybe we can get ourselves institutionalized if they don’t.”

Would it even work? Would a mental health facility, or even a prison, keep them safe from Elias’s prying gaze? Maybe that’s something to consider. Not an ideal solution, but…

“Speaking of Elias—shouldn’t you…?”

“Oh, let the bastard wait,” Tim says.

“Tim.”

“What? You don’t think he’s watching us all the time, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says.

He needs to get them out. He just—he just needs to.

“You’re right though,” Jon says, rubbing his forehead in the faint hope that it’ll make his headache go away. “I should be going. Off to another pointless conversation.”

Sasha blinks at him. “Oh? I thought he was teaching you—you know—” she waves her hand around, in an abstract and vague manner.

“He isn’t teaching me anything,” Jon says. “Most of the time, he just sits there and stares at me. I just.” His shoulders sag. He curls his hands around the comforting warmth of his teacup and wishes, stupidly, that he could hold Martin’s hand instead. “I just don’t know what he wants from me.”

“Well,” Tim says. “For one thing, he probably wants to fuck you.”

Martin spits out his tea and starts coughing, violently. Jon narrowly avoids knocking over his own cup, while Sasha rushes to Martin, to make sure he’s not choking on the hot liquid. He is red in the face, weakly trying to get Sasha to stop pounding on his back, while Jon can only watch, in abject horror.

It takes several minutes before anyone breaks the heavy, oppressive silence. Jon is rather surprised to find himself speaking as calmly as he does.

“That joke was in poor taste.”

Unrepentant, Tim just shrugs. “Wasn’t joking.”

“Tim!” Martin yells, scandalized. His face is flushed, although it’s hard to judge if it’s from anger, embarrassment, or exertion.

“What?” Tim asks. “You all thought it!”

“I assure you,” Jon says, still perfectly calm. “I did not.”

“Yeah, but you’re not exactly an authority on the subject, are you?” Tim says.

“Now what’s that supposed to mean?” Calm. Still.

Tim doesn’t elaborate. Sasha is fiddling with the sleeve of her sweater and pointedly not meeting anyone’s eyes. Martin is the only one who looks appropriately shocked and scandalized, with an undercurrent of rage that Jon cannot guess the source of.

“Tim,” Jon says. “What did you mean?”

He wishes there was something triumphant in Tim’s expression – a vicious satisfaction at getting the blow to land. At embarrassing Jon in such a crude, vulgar manner. Some measure of animosity or hatred that one could cling to. As retaliation, it was perfectly well-deserved; as a joke, Jon cannot handle it.

But Tim only looks at him, tired and—pitying? Is that it? Because as a statement of fact, Jon cannot even begin to consider it…

“I am sorry,” Tim says. “I know it’s not appropriate to speculate, because you’re my boss, and I don’t actually know about your preferences or anything. But you can be a bit oblivious to people hitting on you. I mean, you didn’t notice it when I did it back in Research, and I thought I was being pretty blatant.”

Jon’s mind tries to make sense of that statement. He thinks back to his interactions with Tim – they were quite friendly, definitely much more so than since Jon’s promotion. And Tim was quite flirtatious, sure, but he was like that with everyone. It was just Tim’s personality.

As for Elias—no. It doesn’t even bear thinking about.

“So? You think I’m sleeping with Elias?”

He cannot stop himself from asking the questions, and it seems that Tim cannot stop himself from answering.

“I never said that. I just think that he’s interested in you.”

“Based on what? That he made me Head Archivist? That he wants to sacrifice me to his God, or whatever it is he’s planning?” Jon is laughing now, and it sounds jarring and unnatural even to his own ears. It sounds more like Michael’s laughter than anything that should be coming out of his mouth.

“No, based on the way he’s always looking at you!” Tim says, louder. “And it’s not just me who thought as much, mind you. When you got promoted—”

He stops abruptly. Jon laughs and laughs, until he feels the sharp sting of tears in his eyes. Martin and Sasha stare at him as if he was going insane, which is honestly rather hurtful, as he isn’t the one spouting absolute nonsense right now.

“This isn’t funny, Jon” Martin says quietly.

“I beg to differ,” Jon says. Then, struck with another unpleasant thought on top of the other unpleasant thoughts, he turns to Sasha. “Is that what you thought, too? That Elias didn’t make you Head Archivist because he was involved with me?”

“No!” Sasha bites her lip, before she carries on, the words seemingly dragged out of her throat. “I mean—yeah, okay, it crossed my mind once or twice. But that was then. Before we learned what this place really is – who Elias really is.”

So people think Jon slept his way into a position he is obviously unsuited for. His own assistants thought that. And it would be insulting if it wasn’t so utterly absurd – aside from Jon’s own aversion to sex, he isn’t particularly attractive. If that was Elias’s only criteria, there were plenty of better-looking people to choose from. To think otherwise would be arrogant, borderline delusional.

Not for the first time, Jon wishes he could be normal about this. Had he been in a stable relationship, no one would think to entertain such ridiculous rumours. No one would whisper behind his back about his preferences, or wonder just what the hell was wrong with him. Was he just frigid and unpleasant, or was there something deeper? An unresolved trauma? Something vile, unnatural, wrong?

All things considered, maybe he’s getting off easy. There are worse things people could be accusing him off.

He is tired, Jon realizes. Exhaustion weighs heavily on his limbs, slows down his thoughts, blurs his vision. And he still needs to talk to Elias today.

“Look. I’ll—I have to go,” he says. He looks down at his hands, splayed on the table, and tries to push himself up. Wills his legs to carry his weight. Get him where he needs to be.

“Jon,” Tim says. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Sasha says.

“Don’t be,” Jon says. “It’s fine. Nothing happened, right?” It’s not as if their opinion of him can get any lower. It’s not as if it wouldn’t be warranted, if it did.

“But what if something does happen?” Martin asks. The terror in his voice is enough to sap whatever energy Jon has left, leaving behind pure, impotent rage.

“What exactly do you think I’m going to do, Martin?” Jon asks. “Fuck Elias in exchange for letting me go? Promoting me further? Bestowing some of his powers upon me? Please tell me, because I am very interested in what you think I could possibly gain here!”

They are all so very, very quiet.

“Jon, this isn’t—this isn’t about what I think you’re going to do,” Martin says, softly. “It’s about what Elias might plan to do to you. You get that, right?”

No, Jon doesn’t. He doesn’t get Martin’s horrified, pale face, or Sasha’s grim expression, or Tim’s vaguely nauseated one. This feels like a step too far. And he wants to laugh again, or scream, or maybe even cry, because of the ridiculousness of it all. But he is still their fucking boss, and he promised to be nicer.

“Look,” he says, choosing his words very, very carefully. “I appreciate your concerns. I really do. But what you’re suggesting here is beyond ridiculous. Especially compared to everything else that’s happened. So, please. Let’s all go back to our actual jobs and never, ever mention it again, okay?”

He doesn’t wait for their response. They’ve already said too much.

#jonelias #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #elias bouchard #he doesn't appear in the story yet #but he will

33 notes · View notes