#jonathan sims x y/n

[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.”

[callme-dickmaster]

Basket Case - (Steve Harrington x reader)

Ch. One - King Steve

cw: 18+ (minors dni) this may be v long, afab!reader, language, minimal use of y/n, bullying, (put this one in second person because I felt it fit better) author's note: hey lol

part 2 >>

Friday, November 4th, 1983

You weren't used to this. Being put on the spot in front of an entire class of twenty other kids didn't happen to you. You thought at this point in your school career, the teachers would know you would either self-destruct or stutter like a moron.

"Ms. Henderson? We're all waiting?" Mr. Mundy sniffed, his runny nose making you want to gag.

"U-uh...uh..." you squeaked before scrunching up your face and dropping your head on the desk. Mr. Mundy sighed while the other kids in the class laughed at you. "Anyway, kids, factorizing the polynomials..." the old man's voice slipped to the back of your mind while you mustered up the courage to move your head to see the board through your hair. You accidentally made eye contact with Claire Sims and immediately averted your eyes to the tile floor.

The dismissal bell rang, and you were the first person out of the room. You stalked down the hallway with your head down and weaved through other students to get to your locker. You hissed under your breath at Eddie Munson doing whatever stupid shit he and his bandmates think is funny in the middle of the hallway next to your locker.

"Hey, y/n," Eddie smiled, leaning on the locker beside you. You smacked your hand on yours and popped it open, making Eddie flinch.

"You have any trouble today?" Eddie asked, twisting some rings on his fingers. You sighed and shook your head, yanking out your biology book and lunch bag. "Figures. Tommy and Carol skipped this morning. Gross..." Eddie wrinkled his nose. You slammed your locker shut and stomped down the hallway, leaving Eddie and his Hellfire friends where they stood.

You slipped into your next class and threw your bag on the floor beside yours and Jonathan Byers' table. "Hi," Jonathan mumbled, sending you a small smile.

You glanced at him, sliding your bologna sandwich across the table to take his PB&J like you did every day. "Bologna again?" Jonathan teased, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. You sighed and nodded, "She knows I hate it. She does it just to slowly kill me from the inside out," you growled. Jonathan chuckled, putting the evil sandwich in his bag.

Mr. Kaminski shuffled into the classroom and mumbled through the lesson, avoiding eye contact with you and Jonathan like the plague until the bell dismissed everyone to the cafeteria. Or, in your and Jonathan's case, to the yearbook dark room so he could develop pictures, and you didn't have to sit alone. You munched on your sandwich and chips, folding your algebra homework into a fortune teller.

"Oh, hey...Will wanted me to thank you for the colored pencils. He loves them..." Jonathan spoke up, smiling at the picture he was poking with tongs. You nodded, tossed your trash, and waved at Jonathan as you walked out. Jonathan waved back and watched you walk to wherever you went after lunch.

You shuffled through the empty halls, enjoying the quiet as you followed cracks in the tile with your eyes. "Oh, God, look at her," Carol Perkins scoffed to her boyfriend and their friends stood in the main hallway. "Jesus, it's like she does it on purpose," Tommy snickered.

Steve Harrington stood from the drinking fountain they were all crowded around. He looked up and down the empty hall, missing you entirely as you slipped around the corner.

"Who?" Steve asked. Carol snorted, "That screwball loser, y/n," she sneered. Steve pursed his lips and nodded, "What's she doing?" he asked the couple.

"She's just fuckin' weird. Like, why does she have to freak everyone out twenty-four-seven?" Tommy laughed. Steve rolled his eyes with a smile.

"Hey, you think Munson put a curse on her or something?" Tommy whispered to Steve. "Like, maybe she wouldn't screw him, and he cursed her for the rest of time?" Carol laughed.

Steve snorted, pulling his bag over his shoulder, "Well, we'll probably never know. I gotta go to history. I'll see you guys," he said, waving to them. Carol smiled and waved before she pulled Tommy in the direction of their next class. Steve sighed, tossing his bag on the floor and greeting his basketball buddies while Mrs. Click rummaged around at her desk for her class papers.

"Okay, everyone! Today, we're going to start on a project," Mrs. Click said to the dismay of the entire class. You straightened a bit in your seat. History was your favorite.

"Please be quiet so I can finish..." Mrs. Click sighed, "You'll be working in groups of two with one group of three. I'll be partnering you up this time. You can thank Mr. Carver for that..." she said, sending a pointed look to Jason Carver, who shrugged with a smug smile on his face. Mrs. Click sighed, sitting at her desk again to slip on her glasses and call out names.

"Okay...Jimmy and Robin..." she started. You laid your head on the desk and started scribbling a drawing of Robin Buckley sitting behind Steve Harrington. "...and Steve and Y/n! Okay! So, go ahead and get comfortable with your partners because this is where you're sitting for the rest of the semester," Mrs. Click said.

Steve couldn't fucking believe it. No way Mrs. Click just partnered him up with a spaz like you. Like, seriously? What did he ever do to her to deserve this?

"Um, hey, Steve? Can Jimmy take your spot? Everywhere else is full," Robin Buckley asked, tapping his shoulder. Steve blinked and nodded, mumbling a "yeah, sorry" before he grabbed his things and crossed the room to the empty seat beside you. You were still in your own world, scribbling away and glancing at Robin every few seconds. You licked your finger and smudged the lead around Robin's feet for shadows.

"Uh...hey..." Steve said awkwardly, sitting in his new seat. You paused, turning to look at him slowly through your hair before looking back down at your drawing. Steve sighed, pulling out his notebook. "Shit," he huffed, mad he couldn't find his pencil.

Smack!

Steve jumped and turned to the lump of black hair and clothing next to him that slammed a mechanical pencil on his desk. You slid your hand into your pocket and pulled out another for yourself. You pumped out the lead and kept drawing as Mrs. Click started handing out directions for the assignment. She tapped you on the shoulder and gave you two pieces of paper. You blew your bangs from your eyes and read over the outline.

Steve tapped his fingers on the desk, awkwardly watching you read over the paper. "D-do I get one? Or..." he trailed off, trying to read it. You smirked, licking a full stripe up your palm to your fingertips. Then, you separated the papers and passed him the one you decided was his. Steve pursed his lips, grabbing it with as little contact as possible.

"Thanks," he mumbled. You giggled and started writing down some ideas you were already well versed in and ones you knew you could do alone if Steve decided he was too good to even try to do the work.

"Alright, you'll have the rest of this class period to work and until next Friday to turn this in. We'll do any presentations the following Monday. Okay, have fun," Mrs. Click said. The class started talking and scooting desks together except for one pair that sat silently while one wrote down ideas and the other watched curiously.

"U-um...I think we should do the sewing machine, the telephone, or the Model-T... I'll let you pick," you said, pushing your paper toward him so he could see your long list of project ideas, including some other things from previous subjects you thought would get extra credit.

Steve let a smile pull at the corners of his lips before he snuck another look at you. You returned to your Robin picture and were bringing out the curls in her hair when Steve spoke again. "You're really into this stuff, huh?" he asked. You just nodded, smudging your art.

"Shit! Did you draw that?" Steve asked, scooting closer to you, which made you move a couple of inches away.

"S-sorry...did you though?" he asked again, raising his eyebrows. You hesitated but nodded, pushing it his way so he could see. "Wow...hey, that's the girl that sits behind me, right?" Steve asked, looking at the drawing up close. You nodded, picking at your fingers and biting your nails.

"I get bored when we talk about stuff I already...know about..." you mumbled, shading in Robin's shoes.

"That's really good. You should show her," Steve said. You shook your head. You would rather die than give anyone you've drawn their picture. Especially a complete stranger you only share a class with. Steve shrugged, "I think you should, but it's your drawing," he said, looking back down at the list and circling two of the subjects you picked.

"How about these?" he asked, passing the paper back. You scratched your nail over the circles and shrugged, grabbing a highlighter and highlighting the two subjects plus an extra credit subject you thought would be good enough.

"I'll be in the library after school until four-thirty. "Don't be late, King Steve," you said before you grabbed your things and fled from your seat. Steve almost got a word in, but you were already across the room, standing in front of Robin. "Here, I drew you," you said, giving her the drawing and walking away. Robin's eyes widened, looking down at the drawing and back up at where you stood two seconds ago.

Steve sighed, tearing a page from his book and writing a note for his new obsession (Nancy Wheeler): "Meet up tonight? Pick you up at 7." He slipped the note into her locker and struggled through his last classes of the day until the bell sounded, and Steve had to sit in the library for two whole hours with you. He was a little scared to see what would happen if he didn't show up.

Walking into the stuffy room, he saw you sitting at one of the tables in the back, doodling away at another picture. "Hey," Steve said, setting his stuff down and grabbing his history books. You glanced at him, closing your drawing and grabbing your books.

The hours flew by faster than you both thought they would. Steve thought your constant silence would drive him crazy, but the moments he did get you to talk were nice. You always seemed to want to say more and talk about whatever was on your mind, but you stopped yourself every time. You were just afraid of getting made fun of. You didn't like Steve very much and knew who he was. Acting all nice and pretending he cared about what you had to say wasn't enough for you to even begin to trust him. He was an asshole, and that was all he would ever be to you. Nothing more.

"So, do you wanna...work on it Monday? Or..." Steve asked, standing with you.

You shrugged, "That's fine. I don't think going to your house would do much good anyway, so, yeah, that's cool," you said, checking your watch and making your way to the exit. Steve furrowed his eyebrows and jogged to catch up to you. "W-why would you think that?" he asked, glancing up and down the hallway.

You rolled your eyes, clutching your books to your chest, "For the exact same reason you're looking around, making sure nobody can see us talking," you said, pushing open the door to the parking lot.

Steve sighed and closed his eyes. He'd been caught. He didn't know why he cared so much if people saw. It's not like he would immediately be labeled a loser if someone saw him hanging out with you. He just didn't want his rep taking any hits...like an asshole... But it's not like he wanted to be friends with you anyway, so it didn't even matter in the first place.

"Look, I gotta go get my brother. See you Monday, Harrington," you said, turning on your heel and walking into the parking lot. Steve sighed, spinning his keys on his finger and going to his car. He sat in the driver's seat, watching you climb into your green Chevelle and toss your bag in the back seat.

You sighed, thankful Dustin's bike was coming out of the shop the next day, and she wouldn't have to drive him around anymore. You loved your brother, but he was a pain in the ass.

"Dustin! C'mon!" you called, rolling your window down. Dustin held up a 'wait' finger to his friends and ran to the car. "Hey, can we take the rest of the party home too?" he asked. You sighed, sending him a look. Dustin pouted, pulling the best puppy dog eyes he could. "Fine. Are they going to their homes, or are you guys keeping me up all night?" you asked as Dustin hopped in the passenger seat. The other party members shoved their bikes into the trunk and squeezed into the back.

"Thanks, y/n!" Will said, buckling in. "Yeah, thank you!" Lucas and Mike said. You sighed and nodded, starting your tape and driving off.

love you <3

[jotarosblkwifey]

JJBA: Love is Unbreakable. Intro

[Pic above from @/StickerTricker on Twitter!]

Synopsis: Y/n loves playing dating sim games, they intrigue her with the different plots, characters and special routes that one may do. So when her best friend introduces her to a new one. She realizes that maybe she needs to back away from the screen.

Pairings: Various JJBA Characters x Reader, Original Characters x Reader.

Rating: 16+ (Later Parts maybe +18)

Warnings: Stalking, Obsession, Possessiveness, Scopophobia, Kidnapping, Stockholm Syndrome (In some endings), death, murder, threats of harm, Mentions of Suicide, Depression, More to be added.

Enjoy...y/n.

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

"Come on! You have to try it! I searched all over for this game for you!"

You felt awful a bit.

(B/F/N) had come back from a trip she went on and handed you a switch cartridge. You had told her not worry about you when she left, and that she didn't have to get you anything. But, her being the best friend in the whole wide world.

She brought you back an Otome game.

She had gotten you into them at first, sucking you in with The NIFLHEIM and Obey Me: One Master to Rule Them All.

They were fun. The storylines were moving, the artwork was great and the characters were lovable!

So when she held this new one in front of you, you had a feeling this one was going to become your new obsession.

It was based off of the anime Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure, an anime that you loved to sit down and watch. You found it entertaining that no matter what, foolishness seemed to follow the Joestar Bloodline. So you were excited to play this game based around it.

“Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure…Love is Unbreakable. Hey, it's a play on one of the season’s names too!” (B/F/N) says and you nodded along. You turned the box over on the back to read the description.

‘Play along as your own character in the different stories from the hit Series Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure! Help Jonathan Defeat Dio in Phantom Blood, Fight alongside Joseph in Battle Tendency, or even Join Jotaro and his friends to defeat DIO once again in Stardust Crusaders! Fall for your favorite Joestars and who knows! Maybe they’ll fall for you too~’

“I’m probably gonna stay up late playing this tonight..”

“Well, Don’t let me stop you! I just wanted to stop this by! I still have to go unpack!” (B/F/N) gave you a kiss on the cheek and a big hug before leaving out. 

You grabbed your switch and decided to head to your room to start up your new game.

—---------------------------------------------------

You placed your switch on the dock and watched as the screen lit up, seeing the several characters zoom across the screen before the title screen popped up. 

You smiled as you pressed start.

A pretty woman character popped up on the screen. She had pretty sky blue hair with swirly green/blue eyes, she had freckles and pretty mocha brown skin. She seemed to be staring off before ‘noticing’ you.

“Oh Hello! Welcome, Welcome, Welcome!!! My name is Melody Musik! Welcome to Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure: Love is Unbreakable!”

She was bright and bubbly, she must be an OC of the creator of this game. She surely followed the JJBA character style to a tea, dressed to stand out in a crowd.

“What is your name?” Her voice was sweet, you hurriedly typed in your name and you watched as her eyebrows furrowed together before her smile returned.

[Please Insert your name]

…….Y/N…L/N……...

“Your name is Y/n, Correct?”

[Yes]<   [No]

“Such a pretty name! Now, Pick your story line~!”

[When you pick your storyline, it will be a special version of the story. Please choose carefully as once you start, you won’t be able to choose another one!]

[Phantom Blood]

[Available routes: Jonathan Joestar, Dio Brando]

Join Jonathan as he goes about his life beside his evil adoptive brother Dio. Help Jonathan Defeat Dio or either Join Dio and reject your humanity.

[Battle Tendency]

[Available routes: Joseph Joestar, Kars]

Join Joseph, the descendant of Jonathan and Erina as he comes over to the states. Follow him as he defeats Straizo and ends up with more than he can handle in the form of the Pilarmen. Will you defeat them? Or will you Join Kars in his quest to become the ultimate lifeform.

[Stardust Crusaders]

[Available routes: Jotaro, Joseph, DIO]

Time to Join Jotaro in saving his mom from DIO and his minions, Take a trip across Egypt and defeat the minions in his way. Will you stay alongside Jotaro or Will DIO persuade you to join him in his path to destroy the Joestars

[Diamond is Unbreakable]

[Available routes: Josuke, Jotaro,Joseph, Kira,}

Welcome to Morioh, 1999! There's a serial killer running around that you have to help find. Join Josuke and Jotaro as you try to figure out just who this killer is. Maybe the killer is in plain view. Or maybe he’s just a simple man who wants to live a simple life doing simple things.

[Vento Aureo]

[Available routes: Giorno, Bruno, Doppio/Diavolo]

Dio has a kid?! Join Giorno as he travels through the ranks of the mafia to defeat the boss of passione, the most powerful mob in Italy to become a Gang-Star. But, the boss may have his eyes on you. Be careful of who’s around you.

You stared as Melody explained each plot line and how you would fit into it. She pointed to each one and showed the available routes and the ‘difficulty’ level of the romanceable characters.

“Of course all the villains are hard…but that's not going to stop me!” You say excitedly and it was almost like Melody was giggling at you. You brushed it off as she continued to speak.

“Oh and don’t worry! I’ll be alongside you in every story! If you ever want to know something  or you get stuck!” She smiles at you and shows the various looks that she’ll have between each series. From having her own ancestors in Parts 1 and 2, to being similar to Jotaro and being in 3, 4 and 5. 

Though you kept getting the feeling that Melody was something more, you got a little Doki Doki Literature Club or John Doe type vibes from her.

“Tch. I doubt this game is going to be sentient. If so I would feel so bad for you Melo.” You said giving the tutorial character a nickname. You could’ve sworn you saw her blush and avert her eyes, before quickly returning to her idol animation.

“So! What are you going to choose?”

{I Choose This Route} : [1] [2]

[Phantom Blood] [Jonathan/Dio]

[“I can’t bear to lose you, We have to defeat Dio!’]

{I Choose This Route} : [1] [2]

[Battle Tendency] [Joseph/Kars]

[“I predict that you’re gonna say: Of Course Joseph I’ll Join you!”]

{I Choose This Route} : [1] [2]

[Stardust Crusaders] [Jotaro/Joseph/DIO]

[“Yare,Yare…be careful. I care about you too, you know.”]

{I Choose This Route} : [1] [2]

[Diamond Is Unbreakable] [Josuke/Jotaro/Kira]

[“Hey! Let’s play some games after this. Chasing killers is stressful”]

{I Choose This Route} : [1] [2]

[Vento Aureo] [Giorno/Bruno/Diavolo]

[“I, Giorno Giovanna, Have a dream. And I want you to be a part of my dream.]

{I Choose This Route} : [1] [2] [3]

[???] [Melo]

[“H-hey! Y/n You have to help me!! I’m just like yo-]

[] . [Next]

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

©jotarosblkwifey 2023

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

Hi everyone! I hope you enjoyed this intro! I plan on trying to get each route out at least once a week! Each Route will have 2 parts and all of them lead up to the special secret route at the end!

I hope you enjoy~ Currently working on route one as we speak!

[thisblogwilleatourselves]

Behold The pAper chAse:

(also known as chAze)

Puppeteers (Core Beings):

V: Fliqpy (primary self)

Z: Flippy (tulpa, companion)

X: Handy (The Conduit, not a Puppeteer but core)

-

Entities Representing Internal Framework:

Happy Tree Friends Characters:

A = Auditorium (entire HTF universe itself)

V = Fliqpy (primary self)

Z = Flippy (tulpa)

X = Handy (Conduit)

M = Mime (Mind)

N = Nutty (Brain)

F = Flaky (Body)

L = Lumpy (Inner Child)

R = Russell (Adventurous Spirit)

O = The Mole (Unaware Aspects)

D = Disco Bear (Egotistical Side)

C = Cuddles (Playful Part)

I = Lifty/Shifty (Shadowed Aspects)

P = Pop (Protective Side)

U = Cub (Vulnerable Aspect)

E = Splendid (Free Spirit)

T = Toothy (Joyful Aspect)

A = Petunia (Orderly Part)

G = Giggles (Kindness)

Y = Lammy (Social Side)

Q = Sniffles (Intellectual Side)

K = Pickles (Offensive Aspect)

W = Cro Marmot (Passive Side)

-

Free Entities in The Auditorium:

Other HTF Characters (not tied to core aspects): All other characters from HTF exist independently.

Bill Cipher (Gravity Falls): Representing chaos and manipulation.

Blitzø (Helluva Boss): Representing irreverence and leadership.

15 Fear Entities (The Magnus Archives): Embodying distinct fears.

Imposter (Among Us): Representing deception.

Jack Skellington (The Nightmare Before Christmas): Symbolizing creativity and curiosity.

Yoshikage Kira (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure): Representing meticulousness and duality.

Jonathan Sims (The Magnus Archives): Representing selfreflection and narration.

Amogi (Among Us Crewmates/Imposters): Symbolizing group dynamics and isolation.

-

Spectators:

Nonsentient constructs created within The Auditorium, embodying passive or reflective aspects of the mind.

[hellsite-hungergames]

UPDATED WAVE TWO BRACKET

Tribute List under cut

Barney (Barney & Friends) vs. Tamatoa (Moana)

Sans (Undertale) vs. Link (The Legend of Zelda)

Jason Todd (DC Comics) vs. Temmie (Undertale)

Zuko (Avatar: The Last Airbender) vs. Diego (Ice Age)

Perry the Platypus (Phineas and Ferb) vs. Zagreus (Hades)

Cecil Palmer (Welcome to Nightvale) vs. Rivulet (Rain World: Downpour)

Tom (Tom & Jerry) vs. Chucky (Child's Play)

Starlight Glimmer (My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic) vs. the Light Yagami (Death Note) x Crowley (Good Omens) alliance

Donna Noble (Doctor Who) vs. Snoopy (Peanuts)

Ferris Bueller (Ferris Bueller's Day Off) vs. Scrooge McDuck (Duck Tales)

Sasha Waybright (Amphibia) vs. Kool-Aid Man (Kool-Aid)

Laszlo Cravensworth (What We Do in the Shadows) vs. Alucard (Castlevania)

Izzy Hands (Our Flag Means Death) vs. Jonathan Sims (The Magnus Archives)

Goose (Untitled Goose Game) vs. Big Naturals Gandalf (LOTR/Internet)

Percy Jackson (Percy Jackson and the Olympians) vs. y/n (Fanfiction)

Joltik (Pokemon) vs. Rui Kamishiro (Project Sekai)

WAVE TWO OF TRIBUTES

All tributes were chosen randomly, as were the pairs.

Tribute List under cut

Barney (Barney & Friends) vs. The Little Prince (The Little Prince)

Dean Winchester (Supernatural) vs. Tamatoa (Moana)

Sans (Undertale) vs. Hunter (The Owl House)

Peter Pan (Once Upon a Time) vs. Link (Zelda)

Jason Todd (DC Comics) vs. Arthur Lester (Malevolent Podcast)

Temmie (Undertale) vs. Jay Gatsby (The Great Gatsby)

Donatello (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) vs. Zuko (Avatar: The Last Airbender)

Bob (The Minions) vs. Diego (Ice Age)

Laa-Laa (Teletubbies) vs. Perry the Platypus (Phineas and Ferb)

Zagreus (Hades) vs. John Watson (Sherlock)

Cecil Palmer (Welcome to Nightvale) vs. Miriel Therinde (The Lord of the Rings)

Revy (Black Lagoon) vs. Rivulet (Rain World: Downpour)

Tom (Tom & Jerry) vs. Chell (Portal)

Aramis (The Musketeers) vs. Chucky (Child's Play)

Starlight Glimmer (My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic) vs. Lucifer (Christianity fandom)

Baby Shark (Baby Shark Song) vs. Party Phil (Wii Party)

Donna Noble (Doctor Who) vs. Jon Arbuckle (Garfield)

Denji (Chainsaw Man) vs. Snoopy (Peanuts)

Ragnar "Vanheden" Vanheden (Jönssonligan) vs. Ferris Bueller (Ferris Bueller's Day Off)

Scrooge McDuck (Duck Tales) vs. Reko Yabusame (Your Turn to Die)

Surge the Tenrec (Sonic the Hedgehog) vs. Sasha Waybright (Amphibia)

Kool-Aid Man (Kool-Aid) vs. Princess Tutu (Princess Tutu)

Laszlo Cravensworth (What We Do in the Shadows) vs. Anvilcat (Lovejoy)

Sun of May (Argentina/Uruguay) vs. Alucard (Castlevania)

William Afton (Five Nights at Freddy's) vs. Sun (Five Nights at Freddy's)

Jonathan Sims (The Magnus Archives) vs. Izzy Hands (Our Flag Means Death)

The Conductor (Dinosaur Train) vs. Goose (Untitled Goose Game)

Big Naturals Gandalf (LOTR/Internet) vs. Crowley (Good Omens)

Percy Jackson (Percy Jackson and the Olympians) vs. Nausicaä (Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind)

y/n (Fanfiction) vs. Tim Bradford (The Rookie)

Joltik (Pokemon) vs. Light Yagami (Death Note)

Custard Senior (Cookie Run) vs. Rui Kamishiro (Project Sekai)

[queenshelby]

Oppenheimer (Part 22)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy x Reader

Warning: Fluff, Angst, Depression

Words: 3,608

Please interact and comment to keep it going. I always love to know what you think.

Three days later…

Three days had passed and you spent the majority of your spare time in your room, trying to take your mind of what was happening with books and other reading material.

Your parents were once again concerned about your health, worried that you were experiencing some rebound depression.

You had been there before, especially when you went through the break up with Jonathan and after having experienced problems at school. It was just something you suffered from on occasion but you refused to take medication for your condition at this point.

You hoped that this was simply a phase and, after your move to London, things would be okay. The fact that your godmother Cara contacted you daily didn’t make things easier though. She continuously reminded you about her threat, wanting you to know that you needed to comply with her demand.

She also told you that she was still watching Cillian and told you that, if you were to do anything like this again, she would know. According to her, she had her eyes and ears everywhere and you eventually resorted to turning off your phone and changing your number.

Cillian had also called you regularly, wanting to talk, begging for you to explain to him why you changed your mind all so suddenly.

It was too much for you to bear and eventually, you destroyed your sim card, ignoring everyone around you but your parents who, unfortunately, you had to deal with on a daily basis.

Your father himself was struggling on set and was in a rather terrible mood. He yelled a lot, but not at you. Rather, he yelled at himself. It was how he coped.

He also complained about Cillian frequently making mistakes, knowing that something was bothering him. He knew that Cillian wasn’t usually like this and it was only recently that he forgot some of his lines and struggled to following instructions.

But your mother had her suspicions about this as well, telling your father that something must have happened on set, involving both you and Cillian.

“Don’t you think I would have noticed Love? It’s my set” your father told your mother but she began to laugh.

“You are oblivious to things happening around you Chris, especially where Y/N is involved. She’s good at hiding things from you and you should know this by now” your mother lectured your father and, as usual, he sighed at her in response.

“So, you still think that she is romantically involved with Cillian?” your father asked and she confirmed her suspicions.

“Yes, I believe this to be the case. Cara thinks so too. She told me that Y/N has been spending a lot of time in his trailer when she was on set” your mother explained and your father couldn’t help but ponder.

“I suppose it is a possibility and, if they had a fight, then this would explain a lot. I guess I just didn’t think that she would be getting involved with an actor. Besides, he is close to my age. I’ve only got five or six years on him” your father said, raising his eyebrows with concern.

“Well, look at Florence Pugh. It’s not unheard of. Despite, Cillian looks rather young for his age and, I think that, your daughter needs a man who she can have a proper conversation with, someone who is educated and smart. Cillian fits the bill, don’t you think?” your mother asked before telling your father that she had suggested for Cara to keep an eye on them both, believing that she could trust her.

Cillian’s POV

Unfortunately for your mother though, she was wrong. She couldn’t trust Cara even though she was your godmother and, when Max looked for more pain killers in his father’s trailer to help with the pain in his ear, he found something else.  

“Dad” he called out as Cillian was talking to one of the crew members right outside his trailer.

“Hang on, I will be there in a minute Max” Cillian shouted out but Max told him that he needed to see him urgently.

“I found something you may want to see” Max told his father as he stepped back into his trailer and handed him a small camera.

“Where did you find this?” Cillian asked surprised and somewhat concerned.

“It was fixed to the shelving” Max told Cillian before showing him the area where he found it and asking him why it was there.

“That, I don’t know Max” Cillian said angrily but, after he thought about it some more, he concluded that it was your father who was trying to spy on him, possibly suspecting that there was something between you and him after you had both contracted COVID at the same time.

Cillian was outraged and angry, thinking that, instead of resorting to childish methods like this, your father could simply have confronted him about this and talk with him about his suspicions.

Working under conditions like this, wasn’t an option for him. It is not what he had signed up for and he most certainly didn’t need to submit to anything like this. It was the very reason he despised Hollywood and large studio productions. He thought that your father was different to other directors, but maybe he was wrong?

***

With this in mind, he went to see your father in his office at lunch, taking the camera and a letter of resignation with him. He was determined to quit the movie and leave, especially now that you removed yourself from his life. You had broken his heart.

“What is this?” your father asked Cillian as he handed him a small piece of paper and sat down in one of the large armchairs in front of your father’s large desk. He could tell that Cillian was rather upset and angry.

“I am done Chris. This is my resignation” Cillian said with frustration and your father’s chin dropped.

“You are quitting? Right now? In the middle of fucking production? You cannot be serious” your father spat, angry and frustrated himself now.

“Yes, I am Chris” Cillian said sternly.

“Why?” your father responded with an equally stern voice.

“Because of this” Cillian told your father as he placed the small camera on the desk in front of him.

“What is this?” your father asked after having picked up the device carefully.

“A camera” Cillian said, causing your father to cock an eyebrow.

“I can see that Cillian but I am lacking context. Where did you get this device and why are you resigning because of it?” your father asked, unsure about what was going on and Cillian realised that your father didn’t know about the camera himself. He accused him of something he had not done and clearly knew nothing about.

“So, you don’t know about the camera having been placed in my trailer?” Cillian asked surprised when he came to this realisation.

“No! Why would I put a camera into your trailer?” your father asked almost amused but his amusement wasn’t going to last.

“I don’t know Chris. I am sorry. Some directors are known to do this kind of shit because it gives them control” Cillian said, wondering what all of this was about if your father wasn’t really suspicious about you.

“I like to be in control on my set but I don’t have the need to spy on my cast Cillian. If I have a problem, I will come and speak with you. There is no need for this shit” your father said sternly before considering the impact of such a device in Cillian’s trailer and the fact that, of lately, your mother had become increasingly suspicious about your relationship with Cillian. It wasn’t difficult for him to put one and one together in light of recent events, namely your abrupt resignation and rebound depression.

“So, who put the camera into my trailer then if not you?” Cillian wanted to know but your father had other questions to ask first.

“I don’t know Cillian, but did you get up to anything of concern in there in recent weeks?” your father then asked but Cillian wasn’t sure what he meant by that.  

“What do you mean?” Cillian asked somewhat confused.

“In your trailer Cillian! Did you do anything in there that may be damaging to you in any way if it had been filmed?” your father asked concerned and, when Cillian thought back about the things which occurred in his trailer, his chin dropped.

“Did I…? I have…shit” Cillian stammered in response, unsure about what to say.

“Cillian?” your father then asked again as Cillian gasped and was unable to form a coherent sentence. By this point, your father had gotten up from his chair and was walking around nervously, rubbing his chin, which was something he would do if he was thinking about something in a critical way.

“Chris, I think you might want to sit down for this” Cillian eventually answered him after a few moments of silence and your father’s heart began to race, already suspecting what Cillian was about to say.

He sat down just as Cillian had suggested and starred at him with wide open eyes, waiting for him to tell him about what he hoped not to be true.

Cillian, of course, didn’t want to tell your father anything. But he also knew that there was no turning back now. If the camera found in his trailer was on when you and Cillian had sex, there may be an incriminating tape of you out there and, at least if your father knew about it, he may be able to help.

In addition, it also no longer mattered if he knew. It was over between you and Cillian and you never bothered telling him why you ended it. So why shouldn’t he be forthcoming about your relationship with your father now? What other choice did he have? He had to tell him.

“I have been seeing Y/N in an intimate way Chris” Cillian eventually blurted out and, as soon as he did, your father inhaled sharply.

“You have been seeing my daughter?” your father asked sternly, his face angry and somewhat upset.

“Yes. I am sorry Chris. I couldn’t tell you. I promised Y/N and I thought that…” Cillian began to say but your father interrupted him quickly.

“How long has this been going on Cillian?” your father wanted to know.

“Six weeks, maybe seven. I was reluctant at first because she is your daughter and still quite young but one thing let to another and…” Cillian went on to explain but your father, once again, interrupted him.

“Please tell me that you didn’t do anything stupid with her in your trailer” your father began to say with great worry, thinking about the worst-case scenario, namely a sex tape being out there, and, when Cillian simply looked at him with wide open eyes and scratched his head nervously, your father began to shout in anger.

“For fuck sake, Cillian!” your father spat, angry and frustrated. “I can’t believe this. You slept with my daughter in your fucking trailer, out of all fucking places…” he went on to say, letting his head fall into his hands.

“I am sorry Chris” Cillian said, knowing very well that sorry wouldn’t cut it but he didn’t know what else to say.

“What the fuck has gotten into you Cillian? I can see Y/N doing something stupid like this but you are meant to be the responsible adult here. You are 45 mate. Have some fucking self-control!” your father went on to say before observing that, the chances are, that whoever put the camera into Cillian’s trailer now had a sex tape of his daughter.

This was a disaster and your father knew that he needed to rectify the issue at hand, if he could.

“I need to speak with Y/N about this, if she is even going to talk to me” Cillian went on to say, worried about the impact this may have on you and thinking that you didn’t already know.

“Why wouldn’t she talk to you? You didn’t do anything to upset her, did you?” your father asked concerned before explaining to Cillian that you had been in a very bad place lately, suffering from depression once again.

“Depression?” Cillian asked surprised, worrying about you.

“Yes Cillian, depression! So, if you did anything to hurt her, I will rip off your fucking balls. Are we clear?” your father spat but Cillian chuckled.

“There is no need for that Chris, I promise. I don’t think I did anything to upset her but, for some reason, she ended it three days ago and I really wish that she didn’t” Cillian told your father with a saddened tone in his voice.

“Well, this explains your inability to get your scenes right these past few days which, I may add, is really fucking annoying for me. Do you know why she ended it?” your father asked.

“No, she didn’t say. I’ve been trying to call her every day, asking her to tell me why she changed her mind so suddenly but she doesn’t even answer my fucking calls” Cillian told your father who, then, asked him a very important question.

“I need to ask you this Cillian and I need you to be truthful with your answer so that I can get onto the bottom of this and deal with the possibility of a rather compromising tape of my daughter being out there, in the public” your father said before continuing on, choosing his words wisely.

“Are you in love with my daughter or is this a career move for you?” he then asked and Cillian couldn’t help but chuckle again.

“I am in love with her Chris” Cillian confirmed before telling your father that he wished that he wasn’t. He never planned for this to happen, never wanting to fall in love with you. It just happened and now he was struggling with the fact that it ended.

“Okay, then I will ask her why she ended it. Perhaps she also knows a bit more about this issue we now have” your father then told Cillian while holding up the camera, assessing it some more before putting it into his bag.

Your POV

Later that day, your father confronted you, asking you to sit down with him. He needed to talk with you and you thought that he was about to give you yet another lecture.

“This was found in Cillian’s trailer today. Do you know anything about it?” he asked, placing a small camera in front of you.

“No” you lied. You suspected that this was how Cara got the tape, but you weren’t sure.

“Are you sure? Because, the truth is that I do not believe you. I’ve spoken to Cillian today and he admitted to me that he’s been romantically involved with you” your father said sternly and with raised eyebrows.

“Dad, I… I am…” you stammered nervously, your hands beginning to shake, causing your father to place his hands on to them in order to calm you down.

“Y/N, relax. I am not angry about you having been with Cillian. I am not even angry about you not telling me about it. Of course, I am concerned about the age gap between you but I also know that this isn’t something unheard off these days. What I am concerned with is the fact that you had sex with him, in his trailer, possibly while this camera was recording it. This means that there could be a rather compromising tape out there, featuring my daughter with the lead actor of my fucking movie” your father explained and you immediately broke out in tears.

“I know, I dealt with it. I am sorry I didn’t tell you. But I made it go away” you stammered, unable to say anything else which made sense. Your tears were overwhelming you and you broke down emotionally, falling into your father’s arms.

“You dealt with it how?” your father asked and, after you calmed down a little, you told your father everything, including the fact that your godmother had blackmailed you and that you broke up with Cillian because of it.

“This backstabbing bitch, threatening my daughter like this. She better be ready for a fucking shit storm to hit her when I am done with her” your father eventually spat after you told him what had happened. He was furiously angry and full of rage and you never quite seen him like this.

“I am sorry dad. I should have come to you with this but I couldn’t. I didn’t know how to explain my relationship with Cillian to you and I didn’t think that there was anything you could do” you told him, your eyes still filled with tears.

“It’s fine Y/N. I can see how you didn’t want to talk with your father about the existence of a tape like this. But, what you should have done is, talk to your boyfriend about it. You could have dealt with this together” your father said gently and the fact that he referred to Cillian in this way made you smile.

“I thought about it, but I didn’t think that there was another option. I felt as though I had to comply with Cara’s demands after what she had threatened to do. It wouldn’t just affect me and Cillian but also his children” you explained, trying to take some responsibility before asking your father what he wanted to do about Cara now.

“Well, let’s just say that your old man has learned a few things over the years when dealing with people like Cara Miles and, tomorrow, she will learn her lesson” your father said with delight.

“And what lesson may this be?” you asked curiously.

“Don’t fuck with me and my family” your father smirked.

“And how exactly will you teach her this lesson Chris?” your mother then asked while stepping into the kitchen after having overheard your conversation. She was just as angry as your father was, if not more.

“I will blackmail her, just the way she has blackmailed our daughter” your father said but both you and your mother wanted to know more.

“Oh god, please don’t tell me you have a sex tape with her on it” your mother joked, causing you to laugh momentarily.  

“No, don’t be disgusting Love. I have a resignation from the lead actor of my movie which I will threaten her to accept unconditionally unless she hands me this fucking tape. If Cillian resigns and I accept his resignation, the studio would have to halt production and resume filming at a later stage with a new lead actor and, if I was to resign also, they would also need find another director. The studio couldn’t afford this and, usually, in cases like this, they would cut their losses. If the studio has to cut their losses, Cara would also have to cut her losses and, since her investment into the movie was approximately twenty million dollars, she will go bankrupt” your father told you and your mother before telling you to wipe your tears of your face and freshen up.

“Why do I need to freshen up?” you asked when crawling back into your room was really what you wanted to do.

“Because I invited Cillian over for dinner tonight” he told you.

“You did what?” you asked surprised.

“Listen, I need you on set again tomorrow. The show must go on and I need Cillian to be able to perform or I will lose my fucking mind. If you choose to break up with him again, please wait until we wrap up filming. I cannot deal with him being like this. And I also can’t deal with you locking yourself into your room all day long. He has been an emotional wreck and you have been exactly the same those past three days. I need this to stop so I can finish filming this fucking movie in peace” your father said somewhat annoyed and you couldn’t help but chuckle.

“So, you are okay with us being together?” you needed to know.

“I am not overly happy about you dating an actor but, as far as actors are concerned, he is one of the better ones and I may be okay with him as a partner for you. He’s sensible and I generally like him. The age difference is a little concerning but this is something you need to work out with each other. You are old enough to decide who you want to be with and if this is Cillian, then by all means, go for it” your father said gently and with a smile before carrying on in a different tone.

“I did tell him however that, if he hurts you in any way, I will have his balls and I expect you to refrain from doing…uhm…that thing…again…on set…or ever…just don’t…don’t do it” your father stammered with a look of disgust on his face.

“That thing Chris? You mean, having sex?” your mother laughed and your cheeks began to blush almost instantly.

“Yes Love. That is what I mean. No sex” your father said, clearly sensing the awkwardness in the conversation.

“She is a grown woman, Chris. This means that she has sex” your mother laughed and you were quick to interrupt.

“No sex! I got it! Let’s change the topic please” you gasped with embarrassment.

To be continued…

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[legachq]

A noite quente e agitada passava com um piscar de olhos para todos que estavam se divertindo, comidas e bebidas circulavam pela festa quase que a todo momento e o bar estava lotado, foi a meia noite que as coisas começaram a sair do controle. Primeiro eram só alguns alunos sendo atrevidos demais, depois alguns professores e então todos que haviam experimentado certos drinks estavam sofrendo efeitos específicos.

B E R R Y  E X P L O S I O N

Aqueles que experimentaram da bebida agora estão sentindo raiva, uma incontrolável e intensa raiva borbulhando em seu sangue como animais encurralados por caçadores.

C L A W S

O efeito da hiperatividade foi crescendo aos poucos nos que havia experimentado de Claws e quando todos perceberam estavam correndo e gritando sem conseguir parar de se mover.

D E A D  R O B I N

Os que tomaram a engraçada bebida dead robin estão anestesiados, como se estivessem acordando de uma cirurgia aonde haviam tomado anestesia geral. Membros pesados, mente entorpecida e reflexos lentos são parte do efeito.

K R A V E N

A Kraven acabou por causar cegueira temporária naqueles que a ingeriram. 

E L E M E N T  X

PAIXÃO! Sim! Element X acabou por fazer com que aqueles que a tomaram acabassem sentindo como se estivessem apaixonados por qualquer um que vissem, alguns mais outros menos, mas todos sentiram o balançar do coração. 

B E L L A D O N N A

Belladonna foi uma das piores, o medo produzido pela bebida é tão forte quanto o soro do medo de Jonathan Crane, fazendo com que as suspeitas recaíssem sobre seus filhos.

[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.”

[0bticeo]

j. sims, e. bouchard | knowledge is a double-edged sword

part two of four. (part one.) (part 3.) (part four.)

summary:

a low hum. there’s something sharp in elias' smile. his gaze feels like it’s cutting you open. you hold your ground, unblinking, watching him and his annoyingly handsome face. 

“you’re wearing a mask, dear.”

“aren’t we all?”

wc. 3k

tw. reader's creeping paranoia, shockinlgy nothing smutty happens in this chapter, manipulation, graphic description of eyes, mild ptsd, nightmares, elias bouchard being a creep.

working in the archives has always been… a little off, for a lack of a better word. you are supposed to research and archive statements regarding “supernatural happenings” in a world where said supernatural has been swiped under the carpet, dismissed with a haughty scoff. still, it pays well. which is why you find yourself clocking in day after day. 

your colleagues… you don’t know what to make of them. not really. sasha’s been… off. you think there’s a void in the shape of her roaming about the place. she’s calm and focused. formal. has trouble logging in her computer - that’s… not right.

martin seems to be taking it well enough for someone who’s spent the past two months sleeping in the archives and then getting attacked by worms. sounds silly. definitely wasn’t. you think there’s much, much more to him than meets the eye and and accept the cups of coffee he hands you with a warm smile. you mean them. you like martin. his poetry a bit less. 

tim… is silent. he’s lost his smile. you haven’t fallen victim to one of his pranks in ages and fear you won’t ever have to worry about a sketchy statement being one of his little jokes. you feel anger bubbling inside of him at the mere mention of having to work in the archives. yet…

yet he’s helping you. 

the library is a quiet affair, the muted sort of silence that hangs like a comforting blanket over your shoulders. dust flutters away in the air, drawn by your steps. tim’s sigh cuts through the silence like a knife.

“why are we doing this again?”

you tuck back a book in its shelf. thankfully, not a leitner. still, nothing to do with architecture.

“because it is our job, tim.”

he scoffs.

“yeah, right. i wasn’t aware it involved risking my life.”

“look, you’re not forced to help me. if it makes you feel better to slack off, then i’m not stopping you.”

he laughs, mocking, almost cruel. the pressure at the back of your neck is near unbearable. you want to scream. you want to tear something apart.

“look at you! acting like everything’s normal! three months ago, you were bleeding out on my lap! how can you-”

“it’s either i focus on something else or i go mad.” you snap a book shut with a sharp intake of air. “you won’t like me mad, tim. now shut up and help me find robert smirke’s books, will you? i’m pretty sure they were there, but-”

his hand clasps around your wrist. 

“hold on. why are you looking for smirke’s books?”

“follow up on a statement involving urbex in the former church of saint james in west hackney. built by, you guessed it, robert smirke himself.”

you watch a flash of… something in his eyes. it looks like guilt in mourning, and you’re itching to pry, pry him open and unearth whatever secrets he keeps buried under a thick layer of good humour turned bitter. 

“it should be around here.”

you end up with three heavy volumes in hand, none of which feel like they’ll help with erin gallagher-nelson’s statement. then, something catches your attention. a small leather volume, tucked away behind the books you’re currently holding. tim’s already on his way out, much to your chagrin. you don’t feel too guilty when you reach for the small little book and tuck away those he’s helped you find, neatly ordered in their rightful place.

the little book in your hand is… not a leitner, which is a relief as you are not wearing gloves. no, it’s bound leather, with no title in sight. you open it, carefully, cradling it against your breast like something fragile, and cast your gaze upon its first page. the juts out in ink far too dark for its age.

the fears that bind us.

turn another page and see the summary. fourteen entries, neatly labelled. the Web. the Dark. the Spiral. the Buried. you pause.

the pinprick pain at your neck sharpens. you’re Watched. there’s nobody but you in the library, but there’s something, watching, always watching, and you can make eyes in the corners of the shelves and they’re peering down at you and they Know you’re starting to suspect something’s terribly wrong with this place and-

thud.

the book falls from your trembling hands. dust rises up, clings to the hem of your trousers. you stare at the dull, unassuming little leather cover and feel its magnetic pull. you Know there’s more to it than it lets on. you pick it up.

(somewhere, the chittering mass of the many-legged mother of puppets spins a chain of events into motion, weaving a pretty plan.)

*

these days, stepping in the institute feels like being strapped down to a vivisection table and having your brain prodded at. it’s oppressive. you become aware of just how many eyes there are in the institute. coworkers from other departments glancing disinterestedly at you. strange motives in the nooks and crannies of the wooden doors and shelves and corridors and floors, eyes half-lidded. pictures and their faded edges, you, tim, martin, jon and sasha (?) huddling close, smiling. portraits - jonah magnus, high and mighty, immortalised in his seat of power. you think his painted lips are curled up a little more than they normally are. you’ve seen that floating smile before.

you take to having your lunch outside of the institute. you find you can breathe easier through the sharp cold of london’s winter air. needle-sharp, it pierces your lungs, scrapes your throat with every mouthful of curry you swallow. you don’t mind. you have jon to huddle close to, no matter how much he rolls his eyes and tells you to take a warmer coat with you. still, he wraps his arm around you and intertwine his fingers with yours.

tim and martin make no comment - you do feel the weight of their gaze on your shoulders as you make your way back to your desk ten minutes sharp after jon comes back to his office. doesn’t matter. by now, you’re used to being watched.

you’re growing tired of it.

going home is no relief - that damned gaze is there, too. you clench your teeth and turn all the mirrors around and tuck away what little pictures you have. your breathing stutters in your throat. there’s a cork board on your wall, now, and you think of the one that lies in jon’s office, red strings stretching and stretching and it still doesn’t make sense. not yet. 

gertrude’s dead - somebody’s murdered her, three bullets, bang, the body falls, bang, bang just to make sure the old bat is dead, a waste of an Archivist. 

jon wants to know who. he tells you, fingers threading through his hair, tape recorder still running, that it could be anyone at that’s been working at the institute since five years. you’ve been hired two years ago, so you’re good, but tim? martin? sasha? elias?

(you’ve pressed your lips to jon’s and sworn to help him, forehead pressed against him in the sweetest oath.)

there are scraps of hastily jotted down notes, pictures faded at the edges. recurring people from statements - gerry keay, michael shelley, simon fairchild, prentiss, salesa. hilltop road. recurring themes, artefacts you took pain to research, asking sasha for help - she did work in artefact storage before, right?

(her smile was sharp when she nodded. too sharp. she laughed as she led you to the basement floor, something like a deadly private joke. you didn’t ask for her help again.)

you take a step back and stare at the board. the strings make no sense, red over red over red, and you have an eye staring back at you, unblinking, thread burned in your retina. 

smirke’s book lies open on your couch. your cat wisely stays away from it. you’ve named him socrates for a reason. you wish you could be blessed with the sage’s foresight.

fears bind you. there’s a classification, Entities that sometimes bleed in the corners of this world, out-of-sight-but-there. you’ll only notice when they strike. when they show themselves, when you realise there’s something terribly wrong with the stranger’s edges peering out of an alleyway, anglerfish luring its prey. poor smoker’s fate. 

a classification. fourteen primal fears straight out of the lovecraftian mythos. the stranger. the Spiral - think of michael, smile curling endlessly in all his sharp edges, laugh like an alarm bell ringing long after he’s gone. the Corruption - jane prentiss and her loving smile and worms burrowing in her flesh and in yours. 

the Eye.

you take in a sharp intake of air and read. 

IT KNOWS YOU.

*

you cannot move. you’re crushed by the sheer magnitude of the structure spreading around you in concentric circles of power. panopticon. he who stands in the centre watches and knows all. is there anyone at all in its centre?

you. you’re kneeling, skin bare and bruised and scraped, the stone harsh and unforgiving, scraping the tender skin of your knee. humidity seeps in through the open pores of your skin. 

you can’t see. it’s too dark, the penumbra stretching and stretching for miles, near corporeal with how thick it is. you think it might be reaching out for your eyes with too long fingers, chipped claws sinking below your eyelid to rip them off. 

you startle.

eyes.

so many eyes, staring at you from the darkness encasing you, with no eyelids so they do not blink. there’s the dreadful suspicion that their optic nerves join, mingle into something you do not want to see. ocular globes, little gelatinous spheres surrounding you, Watching you, Knowing you. you, on your bloody knees, heart stammering under your ribcage like a chased rabbit, your bare flesh cold, cold, cold. 

it’s cutting you open, scalpel gazes making careful, careful incisions in the marrow of your psyche. they’re carving open your head, your skull a neat, organic little box housing the grey matter of your brain. cerebrospinal fluid drips down your cheeks.

you shudder. you can feel them, Watching, Knowing, the mere thought of it a burning streak in your consciousness, they’re picking you apart, they Know what you’ve done, how you break-

you only start screaming when you look up and See.

you startle awake with a shuddering gasp, trembling so badly you can’t even make out the familiarity of your bedroom. breathe in. the darkness isn’t cloying, the street lights worming their way beneath your shutters. breathe out. you can hear the cars running, the nocturnal hustle and bustle of london’s night life. the chatter, the laughter. 

you let out a trembling sigh and run your hand over your face. you find it damp with sweat and tears. a beat of silence. you rest your forehead on your palms, hands gliding down until the heel of your palm is over your socket and you push there until you feel the bone, the gelatinous fragility of your eye. it is not the first time you have these dreams. you wish you could sleep.

you trace the edges of your temples, those you know were left gaping, those you know had been wrenched open- closed. no scar. only those on your thighs, on your forearms, on your hands from these wretched worms.

you close your fingers, nails digging in your bandaged palm and feel a pinprick of pain. the other side of the bed is cold and empty. you glance at the analog clock on your bedside table. the time blares, angry red flashing 5:32 in your retina. three hours left before going to work. 

you get up from the bed and set about changing your sweat-soaked sheets. you’re not going to fall back asleep. might as well get ready for work. you do, body set in autopilot. breakfast. shower. lather hydrating cream over the expanse of you. disinfect the many, many patches of scarred tissues left by the flesh-hive. get dressed - black tailored pants, cream crispy ironed shirt. a spritz of perfume. white flats. a quick glance in the mirror - there you are, the epitome of professional perfection, little miss trust-me-i-have-everything-under-control. 

you don’t.

you’re tired. so, so very tired. exhaustion settles like a heavy weight in your bone marrow, anchors you down until your whole world is clouded. foggy. you don’t remember the last time you’ve pushed the door to the archives without a thin veil clouding your eyes. 

you think of the Narrator, unnamed, bone-deep tired, staring emptily in the camera in a film you can’t say the name of. first rule: you do not talk about it. second rule: you do not, talk about it. everything’s a copy of a copy of a copy.

as it goes, you push the door to the archives, step inside the quiet room, shrug off your coat at your designated desk, and go about making yourself some coffee. nobody’s there to plot your bloody murder as you blankly explain that, to you, tea is nothing but bland leaf juice. not that tim or martin would bother these days.

it’s quiet. nobody’s here to see you climb the stairs to the break room on the second floor. the one used by the human resources department. lucky bastards. bastards, period. refusing to hand over the necessary funds to buy another coffee machine for the archives after the first one broke during prentiss’ infestation. and they say their mission is to foster a safe work environment. such a shame your morning murderous urges are only quelled by your second cup of the day.

you grab a mug and press the button. whirring rises in the dry silence of the room. slowly, slowly, the mug is filled up. you inhale and feel your shoulders relax by half a fraction. the heavenly scent of grounded coffee beans percolating feels the room and you find yourself smiling. it doesn’t ease the fogginess clouding your mind. it will do.

large window panes offer a wide overview of the streets below, the early morning fog clinging to humid asphalt, the rare cars passing by. you let out a slow exhale, your breath clouding the window.

your mug is ready.

“is that one for me?”

you startle.

elias bouchard stands behind you, hands clasped behind his back, picture perfect manager in a crisp suit - too stiff, too out of place in his employee’s break room. he’s wearing a phthalo green suit, the one that brings out the green-grey of his eyes. your favourite. and he’s waiting for your answer, you realise after an embarrassingly long amount of time.

there are two mugs in front of you. you blink.

“oh. oh, yes.”

you hand him the first mug and reach for your own. he thanks you with a floating smile and takes a sip. a low hum. 

“so you do have taste.”

you blink.

he’s reclining on a table, watching you. you and your impeccably ironed shirt, cradling your mug like one would something precious. you and the bags under your eyes, so dark they might be embedded in the preciously thin skin below your eyelids.

you snort. 

“just because i have a massive sweet tooth doesn’t mean i’d put sugar in coffee. i’m french, not a complete barbarian.”

you earn a quiet chuckle. something like satisfaction purrs inside of you - you made him laugh, the sound low and rich and deep.

“one might argue that you are, in the literal sense of the term, a barbarian.”

“one might argue that the etymological definition of a barbarian doesn’t apply to me, as i speak your language.”

you watch him, from over the steaming rim of your mug. something like… elation flashes in his eyes. the thrill of debate, maybe.

“do you, now?”

you tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing by a fraction as you assess him. the perfect curl of his lips in that damning razor sharp half-smile. the relaxed slope of his shoulders. the soft stillness of his long, gloved fingers on the table. the glint in his green-grey eyes, daring you to take the bait.

you do, crossing your legs at the ankles, leaning back against the window.

“at first glance, yes.” you point an accusatory finger towards him. “but you, monsieur bouchard, don’t like sticking to first glances and faux-semblants, you’re sharper than that.”

a low hum. there’s something sharp in his smile. his gaze feels like it’s cutting you open. you hold your ground, unblinking, watching him and his annoyingly handsome face. 

“you’re wearing a mask, dear.”

“aren’t we all?”

he shakes his head.

“it’s convenient, isn’t it? not to have to bear the weight of your mother tongue.”

your shoulders tense. there’s that pinprick pressure at the back of your neck, standing poised and sharp against your vertebrae. he’s watching you, needle-gaze pinning you like a butterfly to a wall. 

“it’s a pain. english and french bleed into one another too much and it messes up my syntax.”

“you’re deflecting.”

“wasn’t your question rhetorical?”

silence. it feels like a loss. one beat, two beat, unsteady, hammering wildly like your heart, beneath layers of flesh and fabric, all perfectly controlled thank you very much.

he’s before you before you know it, close, close enough for you to smell his cologne - something sharp and cold with a faint hint of ink. you raise your eyes and meet his gaze. you think there’s a faint glow to it, irises flashing green for the briefest moments. 

“you’re hard to pin down, my dear.”

you can feel the heat of him, creeping closer and closer as he leans down ever so slightly, one gloved finger curling under your chin, tilting your head up, up, up until the angle makes you wince.

“coming from you, i’ll take that as a compliment.”

a low hum. the building pressure at your nape has you clenching your teeth. then, finally, he lets go, apparently satisfied with whatever it is he’s found in you.

“thank you for the coffee. it has been most… insightful.”

with that, he leaves, and you stand alone in the break room, coffee mug now cold. even without the unbearable weight of his gaze on you, you feel watched. the only thing remaining in the room with you is the portrait of jonah magnus, peering down at you with storm-grey eyes. somehow, it feels familiar.

you want to scream. you gulp down your coffee and leave an empty mug behind.

[hellsite-hungergames]

Wave Two Round Two

Barney vs. Tamatoa

Sans vs. Link

Jason Todd vs. Temmie

Zuko vs. Diego

Perry the Platypus vs. Zagreus

BLOODBATH: Cecil Palmer vs. Rivulet vs. Tom vs. Chucky

Starlight Glimmer vs. the Light Yagami x Crowley alliance

Donna Noble vs. Snoopy

Ferris Bueller vs. Scrooge McDuck

Sasha Waybright vs. Kool-Aid Man

Laszlo Cravensworth vs. Alucard

Izzy Hands vs. Jonathan Sims

Goose vs. Big Naturals Gandalf

Percy Jackson vs. y/n

Joltik vs. Rui Kamishiro

Death Sponsors

Sponsors

POLL MASTERPOST

Wave One Round One

hellsite-hungergames vs. hellsite-hall-of-fame

Vace vs. Herobrine

Regulus Black vs. Edward Cullen

Merlin vs. Florida Man

Gary the Gadget Guy vs. Sunny

Benoit Blanc vs. Ridley

Animal vs. Miku Binder Thomas Jefferson

Clint vs. Data

Skunk Ape vs. Daniel the Manager

Waluigi vs. Timmy Turner

Meta Knight vs. Castiel

Death vs. Prince Caspian

Katsuya Suou vs. King Arthur

Squidward's Hopes and Dreams vs. Spiders Georg

Anya Forger vs. Katniss Everdeen

Hannibal Lecter vs. Campbell Bain

Jasper vs. Star Butterfly

Tarlton vs. Wallace

Mikhailo "Mickey" Aleksandr Milkovich vs. Dimitri Blaiddyd

Duck vs. Everyone From Cats the Musical

Jay Walker vs. Miles Vorkosigan

BLOODBATH: Illyria vs. Evan "Buck" Buckley vs. Haymitch Abernathy vs. Richard Gansey III

Ronald McDonald vs. Amelia Bedelia

Matt vs. Oswald Cobblepot

Edward Nygma vs. Tumblr Anon Icon

Gillion Tidestrider vs. Jedediah

Reigen Arataka vs. Willow Rosenberg

Alex Fierro vs. Puss in Boots

Jessie Prescott vs. George Costanza

Leon Scott Kennedy vs. Han Solo

God vs. Jesus

Sponsors

[alittle-bit-of-everything]

This is so fucking amazing!!!!! I need more Jonathan x reader, I need it like I need air omg. BEAUTIFUL WRITING!!! Thank you 💜💜💜

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.”

[hellsite-hungergames]

WAVE TWO ROUND TWO POLL LINKS

Links under cut

Barney vs. Tamatoa

Sans vs. Link

Jason Todd vs. Temmie

Zuko vs. Diego

Perry the Platypus vs. Zagreus

BLOODBATH: Cecil Palmer vs. Rivulet vs. Tom vs. Chucky

Starlight Glimmer vs. the Light Yagami x Crowley alliance

Donna Noble vs. Snoopy

Ferris Bueller vs. Scrooge McDuck

Sasha Waybright vs. Kool-Aid Man

Laszlo Cravensworth vs. Alucard

Izzy Hands vs. Jonathan Sims

Goose vs. Big Naturals Gandalf

Percy Jackson vs. y/n

Joltik vs. Rui Kamishiro

Death Sponsors

Sponsors

WAVE TWO OF TRIBUTES

All tributes were chosen randomly, as were the pairs.

Tribute List under cut

Barney (Barney & Friends) vs. The Little Prince (The Little Prince)

Dean Winchester (Supernatural) vs. Tamatoa (Moana)

Sans (Undertale) vs. Hunter (The Owl House)

Peter Pan (Once Upon a Time) vs. Link (Zelda)

Jason Todd (DC Comics) vs. Arthur Lester (Malevolent Podcast)

Temmie (Undertale) vs. Jay Gatsby (The Great Gatsby)

Donatello (Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles) vs. Zuko (Avatar: The Last Airbender)

Bob (The Minions) vs. Diego (Ice Age)

Laa-Laa (Teletubbies) vs. Perry the Platypus (Phineas and Ferb)

Zagreus (Hades) vs. John Watson (Sherlock)

Cecil Palmer (Welcome to Nightvale) vs. Miriel Therinde (The Lord of the Rings)

Revy (Black Lagoon) vs. Rivulet (Rain World: Downpour)

Tom (Tom & Jerry) vs. Chell (Portal)

Aramis (The Musketeers) vs. Chucky (Child's Play)

Starlight Glimmer (My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic) vs. Lucifer (Christianity fandom)

Baby Shark (Baby Shark Song) vs. Party Phil (Wii Party)

Donna Noble (Doctor Who) vs. Jon Arbuckle (Garfield)

Denji (Chainsaw Man) vs. Snoopy (Peanuts)

Ragnar "Vanheden" Vanheden (Jönssonligan) vs. Ferris Bueller (Ferris Bueller's Day Off)

Scrooge McDuck (Duck Tales) vs. Reko Yabusame (Your Turn to Die)

Surge the Tenrec (Sonic the Hedgehog) vs. Sasha Waybright (Amphibia)

Kool-Aid Man (Kool-Aid) vs. Princess Tutu (Princess Tutu)

Laszlo Cravensworth (What We Do in the Shadows) vs. Anvilcat (Lovejoy)

Sun of May (Argentina/Uruguay) vs. Alucard (Castlevania)

William Afton (Five Nights at Freddy's) vs. Sun (Five Nights at Freddy's)

Jonathan Sims (The Magnus Archives) vs. Izzy Hands (Our Flag Means Death)

The Conductor (Dinosaur Train) vs. Goose (Untitled Goose Game)

Big Naturals Gandalf (LOTR/Internet) vs. Crowley (Good Omens)

Percy Jackson (Percy Jackson and the Olympians) vs. Nausicaä (Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind)

y/n (Fanfiction) vs. Tim Bradford (The Rookie)

Joltik (Pokemon) vs. Light Yagami (Death Note)

Custard Senior (Cookie Run) vs. Rui Kamishiro (Project Sekai)