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rookfeatherrambles · 2 months

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So! I started writing this Jonpeter forced marriage thing while roleplaying a different version on discord aha and this came outta my brain. It can be considered finished, but if I do write more for this, I'll post it here! It's Jonelias... If you squint lol. Some implied Lonelyeyes

Silver limned in frost, the mirror is chill to the touch. The bride presses the pads of his fingers to the glass, and tries to recognize the person staring back at him. The eyes are the same, aren't they? That nose, those lips. But there's makeup on his cheeks, to cover up the unsightly scarring that peppers his skin and his dark brown eyes are lined in silver-grey, to accentuate what has to be his best feature. His cheekbones, elevated with powder to transform them beyond malnourished to striking. His lips glossed in a classy neutral tone. A heavy necklace of hematite and diamond rests at his throat, cold and beautiful. The bride frowns, twisting that artfully made up mouth into a scowl. He hates how he looks. He hates how they did his hair, some fancy braided mess atop his head, with an elegant, silver tiara. Likewise, he hates the makeup. He feels like a clown! And most of all, he hates the dress. It is white, as his husband-to-be requested, has a flared bodice, and a sweetheart neckline meant to push up his rather modest chest, long lace sleeves embroidered with birds - "Seagulls, Archivist, isn't that clever?" - and a long flowing skirt that hides how slim his waist and hips are. It has a faint pattern of the sea embroidered into it, so that when he moves, the waves do as well. Clever, maybe. But Jon doesn't want to be wearing it, and in fact, if it was up to him, he'd set the whole thing on fire.

A knock on the door has his shoulders tensing, but it's just another bridesmaid he doesn't know the name of and has never seen before. She smiles at him, and he notes that she doesn't look directly at him, but just over his left ear. In her hands, she carries the only thing Jon was allowed to customize to his liking. The wedding bouquet.

Rather than carry white roses or baby's breath, he'd taken the opportunity to design his bouquet to represent his true feelings about his nuptials, and his future husband as well.

"Thank you, I'll take that." Jon's tone might be a little snappy, but isn't every bride allowed to be a bitch on her wedding? The woman hands him the arrangement, and then clears her throat. "Its almost time. You should put on your veil."

"In a minute. Leave." For agents of the Lonely, Jon hasn't been given a moment's peace all day. Perhaps it was a measure to head off any haphazard attempts to escape his fate. Not that Jon is going to try anything as futile as that. He knows what's waiting for him if he breaks his contract.

His fingers, manicured and buffed to an almost unhealthy shine, touch every flower in the bunch, examines the leaves. It'll do. Behind him, the bridesmaid leaves the room, closing the door behind her. The unwilling bride, exhales a breath and resumes looking through the arrangement. He finds what he's looking for, in the centre. A small cluster of berries so purple they appear black. Jon reaches in to touch one, but catches the pad of his finger on a thorn from the briar he had purposefully woven into the bouquet to surround them. He withdraws his finger, watches as ruby red blood wells up and drips down onto the petals of a petunia. Jon blinks at the splatter, then a laugh breaks from his throat. Why not? He's bled for everything else, why not this as well, the end of his life?

Maybe that would be overly dramatic if it wasn't true. Jon is marrying into the most isolated family in Britain, and his husband to be already has expressed his desire to mould Jon into the mother of his children and a proper wife. And that means proper by the standards of the Forsaken, not the Watcher. He is tempted to bleed all over the exorbitantly priced dress, but instead, he sighs and slips the finger in between his lips.

He sets the flowers down onto his lap as he sucks the wound. Salty iron coats his tongue, unpleasant and visceral.

Then, a knock at the door makes Jon jump a bit. He scowls. "I told you to leave me alone! I said I'd come down when I'm good and bloody ready-"

But as he turns, he sees the door already opening, and a man standing on the other side. Jon stumbles to his feet, the bouquet tumbling to the floor. He struggles to keep his voice from trembling as he takes a step back, cursing the heeled shoes they'd forced him into. "You-!"

"Ah," Elias Bouchard says, stepping into the room, his polished black shoes clicking on the hardwood floor. He's dressed in a fine olive green suit for the occasion, and looks perfectly respectable. His cool grey eyes, however, blaze with a fever, a hunger he's barely holding back. Devouring the sight of him. He smiles. "What a perfect bride you make, Jon."

"Get out." Jon snarls, sounding braver than he feels, his body tense as a wire, backing away further. "H-How'd you even get in here?"

Elias's expression sours a little. "Your fiancé hand-delivered my invitation. He was practically glowing with delight. Imagine my surprise when I read the name penned under his own."

Jon's cheeks flush unpleasantly. "I didn't want to," he snaps, anger rising above his fear. "But then he told me about you and your plans." The venom in his tone doesn't seem to effect Elias in the slightest. "Ah, yes, a shame, that. Trust me, Jon. I would have been with you every step you took to becoming a god. And haven't I always been there for you?"

"You're the one who wants godhood, Elias. Or should I call you Jonah Magnus?" He spits the name, fists clenching at his sides. A dark look swiftly passes over Elias's face. Then he starts to laugh heartily. "Oh, Peter... I underestimated you."

Jon glares, silent.

Elias is still chuckling when he bends to pick up Jon's flowers. "I'm not here to terrorize you, Jon, as gratifying as that might be. I can feel your fear from here, it's intoxicating. You're for another to consume now... Though..." His eyes trace Jon's figure in his dress. "I came to tell you that it's not too late for cold feet." His smile is decidedly less composed. "If you come back to me, I will welcome you with open arms, and bygones will be bygones."

He pauses, his eyes landing on the bouquet he holds. Elias examines it closer. "My dear Jonathan, Petunia? Lily of the valley, Black roses, Dogwood briar and ... are those Nightshade berries? You're making quite the statement, aren't you?"

His lips quirk with amusement. "You do know that these berries won't kill you, don't you?"

Jon's reply is icy. "They're not for me." Elias's eyebrow twitches up a hair before he contains his surprise. Then he holds the bundle out for Jon to take. "Mariticide is such a messy affair, Jon. If you want to avoid becoming gravid with Lukas children, and I do mean children, Jon, do you really think Peter will stop at just one? Your best bet is to return to my side."

"And end the world?" Jon demands, stalking forwards to snatch the flowers away. And maybe punch Elias in the face, he hasn't decided, yet.

Elias wears the expression of a patient man, though Jon can sense him losing that facade by the minute.

"Think of it more as a rebirth, Jon. An apotheosis, becoming what you were always meant to become. The world would be ruined, yes, that part would be sadly unavoidable. But it would be perfectly habituated for you and me. And we would rule."

He smiles again, and Jon feels his skin crawl at the sight of the zeal in the man's eyes. He shakes his head. "You would rule. I know you'd never share that with me, even if I wanted it."

"Jonathan—"

"I'm marrying Peter Lukas." Jon says, with finality. The words taste like ash and fall heavy from his tongue. Elias looks like he wants to continue speaking, but he sighs and then reaches his hand into his pocket instead. "I wish you all the happiness in the world, though I'm afraid you'll find such things sorely lacking in a life with your paramour." His eyes glitter. "I would know."

Jon doesn't reply, only glowers as Elias pulls a small box from his suit and proffers it. "A pre-wedding gift, then, for your health, your safety and your comfort."

Despite himself, Jon is curious. But he restrains himself. "Open it," he demands, and Elias sighs. "Jonathan, do you really trust me this little-? If I intended to harm you, I assure you-"

"Open the box, Elias."

The words are said with force and power, both of them can hear static in their ears as it rolls against them, the power of the Archivist. Elias lets out a shuddering breath, and opens the box. "Think of what you're giving up," he murmurs, lifting the silver pendant from its plush case. Its shaped like a stylized eye. Jon steps forward, unable to resist. "You won't be able to stretch your powers or grow with Peter's leash around your throat."

"As opposed to your own?" Jon counters, but his voice is low. Something about that little necklace is calling to him. He pulls back, wary. "What is it?"

Elias meets his gaze without flinching, without deceit for once. "An escape clause."

And just like that, all the air is sucked out of the room as Jon Knows that in Elias's hand is The Ritual. All its horror and its effects, melted down into this pretty trinket.

"Just like that?" He asks, voice quiet. He opens his hand to receive it.

"Just like that, Elias says, placing the necklace into his palm. For a moment, they're silent, both contemplating the weight of this decision. Then, Elias draws back, his mask of polite geniality returned. "Now, Jon. You have a wedding to prepare for, I shall take my leave. Just know, I have always kept your best interests at heart."

The lie is an obvious way for Elias to save face, return the wall between them but neither of them address it, and then Elias is gone. Not five minutes later, another knock, another bridesmaid, this one carrying a wedding veil. Jon takes a deep breath, and stows the necklace away against his chest, where he can almost feel it beating in time with his heart with the awful power it contains. And then, Jonathan Sims, the Lonely Bride stands. "Let's get this over with."

#the magnus archives #jonathan sims #elias bouchard #peter lukas #tma #jonelias #jonpeter #this was actually really fun to write #i hope you guys enjoy it too!#the magnus archives fanfic

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voiceless-terror · 3 years

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All Too Familiar

For @jonpeterweek2021

Characters: Jonathan Sims/Peter Lukas, Elias Bouchard

Rating: Teen, SFW

Summary: In which Elias and Peter make a bet and Jonathan Sims is courted by both the Eye and the Lonely.

“Archivist giving you trouble?”

Elias’s fingers are at his temple, his eyes closed in what could be called contemplation but is more likely irritation. Peter’s not fond of the woman, quite the opposite, but her ability to rile the man up is unparalleled. He can respect that.

“Should’ve offed her long ago, I say. Getting on in years, isn’t she?”

“And aging me right along with her,” Elias grouses, letting out a much aggrieved sigh. “It’ll be a while yet, but I do have plans for her.”

“And someone else, I see.” Peter’s eyes scan over the files on his desk- personnel files, each with an attached photo. He snatches one from the stack before Elias can protest and makes a show of squinting at the page. “Jonathan Sims. Bit young for you.”

The photo shows a young man barely out of college and desperate to be taken seriously, judging by his haircut and ill-fitting blazer. The flash must have caught him by surprise- he looks disgruntled and confused, eyes squinting ahead. It would almost be endearing to anyone who wasn’t Peter. “Well, he’s more to your tastes than Gertrude ever was. Best of luck.”

“Enough!” Elias hisses as he grabs the folder from his hands with surprising intensity, those cold, strange eyes narrowed in contempt. His gaze lingers on the file for a moment, staring down at the attached photo as if it reveals something Peter can’t see. Oh, this is a serious contender. Peter wonders what makes him so special. It’s an idle, curious thought; Elias rarely displays such cageyness, preferring instead to keep his cards close to his chest with a knowing smirk. It’s insufferable.

“Tetchy about this one,” he comments, watching as Elias carefully slots the file underneath the others, as if to guard it from Peter. “Any particular reason?”

Elias tenses for one brief, almost imperceptible moment, shoulders encased in a crisp, tailored suit rising at most a centimeter but Peter sees it. Elias has his eyes but for all his lonely solitude Peter can read people. He can find weak spots and exploit them, tiny insecurities laid bare and magnified. And then Elias relaxes, leaning back slightly in his chair as his eyes flicker to Peter’s with a contemplative smugness. There he is. “He’s afraid of spiders.”

That’ll do it.

“Special indeed.” Peter whistles lowly. The Mother’s not to be taken lightly. He can see the draw; few are marked by the web, and even fewer escape with their life. He wonders why she let this one go; from the one photo he’d seen, Jonathan Sims looked utterly unremarkable, which makes him all the more intriguing. Perhaps he should pay him a visit. Recent college graduate, taciturn countenance. Knowing Elias’s predilection for orphans and loners, the boy has little to no social connections. The Institute has always attracted these types, though he risks the ire of its head if he claims it as a hunting ground.

His face must reveal his musings, for Elias’s own hardens. “Whatever you’re thinking of doing,” he says, each word with a clipped precision. “Don’t.”

“You think so little of me,” Peter laughs, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. Always suspicious, that man. Rightly so. “I would never interfere with any of your plans.”

He can feel the Watcher’s gaze as he strolls through the halls, taking his time to peer in doorways and flash a pleasant smile at the confused staff. He does not run into Jonathan Sims, nor did he expect to. Elias’s irritation is a satisfaction all its own.

For now.

__________

There is a man in the courtyard.

Objectively, this courtyard is open to anyone, be it staff or guests of the Institute. Objectively, it’s a rare, beautiful day and people should take advantage of it. Objectively, Jon doesn’t have a ‘spot’ he can claim for smoking and insist on being alone. But Jon’s scowl and the wafting scent of cigarette smoke is usually enough to drive people away.

But this time, there is a man in his spot. Jon is not pleased with this development.

He’s tall, stocky in the way a middle-aged man usually is, though there seems to be some muscle lurking underneath his baggy coat. Is he some sort of vagrant? He’s pale, unhealthy so, and it puts Jon on edge.

But that’s not the most irritating thing about him. That honor goes to his whistling.

Jon takes his smoke break at precisely ten each morning. Ten. Who whistles this early? Certainly not any sane person. No, that’s an activity best left for mid-afternoon or dusk. Mornings are for silence and work, not playtime. This is obscene.

So why, pray tell, does he still go to his spot? He could easily sit on the bench in the center, there’s no one there this early, no one to bother with his little vice. But habits are hard to break, and Jon’s a man who likes routine. He doesn’t want people thinking he can be pushed around. So he walks over, trying to ignore the shiver he gets in the midmorning sun on a perfectly temperate day. Jon doesn’t meet the man’s eyes as he moves closer and despite his trepidation, something is starting to put him at ease. His scent is so familiar, cold and crisp like the foggy mornings of his childhood. His grandmother’s house, not so far from the sea. It brings a sharp pain to his chest as much as it soothes him; she passed months ago and despite their distant relationship, it’s still a sort of grief. Perhaps he didn’t visit her enough in the end. She didn’t deserve to die alone.

Breaking himself from his maudlin thoughts and taking his place at the wall, Jon fishes a cigarette from his pack and lights it in a smooth, practiced motion. The nicotine soothes his fried nerves and he can almost ignore the man in that old jacket whistling some jaunty tune and trespassing in his spot. There’s no greeting, no nod of acknowledgment. Jon smokes his cigarette to the stub until it's acrid odor all but wipes away that familiar scent, and he leaves.

He finds himself humming all afternoon.

__________

Jon’s an interesting fellow.

Peter can see the remnants of the Web clinging to his shoulders in an almost possessive shroud. The Mother is usually more subtle, but this one screams mine, mine. Elias will have his work cut out for him, that’s for sure. But his machinations have always bordered on unnecessarily complex- the man enjoys a challenge. Enough time under the Watcher’s gaze and you’ll start to think it home.

And yet the man still calls to him. There’s a vulnerability in the way he holds himself, how he stubbornly clings to his little spot and yet makes himself small. There’s Lonely in him, Peter can feel the itch of it in his skin. He could snap him up quite easily if he tried. But he’s always favored a longer game when he can find it; it brings so much satisfaction to see a soul slowly eaten away until it fades, unremembered and bereft. There’s a quiet dignity to it, and Jon would wane so beautifully.

On his third visit, Jon breaks his silence.

“Why are you here?”

He’s got a pleasant voice, if a bit posh. Jon thinks it probably makes him sound older, but he’s yet to land on a confident enough tone. He’ll get there one day. In any case, he’ll be perfect for reading statements. Another point to Elias.

“No idea what you mean,” he replies with a smile and he can see the boy is startled. He clearly wasn’t expecting a cheery answer, which Peter finds a bit insulting. He’s not that rude. “Just taking in the fresh morning air like yourself.”

“I’m smoking.” Jon waves his cigarette as if Peter had yet to see it. “In what world is that fresh?”

“Suppose I’m used to it,” he shrugs, leaning more casually against the wall and meeting Jon’s intense gaze. It’s heavy, though not so much as Elias’s is. You’ve got the Eye in you yet. He’s had practice with these types. “Sailors are fond of cigarettes, when they can get them.”

“Is that why you smell?” Jon blanches, as if realizing the rudeness of his question. Peter pauses, unsure of what he means. He’s showered, he’s not dirty. “I-I mean, it’s just- you remind me of the sea, is all.”

The words make him freeze. He shouldn’t be able to pick up on that, Peter’s been careful not to slip too far into the fog. He’s perceptive. Peter doesn’t usually like being seen, or in this case, smelled, but Jon’s an interesting case. He wonders how he’d fare on the Lonely’s shores.

“Smoking kills, you know.” He ignores Jon’s question, relishing the way his eyes narrow. “Nasty habit.”

“Hear secondhand’s just as bad,” he replies with a snarl, dropping his cigarette and stamping out the dying embers with a scuffed brown shoe “So maybe you should find another spot to loiter.”

“You’re right.” He abruptly turns to leave, not sparing a glance back in Jon’s direction. Best to keep him on his toes. It’s a cloudy day and Peter’s feeling quite hungry. For once he has business that keeps him in the city, why not have a little fun in the meantime?

His phone vibrates in his pocket. It’s a text he won’t answer. He never does, and to be quite honest, he doesn’t really know how.

Elias Bouchard: What are you playing at?

Peter chuckles to himself, slipping the phone back into his coat.

What indeed.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29266788/chapters/71869302

#my writing #jonpeter #jonpeter week 2021 #fanfic #sfw #cw smoking

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