#and sharp looking jonathan sims

[cult-of-the-eye]

Here's a thought...what if Martin Kartin Blackwood looked like super fucking scary. What if you go into the institute and you see like a 6"4 huge man bustling around with sparkly nail polish and a pride pin and he's scowling and then he offers you tea and comforts you after you have your statement and you're like oh ok I'm not gonna get beaten up by a massive gay man.

A second thought (I know shocking)...an amiable enough looking Jonathan Sims, you look at him and you sort of think yeah I'd tell that guy one of my deepest secrets, he looks kinda decent and then you sit down in the chair opposite and his features sort of sharpen and stand rigid against his face and his eyes narrow dangerously and it happened so quickly that you cant even imagine how you ever thought you could trust him but the words are flowing out and you can't seem to stop them.

[1nk20ul]

Jonathan Sims ALIVE?? I Believe I Have Proof.

(Spoilers for The Magnus Protocol!)

You heard that right. And if you've listened to TMP 39 - Dependents, you've heard it too. Not only can I prove without the shadow of a doubt that not one, but two Archivists are roaming TMA's London, but I can also prove with spectrogram + phonetical analysis exactly what Jon is saying.

Let me prove it to you.

First, let's start with an unedited audio sample, taken at 16:30:

Did you catch it? If you didn't, I don't blame you. There's a lot happening here. Let's check the official transcript for more context about what we're hearing.

So, what we're hearing is definitely the Archivist. It's evident that it's whispering something, but the specifics are currently hidden under layers of reverb, static, and tape winding. Let's clean it up a bit to get a better listen. I pitched the audio down 30%, reduced the background noise, and ran it through a few frequency filters to make the speech more prominent.

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Yeah, that's definitely Jon.

At the very least, we know this is obviously not Beth Eyre, who voices [ERROR]. Since the transcript states that this audio has to come from an Archivist, that really only leaves us with one other possibility.

But let's assume you still don't believe me. I took the liberty of isolating the vocals entirely and running them through a linguistics analysis programme called Praat (which is fantastic + free by the way!). This way, we can analyse the speech all the way down to the position of the Archivist's mouth when speaking.

Here's the new sample we're working with:

I admit, the speech is a tad more muffled in this version. However, the lack of background noise makes the spectrogram much easier to read, which is what we are aiming for here. We're far past the point of just using our ears.

Behold the Spectrogram:

Looking at this diagram, we can conclude that there are four words being spoken here. (The second word is the gap in the middle part. Note the density shift at around 1000Hz. We know this word must be free of any sharp consonants.) More importantly, the formants provided can be compared to samples of Jon's RP dialect to determine if there's a match. If the frequencies match, it's the same voice. If we get the wavelengths to match, it's the same word.

Let's start with the first word. I'll skip the specifics, as explaining every minute detail would take forever and bore everyone to death. The left image was extracted from the spectrogram above. The right photo? That's Jon saying the word "this."

Note how both waveforms are split into two halves, low then high. Note how the high half trails off at the end. Take into account the similar placement of the red formants. This is the same word, pronounced in the exact same dialect, with the exact same frequency. It is Jon.

Let's do that again with the second word.

Again, the formants line up in the exact same order. The audio on the right is a bit louder, which is why the waveforms have a higher contrast.

What did this word happen to be? World.

Here is the original spectrogram in Audacity. The two bright spots on the right-hand side are easy. It's the same sound as the end of the first word as well. (Notice the frequencies are the same.) These are an easy Letter S. I then fact-checked this using methods like before.

Finally, we have clear, undeniable proof:

"This world isn’t yours."

Edit: thank you to @thestrangepoet for correcting “is” to “isn’t!” The presence of the letter T was a bit inconclusive, but it makes so much more sense in this context.

Now, what does that actually mean? Well, he’s likely referring to Sam. The extent of what he actually knows I’m uncertain of. Feel free to theorise and let me know! I have an idea about how this affects the overall story, but that's a post for another day.

I furthermore checked every single instance [ERROR] spoke for occurrences like this, and what did I find? Nothing. There was a bit of whispering in TMP 10 that I couldn't manage to isolate, but the voice was definitely Beth Eyre's. The only other time an Archivist audibly appeared in this fashion was... Oh, Hello. The TMP series teaser with Jon and Martin. Brilliant.

Now I just have to hope that nothing gets debunked by tomorrow. I'm crossing my fingers, TMP 40.

Thank you to Rusty Quill for sending me down this rabbit hole! The details added to all corners of the production bring so much life to the Magnus mystery. I'm glad I could dig deep and analyse this - We love you!

[fallstaticexit]

Prev / Next / Beginning / Pillowfort

TW: Sex, Sim Spice

Transcript under the cut

Client: I mean this respectfully, Nancy-

Nancy: Mrs. Landgraab.

Client: Right, right.

Client: We’ve done business with Mr. Landgraab for over two decades. He knows what we’re looking for.

Nancy: With Mr. Landgraab's pending retirement, he will be personally involved in very few projects. Any upcoming initiatives will be managed by me. My track record speaks for itself, and I assure you, I will not let you down.

Client: [sighs] You seem like a nice gal, Nancy-

Nancy: Mrs. Landgraab.

Client: We don’t doubt you’re a professional, considering who your father is but I think we will proceed with Mr. Landgraab, even if there’s a wait. With all due respect.

Nancy: I would like to remind you that he will retire, and I will be assuming leadership of the company.

Client: [chuckles] Well, he ain’t off the horse yet, missy. You take care.

Nancy: Wait- fuck. [sighs]

[snickering]

Nancy: Now WHO left this tasty little snack for me!

Jonathan & Malcolm: [squeals]

Nancy: What are you two doing here? You supposed to be in school. You’re not playing hooky are you?

Jonathan: I asked the driver to bring us here first. We wanted to surprise you with Dino. He’s lucky.

Nancy: Is that so?

Malcolm: Do we have to leave, Mommy? I wanna stay here with you!

Nancy: Oh, absolutely. You two are way too distracting and I need to focus. I’ll see you at dinner.

Jonathan: 6:30 sharp?

Nancy: 6:30 sharp. Malcolm, please behave today.

Malcolm: No promises!

Nancy Narrates: [Being a woman in a male dominated field felt like a crime. Being a mother was somehow worse]

Nancy Narrates: [My name alone wasn’t enough to gain their respect. I still had to work twice as hard]

-

Nancy: What issue? How is this possible?

Worker: There’s an issue with the plumbing. I called for our site manager to speak with you about it. We followed the blueprints, ma’am.

Nancy: [mutters] Damn it.

Manager: We can fix it, no problem but we’ll need new plans no later than tomorrow morning, bossman. Shouldn’t set us back but maybe 1-2 days tops.

Geoffrey: Oh, no! No, sorry, I’m not the architect-

Nancy: I drew the plans, actually. You can discuss the details with me.

Manager: My apologies, miss!

Nancy: Mrs. Landgraab will do. Where can we sit and chat?

-

Geoffrey: Ok, I have a joke. What has five toes and isn't your foot?

Jonathan: [snickers] What?

Geoffrey: My foot.

Jonathan: Pfftt! Dad! That was awful! I got one too!

Jonathan: How does a wiener go camping?

Geoffrey: [laughs] Oh boy. How?

Nancy: Jonathan, please, no wiener jokes at the table.

Jonathan: In a Wiener-bago.

Geoffrey: [laughs]

Geoffrey: Hey bud, your steak is getting cold. Come sit and eat.

Malcolm: Nuh-uh. I like watching Mommy. I’m going to be an architect too when I grow up. I’m gonna be the best, just like you.

Nancy: You sure will, my darling. It’ll be me, you and Jonathan.

Malcolm: And Daddy?

Nancy: Well, someone has to file all the paperwork.

Geoffrey: [laughs] Hey!

Jonathan: HA! Mommies can make jokes too!

Geoffrey: So, I had the world’s longest day, the boys are out cold for the night and you look so gorgeous right now. Thinking what I’m thinking?

[both panting]

Geoffrey: [whispers] Want to turn over?

Nancy: [whispers] Yes. Ok, try that.

Geoffrey: Hey, do you just want to stop?

Nancy: [nods]

Nancy: I’m sorry.

Geoffrey: Don’t apologize. You know it’s ok to stop, right? And we don’t have to have sex just because I’m in the mood for it.

Nancy: [sighs] I want to be in the mood, I just...I don’t know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Geoffrey: Maybe you’re stressed about work?

Nancy: [sighs] Maybe. My father is ancient, and he would rather work himself ragged instead of letting me step into his role. He doesn’t trust me. Hell, he doesn’t even know me.

Geoffrey: You’re right, he doesn’t know you. If he did, he’d know how capable and ready you are.

Nancy: I’m just tired of feeling invisible.

Geoffrey: Well. Make them see you. Be loud. Be in charge. You got it in you.

-

Nancy Narrates: [I knew there was something inside me that craved more. I wanted to be more than just a mother and wife. I wanted 'something’ so badly, and it drove me mad not knowing exactly what it was that I wanted ]

Nancy: I hear you’re lucky, Dino. What do you have in store for me?

Nancy Narrates: [What I didn’t know was that all that wanting was not done in vain. That day that Judith Ward walked into my office changed my life]

Judith: Knock, knock! I hope you don’t mind taking a walk in.

Nancy: Oh! Oh, Ms. Ward, not at all! Please, have a seat.

Judith: Call me Judy, I insist, please.

Nancy: How can I help you?

Judith: When I purchased land in The Pinnacles, I knew I wanted a home designed by a sharp, feminine eye.That’s why I picked you to design my dream home, The Ward Den. Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?

Nancy: It would be my absolute pleasure, Ms. War- Judy. May I ask what made you of all people choose me specifically?

Judith: Look around! The future is female! I make it my business to hire female cooks, female hairdressers, female designers, you name it. Men are only good for one thing these days, well, two if you count my male guard dogs. You know-

Judith: Wah wah wah wah wah.

Judith: Wah wah wah wah wah. Wah wah?

Judith: You know what I mean?

Nancy: Um, yes. Yes.

Judith: You have no idea how excited I am, hon! I just know all those B list bitches will gag when they see my new home on the hill. I’m going to throw the biggest party of the decade just to show it off. Everyone will be dying to have their home designed by THE Nancy Landgraab!

Nancy: I will make sure it is my best work yet. I’ll start right away.

Judith: I know you will! I have a great feeling about this, Nancy Landgraab!

[moosha-mushroom]

Media I imagine different fiction podcasts in instead of the media of being a podcast.

TMA: A selection of volumes, relating to the fears, each with those removable covers. Those covers has a victim or two, and then underneath the cover is a really detailed cover. The paper is decoratively ripped, with a kind of scraggly font, and each has a foreword and ‘author’s note’ from Jonathan Sims.

Malevolent: A really gritty graphic novel with deadly detail in each panel, and very little color. Maybe a trinket on each important character has a color? Like Arthur’s eyes being yellow or Oscar’s collar having a blue sheen to it. The novels are long, dramatic, and intimate in a visceral way.

Welcome to Night Vale: Local 58 bullshit. A broadcast on television with low quality images and audio, tacky music, and a kind of 80’s aesthetic. Each episode the words WELCOME TO NIGHT VALE zoom onto the screen, the purple eye behind them. And each weather segment is an animated short by a different artist.

The Penumbra(Juno Steel): A webcomic. Hours spent scrolling downward a comic that has so much color and GEOMETRIC design. Juno and his curvy jaw, brown pie slice eyes, a cartoonishly high collar for his investigator jacket. Nureyev and his sharp square jaw, shimmering jewelry, and stick legs. Characters sticking out of the panels, fonts changing constantly, a little blue Juno that does his narration and *guitar theme plays* each time he appears.

Wolf 359: A classic comic. Issues month by month. Different special covers of the characters in extra dramatic poses or scenes. Even MORE panel breaking than Juno Steel. So MUCH onomatopoeia, even for small things like the clink of a panel or the disapproving hiss of Hilbert in the background. Geometric designs like Juno Steel, but less colorful. Like the superhero art style mixed with a more stylized look.

Midnight Burger: You pull up the Midnight Burger website. They have a hidden page that has a sort of script-comic thing going on, where the art is next to the writing. Small coded in notes from Leif sometimes pop up if you hold your arrow over the art. Links are attached to the parts where Effie and Zebulon play music, linking you to the music so you can listen to it while you read.

Desert Skies: An animated show. Indie, something you’d find on YouTube. The animation is bouncy and incorporates 3D animation alongside the 2D. Maybe the Sphere Movers have 3D models and the staff don’t? The credits are short because it was made by one guy. People are complaining about it on Twitter /j. People are making content farms about it. Everyone is pissed at Corson like they’re pissed at Jax.

The Amelia Project: A sort of simulation video game. You play as Arthur. You listen to their stories and draw pieces of the tale to invent their death. Every once in a while the game transitions to a point and click suspense game where you solve puzzles as Cole and Haines. Maybe there should even be an Operation-esque part of it where you work as Kozlowski.

Ghost Wax: A novel with a lot of pictures spliced in it. The stories are all in a single book, though the book is through Luca’s perspective— so he picks up on the ghost’s body language and Voncid’s reactions. The pictures are tarot cards with each victim as a card. Some are repeat cards— Lorem does not have a card at the end of the story. Nor does Our Home or Evening at the Ardent. The pictures are only white with black line art. No color whatsoever.

Kakos Industries: A company newsletter. Not a broadcast. A newspaper that arrives at your door and has big bold letters with the main story and pictures of the events that happen in the story as it goes. And the Sunday Comic page is full of employee shenanigans. Some innocent… some not.

I am losing my mind.

[kora-kat]

Description under cut

[A 3 panel comic featuring characters from the Magnus Archives, Jonathan Sims and Alice "Daisy" Tonner. Panels featuring the both of them are purple. The second panel featuring only daisy is black.

Panel 1- jon and Daisy are standing next to each other talking. Daisy is holding a thermos. Next to Jon is a green floating eye only he can see.

Jon: what's it like being of the hunt

Eye (not part of the conversation): when you clean a vacuum, you become a vacuum cleaner.

Panel 2- background switches to black. Jon is now gone and on Daisy's shoulder is the red lineart of a wolf with a cat-like eyes and long sharp teeth. This dog is speaking to her implied to be the Hunt Entity

Hunt: YOU SHOULD BARK AT PEOPLE

Panel 3- back to both Daisy and Jon standing together. Dasiy looks away as she nonchalantly takes a drink of coffee. Jon looks nervous.

Daisy: not fun.

Eye (not part of the conversation): dogs can taste water.

End Description]

[peonysgreenhouse]

-`♡´- mine all mine.

summary: kissing blurbs (gn!reader x daisy tonner, helen distortion, tim stoker, & jonathan sims)

tags: kisses, suggestive content & hunt-typical violence for daisy's, helen is manipulative, cleaning tim's worm holes (lol), jon finally gets a little bit of sleep.

-`♡´- daisy tonner

Daisy smells the blood that thrums just underneath your neck and hungers. Her teeth graze over the soft skin over your neck; she can feel your carotid pulse in response to her touches. So rhythmic, so alive, and she hungers so. It would only be a few centimeters beneath your skin, it would be so easy to bite down and taste.

And how delicious a meal you would be.

Daisy’s tongue darts out and drags just underneath your jaw. You tug gently at her hair, and her hands grip tighter at your sides. No, no, she would be gentle with you. She would try, at least, she thinks, nipping at the side of your neck as if to show you she could be restrained.

Bite inhibition was something she had never properly learned, but for you, she would try.

When you pull Daisy up for a proper kiss, she hopes you don’t taste the blood on her lips, on her teeth, on her tongue. She fears it lingers no matter how many times she brushes them clean. You bite her bottom lip, pulling the chapped skin between your teeth, and Daisy can’t help but press herself against you; a different form of hunger settling low in her gut. She lifts you onto the desk and thinks that this is a type of hunger she doesn’t mind sating. 

-`♡´- helen distortion

You had been wandering the corridors for hours… Or had it been days? Months perhaps? It’s easy to lose count when you’ve nothing to go off of. No phone to check the time, nor window to the outside world – if there even was one here – to see the setting sun or rising moon. Just an endless stretch of elastic corridors and doors that were locked tight.

Then, a figure. Tall and slender, and you can't help but stumble forward towards it. It had been so long since you saw anything but empty hallways, you nearly sob in relief.

As you get closer you realize that she looks… familiar. Like someone you once knew. Maybe you had once gone for coffee together? No, that wasn’t right. Your mind must be playing tricks on you. Your heart hammers within your chest as she reaches out to you. 

“Poor thing…” She coos, bending at an unnatural angle to look down at you. “You seem lost, my darling. Do you need help finding your way?”

Oh, she was friendly. She wants to help. The Distortion smiles at you, with much too many sharp teeth, but you find she looks… kind. You nod, desperate, and approach her, gripping onto her sleeve.

“Yes.” You breathe out, frantic. “Yes, please. I’ve been lost here for… for a long time. Do you know the way out?”

Helen pulls you into her arms, her voice comforting in your ear as she reassures you everything would be okay. Those long, sharp fingers of hers gentle as she strokes your hair. It feels nice, so nice you can’t help but nuzzle closer into the Distortion that holds you tight, almost like a lover. 

Yes, yes, you had known her before. Helen, that’s right. You had been on a few dates before she had ghosted you. Why was she here now? She shouldn’t be here, you shouldn’t be here. Perhaps you could escape together!

“Helen.” You say, the name sounding right on your tongue. “I knew you before… we…”

Helen looks a little taken aback that you remembered. Still, she smiles that same, wide smile. “You remember me, darling? How… cute.” Her dark pupils seem to swirl around and around inside her eyes, winding like the corridors themselves, and you can’t help but find comfort in that pattern. “Let's get you to the exit, you look like you need a rest, hm?"

She takes your hand in hers, her hand dwarfing your own in size, and leads you to an unassuming door. You're sure you tried that one before; you can even see the chips in the paint from where you had tried to pull off the handle. If Helen notices, she doesn't say anything.

"Here we are, darling." She says, in that same chipper tone. You can't help but feel a rush of relief as she pulls open the door. Through the frame you can see your room, as neat and tidy as you left it. You could almost cry.

"Thank you." You say, your voice choked up with relief. "Thank you." You wrap your arm around her neck and stand on your tiptoes to kiss her cheek. Her skin is cold under your lips.

"No need to thank me. I'm just glad you're all safe now." She says, booping your nose with a finger. You can't help the way your heart races as she ushers you through the door. “I’ll be seeing you soon, my darling.” She gives you a once-over, and then closes the door behind her. It disappears into the darkness of your room.

As she closes the door, you can’t still your racing heart. You feel an overwhelming sense of dizziness, but all you can think about is that you need to see her again.

-`♡´- timothy stoker

“So… How do my worm holes look, doc?” 

You pull one of his bandages off, taking a peek at the wound just under his jaw. “Stop squirming.” You say, firmly, holding his jaw in place as he tries to move away from your prodding around the wound. It looks less angry than it had a few days ago, but it was still a bit red. You wrinkle your nose. “Does it hurt?”

Tim lets out a playful scoff. “Oh yeah, I feel just great. Nothing quite like being riddled with holes.” 

“Hm, deflecting again.” You say, brushing your thumb over his pulse point, just below the wound. Tim hums in response. “Adding that to your, uh, file.” 

“Oh, you’re keeping a file on me now?” He says, his eyes flicking down to your hand as you smear ointment onto your finger. Tim sucks in a breath, bouncing his leg anxiously as he awaits your touch.

“Yeah, it’s almost big enough to knock you over the head with when you’re being stubborn. Like now.” You say, gently grabbing his wrist and pulling him forward. “Sit still.”

Tim dramatically throws up his hands, but he does as you say. You give the wound another once over, just to make sure it looked like it was healing, before smearing the antibiotic onto it. Tim tenses, his eyes closing as if in pain. You pull your hand back, wiping the excess ointment onto the closest towel.

“All done with this one. Just let me put a clean bandage on.”

“...You never did answer, you know.” He says, watching as you dump the box of bandages onto the table. It would probably take all of them, knowing how many open wounds were left on his skin in the aftermath of the attack. You fear you'll never rid yourself of the image of the worms wriggling underneath his skin; you were thankful he was high off his ass for the worst of it. “How do they look?”

“You’re still handsome, if that’s what you’re worried about.” You lean forward as if to prove a point and kiss the fresh bandage lightly, making an exaggerated ‘MWAH’ sound. Tim gives you the goofiest smile. 

“Hm… I might need a few more of those before I really believe it. I’m so insecure and all that.” Tim says, tilting his head up so you can reach the next spot.

"Sit still for me and I'll give you all the kisses you want, Stoker."

-`♡´- jonathan sims

You know better than to wake the Archivist.

It’s not often that Jon’s mind quiets enough for him to sleep, and even now as you watch him, you can tell he’s watching back. It’s eerie, the way you can see his eyes shift behind closed eyelids. You think it would be less creepy if he slept with his eyes open.

Still, you wish he would sleep in a more comfortable position. Slumped over his desk, head laid in the bend of his elbow, it’s a recipe for Jon complaining about his back when he wakes up. You reach over and pull his glasses off, folding them and setting them on top of one of the stacks of old statements on his desk. 

He looks so much older without his glasses on; the dark circles under his eyes and worry lines much more prominent. You almost want to reach over and smooth them out, but you resist, not wanting to wake him by accident. Still, you can’t help but brush back his bangs from his forehead and place a quick kiss to the now exposed skin. Jon stirs, mumbling something under his breath, but does not wake.

While he’s asleep, you take the time to clean his office a bit: putting books back on their correct shelves, taking half-empty tea cups to the break room’s sink, organizing the miscellaneous statements he has messily scattered around the room. It’s almost relaxing, working quietly while he sleeps. You feel like you can catch your breath for the first time in a long while. 

Before you leave, you take your jacket, warm from your body heat, off and place it onto Jon’s shoulders. You lean down and press one more kiss to his forehead, and swear you can see the corners of his lips twitch up.

[0bticeo]

jonathan sims | get some rest (tomorrow is already here)

summary:

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk. but jonathan sims is a stubborn man, so he must be coaxed into doing so. 

“a massage.”

"a what?"

wc: 2.5k

tw: massage, making out, reader being a horny mess, jon being exhausted and a cranky bastard, hinted at elias' voyeuristic tendencies, usual tma ominous feelings, fluff (shocking, i know)

the analog clock reads 3:27, stark red embedded upon your retina. you sigh, fingers rubbing at the back of your neck as you step into the archives, weary bones aching.

it’s not your fault if you fell asleep in a secluded corner of the archives departement, squeezed between two shelves and piles upon piles of unlabeled statements. scratch that: they’re labeled. chronologically.

they do not make sense, however, because jonathan sims’ predecessor - whose name you curse with every breath and sleepless night you spend organizing her damn mess - left the whole department in such a state of disarray you might spend the rest of your life making sense of it. damn her. and damn your boss for being so uptight about it all.

you feel the weight of the institute, a looming force of knowledge pressed at the back of your neck, sweet pinprick of pain. you’re watched. oh, orwell, how right you were.

you make your way towards your desk, stepping over sasha’s pink slippers and picking up an empty mug. grab your keys, get out, and walk home. you’re not too far away from the institute. no trouble.

as you lean forward, palm pressed flat against a manila file, something catches your eye.

light. 

thin rays of it crawl, seep out from under the wooden door of the head archivist’s office, stark golden in dull gray penumbra.

he’s there, jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute. holed up in his office, recording a statement, voice poised and measured and controlled in every way he isn’t upon being confronted with his poor sleeping schedule. 

you should leave.

you hear the soft click of a tape recorder being stopped. a long, deep-suffering sigh. a drawer opening, more muttering, some shuffling, rustling papers - oh no he won’t.

in three decisive steps, you’re before his door, your sharp knocking rinnging like gunfire in the quiet of the office. 

“who-who’s there?”

unease. suspicion.

you’re quick to answer with a long suffering sigh of your own, forehead pressed against the door.

“it’s me, jon.”

a pause. an exasperated sigh.

“what do you want?"

you take it as your cue to step inside his office, dimly lit by a lone desk lamp, dust particles turning midas-gold under its rays. your foot catches on a discarded paper - another statement, this one regarding a gambling fool of a soldier. 

(he who tries to cheat death gets the fruit of his labor and weeps upon tasting it.)

you pick it up, and let your gaze roam about the place.

a cork board takes up the majority of a wall, red strings twisting and turning in a web of confusion.

bookshelves align themselves in neat rows, cramped against one another, overflowing with statements, indigestions of facts made up and real.

a cluttered desk - a switched off tape recorder, manila folders, an open computer casting its blue glow upon the sharp edge of jon’s face.

he’s glaring at you.

“have you grown deaf since the last time i saw you?”

you let out an amused breath and make a move to put the statement on his desk. finding an uncluttered space is harder than it proves to be.

jon all but snatches the damn paper from your grip. if looks could kill, you’d be in bad shape. you lean back, arms crossed over your chest, hip pressed against the edge of his desk.

“no, merely mute with shock upon your wretched appearance.” you smile, teasing edges fading into concern. “seriously, when was the last time you slept?”

“that does not concern you-”

“it does, actually. you’re my boss. i can’t let you waste away, who would pay me otherwise?”

“elias pays all of us-”

“and he probably would have me promoted as a glorified secretary if you were to overwork yourself to death. i hate accountance, jon.”

he pinches his nose with long, deft fingers, glasses riding up ever so slightly. they reveal the deep circles under his eyes, embedded in his olive skin. you can practically see the tension oozing from him, the knots in his shoulders.

“if you’re determined to waste my time-”

“i came to help, actually.”

he raises a quizzical eyebrow, the living embodiment of judgment.

you feel his gaze rake your form, the own dark circles under your eyes, the crumpled shirt, the dust that clings to your skirt, what he’s sure is the imprint of the shelf you fell asleep against on your cheek.

you raise your hands in mock surrender. (you miss the way his gaze softens a little.)

“you’re exhausted. hell, i can feel your nervous energy from here.”

he opens his mouth, frowning, protest ready on his tongue. you cut him, merciless.

“when was the last time you’ve gotten more than three hours of sleep?”

that shuts him up. his frown deepens. you want to smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead.

“that - look, if you have nothing better to do than pester me-”

“it’s three in the morning and we’re the only living souls in this institute.”

maybe. you don’t really want to know what lies in the tunnels. or in the artifact storage. or what’s watching you.

“you’re not going to sleep at all at this rate - no, i know you’re not, because i know you. kinda.”

he sighs, exhaustion crawling out of his very marrow, and leans back in his chair. you take in the wrinkles in his shirt, now exposed because lo and behold, jonathan sims’ jacket is not sewn to his body and - 

and he’s loosening his tie, two fingers digging in his windsor knot, smooth silk gliding away under skilled fingers. you wonder what they might feel like slipping under your shirt.

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk and into bed. but jonathan sims is the living embodiment of stubborness, so he must be coaxed into doing so.

“a massage.”

“a- a what?”

you laugh a little.

“don’t pretend your neck isn’t stiffer than the stick up your ass.”

“i do not have-”

“jon, please let me help.”

silence. again, he pinches the bridge of his nose. at least, he’s considering it.

you eye the piles of statements on his desk, half-discarded, half-classified. there’s a pattern in the way jon operates, even if he’s not conscious of it.

he only ever calls for your help when he’s sure the statements at hand are lelgitimate. this means he rules out those he deems written by lunatics and madmen. this means he does most of the work. this means-

“all right. but under one condition."

you tilt your head to the side, curious.

“one last statement.”

“only if i massage you while you record it.”

a glare.

“we’re wasting time, jon.”

“fine. get over here.”

you smile, palms smoothing out the pleats of your skirt as you make your way behind his desk.

he pays you no mind, long fingers selecting a manila file from a pile, opening it with care. there’s a certain stiff grace with which he carries himself, you muse as you step behind him. 

you watch the ripples of tension in the back of his neck, the fine strands of auburn hair tainted penumbra-dark brushing against his nape, and gently run your knuckle against his skin. he’s warm.

“whenever you’re ready,” you breathe, fingers resting on the back of his chair.

he coughs a little. composes himself. hits record.

“continued statement of trevor herbert regarding their latter years as a vampire hunter. original statement given july 10th 2010, audio recording by jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute.”

you watch with fascination as the calm, composed, formal voice slips into something… else. something between jonathan sims and trevor herbert, and it’s fascinating, because for a brief second, split second instant of Knowing, you can See him, the tramp and his collapsing lungs, writing away his youth and hunts on bland institute paper.

you blink and it’s gone. 

there’s only you, the “lofi charm” of the tape recorder, and jon. his nape is bare. intimate knowledge settles in your mind, the fragility of mortality. bury a sharp needle there and his body collapses. 

you frown. push it back. roll up your sleeves and rub your hands together, warming them up because they’re always cold, and the least you can do is give him a modicum of comfort.

slowly, carefully, you put your hands over his shoulders. he tenses at that, briefly, until you start rubbing away the years of tension gnawing at him.

slowly, surely, you knead poor, exhausted muscles. slowly, surely, he relaxes under your touch, head leaning back ever so slightly.

from this close, you can smell him, you realize. cold coffee, dusty paper, cedarwood aftershave and something like a hint of sweat. 

“good?” you whisper, almost silent, voice lost in the quiet static of the tape recorder, in the dust-soft penumbra.

he nods, cheek brushing your wrist. your heart hammers in your chest. a strand of hair brushes the back of your hand - they’re graying a little. you wonder why he exhausts himself so. why he spends nights buried in his office, burrowing himself in piles and piles of files. 

hypocrite.

the only reason as to why you’re here, massaging your fucking boss and growing desperately wet at his deep sighs of content, is because you, too, spend much more time than reasonable trying to make sense of it all. 

the only reason as to why you’re here, taking in the gentle mess that is jonathan sims, is because you both leave at ungodly hours. because he can keep his eyes on you and so he knows that you cannot be responsible for gertrude’s murder.

you think he might trust you.

his hand settles over yours, and you startle.

he’s warm, palm large enough to cover the entirety of your hand, from wrist to fingertips. you don’t know what to do with this knowledge.

you don’t want to think of what you might do in the quiet death of the night, your hand slipping under your covers, down the apex of your thigh-

he slides your hand lower. oh. oh. 

you lean forward, until your cheek brushes his, skin on skin, and unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt. you think he might be leaning into your touch. you think you might cut yourself on the edge of his jaw, on the sharpness of his words. 

your hands meet his bare skin and you feel like you’ve caught fire, breath stolen away as you feel him in a way the cotton of his shirt didn’t allow. there is a sharpness to him. you can feel his jutting clavicles under your fingertips, sharp angel wings of bone, and your heart tightens. 

he works too much.

it’s quiet, for a while.

you don’t know what sets it off. one moment, you’re massaging him, relishing in the feeling of his skin under your hands. the next, your fingers catch a particularly tight spot in his shoulders and he groans , and fuck, you should not feel familiar heat curling in your lower belly but you do. 

you should stop. bid him good night and leave him with his precious recording. 

you don’t. 

instead, you rub at that spot, tentatively, and watch as he bites his lip mid-sentence, voice catching on a word. he’s a little breathless.

you are, too, heart hammering in your ribcage, hummingbird trying to flee its bones.

his hand wraps around your wrist and tugs you forward, free hand settling on your lower back, guiding you until you’re in his lap, looking up at him.

you think you might be dying of a heart attack with the way he looks at you, with eyes so dark you can barely make out the beautiful green of them.

“just what do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

you feel like you're on fire with how close you are. how his hand still encases your wrist in an iron hold. how you can feel warmth of him. how you can see the fluttering pulse of his throat, adam apple bobbing up and down as he swallows and fuck you want to take a bite.

your mouth feels dry.

“i- i don’t-” 

his grip tightens on your wrist. 

“answer me.”

somehow you’re closer. close enough to feel his breath on your lips, to find yourself staring up at him through hooded eyes, to find him staring back with parted lips. 

whatever’s left of your resolve dissolves into a puddle of desire. 

“jon, please, let me kiss you.”

a pause. the faintest glint of disbelief in his eyes.

then his lips crash on yours. 

you startle, hand shooting forward to grasp the nearest thing for purchase and find only him, him and the crisp cotton of his shirt, all exhaustion and boiling frustration.

he puts his mouth to you like one would to a lover’s and kisses you slowly, deeply, unraveling you like a beloved mystery. 

your body sings for him, and it’s so right you dismiss the ever-present pinprick pressure at the back of your neck. 

his palm cups it, your nape, warmth consuming that pinprick pain, until the only thing you can do is sigh in his mouth and press yourself closer.

his lips part from yours, briefly, a breath away, and it’s too damn far, so you tug at his cravat and pull him down. your fingers dig in his shirt, his hair, and he groans at the way your nails rake his scalp.

your lips part for him in a soft, whisper-quiet moan of his name, and he swallows it down almost greedily. you feel his tongue brush against yours and let out a low, needy sound, molten desire coursing through your veins.

his hand slips under your shirt, reaches for the soft skin of your side and presses up, up, up until it meets your breast and his thumb presses against your nipple in tight circles and you’re almost sobbing against his lips. 

you’re not aware that your hips are grinding against the hardness of him until his hand settles on your hip, slowing you down to a stop, and you part from him, breathless, and so, so needy.

there’s a thread of saliva between you, thin little spider-web intertwining your fates.

he looks at you, disheveled, glasses slightly askew, their lenses foggy, shirt half-opened for your gaze to meet tantalizing skin. a feast for the sore eyes.

“you might want to make me breakfast instead.”

“not like this,” he mumbles, thumb swiping against your bottom lip. “not- at least, let me treat you to dinner first.”

he chuckles at that, a little breathless, a little exasperated, definitely fond.

“cheeky.”

you peck his lip, sweetly. his hand tightens over your hip.

“look at the time, jon.” 

he rides up his sleeve ever so slightly to reveal his watch and with it, the tantalizing softness of his pulse, beating wildly against the tender skin of his inner wrist. almost four in the morning. you press your lips there, feel the yearning of his beating heart. 

he doesn’t think he’s seen you this beautiful. you, disheveled, on his lap, almost chest to chest with him, bringing his palm to your cheek and pressing fluttering kisses to his fingers. you, smiling up at him, exhausted, worn to the bone, but happy, and -

“oh.”

“what is it?”

your gaze lands on the tape recorder. oh.

“still recording. i should -”

“go home, get some sleep and finish what you started - me included - later.”

he sighs. there’s still a smile on his lips, exhaustion melting down to affection. 

"fine. end recording.”

[ultramarinaa]

I got inspired to write my own short Champion fanfic, so here you go :) don't mind any typo/spelling/grammar errors, no beta we kayak like Tim

Martin wasn't sure how he ended up here, but he was at Jon's flat. He has been for the last few days, as a matter of fact. Elias had begun to cause a stink about a cat staying in the archives, so Jon simply decided to take Martin–Champion–home.

Not that Martin was complaining. Jon had a nice home, though it seems underprepared for a cat. Jon seemed to be quite the minimalist apart from things he'd like to collect, random little trinkets that took up space on his desk.

Also, not to mention living with his crush that had never dwindled, despite Jon's harshness. Jon treated him like a prince, at least by cat standards, but it's still more attention than he ever gets. He curls up on Jon's lap, on blankets, and Jon's bed had also become his. It was pure bliss (also, Jon's bed head was adorable).

It was also because of this that he'd get quite sad when Jon left for work. He'd meow, rub on his leg, sit in front of the door, but to no avail Jon would leave with a regretful look on his face. This wasn't the biggest of his problems, though.

Alone and nothing to do, Martin decides to take nap on top of the couch. He stretches, extending his claws as he does, and curls up. He dozes off into sleep, but when he opened his eyes, he noticed something was off.

He blinks as his vision clears, and realizes he is laying on the main part of the couch. He shifts, only to look down to see that he is human again–which would be fantastic if Jon wasn't going to be home at any moment. Martin had been missing, though nobody really tried to find him, and he was sure it would be a shock to find someone suddenly in your flat.

Martin gathers himself before sitting up, promptly adjusting to being back in his old and human body. How was he going to explain this? 'Yes, Jon, I was a cat and definitely didn't break into your house'?

Before he had too much time to think he heared a click and then the door knob begin to turn. Ready or not, he thought, and listened to door break as it opened to show Jonathan Sims.

Jon lookes baffled to put it lightly. He stood there, unmoving and unchanging, making long eye contact with Martin. He can feel his face get red as it makes him nervous, and he thinks this is the last thing that should be happening. "Uhm, hi. Jon, I'm so sorry–"

"How did you get here? I–" Jon tosses his bag to the side as he makes his way over to Martin, his voice sharp. Not angry though, which surprises Martin. He sees worry in Jon's eyes as he talks. "Where on earth have you been?"

Martin has to process what is happening, giving a small nod before he starts talking. "Right, I...might have been stuck as a cat?"

"You were Champion?" The tone initally came off as surprised to Martin, but he can see Jon frown slightly. "That's...I'm glad you're okay."

"I touched a Leitner, it was my own fault," Martin says simply. He feels guilty about the situation, but he can't help feeling a sting of hurt knowing nobody actively looked for him.

"If I would have known...I'm sorry." Jon rests his hand on Martin's shoulder, though he has to look up at him. "Elias told us you were taking some sort of break from work. Should have never trusted his word."

"He told you I was taking a break?" He didn't know what else to do other than gesture his hands to emphasize his point. "That bastard knew what happened!"

"Let's give him a taste of his own medicine," Jon said, having a beautiful determined look his his eyes. "Wouldn't hurt to have another cat around the archives."

Martin was certain he was in love with this man.

I fully believe John just wants to have a cat and getting one but also getting rid of Elias at the same time… is a wonderful deal

Also hehehehehee happy ending for cat!Martin, no angst just sillies

Just what I needed, thank you so much!! 💞💞💞💞

[tadpolecollin]

Jonathan sims x gn!reader

(Set between Season 1 and 2 of The Magnus Archives)

A moment of peace

Jonathan Sims sat hunched over his desk, fingers poised over his keyboard. The room was dimly lit by the flickering overhead lights, the only sound filling the air the soft click of keys as Jonathan typed his notes. The weight of the world seemed to hang on his shoulders as he reviewed yet another terrifying report. The tapes, the files, the endless encounters with the Unknowns—each case more terrifying than the last.

He hadn't taken a break in hours. Not that he had time for one, of course. Every moment was crucial. The truth was always just out of reach.

You stood in the doorway, watching him for a moment. You knew him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the fatigue in his eyes. The Archivist. He couldn’t let go of the things he’d seen. Even now, the shadows of his mind seemed to pull him deeper into the dark, keeping him tethered to the very thing that threatened to destroy him.

"You’ve been at this for far too long, Jon," you said gently, walking into the office. Your voice seemed to break through the monotony of the hum in the room, pulling Jonathan’s attention away from the screen. He didn’t speak immediately, his tired eyes lifting to meet yours.

"I’ve just got to get through a few more of these reports," he murmured, his voice flat and strained. "There’s no time for breaks."

You stepped closer, crossing the room to his side. He didn't pull away, though his exhaustion was palpable, the way he slumped into his chair, as if gravity itself had become too heavy to resist.

"Jonathan," you began again, softer this time, sitting down across from him, "you need to take a break. This won’t help you. Not like this."

He rubbed his temples, the bags under his eyes growing darker. You could see the conflict in him—the Archivist’s endless pursuit of truth battling with the very real need for rest.

"Don’t you understand? If I don’t—" he stopped, letting out a frustrated sigh. "I don’t know what will happen if I stop now. There’s too much at stake."

You placed a hand on the desk, your voice calm but firm. "You can't do this forever, Jon. You’re only human. The Archives can wait for a few minutes. And you *need* to rest. You can’t think straight if you’re this tired."

Jonathan didn’t respond right away, his gaze drifting back to the mountain of reports, as if it was calling to him. The silence stretched between you, thick with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. His mind was racing. You could see that. But, you also knew he was too stubborn to listen to his own body. So, you decided to help him, in the only way you knew how.

You rose from your chair, walking to the small kitchenette that sat at the corner of the office. The sound of the kettle boiling was a small comfort in the otherwise tense air. Jonathan didn’t move, though you could feel his eyes on you, watching you.

"I’m making tea," you called over your shoulder. "You’re going to take a break whether you like it or not."

For a long moment, you thought he might argue, that he might throw himself back into his work with renewed vigor. But instead, after a beat of silence, you heard him let out a deep breath. The chair creaked as he stood and walked over to join you. You turned to find him standing beside you, looking weary but resigned. You smiled softly at him.

"I don’t need much," he said quietly, his usual sharpness dulled by exhaustion. "Just a little... help getting through this."

You handed him a cup of tea, the warmth of it contrasting sharply with the cold air in the room. As he took it, his fingers brushed yours, and you noticed a slight tremor in his hand. He held the cup to his lips, letting the steam drift up around him, his eyes falling shut for a moment as he inhaled the scent.

"Thanks," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. It was quiet, fragile, as if the words were harder to say than usual. But there was something in it that made your chest tighten—something that felt like relief, both for him and for you.

"You’re welcome," you replied gently. "You’ve been working non-stop. Just take a few minutes. You’ve earned it."

Jonathan didn’t argue, and for once, he didn’t rush back to his desk. Instead, the two of you sat there in silence, the low hum of the building the only sound in the room. You could tell he was still preoccupied, but there was a slight easing of the tension in his shoulders, a subtle change that made you believe, if only for a moment, he might actually be letting go of the pressure he always carried.

"You know," you said after a while, taking a sip of your own tea, "there’s more to you than just the Archivist. You don’t have to carry all this by yourself."

Jonathan looked at you, his gaze softening. "I know," he replied quietly. "But sometimes, it feels like I have to."

You shook your head, reaching across the table to gently squeeze his hand. "You don't. Not anymore. You don’t have to do this alone, Jon."

For the first time that night, Jonathan’s tired eyes met yours fully, and you saw something shift there—a recognition, a sense of relief. Maybe he hadn't fully realized how much he needed this moment, how much he needed someone to remind him that it was okay to take a break.

"I just..." Jonathan trailed off, then swallowed hard, his expression tight. "I don’t want to let anyone down."

"You won’t," you said, your voice steady and sure. "But you’ll burn out if you keep pushing yourself like this. Take it one step at a time. We’re all in this together."

Jonathan nodded slowly, and for the first time in what felt like ages, he allowed himself a quiet, almost imperceptible smile. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Enough to remind him that, even in the darkest hours, there were still people who cared.

The room remained quiet for a while longer, the only sounds the gentle clink of porcelain and the soft hum of the building around you. Eventually, Jonathan finished his tea, and though he didn’t jump back into his work immediately, there was a subtle shift in him. The burden on his shoulders was still there, but it was a little lighter than before.

When he finally rose to return to his desk, it was with a renewed sense of calm. He wasn’t cured, not by a long shot. But for that brief moment, he had allowed himself a small, precious reprieve. And you were there, by his side, whenever he needed it.

And that, in the end, was enough.

__

Sorry if he's out of character i just started listening to tma like two days ago

[sunny-reacts-to-stuff]

tma 120 "eye contact"

blood, body horror, self-harm, insect infestation, worms, burned alive, buried alive, direct violence, police, police violence

i wanna be like jonathan sims and get paid for having my parents insulting me in public

and now to listen to fuckass elias bouchard ramble for 23 whole minutes

unresponsive :(

everything but brain-dead is crazy

was antonio blake like this

anatomy class? :o

tessa?

daisy? did daisy get coffined for real?

is this "if you missed previous episodes"?

my jon :(

how was this guy called? jordan?OMG I GOT IT RIGHT

ohh wait this are only the ones we got narrated direct from subject

omg hi jane! been a while

and that's jude, yay

who are we missing? naomi and that's it?

let me just.

in order, we have -> anatomy class, binary, skintight?, police lights, the smell of blood, hard shoulder, underground, the new door, pest control, hive/infestation, twice as bright

and we are missing naomi, basira's first statement?, julia?, gerry? and sasha? idk

MY SOURCES (tumblr user fullmetalmind) HAS TOLD ME ANTONIO BLAKE HAS BEEN SPOTTED BEFORE so we are gonna finish this and then we are gonna go on an egg hunt to find him

okay, we have nightfall

and alone?

wait im gonna go on the egg hunt now because imagine elias finishes the statement with "btw and this guy was blablabla" i will kms

data i have on antonio blake:

not native to london but lives there

studied economics

worked in barclays

dated graham folger for six years, therefore he is a queer man

he has a friend called anahita wait

has premonitory lucid dreams (they seem to start at canary wharf)

went on to work for an esoteric shop

his father died of heart failure of 31st dec 2014

didn't know the archive before hand

based on my sources he appears more than once

okay now. for the hunt.

haha i have no idea how to go about this

let me play my tunes

(the tunes in question)

okay the problem is that i have two separate lists of characters and not all of them are complete but let's see what we can do

also lol completely forgot about mike's statement

either way

list of men that could fit this stuff:

ohhh he's oliver, right?

i have seen the name around and i kept being "we dont have any oliver" but

I sold crystals. They were clean, and sharp and bright and they did not sing to me, though I sometimes said they did. We would sell the stones to smiling young couples with colour in their hair. I remember, before I found the nest, someone new came. His name was Oliver, and he would look at me so strangely.

let me see if i can find a second name

i do have an oliver in my first list but i have him as client rather than selling because i must have misunderstood the "someone new came in" as him being a regular

well

whatever

i am very happy with this finding ^______^

elias you can keep going

are you allowed to do this in hospital visits

oh he's not at the hospital right he's watching

"without my guidance"? because you are gonna leave forever? :3

yeah don't you dare

well.

daisy dying was like the best outcome tbh

OMG YAY

the crime of being an asshole

well done martin

yeah that's because you give 0 shits about martin

also is the background noise supposed to be an eye opening and closing bc it is positively disgusting

pick me ahh criminal

the police officer is so done

"i shall be thinking of them" kys

YES KICK HIM

"i see" sadly you do

why is he here for the love of everything that's holy

NO ONE IS GONNA FUCKING CALL YOU PETER

he is 30 can we stop acting like he's useless just because he is a nice guy

oh right ceo vacancy

hell no

no

the devil that you know is better than the devil that you don't ig

well this one can be killed without consequences at least

paid therapy at least

i hate this fella

either way fun season

[theswarmsarchives]

the devil made me do it, but i also kinda wanted to.

@jontimjune - punishment (day 3)

(NO TWS NEEDED! theyre bickering<3)

Glitter.

Jon was growing to despise it.

It had been weeks, actual weeks, since Tim had set off his little sparkle bomb of doom, but he continued to find glitter in various crevices.

Opening a drawer? Oh, look, a pile of fairy dust.

Trying to grab a pen? Not without a sequin!

“Jon, you’ve, ah— Got something shining on your cheek there.” Had become a common interaction with Sasha in recent days.

That bastard was— Was tarnishing his already unstable appearance.

He was due for some rebuttal.

And how had Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London decided to go about doing that?

“What’s all this, boss?” Tim’s desk creaked under the weight of the files, old as ever. Stoker himself hadn’t even bothered to look up yet.

“Your work for this week.” Thankfully, that was enough to draw his attention.

With his eyebrow curved into a clean arch, Tim reclined in his chair. His eyes flicked from the stack, to Jon, back to the stack, and so on and so on for a few seconds.

“All of it?”

“All of it.” He mirrored back with a hum that seemed far too happy for a man who just ruined his employee’s week.

“C’mon, boss, if this is about the prank from a few weeks back—”

“Oh, so you are aware of how it’s been hindering my preformance?”

It was satisfying, listening to Tim go near silent with— Embarrassment? Guilt? Shame, probably. Shame is the most likely option.

“This—” He emphasizes the word by tapping the pile, a sharp tk tk sounding from it. “Is the least you could do.”

And, pardon him for getting cocky, but he really was enjoying himself. It was nice watching Tim squirm beneath his piercing gaze, straightening his back the best he could.

He leaned in close to the other, close to his ear as he could manage without touching him.

“You are good at organizing, are you not?”

Tim swallowed, shuddering. He did nod, though. A curt, short reply.

All the while Jon smiled from ear-to-ear, looking far too much like the cat that got the cream. And maybe he was.

“Good. Then this should be rather easy for you in the end. Have fun, Tim.”

As Jon took his leave, Tim sank further into his chair, releasing a breath he had been holding since his boss first began scolding him.

His face was warm. Really warm.

Shit.

[cult-of-the-eye]

All of the Jonathan Sims fanart I've seen has had a few things in common:

Brown

Sharp

Looks like they haven't slept in days

AMAZING HAIR

Looks like he's mid sigh like the type of sigh you do when you're in charge of the nuclear codes

Got some gender fuckery going on

Gods fave little blorbo

[neo--queen--serenity]

Hi....! If you don't mind, can I ask, who are your top 7 favorite romantic relationship's couples in books/ manga/ anime/movies/tv series/etc (can be canon or non-canon) and your top 10 favorite characters ever from any media? Why do you love them all? Thanks if you want to answer....

Yay, I love your asks so much!! They always inspire me to think deep on the things I love, and why. Love that shit.

I was able to answer your previous ask about my top 10 favorite characters a few months ago, so I'll keep this post about favorite ships, for simplicity's sake. :)

But before I begin my list, I should clarify that I love these ships for a variety of reasons. Some of them I enjoy because of the genuine romantic draw, others because of how compelling they are, regardless of how healthy they may be. So let's get into it. >:D

Suzaku Kururugi/Lelouch vi Britannia from Code Geass - this relationship is, quite possibly, my favorite ship of all time. If there is a dynamic to be had between them, they have it. Good, bad, ugly, the answer is yes, and they CANNOT keep themselves from loving each other. I quite literally cannot compare most ships to them, because there is no use in doing so. Nobody has what they have.

Claire Fraser/Jamie Fraser from the Outlander series - HETERO SHIPS HAVE GOOD SHIT WHEN THEY'RE WRITTEN WELL, and Outlander is just...one of the greatest book series I've ever read, full stop. The live-action tv series does them justice, which is a beautiful rarity, as well. But this relationship never stops being interesting, and that's saying something. I've followed their relationship from the early stages, to their years of development, and by God, these bitches have been married for decades, and I am still invested!!!!

Katsuki Bakugou/Izuku Midoriya from My Hero Academia - the childhood friends to lovers trope is, admittedly, a huge favorite of mine (Suzaku/Lelouch from Code Geass have this as well). That being said, we also have the added layers of one of them bullying the other during their middle school years. This complex, unhealthy dynamic transforms into a slow burn of becoming friends again through a painful and grueling process of shared trauma and joint character development. It is CATNIP to me, I tell you.

Obi Wan Kenobi/Anakin Skywalker from Star Wars - I have a particular fondness for mentor/mentee relationships that skew to the sharp end of obsession, when they aren't careful. Obi-Wan was meant to be a guardian, a teacher to the orphaned Anakin. But Anakin grows up, and the age gap isn't big enough to keep their relationship looking strictly familial anymore. They live together, they lead armies together, they are seen as an unstoppable force that must not be separated. And even after Anakin gets old enough to where he no longer needs to do so, he never stops calling Obi-Wan "master," which is unnecessarily kinky of him, imo.

Maomao/Jinshi from The Apothecary Diaries - a straight relationship that is written so well, and so compellingly, I never have any desire to read fanfiction about them. Natsu Hyuuga writes them so flawlessly that, fanfic, for me, is a pale shadow in comparison.

Jonathan Sims/Elias Bouchard from The Magnus Archives - this one's a toxic pairing that I just cannot resist. Their relationship started out as what was meant to be trust and mentorship. But their unhealthy, psychosexual fixation on one another not only forces our main character into a role of profound destruction and tragedy, but it also manages to make their interactions much hornier than is strictly necessary. Elias groomed Jon without his consent into becoming something horrific and monstrous, and in the end, Jon doesn't go out without dragging Elias down with him.

Atsushi Nakajima/Ryuunosuke Akutagawa from Bungou Stray Dogs - WHO DOESN'T LOVE A GOOD OL' RIVALS TO LOVERS TROPE??? They both come from incredibly tragic backgrounds, and neither can really say the other has had it better. Only through fighting on opposite sides over and over do they realize valuable, life-changing, life-altering things about themselves. They hate each other, have actively tried killing each other many times, but have slowly come to realize how alike they are. They accidentally became the motivation for the other to live, and went on fighting both against each other and for each other like it was nothing. They consider themselves partners, but won't say it out loud.

Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac from The Vampire Chronicles - These bitchy vampires make their centuries-old "on again off again" relationship everyone's problem. To be fair, they're probably soulmates. Okay, they're absolutely soulmates. But immortality doesn't always correlate with monogamy. It takes them a few hundred years to learn how to share, and they're...arguably still not the best at it. But after 13 books, they learn to make it work.

Satoru Gojou/Kento Nanami from Jujutsu Kaisen - They went to high school together, then separated afterwards. Both of these characters had best friends who died horrific deaths--friends who may have also been their first loves. Losing these loved ones wrecked them, and they cope in drastically different ways. In their late 20's, though, they reconnect. They become friends again, they begin working together to guide the younger generation in the gruesome, terrible occupation they work in. They are a sort of new beginning to one another. They don't try to replace the ones they lost, but instead they build something new, something stronger and more beautiful together, to make their future worth living.

Vanitas/Noé Archiviste from The Case Study of Vanitas - and here we have the classic doomed yaoi trope. We are told at the beginning of the story that Vanitas dies in the end. We just don't know how he dies (we still don't know, as the story isn't finished). Their relationship is the classic, "grumpy introvert adopted by a peppy extrovert" speedrun, except the vicious vampire in this scenario is the peppy extrovert. Our grumpy introvert, Vanitas, though human, is a vampire doctor, and works to cure vampires who have been cursed. He, himself, hates vampires. Yet he unwittingly acquires a new vampire friend who has decided that they should be besties forever. It's comedy gold, but takes a sharp turn into tragic, heartbreaking revelations of character development that neither of them were remotely ready for.

God, it was hard to narrow it down to only 10 fave ships, but I managed it! Thank you so much for this phenomenal ask, I loved answering it! <3

[angelcqre]

CoD TMA AU

ARCHIVIST

Statement of [Name Redacted], regarding her camping trip in The Grampian Mountains. Original statement given January Fifteenth, Two Thousand and Fifteen. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

Now, before you say anything, I know how I sound. I know that it was stupid to go out into the middle of uncharted wilderness and get piss drunk. Believe me, I'm not interested, the park ranger gave me an earful when he found me and the cops did the same. Especially now. But.. something happened, something bad, and if I don't - if I don't say it, I don't know. I'll explode.

So…

I'm not really an outdoors type. I'm an inside cat, I like to curl up with a good book and a cup of tea and my cat, but Farah insisted for her birthday that we go camping. She's always been like that - hiking, caving, camping, it's her thing, and when Farah wants something, she's set on it. Doesn't let it go, especially because she knows how to cash in favors.

So - we went. I didn't want to go, but we went. Me, Farah, her boyfriend, Alex, and her boyfriend's friend. John. I didn't really know him, but he seemed nice enough. We were supposed to spend a long weekend roughing it, three days and three nights for the holiday. We packed plenty of booze, plenty of food, all the proper first aid crap.. and we spent four hours hiking to what John said was the perfect spot.

He was strange from the get-go. A little too touchy-feely, a little too in your space, but he seemed… enthusiastic, I don't know. Eager. He was obviously passionate about it, kept stopping me to show me edible plants, poisonous mushrooms, whatever caught his eye. If it was notable, you'd best believe he was stopping to point it out. It was almost kind of cute, if it wasn't so.. feverish. [VOICE DROPS, ASSUMING SCOTTISH ACCENT.]

"Look, bonnie, look here," and he kept saying it, over and over. It felt like he was trying to prove something - like that he could take care of me, maybe? I don't know.

He just.. didn't stop. He had so much energy, kept moving, expression bright and eyes wild, kept insisting I call him Johnny. It wasn't.. flirting - I don't know what it was. Too familiar. He was so big, just this huge guy, looming over me, smiling with these insanely white teeth that..

Is it crazy to say they looked sharper than.. normal? I know, cliche, but they looked.. sharp. Like fangs. Whatever.

So we settle down on the first night, and of course we all start drinking, set some sausages over the fire, the whole deal. Farah is a clingy drunk, so she disappears with Alex into the woods as soon as she's got some booze in her, and then it's just me and John - Johnny. He hasn't drank a sip the whole time we've been there, just clutching the same beer bottle, nursing it for hours, just.. watching us, and his gaze is so intense. Like he's sizing us up.

At some point, he gets up. Says something about it being "about time", offers me this wink, and then he's strolling off into the woods, whistling to himself.

A hunting we will go, a hunting we will go…

He doesn't come back for naarly an hour. They don't come back for nearly an hour, and I start to get a little worried. I mean, look at me, I would not be able to, like, fight a bear if it came down to it, you know? I just keep feeding the fire, getting jumpier and jumpier, but eventually, he comes back, and..

At first, I don't know what it is. He just looks.. dark. His mohawk looks wet, and his clothes are stuck to him, outlining every muscle, but he doesn't step out into the firelight, stays in the shadows, so only his eyes and his teeth are visible, reflecting the light, and it feels wrong, feels sick.

He asks me, point blank, if I'm tired, and angles his head towards one of the two tents, and I tell him no, not yet, I'm waiting for Farah to get back, and he, uh.. he tells me she's not coming back.

When he steps into the firelight, it's like he's prowling, stalking more than walking, you know? He's moving like… like a predator, all smooth and uncanny, and now that I can see him, I can see that the wetness is.. blood, and he's covered in it, like, head to toe. It's worse at his mouth, his teeth are totally stained, like he was just.. ripping into something, I don't know. Biting. And his teeth are too sharp, and with the way he's moving, and the blood, and.. the look on his face, I just.. bolt.

And he laughs.

I can hear it echoing through the woods, bouncing off of every tree, but I don't hear him running after me. No, he just.. starts walking, and that scares me more, because he's so casual about it. Like he knows I won't get away.

But I run, and as I run, I can hear it, bouncing off of every tree, and it's December, right, so there aren't any leaves to block the moon or muffle the sound. I can hear him whistling as he walks, always seeming to be too close to me, no matter how fast I run, just out of sight, and eventually, I get to a clearing.

Everything feels too still. No nightlife - and there hasn't been any wildlife, no birds, no squirrels, nothing, and I'm realizing how bad that is.

And of course, I trip. My foot gets stuck in a gopher hole, of all fucking things, and then I'm dropping down, and he's on me.

His hand on my wrist, leaning down, and he's -

I don't know.

His eyes are blown out, manic, his teeth so large, ears.. pointed? I don't know, but he's drooling as he ruts against me, all but frothing at the mouth, mumbling about mates and calling me his little bunny, telling me that I had my fun, but that he's ready to have his prize, and-

And I have my bear mace still.

Because I can't fight bears.

He starts fidgeting with my clothes, and I just.. I pull it out, spray him, and he's so big, so unnaturally big, his muscles all.. I don't know, tense, wrong, and I spray him until he's howling and then I run.

I don't think the park ranger was happy to see me, but I was sure as shit happy to see her.

The thing is.. and why I came to you guys..

I keep.. getting this feeling.

Like I'm being watched. Hunted.

Like I never really escaped him.

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends. We attempted to contact Miss [REDACTED] following a similar statement we'd received months ago, regarding a man fitting the same description, but when Martin spoke to her, she informed him that all was fine, and that she was happy now.

That she was expecting pups.

Knowing Martin, he likely misheard her. I'm likely to dismiss this as a hallucination; with the mushrooms she discussed, perhaps she ingested some. The police seemed to think the same, and administered a drug test upon her statement, which came back... clean.

There isn't much more we can do here. If Miss- er, Mrs. MacTavish, doesn't wish to aid in further investigation, we, unfortunately, are stuck at a standstill.

Recording ends.

[CLICK]

[justatiredghost]

Guilt and Blame ch2/2

ao3

What if Jonathan Sims found out the assistants were bound to him, not the Eye, and that his death would release them? What if he tried to act on it, forcing everyone to confront the line between human and monster, and what their freedom is really worth to them?

-

John’s throat hurt and he felt completely drained as he sat on the break room couch wrapped in a towel. He wasn’t quite sure who had given it to him, he’d been wavering a bit on the edge of consciousness from the pain, but he was grateful. He’d lost his shirt at some point, and it was too cold in here without it. 

Looking down, he could see several new scars, but no open wounds. They were all nicely healed over and it made him angry. And sick. The pain was almost completely gone now and it seemed unfair, that he could go through so much agony and have so little to show for it. The only evidence was how woozy he felt, and the blood still on his trousers.

To his surprise, he realized there was a cup of tea in front of him. He wasn’t sure who had put that there either. He looked around quickly, hoping it meant Martin might be there, but no. Daisy was the only other one in the room, sitting on a chair nearby, pretending she wasn’t watching him like a hawk. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He finally got up the energy to reach out and take a sip of tea, his hands shaky and unsteady. He put it down more heavily than he meant when Basira stormed in, taking him by surprise. 

“How do you feel?” Basira said and it sounded more like a demand, her expression impassive.

“Why did you stop me?” John demanded, annoyed. His voice was hoarse from overuse and he couldn’t help but feel embarrassed with how much yelling he’d done. “I told you, I know how to free everyone.”

“Explain it to me,” she said, eyebrow raised. 

“It’s me,” he said quickly. “You’re all bound to the Eye through me, through the Archivist. There’s a tape in my office that explains it all. Without me, it has no hold over any of you. I thought I could try blinding myself, quitting, see if that was enough, but it wouldn’t let me.”

“Wouldn’t let you?” Basira repeated. 

“Yes, I couldn’t make my hand move. So I resorted to this, but I heal too quickly. If you could help—“

“Shut up,” Daisy said, cuffing him off. 

“But—“ John began.

“No.”

He just stared at her in confusion. Why didn't she understand? This was his chance to try to fix all of this. Maybe he could atone for a fraction of the harm he had caused them all, and they could finally get out of this. Wasn’t that what they wanted? Why couldn’t Daisy of all people understand? 

“God, what were you thinking?” Basira said, rubbing at her forehead as she stared up at the ceiling. “The Eye is the only reason we haven’t died yet. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s protecting us. What do you think will happen once we’re cut off and you’re gone?”

“You—you won’t be a target anymore,” John said, but suddenly he wasn’t so sure and it came out as more of a question. 

“You can’t know that,” Basira continued. “We’ve all made enemies. And the Eye is the only reason Daisy has been able to hang on as long as she has. And what about Martin? You were really going to abandon him to the Lonely?”

“No!” John exclaimed. “No, he would be fine, he could— he wouldn’t—“ 

He studdered to a stop, feeling like an idiot and so, so afraid. He never wanted to abandon Martin, that had never been his intention. Was he okay? Would he still be okay without him? It was honestly hard to believe that any of them might benefit from his continued existence, and he was horrified by the prospect that he might have left them vulnerable had he succeeded. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“Just— stay there,” Basira said, and she turned and left. 

Daisy hesitated for a moment, and John tried to think of something to say, but he couldn’t. After a moment, she left as well. John Knew they had taken all sharp implements out of the room. Were they really treating him like a child? No, they were treating him like a suicide risk, which he supposed he sort of was. 

Maybe they just— needed to talk it over, plan for the best way to do this. Yes, that made the most sense. Once they knew what to do, how to protect themselves, they’d probably want John to try again. Maybe they’d even help. Maybe he could try to blind himself again. Hopefully they wouldn’t tell Martin. He didn’t want to upset him. So long as they made sure Martin wasn’t left alone, John would be fine with whatever they decided. 

The door slammed open and he jumped with a start, looking up to see Melanie standing there, staring at him hard. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, but maybe apologizing would be a good place to start. 

“I’m sorry, Melanie,” he said, pulling the towel more closely around his shoulders. ”I realize that must have been a disturbing scene to walk into.“

“You are an idiot,” Melanie interrupted him, apparently completely uninterested in his apology, which he figured was fair. It seemed like he did nothing but apologize to her lately. “You don't get it, do you?”

“I— don’t understand,” John said hesitantly, unsure where this was going, unsure what he was supposed to do or say to fix this. 

”Of course you don’t. You don’t get to die. You’re stuck in here with us, and there’s no way you’re getting out of this so easily.”

“But— don't you want out?” John asked, completely baffled. 

“Not like that!” Melanie exclaimed, waving a hand where she’d found him covered in blood. “I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

“You wouldn’t,” John objected. “I— this was my choice—“

“And it was a shitty choice!” Melanie yelled again, before pulling out a slip of paper and slamming it down on the table in front of him. ”Here.”

“What’s this?” John asked, tentatively reaching out to accept it. 

“My therapist’s number.”

“Oh,” John said, but he was at a complete loss for words. “I don’t— I don’t know if that can help.”

How could anyone make the things he had done all right? How could he ever look himself in the mirror again and not hate the face that stared back at him? How could anyone even want to ease the guilt bubbling inside him? Even a therapist would surely blame him if they knew the whole story. 

“One way to find out,” was Melanie’s simple reply. 

“Right,” John said, holding the paper in his hands, looking down at it. “I-I’ll keep it in mind.”

And then Melanie turned and stormed back out the way she had come. 

John set the piece of paper onto the table beside his cooling tea. He didn’t really know what any of this meant. It wasn’t that he thought Melanie wanted him dead. Moreso he just assumed she wouldn’t care. She would be free and that would be all that mattered. But that didn’t seem to be the case. 

He tried to suppress a shiver, wishing he could go home, but he didn’t exactly have a home anymore. He could try to go back to his office, but someone would probably follow him, if he wasn’t barred from leaving entirely. He missed the Admiral. He missed Georgie. And more than anything, he missed Martin. Too bad none of them were likely to miss him. Well, except for the cat maybe. 

He was startled from his thoughts when the door burst open yet again and he looked up to see— Martin. He was still dressed more formally than he ever had in the library or as an archival assistant, and the grey tones seemed to have seeped into his very being, but right now he had more color than he’d seen on him since before the Unknowing, and it was a relief to see even if he looked red and angry. 

The sight of him made that guilt settle deep behind his ribcage again and he realized how exhausted he felt. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in his presence and finally rest, but that was selfish. Martin had things to do, he didn’t want to be down here, he didn’t want to see him. But John had made such a scene it had forced him to intervene. He was probably beginning to hate him if he didn’t already. 

“Martin?” He asked. He probably should have been wary, but he couldn’t help it. Even if it was only for a moment, even if it was only to tell him how much he hated him, John couldn’t help the relief he felt that he was actually here, proof that he was all right at least for the moment. 

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Martin demanded, voice sharper than he could remember ever hearing it. 

”I was just— I was trying to do the right thing,” John said.

“Arg, you are so infuriating!” Martin exclaimed. “You’re always looking for the best way to sacrifice yourself to save everyone, you don’t even consider the consequences! The one good thing that’s happened in the past six months was you waking up, and you were just going to throw your life away? What are the others supposed to do without you?”

“I just, I though—“ John stammered. “I just wanted to help for a change. I-I don’t know that it was a good thing I woke up. I don’t even know if I’m me anymore.”

“Oh, trust me, you are,�� Martin said, and John didn’t know how he could sound so certain. “Only you would come up with a plan this idiotic.”

And then Martin was pulling him into a crushing hug. To his horror, he realized Martin was crying, his frame shaking as he buried his face in John’s shoulder. He didn’t know what to do, he could barely follow what was happening, and he was afraid he was still going to hurt Martin further if the others wanted him to go through with his plan. 

“Just— promise me you won’t do that again. Okay?” Martin asked, and he sounded so broken, all John could do was hold him tighter. 

“Y-yeah,” he said, because he could never deny Martin anything. Except he would, if he had to. He’d never forgive himself if he lied to Martin, and he knew Martin wouldn’t forgive him either. Maybe that would make it easier for Martin to move on. To forget him and live his life, far away from the Institute and all of the monsters. 

Basira and Daisy came into the room then and he stiffened, afraid of where this conversation might go. Shouldn’t they have waited until Martin left? They had to know he wouldn’t approve. Martin sat down on the sofa beside him, and John couldn’t help but look nervously between them all. 

“Do you understand why we’re upset?” Basira asked, sounding like a disapproving parent. 

“Um—“ John looked between the three of them yet again, unsure what answer they were looking for, if they could even agree on one. “I suppose I was a bit hasty—“

“Hasty,” Martin exclaimed, throwing his arm in the air. 

“No, you idiot,” Daisy growled. “We’re worried about you.”

“A-about me,” John repeated, as if he couldn’t understand. It didn’t really make sense. “But— but this is my fault, and I can fix it—“

“It’s not a fix,” Basira snapped. “God, I can’t believe I thought you might have come back as some sort of monster.”

“You thought what?” Martin demanded and John winced on Basira’s behalf. 

“I did wake up after not having a heartbeat for six months,” John tried to defend for her. 

“Point is, we’re not interested in that kind of fix,” Daisy said. “Not worth it.”

“How can it not—“ John began. 

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” Basira snapped, interrupting him. “When I said it’s my job to protect everyone, that includes you. Don’t you dare try a stunt like that again.”

And then John realized— they didn’t want him dead. As difficult, as terrifying as everything was, as angry as they were, and it was easy to let that drive them to lash out. But however they felt, they wanted him alive, and they wanted him here. The thought made his eyes burn. He’d felt like a failure for so long, barely tolerated, waiting for the other shoe to drop, especially after they found out about the live statements. They should hate him, they should blame him and want him dead. But they didn’t for some unfathomable reason. 

He had to clear his throat a few times before he tried to speak again. He hoped they assumed it was just because of his hoarse voice and not because the idea of someone not loathing him had brought him close to tears. 

“Did you listen to the tape?” John asked eventually. 

“Yeah,” Basira said. “Doesn’t change anything. We need you here, on the same side.”

“O-okay,” was all John could really say. “We have to at least consider it, though, right?”

“No!” all three of them shouted at him and he cringed. 

“We’re not losing anyone else,” Daisy said in that matter-of-fact way of hers and somehow that helped. 

“Why do you have a bunch of Georgie and Martin’s old clothes stashed in your office?” Melanie asked, barging into the room at that moment, holding up a few articles of clothing. 

“Oh, I wondered where that had gone,” Martin said, voice quiet. 

“What were you doing going through my things?” John demanded, snatching them from her. 

“I was looking for a change of clothes for you,” she snapped back. “Just answer the question.”

“Georgie had to lend me some while I was hiding out at her place. I-I didn’t exactly have time to go shopping after.”

“And Martin’s?” Melanie prompted.  

“I-I-I just found it, in document storage. I meant to give it back!”

It was a half-truth, but it didn’t seem like she bought it. He could feel his face burning and he did his best not to catch Martin’s gaze. He didn’t think he’d survive that. 

“Uh huh,” was all Melanie said. “Hurry up and change, I’m picking us up dinner and I don’t want to have to keep smelling blood, it’ll kill my appetite.”

“Oh. Right.” He quickly pulled the jumper on over his head. Then he couldn’t help but turn to Martin, unable to keep the hope from his voice. “A-are you staying? For dinner I mean.”

“Why not? I’m already down here,” Martin said, and it seemed like it took him a great effort to look away from the sight of his jumper on John. He tried not to wonder at what that might mean. 

He still felt guilty. Like he’d manipulated Martin into being here. This wasn’t supposed to be a cry for help. He hadn’t done this for sympathy. He still couldn’t help but enjoy his presence though. 

“We’ll find another way,” Basira said, dropping into a chair across the table from them. Her features softened for the first time since he’d woken up. 

“Good,” Martin said, and he took John’s hand under the table, squeezing gently. 

John still didn’t know what to say. He had felt guilty for so long, for most of his life. He didn’t know how to stop, or if he even could. A part of him wished they would just let him do this for them. But a part of him was so grateful that, whatever they felt for him, they wanted him there and alive. He wasn’t sure he wanted himself alive most days. 

And Martin was beside him now, holding his hand, and that in itself felt like a wonder. He’d missed him so much, and he was finally at his side again. Here, sitting like this, it felt like he had friends again. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with this new knowledge, that he was what was trapping them all there. But he would do whatever he could for these people. And this was a reminder that they would do the same. 

[jonathansims-answers]

*appears with a shitty powerpoint transition*

Hello Jonathan Schmonathan how was your quick power nap :)

I heard that you had some veeery weird dreams. And were asleep for 6 months. And died. But you look far better now, so I might as well ask!!

Also what's up with your coworkers, I heard the blue haired one shit talking you in front of the water cooler on my way here. Very rude if I say so myself. Also, not one to judge appearances, but why's there a tall woman with long arms and fingers who has nails that look sharp as hell? I don't remember her being here last time I was here, is she a new hire?

Hello Anonymous,

Am I supposed to know who this is? I hope not. How do you know about my... visit to the hospital? Who are you?

Also, thank you for the concern but the "blue haired one" talks shit about me even when I'm present so. I'm used to it.

Signed, J. Sims.

The Archivist.