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teacupofgooglyeyes · 7 months

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THE MAGNUS PROTOCOL. oh my GOD, the magnus protocol. (marginal spoilers up ahead for the tmp trailer + arg)

….i have a theory. its based on other possibly improbable theories but please indulge me as i connect the dots nobody else can see with red string and declare it a masterpiece.

WHAT IF…. something was trapped in the database? yes this is absolutely inspired by the theories bouncing around saying J.01 + M.01 are jon and martin- and possible J.02 is jonah. yes im going insane about it. yes i am distraught. BUT- what if its not just our silly little jarchivist and martin ‘knife crime’ blackwood trapped in the O.I.A.R. database? what if theres something that the O.I.A.R. takes ‘incident reports’ of to contain (and perhaps categorise) in encrypted files or the like in an attempt to rid the world of this something for good?

what if they had figured out a way to trap… the fears themselves in the database?

okokokok hear me out- it sounds insane but i promise i can provide evidence that proves with sufficient certainty that theres definitely SOMETHING (or someone) trapped in there. as to what that something is- i cant prove that for sure but i can absolutely try my darnedest! and whatever you choose to believe is up to you.

PROOF #1: THE ARG EMAILS

1. in the tmp arg, there was a small message at the end of every email. it read as follows: ‘In accordance with governmental guidelines we encourage you to consider the environmental impact before printing this email.’ All in all, this doesn’t seem too suspicious, right? Probably just rusty quill trying to be eco-friendly, right? right??

2. but that’s not all. in the middle of the environmental impact text in the first email sent, there is a section of random german text. it reads: ‘[NichtdurchkommenlassenEsistwichtigdasswirdieKontrollebehalten 🜶]’. this translates to: ‘Do not let (pronoun missing on purpose) come through. It is important that we remain in control 🜶’. Pairing the two makes it definitely seem like theres a reason for the O.I.A.R. to not want people printing things off of the internet that is absolutely connected to making sure certain things contained on internet in some way do not escape…

PROOF #2: THE TMP TRAILER

now that the arg has been solved, we now all have access to the tmp official trailer. i could rant about the contents of this trailer alone for HOURS but right now i just want to focus on a few specific details i noticed.

1. the epa pollution preventer. when the program is initiating, up in the top right corner there’s a logo for some company advertising anti-pollution… something. im mentioning this as this only furthers the strange obsession the O.I.A.R. has with protecting the environment, this incessant need to keep everything digital.

(SIDE NOTE: i have two other theories as to where this environmental obsession stems from:

1. paranoia from the archives burning down in this universe calls for the usage of any flammable items to record important data is STRICTLY forbidden!

2. the extinction has become the leading fear in this universe, prompting this very interesting concern for keeping eco-friendly.

these theories are enticing and i would love to expand on them later if i have the energy lol all these theories are rushing through my head and driving me even more insane.)

2. the files. THE FUCKING FILES!! yes, the ones that we are PRAYING contains our dearly beloved jon and martin (and probably jonah, but i doubt anyone else is as excited about that compared to the happy couple). this got me thinking- what if they trapped something ELSE in the files? something that maybe took the burning of the entire magnus institute, all those fears open and barely contained on paper, to contain digitally? something that maybe needs to be encrypted in files to keep it away, and to further contain it recordings of incident reports statements are made and also placed in the files archives? just saying. its a possibility.

PROOF #3: WHAT WE KNOW ABOUT JONNY

1. after listening to all the Q&As and extra content to recover from episode 200, i have LEARNT a few things. specifically, i know our good friend jonny sims loves creepypastas. fun fact- the actual s5 finale was itself inspired by creepypastas!

2. plus theres many episodes that do also have distinct creepypasta influences, one of which being mag 65: binary. this particular episode is about a fictional creepypasta/internet rumor about a man who placed himself and his sentience into a file on the internet that turns out to be true. internet horror stories often involved something trapped on the internet, interacting with users on the internet to attempt to escape or achieve whatever their goal may be. seems…. interesting. hmm. what if this sort of thing is influencing the podcast yet again? its a thought…..

IN CONCLUSION:

im insane. and-

#the magnus protocol #the magnus universe #the magnus protocol theories #the magnus pod #the magnus archives #the magnus institute #tma #tma theory #im going insane

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cult-of-the-eye · 5 months

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tma makeup headcanons:

Jonathan "serving cunt" Sims:

S1 Jon doesn't know what makeup is (he absolutely wore eyeliner every single day at uni but he's not letting everyone else know that)

He like spot conceals but that's about all he feels comfortable getting away with while maintaining his air of professionalism

He also despises the feeling of foundation on his face

S2 Jon is barefaced as the day he was born. My man's last priority is how he looks, he's too busy buying axes in central London and stalking his coworkers

S3 Jon has none of his makeup with him but he's got loads of spare time and Georgie has a whole drawer so he experiments a little bit, he goes for Kajal (black pencil eyeliner lining the inside of your eyes) instead of his previous winged eyeliner but he hesitates at the any colour because she managed to pull it off but he's never been one for drawing attention to himself like that but one day he goes for a burgundy or like dark purplish red colour and he's quite pleased with himself

I feel like Jon would go for a natural kind of look, with concealer and a skin tint at best, some dark brown eye shadow to deepen his hooded eyes and kajal

Martin Kslaying Blackwood:

Ugh I love this man so much

I'm literally such a fan of trans Martin it's pretty much canon to me so I'm headcanoning that he's very hesitant about makeup cause he was a late transitioner and had only just gotten used to passing recently so he doesn't want to do anything to risk that

But he's such a slut for a nice little blush or like a subtle lip tint

He goes for powder blushes cause liquid ones feel sticky on his face and also powder blushes just Look Nice

He also likes lip tints cause he's constantly rubbing off lip products, with the multiple mugs of tea a day and it's getting awkward handing Jon mugs of tea with faint lipstick stains on them

He keeps an emergency kit in his bag with like some eyeshadow if he needs to darken his facial hair and on a whim he puts a baby pink powder blush in there and a matching lip tint

So it's not like he decided to bring it to the safehouse, it was just sort of there

Jon finds it and he's like let's go, we're going down to the shops and buying some, we're gonna do some experimenting and Martin's like oh!!

When he was working for Peter Lukas, he was also barefaced, he didn't want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he put effort in

Timothy "Take notes" Stoker:

This man is such a fun makeup guy

He's a random dots around his eyes, shimmery colourful inner corner, new colour every day, just drawing shit around his eyes kinda man

He's a no foundation no concealer kinda guy as well I think

ugh just can you imagine??? They have a little tally of what colours/patterns Tim's using today and somehow he never managed to repeat a look - it might be a repeated colour but the pattern or the way it's used it's always different

And then one day he just stops. He still wears makeup but the colours are more muted and they make his eyes look bruised in a very decisive way

It's almost as if he's spent ages on a look and then tried to scrub it all away

Sashay Away James

She's such a glamorous girly I feel like she really enjoys the process of makeup more than actually changing the way she looks

I'd love her to be doing the whole shebang, spending hours picking the right primer and stuff like that

She goes for the yeah I'm wearing makeup and I'm slaying look

I feel like she's so good at a little nose highlight

Can you imagine every day Tim greeting Sasha every morning with like a love the highlight girl and it makes her happy every single time

Oh she's such a fake freckles girly absolutely

Hated false eyelashes cause they feel weird

Not Sasha believes makeup is pushing feminism backwards

#ugh i love gender fuckery archives #ive made every single archival staff autistic in my head #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin k blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #tma headcanons #archival assistants #not sasha #brown jonathan sims #desi jonathan sims

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a-mag-a-day · 1 year

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Oh, to be Martin K. Blackwood, apocalypse darling, and find out in the span of like half an hour that your boyfriend

a. Willingly went on a merry-go-round in his adulthood and enjoyed it

b. Used to think all poetry was bad but "mysteriously" changed his mind and

c. Can blow up monsters with his eyes

Suddenly I’m craving a fic from Martin’s pov about just all the new things he’s learning about Jon since the Change…

#a mag a day #tma #the magnus archives #episode asks #mag 165 #gilgamushroom #mod elian

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ego-sum-ex-altiora · 4 months

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You Can't See Me (text below link)

Chapter 1: Martin

Martin never liked being touched.

Not that anyone cared or- in saying that- even knew about this dislike. He was always the one people went to for physical comfort, the one who “gave good hugs”- though he knew the latter was just because he was on the chubbier side. Maybe it was the self-consciousness this caused, or his mother’s insistence on physical closeness, but either way; Martin Blackwood did not like hugs.

He supposed that this was why he was so drawn to Jon- beyond the distracting softness of his silver and raven-black hair; the way it framed his face when whisps fell from his bun. Beyond the way his eyes looked soft beyond his stern expression, and how his cold hands and tone when accepting tea sent shivers through Martin that could not be described as unpleasant or unwelcome. Beyond the button-ups and grandpa sweaters that the others said aged him, but Matin felt only gave him a soft charm. And beyond-

So, maybe Martin’s dislike of physical comfort wasn’t the only reason he liked Jon. But he still liked the idea of not constantly being expected to touch his partner, and rumour has it, Jonathan Sims didn’t do that kind of stuff.

Although, it was beginning to seem like “that kind of stuff” included noticing Martin.

Perhaps Jon’s coma, and apparent death, finally sent the message that Martin would never have a chance with him. Certainly, it was enough for Martin to finally embrace the Loneliness and give in to the isolating fog that had lingered around him for as long as he could remember.

There was a comfort in letting that Lonely feeling take over him, the way it took away all expectations. It justified his burning dislike of being touched, taking away any fear of hurting those around him by forcibly pushing them away. He was blissfully revoked of all self-consciousness; with no one around him, who’s judgement was he afraid of?

The Lonely’s fog had always sat thick and heavy in his chest, but its swirling blue-greys were beautiful in his eyes.

That’s what set him apart from Jon. His fog-filled vision was a welcomed comfort, fulfilling his desperate desire to escape the dreads of reality. Jon, however, was so fixated on seeking knowledge and information. He dedicated his life to research and collating information, trying to make sense of a meaningless universe filled with randomised events. Jon needed to know, to explain away everything that had ever hurt him. Martin just wanted to forget.

The Lonely could provide that to him.

Martin’s co-workers had sensed him losing himself. The cups of tea became less frequent, and the cheery air that used to follow him gradually became darker and cloudier; both figuratively and literally. Eventually, the fog formed a near-opaque barricade between him and everyone else. Those who tried finding him in the fog were blinded, and all he could see was the brief image of lost, searching eyes. Then, the fog would once again consume him and he would be utterly alone.

Eventually, they stopped trying to find him.

It was peaceful then. Without the desperate faces of those he once called friends reminding him of his isolation, Martin quickly found comfort in the empty fog. He could sit at his desk, uninterrupted, for hours on end. For the first time since he was first hired, he tried hard and got a large amount of work done. Best of all, he didn’t need to feel anything.

Just like he had wanted.

Chapter 2: Jon

It ripped Jon apart to be unkind to Martin, it really did, but the defensive move was all he knew. He didn’t have time to deal with feelings, it was easier for him to just push them deep down and try not to think about them.

That’s not to say he was heartless. Certainly, he was aware of how lovely it felt to be brought tea and checked in on, but he didn’t want to explore what exactly those feelings meant. He knew there was a reason why Martin was being so kind to him, but the implications of doing so were not something he wished to consider. It was far easier to snap at Martin over insignificant mistakes, cursing his foolishness. Of course, the guilt that made Jon feel was yet another feeling he didn’t want to look too deep into.

Blissful ignorance. That’s how he lived.

There was no dramatic gasp of air or sudden bolt upright when Jon awoke, he was simply no long unconscious. A bedside calendar marked the date as a shocking six months since he had last been conscious. His body was too frail and aching to move, he simply looked around in desperation for a familiar face. Even through his tear-blurred eyes, he knew the room was empty; there seemed to be a void where he knew someone should have been. Lost, Jon desperately called to someone he already knew was gone.

“Ma-Martin…”

Jon’s calls were answered by the rush of doctors and nurses entering his room, but he paid them no notice. All at once, he was achingly aware of a single fact; he loved Martin Blackwood.

The guilt that realisation filled him with was enough to tear him apart, the pain of warm and fuzzy love nothing compared to that of his regret. The regret he felt from lying to himself for so long, even when he knew Martin had felt the same way. The regret of pushing him away and hurting him.

The regret of leaving him alone all this time.

Jon desperately needed to go make amends, to fix the mess he had made out of what could have been love. He prayed he wasn’t too late, that he could still salvage the messy remains of his unrealised love.

He needed to go find Martin.

Much to the doctor’s dislike, Jon insisted on going to work. He had to, he needed to fix things with Martin as soon as he could. Maybe he still had a chance to make it work between them.

The tube to the institute was more than unpleasant, his still-weak frame rocking violently with each movement of the carriage. His sigh of relief was audible when he finally arrived at his stop, his legs still trembling slightly as he disembarked, but he was determined to keep moving.

Stepping through the doors into the research department felt like stepping into a new climate. There was a chill- not enough to call cold, but enough to cause discomfort- and a thick air that was stuffy and suffocating. For most people, especially those working with the paranormal, this would have immediately caused alarm.

The problem was, Jonathan Sims was not the type to leave a task unfinished. And unsettling cool drafts and humidity were not his top priority. He needed to focus on the problem at hand.

In his determination to make amends, Jon bumped, hard, into someone turning the corner. In the few moments it took to make sense of what had happened, he felt the cool air turn freezing and stab deep into his bones. The humid air became heavy fog, and blurred his vision.

Still, unmistakably, Martin Blackwood stood in front of him.

Chapter 3: Jon

Jon hated to admit it, but he had always admired Martin’s eyes. They were a muted green like a gentle forest, with prominent limbal rings the colour of a walnut tree. They had small specs of brown like the freckles that lined every inch of his body, that Jon had to resist getting lost in. Martin’s eyes almost always were bright and lit, indicative of his cheery mood.

Jon had, more than once, nearly been caught out admiring those eyes. Office meetings had often been spent fixated on them, which Martin had always mistaken as agitated glares. On more than one occasion, his co-workers had needed to bring his focus back to the meeting, after he had gotten a tad too distracted and ended up spacing out, lost in thought.

Now, there was no light or sparkle to his eyes, their freckles nearly as paled as the rest of his goose-bumped skin. His once-green eyes faded to near-grey, and they held an absent expression. They could barely even be called his, Jon was standing face-to-face with a pair of empty, unseeing eyes.

The fluttery butterfly-like sensation of finally planning to confess his feelings had vanished, replaced with a dread that felt as heavy as boulders in his chest. Jon knew exactly what he was looking at, and it certainly was not Martin Blackwood.

He was looking the Lonely dead in the eyes.

The Lonely did not look back at him, though. That pair of greenish-grey eyes looked beyond him, deep into the never-ending fog, and Jon knew he was not being seen.

Even beyond those empty eyes, Martin looked terrible. He had always been so cheery that his empty expression made him almost unrecognisable. He was pale, sickly so, and his typically fiery-ginger hair was a dull burnt orange. Though his physical frame was no different, he felt small and fragile. Jon couldn’t explain how, but somehow Martin looked lonely.

It was only then, seeing the Lonely in Martin, that Jon began to see it in himself. He began to see his pathetic, friendless self, caused by his neglect and disrespect of those around him. Caused by his hostility to the few people who truly loved him; his hostility to Martin.

Jonathan Sims was a terribly lonely man, and by nothing but his own fault.

The gap between the pair felt near-infinite, as if Martin stood on another planet. Jon reached outward and, before realising the gravity of what he was about to do, grabbed hold of Martin’s hand.

The touch was beyond gentle, uncharacteristically so on Jon’s behalf, but Martin’s whole body jerked backwards from the contact. Even so, Jon refused to let go. Martin stared down at their interlocked hands, as if desperately trying to see, and Jon remained latched on. The blank face that watched Jon told him what he needed to do.

He needed to pull Martin out of the Lonely.

Chapter 4: Martin

Martin flinched away from being touched that he very nearly fell over backwards, but whatever gripped his hand was determined to stay latched on. It had been months since anyone but Peter Lukas had come near him, and Peter wasn’t exactly the touchy-feely type.

Martin didn’t understand. People weren’t supposed to be able to come near him, his fog was supposed to keep them away. It was supposed to keep him safe, where he couldn’t hurt anyone or be hurt. The touch he had felt was an invasion, an unwelcomed visitor who seemed determined not to leave. He wasn’t supposed to be able to feel anyone, hear anyone, see-

Martin gradually became aware of a voice; faint, but clearly calling to him. Something inside him could recognise it, a distant memory of a time when he wasn’t lonely. Well, was he ever not lonely? He couldn’t remember, and he couldn’t remember that voice, so achingly familiar yet unknown in that vast fog. He could make out a sound coming from that voice, a distant word that could have been his name.

Martin forced his mind to remember, forced his mouth to speak for the first time in months. His voice croaked from lack of use, but he made a single, barely comprehensible sound.

“Jon?”

His vision still swirled, so strong he could barely make out his own body, yet his mind focused, so sure it was Jon. Or was he only hoping it was Jon? The thought crossed his mind briefly, before he shoved it away. Jon’s voice slowly came into focus, his words becoming more comprehensible.

“Martin? Are you with me? Listen to me, I’m going to find a way to break you out of here.”

Martin stared down at his seemingly empty hand, his fingers pried apart by an unseeable force. Though he had no visualisation to be sure, Martin realised he was holding hands with Jonathan Sims.

Martin lurched forward, falling into the space he desperately prayed was occupied by Jon. He leaned into a small, cold, and yet surprisingly comforting frame, that felt exactly as he had imagined hugging Jon would. His eyes forced themselves shut, great big sobs being wretched from deep inside of him, dampening Jon’s shirt.

When Martin’s tears stopped enough to reopen his eyes, the fog felt different. He was sure it was further away, and a less dark, foreboding grey. He was acutely aware of the fact that he could no long see through the figure that held him.

He took a step backwards, frantically reaching his hands towards where Jon’s face should have been. He made contact with what was a blurred shadow in his vision, and squinted in a desperate attempt to make out the figure in front of him. The comfortingly familiar face of Jon slowly came into focus, his edges softly blurred.

With remnant tears in his eyes, Martin’s legs shook violently as Jon half supported him with a firm embrace. Jon apologised, tears welling in his own eyes.

“I’m sorry, Martin, for everything. I’m not going to let anything else hurt you, myself included.”

It was enough to again set Martin off with huge, heaving sobs, burying himself deeper in Jon’s shoulder. Jon gave a weak smile before speaking, the strongest he could manage, that filled Martin with a fuzzy feeling of anticipation.

“I love you, and I wish I’d realised it sooner.”

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irljmart · 8 months

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Thinking about Martin Blackwood hours

#tma #martin blackwood #i love him so much

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saintbleeding · 1 year

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2 things for u-

1) I love your character designs for both Jon and Martin so much but I think martin’s nose in particular is like, one of my favorite things ever, it’s such a good shape and it brings me joy

2) ooooooof that comic, I’m in pain lol it’s really good and I’m gonna stare at the almost-kiss panels and the way martin’s fading back to blue for probably four hours now and essentially tattoo it on my eyelids

omg,,,, firstly thank u so much this is such a delight of a message!!! secondly ur in luck bc today i had time and inclination to be self-indulgent about purple and this ask was the nudge i needed (also, martin nose enjoyers unite)

[ID: A digital sketch of Martin Blackwood and Jon Sims, shown from the chest up. Martin is shorter and fat with wavy hair, wearing a jumper, scarf, and glasses. Jon is taller, thin, and wearing a t-shirt, hoodie, and overcoat. Jon has long, curly hair tied in a low bun, and his face and neck are covered with various scars, most notably a slash on his neck and a burn scar at his hairline. They are facing each other, and Martin smiles up at Jon as Jon kisses his nose. They are both coloured a muted purple, and there is a pink-and-orange sunset behind them. End ID.]

#tma #the magnus archives #jmart #jonmartin #my #saint draws #described #sighs wistfully. them

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boxofbonesfic · 2 years

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A prompt for you if it sparks interest…

One night in a haunted house can bring you wealth behind your means.

But beware of the alleged monster that lurks inside the estate… legend has it if you whisper his name, he may materialize in front of your eyes.

Good luck trying not to say Charles Blackwood. The name seems to roll right off the tongue…

Title: dust to dust

Wordcount: 1,334

Summary: Your dream job turns out to be more of a nightmare.

A/N: 👀 @syntheticavenger came in with the horror prompt, so i had to deliver 😮‍💨 i hope you all enjoy my latest Monkey’s Paw drabble.

“And you’re sure you’re fine there alone? That place gets pretty fucking creepy at night,” Came Amelia’s voice through the phone. You laughed, shaking your head even though she couldn’t see you. “I’m serious! I think it’s totally haunted.”

“You say that about every house we work in. It can’t always be true.” You heard your friend scoff through the receiver. “And I’ll be fine. It’s not my first rodeo.“ It was true—this wouldn’t be the first portrait you’d restored. And even if the Blackwood family manor was as creepy as Amelia said it was, you’d only be there for a few hours, max. “You just focus on your end of the deal, finding someone to fucking buy this thing after I’m done with it.”

She clucked at you through the phone, her irritated huffs the backdrop to the picturesque countryside rolling alongside the car.

“Fine! I’m just saying. It’s creepy.”

“Creepy, yes. Haunted? Hard no,” you laughed. “Besides, the faster we’re finished, the faster we get that sweet, sweet Blackwood cash.”

“Is payday all you ever think about?”

“When it’s enough to skate for an entire year while I figure out my artist’s residency? Christ, yes.”

The construction team was still working on the house’s exterior when you pulled in, despite the light drizzle. One of the guys tipped his yellow hard hat to you as you parked out front, a lit cigarette hanging from between his lips.

“Just you today?” He called as you exited the car, wrapping your scarf tighter around your shoulders. “Where’s the little one?” You bit back a laugh, knowing Amelia would bristle at her unofficial nickname—even if it was accurate.

“Yeah, just me, Martin. Doors unlocked?” You asked, taking the slick steps two at a time as you shouldered your canvas bag of paints and brushes. He nodded, making a noise of assent in the back of his throat before turning back to the scaffolding. The project was taking longer than anticipated, you could tell by the doubled workforce outside. You knew the owner was eager to sell, too—the asking price had dropped two times already.

The inside of the manor was bustling with activity too, and you sidestepped a pair of men carrying a ladder. You ducked quickly into the overlarge drawing room, settling against the closed door with a deep sigh.

Finally. The thought rolled in like low static, barely discernible from the rest of the noise in your head.

So low, you don’t recognize it isn’t yours.

Despite the activity outside, the sitting room was eerily silent, but you liked it that way—no distractions. You undraped the portrait of one of the Blackwoods—long dead now—and his blue eyes stared out gloomily at you from the canvas. You began pulling your supplies from your bag, laying them on the table beside your easel. You’d already done the surface cleaning on the old oil painting days ago, going slowly across each inch of canvas as though you were caressing a lover’s skin.

The oil paint wasn’t damaged from age, though it was old—maybe fifty, sixty years. What had damaged it was smoke—smoke from the fire that had destroyed this place.

How astute. You’re a bright little thing, aren’t you pet?

The portrait wasn’t large, maybe two and a half by three feet at most, but it was valuable, the old Blackwood matriarch had told you, and rather sternly at that. You mixed your colors carefully, testing them before beginning to apply them to the canvas. It was mostly the right side that had been damaged, the paint curling and blackened with soot that no one dared wipe away for fear of doing further harm.

You painted with slow, delicate strokes, uncaring of the hours ticking by as the house quieted around you.

Keep going. You were determined to finish, a fire lit inside of you as you dragged your brush across the canvas. You’re almost there. Almost done. You’d had projects like this before; intense time constraints, picky and demanding clients—but this time was different. Like you’d dug so deep that you’d breached someone else’s drive instead of just your own.

So close, now…

When you stepped away from the easel, hours had passed, and your phone, which had been silenced, blinked angrily at you from the chair by the door. The painting would need a few finishing touches, but for the most part, it was done.

You wiped a hand across your sweaty cheek, noting with a frown that your hand came away streaked with paint. The sun was beginning to set, and as you opened the door to the sitting room, you found the hallway empty. Another glance at your brightly lit phone screen told you it was a bit past seven, and the sky outside the windows was tinged pink with the setting sun.

“Hello?” Your own voice seemed to dissipate in the evening air, not carrying far. “Martin? Ozzie?”

They all left…

It was strange of them to leave and not lock up, to leave the tools unattended and the manor’s thick oak double doors wide open. You padded to the entrance, poking your head outside. Sure enough, the work vans were gone, the plastic sheeting hanging from the scaffolding flapping gently in the breeze.

I should go too.

You returned inside, quickly gathering your paint and brushes. It was summer, but the recent rain had left the air chilly and damp, and you shuddered as you shoved your supplies hurriedly into your bag. You turned to leave, sparing one last glance at the canvas.

Wait, is he…smiling? Your chest tightened as you stared at the easel. Was he… always smiling? The paint shifted on the canvas like a living thing, the colors flowing over one another like water as ever so slowly, the man on the canvas drew his tongue across his lips.

Hello, beautiful.

Something warm and wet dripped down from your left nostril onto your lip, and when you licked at it absently, hot copper bloomed on your tongue. He had been sitting, scowling, but now he stood, staring out at you from the painting like he could really see you.

Say my name, beautiful. Let me out. His voice vibrated painfully in your skull, and you whimpered, clapping your hands uselessly to your ears as though it would shut him out. You made for the door, but the pressure of his words made your eyes roll as you sank to your knees.

“I don’t—I don’t know it,” you babbled, tears leaking from your closed eyes.

Yes you do. You’ve known it this whole time, his voice was like black honey. Say it. His face was pressed up against the canvas like he was looking out a window. You shook your head, and his voice became breaking glass, became mountains crumbling and thunder booming—

SAY IT.

Blood trickled from your nose as you convulsed on the old carpet.

“C-Charles B-B-Bla-ackwood.” You could taste more blood on your tongue as the pressure in your skull receded. You were wrung out and limp, watching helplessly as a skeletal hand extended out of the canvas, curling around the frame as Charles Blackwood pulled himself free. You knew you weren’t meant to see it, the man crawling out of the painting like a corpse from an old grave, the flesh winding back up his bony fingers until they looked pink and new.

Charles straightened his suit jacket as you stared up at him, your eyes red and watery. He squatted down in front of you, clucking as he brushed sweaty hair out of your eyes.

“Don’t fret, beautiful,” he swiped his thumb through the trail of red beneath your nose and popped it into his mouth. “We’ll have you feeling right as rain in no time.” His eyes swept down your trembling form, and the smile that spread across his lips sent ice shooting through your veins.

“I think you’ll like your new home.”

fin

#sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan characters #charles blackwood #charles blackwood x reader #ghost!charles blackwood x reader #ghost!charles blackwood #horror #implied smut #bones drabbles #monkey’s paw challenge

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eyeopeningarchivist · 8 months

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Statement of Phoebe Morris

Concerning: The disappearance of her wedding planner.

Statement Taken: August 20th, 2013

Statement Recorded by Martin Blackwood, archival assistant at the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement Begins:

This happened just a little over a week ago and I'm... still struggling to comprehend it. Michelle and I had wanted to get married for quite some time. We just couldn't decide on when and where. She wanted to go somewhere expensive, extravagant, and grandiose but I wanted something more low-key. Something intimate and quiet. The only thing we could agree on was that we wanted to do it in another country. It was her idea to find a wedding planner and that led us to Philo Newcomb.

I... had mixed feelings about Newcomb from the beginning, honestly. He always seemed... I dunno, preppy? Eager? Overly friendly somehow. And I just wasn't quite sure he knew what he was talking about. I wasn't sure how you could make beige look garish and loud but his suit managed it and the ideas he had for how our wedding should look didn't sound much better but Michelle seemed to like him and he at least seemed friendly. It helped that the location he was trying to sell us seemed gorgeous. It was a massive estate in Mendoza, Argentina with a beautiful sunset view over the balcony. It was apparently owned by some local big shot lawyer in the area or something and Newcomb had been nice enough to pay for our tickets himself. So, I was split.

But then... he showed up. Philo was leading us down to the vineyard when a man in a security uniform stopped me. He was a rather large, bald man with a stoic expression on his face. His whole head seemed completely clean-shaven, not even a spec of stubble anywhere. And I remember his badge said "Tobias Rieper." He said "I think you should look at this" in an even tone and shoved a scrapbook into my hands. It contained... locks of hair... and pictures of corpses and... newspaper clippings of mourning brides and grooms over the course of decades. And on the very last page was a picture of Michelle and I on a date, with Philo's face crudely taped over mine. By the time I looked up, Tobias Rieper had already left.

I got Michelle out of there as fast as I could. I made some excuse about getting the flight bookings wrong and all but dragged her out of there. I-I didn't even explain anything until we got back to the hotel. I didn't even think to call anyone at first. Not until a few hours after we got back to our rooms. When I did pick up the phone, Michelle turned my attention to the tv. Philo Newcomb had been found dead at the estate. Having fallen over the railing from the top floor. With no suspects, police ruled his death an accident.

Michelle and I haven't discussed getting married since. We... need time. But, I thought that was it. That this was just a horrifying situation that we just barely got out of thanks to some help from a stranger. I didn't think there was anything supernatural about it. Until I tried to thank Tobias Rieper for his help.

From what I could find, there is no record of anyone by the name of "Tobias Rieper" working at that estate. Not as security, as wait staff, nothing. So I looked him up online. I got a ton of results online. A corporate liquidator from New York. An all star chef from France. But nothing about our mysterious security guard. But as I kept digging, I saw a pattern. There were never any photographs of him, but sometimes there were... stories attached. Stories about people meeting a mysterious stone faced, completely bald man named Tobias Rieper on the same day as a mysterious disappearance and never finding him again. Meeting a talented rock drummer the same day a famous rock star gets shot. Meeting a stone faced mechanic the same day as the grand prix accident. The name and face is always the same. The only thing that changes is the clothes. Like a mannequin trying on a new suit.

Statement ends.

Notes:

We tried to look up this Tobias Rieper as well and, well, we found just as much as is mentioned in the statement. Tim did, however, manage to dig up the lowest possible quality photograph of someone who matches the description of Mr. Rieper, only this man is labeled as “Lutte Faucheur,” an ex accountant from around the Bordeaux region who was let go from his firm after claiming to have “Visions From God...” Something about his eyes in the photo... He looks tired...

As for the mentioned events, we looked into them just to make sure they all lined up and they do, the only detail missing being that Philo Newcomb’s death was ruled by the Argentinian... Argentine? Er, the police in Argentina said they figured he was drunk when he fell. No autopsy report was filed but given the nature of his death and the fact that it happened where it did, well, I guess they just put two and two together...

For what it’s worth, both "Lutte" and "Faucheur" are words in french... Lutte meaning "Struggle” and Faucheur meaning "Reaper..."

End recording.

#the magnus archives #martin blackwood #@autisticsupervillain

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