#jonathan sims and reader

[a-ghost-really]

If it’s also the, may I request something with Jonathan Sims where he has a younger sibling? Maybe teenage years?

Thanks for the request!! So with this one it will be set throughout each of the seasons and be mostly about how their relationship evolves. Since Jon's parents are dead, his younger sibling will be living with him since he is legal adult and they are around 16. I'll try to keep him as in character but he might be little ooc. Also reference college band au and his younger sibling likes angry girl music. Enjoy!!! -🦝

note: this was written by the other owner of the account. Editor (hi -🐀) got lazy and stopped editing halfway through. sorry

Season 1-Readers POV:

Jon told me he got moved to the Archives earlier today! So I've been preparing; I got his favorite takeout and some movies to watch. I waited quietly by the door with a party popper in my hand. I hear the floor outside the door creak and see the doorknob turn.

"Congratulations!" I exclaim as Jon walks through the door, pulling the string on the party popper and throwing my arms around him as confetti falls though the air.

Jon rolls his eyes, "I shouldn't have told you before I got home," He grumbles, then pats my back as a sign to let go.

I take a step back and smile at him.

"Welp, it's too late to regret that now," I smile proudly. "Now, there's takeout on kitchen counter and plethora of DVDs in living room. So get food and pick a movie while I clean this up."

"Okay, okay," he says simply and heads towards the . I get broom and clean up the colorful confetti before getting my own food and joining Jon in living room for the movie.

I flop down on the couch with my food as Jon is on floor looking though the DVDs.

"Alrighty, what are we watching tonight?" I asked happily.

"Well, since the only genre of movie you rented is 'chic flicks'," he sends a joking glare towards me as my laugh tumbles from my lips. "Our choices are either legally blonde or 10 things i hate about you."

"Ooh, we watched 10 things I hate about you last week, we can watch legally blond!" I answer excitedly, and Jon nods and stands up to put the DVD in the player.

"Legally blonde it is."

_________________________________________

Season 2 - Jon's pov:

I know I shouldn't have left Georgie's in the first place. But I owed them some sort of apology for all of this. I gripped the plastic bag in my hand, my younger sibling's favourite candy and drink contained inside. As I finally reached Georgie's door I took a look around before slowly opening the door and stepping inside.

My ears are immediately greeted with Bad Reputation by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts blaring full-volume. I nearly jump out of my skin, whipping around to figure out where the sound was coming from, only to see my sibling singing into a broom like it's a microphone and dancing around the kitchen. I lean against the door and put my hand to my chest, taking a deep breath to steady myself.

They hadn't heard me come in yet, and if the noise I hear coming from their speaker was any indication, they probably aren't able to hear anything at the moment. I sighed and looked at the Admiral, who was sitting on back of couch and enjoying the show.

The sight of them like this lightens my mood by a fraction. I still felt bad for uprooting their life and having them hide in my ex's house, but I couldn't risk putting them in the hands of somebody else. I had to take care of them.

I straightened myself out and walked further into the house. I walked over to couch, crossed my arms, and waited. They turned around and screamed.

"Jesus, Jon! You scared me," they complained, trying to catch their breath.

"Turn down the volume. How many times do I have to tell you, you're going to burst your ear drums," I sighed.

"Whatever you say, Dad," they mock me as they turn down the volume and pause the song. I roll my eyes "what are a starting band in here or something?" I ask jokingly.

"You would think that, Mr. Jonny D'Ville," they smirked.

"How do you know about that?"

"Oh, there is a very interesting box in the attic with some photos and CDs from your college days," they were smiling ear to ear.

I looked over to the hallway door and booked it to get rid of the evidence.

"Don't you dare, you rat!" They yelled and chased after me.

I wasn't able to get to attic before they tackled me. They are now eating their candy and playing a recording of a concert I did back college. I am suffering.

EXTRA:

Reader: Supplemental! My brother is weirdo.

Jon: ...Don't.

[Reader snickers.]

Reader: Supplemental, Jonathan Sims looks like a cat.

Jon: I swear, if you don't put that down I will hit you with a pillow.

[A pause.]

Reader: Supplemental, Jonathan Sims has threaten me with his noodle arm.

[Jon quickly walks closer to the recorder.]

Reader: Supplemental, Jonathan Sims is trying to kill me.

[Recorder falls.]

Reader: Jon! Jon, no!

[Running, followed by a thump on ground.]

[Reader bursts out laughing.]

Reader: Jon, stop! Don't hit me with pillow. Georgie, save me!

Jon: No one can save you now!

Season 3: Reader's POV

I was walking back to Georgie's. I had gone to the gas station and gotten some snacks for all of us. Jon seems to be feeling better these days. I'm glad, I turned the corner on Georgie's street when I saw it. The door was open, I didn't even realize I drop the bag all I could feel was panic. I ran though the door yelled for Jon.

"Jon! Jon, are you here?" Nothing.

I fumbled with my phone trying to find Martin number. Jesus, where was is it come on. Finally I found it clicked the phone icon. It rang ...and rang ...and ra- "hello?". ' Martin do you know where Jon is?" " What?" " I just got back from the gas station and Jon is not here. Where is he". I had started pacing I needed to know my brother was safe. " Hold up coming over I'll let the boss know. We will find him" with that he hung up I was alone. I hate being alone.

.....

It has been a day, they didn't know where he was and they keep talking about something called avatars. I don't understand but I do know there here and not looking for my brother. Why won't anybody look for him!

.....

They found him... he looks shaken ... He seems off ... But he is here ..he is alive... I can hear his heart beat, I can feel his arms around me ...he is alive.. he came back.

I don't know how long I was crying, how long I was standing there in my brother's arms but he didn't pat my back so I cling on. "Shhhh, I'm okay, I'm okay" he chanted in my ear. I pulled back and wiped my eyes. "Come on wanna watch the princess bride'' he asked and all I could do his nod. We were back at Georgie's... for now at least he put on princess bride and I slowly fell asleep. He was back and that all that mattered.

Season 4: Reader POV

Why does he keep doing this! Coma, coffin, ALASKA for gods sake and he never tells me. I always hear it from Martin, Melanie, Basira for goodness sake. But never my own brother he just leaves me.

...

It's been awhile since I contacted any of my friends. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I don't know why... I miss them ... Why can't I call them.. im so tired...

...

After Jon's kidnapping, Martin message me at least once a day and kept me up to date on things. I saw him in hospital when Jon was in coma. We would talk we both missed him we both loved him. But I haven't heard from him awhile he stop I don't know. I feel so alone. I know people are out there but I can't reach them. I think that makes it worse.

...

Jon been around more but I can tell he is keeping something from me. He always sounds sad and paranoid. Why is he acting like this?

...

Jon fell asleep on the couch, he hasn't slept in while. He is a talking in sleep something about saving Martin. Is Martin okay?

...

Basira came by today she was angry, she drop off a tape and left....Jon's been 'feeding off people's trauma' apparently. What the hell is going on. Martin is okay, I guess or at least he seams okay.

...

He is leaving me again! For Scotland! With Martin! He says I have to stay here! What is his problem!? Why!? Why is leaving me ?! I don't want to be alone! WHY!? Why!? Why? Why... Why does he leave me?...I'm alone they're out there...but I can't be with them... It does make it worse...I just wanna cry ...I'm scared... I..I

Season 5: Reader's POV :

The world is disarray, it a literal apocalypse... I hate it..but I'm powerful.

It is a quiet neighborhood perfect houses, perfect yards, perfect roads, perfect neighborhoods. Venessa is home alone but it's been days. She hears them, her family. She even seem them outside but every time she goes out there is nobody. There is never anybody. No friends, no family, no neighbors nobody is here.

It like that for all of them glimpse and whispers just enough to know there is somebody but they can never reach them. They are afraid, their fear makes me feel powerful. I hate it.

...

I see him I know it's him. It been to long for it be fake. He coming this way. He is covered eyes and looks stuffy but it is here, right?. I can't move what if not him. What if I'm really just alone. Why if- I feel him he is hugging me he is cold. I hear him his voice is soft. He was here,Jon was here.

I look over shoulder when we pulled apart. I see Martian he's roughed up, but it still looks like him a little different but him. "Hey" I feel nervous and relief. "Hey" Martin answers, Jon just smiles at me. "Do you guys know what happened?" They side eye each other, Martin glances at me and nodes his head towards me. "What's up to with you two?".

Jon sighs and takes a step closer.

"I'm-" he takes a deep breath "it's my fault"

A pause.

"Hey Jon, quick thing that's not an answer"

"Excuse me?"

"You're excuses, but really you going all ' it's my fault, I'm a shitty person, blaah' doesn't tell me what happened"

I hear Martin snicker and glares at him

"well there not wrong, Jon." Jon groaned and ran his hands down his face. " Elias tricked me into bringing all the fear entities into the world so they can cause and feed on all the fear".

" Okay, follow up question, why do I not feel soul and mind crushing fear"

"cause though me you have a connection to the eye. So instead of being terrorized, you feed off of the fear of the people in your territory"

"who?"

"The people in town "

"Oh, okay."

"I don't like it Jon."

"...I know."

"it feels wrong."

"I know."

"They're suffering and I'm benefiting form it."

"Yeah."

"I hate it."

"I know." He sighs. "I know... and I'm sorry."

I look up to him.

"I know you are," I softly reply.

"You're going to leave?" I ask; it been clawing at the back of mind since he got here.

"Yes."

"Can I come with?"

"No, you're safer here."

My heart stopped. He was going to leave me. Again.

"You're going to leave me here?"

"Yes."

No, no, no, no-- he couldn't.

"...No, please don't me here."

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't leave me!" My heart was going to beat out of my chest-- he wouldn't leave me here. "Not again, take me with you."

"No, you're safer here."

"Jon, just think-"

"No, Martin, they're my younger sibling, and I'm not putting them in harms way."

"Jon!" I yelled.

I needed him to take me with. I was so scared to be left alone again.

"No!" he yelled at me- he never yells at me. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry, but I cannot and will not put you in danger."

I just stared at him, betrayed. He is leaving me again. I tore my eyes away from him and looked at the ground. My eyes filled with tears and body shook. Jon wrapped his arms around me.

"Please Jon, don't leave me alone."

"I can't, I'm sorry."

"You have to leave now?" I asked, hoping he would say no.

"Yes."

Wishes never did come true, did they?

I sighed and pulled away, then whispered, "Promise you will come back for me?"

"I promise."

I sighed and nodded.

"Okay, well see you later then."

"I'm sorry, see you later" with that he states to walk away with one last look and wave from Martin. they where gone. I'm fully alone my brother was gone I'm scared.

...

I woke up they world was back to normal-ish some thing changed but it wasn't apocalypse anymore. I got up with a jump and ran down the street I had to find him. I took a bit but I found Georgie by the old Magnus building it was in ruins tho. " Georgie!" She looked back and saw me

"Hey!" She opened her arms and gave me hug. I was so happy to see her.

" Hey! Oh my God how are you?"

She laughed "I've been better but I'm alive ".

I laughed with her "yeah, I guess have you seen Jon?". Her face became one full sorrow " Georgie? Where is Jon?" She looked at Basira and Melanie. Melanie shift form foot to foot and Basira shook her head. "Georgie, what happened to him?"

"I'm so sorry" she said

"Georgie, no please no"

"he didn't make it"

" No,no,no,no, this can't be happening". My breath quicken. I searched for him he couldn't have... "No,no,no,no. He promised!". He's not he couldn't be

"hey, take a deep breath it will be okay" Georgie put her hand on my shoulder. No,no it wouldn't not if he's .... I pulled harshly away from her falling on the ground. I didn't even feel the gravel under me as I got up and ran away. It couldn't be true it just couldn't be.

I ran for what felt like forever, I ran till couldn't anymore. I turn into a ally and slide down wall curling into myself. It couldn't be true it-he promised he-. But he wasn't here and I was alone. I did only thing I could do and cried and cried. He was gone, my last bit of family was gone. why? Why? WHY?. WHY DID HE LEAVE ME? why did he leave me alone.

I hope you enjoyed

-🦝

[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.

[luckhound]

wardrobe mishaps.

↻ pairings ✦ jon/reader, elias/reader

↻ summary ✦ You get ready for a date after work, only to run into a little trouble. Your boss graciously helps out.

↻ wordcount ✦ 3.4k

↻ warnings ✦ reader leans more masc or fem depending on scenario, elias being elias (meaning: a freak)

author's note: got back into tma thanks to my friends and found myself more immersed in it this time around. hence this lol. big thanks to @peonysgreenhouse and her lovely christmassy scenario for inspiring this fic. happy 2025!

You double check the time on your computer before you shut it down. It’s officially the weekend, and you ended up staying a little longer than usual, but you’d been determined to complete your report before you left.

Jon expects your findings on his desk come Monday morning, so he can wrap up the case at hand, and you don’t want to hand it in late. Having seen the verbal lashings that Martin has endured in the past for such a transgression, you intend to stay on your boss’s good side.

(If such a side even exists, a voice in your mind—one that sounds suspiciously a lot like Tim—adds. If it does, though, Sasha manages to remain on it somehow. You should ask her for pointers.)

Thankfully, you won’t be late for your reservation if you leave within the next twenty minutes. Good thing you brought everything you needed to work for this very eventuality.

You rise from the chair and stretch your back, wincing at the many cracks and pops that ensue, before poking your head out of your office. The Archives appear to be empty. (Well, you can see light spilling out weakly from beneath Jon’s door, but you expected that. The day he leaves before you is the day that Hell freezes over.) You faintly recall some of the others popping in to say their goodbyes, and you had to have responded, but you must’ve been too immersed in work to pay proper attention.

That’s fine. You will be seeing them on Monday, after all.

You grab your bag and head to the loo. There, you put the final touches to your outfit. Taking a quick look in the mirror, you exit, the door swinging shut behind you. All that’s left is to grab your phone and jacket from your office. Once you’ve gathered your things, you can head to the restaurant and meet your date.

You pick up the pace a little, eager to leave the Institute...

Before you can reach your office, however, the door nearest to you opens. Jonathan Sims steps out. You gasp, digging your heels into the wooden flooring to prevent yourself from barreling into him. You succeed in the nick of time.

Had you not been so startled yourself, the way his eyes widen behind his glasses and his mouth parts in shock would have delighted you.

These days, Jon oscillates between two expressions: like he’s trying to fight off a headache and failing, or is one slight inconvenience away from snapping at the next person to approach him. You aren’t sure when was the last time you saw him smile, or relax. Before he became Head Archivist, that’s for certain.

Everyone is working hard to manage the disorganized chaos that is the Archives, but Jon puts you all to shame. It’s as if he’s working on a strict deadline that is fast approaching, one he has neglected to inform the rest of you about.

You admire his work ethic; it may not seem like it, but you do. You just wish he’d slow down once in a while, for his sake as well as yours.

To his credit, Jon gathers himself quicker than you do. He sighs wearily. “I understand you’re in a hurry to get home, but please, try to watch where you’re stepping.”

“Hey, I stopped before I knocked into you, didn’t I?” you say with a crooked smile. “And anyway, I’m not rushing because it’s a Friday night. I happen to have a date that I don’t want to be late for.”

Jon blinks, taken aback. “A date?”

“Yeah. A date. You know, that thing you plan when you want to enjoy time off work with another person?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, thank you for the definition, Tim.” After a moment, his gaze sweeps over your outfit. “Well, that explains why you’re so dressed up for a change.”

You frown, offended. “Hey, what is that supposed to mean? I might not look like a professor on his way to lecture, like you always do, but that doesn’t mean I never dress up.”

“You’re exaggerating. I do not look like a professor.”

You say nothing, only stare pointedly at his lanky frame. He’s wearing a dress shirt with a tie knotted at his throat, a jumper thrown over top for good measure. His pressed slacks end an inch or two above his Oxfords. It’s the end of the day, so his clothes are somewhat rumpled, but it only adds to the look. You can clearly picture him dressed as he is now, standing behind a lectern and scowling at a lecture theatre full of petrified first years.

Jon shakes his head with a huff, his gaze almost absentmindedly falling on something below your chin, before he meets your eyes again. Then he does a double take. To your surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches, as if he’s stifling a smirk. “At least I know how to correctly tie a tie.”

“What?” You look down at the tie you’d laboured over in the loo, pressing a self-conscious hand over the silk. “What’s wrong with my tie? It looks fine.”

“It looks like you tied it in the dark. Have you never worn one before?”

“I have!” you retort. “Just, you know... It's been a while.” You had even watched a tutorial on your phone while munching on your breakfast this morning. Not that you’ll admit it to Jon, of course.

The man in question doesn’t respond, only stares at your tie as if it insulted him personally. With a put-upon sigh, he motions you closer. “Allow me, then.”

It takes you a second to understand the meaning behind his words. You consider rejecting the offer; you don’t know what time it is, exactly, but you know you’re getting late. Surely your date won’t mind if your tie looks a little sloppy.

Instead of following through, you find yourself shuffling forward.

Long, tapered brown fingers make swift work of unknotting your tie. Once the fabric is unwound, Jon gets to tying it once more. His hands are more practiced than your clumsy ones had been. Almost like he ties other people’s ties for a living, or something.

You duck your head so you can watch, take a mental note of how it’s done, only to freeze when your chin brushes against the curve of his thumb. There’s a faint smell of fresh pine—the hand soap that the Institute religiously uses. The touch is slight, like the times your fingers overlap with his when you hand over a file or report. Yet it feels more significant, somehow.

It must be the proximity. There isn’t a desk separating the two of you, as is often the case. He has breached your personal space in order to assist you, the tip of one Oxford resting between your loafers. Or maybe it has to do with how close his hands are to the vulnerable stretch of your throat. You swallow involuntarily at the thought.

Either way, you are aware of him in a way you tend not to be. In a way you have instructed yourself not to be.

Jon is no longer the cute co-worker you like to steal glimpses of; he is your boss who must be held at a certain distance. He certainly has no trouble acting professional and aloof, so neither should you. Even if the two of you have been bantering for the past few minutes in a way that you haven’t in some time.

Regardless, you shouldn’t be mooning over your direct superior. You should be interested in other people—like your date, who had asked you out last week. You’d dithered over accepting, but eventually decided to make plans with them. It’s time for you to move on from your ridiculous crush.

(A stubborn part of you can’t help but note how smooth his skin feels against your own. How warm.)

When you feel the digit twitch, nearly grazing your bottom lip, your head snaps up. “S-sorry,” you say hastily, unable to meet the archivist's gaze.

“...It’s all right,” Jon murmurs. He resumes twisting and folding the silk around your throat, as if nothing happened. Because nothing did happen. It was an accident, and the smallest of touches at that.

You still have some difficulty getting your heartbeat to settle, as if you’re some Victorian nobleman who just caught your first glimpse of an upturned ankle.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), it doesn’t take much longer for Jon to finish. “There,” he says, eyeing your collar critically one last time before he lets go of the tie. He pauses with his palms hovering over your chest, like he wants to smooth the material there down, before he lets them drop. His arms hang limply at his sides. “All, ah, all done.”

“Thanks,” you say, glancing down to inspect his handiwork. You have to give it to him: he knows how to tie a tie. The half-Windsor knot looks crisp and sits nicely over your shirt, not at all as frumpy or lopsided as your own attempt had been.

Jon nods and steps back, widening the gap between you. “See you on Monday.” With that, he goes to walk off, interaction already forgotten.

“Let me guess,” you say, stopping him in his tracks. “You’re not leaving yet.”

He looks over at you. “Very astute,” he replies, a hint of amusement suffusing his dry tone. “I am just finishing up some last minute work. I’ll be heading out shortly.”

You hum at his response, crossing your arms over your chest. “Good. Best not to go to the break room and brew any tea, then. If you’re ‘heading out shortly.’” The way he shifts his weight from one foot to another, his eyes flitting away from yours, that must be exactly what he was planning to do. Bullseye.

Jon clears his throat unnecessarily. “Yes, well. Don’t forget that I’ll need your report—”

“Bright and early on Monday, I know.”

“Right.” He shuffles backwards. Slowly, as if reluctant to. “Have a good night. Enjoy your... date.”

“Good night, Jon.” You watch, smothering a grin, as he enters his office and shuts the door.

You aren’t in high spirits for long. You are fifteen minutes late for your reservation, to the annoyance of your date. Though you try to make up for it with your sparkling personality and witty repartee, you get the feeling that a second date is not in the stars for you.

You feel very little disappointment over it. You refuse to think hard about why that is.

Upon entering your office, you spot your earrings on your desk. You must’ve forgotten them. With a groan, you touch an ear and feel the stud nestled there. You like them just fine, normally, but they aren’t fancy enough for a dinner date.

All of a sudden, the back of your neck prickles. The tiny hairs there stand at attention. You glance over your shoulder, at the open door to your office. It’s empty. Your brows furrow, but you shake it off. It’s not fun, feeling like you’re being watched, but you’re used to it by now. It tends to happen from time to time, especially when you’re in the Archives. Must be nerves or something.

Best to focus on the issue at hand.

You briefly consider returning to the loo. No, you decide; it’ll be faster to switch earrings here. You get to work on removing the first stud. It proves harder than expected. After a few more fumbled attempts, you scowl to yourself. Other than pinching your earlobe somewhat painfully, you have achieved little.

Has it always been so difficult to take these off without a mirror?

“Stupid things,” you mutter crossly under your breath. “Would you... just...”

“Having some trouble?”

The question, voiced from directly behind you, startles you. You yank at your stud. Hard. Your earlobe twinges sharply, causing you to yelp in pain. You let go and whirl around to see Elias Bouchard standing in the doorway.

“Mr. Bouchard!” you blurt, blinking owlishly at him. Then you regain your composure. “Sorry. I, uh, thought I was alone.”

“No, I should be the one to apologize. I should’ve announced myself sooner.” His head tilts to the side. “And it’s Elias, remember? Mr. Bouchard was my father.” A small smile plays upon his lips, as if he’d told a particularly amusing joke.

“Right, of course. Elias.” The name feels strange rolling off your tongue. You have always called Jon by his first name, never Mr. Sims, but it’s not the same. Maybe because Elias is your boss’s boss. Yes, that must be it.

You wait for him to say something, explain why he’s here. He just stares back, silent. Under the weak fluorescent lights of the Archives, which cast shadows over his tall frame, his grey eyes appear darker than usual. You resist the urge to shiver.

As the silence stretches on, pulling taut between you both, you come to the realization that he expects you to break it.

“I, um,” you say lamely, “I was just on my way out.”

Elias hums, but continues to regard you with that piercing gaze. “It appeared as if you were busy, though.”

“Ah, yeah. I wanted to switch my earrings, except these damn studs refuse to budge. It’s been a while since I took them off, I guess.” You chuckle, even though it’s not funny. His smile widens a touch, but he doesn’t join in. “I can just do it in the car.”

Before you can turn back to your desk, Elias speaks. “Would you like some assistance?”

You stare, caught off-guard. You hadn’t expected him to offer. “Oh, um. If you aren’t too busy...?” You glance in the direction of Jon’s office. Elias must have come down to see the Head Archivist before the weekend. Had he already spoken with him, or had he noticed your door open and thought to check in on you first?

“Not at all.” He lifts a pale hand. It resembles a pianist’s, slender and elegant. “If I may?”

He’s asking for permission to remove your earring. To touch you.

You tilt your chin up and to the side, to make it easier for him to reach over. No need to make this any more awkward. “Please.” You hoped that you would feel less nervous if you weren’t staring into those eyes, but looking away does little to help. He’s in your peripheral vision, his dark suit and hair rendering him an ink blot. A very tall, very intimidating, very handsome ink blot.

This situation, you realize, does nothing to quell the teeny tiny attraction that you’ve been harbouring for your boss. Quite the opposite. You have only had the opportunity to speak with him a handful of times, but you admire his dedication to the Institute. His intelligence and extensive knowledge of the paranormal. The fact that he’s easy on the eyes only further complicates the matter.

You’d been certain that you could dispel your wildly inappropriate feelings for your boss. Going on a date with the first person to catch your interest was step one. Now you aren’t so sure.

Elias steps forward, so he is closer to you. The scent of his cologne, spicy and rich, washes over you. You hold unnaturally still when his forefinger grazes the shell of your ear. For some reason, you expected his skin to feel cold, but it’s not. His hand is as warm as anyone’s would be.

Belatedly, you recall that you haven’t instructed him on how to remove the earring. His own ears aren’t pierced, so he might not know how. “It’s a push-pin stud,” you explain. “I think it might be secured too tightly, so you should hold both ends and—”

“Twist it,” he finishes for you. “Don’t worry, I know.”

“Oh. Great.”

His forefinger rests against the top of the stud as his thumb gently rolls your earlobe over, to expose the flatback. To your horror, your breath hitches. Please let him not have heard that. He pauses, causing your heart to nearly shrivel up in your chest, before resuming his ministrations without comment. False alarm.

The thumb and forefinger on his other hand pinches the post, holding it firmly as he begins to twist. Your earlobe twinges again, but you grit your teeth. You refuse to make another embarrassing sound.

Finally, the two ends pull apart. Your eyes almost close in relief. Thank God.

Elias’s lips turn up at the corners. “There you are.”

You hold out your hand, palm up. He carefully places the silver ends on it. “Thanks.” Your fingers curl into a fist, caging them inside.

“Of course.”

There’s still the other ear, though, so you tip your chin to the other side. Elias shifts a little too. Now you’re leaning towards him instead of away, his form inches from yours. It’s the nearest you have ever been to him.

His suit is made out of thick wool. You have the craziest urge to reach out and rub the material between your fingers. Find out if it feels as soft and warm as it looks. Elias removes the other stud before you can give in to the impulse. Which you wouldn’t have. Obviously.

He places the last two ends in your palm as well, watches as you move to your desk and tuck them away.

“Thanks again, Elias. I appreciate it.” You pick up your fancy earrings. They glimmer under the overhead lights. “I don’t think I would have been able to take them off without a mirror.”

“It was no trouble.” He clasps his hands together, observing idly as you put on the first earring. The fish hook goes through with little issue. “Any big plans for tonight?”

“Just a dinner reservation,” you say as you move on to the other ear. It’s as easy as the first, but you wince when you feel a dull pain. The lobe must be sore from when you’d yanked on it earlier. “I need to be out of here within the next...” You glance at the clock situated beside the door. Your eyes widen. “Five minutes ago.”

Elias arches his brows, looking faintly amused. “You’d best hurry up, then.”

You have already started throwing your things into your bag. Once you’re done, you grab your phone off the desk and make a beeline for the door. Your boss is kind enough to step outside so you can turn the lights off and shut the door.

“Drive safe,” he says, inclining his head. “I hope your date goes well.”

“You too,” you respond automatically. It’s only when you’re turning the corner that you realize your goodbye made no sense. Your eyes fall shut briefly in mortification. Oh well. Nothing you can do about it now. He’ll have forgotten all about it the next time you see him.

In the end, you are only a couple minutes late to the restaurant, but you find yourself distracted. You’re unable to focus on your date or your food. All you can think about is that moment you shared with your boss. The long line of his body so close to yours, his fingers brushing your jaw...

But that is not what your mind lingers on the longest. There is one burning question that remains with you, even once you’re tucked into bed, unable to fall asleep. It must have been a good guess, that’s all. Yet you’re convinced there is more to it than that.

How had Elias known that you were going on a date? Hadn’t you only mentioned a dinner reservation?

(Earlier:

Elias watches as you turn the corner and disappear from view. He huffs a quiet laugh. He had come down to the Archives to touch base with Jon, when he noticed that you were here. What a treat it had been to speak with you, provoke you into abandoning your pitiful attempts at professionalism. Perhaps he should drop by more often.

He looks down, inspects his thumb. A small bead of red glints back at him.

Your right earlobe had been bleeding, just a little, from when you’d gotten startled and pulled too hard. The blood had transferred onto the digit when he removed the stud.

Elias smiles at the drop of blood. Then he raises his thumb to his mouth and licks it off.

Though the Head Archivist is his main priority, he intends to enjoy the time he has with you.)

[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.”

[bugcitie]

spent the day drawing tiny faces

[adeleoflochnes]

Jonathan Sims - headcanons Part 1

Hope you'll like it, hope you'll enjoy it

summary: Jonathan Sims x gn reader headcanons

Part 2 - Jonathan Sims - NSFW headcanons

https://www.tumblr.com/adeleoflochnes/763717873602625536/jonathan-sims-headcanons?source=share

SFW

it doesn't matter whether or not the tea you made him is good. From you? He'll drink and eat anything you make him. At least in front of you, later he'll probably throw it out but never for you to notice. He admires the proud look on your face too much to ruin it by telling you it tastes like trash ( if it's good though, he'll worship it and secretly won't accept it from anyone else than you)

he steals glances... he does it all the time but if you look up while sensing his gaze on you? He ensures you won't catch him staring

he absolutely cannot focus when you're close to him. Like if you were to help him, sooner or later he'll politely ask you to let him do it himself, cause he can't get any shit done (definitely not when your hair is hanging so cutely around your face while looking through the files, Jon wishes nothing more than to tuck those loose strands behind your ear)

he huffs when jealous. It's the most annoyed huff he can pull when he sees the other man in the archives making you laugh or touching you. He wants your attention on him only, but will never say a word about it (he despises the hugs you're giving to everyone, they're so soft and warm, he wants to be the only one who gets to enjoy them)

his job is dangerous and you are the last person he wants to end up hurting. When he realised that pushing you away won't work, he makes sure your work schedule does. You're always investigating some unimportant stuff, while he's off to figuring out evil things, almost dying in the process

his protective mode goes on 100% when Elias is near you. he already hates that man for biding you to the archives. So he tries to protect you from getting deeper involved. This is why every time Elias talks to you, Jon needs your immediate assistance with some urgent project (he never misses the opportunity to shoot death glares at Elias while walking you away)

he walked you home many times. Jonathan tells himself that it's because he wants to make sure you're safe but it's not the main reason. It's just that when he's tired after a long day in the archives, he enjoys the little talks he can share with you and he doesn't want that to change. He doesn't want to come back to his lonely and silent home. Jon cherishes every extra minute he gets to spend with you

Jonathan is a touch-starved man. He loves the hugs you give. when you wrap your warm arms around him, it feels like home. Your hugs are his safe place, where he's comfortable and gets to let your scent engulf him. He often rubs his nose in your hair (when you surprize him with a hug from behind he's the happiest man on Earth)

loves to be the little spoon but if you need extra comfort he lets you lay on his chest, and listen to his breathing and heartbeat... he strokes your hair, and body, says reassurances, kisses your head or just lays in silence holding you. It depends on what you need the most

he controls his temper around you. Trying very hard to never raise his voice at you, or offend you. Jon could be trembling with annoyance or rage but won't shout at the person he loves. He's better than that (He probably snaps at the first person who unfortunately walks through the door)

let you play with his hair. At first, he's a bit jumpy because he isn't used to someone touching his hair but he ends up liking it. (actually gets so used to it, he doesn't even realize you're stroking his hair. He's casually talking to somebody and gets super confused by the way they're staring at him...)

[thetriboulet]

see as a writer and enjoyer of consuming media critically i love the idea of jon and martin being perpetually trapped between universes, or in the tapes, or just any fate worse than death. i think it makes for such an interesting and tragic end to their stories. but as a fan of the show and copybook wimp? man i just want them to wind up Somewhere Else and adopt a cat.

[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

[autisticgirlbattleroyale]

ROUND 2 PART 2

Yoo Joonghyuk X Jonathan Sims

[a-ghost-really]

Can I request platonic headcnaons with Jon? Maybe during season two where he’s becoming increasingly distrustful of his colleagues and gotten paranoia to the point of stalking them to their homes. While people like Tim and Martin (and NotSasha) have been distancing themselves from him and becomes uncomfortable when he’s near (and for good reason too lol), reader is the only one who’s actively showing a lot of patience towards Jon even if he’s stalking them at their home, and wants to do everything in their power to give Jon some relief in having a friend and just bring there to him? Jon is their friend and it’s hurt them seeing him spiral )):

Thank you for the request!

I hope I interpreted this correctly :)

-🐀

If you're close enough with Jon that you're not super freaked out by his behaviour, I think you would've known him even longer than the others have.

Like, you met in college and stayed close friends ever since then

By now, Jon has been spiraling for a while, and the others are already wary of/angry with him.

But you're more concerned than upset, and you're less focused on trying to correct what's happening than you are on trying to help him work through everything that's happened recently.

He wouldn't be very receptive to direct questions or help, though.

If you tried to ask him how he was doing, if he needed any help or someone to talk to, he'd avoid the question and make an excuse to leave.

You'd have to be more subtle and indirect about how you help him -- like organizing his desk or bringing him tea when he's working late

(Totally not sleepy-time tea to try and trick him into going home because he's tired... no way...)

The obvious and rational conclusion he comes to is that you're trying to kill him. Obviously.

So, he starts to watch you more closely.

He's not exactly stealthy, so it doesn't take long for you to catch him "sneaking" around outside your house one night after work.

Instead of treating this like you would if it were anyone else, you step outside and inform him that you know he's there.

You invite him inside (with the slight threat of calling the police if he doesn't), and convince him to sit down and let you get him something to eat and/or drink.

You're more patient with him than most of the other Archive staff are (maybe even Martin)

He's still suspicious of you at first, but you manage to get him to at least drink some water.

And talk.

By the end of the conversation, you've successfully convinced him that you're not going to kill him, and that he can come talk to you when things get this bad.

He begrudgingly accepts this fact, and seems to calm down progressively as you talk.

He's still not convinced that there isn't someone out to get him, but he knows it isn't you.

After this, he's less avoidant of your questions and support, and occasionally you can get him to take a break and have a movie night :)

He still isn't super open about everything, but you help make things less overwhelming for him.

[peonysgreenhouse]

-`♡´- silent archives.

summary: mistletoe kisses. (gn!reader x jonathan sims, martin blackwood, tim stoker, sasha james, and elias bouchard + helen/peony)

tags: kissies, fluff, helen distortion x my oc (peony) for funsies :], happy holidays everyone!!! <3

The stairs down to the Archives are narrow, dimly lit; you watch your feet over the stack of manila folders in your hands to make sure you don’t miss a step. You can hear the buzz of the old fluorescents, the clean smell of linen and parchment of the upper floors making way to something less pleasant and dusty; like the smell of a page starting to yellow. 

You’re a step behind them, elbows tucked close to your body, trying to avoid the cobwebs woven between the wall and the handrail. No matter how many times you had dusted the place, come morning the webs would be spun anew. Whatever spiders made their homes down here were winning the war of attrition. 

You stop when you reach the bottom step, lingering by the entryway to continue your discussion about… something that slips from your mind the moment you look up. Taped clumsily to the top of the entryway, tied with a small red bow is a fistful of mistletoe. 

Their gaze follows your own upward, and…

-`♡´- jonathan sims

...And Jon scoffs.

“Tim put this up, I presume?” Jon says dryly, readjusting his glasses. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world but here.

“Dunno. I haven’t seen him today.” You say, adjusting the files in your hands. “Sooo…”

Jon lets out a breath, then rubs at the bridge of his nose, under his glasses. This close, you think you spot a few more greys that weren’t there the last time you saw him. “Tell him to take it down, if you see him. I’d rather not have people… fraternizing in the Archives.”

If he didn’t sound so tired, you might’ve laughed. “Right. But, uh, just so I don’t get cursed, do you mind if I…” You shift the files to one hand, and reach your free hand up to point at your cheek. 

“If you really believe such a superstition, I question if this job has affected your discernment.” Jon rubs his hand over his own cheek, as if contemplating. After a moment, he sighs again. “Fine. You can…” He makes a vague gesture, then turns his head closer to your own. 

You hesitate for a moment, finding the sight of your boss waiting expectantly almost… cute. You lean over and press a kiss to his cheek; soft lips against rough stubble. 

“...You’re ridiculous.” He says, reluctantly fond. For a moment, he looks like he might say something else. Instead, he settles on: “Get back to work.”

-`♡´- martin blackwood

...And Martin’s eyes go as wide as saucers.

“Oh, uh, I wonder who put that there.” Martin coughs into his fist anxiously, then rubs his hands together as if to soothe.

“I wonder.” You say playfully, though you have an idea of who the culprit was. 

“We don’t have to… do anything, that is if you don’t want to.” Martin scratches his neck anxiously, playing with the baby hairs on the nape of his neck. The action is almost performative in its cuteness. “It’s just a silly tradition…” He laughs sheepishly. 

“And if I want to participate in this silly tradition?” You respond, stepping just a bit closer, the edges of the manila folders in your hands tapping against his chest. “...With you?”

“Oh!” He nearly squeaks out. You don’t ever think you’ve seen him quite so speechless. “Oh, that would… That is to say… I would…” Martin groans, seemingly annoyed at his own inability to speak clearly. Then he leans down, pressing his lips to your temple, a sweet display of affection.

You lean into his lips, almost chasing them as he pulls away. “That was nice. I almost want another.”

“Ah, well, I’d be… happy to provide.” Martin visibly brightens. “Just… Maybe not in the Archives? I’d hate to have Jon walk out, and uh…��

You laugh, picturing Jon’s exasperated expression. He’d probably send Martin away for good if he had to see that. And you as well, for good measure. “Mm, after work then? Maybe we could get drinks?”

“Yes!” He says, over eager, then he adds, “I mean, yes… That sounds lovely.”

-`♡´- tim stoker

...And Tim gets the goofiest grin on his face.

“Well, well…” He wiggles his eyebrows, sounding overly amused with himself. “Look what we have here.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, but you can’t deny his attitude was infectious. “...Really?”

“Don’t give me that look. I certainly didn’t put that up there.” He holds up his hands, the picture of innocence. “But I’m certainly not complaining that I was caught underneath it with my gorgeous co-worker and best friend. Perhaps this is… destiny.”

“You’re so dramatic.” You respond, playfully dry. Still, you can hardly even pretend to be annoyed at him. “C’mere.” You lean up and press a lingering kiss to his cheek. He smells like something clean and floral, and his skin warms underneath your lips.

When you pull back, he touches the spot you just kissed, as if to chase the slowly fading feeling of your lips against his skin. The corners of his eyes crinkle as his smile turns almost sheepish.

“Do I get to return the favor?” He asks, cheekily, his hand brushing against your shoulder as he steps closer, encroaching in on your space. Not that you really mind.

“I’m waiting.” You say, and Tim doesn’t wait a second after getting your permission. He grabs your cheeks in his hand, his lips kissing the side of your mouth with an unnecessarily loud smacking sound. You can’t help but laugh as he pulls back, his hands still cradling your face, unable to look away. 

“Maybe one more for good measure, yeah?” His thumb strokes down your cheekbone. “Maybe it’ll make us extra lucky.”

“Excellent idea.” You say, already moving in to kiss him – proper, this time. 

-`♡´- sasha james

…And Sasha gasps, playfully scandalized.

“My, my…” She says. “A real predicament we’ve gotten ourselves into, hm?”

The look in her eyes makes you nervous; like she’s expecting something, and she’d hate for you to disappoint her. Or perhaps that’s your own projection – she’s so close, and so beautiful. Your arms tighten around the files you’re holding.

“Seems like it.” You respond, the words more confident than you feel. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to…”

“I’m well aware.” Sasha laughs, and for a moment it looks like she might tease you further. You can feel your cheeks warm. “But lucky for you, I think you look quite adorable right now.”

Sasha moves in closer, and you close the gap, your lips meeting her own. How could you ever forget the gentle way her lips move against yours? Soft, sticky; her lip gloss tastes like peppermint, and it makes your mouth tingle. When you pull back, her hand is covering her mouth as she laughs.

“You have a little…” Her hand comes forward, and wipes her smudged gloss off of your lips. It feels almost as nice as the kiss itself.

-`♡´- elias bouchard

...And Elias looks at you, unreadable as always.

“Ah.” He tuts. “I suppose this was someone’s idea of a prank?”

Just your luck to be the first victim. And just your luck to be caught underneath it with Elias. You pretend to have not noticed, looking up again after he poses his question.

“Oh. That…” You lie, rather lamely. “I’m not sure, I haven’t seen it until now.”

“I see.” He pauses, and you shift your feet, the silence growing uncomfortable as he watches you. 

“Would you… like me to take it down?” You ask, moving to make yourself useful. Before you can get too far away, he speaks up. 

“No, no. It’s just harmless fun.” He makes a dismissive gesture, and you visibly relax. You don’t want to think about how ridiculous you would look balancing on an office chair trying to take the mistletoe down. “Might… improve morale down here, as it is.”

“I’m surprised you’re alright with it.” You say, giving him a sideways look. “Sounds like a HR problem waiting to happen.”

Elias laughs at that. "I assure you it will be fine.” He pauses, then. “It would only be inappropriate if someone like me initiated, so to speak.” Elias looks down at you, the ghost of a smile on his lips. His words are suggestive, challenging almost. Before you can lose your nerve, you lean over and kiss his cheek.

“So… that’s alright, then?” You ask. The scent of his expensive cologne follows you, even as you pull away.

“Precisely.” Elias says, sounding pleased with himself, pleased with you. "Though, if you'd like a little... reciprocation, I recommend we go back to my office."

You can't find it in you to say no.

-`♡´- helen/peony

Helen is the one holding the little bundle of mistletoe over Peony’s head, a sharp-toothed grin on her face.

“Look what I found, darling.” Helen says, shaking the plant overhead, as if Peony didn’t see her approach with it. It looks comically small in Helen's unnaturally large hands. “This does bring back memories, doesn’t it?”

“Those memories aren’t yours.” Peony corrects, moving past Helen to her desk. When she sets the stack of folders down, Helen is leaning over Peony’s shoulder, boxing her in.

“Spoilsport.” Helen tuts, feigning disappointment that she’s not playing along. “I don’t want to argue semantics with you again. I’m in a good mood, after all.” 

Peony turns, looking up at Helen; Helen’s features shift ever so slightly the more she focuses on certain points of the Distortion’s face. Sometimes she looks like the Helen Peony remembers; or perhaps Peony is just searching too hard for something that was never there. Still, she can’t help but look every time. 

“Did you come here just for…” Peony motions to the mistletoe, still held out in Helen’s palm. 

“Is it so wrong to want some affection from my favorite person?” Helen says, sweet as honey. “I get lonely too, you know.”

It’s so ridiculous Peony almost laughs, like it wasn’t the Distortion’s fault for Peony’s own loneliness. 

Still, the Archives were much too quiet nowadays. Peony aches for the familiar comfort of another, and she’ll take it even if it’s from something as cold and inhuman as Helen. Peony’s eyes flick down to Helen’s lips. Yes, they almost looked the same. Would they taste the same as her Helen’s once did?

“...You just want a kiss?” Peony asks, quietly. Helen narrows her eyes, looking far too pleased with herself. Peony can almost hear the sound of metal teeth snapping shut.

“If that’s what you’re willing to give me, darling.” She bends down, her face just above Peony’s. Peony doesn’t give herself any time to think this through, instead moving forward, pushing her lips against Helen’s in a slow, tentative kiss. Peony feels one of Helen's fingers run down her back, sharp, even through layers of clothes, and she shivers.

With Peony's eyes closed, it was easy to pretend that this is a stolen moment of normalcy; for a moment, she's back in her Helen's house, pressed up against her on the couch as they wind down from their long work days.

"...Now, was that so hard?" Helen muses, and Peony's eyes flutter open. Peony touches her lips, feeling her smudged chapstick, and she sighs.

Peony leans in for a second kiss.

[0bticeo]

j. sims, e. bouchard| love is an open wound still raw.

part one out of four. (part 2.) (part 3.) (part 4.)

summary.

“one of your wounds has reopened.”

slowly, you glance down to your hand. there’s a small puncture wound on your palm, surrounded by the imprints left by your nails. it bleeds, red seeping out of the flesh in neat droplets of crimson. your fist tightens.

drip, drip. 

“it’ll heal.”

“it might get infected.”

“oh, and what are you going to be able to do about it?”

“i have a first aid kit.”

wc. 2.6

tw. worms, jon patching up reader's wounds, heavily implied that elias is having the time of his life watching them go at it, fluff (in this economy?? written by obticeo??? shocking), handjob, blowjob, overstimulation (so um. non sex averse jon.)

work at the magnus institute, they said. it’s a good idea, they said. you thrive on knowing things and burying yourself in niche research topics for days on end for hyper specific information. why not give the esoteric and supernatural a try?

you blame the decent paycheck for signing the contract so quickly. 

(there is, really, nothing to blame but your own, insatiable curiosity. an institute studying supernatural happenings. how is the damn thing even funded?) 

oh, it wasn’t that bad. not at first, despite your instinct screaming not to trust the devilishly handsome head of the institute and to run away. the archives were a mess, courtesy of gertrude robinson’s piss poor organization. you did not want to know what layed in the artifact storage department. you dutifully ignored the sharp, pinprick pain at your nape, the weight settling over your skin like an accusatory finger. you’re being watched.

again, it wasn’t that bad.

then there were worms.

your fingers clench, dig in your palms. even now, weeks after the flesh-hive broke into the institute, you can feel it. smell it. 

the scent of decay, flesh rotting away, peeling bit by bit from brittle bone, and maggots. so many of them, worms everywhere, stark white fleshy mass wriggling, crawling towards you, biting you until they burrow in your flesh.

you should’ve seen it coming, really, what’s with martin being forced to reside in the archives until further notice and the occasional worm managing to crawl its way in.

you hadn’t. 

(drip, drip. 

blink, and you’re bleeding in a safe room, jon’s palm pressing down your thigh as he wrenches away the worms digging in your flesh with a corkscrew. your leg aches. your wrist is a bloody mess. all you can do is try to bite back a scream and fail, miserably. 

blink, and you’re safe, three months later. on bad days you can still feel them crawl, burrowing deeper and deeper in you, hungry, so terribly hungry.)

today, the archives are silent. the others are still quarantined, so the only noise filling the room is that of your breathing and the click, click, click of your pen. 

no martin to bring you a cup of coffee with a sheepish smile, debating over the merits of tea over coffee. no tim to prank you with the false statement of joe spooky and his encounters with the horrorsTM, holding back his laughter as you squint at him suspiciously. no sasha to gossip with, to laugh, delighted, voice lowering in a conspiratorial whisper as she tells you the latest tidbit of info she found out about jon - your prickly boss! in a band!

normally, the usual hustle and bustle of the archives (and its rowdy archival assistants), is almost enough for you to forget the permanent, oppressing feeling that you’re being watched. it’s always there, at the back of your mind, pinprick pressure at the edge of your neck. eyes, thousands and thousands of them watching you, knowing you, how you wake up screaming, nails digging bloody trails on your skin to get them out- 

breathe. 

you’re in the archives. you’re at your desk, tightly clenched hands resting on a manila folder. before you is the portrait of the founder of the institute. jonah magnus, green-grey eyes boring down upon you. you look back, tired eyes dead and unblinking. 

the watch on your wrist tells you it’s five and a half in the afternoon, give or take. the sun is declining. you’ve kept the lights off. penumbra settles over you like a blanket and you lean back in your chair. you’ve been there for three hours and haven’t moved an inch. 

you should probably go home. you should probably quit, actually. go up to elias’ office and politely tell him that you did not sign up to have your life threatened by worms, supernatural or not. 

you don’t.

the manila file in front of you contains a statement regarding robert montourke, given by one of his jailers. you should probably find a tape recorder. maybe there’s a spare in jon’s office. 

so you get up and set about getting that tape recorder. a beat. you think you catch the contours of one of these wretched worms, fat larvae half crushed by a bow full of statements. blink and it’s gone.

you all but slam open the door, only to reveal the head archivist in the flesh. he startles, almost dropping the pile of statements he’s been neatly stocking away in a cardboard box.

“what- how long have you been there?”

you stare at him, blankly, hand still resting against the doorknob.

“i- three hours- sorry, i should’ve knocked-”

“yes, yes you should have!”

your shoulders tense. he’s glaring at you with barely concealed suspicion, and all you can do is fight back the creeping panic that settles over you, because you can remember being in this very office, half leaning over jon’s desk, laughing with him, before the wall broke and the worms-

“what are you doing here?”

you take in a sharp inhale.

“i was looking for a tape recorder.”

jon lets out an aggravated sigh.

“here, in the archives.”

“i-”

“you should still be at the hospital, resting-”

“i’ve been discharged three days ago.”

he scoffs, running a hand through his tousled hair. it’s grown, you realize. a few inches, now long enough to brush the sharp edge of his jaw. there and there, creeping up his neck, his fingers, his wrists, you can see the scarring tissue of his flesh, puncture wounds like many cigarette burns. worms.

you swallow.

you don’t realize he’s in front of you until he calls your name, tone sharper than his wit.

“i’m going to talk to elias. this is ridiculous, having you work while you’re barely healed-”

“like you’re one to talk.”

he glares down at you, a scowl twisting his features. you meet his stare, lone sailor in the eye of the storm. his gaze trails over your features, takes in the scars crawling up your forearms, the skin left bare by the rolled up sleeves of your shirt. his frown deepens.

“one of your wounds has reopened.”

slowly, you glance down to your hand. there’s a small puncture wound on your palm, surrounded by the imprints left by your nails. it bleeds, red seeping out of the flesh in neat droplets of crimson. your fist tightens.

drip, drip. 

“it’ll heal.”

“it might get infected.”

“oh, and what are you going to be able to do about it?”

“i have a first aid kit.”

with that, he moves behind his desk and opens a drawer with an aggravated sigh. he rummages through it, discarding stationary and a paperback of poe’s selected tales. he’s got taste, you muse, drawing closer, footsteps silent on the carpet. at last, jon pulls out a red box and motions for you to sit down on the edge of his desk. 

“give me your hand,” he mutters.

you extend your hand, slowly, holding it up by his desk lamp. his fingers come to cradle your wrist, brushing your pulse, pressing against the faint outline of the bone. your breath hitches. slowly, he gets to work, critical gaze assessing the wound. it doesn’t need stitches. small blessings. 

he pulls out a sterile compress and pours disinfectant on it.

“it’ll sting.”

he’s gentle, jon, the compress held firmly against your palm, but not harshly, no. you let out a low hiss, pain like an inferno setting your nerve ablaze. you think you see his frown deepening at the pained sound that manages to fly past your gritted teeth.

the compress comes out stained. finally, he discards it and grabs the gauze, carefully wrapping it around your palm. 

in the dim lighting of the room, you make out the sunken cheeks, the five o’clock shadow adorning his jaw, the exhaustion creeping in the deep green of his eyes. they meet yours. your heart skips a beat, then another. silence stretches, stretches.

he’s been watching you, you realize. 

“you didn’t have to do this, you know.” 

he scoffs, throwing away the stained compress.

“somebody has to take care of you, if you don’t do it yourself.”

you let out a dry chuckle.

“hypocrite.”

“i am not-”

“no? when was the last time you ate? have you slept in the past three days?”

with each question, you get closer and closer to him, until you’re a breath away from him, tired gaze boring into his. there’s defensiveness in his eyes, protests piling up in scathing retort on the tip of his tongue.

“why don’t you take care of yourself, jon?”

you see his shoulders tense under the white cotton of his shirt, fingers flexing, gaze flickering, looking anywhere but you. something like resignation settles over his features, clouding the blazing green of his gaze.

“it’s rotten work.”

“not to me.”

your hand finds the sharp edge of his jaw, palm like a balm against his cheeks. you feel him relax, leaning into your touch, lips brushing against your pulse. you drink in the sight of him, worn to the bone, scars etched in his skin, reaching for his soul. he’s soft, in the sunset, all ragged edges tiredly melting away as you take one step closer to him.

“please, jon. let me take care of you.”

a beat. he chuckles, the sound low and rich, vibration reverberating in your bones.

“i can’t stop you, can i?”

“no, you can’t.” 

you fall into his orbit, in the magnetic pull of him. your lips brush against his, brushing hesitantly against the chapped skin. you hear a startled little sound of a gasp, surprise dying on his tongue, melting as you press yourself against him, bandaged hand splayed over his chest. do not still, beating heart. it stutters under your touch, hummingbird yearning for escape. you’d cradle it in your hands and swallow it whole, his heart, keeping it safe.

as it is, you cannot turn bones and spread the open wings of his ribcage apart, so you settle for Knowing him, mapping out each prickly edge of him. 

your lips grow firmer in their relentless pursuit of his own. he nips at you, wounded animal desperate for respite, so you cradle him against you, kissing him over and over, until his mouth parts for you, until, finally, you share the same breath.

you melt a little against him, fingers digging in his shoulders for support. the world narrows down, optical adjustment until it’s only you and the warmth of his fingers on your waist, comet tail blazing a path of desire over your clothed skin. your knees go weak.

you pull apart for air, and it feels like losing a part of yourself.

jon looks at you, green eyes dark and heavy, lips kiss-swollen and red and so very inviting. 

more…

you don’t know which of you broke the silence. doesn’t matter when jon grabs the front of your shirt and yanks you forward until you stumble in his chest. doesn’t matter when he sits back on his chair, when he lets you straddle him, slender fingers coaxing you out of your clothes. 

he kisses you against, and he’s hungry for it, like he’s longed for this, longed for you, you with your mouth like an offering, so warm and safe against him. his hand finds the back of your nape, thumb pressing down, and you dissolve in a sweet puddle of need. he tastes like nicotine and tea, bittersweet in all the right ways, and it feels like a revelation.

your hands set about knowing him, wandering the paths made up by the dips of his ribs, the valley of his chest, going further and further south until your hands press against the buckle of his belt.

“yes- ah!”

you’re gentle about it, really. palming him, tracing the outline of him through his slacks, relishing at the deep, shuddering exhale of your name. his hand wraps around yours, dwarfing yours. your mind goes deliciously blank, his long, slender fingers pulling down his slacks just enough to free his length.

need burns in your mind. 

jon chuckles, low and teasing, something like mirthful amusement in his eyes.

“it’s not going to bite, you know.”

“i might.”

with that, you wrap your hand around his cock. jon hisses, hips bucking in your grip. pink dusts his cheeks like dawn rising as he watches you, like he’s committing you to memory.

(he is. he wishes you could see yourself, stark silhouette burned in his retina, clothes unkempt, shirt half-opened to reveal the tantalizing edge of your bra, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide and dark, hands slowly pumping his length.)

he groans, head lolling back, his hand tightening on your hip.

“you’re a tease.”

“and you’re pretty.”

he gasps at that. you laugh, and press your lips to his, speeding up your rhythm until you feel him tense and writhe, hips jerking against you. beds of wetness drip down on your fingers. you bring them to your mouth and hum, tongue darting out, licking them clean. jon’s breath catches at the sight.

you want to taste him, you realize. know each and every part of him, so you slide off his lap and get on your knees, skirt riding up your thighs. your hands run up his shin, fingers dancing over his knee as they tread the path to his core.

your tongue flicks out against the flushed head, lapping at his pre. he shudders at that, a low groan leaving his lips. you feel him twitch in your grip and speed up, pressing fleeting, fluttering kisses against the soft, heated skin. when your mouth closes on his length and you taste and know him, static buzzes in your mind. 

a hand, broad and big and warm, settles on your head and pushes you closer, fingers threading through your hair. you whine. he’s big and heavy, filling up your mouth until all you know is him. your nails rake his thighs and he moans at that. you can’t help but look up through your lashes.

he’s the picture of sin, jonathan sims. his pristine shirt is crumpled, haphazardly unbuttoned to reveal the knife-edge of his collarbone. his fingers tighten on the armrest, deliciously firm in their desperate attempt to find purchase as you bring him closer and closer to his release. and gods, the slow, sublime arch of his neck, the way his head lolls back in rapture as he comes again with a startled gasp-

you hum, delighted, swallowing every last drop.

ah, but you’re not done yet. you’re not done learning about all the sweet moans you can coax out of him, about what makes him tick and come in blissful rapture. so, you make him come. 

again, and again, and again, worshiping every precious inch of him as you go, sucking  bruises in the tender skin of his neck. mine. his moans fill the room, startled little gasp and desperate pleas for more, for you to stop because it’s too much, to please, please-

when you pull back, your breath catches in your throat. he’s a masterpiece of debauchery, glasses askew, tears of overstimulation trailing down his flushed cheeks, lips parted in harsh, ragged pants. 

you nuzzle against him with a coo, one hand slipping under his shirt, settling over his chest, over the thundering beat of his heart.

his hand settles on your thigh, his forehead pressing against yours as he desperately tries to catch his breath.

“w-wait… you didn’t get to… let me…”

“shh…” you peck his lips, the kiss sweet and chaste. “this is about you. for once in your life, let yourself be cared for.”

he nods, reluctantly, fingers tightening over your thigh in a promise.

“fine. but i’m treating you to dinner. that is non-negotiable.”

you laugh a little, smiling fondly up at him.

“boss’ orders.”

[bugcitie]

tagging every single media feels illegalwhen its just doodles

[adeleoflochnes]

Jonathan Sims - headcanons Part 2

Hope you'll like it, hope you'll enjoy it

summary: Jonathan Sims x gn reader headcanons

Part 1 - Jonathan Sims - SFW headcanons

https://www.tumblr.com/adeleoflochnes/760711710117085184/jonathan-sims-headcanons?source=share

NSFW

°he's a great kisser. He could easily make your head spin. Butterflies rising in your stomach, knees weakening and gasping for air... He could, but won't. All he's going to give you are those innocent little pecks, that are just not enough. He always says he's saving them for special times... (Times full of passion and tangled bodies) But when he sees how needy you are, of course he'll give in for you. He isn't going to hide that smirk though and mocking you the whole time.

° Jon is a very professional man. He likes to keep it that way, so he can be quite distant at work, or outside your safe place. He wants to be always focused on what he's doing. Doesn't matter what it is, but he despises being distracted by his feelings in important moments.

Even more when he feels the responsibility of protecting you. ' The moment you're safely back home again, that's a different story. Jon's attention is all on you now and he makes sure you're happy and comfortable and that you have everything you could possibly desire. (Sometimes he's overdoing it and it's very obvious. But it's only because he realizes how he's neglectful towards you and he wants you to feel loved and make up all those times to you.)

° weak spots? of course he has them. His hands, knuckles especially. Your touches and kisses have his heart melting for you. Definitely won't admit it, but finds it super relaxing when you're touching his hair. The light tugging could send him into a peaceful sleep right there and then. His neck? You discovered this by accident when you kissed it. Jon's whole body stiffened and when you continued and started biting him... (It set him going! Very passionate night, to say the least) Jonathan's tights are an interesting one. Most of the time he finds it weird to be touched there but when you're already making out, when you grab him by them... It's one of the few things that makes him actualy vocal (You could swear, you heard him whine once or twice)

° flirting... Once Jon became comfortable around you, his small compliments sometimes change into something else. More suggesting comments... As much as it can be surprising he's a skilled flirter and the best part is, it's not even sexual half of the time. But the times you both catch pretty good at each other offers, he's open to ideas. He doesn't think he'll actually like most of the new things but is willing to try, for both of you, and he doesn't mind it a bit. That is all nicely said but when it comes to physically showing his love, he can get lost and embarrassed easily. He learns though. He learns to understand you, your needs and desires. Physical touch isn't his love language, so sometimes it's hard for him, but that doesn't mean he can't enjoy it or/and make you feel good and loved.

° he's a dom. Yes, he loves cuddling (especially being the little spoon) but HE is the one in charge. Jon himself wouldn't describe it as manhandling but some twisted part of him enjoys being the one in control of everything. To be finally in charge. (It also helps with his self-trust issues) He wasn't always dom. Truth be told it depends a lot on his partner, but being in charge is more comfortable for him.

° favourite positions? anywhere where he can see your face. He doesn't like to take his partner from behind, because he isn't doing this with randoms... He's doing it with his beloved partner, a person he trusts. He wants to make sure you're alright even in the heated moments. Who said you can't be dominant from below? Jon much enjoys the sex while lying or sitting and admiring his partner from this perspective. Missionary position? Kitchen counters are secretly his kink and he had at least one fantasy about you two trying it...

° Jonathan is a simple man. He's not super skilled or talented in bed. He only does what feels right and good. So when the act itself becomes really intense he lets himself get lost in it. He becomes more primal. Not because he would be hoeing around nor dirty talking, that's not his style. (Some dirty talk from the beginning but then...) Because when it feels good, he can't help it. It's too much and the world around him just disappears. Leaving only him and the overwhelming sensations. So yeah, he wants to be a good lover but at some point, he always loses it. Searching for his own pleasure.

° his vocal part is something else. Jon growls. He's letting out those deep breathy moans with lots of growling and cursing under his breath. It's because he needs to contain himself to feel some control but he's failing miserably. Little words escaping his cloudy mind to let you know how much he loves you. Just how much he adores you. And the closer he is the quieter he tries to remain. Only to finally outburst into a heavenly orgasm. Deep within you, feeling the happiest he's ever had. (In those moments he couldn't care less about how loud he is and what new curses you might have learned) Of course, there are some positions he's louder in but what fun would it be if he told you...? He enjoys you discovering him the same way he loves discovering you.

° when he's having a good time, he can last a few rounds but this one depends on his partner. If he sees you're exhausted and need the aftercare, he'll give it to you automatically. He had his fun, now it's time for you to feel safe with him. to know that he cares deeper and beyond the sex. It's time for good night cuddles.

° he's probably having a hard time deciding whether or not to join his partner in the shower. He doesn't know why. No matter the situation. the question always leaves him uncertain for eternity. He wants to respect you, but the idea of having you this close, this vulnerable in his arms... It's much easier if you decide it for him.

[tma-reader-inserts]

Jonathan Sims x Spiral Avatar! Reader

Knowing Jonathan Sims was… an experience. When you first met him, you were just giving a statement.

You knew he didn’t believe you at all. To be fair, you were blazingly high when the experience happened, and high when you gave your statement.

While smoking with some of your friends, you stumbled upon an old book your father, who you hated, had collected before he died. You hated that book, you hated the ominous air it gave off, how your father obsessed over it, how he mumbled passages from the book, sketch fractals on every surface in the house, and hit you with the leather cover whenever you invited his rage. You tried burying it, but somehow it always came back to your coffee table. You never even bothered to read the words on the almost transparent-it-was-so-thin pages. You hated that stupid book as much as you hated your shitty father.

So you found the stupid book, and told your friends that you couldn’t even get rid of it it; and as one of them flip through the pages, they mention how similar they were to rolling papers.

… and well, didn’t that give you a novel idea.

Page after page, after your friends left, you slowly tore and filled and rolled the thin sheets of the book, lighting up until you couldn’t even lift your head. For months, you slowly decreased the thickness of the book until only half the pages and the leather cover with that stupid stamp of “Leitner” was left.

Well and all; but each time you lit up, you saw things. Normally, when you were high, you were just relaxed, slow moving and thinking and caring; a giggling, hungry mess that rolled around on the floor and dozed in and out of consciousness. But whenever you smoke with the pages from the book, thing were different.

Shadows from the corner of your eye moved and pulsed, you heard low whispers from every direction of the room. The worst of it was all the doors you saw. So many doors that didn’t belong in your house. The curiosity to open them, to trapeze through those rooms and halls, was staggering. You were always of such low motivation, to feel the so much desire to do something (beside getting high and sleeping) was unusual. However, you were too stoned to move, so you never actually entered a door. Even when a tall thin woman in a wacky business suit threw the door opened and tried to coax you in; even when a creature resembling a man with endlessly curling blonde hair sits with you and speaks nonsense at you as you tried to comprehend your surroundings.

Whenever you did come down, things wouldn’t just return to normal; there was always a stray door that would taunt you; the sound of the man laughing ringing in your ears.

When you gave your statement, you couldn’t really give a damn about the circumstances. You were seeing weird shit, and the Magnus Institute was for telling people about weird shit that was seen. Did you care that you were going insane? Not a bit. You father went crazy when he got that book, god knows what got into your mother to copulate with the man, and you reckon that your entire lineage was severely fucked in the head. You self medicated to cope, what choice had you? Seek professional help? Open yourself up bloody and raw to a stranger who was paid to give you fake platitudes and a low grad prescription for mania? Absolutely not. And frankly you were more taken to the effects of marijuana rather than alcohol or any other kind of drug.

So yes, you were high when you went to the Institute to give your statement. And Mr. Sims was less than impressed by your antics. In fact he more or less chewed you out entirely in the privacy of the archive room. It amused you greatly; as he yelled at you about ‘decorum’ and ‘self-pride’, you could only muse about how badly you wanted to see this man specifically as high as a kite and zoned out, drooling on your couch as you combed your fingers through his pretty, curly brown hair. You smirked at the mental image, which only seemed to enraged him further.

After you left the place, however, things had gotten… much worse.

As soon as you got home, you got blitzed off your ass. Despite whenever you used the paper from the book things got super weird, that didn’t exactly stop you from continuing from doing it. Sure, you saw unexplainable things, but you weren’t one to waste paper.

You supposed the reason why you liked being high was the surrender. The passing of responsibility of your thoughts and actions unto something else. To completely give yourself up for a few hours and not be for that time; to be consumed by the buzz of nothingness and allow yourself the high of not thinking straight. There’s a sort of control in losing control to something else.

Maybe that’s why you changed.

It was subtle at first. You noticed your highs lasted much longer than they normally did; soon you weren’t even consuming any of your stash, you were just perpetually buzzed. Then you noticed you could control how high you were exactly, after one instance where you were annoyed with being numb everywhere; suddenly you were almost entirely sober. Still a little high though.

Your biggest discovery was that you could intoxicate others. While you were at a club, you kissed another party-goer in the alley by the club, and you watched in fascination as his pupils dilated immediately and he fell to the ground, silently screaming and clawing at his face. Between his terror you could understand him saying something about feeling bugs in his skin. The knowledge that you caused this sunk into your hazy brain with a rush of excitement and pride. You did this. You reduced some boring, straight laced business man on holiday into a pathetic writhing mess, so high out of his mind that he was truly panicking, probably for the first time in his life; he was truly afraid.

And the fun of doing that, scaring people, far outweighed the joy of being high.

Being high was still super fun, though.

By the time you polished off smoking the pages of the book, you were certain you weren’t totally human anymore. Maybe human adjacent. You were at some point, for certain, but now you were something else. Similar but distinctly different from before.

You took great joy in terrorizing others. You tried being careful at first; most people just assumed they were drugged, or whatever substance they took was laced. Then you got reckless, you supposed. One of your victims, a college boy who was a friend of a friend, who was lured back to your car to scare him through a drug haze, went to the Magnus Institute.

Apparently, even though the idiot young man was already high when you met him, he remembered your face quite clearly, and was insistent that his encounter with you was ‘supernatural’ purely because there was no physical way he could have gotten that out of touch with his senses.

Now, you have minor control over what your victims hallucinate. Usually, whatever was in the recesses of their mind was enough to scare them, but the stubborn ones required some… direction. With that college boy, you managed to convince him he ate rotten meat from an alley way, that there were maggots and bugs and all sorts of diseases crawling around in his guts, in his skin, when in reality you never even left your car until he became so terrified he was rendered unconscious.

You thought your original visit to the Institute was written off; you were certain there was no way Jonathan Sims bothered to remember your face, let alone your name. But there you were, once again in the same recording room as last time, after one of Sims’s meekish assistants contacted you for a “follow up”.

You should’ve known it was a trap to confront you. But in your defense, you didn’t think the archivist was smart or ballsy enough to pull a stunt like that. Yet, here you were, once again being glared down at, with a written statement from the boy you’re tormented in front of you.

“Well?” Jon asks, one bushy eye brow raised in annoyance.

“Well indeed.” You reply, scanning the page once more. “Sounds like this lad had a hell of a trip, some people can’t handle their substances.”

This only seemed to anger the man. “The person he describes sounds an awful lot like you. Even some of your mannerisms and ticks were mentioned. Are you denying this is you?”

You laugh. You couldn’t help the sound from breaking through your teeth.

“It is you, isn’t it.” He accuses.

“Who it is, and who it isn’t, aren’t the problem Sims…” you drawl, throughly amused. “The real problem is you’re believing the accounts of some pot head. What happened to the ineffable skeptic I met months ago?”

He flinches, and you note the movement with great interest. “… I should have believed you about the doors.” He mumbles. “When you came in, I shouldn’t have written you off so quickly, least of all belittle you like that.”

It was your turn to quirk your eyebrow. “I’m getting the feeling you met Micheal, then?”

With shame, he looks away, and you sigh.

“Tell you what…” you say slowly, tongue heavy from the feeling of intoxication. “… I’ll give you another statement, but just for us. Just for you.”

Intrigue paints his features.

“No one else, not even your assistants, not your boss, gets to hear about this. Just you, only for you.”

Now he looks at you in scrutiny. “What do you get out of the exchange?”

A wild smile pulls across your face. “I wanna get you blitzed out.”

“Good lord.” He groans.

“Come on!” You laugh. “I’ll take you to my place-“

“No.”

“We do a little hash-“

“Absolutely not.”

“And I’ll give you an explanation to the weird shit I can do!” You exclaim. “I’ll give you full details, I’m not dodgey about questions like Micheal is, I can give it to you straight!”

“You are aware that the consumption, distribution, and possession marijuana is illegal in the United Kingdom?” He hissed, scandalized.

“Duh; that’s what makes doing it even more fun.” You explain, amused. “You asked what I wanted out of my statement, I told you.”

He huffs. “How is me getting high going to benefit you?”

You never found a point in being dishonest to pretty men. “I think you’d look cute dazed out of you mind.”

“Wha-what?”

You shrug. “You’re pretty, and I think you’d be prettier high, and I wanna see it.”

Jon flushed, tan skin becoming tinged with red. His upper teeth dug into his bottom lip, and his eyes darted away from you so quickly you almost heard them snap. “That is- you can’t just say-“

“You found a way to contact me before; use that method to contact me again when ever you decide on what you want to do.” Standing from your chair, you see the archivist take a small step towards you, almost as if to stop you but he thought the better of it.

You open the door, and before you ascend the steps, you look at the pretty book worm one last time.

“And for the record, whatever that little shit smoke up with was stolen from me. He deserved it. I probably scared him straight anyway, you should be thanking me.”

“That doesn’t make what you did right.” Jon snipes back.

You shrug, unconcerned. “I don’t care about what is right or not, Sims.” You level him with a blank look, allowing a haze to permeate through your conscious. “I hardly care about anything at all.”

And with that, you left.

—

It took a grand total of two weeks before Jon Sims contacted you directly. You were pleased as peach to answer your phone, hoping it was the pretty and emotionally surly archivist.

He had agreed to meet you under your circumstances, and you could help the giggle that leaked into the receiver when he spoke. He talked like an old man, it entertained you ceaselessly. You wondered if he even would be able to keep his bookish facade while high. You hoped not; to see Jonathan Sims at a loss for words would be delightful.

Later that evening, upon your doorstep, in a comfortable brown and grey cardigan, was Jonathan Sims. He seemed nervous, tightly gripping his tape recorder and note book as he stepped into your home.

Honestly your house was a wreck. It’s been in your family for generations, and no one in your bloodline has ever really cared about cleaning up after themselves, yourself included. Did it look like a trap house? Probably; but you could get to the kitchen, your couch, and your bed; so unless something was in your path it was ignored. Jon eyes the trash in the corners of your home, but said nothing unkind.

Sitting him on the couch, you leave only to return less than a minute later, holding a small pastry.

“Is that… a marijuana brownie?” He asks, eyes the confection with anxiousness.

You laugh boisterously, shocking him. “It’s called a pot brownie and you damn well know it, Sims.” Sitting next to him, you unwrap the napkin. “Ten milligrams would be too much for your first time, and five I don’t think would really do anything but take your edge off, so I split the difference to seven. It’s what I started out on and it’ll do just fine.”

He stared down at the piece of brownie with dread, and as he tried to reach for it you pulled it away.

“Hey now.” You warn, frowning, “Do you actually want to do this?”

He scowls. “I’m here aren’t I? Besides, what choice have I?”

It was your turn to scowl now. “If you really don’t want to do this I’ll find another way to make us even. It’s no fun being high against your will.”

He eyes you with an annoyed expression. “Isn’t that what you do to people?”

“Yeah, ‘cus they’re assholes who don’t deserve a nice experience. I’m trying to give you a nice experience.”

“So you target people you deem unworthy to torment?” In the silence of the room, you hear the ever so faint sound of something turning. Has he been recording you this entire time?

You roll your eyes. “I’ll spill my guts soon, Jon, don’t jump the gun. Do you actually want to get high or not.”

He seems to battle with himself for a long moment before nodding. “… I really wanted to try it in college… but I didn’t have any… connections…”

You breathe a laugh. “You didn’t have enough good friends who knew where to get a stash, huh?”

He mumbles something like a, “shut up.”

“Aw, baby-“ you croon, a hand reaching up to pet at his hair. “It sucks to be left out, huh? Never lived up to the traditional college experience? Don’t worry, honey, I’ll fix that right up; you’re in good hands.”

Finally you bring the brownie piece back into reach. “Don’t eat more than this for now; anymore and you’ll be fucked rightly.” You warn.

Nodding, Jon gently takes the piece from your outstretched hand. Grimacing one last time, he places the entire bite size piece into his mouth, and slowly chews.

“It tastes strange.” He complains.

“There’s weed in it, precious.”

“Not that; you didn’t sift the flour when you made these, did you?”

You throw your head back laughing. Oh this was going to be delightful.

—

Forty minutes in and Jon’s head was in your lap as he stared blankly up at the ceiling. Humming, you combed your fingers through what you could of his hair.

“You doing alright, pretty boy?”

A sound comes from his throat, and you know it was a half hearted attempt to respond.

The best course of action, you decided, was to remain as sober as you possibly could be, to be there for Jon during this new experience. After about twenty minutes, his speech began to slow, and by the thirty minute mark, he asked to lie down.

One of his hands held yours, leaving his other hand limply on his stomach.

“You’re doing such a good job, Jon.” You whisper. “You’re doing so well.”

He whimpers, turning his face into your stomach as his skin once again alights with a blush. Removing your hand from his mane, you rub your thumb against the small circular scars along his cheek bone.

“I can’t feel my face.” He complains, high and breathy.

You hum again. “You never are able to feel your face, you’re just actually feeling it for the first time right now, you’re hyper aware of it.”

He groans again, longer, annoyed. “Shh, I don’t want to think.”

“All right, sweet heart,” you say sweetly, “It’s normal to feel things like that. You’re doing just fine.”

“… I can feel all my skin at once, then. And my head feels like a pillow.”

Biting back a laugh, you resume stroking his hair.

“Can you feel through hair? I can feel my hair.”

“Boy, just wait until you start watching trippy movies like this. ‘The Cell’ is gonna be great.”

He groans again. “I don’t want to watch anything, I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“Close them, then, sweetheart.” You coax. “No shame in it, do what feels nice right now.”

At your encouragement, he curls into almost entirely. He moans again, nestling his face into your stomach. You try not to laugh at the sensation of his vibrations tickling your skin through your clothes. “Please keep talking…” he mumbles, “Your voice is nice…”

This time, you did chuckle. Normally, you were amused by everything, but this especially entertained you. “I think your voice is nicer, I could listen to it for hours.”

Jon’s head swivels so he could peer up at you. “Please, no one wants to hear me prattle on about my statements or, or my theories on them.”

Working on a particularly difficult knot in his hair, you hum. “I know I would, who knows, those statements seem to be pretty interesting, a bunch of cool stories to listen to.”

“Right, the trauma of others are interesting.” Sarcasm drips from his lips.

“Well, everyone loves a good scary story.”

Jon sighs and returns to nestling your stomach. You ponder his earlier request and speak. “Your recorder going, yeah?”

The man’s hand slides away from his face and fumbles around beside you until his hands grip the device and presses a button, the sound of faint whirling enters the air.

You introduce yourself to the device, stating your name and occupation, and just began talking. You spoke of your father and his beatings, about the terrible book, when your drug habit started and progressed into what you are now. How you feel powerful picking out certain people to torment, finally taking back the dominance your father stole from you. You muse about Micheal and Helen, and about the doors, the connection between you and the disconnection from reality. You end your statement with a shrug, saying something along the lines about how your humanity is a choice you constantly make, but if you wanted you could abandon it easily.

When you finish and look down, you see Jon is asleep. He is warm and heavy in your lap, he is snorting softly, and he look truly and deeply at peace.

Reaching your hand into the tangle of Jon’s fingers, you turn off the recording device. As you stare at the man, you feel a dopey smile stretch across your features. Maybe, for right now, you’ll be on better behaviour. If for nothing more than to keep Jon near you.

[icarusignite]

Adding to the list of villainous little shits of a concerning age who I'm in love with, I present to you, Elias Bouchard, from the Magnus Archives. Is he a manipulative mind reader who murders ppl in cold blood? Sure.

But consider this, he has a hot laugh so he has me there.

Anyways yeah now I wanna do a fic for him lol. But knowing me it'll be angsty