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drabblesandimagines · 3 months

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Elevation

Leon Kennedy x female reader More of my fluffy nonsense

Hunnigan slams the phone down into the cradle at the end of her call and if you hadn’t already been casting auspicious glances up at the scene before you, her actions would’ve made you jump.

“What is it, Leon?” Hunnigan’s tone is blunt.

It would be so easy to look up at the handsome DSO agent then. You’d be perfectly within your right to look up too, your desk opposite sat directly opposite Hunnigan’s so you had ring-side side seats to the commotion. It wouldn’t look odd - he’d be in your eyeline, after all - but you fight the temptation, keeping your eyes fixed on the paper in front of you, fingers tapping idly away over the keyboard as you transpose to the screen.

Exactly what you’ve been doing the past ten minutes that Leon Kennedy has been wandering around the office, dressed in a pair of form-fitting jeans today, his gun holster peeking out from underneath a beloved leather jacket, directing all attention to a certain pair of assets.

Not that you were keeping track of how long he’d been there, of course, you had work to do.

“Huh?” For someone who had apparently been waiting on her call finishing, Leon’s thoughts seems elsewhere.

“I said,” Hunnigan adjusts her tone, “can I help you with something?”

“Does there have to be something? Surely a guy can just come visit his favourite FOS agent.”

“But you haven’t come to visit, you’ve come to loiter.” Hunnigan retorts. “I told you already, if I have anything for you, I will be in contact. Go home.”

There’s an incredulous scoff as he tries to think of a reason to stay, but it quickly transforms into a sigh as he admits defeat. “Fine.”

He begins his retreat towards the exit and you hear the tell-tale beep of his pass against by the door panel, the electronic lock then clunking in release.

“Have a good afternoon, ladies.”

You look up then – and only then - to find him looking directly at you. You give him a polite smile in return. “You too.”

He grins in return, a proper one that makes his eyes crease, before giving you a nod and a wave as he through the door. The smile stays on your lips as you reach for your mug of coffee – now ice cold - and take a sip.

“I think he likes you, you know?” Hunnigan states in her oh-so-nonchalantly way, making you choke on the gulp you’d just taken.

“What? No…! I mean, who?” Your voice is tight in response from having swallowed the liquid the wrong way, internally cursing. Smooth, real smooth.

“Leon.” The agent continues hammering away at her keyboard, kindly ignoring your attempts at being subtle.

“I don’t know where you’ve drawn that conclusion from.” You don’t – you really don’t. You could probably count the amount of conversations the two of you have had with all of your fingers, all just pleasantries.

“I’ve worked with him for years now and he’s never been here as much since your transfer started.”

“Coincidence, I’m sure. He just seems eager for work.”

Hunnigan goes to open her mouth in response when, thankfully, the phone on her desk rings. Saved by the bell.

Being afraid of elevators had never really been an issue until you had taken this assignment, being sent to work on the 12th floor. At the very least it’s proving to be a good workout the number of times a day you now trudge up and down the stairwell from your desk to the archives below. The DSO holds a surprising amount of paper copies of intel in the basement – both handwritten and old typewriter documents - secured behind a vault door, rumours of the place being rigged to ignite in flames if an intruder is detected to prevent it all from falling into the wrong hands.

The DSO board had decided that intel should now be stored in the government-secured cloud and on paper and you’d been brought in as an archivist/analyst hybrid, on loan from the CIA. The project you’d been tasked with, single-handedly, was transferring intel that was currently only held in those paper copies to the online system. There was technology that could do but it wasn’t perfect – scrawled handwriting would often prove indecipherable by most machines or it misread words, so everything would need quality checked. It was agreed a human touch was best and your name had come up after the CIA had undertaken a similar audit of their files a few years ago to excellent results. Once everything had been digitized, it had become easier to quickly identify any links between incidents past and present – using surnames, terms, intel – and even stopped a handful of potential ones, so the DSO had been keen to put the practice in place.

It did mean, however, that every day you’d go down to the vault, select a box of paperwork – either the one you’ve got partway through or a whole new one - trudge back up the many flights of stairs, and then start typing from page to screen to produce a digitized document. It was imperative that no-one else see the documents, so they’d set you up in Hunnigan’s office as one of their most trusted agents.

Wanting to look professional whilst in the office but not break your neck on the stairs, you kept a selection of heels in your locker to swap out of for your reliable sneakers. Hunnigan was still working away when you packed up around 7pm, kicking off your heels to switch out, and had been in a lengthy, hushed tone call for the past hour. You nodded your head as you heaved the box of documents up in your arms, and she waved back in acknowledgement.

Beeping your ID card at the door, the lock buzzed and the door opened automatically – a godsend as the box you had today was particularly heavy – everything within held in those awful arch-lever folders.

As you emerged, you heard the puff of the elevator doors beginning to slide shut, not even giving it a moment of thought. You turned to the left to head down the stairs as usual, when a gloved hand slammed between the elevator doors, preventing them from closing with a thud and giving you a start, turning to see a face.

The face of Leon S Kennedy catches you entirely by surprise. He hadn’t even been by the office today to bother Hunnigan, though you know he does have his own desk somewhere in the building, maybe even his own office. He smiles at the sight of you, beckoning you over.

“Hey. Hop on in - I’m going down.”

You hesitate at the invitation. You haven’t been in an elevator for years and he’s just stood there, waiting, holding the door open. You have to say or do something. “You okay?”

Next thing you know, as if you’d been hypnotized, you were walking towards the elevator, then stepping over the threshold into a place you swore you never would enter again.

“Basement?” Leon fingers hover over the button panel in anticipation.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

He presses the buttons for ground and basement simultaneously with two fingers, and the door slides shut with another puff of air.

The elevator and your stomach begin to descend in unison.

This is fine.

“Looks heavy. Can I…?” He gestures to the box, offering to take it.

“Oh, thanks, but it’s okay.” You bump the box up with your knee, trying to strengthen your grip on it. Your palms are sweaty, but you’re not sure if the cause is the elevator or the handsome man besides you.

Leon crosses his arms, leans back against the wall. “They still not given you a lackey to do all the grunt work? I thought that’s what they took on interns for these days.”

“It’s difficult when no-one else is meant to handle it, let alone see it but me.” Leon gives you a quizzical look at that. “It’s protocol, narrows down the potential for leaks. If anything gets out, it’s on my head, so…”

“What about when you take breaks? You don’t…”

You nod, shifting the box in your arms again. Why do they feel like jelly? “Gotta lug it back downstairs to be locked back in the vault.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Mm-mm. It’s fine – good exercise for me, I guess, between sitting at the desk all day, so…”

“Surely they could at least give you a desk closer to the grou-“

The elevator’s smooth descent is transformed into a shudder, followed by a loud metallic screech and a sharp jerk that makes your stomach truly drop before all motion halts. No, no, no, no.

“Huh.” Leon muses, calm as anything. He immediately presses the emergency call button, illuminated in red, but the only sound that emits out of the speakers is static. He presses it again to the same result, and then in rapid succession, as if that’ll coerce it into working.

You tighten your grip on the box, wanting to tell him to stop but, thankfully, he gives up before you can have the strength to find your voice and pulls his cell out from his pocket.

“Damn, no reception.” He looks back over to you then with a sympathetic smile. “Well, this is one way to get overtime outta us, hey?”

There’s no chance to reply before the elevator plunges into darkness and you drop the box immediately, thankfully away from your feet. It can only be a few seconds at the most but it feels like an eternity before the emergency lighting comes on, casting the small metal prison in a pale yellow hue.

Leon’s staring at you, looking concerned. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah.” You reply, not at all convincingly. You bend down to pick up the box to escape that blue-eyed gaze for a moment, heaving it back up in your arms. “Is this… normal for this office?” You hope he can’t hear how tight your voice is.

“Power must be down, seems like the back-up generator kicked in.” The agent shrugs, looking around the elevator as if something of use might be around. “It’ll prioritize the critical systems – so I’d guess lights, vending machines and elevators are not gonna be particularly high up on that list.”

“Wonderful.” You reply, breathily. It’s warm. Should it be warm? “Here, let me just…” Leon reaches over and gently tugs the box from your weak grip, no sign of surprise at the weight of it as he takes it. “We don’t know how long we’ll be in here, so let’s put this down.”

“No, I shou-“

“I promise I’m not going to try and read any of it.”

You watch him as he places it down, he’s sure to bend with his knees rather than his back, and tucks it into the corner under the button panel, out of the way. He stands back up to his full height, looking at you for a response, but all you manage is a shaky nod.

“Are you feeling okay?” “Y-yeah. Fine.” “Mm. Not a great liar.” He tilts his head, scanning you with his eyes once more. “What’s the matter?” “I…” Another swallow in the hopes of your mouth not feeling so dry. “I don’t like elevators. Always take the stairs.” “Oh.” Not the answer he was expecting it seems. “Wait, why’d you get in, then?” “Well, er…” You hesitate again, how do you answer that? “You… You told me to.”

He can’t help the goofy smile that crosses his face. “Huh, that’s all it takes? Interesting. I’ll have to remember that.”

You’re about to ask him what that’s supposed to mean, the words just on the tip of your tongue when the elevator jerks and they turn into a shriek. It’s over before it even begins, really, but Leon’s reflexes now have you pressed up against the wall, his arms braced above your head to protect it from any sort of impact.

“It’s all right,” he says, softly. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”

Your heart is beating too fast, tears burn at your eyes at the fright. He’s so close, you can smell his cologne – musky, hints of vanilla – but this isn’t where you want to be having this moment.

“How about we sit down, huh?”

“I’m okay.” Your answer is breathy again, your chest feeling tight. Panting like you’d finished climbing up 12 flights of stairs.

“It’ll be more comfortable.”

“Don’t wanna…” You try and take a deep inhale, but it doesn’t seem to reach the bottom of your lungs. “Don’t wanna s-shake it.”

“You won’t.” He drops his arms from against the wall and instead grabs your hand, squeezes it in an attempt to ground you. “Trust me.”

You want to trust him, but the panic is too strong. This was such a bad idea, why did you do this?

“I…”

“We’ll do it together, okay?” He somehow coaxes you to shuffle forward and then slips in behind you, taking hold of your other hand. “Just lean against me and we’ll ease on down.”

Leon presses his chest firmly up against your back and you wonder if he can feel how hard your heart is beating. He wraps his arms around your waist next, meaning you’re hugging yourself in a way before he slides down against the elevator wall, bringing you down with him, onto the carpeted elevator floor. He thought it was a seamless maneuverer, but the way he’d felt your nails dig into his leather gloves from how tight your grip was, he knew you weren’t of the same opinion.

“There we go.” His thighs are spread either side of yours, now that you’re nestled inbetween his legs. “Worried you were gonna pass out – you’d gone really pale. Just sit here and concentrate on your breathing a minute, okay? Feel how I’m doing it.”

You close your eyes and try to concentrate on how he’s breathing, feeling his chest expand as he inhales, loudly and deliberately through his nose, holds the breath, then exhales heavily through his mouth, tickling the back of your neck.

You try and mimic him, get your inhales and exhales in sync and, slowly, the pressure begins to ease in your chest as you feel your breaths get deeper and deeper.

"Feeling a little better?”

His voice reverberates from his chest being pressed up against your back, feels comforting. “Yeah. Thank you.”

“Hey, don’t mention it. My fault you’re in here, after all.” He replies, gently. “I’m gonna move now, okay? Wanna check you’ve got the colour back in your cheeks.”

You nod, and he somehow manages to shuffle back and to the front of you with overly cautious movements – definitely for your benefit, ever the gentleman - withdrawing his legs into a crossed position and giving you a smile as he takes in your appearance. Being so fixed in his gaze makes your cheeks prickle with heat – maybe not the colour he’d hoped to be checking.

“Yeah, you’re looking better. Good.” He nods in affirmation, more to himself than you. “That noise – I think someone was trying to get the power back on, sounds like it only worked for a second before it could get going. The elevator’s not gonna fall.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve had to disable some of them before – for work, I mean. They’re all equipped with multiple failsafe systems to prevent that exact scenario.”

“Disable them?”

“Just so they stop…” He gestures in a circle as he tries to find the words, “elevating, I guess, so I’m not pursued. Make ‘em take the stairs.”

“Ah, right.” You nod. “Wind them a bit.”

“Exactly. If you don’t mind me asking, you always been afraid of them?”

“No. Got stuck in one in an old apartment block years ago – it didn’t feel particularly modern. There were three of us – me and two drunk guys who kept jumping up and down, convinced that would make it move. The fire department got us out after two hours cos I had one of those… episodes. Haven’t been in one since.”

“Idiots.”

“They just kept laughing the more panicked I got. I felt so stupid.”

“Panic attacks are no joke. That box breathing always helps me if I feel on edge, though.”

“Yeah, that was really good.” You feel a shy smile creep over your face. “If I had to get suck in an elevator with anyone, I’m glad it was you.”

He practically beams. “Now I don’t feel quite so bad. I’ve gotta ask again though, you really got in here just because I said to?” He’s already seen you a panicking mess, so why not just be honest? “Your smile helped too.” “Well, consider me flattered.”

“It’s a nice smile…” You swallow, a little cautious of the next word. “Enticing.”

You swear you see a smidge of colour flush Leon’s cheeks then, but it must be a trick of the artificial lights. “Well, since we’re confessing – yours is too. That’s the real reason I was bothering Hunnigan. Wanted to see if I could win another.”

“You came to see me smile?” You’re definitely blushing now – cheeks prickling with the heat.

“Guilty. I don’t think you’d remember, but a week or so back I was having a real shitty day. Went to go debrief with Hunnigan and she wasn’t there, but you were. When I stormed in, you just gave me the best and most genuine smile I’d seen in days. Meant a lot.” He rubs the back of his neck, sheepishly.

You smile again, can’t help it, and he groans, jokingly. “Ugh, see? Not again – I don’t think my heart can take how sweet it is.”

You don’t know what to say to that but you’re excused when, suddenly, the lights transition overhead with a flicker from the emergency dulled tones to the standard, harsh fluorescent light and the elevator begins its smooth descent once more.

“Finally, huh?” Leon gets up easily to his feet and then offers you a hand.

“Yeah.” You accept it without hesitation, goosebumps prickling up your arm as he wraps his fingers around your hand and he pulls you up with ease. Slyly, his other hand now rests on the small of your back, drawing you in close…

The elevator dings, announcing its arrival on the ground floor and the doors slide open to reveal a maintenance worker, clad in blue overalls, waiting in the lobby. Leon draws back then, but still keeps his hand steady on your back.

“You two all right? Power-cut had rotten timing, I was gonna repair that emergency speaker tonight when most of the office was cleared out.”

“All good, thanks.” Leon bends down, picks up the box again without question and you follow him out of the elevator in pursuit, only to hear a cell begin to ring from his pocket. He balances the box with one arm – you’ve no idea how – and pulls out the device, frowning at the name on screen.

“Sorry, I’ve really gotta take this.” His brows furrow in annoyance. “You be okay with taking that downstairs?”

“Yeah, of course. I really should take it back now anyway, you know, just in case…” You trail off as he eases the box over to you, making sure you’ve got it properly before he lets go. “Thanks… for everything.”

“Pleasure was all mine.” He replies, sincerely, before reluctantly lifting the cell up to his ear.

“Kennedy.”

You leave him to his phone-call and head down the stairs for a thankfully unremarkable trip down to the vaults to replace the box back in its rightful place. It’d be a lie to say when you climbed back up to the lobby that you weren’t disappointed when there’s no trace of him to be found.

The next morning, after passing through the security check, you make your way down to the archive vault as usual, pressing your hand against the door panel to gain access. Sadly, you’ve still got a lot of work to do in the box you’d been working on yesterday, so you dutifully log its withdrawal in the computer system, and heave it up once more in your arms before heading out.

You only make it up one flight of stairs when you see him, leaned up against the stairway wall, one arm held against his chest whilst his other hand is holding his cell, squinting at some text. He looks up as you scuff your trainer on one of the steps and he smiles as you reach him, tucking his cell back away.

“Good morning.”

“Morning. What brings you here?” You curse inwardly. “I mean, not that it’s not a pleasant surprise, just…”

He waves it off. “I getcha. Well, I have some pretty good sway here, you know, so I’ve volunteered.”

“Volunteered for what?”

“Volunteered…” He steps forward and wraps his arms around the box, “..to be your stairs lackey.”

“Oh, no – it’s fine, honestly.” You feel flustered at the very idea. Leon’s one of the top, if not the top agent of the DSO. He can’t be doing manual labour for you, he shouldn’t. “You have so many better things to be doing. I can mana…”

“Please?” He tilts his head, gives you that enticing smile again. “I mean, I could just tell you,” – he teases – “but I thought I’d ask this time, so you’re sure.”

The smile makes you feel weak at the knees and you’d already proven yesterday you couldn’t resist its magic. “Okay. But you should definitely take the elevator then.”

“Uh-uh.” He shakes his head, taking the box into his arms. “It’s good cardio, got my weight-resistance. You’re practically doing me a favour by taking the stairs.”

“Is that so?”

“Mm-hm. Though,” he bites his lip in a pause, “I may have ulterior motives.”

“Right, and what would those be?”

“If I were to, say, visit the office around six tonight and carry this thing back down to the vault, maybe you’d go to dinner with me?”

God, you feel absolutely giddy - there’s no way you can hold back your smile. “I think that’s… acceptable.”

“Then we have a deal. Ladies first,” he nods with his head to up the stairwell.

“No, I… I think you should go first. Just so I can keep an eye on you on the way up. I’ve got to make sure you’re not sneaking a peek at the assets, you know?”

He quirks an eyebrow, you know he’s wondering what you’re thinking, but he shrugs it off all the same. “As you wish.”

And as you follow him up 12 flights of stairs, you slightly breathless and him seemingly fine, you can’t help but sneak a look at a different pair of assets before you.

---

Comments, likes and reblogs make my whole day x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi/Commissions

#ghostdogwrites #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fluff #leon kennedy x you

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cirrus-grey · 8 months

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Since they've officially announced that Jonny and Alex are doing voices for The Magnus Protocol, here's a theory/hope I've been nursing since they hinted at the same thing last October:

They'll be reprising their roles as the Jon and Martin we know and love, but in a "scenes from the cutting room floor" capacity rather than as active characters. Alice and Sam will find tapes that have jumped dimensions from the original timeline, but mixed in among the statements and events we recognize will be snippets that were too small and unimportant to be included in Annabelle's plan - Jon turning on a tape to record a statement and then knocking it off the desk with his elbow. An invitation to lunch, or an offer of tea. Martin noticing a tape is still running while Jon's away, and asking if it's still listening, because he thought they didn't do that when the Archivist was out.

Nothing that changes the plot or meaning of the first show in any significant way, just background, humdrum little details of day-to-day life that paint a stark, terrifying contrast to the worms and knives and screams and explosions on the other tapes they find, and make it so much harder for our new protagonists to find out what actually happened, and what might be coming their way.

#the magnus protocol #my magnus protocol stuff #original post #magnus protocol speculation/analysis #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #the dinghy #500 notes!

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orderforbrian · 2 years

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ouuugghhh this comic is OLD but it's still one of my favorites 💖 i made rough blocks when the liveshow came out because jon and martin's meet cute/ugly is SO in character and so wonderfully funny

[Start ID: A two page comic of Jon and Elias from the Magnus Archives with Martin as a side character. Jon is a Persian man with short, dark curly hair and rectangular glasses. There are streaks of grey in his hair and eyebrows. He is wearing a green jacket with a grey sweatervest, white dress shirt, and green tie. Elias is a tan white man with slicked back brown hair, there are streaks of grey in his hair. He is wearing an expensive looking blue suit jacket, vest, dress shirt, and tie. He is also wearing long gold earrings in the shape of a closed eye. Martin is a mixed Polish/Korean man with dark wavy hair and glasses, and a beauty mark on his left chin.

1st panel: Jon slams open the door to Elias' office, looking the picture of rage. He is gripping a piece of paper angrily in one hand. A thought bubble shows a meme image of Spongebob choking Mr. Krabs from the series Spongebob. Elias appears unfazed by the interruption and greets Jon, "Oh! Hello, Archivist. I was wondering when you would finally catch me at my desk, haha."

2nd panel: Off panel, Elias asks "How was your first day?". Jon pushes up his glasses, gripping the paper even tighter and responds, "Undoubtedly horrendous".

3rd panel: Elias gives him an apologetic smile with his hands folded in front of his chest. He says, "Oh dear, that dreadful? Apologies you had to endure such unanticipated distress. What exactly happened to cause this reaction?". There is an arrow pointing to Elias that says "As if he didn't spend relish in every chaotic second".

4th panel: Jon begins to list things off, pointing to each finger as he does. Elias responds intermittently to these.

"Well, to start, the Archives is an ungodly mess. It's going to take ages before it gets sorted out. Why you didn't fire Gertrude is beyond me."

"Mm."

"None of the statements are compatible with modern technology so we've had to resort to using archaic tape recorders."

"Oh."

"And-"

"Oh, there's more."

5th panel: Jon tightens his fists in rage, gradually yelling, "I spent a large portion of my already stressful workday chasing after a bloody dog that your library transfer let loose into the Archives!"

6th: Jon begins to rant, shaking one hand back and forth in frustration. "Why is he there? What qualifications does he have? And absolutely what right? He's from Library, why do we need Library in the Archive staff, much more why him specifically? I requested Tim and Sasha who are far more competent than that - that bumbling idiot! Mr. Bouchard, I'd hate to overstep my boundaries but I really must say this was an unwise decision-". Elias cuts him off, a dialogue bubble with a simplified person smiling. "Oh dear - Archivist..."

1st panel: Elias gives Jon another apologetic smile. "I sent someone from Library because the Archives desperately needs someone skilled in cataloging. And, evidently, he has a Masters in parapsychology so give him time to prove himself a necessary addition to your assistant team."

2nd panel: Jon appears disgruntled and crosses his arms, grumbling, "Mmn. Well, he has quite a lot to prove after today...Apologies for doubting your decision, but if he continues to hinder our progress I will make my objections very clear." Elias says off panel, "I believe that's a fair compromise. Well, apologies again. As always, I'm open to feedback."

3rd panel: Elias continues off panel. "I'm a bit surprised though...". Jon looks up with wide eyes, a bead of sweat on his face. "Huh?". Elias continues, "You didn't find him the least bit charming? I thought he was rather amused the day of his interview, haha."

4th panel: Jon pushes up his glasses, attempting to hide a blush, and says, "A-as of my current opinion, no. I did not find his ineptitude charming if you'd kindly, Mr. Bouchard."

5th panel: Elias says off panel with a simplified smiling face, "Well, I do hope you all get along soon enough...". Jon presses the paper in his hand to his chin, looking off to the side. He appears disgruntled and is blushing too. Thought bubbles of Martin surround him. One is Martin appearing flustered, his eyes appearing as swirls within his glasses. Another is Martin hovering over Jon, asking if he is okay. Another is Martin looking up with a hand to his chin, stating "I mean...yeah, probably!". The last is Martin holding his glasses and giving a flustered smile, saying "Haha, s-sorry!". Jon thinks to himself, "Hrmm...He might be cute, but he's a complete airhead! Ugh. Hopefully today was just a singular incident."

End ID.]

#tma #the magnus archives #jmart #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tma fanart #literally obssessed with their first meeting like martin really was like this handsome prick is gonna fire me #and jon is like this cute idiot is gonna ruin my career #order up! art tag #comics are all fun and game until you have to write the image id lawl

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justalittletomato · 8 months

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He was not partial to any one ( Maul x Reader)

@apocalypticwafflekitten @pixiestookourstardust @by-the-primes @eyecandyeoz @patchiefrog @gran-maul-seizure @stardustbee @kimageddon @storm89 @hannagoldworthy @dukeoftheblackstar

Inspired by a lovely conversation with my dear friend @patchiefrog

. To say he favored someone would be far from his nature. No Maul did not favor a certain one and nor did he seek out their favor in turn.

He would claim it was continue to ensure that his Advisor would remain pleased. That their relationship would be beneficial.

The tins of powdered milk had been stocked, one of which sat on the tea tray placed before the Archivist. Their eyes widened at the small tin, picking it up gingerly and inspecting it.

The higher residents of Sundari could afford fresh milk, they would turn their noses at the tins. Reserves meant for times of trouble, of the outer circles on Mandalore….

To the Archivist, it reminded them of years before, a warm nostalgia. The slightly sugary taste of tinned powered milk had been a treat to them as a child. A large spoonful stirred into their tea as a child, making the bitter drink much more tolerable at that time.

Before the civil wars, when tinned milk powder was more in store, before rations, the Archivist recalled their buir making the ever soft milk buns. The hint of sweetness in the cloud of bread.

“You traded some tea for it with one of the guards.” Maul said plainly, breaking the Archivist from their thoughts.

Yes they had, the familiar tin, the tea was worth much more, some loose leaf straight from the palace stores. The guard has been more than happy to part with it in exchange.

Maul had seen the exchange. The soft glow on the archivists face as they held the tin.

“Maybe it’s the novelty? Who knows, I know some of us grew up on the stuff. Guess nostalgia beats us at times” he had overheard.

He handed them an opener, the archivist taking it and eagerly opening up the tin. A pause, “ Lord Maul wouldn’t you prefer some fresh milk?”

“Tinned is fine.” Not that he had many memories of the stuff, it was a food stuff not familiar to him. Then again many things were. He did not dwell on it.

“Do you like your tea quite sweet? Or more bitter?” A spoonful of powdered milk already placed in their cup.

“I think I’ll take it the same as you.” Again a soft glow on their face.

He quite liked the look.

The Archivist fixed his tea and placed it before him. “I hope you enjoy it.”

He watched them. Blowing gently at the tea and eyes closed to take a cautious sip. A smile on their lips. Were they lost in a happy memory?

He took a sip. A burst of sweetness on his tongue, it was pleasant he supposed. He watched the Archivist once more.

The smile remained. They were happy.

He liked to see them happy.

“Ensure that tinned powered milk is kept in store.” Maul relayed to Almec who immediately scoffed.

“Powdered milk? Lord Maul there may be a war but there’s no reason to resort to such food stuffs. That has not been the case since the civil wars..” Almec’s words were silenced with the look Maul gave him.

“I find it preferable, now can you do such a simple task or do I need to pass on the task to someone else who is better suited for your role?”

Almec held his tongue, “ No need,”

——-

The archivist watched the rolls rise in the oven, as the stew simmered in the pot. The amount of spices and peppers made their eyes water but it was how Maul preferred it.

A large bowlful filled as well as two, in second thought, three milk buns placed on the tray.

Maul looked up ready to argue with whoever interrupted him, his frown softening at the sight of the Archivist and the slightest upturn at the corner of his mouth at the tray.

“I’ll prepare some tea then.” He set down his work and move to the table near the desk. Another tin of powdered milk and loose leaf tea set in each cup.

—-

#star wars #darth maul #maul #maul x reader #darth maul x reader #cloudsdrabbles #maul is soft but not really but he is #tomatochats

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molly-ghuleh · 6 months

Text

Camellia: Copia x f!reader - Chapter 6

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: Even though you have finally begun to translate Elizabeth's diary, you still need context. A visit from the archivist answers some questions but raises even more.

Word count: 4.6k

A/N: Helloooooo! Thank you all again for your extraordinary patience in the long wait for this chapter. It isn't the most eventful (nor am I the proudest of it) but things are definitely happening, and I think you all will enjoy where it's going!

P.s., the identity of the archivist was inspired by the lovely @writingjourney <3

Warnings: Nihil being a bad dad (again), descriptions of anxiety/panic, descriptions of afab people being seen as objects

AO3 / Chapter 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

Secondo thinks that abdicating the position of Papa might be the best thing to ever happen to him.

That’s not to say he disliked being Papa. Quite the opposite, really—holding the scepter, wearing the crown, and hearing the title were all a generous ego boost. But the aspect he loved the most was that he could promote the tenets of the Lord Below how he wanted, how he felt was most effective. He was the mouthpiece of Satan, the proprietor of His word and the bridge between his unholy flock and the fires of Hell.

But that’s about it. He loved the glory, sure. He did not like the man that the Ministry molded him into. Once he stepped down, it was hard to look himself in the eye without cringing. He was supposed to hold the power for Satan, not the Clergy, and certainly not for Sister Imperator.

Just about the only thing he has to thank that woman for is the time he’s gotten back after “stepping down.”

Secondo has always been interested in the archives, ever since he was a boy. He would sneak around the Abbey in Rome into places he shouldn’t have been and see things he probably shouldn’t have seen, and keep everything he saw to himself. Having the knowledge of secrets he wasn’t supposed to know made him feel important, like he held some power over the Clergy if he decided to open his mouth.

So when he'd stumbled upon a dim room towards the back of the library at the tender age of eight, he thought he’d found the Library of Alexandria. Wall-to-wall shelves of thick leather bound books, stacks of tightly-rolled parchment and linens depicting unholy scenes. An old wooden table holding a desk lamp and a magnifying glass. A single lone lamp that, when he’d pulled the chain to illuminate it, had emanated a click so loud that he thought he’d be caught for sure.

He’d been so disappointed when he realized he couldn’t understand any of the books or scrolls or linens. They were all written in a language unfamiliar, which he knows now to be Latin. But at eight years old, his primary focus was to learn the unholy scripture, to serve Satan in his duties as an altar boy, and to make his father proud.

That last point… he never did accomplish.

But he did eventually learn Latin, so that he could read what was in that dim room. He’d learned to shimmy the lock open (the Roman Abbey is ancient, it wasn’t a difficult task) and sneak in, absorbing as much information as he could.

Secondo learned about rituals that haven’t been done in centuries. He read prayers and psalms that had been forgotten with time. He found drawings of long lost artifacts and relics shrouded in mystery. Each new bit of knowledge gave him that rush of adrenaline that could only come from forbidden things.

When he was old enough, he was allowed into the archive room. Of course, no one had known he’d already spent countless hours there. His father wanted him to know his family history if he were to take up the helm of Papa one day. You need to know what is in your blood, his father had said. Just as Primo does, and just as Terzo will.

Secondo had wanted to ask, what about Copia? But he kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want his archive privileges revoked as soon as he’d gotten them.

The first thing he’d done was find his family tree. Who came before him? Who was Papa before his father, and before his father’s father? How far back did the Emeritus bloodline really go?

It was in the family tome that he first discovered the words Primus Motor. Up until a specific time, every Emeritus heir had been conceived by a woman with the title Prime Mover. Then the women proceeding them had lost that title, with seemingly no pomp or circumstance. Nearly a thousand years ago, the title had been dropped and forgotten. The final Prime Mover, it seems, had been a woman named Elizabeth.

When her diary had been found in some random basement room of the Abbey, Secondo immediately requested to be the archivist in charge. She was his ancestor, and the last Prime Mover on record. Her diary must have an explanation, or some insight as to what exactly a Prime Mover is. There were Prime Mover rituals outlined in those books he’d found as a boy, sure. But none ever explained what the significance was beyond “the chosen maternal body.” It all sounded rather dehumanizing.

But Sister Imperator had told him to keep that fact a secret. She’d brought in a translator to decipher the diary without telling her the whole story. So, he wasn’t terribly surprised to learn that you’d requested to speak to him, or that when he finds you in the restricted room, you look like a deer caught in headlights.

“Papa,” you say, standing to greet him formally. You bow your head out of respect and give him your name. “I can be out of your way, if you need—”

Secondo simply puts a hand up to stop you. “No, sorella. I am here to speak to you about the diary, as you requested.”

Your eyes go so wide that he almost laughs. “Wh-what?” You swallow. “Forgive me, Papa, I didn’t know that you are the archivist who evaluated Elizabeth’s diary…”

“Is that going to be a problem?” Secondo asks.

“No! No,” you scramble, shaking your head slightly to align your own thoughts. His intense gaze pins you to the spot, and not in a good way. Not a bad way, either, but… not in the way Copia’s gaze does.

Determined not to make a fool of yourself, you steel your nerves. “It’s not a problem, Papa. I apologize. I have only… the highest member of the Clergy I have ever met until I arrived here was Bishop Beaumont. I still find myself a bit overwhelmed, sometimes.”

The corners of Secondo’s painted lips tick up at your admission, but he makes no mention of it. “No matter. What is it you wished to discuss?”

You sit and turn your notebook around so Secondo can read the translation of the first line. Today I was chosen to be Papa’s Prime Mover.

“I was wondering,” you begin, “if you might be able to tell me what a Prime Mover is.”

After reading the translated line, Secondo leans back. “I do not know much,” he answers gruffly. “But I do know that it was an esteemed position. Something to do with continuing the bloodline. However the title of Prime Mover is no longer used.”

“How come?” You ask.

“I do not know.”

You hum and look down at Elizabeth’s diary, like it might speak the answer to you itself. Something to do with continuing the bloodline? “Sister Imperator told me that you estimated this diary to be about five hundred years old,” you say. “Is there a reason you chose that number?”

At Secondo’s silence, you meet his eyes again to find that his brows are furrowed and his jaw is set. His lips form a tight line, deepening the clefts beside his mouth. “I only ask because it may help with context,” you offer, defending your question. Your chest flutters with nerves again. You hope you haven’t somehow angered him… he’s quite intimidating.

Secondo’s mind turns. Sister Imperator hadn’t told you that he was the archivist, and she’d told you a different number than the one he’d estimated. She asked him to keep Elizabeth’s status as the last Prime Mover a secret. It seems odd, like she knows something that she wants neither you nor Secondo to. He finds himself annoyed that Sister wants to keep something shrouded in such unnecessary mystery.

“Sister Imperator has given you the wrong number,” he says after a moment of tense silence. “I believe it is nearly a thousand years old.”

“A thousand?” You gape. For a volume that’s a millennium old, it’s in remarkably good shape. You’d thought the same when you believed it was just five hundred years old.

Secondo nods. Whatever reasons that Sister Imperator has for wanting to keep the diary a secret, he doesn’t know. But if he can do anything to learn about his family and its history, or if he can spite Sister… he’ll take that chance. “Elizabeth is the last Prime Mover on record. I do not know why the title was dropped, and I do not know why it is supposed to be such a secret.”

Oh. Yes, you understand. Papa must have his reasons for disliking Sister, and you have your own. If you can contravene her in this small way, a secret kept between an archivist and a translator, you will. You’re slightly ashamed that the thought makes you a little giddy, but not ashamed enough to not do it.

“So,” you guess, “you’re hoping that this diary answers that?”

“Correct,” Papa nods again, and stands. “I ask that you keep me informed, sorella.”

“Of course, Papa,” you say with a polite smile.

He leaves the restricted room and you’re left alone with Elizabeth again. Only this time, there is a new clarity between you and your subject. Your gaze drops down to the pages of jumbled letters, wondering.

Papa Secondo had said that the position of Prime Mover was esteemed. If it had been, why was it dissolved? Perhaps it wasn’t dissolved at all, and it was only forgotten? And… the position is related to the Papal bloodline, so surely these Prime Movers would have been the mothers, right?

The answers lie in front of you, waiting to be translated. Elizabeth herself beckons you with her slanted script, saying, read me. Hear what I have to say.

And how you want to focus. How you want to spend the next weeks painstakingly deciphering letter by letter, word by word until you find these answers which will sate your curiosity. But, damn it to Hell, all you want to do is find Copia and tell him what you’ve found out. You want to tell him that you’re still here, that Sister Imperator had agreed to let you stay after your dramatic, last-minute discovery. You want to ask him all sorts of questions about what he might know of Prime Movers or his ancestors. You want to watch the excitement bloom in his eyes as it always does when you speak about the diary.

You have your reservations, though. Going to Copia on anything other than Ministry business feels like you’re overstepping your position. Who are you to assume that you’re important enough to him to just pop in?

In those moments in the gardens, and in the chapel, though… it sure felt like you were. He had looked at you like you were. In the gardens he was Copia, and you find within yourself that you’d rather be sent back to Liège than see Copia as only Papa again.

~~~

It’s been two days since Copia has seen you. Two full days since he’d watched you half-waddle down the Sibling corridor, soaking wet and shivering and covered in mud from the knees down, and he can’t focus on anything whatsoever.

There’s some official bulletin or another on his desk, awaiting his signature to distribute it out to the rest of the Ministry, but he can’t bring himself to pick up his pen and sign it. Not for a lack of caring—the bulletin is actually quite important—but because he’s conjured up this beautiful picture of you in his head, and he’s afraid that if he moves he’ll lose it.

You must be busy. You’d told him you had an idea about the cipher on your way up the hill out of the gardens, and if he hasn’t so much as gotten a glimpse of you around the Abbey, it must have been a breakthrough. He knows how frustrated you’d been, how determined you were to figure it out, as you’d said. I want to stay and figure it out.

Another part of Copia’s mind, the part he doesn’t want to listen to but that is so very loud, tells him that perhaps your idea had been wrong, and Sister Imperator had sent you home. Maybe the reason he hasn’t seen you is because you’re not even here anymore.

So, he keeps still, his eyes unseeing as he stares into nothing but his own mental image of you. If you’re really gone, at least he has this. You might not be gone, but he’s almost scared to go looking for you because he might find that you are. As it stands, you are Schrödinger's Sister of Sin. Here, and not.

His, and not.

“Al diavolo questo,” Copia grumbles to himself, pushing himself up from his chair. He rounds his desk, sending a few loose papers (including the bulletin he’s supposed to sign by the end of the day) to the floor, and swings open the door to his office. He turns left, towards the library. If there’s a chance he can see you, rather than his limited mental image of you, he’d be foolish not to take it.

His footsteps are determined, bringing him quickly down the stairs to the main artery of the Abbey, and across the wide hall towards the entrance to the library. His breath picks up and his heart pounds in his ears like he’s sprinting. By the end of this agonizing trek to the restricted room, he just might be.

He takes the stairs to the right of the library entrance two at a time. Usually he would smile and wave to whichever Sibling is working the front desk, but not today. The guilt he feels is quickly squashed by the pressing need to either see you or not see you. It feels like it’s eating him up, not knowing.

Copia has tried to be patient and give you time, if you are still here. He knows that what happened between the two of you in the chapel was a lot, all at once, and even if nothing had been said explicitly, you must know. You must.

For a moment, when he reaches the top of the stairs, he wonders why it is that he feels so strongly for you, so quickly. It’s as if Satan himself deposited you on his doorstep, just for him. As if Satan had kept him from sleeping that night, so that you could run right into him outside the restricted room door.

He rounds the corner to walk further into the library, into the shelves of romance books (which, he admits, is rather serendipitous placement). His heart thuds against his sternum when he sees the little square window in the door illuminated. Who else would be in that room with the door closed but you? Who else would have any reason to spend more than five minutes in there, aside from you, or Secondo?

Copia loves his brother. He really does. But he hopes to Lucifer that it isn’t Secondo behind that door, or he might punch him simply for the fact that he’s not you.

He reaches the door, and pauses. His hand rests on the brass doorknob, but doesn’t turn, because what if you are gone?

No, no. You aren’t gone. You can’t be gone.

He turns the handle and pushes the door open on squeaky hinges. There you are, sitting at the desk you always do, head tilted up to see who is at the door. Your brows are slightly raised, your shoulders are hunched—you must be tense from sitting over your work all day—and your finger is placed against that grid of letters as if you had been in the middle of decoding a word when he walked in. The light of the desk lamp attached to your station casts your skin in a warm glow.

If he thought his heart would calm when he saw that you’re still at the Abbey, he was mistaken. Just the sight of you here, that slight hint of heat in your face illuminated so plainly by the desk lamp has his chest vibrating with relief. At least his mind quiets, the tempest of thoughts and questions finally calming after a long, sleepless two days.

“Papa?” You ask, after a long moment. You sit up a bit straighter and tilt your head. The slight crease between your brows returns, and Copia wishes he could kiss it smooth again. “Are you alright?”

Your voice seems to break Copia out of whatever reverie he’s stuck in, because he finally blinks and his jaw closes. “I— eh, yes, I’m alright.”

You slowly stand from your desk and round it, but keep a respectable distance between you and Copia. “You don’t seem alright,” you say. “Copia… what’s wrong?”

It feels like a weight off his shoulders to hear you call him by his name. With you, he’s not Papa. He doesn’t want to be Papa, not to you, not when you’re looking at him like that. “I thought you might have been gone,” Copia breathes, his voice just above a whisper. “I thought she might have sent you back.”

“She didn’t.”

“Good, that’s… good.”

You and Copia stare at one another for another moment. The air is thick with something unspoken.

“I figured it out,” you say. Then you add, “the diary,” because you both know that there are two things you had to figure out. The diary, and… this.

You’re still working on whatever this is, and Copia is still staring at you.

“Copia,” you say with an awkward little smile, “why are you staring at me?”

His own lips curve into a smile. “Sorry, cara mia. I’m just happy you’re not gone.”

“Me, too.”

“So, eh… what is it that you figured out?” Copia asks, blinking a few times in rapid succession. His heart still hammers in his ears.

You round your desk again to turn your notebook over and show him. “She’s clever. Every word requires a new key, which is why we could only decipher one word using her name,” you explain. “Every decoded word is the key to the next one.”

Copia leans over to read the notebook. You have it flipped open to the complete translation of the first line, and his eyes scan the sentence a few times. “Prime Mover?” he asks, looking back up at you.

“I don’t know, either,” you tell him.

He hums in response, his gaze falling back towards the diary and your notebook.

“When were you going to tell me that your brother is the archivist, you ass?”

Copia’s head whips back up, afraid that you’d be actually angry at him. His mouth opens, prepared to defend himself because how would he know that you were planning on speaking to his brother? But he sees your wry grin, and the protest dies on his lips. Instead, he releases an airy laugh and his shoulders drop. “Ah, yes… I suppose I should have mentioned that.”

“Sweet Satan, I made myself look like a fool,” you laugh. “I’m not used to Papas and Cardinals walking around yet. Every time I see one I nearly fall over.”

“You don’t seem so intimidated by me,” Copia says, half relieved and half worried. “What, am I not as scary as Secondo?”

“Not nearly as scary, no! He could stare someone to death,” you say through a chuckle. “That, and when you and I first met, you were wearing sweatpants and rat slippers.”

Copia smiles fondly, though you don’t catch it. “So you’re not starstruck by me, tesoro? I’m hurt.”

“At first I was!” you defend yourself. “But somewhere after that I guess I just… forgot.”

“Forgot to be starstruck?”

“Forgot that you are Papa.”

Oh. Oh, Copia could kiss you, you sweet thing. He doesn’t ever want to go this long without seeing you again. It’s all he can do to stop himself from walking over to you and sweeping you up in his arms and kissing you silly. His hands itch to hold you but you aren’t ready for that yet. So he says instead, “I don’t want to be Papa with you.”

Your heart rises to your throat. “You don’t?”

“No,” Copia says softly. “I don’t.”

You have to fight off the smile threatening to stretch your lips. You don’t want him to be Papa with you either, but you don’t know what you do want him to be to you.

You do know that you want him to kiss you. You do know that the thought of leaving the Abbey without resolving whatever this is made your heart ache, but that talking about whatever this is would make it real and that terrifies you. You do know that falling in love with him means you have something to lose. It’s not quite that, not yet, but… it could be.

Copia can see your mind working itself in circles. He knows that you’ll talk yourself out of it—whatever it is—if he doesn’t intervene. “Tesoro,” he calls to you, pulling your focus back out from inside your head. When he’s certain you can see him and not just through him, he takes a slow step forward and gently reaches for your hand. The white linen of your gloves, worn while you handle the diary, is a stark contrast to the black leather of his. It slips against his glove and settles into his palm like your hands were crafted for him to hold. Sathanas, your hands are perfect. You are perfect. “Please… tell me you know. Tell me you feel it.”

Your eyes are wide when they meet his own. “I know,” you whisper. Your voice is shaky with the weight of speaking your feelings, making them real. “And I don’t.”

His thumb rubs circles on your knuckles. “Cara… you know. You must.”

“I…” you swallow dryly. “I do, but it’s… it’s scary, Copia. It’s happening and I have no control over it and…”

“And?” Copia whispers. He takes your other hand, stepping just close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your cheeks.

“And I will have to leave,” you respond. Your eyes burn with unshed tears that you desperately try to blink away. “As soon as the diary is done, I will have to go back.”

Copia looks at you for a silent moment. His eyes search your face, noticing all the details he hadn’t noticed before. This is the closest he’s ever been to you. A tear rolls down your cheek and he reaches up to swipe it away with his thumb, but doesn’t return his hand to his side. It cradles your face like you’re something precious, and to him, you are.

He gently tugs you closer and wraps his arms around you, holding you against him. You tuck your head under his chin, savoring the smell of him, the comfort of his embrace and the warmth of his body through his suit. “It will be alright, carissima mia.”

You shut your eyes and two fat tears escape as you do. Your body shudders with a repressed sob.

Copia simply holds you closer, fighting back tears of his own.

He’d nearly forgotten. Of course you would have to leave again, once your project was done. Just because you’re here now, doesn’t mean you will always be here.

Maybe there are ways to have you stay. Maybe if he asked Sister Imperator, she would find a place for you here, doing translation as your sole duty. But can he keep you away from your home, when it’s so obvious how fond you are of it? How could he ask you to stay, knowing you would miss Marseille the whole time?

Copia squeezes you tighter. “Will you do something for me?” He asks so, so softly. One of his hands strokes the back of your head, drawing you closer into his embrace. “Come and work in my office with me, yes? Just for a little while. Or a day or two, maybe. I hate that you’re all alone up here.”

“I can do that,” you say, and draw away from him slightly so you can look at him. You’re sure you must look a mess with your eyes puffy and nose running. But standing this close to him, clutching the fabric of his shirt like it grounds you to the world, you can’t bring yourself to care. “But I need permission from Papa or Sister Imperator to remove the diary from this room.”

Copia smiles. “Well, I have good news, then,” he says with a quirk of his brow. “There’s a Papa right here. Perhaps you should ask him?”

“Right, yes, I forgot,” you laugh. “Papa, do I have your permission to take Elizabeth’s diary out of the restricted room?”

Copia laughs back and his breath is warm on your cheek. “Yes, tesoro, you have my permission. Only if you bring it straight to my office.”

“Of course, Papa,” you nod, smiling.

“Bene! Let me help you with your things.”

Copia steps away and releases you from his grasp to help you gather your materials. For a brief moment you’re disappointed, but your cheeks warm at the thought that maybe he might hold you again in the safety and comfort of his office. Maybe you might gather the courage to allow yourself to feel the feelings you’re desperately trying to suppress, and maybe he might feel them back.

But, you chuckle at his charming urgency to help you. You work on wrapping Elizabeth’s diary in its linens, and placing it in a wooden box you retrieve from a small shelf in the corner of the room. You still wear your white gloves.

“Shall we?” Copia gestures to the open door once you’re both done preparing to leave. His eyes shine with mirth and something you might think was affection if you weren’t doubtful to a fault.

“We shall,” you reply. He lets you slip past him and out the door, then falls into step beside you as you make your way down the curved staircase.

~~~

March 27

Today I was chosen to be Papa’s Prime Mover.

Mother said it is a gift from Satan to be chosen. I am to conceive the next Papa, and continue the bloodline with the blessing of the Olde One.

Truthfully, I am frightened. Mother said that it is now my only duty. She said it is an extreme privilege to be a Prime Mover and to carry the blood of Emeritus inside me. But I did not get a say. I was chosen, and that was the end. Papa did not even tell me himself, it was Mother. She said it is better to hear the good news from the mouth of the fairer sex, from the woman who did her duty as I must.

Fairer sex. I must laugh at that. Fairer sex, and yet I must be a vessel for Emeritus blood at the whim of Satan. Fairer sex because I am beautiful but better to be seen and not heard. And yet I am expected to carry and birth the most powerful man in the Ministry, a power that no one else has. To ‘fairer sex’ I bite my thumb.

There is to be a ritual tomorrow night, to solidify my role as Papa’s Prime Mover. I am horrified. Mother said that a woman can only hope to be so lucky as to be Prime Mover. Must I pray to be a bred heifer? What of me? What of my own wishes?

I believed the Dark Lord to be wiser than this. I believed he would not ordain any sex to be lesser than the other. I believed in his doctrine of free choice, of fairness and civility, after having been cast down for disobeying. My faith wavers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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tma-reader-inserts · 8 months

Text

Gerard Keay x Lonely Avatar! Reader

Tw: suicidal thoughts; mentioned character death

XXX

You missed Michael. You missed him so much you ached. You missed his breezy laugh and fun sweaters and how he always made tea for the two of you every morning. You missed your best friend, and his absence weighed on you like a stone.

You never worked together exactly; but you were an assistant to Elias, and you took the same route home every day and he was just so friendly it was hard not spend time with the sweet and sensitive man.

You didn’t have many friends. Hardly any except for Michael. And by extension, you were on friendly terms with Gerard Keay, who worked closely with Micheal and Miss Robinson on several statement cases. You were… intrigued by Gerard. Michael had encouraged you several times to “go for it”, to suck down your cowardice and just asked the attractive book-burner out for drinks; but you were so, so awkward; even more bumbling than Blackwood.

It felt like a miracle Elias hasn’t fired you yet. You assume it’s because you’ve memorized his coffee order and know exactly where to buy the biscuits he enjoys so much. You really didn’t do much in the was of assisting. You help take names and numbers of potential statement givers, arranged for them to meet an archivist or archivist assistance, fetch coffee and teas, and mostly just sit at the desk in front of Elias’s office and look busy. Whatever papers Elias gives you usually are meant for someone else and all you do is have the building’s mail system bring them to the specific person, so you don’t really do any actual filing.

Well, it’s a living.

A small reprieve from the hum drum of your boring work life was Michael and his fun stories.

Now you don’t even have that.

You wore all black for three weeks in mourning when you realized Michael wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t the first assistant to disappear, but it was the first that affected you. Elias and Gertrude said nothing about the change of your attire and attitude.

You also haven’t seen Gerard in ages. You had seen him once in passing as he exited the building while you were walking up to the stairs, smoking heavily with a dark look on his face. You have to assume he knows of Michael, you couldn’t imagine telling him, and Gerard always seems to know about everything that happens in the Institute. He eyed you briefly, in your dark clothes and somber expression, and he gave you a pitying look before walking in the opposite direction.

Not a word was exchanged, and you had felt so utterly and horribly alone since.

The loneliness creeps into your chest cavity, hollows it out and curls in there like a fog on a pier. Michael was gone, Gerard hasn’t been back in so long, and you were so alone.

Elias briefly checks up on you, asks about your morning walk and compliments your new shoes, wishes you a peaceful weekend and lends you an umbrella when it’s storming. But he’s no friend, and you are under no delusions that you are replaceable to him if needed.

You had no family to turn to. No more friends. Even the stray cat you were feeding regrettably was hit by a car. You felt so desolate and solitary.

You used to cry about it frequently. Every night even, especially after Micheal’s disappearance. But now you can’t even bring yourself to shed tears, they dried long ago; now all you have is the cold knowledge that you have nothing, and that nobody wants you.

When Gerard comes to the Institute again, you don’t even see him at first. You used to jump at the chance to even look upon the handsome man with his badly dyed hair and plethora of tattoos, but now when you hear the other people in the office tittering over his arrival, you just… acknowledge he’s there in the building. You don’t feel excitement or dread or anything. You meant nothing to Gerard, why would he visit you? You don’t even leave your desk to see him.

You felt it again, the loneliness. The heavy fog settling in your brain where you just stare ahead and register nothing going on around you, not processing anything, just barely existing.

Maybe you’ll kill your self today, your thoughts muse in the back of your mind. Death must be nice. To not have to worry about anything; not about friends dying or abandoning you, about poor strays on the street, about perfectly distant bosses and co workers…

It’d be easy; people kill themselves all the time. The Institute was a rather tall building. A drop from there would surely end you; and you know where all the key copies were to get access to the roof.

You had to cross a bridge over a river to get to work; on your way home you could easily crawl over the railing if you wanted.

You were suddenly acutely aware of the sleeping pills in your apartment, ones you bought months ago to aid with your insomnia. It’d be like taking a long rest, like going to bed.

Someone was shaking your shoulders, someone was saying your name with a rising pitch of desperateness. You felt your office chair swivel to face a dark mass and warm warm hands cupped your face.

Rough thumbs wiped away at the hot tears settling on your face. When your vision focused, you saw Gerard. Black lipstick, teased hair, tattoos and dark, wide, worried eyes.

He says your name again and it sound like it aches in his throat to say it.

Several long moments were in silence as the book-burner wiped your face with his finger and smoothed your hair down, eyes darting around your figure as if to search for an injury.

Finally, your voice croaked. “Hi…”

A sigh of relief escapes him, he visibly sags. Hands rest on your shoulders heavily. “Hey. You were crying, did something happen?”

A part of you wants to be enraged. Of course something happened. Micheal is probably dead. The cat that sleeps in your apartment all winter is dead. You want to be dead. You want to carve out your insides so your body reflects how you feel and this whole time he wasn’t there-

But you can’t even feel the anger within you anymore. The burning spite inside you is snuffed out by the chill of your indifference of the situation.

“… I’m fine…” you eventually mutter, looking to your desk. The files on the surface were meant to be sent out ages ago, you should really get on that.

Don’t want to leave your replacement a messy desk after all.

You see Gerard flinch in your peripheral. “Listen- I’ve been meaning to talk to you…”

He smells like cigarettes and sweat, and you briefly realized you will miss that smell when you kill yourself. He flinched again.

“It’s really kind of important, um, can we talk about it over drinks? Right after you get off?”

This stalls your brain. Sure, suicide was a sudden desire, but it felt like the right decision to make. Drinks would just put off the inevitable.

Gerard’s hands came back up to your face again, warm and solid. “Please?”

… you’ve never heard Gerard Keay say please before. At least not earnestly. Usually it was sarcastic and in annoyance. The sincerity of the word casts off whatever dregs of the fog were left, and now you were hyper aware of yourself and your surroundings.

Your cheeks were wet; when did you start to cry? And your hands were balled up into fists so tight your knuckles changed colors. Your mouth was incredibly dry and your jaw aches which how tightly you were clenching your teeth.

Gerard’s presence was warm, comforting. It almost make you choke a sob, and you felt very suddenly the desire to spill every thought about your plans to kill yourself to him, and the only thing that stopped you was social graces and the idea that Elias was right behind the door beside you both and could probably hear you.

“Drinks?” You inquire, blinking away the swell of cold tears in your eyes “um, it’s Tuesday, though-“

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about that. Just-just say you’ll come. I’ll walk with you after work.”

It sounded more like a plan for himself but you were always so weak willed you didn’t have it in yourself to contest him. So you nodded. Gerard smiles and breathes out a long breath, like he was holding it in. “Good.” He concludes, rising up from his crouching position and removing his hand from your face. “Good. I’ll see you at five.”

He almost turns to leave, before staring hard at Elias’s door. Thick rubber soles squeaked slightly as he steps even closer to you. He looks down at you, eyes wide and searching. One of his black painted finer nails prodded at your fist until it was pulled apart and relaxed by his ministrations.

“Hey…” he sighs, “I’m… I am sorry for not coming back to you sooner.”

A small frown pulls at your mouth. You never meant to make Gerard feel guilty. “It’s fine.” You assure, voice soft.

His eyes alight with sadness. “It’s not. It’s not okay, you need to know that.” He stresses, before finally turning and leaving.

As soon as the door to the hallway close, Elias’s door opens.

He says something about a meeting he has tomorrow with a Board member, a Mr. Lukas, and he asks you to be sure to brew strong coffee for the gentleman when he arrives tomorrow.

You nod, and plan on maybe killing yourself later in the week; to make it easier on everyone.

—

Five pm rolls around at a snails pace, but surely and dutifully, Gerard is there at the door to the exit, waiting for you.

He looks… not stressed, just anxious. Like he’s itching to leave the building as soon as you’re within reach. And that’s exactly what he does. The second he saw you his face erupts into a smile and one of his pale, tattooed hands reached out and gently grabs your elbow, pulling through the front door and down the steps to the road as he sings praises about the bar the two of you were going to; nothing too stuffy but not overtly casual, and he promises that the cocktails are unique and the music they play is a far better selection than most.

You knew from his description he was probably taking you to a goth bar; you didn’t really mind. The idea of strong drinks and black painted walls and sad music almost seemed like a comfort to you.

The hand on your elbow migrates down to your wrist, and finally your hand. His grip was sturdy, and he never let your digits go, squeezing slightly whenever he thought the two of you might get separated.

Gerard was always affectionate with you before. Casually playing with your hair whenever he passed by you in the hallway, placing a hand on your shoulder as you laugh along with Michael over the latest office mishaps, even a few times bringing his lips to your knuckles when you handed him a well appreciated cup of tea whenever he was staying late at the Institute. The touching was not foreign territory, but it felt like forever since you’ve been there, like walking through your childhood house after having been moved out for decades.

When you finally make it to the bar, which was in fact a hole in the wall goth bar, Gerard lead you to the darken back corner, and huddled up next to you comfortably, as if you’ve done this a thousand times before, like it was a regular thing. His arm was heavy and warm around your shoulders and he handed you a cocktail menu.

True to his word, they all had fairly spooky names and sounded tasty. You didn’t even really know which to pick, but Gerry points to one that seems like it’ll suit your taste just fine. You almost titter at how well he knows you, before swallowing down your excitement. You could just be an easy read.

You don’t even order for yourself; as soon as the waitress, decked in black and spiked black hair, came over, Gerard ordered for himself and you, his voice lilting and he seemed utterly uninterested in even looking at the woman, rather eyeing you as he moves some hair out of your face as he spoke.

While the drinks were being made, he fusses over you, asking small conversational questions like, “How is Elias treating you?” and, “You’ve been sleeping well, I hope?”

After weeks of no one even asking after your health you flush under the attention, answering each question softly and as briefly as you can surmise, shy and bashful as Gerard’s dark eyes roam your face and observes your mouth every time you opened your lips to answer. He nods along and occasionally his hand rubs your shoulder.

You feel like he’s avoiding the obvious. Avoiding Michael. Maybe the loss was felt as keenly for him as you felt it. Maybe he was just as wrecked by the blond’s disappearance and is trying to find solace and common ground in you.

When the drinks do come, the goth man removes his arm from your shoulders and sets a napkin in front of you, moving your cocktail onto it without prompt. A tense moment of silence settles now that you’re alone again, and Gerard heaves a heavy sigh.

“I never should have left you alone for so long after he left.” He chokes out, eyes searching your face for your reactions to his words. When not a muscle twitches in your expression, Gerard continues. “I was… hurting. I was angry, and it had nothing to do with you but I was acting ugly and I didn’t want you to see that side of me.”

You nod, ready to let forgiveness slip past your lips when he cuts you off.

“It wasn’t okay of me, it’s not alright. I should have never, ever, let you go through that alone.” He looks so regretful, so sorrowful, it made your heart ache; it was one of the strongest emotions you’ve felt in a while. “I- I don’t even know how to make it up to you, for abandoning you like that.”

The earnestness in his voice makes you stall. You’re not the kind of person people seek forgiveness from. You just got walked over and forgotten and you were used to it. To have anyone, especially someone as high up and composed as Gerard, beseech you for amnesty, seemed to fully pull you from whatever slump you’ve been in these past few weeks.

Your face finally emoted; you frowned and your eyebrows drew together in sympathy, and you shouldered the darkly dressed man. “Drinks is a good start, but I don’t want you beating yourself up over it. You’re here now.” You tried really hard to show that all was forgiven. “Just… try not and leave me again for so long?”

It felt silly to even ask, like a child begging their parent to return safely from a business trip.

Gerard looked at you very seriously, one of his hands coming to yours that were clasped in your lap. “Not as long as I live.”

—

The night was a blur, your drinks were consumed and you’re not entirely sure when you kissed Gerard on the cheek in gratitude or when he kissed your shoulder in fondness but somehow the two you ended up just… kissing in the dark alley next to the bar.

Gerard was all consuming; the way he leaned into you, how his thumb ran over the pulse in your wrist with one hand and his other thumb pressed into your jugular. He smelled like cigarettes and old books up close, he felt warm and heavy against you, how he sighed and moaned when you grabbed onto the lapels of his leather duster to pull him in closer. Every time you opened your eyes all you saw was his dark and brooding set gaze at you from behind heavy lids and the sight was too much for your heart to handle so you close them again, Gerard pulling you closer.

Any closer and you’d become one.

Maybe you wouldn’t be so lonely then.

His head ducks down, nosing your neck and the hand the occupied your throat drops down to your waist. A hot tongue licks your pulse and you gasp, eyes rolling in the back of your head. A black jean clad leg slips between yours, and you’re effectively pinned against the brick wall.

“Missed you…” he moaned, teeth scraping against your skin. “Missed seeing you, being around you, talking to you…” a hand snaked around and pulled you closer by the small of your back. “Fuck me for leaving.”

You gasp and groan, and come to the realisation. That Gerard was a talker, and that you were easily swayed by words. You didn’t even realise that Gerard even liked you this way until about twenty minutes ago. How long has he harboured a crush on you? Had he thought of kissing you often? As often as you thought of kissing him?

He said other things, salacious things, directly in you ear as his hands moved up and down your body, hot breath puffing against the shell of your ear as he occasionally dipped down to kiss you or give you love bites along your neck.

You desperately wanted to do something besides just being there, allowing yourself to be kissed and bitten and wooed. You wanted to move, kiss back, make Gerard as flustered as you were; but the skin to skin contact, the affection, the confirmation of attraction overwhelmed you so much you almost choked up.

In fact you did.

A small sob crashed through your lips as tears welled in your eyes.

The sound causes Gerard to straighten up, and he quickly took in the sight of you crying and stepped away from you, concern of his face.

“Shit- I’m sorry.” He rushes out. “Fuck I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry!”

The separation makes you feel cold and lonely again and your stomach swoops in dread because Gerard, beautiful, wonderful Gerard, is now looking at you like some fragile breakable thing and you just can’t stand the idea that you’ve ruined all the ground you covered in the last hour, and that after this he’ll never want to talk to you again. Boys don’t like people who cry when you kiss them.

Fog begins to seep into the alley, coming off from the street and the dead end a few yards away from you. You don’t try to comprehend how fog just manifested from no where, you just sob again because Gerard was going to shun you out for being too damn weird and unapproachable.

You babbled apologies, heart clenching, trying to verbalise that you were fine, that he didn’t do anything wrong, just that you were fucked up about everything and he should probably just ignore you forever after this.

The fog became thicker and you shiver at the coldness it brings. You sob again, hiding your face in your hands so you can stop looking at the man’s beautiful and worried face.

God, you wished that the wall would swallow you up entirely; you wished you could just disappear and stop being such a nuisance; you should’ve just gone home and killed yourself.

So a brief second, the sound of the air about you had changed. The music leaking through the wall stopped, cars were no longer passing by the mouth of the alley, you didn’t hear the wind shake the plastic lid to the dumpster, you even stopped hearing Gerard’s breath in front of you. The silence was deafening, frightening. For that second, you felt utterly, terribly alone. Like you were the only person in the entire world.

And just as soon as the sounds of the world were gone, they were back. Cars hitting the puddle on the road, early aught goth music seeping through the brick, and Gerard saying your name with desperation.

Warm warm hands clasp your shoulders and you finally peer through your fingers to see the man, lipstick smudged and hair frizzy from the fog. He eyes looked wild, fearful, and he gripped your person so tightly like a life line, like you’d runaway if he let go.

Gerard says your name very lowly. And your sobbing ceased at his tone. Oh god, he was going to yell at you or something, you were certain. He was going to call you a freak and that he never should have even bothered with you in the first place-

“You need to breathe.” He commands. “Look at me, and breathe; be here with me right now, get out of your head.”

Your eyes dart wildly around the alley, not wanting to meet his gaze. God, why couldn’t just be normal for once-

A small pang of pain snapped across your brow, right between your eyes.

You look ludicrously to Gerard, eyes moist from tear and voice shaking from crying. “Did you just flick me?” You warbled.

“Yes.” He admits readily. “Now, calm down.”

His word sounded normal but felt… staticky in your ears. Like tv fuzz was playing just under his voice.

Almost instantly your breathing evened out and you no longer felt the desire to cry; your mind wasn’t filled with self-hateful thought but now just focused on Gerard, who was watching you carefully.

Reaching into the pocket of his duster, he pulls out handkerchief, and wipes at your face, sighing. He looked expressionless, and you feared the worse.

“I’m… I’m not great at this.” He says softly, stowing the cloth back into his coat. “I always go too fast, I’m told, It’s just-“ he screws his lips together as he thinks. “I- I feel like if I left you alone for too long, you’d forget about me, and I just wanted to make sure you didn’t think I’ve lost interest in you, I didn’t even think that I’d, well, overwhelm you like I did.”

You swallow thickly, considering his words.

“I never knew you were interested in me.” Was all you can say.

Gerard sighs. “Yeah, I’m piecing that together now.” He winces. “I had it in my head that this was a long time coming for both of us, I never stop to think that I might be surprising you with my sudden infatuation. I’m sorry.”

Your mouth is already opening to forgive him when he silences you with a cool look.

“I… must’ve freaked you out pretty badly, huh?” He questions, moving closer to you, but refraining from touching you again.

“It’s not that you freaked me out,” you’re quick to answer, “it’s just… yeah, it came out of nowhere to me.” He looks down casted and you wait a moment before speaking again. “I like you so much, Gerry.” You confess, voice creaking with emotion. “I’ve just been so lonely, and it’s hard for me to think that you’d like me too.”

He looks to you, sympathetic. And he nods to himself before extending one hand to yours, gently grasping your fingers.

“How about we do this a little more properly?” He suggests. “Would you like to go to dinner with me?”

You almost laugh at how hopeful he looks, like you would say no.

The idea of dinner was nice, but the thought of going back to your empty apartment scares you now. Being alone again scares you; the idea of someone not watching you scares you because what if you get lost in your own head again and this time the silence wouldn’t disappear after a second.

“Tonight?” You ask, stomach twisting. It’s wasn’t exactly early evening any more, by all rights he could deny you.

He nods, decisively and eagerly. “My place?” He suggests.

A smile fights its way across your face. “Scary movies too?”

Highly amused, Gerard smiles, and pretends to think for a moment. “Well, if we do that, you might be too scared to go home by yourself.” He reasons.

“Sounds like I’ll need to sleep over, then.”

“Brilliant.”

#gerard keay #gerry keay #Gerard Keay x reader #Gerry Keay x reader #tma #the magnus archives

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isopodcowboy · 16 days

Text

A Night In The Archives

_______________________

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims

Blurb: Martin finds Jon asleep in his office

Warnings: none

Note: Not proofread, sorry for any mistakes I haven't written a fic in ages

"Statement ends."

Jon finished with a sigh. His voice low as to not disturb the atmosphere around him. With only the subtle ticking of the clock on the wall to break the silence that remained after he was done talking.

It was late, around twelve or so. While he was no stranger to late nights, this one was particularly harsh given the lack of sleep he'd gotten the previous few nights.

He felt his eyes drooping as he turned off the tape with a small click. A yawn filling the space, his hand reaching up towards his face to try and wake himself up a bit. It did little to subside the aching tiredness he felt, so it came as no surprise that soon after his head was resting on his arms. Sleeping softly, still seated at his desk.

Martin's footsteps echoed softly down the Archive's floors. He'd been staying at the Magnus Institute for a few weeks. It wasn't his preferred place to stay, but it was better than being trapped in his house. Awaited on by Jane Prentious and her myriad of writhing worms that wanted only to dig into his flesh. He shuddered at the thought, returning his attention to what he was doing.

He'd gotten up for a glass of water, having woken up just a few minutes ago. Trudging sleepily towards the bathroom, mug in hand, he noticed that the lights to Jon's office were still on. The light from under the door illuminating the hall softly.

'Is he still working?' Martin thought. It wasn't an odd thing to see Jon working this late, usually recording statements. He was a bit puzzled however when he heard that there was no noise coming from the room. It was completely silent.

He didn't want to intrude on the man's work, but he couldn't help the small pang of worry in him when he heard nothing. Taking a deep breath, he knocked gently on the door, hoping that if he at least knocked, then Jon wouldn't get mad at him if he was just working.

When no answer came, Martin sighed, biting his lip slightly as he creaked open the door.

There was Jon, clearly asleep as his head rested on his desk. His hair strewn around him, his back showing the subtle rising and falling of his breath.

It was a surprising sight to see the Archivist in such a way, but for some reason it made Martin's heart flutter slightly in his chest. He approached slowly, glancing down at the shorter man curiously.

He had to think for a moment, unsure of what to do. On one hand he could wake Jon up and tell him to go home, or he could just leave him. Neither option seemed quite right to Martin, but the latter appeared to be the best at the moment. Not wanting to disturb Jon's rest..even if it was from him sleeping at his desk.

With as quiet of steps he could manage he walked out of the room. Only returning a few moments later with a blanket from his makeshift room just down the hall. As gently as possible he placed it on top of Jon's shoulders. Jon stirred slightly, mumbling something in his sleep though it was too quiet to make out, before relaxing once more.

A sigh escaped his mouth when he saw Jon settle and carefully creeped back towards the door, flicking off the lights before leaving once more.

His heart thrummed in his chest, cheeks ever so slightly red thinking about how..calm Jon looked. It was a rare sight to see him so relaxed, and for whatever reason this made Martin feel a burst of happiness.

While walking down the halls, his mug now filled with water, he couldn't help the small smile that graced his lips.

#the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #fanfic #fluff #martin x jon #jonathan sims #tma fic #tma #martin blackwood #there was an attempt

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amazingmsme · 7 months

Text

You're The Mouse

AN: I was having a hard time wondering just what I wanted to do for the chase prompt, and then I met Distortion Michael & the rest is history! This was an absolute blast of a fic to write, definitely one of the longer ones you'll see this month. I already miss Tim a lot so he gets a nice lil spotlight too. Posting this at 2am because I'm excited & the one time I did that it blew up. Hope y'all enjoy day 6!

It had been a long, tiring day with some rather harrowing statements he had to hear and record himself. His back ached from hunching over the desk for hours without a good break, and he felt tired down to his bones. Even his eyes felt tired, burning from the strain of staring at small font and lack of blinking. He couldn't wait to get home and crash in the couch. It was only Wednesday, which for him didn't bode well for the rest of the week.

He should've noticed the static. That fuzzy ringing in his ears that started out quiet, only to grow in intensity. If his mind wasn't so frazzled, he would've noticed that's not his usual office door.

A chill ran down his spine when he stepped through the doorway and found himself deep in the tunnels.

"Oh God," he muttered to himself, backing up and turning to run, but it was too late. The door was gone, and he ran straight into Michael's arms. Though he didn't remain there for long.

He screamed and started trashing, managing to elbow him in the stomach and stomp on his foot. Temporarily hurt, he recoiled enough for his grip to slip so Jon could free himself. He whipped around to face him once he felt there was a suitable distance between them. Although with Michael, he wasn't sure there even was such a thing.

"What the hell do you want now?" he growled, hands gripping the strap of his messenger bag tightly. Michael let out an echoing, disorienting chuckle.

"Oh archivist, I simply want some fun."

That was quite possible one of the worst things he could've said, at least in Jon's opinion. Because when Michael had fun, people usually ended up dead or insane, or in a cruel twist of fate, both.

"Maybe you should pick up a hobby, like drawing or golfing, or literally anything that involves leaving all of us alone," he suggested, though it felt more like a plea once it left his tongue. Michael let out a shrill giggle.

"You just don't get it, do you?" he asked with a tilt of his head. His wide smile was unnerving. "You're my favorite little toy."

Jonathan's face scrunched up in disgust as he looked him up and down, clearly not amused by his statement.

"Oh get your mind out of the gutter archivist, I didn't mean it like that," he scolded. "It's more like... when you were a child and you'd build fantastic cities out of blocks just so you could watch their destruction at your own hands." He took a step closer. "I'm just looking for a bit of fun amidst the chaos."

His held his hand out in front of him, reaching for Jon. His eyes widened in fear, stumbling backwards. Michael's hand distorted and stretched before his very eyes, long fingers growing in the darkness of the tunnels. Jon was already halfway down the hall.

Michael loved the thrill of the chase. He loved hearing the rapid thud of a racing heart, the panicked gasps for air as they ran for an escape. They were all the same, really, if he thought about it. Just a mindless chase through endless, winding halls that always ended victoriously. (For him, at least.)

Jon was frantic. Why now, of all days? He was so ready to walk through his front door, kick off his shoes and enjoy a nice hot frozen meal on his couch. It really was the least he could ask for, and yet, he couldn't even have that. The only saving grace was the fact that he was in the archive tunnels instead of whatever weird pocket dimension the Distortion liked to trap people in. His lungs ached as his feet pounded against the hard, dirt floor, eyes searching through the dark for something, anything to register with him and give him a clue as to his whereabouts, but it all looked the same.

"Joooon, come out come out wherever you are!" the voice was shrill and empty, the words hollowed out and stuffed to the brim with static. It echoed through the tunnels, and Jon couldn't tell where it came from, but the echo made it sound so fucking close and that sent him into a panic.

He ran ahead, ducking in a small alcove to catch his breath. He felt like he'd put a sufficient distance between them to be safe enough to do so. He gulped down air until the burn in his lungs subsided. He raised two fingers to his neck, checking his racing pulse and willed himself to calm down. Every reaction was just giving Michael exactly what he wants.

He needed to conserve his energy, move slower to remain quiet and keep his wits about him. He was pretty sure he had his bearings now, which was a plus. But if he really was where he thought he was, then they were deep in the underground maze. It took the better part of 30 minutes to even get to this point in the tunnels!

At least he knew where he was, he told himself, forcing himself to focus on the bright side of things. He walked at a brisk pace, a borderline jog really. He wanted to get out of here quickly, but he didn't want to give Michael the satisfaction of causing him to panic.

"Believe it or not, I don't want to hurt you, archivist. I simply want to have some simple, haaarmless funnn together, ehehehehehe!" His voice went shrill and warbly and distorted towards the end of his unnerving giggle so much that it became almost inaudible. And fuck, if it didn't make Jon run.

Could you blame him though? There was no way that- that thing actually meant what it said. It was absolutely going to hurt him. And it was probably going to do so in the most terrible ways imaginable.

Jon hated the deep, guttural scream that ripped from his throat when he rounded a corner and came face to face with the blonde monster.

His feet scrambled on the packed dirt and he was already turning around, but arms that were too long wrapped around him from behind, dragging him back as they retracted to a more normal length. He was screaming and kicking the air, arms fighting to free themselves.

"Shh shh shhhh, would you relax? What part of I don't want to hurt you did you not understand?" he chastised, holding a single finger to Jon's lips to quiet him. He went silent out of shock more than actual compliance.

"I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. Now what do you really want?" Jon demanded, mustering enough confidence to glare him down. Michael just laughed.

"Like I said, I'm just looking for some fun. You humans aren't the only ones who get bored you know," he said condescendingly. Jon remained silent.

"I tend to- peak in, from time to time, just to see how my favorite sheeple are holding up," he mused, causing Jon to visibly cringe and roll his eyes.

"Good to know there's actual reason behind always feeling like I'm being watched," he grumbled.

"Oh no, I'm not the only one, but trust me, I'm your favorite."

"Quite the opposite."

"Well, I will be your favorite," he winked and giggled to himself. "But last week, I noticed you playing with your friends. You looked soooo happy then... I'd like to make you happy like that too, Jon."

What a nice sentiment from such a not nice entity, not to mention he had no clue what he was talking about. "Bullshit, you don't want to make me happy, you want to ruin my life!" he snapped, still continuing his struggle.

"Oh, but can't I do both? Life ruining is such a long process, and I'd really like to hear that laugh in person."

Realization dawned on him the same time terror wracked his body, body going stiff and eyes bugging out. Michael cocked his head, that unnaturally large smile forming into a curious pout.

"Why archivist, if I didn't know better I'd say you look frightened," he cooed. "There's no need for that. You didn't have that look when Martin snuck up on you in the break room," he pointed out.

"You keep his name out your fucking mouth," Jon growled, and in a moment he was pressing into the Distortion's space. He had grabbed him by the shirt collar and jerked him so hard his neck snapped at the momentum, their noses almost touching. A few flecks of spit even landed on Michael's cheek from the force of Jon's rage. It genuinely took him aback before a wicked grin took over.

"Your boy toy's off limits, lesson learned."

"He's not my-" Jon cut himself off, seeing no use in arguing with him. His eyes were closed and he pressed a free hand to his temple. "Look. You said you wanted your sick fun, but all you've done since capturing me is talk. I'm a smart man, I know I can't escape this. But I'm fucking tired, and I just wanna go home, so the sooner you shut up and get on with it, the better."

There was a beat of silence, and then a shit eating grin followed by, "If you wanted me to tickle you already, you could've just said so."

"No, I want to go home you assho-" Jon cut off his own rambling mid sentence as Michael started fluttering his fingers over his sides, prompting him to clamp his mouth shut. He rolled his eyes.

"I'm doing this so I can hear that cute, funny laugh of yours archivist! The longer you hold out the longer I have to tickle tickle tickle you!" his taunt echoed off the walls. Jon flushed and hid his face in his hands.

"Y-you're sohoho fucking weheheird!" His voice pitched higher towards the end of his sentence when Michael tweaked his sides before drilling in his thumb. He tossed his head back with a discordant cackle of his own, seemingly amused by the response.

"Is that really the best insult you can come up with? How adorably pathetic!" he cooed, reaching around with his other hand to knead his belly. Jon writhed in his grip, snickering and squealing with no way to escape.

"Shut up or Ihihi'll- nohoho wahahait!" the threat died on his tongue, melting into frantic giggles. He kicked his feet in the air and gently shoved at the offending tickly hands, but to no avail. He slumped in his hold, leaning back over his arm and covered his face with his hands.

"Oh? And what exactly am I waiting for?" Michael asked, cocking his head. The way he was so calm while picking Jon apart made it all the more maddening. Those long, spindly fingers were able to work their way into every tickle spot they could find, and it was perhaps the most horrendous thing he's ever felt in his life.

"I-Ihihi dohon't knohohow!" he whined, yelping when Michael pinched and prodded at his soft tummy. "Just shuhut up!"

"Hm, I don't think I will. Especially if it gets you all worked up like that," he taunted. Ironically, he started tracing a large spiral over his stomach, closing in on his bellybutton. Jon snorted, covering his face with one hand while trying to push Michael away with the other.

"Ohoho you've gotta behehe johoking," Jon groaned through his giddy laughter, rolling his eyes.

"What? It's my signature, I simply have to," he said casually, closing in on the center of his stomach. Jon's deep chuckles morphed until they were high pitched and bubbly. He was blushing like a fool behind his hand, shrieking and wiggling in Michael's arms all the while.

~~~

Tim had the worst luck. He had been halfway home when he realized he'd not only left his wallet, but his keys as well, at the institute. He backtracked, grumbling to himself the whole time.

He hated nothing more than being alone in the archives. It was bad enough being there during the day surrounded by people, but at night when those endless halls and rooms were empty? It might as well be straight out of a horror game.

He was trying to get to his office as fast as possible, but slowed as he neared Jon's office. The light was off, and he couldn't hear talking, sure, but the door was left open. Jon never left his door open. The sight filled Tim with dread.

"Boss? You still here?" he called out, but received no answer. He walked to the door and peeked inside, greeted only by a dark and empty room.

Maybe he just forgot to shut the door when he left, he tried to reason with himself. But none of them were that lucky, especially not Jon. Still, he went back to retrieve his things and be on his way.

Execpt that's when he heard it.

Muffled screaming. Coming from below.

Tim froze, unsure if what he was hearing was true. He bent down, putting his ear to the floor and listened.

He could just make it out.

"Please, no, have mercyyyyy!"

That was someone pleading for their life. That was Jon pleading for his life... He raced to the trapped doors.

He had the sickening feeling that he'd walk in on Elias standing over Jon's body, having killed him deep within the tunnels just as he did Gertrude. Well not today.

He descended into the tunnels, pausing when he heard frantic, hysterical screams echoing down the halls, but he could swear it sounded like... laughter. And now that he was within the tunnels, he could hear that it was undeniably Jon's.

Just what the hell was going on?

~~~

Jon knew he was going to die here, in these godforsaken tunnels. He had no way of stopping this, and Michael proved to be just as relentless now as he's ever been. And those long fucking fingers of his were absolute torture. Just one hand was big enough to vibrate over his entire stomach and still wrap around to dig into his sides and scribble at the base of his spine. Jon was effectively in hysterics, shrieking and giggling with no end in sight.

He should hate this. Should hate that it was Michael of all people doing this to him, but an overwhelming part of him was relieved that he wasn't subjected to legitimate torture. A more foolish part of him thought that maybe Michael was warming up to them: that maybe he wasn't so downright malicious after all.

And then he felt sharp nails scratching behind both his ears, and that thought was gone as soon as it had arrived. If he hadn't been cackling so loud, perhaps they would've heard Tim calling out for Jon, telling him to just hold on, he'll be right there.

"What the bloody hell are you doing?"

If Jon hadn't been so preoccupied, he'd have jumped and shrieked in fright, though he was shrieking for an entirely different reason at the moment. Michael on the other hand, did startle, having been caught red handed. He almost seemed embarrassed, and dropped him like a sack of potatoes. Jon landed flat on his back, the breath being knocked out of his already breathless lungs. Tim was frozen in place, taking in the scene. He was knocked out of his daze when he saw Jon hit the ground, and he immediately rushed over to help him up.

Jon was gasping and wheezing, face red and hair messy, but he still had that rare, genuine smile on his face.

"Sorry you had to see that, I had thought the archives was empty," Michael said in lieu of an explanation.

"Yeah, it was. Good thing I had to come back," Tim snapped. Michael rolled his eyes.

"Oh please, he's perfectly fine. I didn't harm a single hair on his head."

"You fucking dropped me!"

Michael let out a shrill chuckle. "And that was a complete accident! But you can't really blame me for wanting to have my own fun with you. Especially after everyone else made it look like so much fun."

"Hey, you stay away from him! Only we're allowed to torture Jon like that!" Tim scolded weakly, but it was all he could think to say. Which just made him feel stupid when Michael continued to laugh at them.

"Oh, so you're the only ones who can toy with the archivist, is that it?" he asked tauntingly, cocking his head. Tim opens his mouth to answer, but stops short. Jon is sitting curled in a ball, hiding his face in his knees.

"No, you've got it wrong. We do it because we care about him, and want him to be happy, even if it's short lived. You do it for your own sick kicks!" Tim accused. Jon's head snapped up when he admitted their reasoning for why they always seem to tickle him out of the blue. It brought a shy smile to his face as he recovered from the ordeal.

"... Well that's a rude assumption. I just wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

Tim snorted, "My point exactly." They were all quiet, the three of them engaged in a bit of a stalemate. "Aren't you going to show yourself the door?" he boldly prompted. Jon choked on his own spit in shock.

Michael's smile widened. "You know, I wasn't quite finished yet. And I'd hate for you to feel left out," he playfully threatened, and his limbs stretched ever so slightly as he spoke. Tim took a step back, eyes wide. Jon was just now making to stand, and pointed at him sternly.

"No." He stood up and dusted himself off, glasses askew on his face. He straightened them and cleared his throat. "Haven't you had enough? You leave him, and everyone else alone." And just because he knows better than to trust Michael, added, "That includes me too."

"I'll think about it. It'd be easier if you weren't so fun to tickle. Isn't that right Tim?" Michael asked, even winking at the pair. Jon blushed and turned away, and Tim failed to fight back a smile.

"Heh. Right." He shook himself out of it, glaring at Michael as he stood by Jon protectively. "B-but you just mind your business."

"Ha! Unlikely, diet archivist."

"Hey!" Tim snapped at the insulted and Jon stifled an amused snicker. He was just about to give him a piece of his mind when Michael opened a door that hadn't been there a second ago, standing in the doorway.

"Until we meet again," he waved at them, closing the door behind him, leaving them stunned and alone.

Now that Michael was gone, Tim turned to Jon with a teasing smirk. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah, I'll be fine. I'm honestly... more confused than anything." Tim barked out a laugh and patted his shoulder.

"You and me both."

They began their trek out of the tunnels, walking side by side quietly until Tim broke the silence.

"So, what's it like being tickled senseless by the Distortion?" he asked in a teasing tone. Jon flushed and shot a glare his way, but he had that happy, sheepish grin plastered on his fast, just like every other time they wrecked him.

"Oh, should I have let you find out for yourself?" Jon quipped to mask his own embarrassment.

Tim looked down with a faint blush. "Fair point." A beat, and then, "You know we have to tell the others, right?"

Jon choked on his own spit, and Tim stopped walking to give him a moment. He looked at him expectantly, while Jon looked at him with a floored look.

"Are you joking?" he asked.

"As much as I wish I were, no." The shit eating grin on his face said otherwise. "You heard what that thing said. We're all fair game in his eyes." Jon gave a noncommittal hum. "They deserve a bit of a warning, don't you think?" It was true, but he didn't have to be so damn smug about it.

"Yes," Jon begrudgingly agreed through a growl.

"Think it might be best if you made a statement. You know, so we have an accurate account for the record."

Jon groaned and hid behind his hair. "I would literally rather die." Tim barked out a laugh and threw an arm over his shoulders.

"Always with the dramatics! So you're saying you'd rather tell them in person? Look them in the eyes and admit how I saved you-"

"Don't-"

"From the big bad ti-"

Jon didn't think he'd ever been so embarrassed. "Stop!"

"The big bad tickle monster named Michael!" Tim rushed out in one breath, laughing at the flustered squeak he made as he marched ahead. It took him no time at all to catch up, thanks to his long legs. "Oh come on, you know it's funny!"

Jon huffed, unable to hide his lingering smile. "Only because it wasn't you, asshole."

They continued their playful banter back and forth, unaware of the tape recorder that had appeared in Jon's pocket the moment he entered the tunnels, listening in and capturing every word.

~~~

Tim was relieved when he made it back home, slipping his key in the door and stepping inside. Strange, how he didn't seem to notice the change from handle to doorknob.

His eyes flew open when he was met with the sight of an endless, shifting corridor. He felt sick. A chill ran down his spine, his ears were ringing, his head filled with static and he stumbled in an attempt to get his bearings. There was a sinking feeling in his gut, and he felt so trapped.

Michael walked out from the nothingness, grin much too wide for his face. Tim hugged his arms to his body and stepped back, fighting an involuntary smile tugging at his lips.

"Y-you stay back! I'll fuck you up!" Tim cried, bravely putting his hands up, balled into fists and ready to swing. Michael laughed, and it was a sound that unsettled Tim to his very core. He held his hands up, and Tim couldn't help but flinch at the movement.

"Believe it or not, I'm not here to torture you. I'll save that for a rainy day," he added, chuckling at his own joke. Tim lowered his arms, staring at him skeptically.

"Okaaaay. So what the hell are you doing in my home?"

"But I brought you to my home," he corrected, and that wide grin turned just a tad condescending. Tim narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.

"Yeah, through my front door!" he argued before sighing in defeat, pinching the bride of his nose. "So what do you want?"

"I wanted to give you something." Tim perked up, looking at him in shock. He jumped and yelped when Michael was standing right in front of him. He held out the tape recorder.

"A little... souvenir from earlier. I doubt Sasha and Martin will believe you without proof." He placed the tape in Tim's hand, leaving him dumbstruck. "And I really have a hard time believing Jon will corroborate your story, don't you?"

Tim didn't know what to say. "Um... thank you?"

Michael winked at him. "You're welcome." And because he couldn't help himself, he skittered his fingers over his belly. Tim jerked back with a surprised laugh, a blush and a growing look of fear on his face.

"Relax. Like I said, rainy day."

He gave him a small wave and opened a door off to the side and left. Everything melted into his flat, and he was safe in the middle of his living room.

~~~

Jon walked into work the next day as if it were any other, eager to forget the events of last night. He went to the break room for a cup of coffee to start the day and walked in to see Sasha, Martin, and of course, Tim, huddled around a tape recorder. They all wore a look of concern. Well, except for Tim.

"What're you listening to?" he asked. Sasha and Martin jumped out of their skin when they heard his voice, whipping around to meet him. They looked rather guilty, but more concerning, they looked worried.

The next thing he knew, Martin was hugging him.

"I'm sorry, what's-" A voice on the tape interrupts him.

"Joooon, come out come out wherever you are!"

"I-I'm so sorry, we left you here alone, and Tim said Michael got you and-"

"Did he now?" he asked, cocking his head.

"Now Jon, is that any way to speak to your knight in shining armor?"

"Oh please, you're not my bloody knight." He spoke over the sound of his own erratic breathing and feet pounding against hard packed dirt.

"Were you even gonna tell us Michael attacked you?" Sasha asked, brows furrowed with worry. "Because I really doubt it."

Jon floundered for an answer, face going red. "Um- it- look, it really wasn't as serious as Tim undoubtedly made it seem." He glanced up at his smiling face and said, "Would he really be grinning like that if it was?"

Of course, as soon as they looked at him, he schooled his features into a serious expression, but they each caught a glimpse of a fading smirk.

"Okay what's... what's happening right now?" Martin asked, looking between the two.

"You wanna tell them yourself Jon? Or uh, let the tape do the talking for you?" he asked, holding up the tape.

"Shh shh shhhh, would you relax? What part of I don't want to hurt you did you not understand?"

"I don't trust you as far as I can throw you. Now what do you really want?"

Jon refused to meet his friends' gaze as he spoke over his previous conversation. "Look, I'm fine. He didn't hurt me, didn't psychologically scar me, the only thing damaged was my pride."

The tape played on in the background as Jon tried to explain himself. Michael's endless talk of having fun did nothing to calm Sasha and Martin's nerves for past-Jon. "I-I don't really know why he t- uuh, did what he did, but he seemed almost... friendly isn't exactly the word I'd use, maybe tame? Toned down?" That was about the time Michael mentioned the rest of them, and how they all "played" with Jon. A hesitant smile ghosted over Sasha's lips as she thought she knew what he was hinting at, and judging by Jon's reaction, she might be right, but there was just no way... Was there?

"Jon, did Michael-"

"Yes," he cut her off before she could finish the sentence. "Yeah, he uh, said you all made it look like fun, so he decided to try it out," he said, staring at the faded break room carpet.

"Wait, so it's our fault?" Martin asked, and Jon immediately felt guilty for saying it like that.

"No! God no, you guys are just trying to make me loosen up. Michael's just... morbidly curious."

"Right," Tim agreed, suddenly more serious. "He uh, told me he was waiting for a rainy day. So obviously, he has his sights set on all of us. Which is... unnerving to say the least." He locked eyes with Jon, a soft smile on his face. "So I'm not just doing this to fuck with you. But that is an excellent perk!" Jon couldn't help but chuckle. "But I thought everyone deserved a bit of a heads up. And maybe ease some worry while I'm at it." "Where'd you even get this?" Jon asked, pointing at the recorder just as his own bubbly giggles started pouring out.

"Michael gave it to me."

"Very funny." When Tim's expression didn't change, his jaw dropped, "You're serious."

"Where else would I have gotten it from?"

"Fair point."

A loud shriek followed by shrill cackling and snorts emitted from the tape. All heads snapped over to look at him with amused grins and fond expressions.

"Right. Well, I lived through this once already. No need to stick around for a second time," he said, cheeks burning from embarrassment. He paused in the door. "I'm never gonna hear the end of this, am I?"

"Not likely."

"Nope!"

"Absolutely not."

He gave a curt nod, lips pursed together. "Thought so."

#tickletober #tickletober 2023 #tickletober day 6 #michael shelley #michael distortion #jonathan sims #jon sims #tim stoker #martin blackwood #sasha james #the magnus archives #the magnus archives fic #tma #tma fic #tma tickle fic #ticklish!jon

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blasphemous-lies-and-deceit · 3 months

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Jongerry and "Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead"?

I like how you think, anon

"It's late."

"How would you know?" Jon asked distractedly, not looking up from the pages he was organizing. What he'd thought was two statements was actually one, and putting them in order revealed yet more missing pieces that he knew, with that awful Beholding certainty, were in the Archives somewhere. He didn't know where, but he needed to assemble it all together before he could record it and move on.

"Went out for a smoke." Gerry settled himself in the chair across from Jon's desk, examining his face with his deep intense eyes. "Its gotten dark out. Everyone's gone home."

"Good for them," Jon grumbled, feeling briefly envious of his coworkers who had homes to return to, and lives to live outside of the Institute. It seemed more and more difficult for him to leave the Archives with every passing day, and that would certainly feel more concerning if he didn't have a million other worries in his mind.

At least Gerry also seemed to have given up whatever semblance of a normal life he'd had as well, and all but moved into the Archives with him. That made Jon feel inordinately pleased, in ways he could hardly understand. Not just the simple pleasure of companionship, or even the undefined...thing between them that made Jon's chest feel hot and shivery and wild with delight and anticipation. It was something deeper, Beholding-touched, a connection between Archivist and Assistant that gave him the deepest feeling of satisfaction. Gerry was supposed to be there with him, and he was, and that was exactly how it should be.

"Here." Jon shook himself out of his thoughts to slide one of the folders across his desk. "Can you go into Document Storage and find the missing pages for this statement?"

"No."

"...what?" Jon asked belatedly, utterly put off by the unexpected refusal.

"It's late," Gerry said again, giving him a sharp look. "I'm not doing any more work tonight and neither are you."

Jon scoffed at him, automatically resistant to the very idea. The late hour meant nothing when he never left the Archives, and it wasn't like he had a schedule to adhere to. Sleeping was also out of the question, so there was no reason he shouldn't keep working. "You may do so if you wish," he refuted, looking back to his files, "but I need to straighten this out. Go on, then."

"I'm not going anywhere without you." Oh. The tone of Gerry's voice spoke of mischief, even as the words themselves caused a rather different reaction in his chest. Jon tried to level his best glare at Gerry, but of course his favorite Assistant was quite immune to that by now.

"I'm busy-"

"And I will carry you away from your desk if I have to." Damn him, he probably could. Jon quickly dismissed the thought of how nice it would be in Gerry's arms and sat back more firmly in his chair, just to be difficult. Gerry's own glare broke a bit at that, cracking into a rather fond smile at his behavior.

"You know," he murmured lowly. "I have other ways to convince you."

Oh dear. Gerry most certainly did. Jon sucked in a deep breath, feeling his resolve weakening just from the thought. "Don't you dare," he protested weakly, but Gerry was already out of his chair, rounding the desk to crouch next to him, leaning in to put his lips to his ear.

"Give me a reason not to," he whispered, lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath his ear, and Jon melted with a soft sound. He knew he could, he could say no to Gerry's advances if he really wanted to. His Gerry would never push him like that. He had no real desire to keep working, but his stubborn streak still kept him from easily giving in.

"I'd like to see you try," he challenged, and felt Gerry smile before ducking in, littering kisses across his upper neck and hinge of his jaw, cupping his chin gently to keep him in place as he assaulted Jon with affection. It was so tender, so genuine, so lovingly deliberate that what was left of Jon's resolve completely crumbled away. He leaned towards him with a moan, and Gerry took advantage of his change in position to press in closer, changing the course of his kisses to his lips, gently coaxing his mouth open to kiss him deeper, making a pleased noise of his own at Jon's compliance. It was so truly good, the best thing in his life, that Jon wanted to drown himself in Gerry's kisses, and drag him down with him.

"It's working, you know," Gerry told him between kisses, his hands stroking Jon's hair back from his face.

"What is?" Jon rasped out, completely uncaring about anything that wasn't his Assistant.

"You're not working anymore," Gerry gloated, kissing him again before Jon could register his words. "You might as well call it a night." He rose slightly out of his crouch, one arm sliding around Jon's back to pull his hips to the edge of his chair. "Let me take you to our spacious and luxurious cot and distract you some more, doesn't that sound nice?"

"It certainly does," Jon agreed with a sigh, thoroughly and mindlessly enchanted by Gerry's kisses and words. Gerry scooped him out of his chair just as easily as he imagined he could, and Jon made no noise of protest as he was carried out of his office. Gerry was far too good at distracting him.

#jongerry #gerry keay #jonathan sims #rebelwriting

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magistralucis · 2 months

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Home sweet home [Trazyn/Orikan snippet]

(Working on a full version of this necrontyr Trazyn/Orikan request from @beril66 from some weeks ago. This is a snippet near the very beginning of the fic. Trazyn accepts Orikan's invitation to visit his private sanctum, under the condition he refrain from touching things without permission; given that they're flirting shamelessly before they've had the chance to sit down, you can see where this will end. 😂

Fic will be NSFW but this snippet isn't. Just two wise men having a wander.)

------------

"By the gods." Trazyn exclaimed in a whisper as they stepped past the door. "What is that?"

So Sannet had kept his secret, after all. Orikan was pleased. "It is the void, my lord."

"Over Mandragora?"

Orikan nodded. Trazyn had little choice but to accept it for the time being, but through the initial minutes of their entry he kept glancing up in disbelief. After all, despite the cryptek's claims, this void contained absolutely nothing of the Mandragoran skyscape.

The sanctum was about the size of a banquet-hall. Shelves and desks partitioned out each section, and the boundaries of the room's ceiling melted permanently outwards to a night sky swirling with stars. Since Trazyn had seen the tower building was domed, sealed over in other words, this was unusual; what was more, the skies over Mandragora were hazy at this time of year, whereas the sanctum's void was as clear as nowhere on the planet was. The works of sandstorms, towering industrial complexes, and falling stars did not exist in this place. Frozen in time, the mastery of chronomancers.

"Please come in. There's so much more to see."

Trazyn's cane clicked softly on the ground. Orikan lit a gauss-lamp and slipped his hand into the lord's. Save for starlight that was the only sort of illumination in the sanctum, glowing from standing braziers and orbucula studded along the walls, tinting everything viridian.

Laid out on a platform were several pieces of sempiternal weave, given to me by the Ogdobekh to examine, lord archivist. Lining the shelves were the tomes Orikan had collected over a lifetime of learning, including the ones recently gifted to him by Trazyn, copied in the archivist's own exquisite hand. Small elaborate glassworks dotted one cabinet, each refracting trapped light into infinite pools, hints of his interest in plasmancy. Trazyn rather thought they resembled Orikan's eyes. "Green they are, as green as spring, yet simmering with the void's furnace. They seem to me the way you gazed when we were met for the first time."

"Really?"

Orikan looked askance at him, somewhere between startled and smiling. It was not generally accurate to claim the Diviner saw anybody, for his eyes held the emptiness of oracles, forever unfocused and unbound to present realities. Most necrontyr lords felt this to be unbearably insolent (one of the many reasons why chronomancers went veiled) so for an overlord to remark on it fondly was a change. "I confess I'm skeptical they seemed like anything, since I was under my veil at the time."

"Now the master doth protest too much," Trazyn sighed in mock-aggravation, much to the Diviner's delight. "I still saw you, Orikan, we were many days at Gheden together. Do you not recall the tea-breaks, those long recesses, the banquets we the Nihilakh threw in honour of our guests? You had to lift the cloth sometime."

Orikan stifled a laugh. In those days he'd been an untiled cryptek, and Trazyn a young brash lord of Gheden, and they had probably spent more time being scolded by their respective dynasties than talking to one another. Still, they'd made an impression. "But then it isn't right to say it was the first time, would it?"

They moved further into the sanctum. Homelike objects began to appear, tea-things and cushions and robes hanging against the wall, and Trazyn surveyed each aspect with a different kind of fascination than before. "Whether it was or wasn't, it was enough times to promote your starlit eyes to truth. You look at me perfectly well nowadays, I've years of empirical evidence to prove it." He glanced back, fondly exasperated. "For the love of the solar gods, Orikan, would you rather I said they were dull?"

In other words: it's a compliment, dear one, learn to take it. The astromancer thought that was fair. "I suppose not, my lord."

"Trazyn." The archivist turned fully to face him, their hands still joined in the middle. Already his flesh burned with want. "You know you may call me Trazyn, like before. I'd rather gotten used to it."

Orikan smiled playfully. "Lord."

At that the archivist broke his word and drew the cryptek into an embrace, kissing him fiercely at once. Orikan allowed it, for as far as silencing methods went, he enjoyed this one greatly. With that they established that the rules were malleable that night, and that with a little patience and creativity, something wonderful might come of it.

#warhammer 40k #wh40k #trazyn the infinite #orikan the diviner #orizyn #necrontyr #snippet #fanfiction #necrons #necron #i've been thinking a lot about how those two might play with formality within their language(s)#since reading through the french version of I&D (wasn't expecting them to vousvoyer each other)#maybe orikan has a penchant for doing the opposite of what trazyn wants formality-wise #informal and disrespectful during their earlier years then becoming polite and coy when trazyn would rather they were informal instead #can't be kept too far nor too close. probably drives trazyn mad (but mostly in good ways; since he's really tolerant of insolence)

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drabblesandimagines · 4 months

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Hi there! I was wondering, how difficult would it be to write a short/drabble with Joshua and a reader who use sign language and Joshua is learning about it for her? and there is this sweet moment where he sign her that he loves her but he makes a mistake but she understand and correct it and he is crestfallen but she kissed him? (sorry, is that too detailed?). I had this idea but didn't tried it... not sure how easy/complicated it would be. so feel free to say no XD

I've given it my best! x

-- Joshua Rosfield x D/deaf female reader* *I am not hard of hearing or deaf myself so may have glaring errors!

Lady Tabitha smiles as she repeats the sign once more to her student before her – he’d been shy at her request. She was honoured when the Phoenix had approached her one evening, enquiring about lessons in signing. Everyone in the Undying was well aware of how thoroughly Joshua threw himself into all manners of study – he seemed determined to make it through every tome in the sanctum’s library and more besides – but it is wonderful to see him pursuing a subject now that is so dear to his heart, rather than the responsibilities expected of the Dominant of the Phoenix.

She nods in approval as he practices. “I do think you are ready, your grace.”

Joshua thought you’d been ignoring him at first when he’d entered the shelves in pursuit of a particular volume. He hadn’t seen you there before, though he vaguely recalled Cyril mentioning a new archivist had started in the Tabor shelves. As he had entered the large chamber, he’d found you sitting behind a desk, eyes firmly fixed down upon a book and seemingly unacknowledging of his greeting, despite repeating it a few times. It was only when he had placed his hand down on the table besides yours that you had jumped in fright and looked up, apologizing profusely, both with words and somewhat flustered fingers.

Joshua is ashamed to think back of the way he stared at you then, bemused by what you were doing.

It was look you’d often experienced. “I cannot hear,” you explained – he’d leaned in closer then, so you thought you must be speaking too quietly – it’s been a challenge to regulate your volume ever since you lost your hearing after being kicked by a Bighorn as a child. “I can lip read, though.”

“My apologies, my lady.” He grows as red as his cowl then, embarrassed. “But may I enquire what you are doing with your hands?”

You smile. “Sign language – it’s how others who are deaf or hard of hearing communicate, especially as some cannot write or speak.”

“Fascinating.” And you knew he meant it.

A relationship had slowly flourished from his daily visits – sometimes more than once a day. You were an avid reader after all, and a font of knowledge about the tomes held within the shelves, and Joshua found himself often retreating there to read by your side.

You’ve been reading side-by-side for a while now, cosied up on the small bench he’d had brought into the shelves for your reading sessions, but you could tell he isn’t entirely settled this evening as he keeps shuffling his position.

You place your hand gently on his arm to catch his attention, always worried you’ll accidentally shout to start a question. “Is everything all right?”

“My lady,” your eyes widen as instead of focusing hard on his lips, you read his fingers instead as he begins to sign. “I have something I wish to confess.”

“Joshua!” You gasp in delight. “This is your confession?”

“Not quite.” He pauses then, your eyes flick back to his lips to see if he’s struggling, but soon his fingers move again into a position and you move your focus from his mouth to half-recognize the sign. You frown, tilting your head a little before looking back at his face, seeing a hesitant smile on his lips.

“Again, please.”

“I love you.” He murmurs the words along and you grin, taking his hand and pushing his ring finger down into his palm in demonstration to fully complete the sign. His shy smile falls in realization that his grand confession – what he hoped would be a beautiful act of declaration of love - has been ruined by sloppy fingers.

He goes to apologise, but any such notion is cut off when you press your lips against his, kissing him fiercely.

#ghostdogwrites #ghostdogasks #joshua rosfield x reader #joshua rosfield x you

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hello-eeveev · 1 year

Text

Beau had half a mind to march over to the Candles and kill Ludinus Da’leth herself, if only so she didn’t have to spend another day looking over the same documents, trying to find something they could use to get him out of power. She didn’t trust him—hadn’t from the start—but the more she walked in similar circles, the more she had to deal with the Assembly’s bullshit, the more she was convinced that whatever Ludinus was up to at any given moment, it couldn’t be good. But he had spent centuries navigating Dwendalian politics; of course he knew how to cover his tracks well.

She was halfway through plotting out the assassination when Caleb, who was sitting at the desk across from her, closed his book and looked up at her. “It’s five o’clock,” he said.

“Finally.” Beau sagged in her chair, taking in a deep breath. As she exhaled, she let thoughts of work fade from her mind. Once she felt suitably non-murderous, she slapped her hands onto her desk and stood. “Let’s get going then.”

She and Caleb fell into their routine as easily as they fought side-by-side. Caleb collected all the files and documents and organized them as he saw fit, while Beau stacked the books in the order that she knew would be most convenient for whoever reshelved them. Then they switched. Beau ran the papers back to her tiny office and locked them in her desk drawer, and Caleb passed off the books to the nearest archivist to be put away. When they met back up, Caleb walked Beau all the way to the teleportation circle on the other side of the Archive. Outside of going home to Yasha, this was Beau’s favorite part of the day, because regardless of what they ended up talking about, they made sure that, for at least these fifteen minutes, neither of them had to think about their country’s corrupt systems and the horrible people running them.

By the time they arrived at the teleportation circle, her half thought-out plans of murdering the Martinet had been shoved into the back of her mind by Caleb’s fond tales of the kids he tutored and the progress they were making.

She really hoped he would take the Soltryce job, if not for the good he would do there, at least for himself. He seemed so happy when he talked about teaching, almost as much as when he was nerding out about spells with Essek or Veth.

The caster in charge of the circle beckoned Beau into the center of the room, and she jogged into position as they began drawing the sigils for the Zadash Archive circle.

“Hey, so tomorrow night, Yasha’s trying out a new recipe that she got from Martina,” Beau said, turning to face Caleb who lingered at the edge of the casting space. “It’s a stir-fry sorta thing that she learned on a trip to the Menagerie Coast. I think it’ll be really good, especially if we use some of your green beans. You down?”

The invitation was more of a formality at this point. Caleb joined them for dinner almost every weekend. But Caleb shifted awkwardly, looking down at his feet.

“Ah, I would love to,” he said, “but I already have plans for tomorrow. Maybe another night.”

“Eating a boba and reading all night doesn’t count as dinner plans.”

Caleb huffed a laugh. “No, it is a, um…” He picked at some fuzz on his coat sleeve. “A date.”

“Wha—” Beau blinked. Shook her head and blinked again. “What? With who?”

Caleb caught her gaze, expression completely neutral except for a growing redness on his face. “A friend,” he said.

She furrowed her brow. “I’m gonna need a little more information than that, dude.”

He glanced down at the runes being drawn beneath her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him run his thumb over the ring on his index finger—his Ring of Telepathy, it looked like—and his voice entered her mind.

“Essek.”

Beau’s eyes widened, but then the bastard smiled and waved like nothing happened. “Have a nice evening, Beauregard.”

Faster than she could run over and punch that smug look off his face, the chalk on the floor flashed and suddenly she was back at the Zadash Archive.

She fumbled for her Sending Stone. “Fucking piece of shit—I’m gonna—” She yanked it out of her pocket and activated it. “Caleb!” she shouted. Some poor young monk tried to greet her while an older expositor threw a stern expression her way, but Beau paid them no mind. She was already running out the door.

“The fuck kinda timing was that? What do you mean you’re going on a date with—” Shit, she couldn’t use Essek’s name in the middle of Zadash. “—with him? When did this happen? How? Who else knows?”

“You are the first, unless someone else has figured it out already,” he replied. “Unfortunately Sending is limited to twenty-five words, so I cannot say more. Goodnight, Beauregard.”

“I know for a fact that’s not how these Sending Stones work, you asshole!” She did a quick count of Caleb’s message in her head. Twenty-six words.

She could practically hear his shit-eating grin in the silence that followed.

Forget Ludinus, she had another wizard to kill.

Before long, Beau was sprinting up to her house. She waved off Martina’s sickeningly sweet hello and threw open her front door.

“Yasha!” she yelled. “Babe, you’re not gonna believe what Caleb just told me. Can you message Jester today?”

#cr fic #ficlet #Caleb drops the ‘Essek and I are dating bomb’#and has the best/worst timing about it #empire sibling shenanigans #beauregard lionett #caleb widogast #shadowgast #eve’s writing #I’ll put it on ao3 whenever I come up with a decent title lol

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waterfallofspace · 4 months

Text

What A Way To Start A Year

T/im learns a little something about karma, friends, and care. Seems even J/on isn't quite as cold as he seems.

A M/agnus A/rchives fic, set somewhere pre-season 1. Shouldn't have any spoilers, but proceed with caution just incase~ (nothing late game, just character dynamic things)

Welcome to "I meant for this to be a little drabble and I wrote 3k words"~ Having a bit of hyperfixation and burn out as I started this new year, soooo I decided to make T/im suffer <3 Not promising quality seeing as I wrote this all in the span of tonight, but consider it a lil 'too long' drabble, and happy new years!

Best way to start off the new year, giving one of your lil guys a lil snz <3

Characters: T/im, M/artin, S/asha, and J/on. Word Count: 3.9k

(CW: There is some swearing, and light descriptions of high fevers)

Christmas had been good this year, maybe the best it had in a long time. Life of the party as always, Tim had enjoyed getting to spend it with his old, and new, colleagues. On top of that, Jon had been laid up with a pretty awful cold for a couple days leading up to it, so he wasn’t around to crush any brilliant ideas Tim came up with.

This led to the budget receiving a fairly substantial hit, though many researchers donated to the cause when they learned this borrowing wasn’t exactly approved. Hell, even Elias had pitched in, claiming something or other about ‘archivists fit for the job not exactly growing on trees’, and wanting to ‘save some of Jon’s sanity’.

“Tim? Are you even listening to me?”

Pulled back to the conversation at hand, Tim lifts his gaze to the taller man fidgeting nervously in front of him. Martin was never one for confrontations, and usually the first ‘no’ would have been more than enough to lead to a string of apologies for even asking. Today however, he seems to have grown a spine. At the worst possible moment.

“Oh come on,” Martin continues, missing the groan slipping from Tim’s throat. “Even Jon agreed to it!”

“I’m not really in the party mood,” Tim retorts, leaning back in his chair. “Besides, Jon didn’t agree to celebrate, he agreed not to stop the celebration. Not the same thing.”

From across her desk, Sasha gives a low chuckle. “He’s got you there, Martin.”

“Can you at least give it a little thought before turning it down?” Martin insists, completely out of character for someone usually so eager to please.

What the hell has gotten into him today? He didn’t even seem to enjoy himself that much at the Christmas party. Sure, he had a few drinks and mingled with the staff, but he’d left as soon as it was over, not waiting around for chatting like Tim and Sasha.

Clearing his throat with a grimace, Tim casts Sasha a dark look as she chuckles again. Knowing far too much, as usual. Especially when it came to him. If it was anyone else, Tim would hate it with all his being, but given that it’s Sasha… well it’s a welcome invasion.

Still, it would be nice if she didn’t rat him out. And to Martin of all people, well let’s just say he saw what happened when Jon was sick. Yeah, passing on that one. Attention is great, Tim lives for it, but the coddling? Not really his style.

“hiEH– guh…”

Damn, that had been a close one. Thankfully Martin seems oblivious, though Sasha sits up in her chair, reaching down into a drawer to fish something out.

Turning his focus back to Martin, Tim provides an offer, desperate to just have the interaction come to an end.

“Fine, I’ll show up, but I don’t want any part in planning it.”

“Oh of course, I’ll handle all the details, I mean it’s just a new years party, how much can there really be to do? I mean food, timing, gotta make sure we have keys to the building– oh but if Jon’s there, that shouldn’t be a problem…” Martin says, rambling beginning to fade into the background as Tim finds himself unable to-

“hH– ek’CHhiew!”

“-Oh, bless you!” Martin says, his own thoughts long forgotten.

Unable to get a word out, Tim merely waves a hand, ducking into his shoulder for another, “eTChhew!”

“Bles-”

And another, “iTSChh’ew!”

“Oh ble-”

And another, “ehh– kTChh’iew!”

Silently Sasha stands, handing Tim a pack of tissues. Must have been what she was looking for in the desk. Once again, knowing more than she should, of course she picked up on his patterns.

Accepting them gratefully, Tim pulls a few out and roughly rubs at his nose, pointedly avoiding Martin’s worried gaze. Gripping his still trembling nose through the tissue, Tim sucks in a tight breath through his teeth, holding for a beat, before finally spinning around in his chair for a final-

“hH’ETCSHh-ieuw! Whew, bless me.”

Martin’s hands are fidgeting again, seemingly unsure of what to do with himself as Tim gives his nose a light massage through the tissue. He’s aware enough not to point it out, but is nearly shaking with the effort of suppressing his concerns.

With a sigh, Tim meets his eyes. “I’m fine, Martin. I always sneeze like that.” He leaves out ‘when I’m sick’. It also happens if he’s suffering allergies, though he doubts that would be a point in his defense given it’s the middle of winter.

“Yeah he’s not kidding,” Sasha pipes up, throwing Tim a wink as he glares. “You should hear him in spring, once it starts he can be going for hours.”

“I wouldn’t say hours, Sash-”

“Remember the cherry blossom incident?” Sasha interrupts, sending a sugary smile over to Martin. “He was wrecked for the rest of the day, I was almost certain he was never gonna stop. Even considered giving a statement here, that reaction was almost supernatural.”

Tim winces, an audible moan slipping from his lips. “We swore to never speak of it again.”

Sasha laughs, Tim giving her another playful glare from behind his tissues. “You swore that, I did no such thing.”

Thankfully Martin doesn’t pry, having enough common sense to offer a polite chuckle, and offer some excuse about ‘planning’. Still, he can’t help himself from shooting a meek “I hope you feel better soon” over his shoulder, Tim giving him finger guns in return.

“This is karma, you know,” Sasha calls after Martin’s outside earshot. “You took pleasure in Jon’s suffering, so now it’s your turn to suffer the same fate.”

“No, thi- eTChhew! Scuse me,” Tim says, rubbing his nose with the tissue one last time before depositing it in his nearly overflowing trash can. Another tissue is plucked as his eyes begin to water, nostrils flaring with reckless abandon. Never just one.

“kTChh’uew! hh’iTChh –uew! Tihhckles… eTCHh! etchh’uh! hiehh–”

The last one toys with him, tracing the rims of his nostrils, back up his sinuses, a gentle itch that seems to burn against every inch of his nose. Finally, with a desperate gasp, Tim ducks into his wrist for the last, “heh’ATChhh –iew!”

“Many blessings. Sounds like you need them,” Sasha offers with a wince, tossing another pack of tissues over, which Tim catches with a single hand, the other still gripping his nose.

After taking a moment to clean himself up, Tim shoots her his signature smile, ignoring the eye roll she shoots back. “Where was I?”

“Admitting this is karma?”

“It’s not karma, it’s lack of common sense. Going to a party where a coworker is sick, and still drinking and eating the same meals” Tim says, aiming a rough cough into his sleeve.

Sasha winces once more at the quality of the cough, hands rummaging through her drawers once more as she tosses a reply back. “And yet you’re the only one who caught it. Seems like karma to me.”

Closing the distance between them in a single stride, Sasha places a hand on Tim’s shoulder, voice softening. “It’s two days till new years, why don’t you go home and try to get some rest? I doubt Martin will object, and I’ll cover for you with Jon.”

Before Tim can form his rebuttal, Sasha places a box of paracetamol and a jar of vapor rub in front of him. Nodding his thanks, Tim lets out another harsh cough into his arm, leaning as far away from Sasha as he can manage.

With a light rub to his shoulder, Sasha walks to the door, holding it open with a pointed look. “Go home, you sound awful.”

“Alright, alright. I got the message. hH’ETchhiew!” Tim says, gathering his care package and beginning his walk down the hallway.

“If I hear the rest of that fit happening in this building, I’m telling Martin how ill you really are,” Sasha calls after him, a smile flashing over her face as Tim holds up his hands in mock surrender, before ducking back into his arm with another muffled burst.

—

“You look horrible.”

Tim manages a weary smile from behind the tightly wound scarf. “Thagk you.”

Martin winces, standing in the doorframe, seemingly oblivious to the winter chill soaking into Tim’s bones. Even just the walk from the train station was hell on earth, standing out here is doing him no favours.

Turning away with a throat scraping cough, Tim manages to clear the congestion enough to finish the sentence somewhat understandably. A great feat, given how fast his voice is retreating. “May I remind you that I’m only here because you insisted.”

“Right, well I… I didn’t know how bad-” Martin begins, realizing spreading across his face like a wildfire as a chill leaves Tim breathless. “Oh god, I’m making you freeze to death while you’re already this sick, I’m so sorry, come in, I’ll go make you a tea.”

Tim nods his thanks as he piles inside the warm institute, cursing his aching lungs as each breath of warm air seems to burn them from the inside out. Martin rushes away, nearly crashing into a few researchers as he makes his frantic dash for the kitchen.

The scarf is reluctantly removed, a shudder running through Tim’s back as the warm air does nothing to soothe what he’s now certain is a growing fever. A few researchers wave to him, offering some idle chit-chat as he makes his way inside.

For the most part, people give him a wide berth, apparently he looks as bad as he feels. Tissues in hand, gripping them like a lifeline, Tim finds his way to a couch and lets himself sink into it. The party buzzes around him, fading into background noise.

Martin returns soon after, the mug vibrating slightly as he attempts to steady his hand. “I wasn’t sure what kind you’d want, we have a pretty limited amount, but I have a few extras in my desk– oh I could have probably found one for colds and flus, I’m not sure which this is, I thought cold before but you look-”

“Martin,” Tim interrupts, voice cutting uncomfortably through his raw throat. “Can I have the cup?”

“Oh, right, sorry!” Martin says, a sheepish grin crossing his face, nerves more than anything else, as he hands Tim the mug. Tim gives another appreciative nod, taking a cautious sip.

The warm liquid feels like heaven against his throat, and he barely manages to choke back a whimper. The flavour is still a mystery, Martin never actually got to that part. Given how little he can taste at the moment, seems it’s gonna remain that way. Still, the heat beginning to warm his chest is a welcome relief, and Tim has to fight to keep his eyes from drifting shut…

“Watch out!”

The voice rouses him, his eyes snapping open just in time to witness Jon dropping to his knees in front of the couch. The realization doesn’t sink in for another minute, Tim blinking the tired from his eyes and trying to figure out why people are staring… and why there’s a hand on his finge–

Oh, the tea. Thankfully Jon’s reflexes seemed to kick in just in time, his hands guiding Tim’s cup to the table next to him. Judgement clouds the boss's eyes as he turns back, fully ready to chastise Tim, no doubt. Jon opens his mouth, one hand beginning to point, but as his eyes scan Tim’s form, his demeanor changes instantly.

“You don’t seem well.” Jon’s voice is still firm, but with a hint of something Tim can’t quite place. On anyone else, he’d call it concern. On Jon… perhaps concern isn’t far off, though the underlying criticism of the statement irritates him.

“I wonder why that could be? It’s almost as if someone came to the Christmas party sick enough to fall asleep standing. Twice.” Tim says, sarcasm lining his words, alongside the congestion he can’t seem to fully shake.

“Well in that case,” Sasha chimes in, cheerful voice a natural antithesis to the misery coursing through Tim’s system. “Seems you’re halfway there!”

“Hey, I was lying down, that’s hardly the sahh… same thing– hH’ETchh!”

“Here we go,” Sasha says, already turning on her heel to find a tissue box as Tim’s hitches increase in desperation.

“aHTChh’ew! gn’tchhew!”

“Bless,” Jon offers, a brief confusion crossing his face as Sasha laughs, shaking her head.

“He’s not done,” She says, handing over the tissue box.

Tim grabs for it blindly, too caught up in the fit to even attempt dignity. Still, the eyes on him do leave him with a hint of embarrassment, and the onslaught is muffled as best he can manage. “hH’MMpshhew! eMPFShh’ieh! hh’MFSHhueh!”

Blessings sound out from the room, Tim managing to wave a hand towards the ones offering them, eyes still watering. As the fit seems to stall, he lowers his tissues, red nose now visibly twitching.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, the hint of concern from before now plainly evident. That’s frankly more alarming than it should be, and Tim finds himself wanting to… reassure the boss.

“I’m okay, it’s juhh… j-just… huhh–” But it seems his nose has other plans, a tissue being raised once more as Tim paws at the appendage. “‘Scuhhse me, I still have… hahhve to… to… hiHh– eTCHh’ew! hk’ASCHh–oo!”

This time the tickle fades with the final pitchy sneeze, Tim letting out a low groan as he mashes his nose into the ever growing collection of tissues he’s clutching. A few people call out final blessings, Sasha laughing out hers as Tim’s face goes red once more.

Martin picks this time to enter the room with drinks, Tim letting his eyes flutter shut as the focus shifts off his misery. A gentle touch keeps him from drifting off to sleep, prying open an eye to find Sasha settling onto his left.

“Careful, don’t want to catch this,” Tim manages, leaning against his right shoulder to muffle another stream of chesty coughs. Sasha winces as it goes on past the realm of comfort, her hand finding his back.

“Don’t worry about me, I haven’t earned this cold, I didn’t make use of Jon’s or your suffering,” She says, the playful tone not masking the growing worry in her posture.

While she can read him like a book, she’s no mystery to him either. The tension in her fingers, absentmindedly stroking patterns on his back. The way she subconsciously tries to support his body weight, despite them both sitting. The look in her eyes when he manages to stall the coughing long enough to meet them.

With this brief respite from the attack, Sasha takes the chance to bring Tim’s tea back, his fingers wrapping around the warm mug. The first few sips burn, his lungs protesting, begging to return to their efforts to expel all the irritation. By the third, however, the warmth is spreading once more, easing the spasms.

“Alright?” Sasha asks, beginning to stand from the couch. Tim nods his reply, taking another slow sip. “Think you’ll make it till midnight? We’ve still got a few hours to go.”

He nods his approval again, not yet trusting his voice enough to make an attempt. Sasha simply smiles, easing back into the party that– Tim had almost forgotten existed. That fever must be worse than he thought, given how loud it is. A fact that’s now pounding against his head in harmony with his heartbeat.

The party continues on, Sasha and Martin taking turns checking in on Tim as he slips rapidly in and out of consciousness. Seconds turn to hours, and before he knows it, it’s two minutes to midnight.

As Tim blinks against the harsh fluorescent lighting, it’s Jon that stands before him, hand hovering near his side. Tim begins to speak, breaking off into a cough as his voice comes out rough with sleep and congestion.

“What’s up boss?” He manages with the second attempt, not missing Jon’s wince at the nasal quality.

“You simply look… well, the festivities are nearly over, I was just inquiring as to…” Jon seems to get stuck, eyes wandering down to the couch as he finishes. “I know you took the train here, I was seeing if you needed an escort home.”

“How kind, I’d be delighted to have your accompaniment,” Tim responds, the wit clouding the fact he… hadn’t actually considered needing to go home. Jon seems to take this answer as satisfactory, ignoring all the sarcasm as he gives a tight nod and an out of practice smile.

From across the room Martin calls out, something about a countdown. Tim attempts to pull himself to a stand, finding Sasha’s arm around his waist, guiding him to the wall. Leaning against it, he lets his rough voice join the chorus as they count into the new year.

Despite how the lights and noise had pounded into his skull, everyone chanting in unison helps Tim realize that… there actually aren’t that many people here. Aside from his coworkers, there’s only a few researchers, and Elias is not in attendance.

Honestly, thank whatever cosmic being may exist for that one, he had been none too fond of Jon’s arriving sick. Tim shudders to think what he would have said about this state. He shouldn’t have come, but… something about how insistent Martin was… well he just couldn’t disappoint that loveable idiot.

Somehow Tim finds he’s managed to keep up with the counting, despite being worlds away in his thoughts. As they approach the final numbers, a feathery sensation begins to spread through his nostrils- no.

Absolutely not, this is not the time. It’s never just one, there’s not enough people here, someone’s gonna notice. And I mean, it’s not like he’s hiding the fact he feels like death, but… drawing that much attention is also not the goal.

“Five! Four!”

“hiehh- h’ngTchh!” He manages to stifle the first, the congestion pounding in his head as the tickle seems to only get worse.

“Three! Two!”

“I cad’t– nNDtch! nGTCh’uh!”

“One–”

As the cheers begin to erupt, Tim ducks into the tissues with a scraping, “ehg’TCHhiew!”

“Happy new years!”

“yiEShh’iew! etchh’uh! hH’AESHH –oo!” Tim dips into his hands again, managing to sink down against the wall as he lets out a congested blow, ending the fit.

“What a way to ring in the new year,” Comes Sasha’s voice, her form blocking the light from Tim’s eyes as he looks up, fever blurring his vision.

“Shud ub.”

“Christ Tim, you sound awful,” Jon adds, his form appearing behind Sasha’s.

“Thagks boss,” Tim retorts, groaning as he notices a third form, Martin’s nervous fidgeting easy to spot even from this angle. Martin remains silent, though his eyes seem to hold more concern than any of them, and… guilt? Or maybe that’s just the delirium.

Glancing up to meet Sasha’s gaze, Tim offers a weary, “Tibe to go hobe?”

She nods softly, kneeling to help him to his feet, Martin wordlessly taking his other arm. Jon stands off to the side, hesitating. What for, who knows. All Tim can focus on is one step after the other, just gotta make it home, then he can sleep. For the rest of forever, at this rate.

As they get to the door, Martin helps wrap the scarf around Tim’s neck, forcing him to lift it from its perch against Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha, for her part, supports his weight with ease, she was always stronger than she looked.

Martin keeps casting glances towards Tim, obviously fretting over something. Too tired to manage his usual charm, Tim gives Martin the softest look he can manage. “Jusd say id, please. You’re makigg me nervous.”

“I’m so sorry I asked you to come, you’re obviously so unwell, and I know I didn’t really know that at the time, but I should have, or at least texted and checked in, I just… I wanted us all to get along so bad and I thought if you came it would mean more fun because you’re always so lively and good at talking to people and-”

Tim holds up a hand, eyes glazing over as Martin stops short, breath coming almost as rapidly as Tim’s. After a minute goes by, Martin starts to open his mouth, seeming confused by the interruption, before nearly jumping out of his skin as Tim ducks into his fist.

“eTCHh’ew! hH’YEAShh –iew! Sorry, I feld those cobigg… waid– hih’ETCHhew! heAYSHh’oo!” Tim ducks down again, Sasha grabbing him tighter to support the harsh shudders as he attempts to keep his balance.

“Oh bless you,” Martin offers, voice coming out timid. Tim gives him, what he hopes is, a warm smile despite the fever taking hold of the last corners of his mind.

“If I didn’t wanna cobe, I would have stayed hobe. I dod’t blame you.”

Martin nods silently, a relief seeming to flood his face. Taking his place once more supporting Tim, they move towards the exit. Opening the door, the first wave of cold floods the entryway, and a chill so violent runs through Tim that both Martin and Sasha take a step back to brace him.

It’s now that Jon speaks up, voice strained with a type of worry Tim hadn’t heard before. “No, we’re absolutely not doing this, I refuse.”

The trio turn towards him. Though perhaps a more accurate description is that Martin and Sasha turn, Tim simply goes along for the ride. Martin mumbles something about ‘no other choice’, but Sasha asks what Jon’s on about.

“It’s too cold out there, it’s the middle of the damn night, there’s no way I’m letting him go home like this.”

“And what do you suggest we do as an alternative? He can’t stay here-” Sasha begins, pausing as Jon turns towards her.

“Why not? I’m the archivist, this is my archive,” Jon begins, pausing for a moment, before adding, “Well, Elias’s, but I hardly think he’d suggest we send an employee home in this weather while they’re this sick. That’s just bad management, he’ll freeze to death before even reaching the train.”

As if to confirm this assumption, Tim shudders violently, ducking into his chest with a tired, “hh’eshhew! eTCHh’iew!” followed by a heavy sigh. Martin mumbles something about covering, but quickly silences himself as Tim begins to tremble again.

Sasha gives Jon a look, seeming to read him for any hints of doubt, perhaps searching for an ulterior motive. After a brief pause, their eyes meeting, she gives a tight nod, approval of some kind.

“Come on Martin, let’s get him back to that couch, he can sleep there for the night,” Sasha directs, Martin nodding his acceptance.

Tim manages to catch snippets of the conversation as they get him settled. Jon fetching him a blanket he keeps in his office. Martin providing some more tea. Sasha grabbing tissues and medication for when he wakes up. Something about Jon sleeping in his office so he’s not alone, and Sasha coming in early to help him home.

With his final bout of consciousness, Tim holds up a hand, the conversation immediately pausing. “Thagk you guys. And… esSHhh’ew! And, I’b sorry.”

All three stare at him for a minute, before Sasha breaks first. Her laughter fills the silence, Martin joining in soon after, and even Jon letting a few chuckles slip out. When they’ve finally collected themselves, Sasha gives Tim a warm smile.

“Sleep well, Tim. I’ll come fetch you in the morning.”

With a content sigh, Tim lets his eyes drift shut again, his consciousness fading to the soft hum of his friends in the background.

Alright, so maybe coddling isn’t quite so bad after all.

#waterfallwrites #the m/agnus a/rchives #was that my tag?? i think it was ahuguh #anyways i wrote this in a flurry of 'i need to do something about my hyperfixation' induced attention span #took many breaks but all in all took about 6ish hours (including the breaks)#and im kinda proud of myself for just! doing it!!#props to my friend for telling me to 'just write something with no pressure and let it be what it is'#so this is a drabble that turned into an actual fic bc i didnt! pressure myself!#if it sucks it sucks- if it doesnt it doesnt- whatever it is i made it and im gonna be happy with that #plus its t/ma which rn is just... SOOO it for me. i am so hyperfixated #and t/im is my beloved i love this man #and i may possibly try to write about j/ons version of this cold and maybe The Cherry Blossom Incident #but i actually have a different t/ma fic in the works so that one comes first <3 #anyways yes here you go!! i toss this into the void! and see if! anyone wants it!#t/ma #t/im s/toker

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thefederationfiles · 6 months

Text

Uh? Hello?

/click/

Cellbit

Uh, hello? I’m not really sure how to start this... suppose I should introduce myself first, I am Cellbit, the new head archivist of the Federation Census Bureau. Still not entirely sure how I landed this position, but I’m not going to refuse it, a promotions a promotion in my eyes.

I was allowed to pick some assistants to help me out, they didn’t really give me a limit on how many I could pick (that they told me about) but I’ve decide to pick three, from various departments within the federation itself. Roier, from exploration, Fit from the clean-up crew and, Etoiles from security, all pretty chill guys, though sometimes ONE of them can get on my nerves…

But I digress.

My predecessor, Bagi, was a very organised woman, and everything, though weirdly done, is actually rather ordered when you think about it for more than five seconds. However, I personally enjoy audio recordings, if find them easier to listen back to if research is needed. For some strange reason however my usual recording equipment wont work, so here we are! With an old tape recorder I found in the desk here.

Anyways, suppose I should start the recording of the actual statement…

On then!

Statement of Phil… no last name given, regarding how he met his wife. Original statement given 23rd of February, 1934. Audio recording by Cellbit, Head archivist of the Federation, Census Bureau, recorded 27th of October 2023, recording begins.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, why the fuck is HE of ALL people giving a statement, well, consider it a gift! Don’t get so annoyed mate, I only want to repair the relations between us, trust me, just let me tell you my story! It’s a good one.

I first met her when I had supposedly died, I know, very typical of her, but I was just another guy back then! Well, like any self-respecting gentleman, I introduced myself. To say she was confused was an understatement, turns out you’re not meant to be able to speak after death, you’re not even meant to be able to move! Personally, I like to say it was love at first sight, she says, she despised me at first sight. To be fair to her, I was a man who couldn’t die, and her a woman who fed on the dying wishes of men, but plenty of couples have WAY bigger fights when they first meet!

Well, she let me go, I mean she couldn’t really take me, I wasn’t dead. For some reason though, we kept on bumping into each other, always when we were working as well so we could never have a proper conversation. Annoying right? She had to properly prepare the person for consumption, and I always had to get rid of the body! Really hard to flirt when you’re picking up organs that have been thrown against the walls (very messy as well, had to burn that shirt, I liked that shirt…).

To be honest, I always knew that I wasn’t normal, I mean there’s plenty of circumstances I’ve been in where I should’ve died, plenty! I just thought I was a lucky guy, but well, when one survives a hanging, people start to question a bit too much, and well, to put it simply I had to go into hiding! It was rather lonely; I mean don’t get me! It was nice, I made friends with the local crows, they turned into my first murder actually!

Anyways, it was about 25 years or so into this when she visited me, turns out she’d been getting pretty lonely herself! And, well, apparently the other immortal people she knows kept on trying to either fight her or get her to join their own groups, which, just rude! That is not how you get a lady’s attention! So she came to visit since were both so connected with death!

Well, she kept on visiting and eventually I realised everyone who wanted me dead would’ve been dead, so I came out of hiding! That was about 45 years ago, we got married a couple years after and well, you guys know the rest! We started our own group, made a pact with one of the hunts avatars, gotten pretty powerful!

Also I’ve learnt about all the guys and all that, kinda hard not too when you have my job!

Come on now, that’s what you wanted right? A story? A peace offering? Well there you have it! Enjoy, I have a meeting to get too.

/click/

Well. That was certainly something, I found that statement in the drawers of this desk when I was looking for stationery and thought it a good place to start.

I guess you could say I’m in shock? I mean it really just reassured what I’d already known, I knew stuff existed, I kinda needed too…

Either way, kinda hard to get information on a statement that’s nearly 100 years old, Fit was able to get some information on some serial killings from the 1800’s that he reckons might be related, but I say it’s a bit of a stretch.

/sigh/

Well, better than nothing for the first one! I swear I also heard him talking about an old war buddy…

/click/

#qsmp #au #the federation files au #the magnus archives #tma #tma au #cellbit #fanfic #fanfiction #roier #fitmc #philza #ffau #long post

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molly-ghuleh · 8 months

Text

Camellia: Copia x f!reader - Chapter 2

Camellia: n. - A flower which symbolizes a deep desire or longing.

Summary: You start work on Elizabeth's diary, and finally get a good look at Papa.

Word count: 5.5k

A/N: Hey hello, I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's a bit of a monster, but worth it, I promise!

Warnings: Mentions of reader having religious trauma

AO3 Link / Chapter 1

~~~

You’ve been hunched over this damned diary all day.

Sister Imperator was right. None of the Abbey’s translators or archivists would have been able to read Elizabeth’s writing because she had written in a cipher. With no spaces between words and with no obvious keyword to decipher her entries, the first page of her diary looks like nonsense. Just absolute gibberish.

But to you, it isn’t.

With each passing hour you spend at a small table in the restricted room, you admire Elizabeth more and more. She was smart as a whip and even more clever. You figure that, if she wanted her diary to be kept secret, she could have simply destroyed it. Burnt it, ripped it, buried it, dipped the whole thing in black ink—anything surely would have been easier than creating a cipher which has no discernable pattern.

She didn’t destroy it, though. She wrote on each page, front and back until the entire book was filled, and then she hid it. If something is truly never meant to be found, it won’t be. Which leads you to believe Elizabeth’s diary isn’t a diary at all. It’s a record.

A record of what, you have yet to be sure. It is secret enough for Elizabeth to want it to be discovered someday, but only after she is long gone. That intrigues you enough to sit hour after hour over this book, trying every word you can think of that might be the key to the cipher. So far you have crossed off ‘Satan’, ‘Lucifer’, ‘Beelzebub’, and other aliases of the Dark One. You hadn’t expected those to work, because Elizabeth seems smarter than that, but you had to try just to rule them out. You also tried words like ‘chapel’, ‘altar’, and other imagery of the Satanic Ministry, with no luck. You thought perhaps the first five letters of the entry were the key to the second five, or vice versa. You tried again with the first six letters, the first two, three, four. Nothing.

The only words you have been able to read are the dates of each entry, the month and the day, which she wrote in the top-left corner in plain English. Those were not much of an accomplishment to decipher.

You sigh and sit up straight for a moment. Your back is sore after hours of slouching and writing. The once-crisp notebook under your pen is nearly half full of incorrect keywords and mistranslations. The small window on the far wall of the restricted room has grown dark and no sounds echo to you from the hollow of the atrium.

You’d gotten up to find something to eat (and to uncross your eyes) during the dinner hour. Tonight you opted for a hot meal but decided not to stay in the refectory. You don’t know if food is even allowed in the library but all the Siblings who work there were at dinner, so you snuck it in anyways. You aren’t careless, though, so you ate your dinner at a different table, far away from the one where Elizabeth’s diary and your notebook sit open. That had been a few hours ago.

As far as you can tell from the small window in the door, the lights in the library have been dimmed for the night. No one came and fetched you to tell you that it was closing, so you assume it stays open at all hours. Your own desk lamp is the only source of light in the restricted room.

You rise from your workstation and move towards the closed door. Such an enclosed room tends to get stuffy and humid, and it’s still too chilly outside to open a window. You gently prop open the door to let in the relatively fresh air of the library. No one said you couldn’t keep the door open when you’re inside the room, only that the door must be locked when you aren’t.

Returning to your desk, you can already feel the cooler air drifting through the bookshelves. You’re content to work for a few more hours like this. It feels wrong to give up for the night when you have nothing to show yet. It feels wrong to stop working when you have something to prove, and somewhere to return.

The night here is eerily silent. At home in Marseille, if you open your dormitory window and sit on the end of your bed to look out over the water, you can hear the soft lapping of water against the marina docks. If the wind carries just right, you can also hear the creaking of masts and cables as the sailboats list back and forth in the water. Sometimes the gulls stay out at night during the summer months, calling for one another from their perches on a bow pulpit. The breeze carries the saltiness of the water and the sweetness of the hillside wildflowers into your dormitory, illuminated only by a small desk lamp and the moon—

A sound from outside the room breaks you from your reverie. Your consciousness whips back to the present, to the Abbey. The ghostly scent of salt and flowers fades, replaced by old leather and dust and ink from your pen.

You raise your eyes to look through the open door when you hear another sound. There’s no one visible to you—whoever they are must be between shelves, looking for a late-night romance novel to put them to sleep.

You haven’t figured out why the romance section is so tucked away yet. Though, perhaps if erotica is shelved nearby, the librarians would want any wandering hands to stay hidden. Not that lust is shameful here—it’s the Satanic Ministry, it’s actually encouraged—but the library is not the place to get hot and heavy.

Knowing that someone is nearby distracts you terribly, and you decide to stop for the night. The little analog clock hanging next to the door reads past midnight. At this hour, you likely won’t get much done anyway. You need sleep and a proper breakfast to let your mind work.

You take the time to gently wrap Elizabeth’s diary in the white linen and return it to its lockbox. The rest of your things don’t take long to gather, having only brought the one notebook and a few pens, plus your empty dinner box. You close the door behind you as you exit, fishing through your habit pocket to find the key. It and the key to your dormitory are affixed to a single keyring which jingles as you fumble with it one-handed, but you lock the door successfully and turn to make your way to the staircase.

Rather, you try to make your way.

As soon as you turn around, a figure emerges from the bookshelves. You promptly run into him, which sends your materials to the floor and your mind reeling with apologies. “Oh, je suis vraiment désolé—Er, I’m so sorry!” you bluster, holding your now-empty hands out to plead for forgiveness. You kneel to gather your things into a messy pile, then stand and finally meet the eyes of the poor soul you’d accosted with your body. “I should have been more careful, but it’s late so I thought…”

They’re the same eyes you’d met yesterday, in the refectory. Still striking, still surrounded by black, but up-close and more relaxed. And no white paint. Just the black upper lip and the black eyes of Papa Emeritus the Fourth.

“It’s, eh, it’s quite alright, Sister,” Papa says with an awkward little laugh. You notice he’s not wearing his robes or his mitre. In fact he’s not wearing anything that might remotely indicate that he’s the Antipope. He wears a simple black t-shirt and red sweatpants, and gray fuzzy slippers that have the eyes and whiskers and pink nose of a rat which you thought looked cute when you’d knelt down.

But he’s still Papa, and you still barreled into him like a brute.

You try to smile but it feels more like a grimace. “Still, I shouldn’t have just…” you gesture with your free arm. “I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

Papa pats his chest like he’s searching for injuries. You hit him hard, but not that hard, and it makes you laugh softly. “I’m fine. Quite good. Still in one piece,” he says. “Are you? And why are you here so late?”

You blush. “Oh, does the library close at night? I’m sorry, no one came and told me, I just assumed…”

“No, no,” Papa reassures you, waving a hand in front of himself. “No, it doesn’t close. But it’s usually empty at this time of night, you see.”

You nod in understanding. “It is pretty late.”

“It is,” Papa echoes. “So… pardon my asking, Sorella, but why are you still awake?”

“I was, um,” you try to explain, looking down at the messy pile of translation work cradled in the crook of your elbow. “I was working on Elizabeth’s diary, but it may take longer than I expected.”

Papa’s face seems to light up at your mention of your work. “Oh! Forgive me, yes, I should have known,” he rushes out. “You are the, eh, visitor? From Marseille?”

You nod and give him your name. He repeats it softly to himself, as if to remember it. You doubt he will, but you won’t hold it against him—there are many, many Siblings at the Abbey and many names to remember. So if he manages to distinguish you from the rest of the crowd, you will be pleasantly surprised. Not to say you don’t have faith that he could, but… well. You’re running yourself in circles.

He narrows his eyes slightly, but pauses for a moment. “I saw you yesterday, at dinner,” he tells you.

So much for not remembering a face in the crowd. You mentally kick yourself.

“Ah, yes,” you chuckle nervously. “I’m not the biggest crowd person.” Papa chuckles. “Yes, I noticed. To be honest, neither am I.”

That’s hard to believe, coming from him. To be Papa is to be a figurehead, a symbol of unwavering faith and devotion to the Olde One which the entire Satanic Ministry worships. One must be a bit of a crowd pleaser in order to be successful in his position. “It doesn’t seem that way, Papa,” you tell him. “You command a room very well, from what I’ve heard.”

A smug little grin grows on Papa’s lips, and it suits him. Smiling suits him. “So word of my immense charisma has traveled all the way to Marseille, yes?” he asks, mostly teasing. But a small lilt in his voice betrays that he really does wonder. What does this foreign Sister think of him based on word of mouth alone? And does his person size up to his reputation?

You laugh. “It has,” you say. “Forgive me if I have a hard time believing you are uncomfortable in a crowd.”

Papa tuts his tongue, his grin growing into a fond smile. “You should have seen my brother.” There’s a small sparkle of reminiscence in his eye as he says this, and you wonder which of the three other Papas he speaks of. You’ve heard different stories about all of them.

His eyes drop to the papers and notebook in your arm, then back up to your face. “But, eh, you are settling in well, Sorella?” he asks.

You can tell he wants to change the subject, so you let him. “Yes, Papa, thank you,” you smile.

“That’s not very convincing.”

You release an airy laugh and drop your head. He can see right through you. “It’s very different here,” you say. “Marseille is… small. Cozy. Secluded. Not to say that I don’t like it here, because it really is very nice—”

“It’s crowded,” Papa cuts you off. It’s soft, and not intended to be rude, but to agree with you. “And big. I understand.”

Your shoulders drop, but you hadn’t realized they were raised in the first place. “It’s not home,” you find yourself admitting.

He nods. “And so you work late into the night because you do not want to sleep in an unfamiliar bed.”

You stare at him for another beat. He seems to know what you’re feeling even before you do, because yes, your bed here isn’t the same as the one back home, and suddenly you’re very close to crying. Don’t cry, don't cry, don't cry…

“May I tell you something, in confidence?” Papa asks. His voice is low and gentle. It soothes you. His eyes search your own, flicking back and forth between them, and you begin to understand how this slightly awkward man in rat slippers is able to enrapture an entire chapel of people.

You nod.

“I miss being a Cardinal,” he tells you. “Truly, I do. Becoming Papa has been the only goal I can ever remember having, ever since I was old enough to care. But as soon as I ascended I…” He pauses. His mouth opens and closes, like he’s trying to decide whether or not he should finish his thought.

He sighs. “What I mean to say is, There is no shame in missing where you used to be.”

You hold his gaze for another long moment, wondering what it is he was going to say. His words linger in the silence between you and you let them. As soon as he became Papa he… what?

“Thank you, Papa,” you say quietly. The moment feels almost intimate, like he’d confided his biggest secret to you. But for all you know, he tells every Sibling he comes across the same thing. It’s his duty to counsel everyone under his roof, visitors included.

No, you chastise yourself. Papa doesn’t seem like the kind of man to have practiced lines for serendipitous meetings… but you are still learning not to assume the worst of people. You had been far too young when you learned not to trust anyone, even those deserving of it. But Papa… he seems genuine, and it’s all you can do (for yourself and for him) to believe that he is.

You realize that this is the natural end of your conversation. That now is when you should say goodnight, nice to meet you, see you around, but you don’t want to. You can’t tell if it’s because you’ve been on your own all day, or because it’s late and you’re tired, or because the air around him seems to grow warmer and more… comfortable. Papa radiates an aura of peace that you haven’t felt since you received Sister Imperator’s letter nearly a week ago.

“If I may ask, Papa,” you start, just as the silence begins to grow awkward, “what are you doing awake at this hour?”

Papa’s eyes turn down, and a small smile graces his lips. “Ah, I was just looking for something to read,” he says, and you nearly laugh at yourself for asking such an obvious question. Of course he’s looking for something to read. The two of you are standing deep in the bowels of the library.

Oh, who are you kidding? Papa likely came here to find a book in peace, not speak to some foreign Sister. Who are you to keep his attention?

“I see,” you say, in your practiced voice. “Well. Good luck, and I hope you find something, Papa.”

Before you can blurt out any more feelings to him, you turn and walk briskly towards the winding staircase that leads you to the first floor.

~~~

Copia watches you retreat, slightly confused and halfway ready to call your name to make you stay. Something had changed in your demeanor just before you left, and he wants to ask if you’re alright, or if he said something wrong and caused you to close yourself off like that. Was it his little comment about missing the past? No, no, it couldn’t be—your eyes had been wide and searching, but you weren’t offended. Your brow had furrowed but not out of disgust.

He’s not as clueless as most people think he is. Just because he has a hard time finding the right words to say what he’s thinking doesn’t mean he’s stupid. In fact, Copia prides himself on his ability to read people. His ability to speak as eloquently as he does in his head… that’s another story.

When he’d first seen you in the refectory yesterday, you had already been looking right at him. He was curious about the straggler who’d wandered in so timidly. Your face isn’t one he’d seen around the Abbey. If he had, he would’ve remembered you because frankly, you’re striking.

Copia doesn’t know why he hadn’t connected the dots sooner. It seems obvious that a brand new Sister should appear only weeks after Sister Imperator mentions bringing someone in to translate the document that had been found. Your presence had been a single talking point during some meeting or another, and if he’s perfectly honest, most Clergy meetings seem to blend together into nonsensical mush when he thinks back on them. Your mention of Elizabeth’s diary had reminded him of a few vague details. But the rest of that discussion, unsurprisingly, slips his mind.

He finds himself feeling guilty. He’d been at that meeting, he knows for certain. The paperwork to confirm your temporary transfer had landed on his desk and he’d signed it. He must have. Your file must have been sent over from Marseille ahead of your arrival, why hadn’t he seen it?

Copia runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. He should have welcomed you to the Abbey himself. He should have sought you out and personally offered his hospitality, because he knows what it’s like to be across the world from home. He knows how lost and alone you feel. He’d felt it himself, after he transferred to the Abbey as a newly-appointed Cardinal.

I miss being a Cardinal, he’d told you. And it’s true, he does, but he misses being an Archbishop more. He held less sway within the Satanic Ministry as an Archbishop, but he was allowed to stay in Italy. His home.

As soon as he’d ascended to the rank of Cardinal, Sister Imperator had called him to the Abbey as a permanent transfer. Sure, his brothers had all been transferred from Italy one by one as they were called up to the Papacy, so he had family at the Abbey. But they had all been busy, constantly, and so had he.

You’d told him you miss home, and a very strange, very tender part of him wants to comfort you.

~~~

You replay your conversation with Papa all the way back to your dormitory. Stupide, stupide, stupide…

He told you that he’s not much of a crowd person, and then you go and tell him that his Abbey doesn’t feel cozy enough for you? And you nearly knocked him over in your haste to return to a bed that you told him isn’t as good as the one in Marseille. What a way to thank him for opening his home to you! Thanks, Papa, but here are all the reasons why your Abbey sucks.

“Fille stupide,” you mutter to yourself. The sound echoes off the walls of the dark, empty corridor. The wall sconces are dark for the night, so the only illumination comes in the form of pale blue stripes of moonlight along the tiled floor.

When you finally reach your dormitory and softly shut the door behind you, you take a moment to breathe. You’d been walking rather briskly in order to get back. Your fingers clench so tightly on the edge of your notebook that your fingernails are white, and your joints creak as you release your hold. The slap of the spiral-bound book seems loud when you drop it onto the small desk below the window, reverberating around the room. There are no posters, no tapestries, no curtains to absorb the sound like there are at home.

You loathe the sound. You loathe the echoes. You loathe the tip-tapping of heels on the pristine floors of the Abbey. You loathe the muffled sounds of laughter coming from a dormitory a few doors down. You loathe how desperately you want to find something to hold onto here, something that feels personal. And you loathe how you crave familiarity despite the fact that you’ll return to Marseille as soon as that little book is translated.

You practically rip your habit off—a habit that is uniform in France, but sets you apart here—in favor of your sleep clothes. Climbing into the small bed, you begin to recite your prayer in every language you know. It’s a habit you’d developed as soon as you began learning a second language at the ripe age of nine. Only then, the prayers had been directed at the cruel, unforgiving Catholic God.

Salut Satan, notre Ténébreux juste et indulgent…. Ave Satana, il nostro Tenebroso giusto e indulgente…. Salve Satanás, nuestro justo y perdonador Oscuro….

You continue until you’ve exhausted all the languages you know, and then you start over again with a different prayer. And again. And again, until somewhere in the middle of your Portuguese Hail Lilith you drift to sleep.

~~~

You wake the next morning in a much better mood. Perhaps last night you’d just been frustrated and overtired from working from dawn til far past dusk, but the bright birdsong from outside sounds happier today. It follows you from your dormitory, down the corridor and to the main hall, where the sounds of the breakfast hour echo out into the large space.

You could walk into the refectory if you wanted, without feeling intimidated (at least not as much as the day you arrived), but you don’t have much of an appetite this morning. Instead you take your time walking the length of the main hall. There are sculptures in spaces between the wood benches that you hadn’t noticed before. You find one you recognize, and it doesn’t surprise you that the Abbey houses a replica.

La génie du mal is a welcome sight. The Marseille Abbey also keeps a replica, although it is slightly smaller than this one. It’s a depiction of a fallen angel chained to a rock, with a crown held loosely in one hand while the other runs through his hair. His stone face is solemn but the bat-like wings splaying from his back seem to welcome you, as if saying, Hello child, do you remember me?

Yes, you do remember. You remember being eleven years old and traveling to Liège at the whim of your parents. You remember touring Saint Paul’s Cathedral and pretending to marvel at the Catholic imagery that you didn’t understand (or care for) at the time. Every depiction of Jesus on the cross looked the same. Every statue of a veiled Mother Mary reminded you to be chaste and pure and subservient to a God who thinks you a lesser being.

And then you’d seen him in the chapel of the Cathedral, placed at the back of a pulpit which wrapped around a stone pillar. The four sculptures of saints (whose names you don’t bother to remember) stood at the front of the pulpit, facing in towards the pews, as if standing guard over the sculpture. La génie du mal was tucked into the back, hidden from view, but you knew something must have been there. Why else would not one, but four saints be guarding a single pillar, when there were dozens lining the interior of the chapel?

So you’d slipped from the watchful eye of your parents while they were distracted by the tour guide, and rounded the pulpit to see the backside. He was there, carved in white marble and stationed in the niche between two curved staircases. The elaborate stained-glass windows cast speckles of yellow, blue, and violet over his body, and he glowed in the sunlight like he was a real angel fallen to Earth right in front of you.

You visited him a lot, afterwards.

You learned later that the pulpit was commissioned to represent “The Triumph of Religion over the Genius of Evil,” but you thought—and still think—that it was executed rather poorly. The four statues facing inward protect only the Cathedral from La génie du mal, but he, facing outward towards the windows, can see the rest of the world. Anyone looking into the chapel for refuge or guidance would only see him, colorful and bright, through the holy scenes of the stained glass.

You jump nearly ten feet in the air when a voice beside you snaps you from your thoughts. “Beautiful, isn’t he?”

You look to your left and catch the mismatched eyes of Papa. You hadn’t even heard him come up beside you. “Oui—ah, yes,” you say, swiftly correcting your French to English.

“You know,” Papa says, looking back to the marble replica, “the original was commissioned because the first version of it was too, eh, sexy.”

You do know, but the fact makes you laugh anyway. “The first version is nothing compared to this. It makes me think that the artist made this version even sexier, just to spite the Catholics. And to avenge his brother.”

Papa turns to you fully now, with his hands clasped behind his back. He wears a smart black suit adorned with an elaborate grucifix on the lapel. It’s a far cry from the sweatpants and t-shirt from last night, but no less comfortable. You can’t help but notice that the suit is tailored to perfection.

“His brother?” he asks.

You nod. “The original sculptor was the younger brother of this artist,” you explain, gesturing to La génie. “It’s a bit of a slap in the face for them to ask his own brother to redo his work. I can imagine they both felt a little slighted.”

Papa chuckles. “Perhaps just a little.”

A brief pause falls between the two of you, and you begin to wonder just how long it will take for the silence to grow awkward. So far you haven’t reached that point. Not with Papa, at least.

“It would have been nice to have the original piece,” Papa says unhurriedly. “I can’t imagine the Catholic Church would have agreed to let us buy it.”

You turn to look at him briefly, letting out a small laugh. “If the price was high enough, I’m sure they would have,” you say with an almost imperceptible edge of bitterness. “But I do think its place at Liège is where it belongs.”

“Have you been?” Papa asks you, his eyebrows slightly raised as he turns to meet your gaze.

“I have,” you answer. You don’t elaborate further on the nature of your visit. “That’s not to say I don’t believe it would have a good home here, Papa. I just think that the irony of its placement is lost on the Catholics.”

He asks about it, and you explain. His eyes never leave your face as you talk. You don’t feel scrutinized like you had under Sister Imperator’s gaze, though. Papa’s eyes are warm and interested and you could swear they almost glow in the morning light. He nods and hums with each point you make, seeming genuinely intrigued by your argument that La génie holds more influence facing outward rather than inwards.

It’s a subject you’re passionate about. La génie had set you on a path towards the Satanic Ministry that day. By age eleven you already knew you didn’t want to be Catholic despite your parents’ efforts to instill their beliefs on you, but you didn’t know exactly what you believed in. Until you saw him, solemn and still, his magnificence hidden behind a stone pillar at Liège.

Despite Papa’s careful listening, you realize you must be rambling and cut yourself off. “Sorry, Papa. I don’t mean to talk your ear off.”

“Oh, no!” Papa says, shaking his head. “No need to apologize, Sister. I enjoy listening to you speak.”

Heat blossoms over your cheeks. You almost miss how his own face flushes a slight shade of pink. Almost.

“Eh, I mean—” Papa begins to fiddle with his own fingers. “What I mean to say is that you make a lot of good points. Yes.”

It’s obvious that he’s nervous over the comment he made. It was straightforward and a little flirty, and you know that in the bright hall he can most likely see the pink beneath your skin. Maybe he hadn’t meant for it to come out quite so… well, flirty. Or maybe he thinks he overstepped a boundary, that he said something he shouldn’t have? It was just a comment about listening to you talk, it shouldn’t be that big of a deal. Satan, why are you so flustered all the sudden?

You give him a small smile. “Either way… thank you, Papa. I should, uh—”

“Yes, me too—”

“Right, have a good day,” you say, a bit quicker than is necessary, and turn on your heel to start towards the library.

~~~

Once again, Copia finds himself watching you go.

Rationally, he knows that you’re not upset with him. You didn’t leave because of something he’d said or done that made you uncomfortable. If that was the case, he hopes that you’d tell him. He would hate for you to feel unwelcome or upset, especially because of him.

But oh, how your eyes shone while you spoke about La génie.

Hearing footsteps approaching from his right, Copia turns and finds Terzo looking rather smug as he strolls towards him. He wears a big, stupid grin on his face and looks at Copia like he’d just discovered the stash of sweets on the bottom drawer of his bedside table.

“And who was that?” Terzo asks with feigned innocence. He comes to a stop next to Copia and clasps his hands behind his back. They both stare at La génie.

Copia chews the inside of his cheek. “Who was who?”

Terso tuts his tongue. “Oh, don’t be coy with me, fratellino. We both know I’m talking about the Sister you were just ogling.” “I wasn’t ogling,” Copia protests. Terzo is always teasing, always nudging, always subtly poking fun at him for no reason other than he finds it fun. That’s what little brothers are for, Terzo says. To poke fun at, and to teach the ways of the world. “And we both know that you know who she is.”

“Ah, yes, I do know,” Terzo says with a shrug. “But I wanted to hear what you had to say.”

Copia looks at his brother. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Terzo says, “you seemed quite invested in that conversation just now. And then you turned a very obvious shade of red, and she walked away. Forgive me, I’m a gossip.”

Copia laughs. “There’s nothing to gossip about, Terzo. She told me about this sculpture and where the original is housed. That’s it.”

Terzo tilts his head, leaning in slightly. “That does not explain why you both were so red in the face, fratellino.”

Copia sighs and runs a hand through his hair. So it was obvious, even from down the hall. “I… may have said that I like listening to her speak.”

“Oh,” Terzo says flatly. He sounds almost disappointed. “I thought you might have told her something else.”

“What? Why?” Copia asks. “Was that a weird thing to say?”

Terzo chuckles, shaking his head. “No. It’s a perfectly good compliment. But you both turned so red that I thought you invited her to your chambers.”

Copia nearly chokes on his own saliva. “Wh–what?” he sputters. “Terzo, I barely know her.”

“Well, I wouldn’t think so with the way you were looking at her!” Terzo says, his voice pitched higher to his own defense. “‘My darling, you speak so beautifully, it is like birdsong in the early morning. I simply cannot resist the way you look—’”

“Stop—”

“‘—in the sunlight. Your eyes shine so brightly and your mouth moves so gracefully—’”

“Terzo, I—”

“‘—that I can’t help but wonder what it might feel like on my—’”

“Okay,” Copia throws his hands up. He storms off towards the refectory for breakfast.

Terzo’s laugh echoes through the main hall as he jogs to catch up with Copia. “What? I’m only saying what I thought you said.”

Copia hadn’t said any of those things to you, but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t thought them. It’s true; your eyes did shine in the sunlight streaming through the windows, and your mouth did move gracefully. Although those parts of you are attractive to him and he’d readily admit that you’re beautiful, it was the way you spoke that caught him. You seemed to forget your timidness, your reservations. You spoke freely and enthusiastically, like you’d forgotten you were speaking to Papa and instead spoke to a friend. Copia wonders if La génie holds some significance to you outside of just being an interesting sculpture.

Copia resolves to ask you the next time he sees you, and he finds himself hoping that it’s soon.

111 notes · View notes