Recently, Jon has begun to hope that he’ll die stopping the Unknowing. It would be better than whatever sick pride he’d have to endure from Elias. An unceasing nothingness sounds divine compared to the looks he’s sure he gets from the rest of the staff.
They have to know. By now, they all have to know. Gossip travels fast and Elias hasn’t been especially subtle about bringing Jon home at the end of the day. From the part-time library staff all the way down to the Archives, he feels eyes on him and they must know what’s been done to him, they just don’t care. Tim and Basira and Melanie and Martin, sweet fumbling Martin, which is the worst of all.
Even Martin doesn’t care that twice, twice their bastard boss has...well.
(It’s just a little easier when he doesn’t put the word to it. Assaulted, he thinks instead, or attacked.)
Because obviously, how could any of them not know? Sure, they don’t spend that much time together these days, but how could they not notice the violent flinch he can’t contain when someone’s hand moves toward him, or the way he’s taken to locking his office door (as if that will help him) or the bone-deep despair that should be thick enough to taste in the air around him?
(He’s afraid to go back to his flat, now. He’s afraid that one of them will show up and ruin the last shred of sanctuary he has. He can never go there again, if he wants it to stay sacred, but knowing it exists helps a little.)
“Jon,” someone says, loud and close, and he flinches.
Martin’s concerned face is much too close, and his hand is closer, reaching for Jon’s shoulder, and he feels like he can’t breathe.
“What,” he manages to snap. Anger is so much better than his usual cocktail of helpless-hopeless-misery-terror.
“I’m sorry,” Martin says, as a reflex and, mercy of all mercies, withdraws from his space. “I just--I found three more people who say they’ve heard calliope music in the last fortnight.”
Martin waves a few papers, an inelegant olive branch.
“I could, er, add them to the--”
“You already know what to do with them,” Jon says. He can’t stand to be the focus of those eyes. If he could meet them he’s sure they would be full of patronizing pity. Martin has been the hardest to accept, this past week or so. Why doesn’t he care?
“I...Right. Yeah.” Martin sounds...hurt, maybe? It would be hard to tell even if Jon could look him in the face. “Okay.”
Martin doesn’t move to leave.
“What?” Jon says, more forcefully. Just leave already, just fucking leave me alone and take your idle pity somewhere else.
“N-Nothing,” Martin squeaks, and flees.
At ten o’clock, well after both Archives and Archivist are abandoned for the night, his tape recorder clicks on. There’s a faint squeal to the soft static that sends a chill up his spine. Or maybe the room is actually colder, because a rough hand lands on his shoulder.
“You were very unkind to that poor young man.”
“Leave me alone,” Jon says, much bolder than he feels, and tries to shrug off Peter’s grasp. “Don’t touch me.”
He stands. He’s not taking this lying down in his own office, in his own Archives. This place is his.
“Get Out.” There’s power behind it that shocks him. Something electric on his tongue. Compulsion but heavier, blunted, a push rather than a pull.
Peter actually takes a step back, looking faintly stunned. Jon sways a little, breathless, and takes a shaky step around his desk, towards the door.
Peter hits him in the stomach, hard.
It actually doesn’t hurt much, compared to corkscrews and hot wax, but it knocks every bit of breath from him and leaves him weak and staggering. By the time he can breathe again, he’s already on his back on the ugly old rug by his desk with Peter between his legs.
“Elias was right, I suppose,” Peter says.
“Get off me,” Jon snarls, shoving at him, but whatever that new power was is gone now. Anger and resolve are quickly drowning in rising panic.
“I’m impressed.” Peter slaps his hands away and keeps undoing his belt. “I must admit, you almost had me.”
“Stop it!” Jon’s scrabbling heels find no purchase on the edge of the rug, give him nothing but the odd squeal of rubber on tile as it rucks up. Peter works his belt out of the loops and starts pulling his trousers off.
He seizes two handfuls of Peter’s hair and pulls as hard as he can.
And Peter moans, eyes rolling and fluttering shut, leaning into Jon’s hands.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, his face a portrait of pure, honest pleasure. “Fuck, Archivist, do that again.”
Jon’s stomach lurches and he recoils, horrified. Of course, of fucking course. Every strategy at his disposal only makes it worse.
“Tease,” Peter pouts. Jon slaps him. It barely even makes a noise. Jon wriggles as Peter yanks his trousers down to his knees. He’s tangled in his own clothes before he realizes what he’s done and Peter’s pulled his underwear down, too, and he wants to kick himself for effectively helping Peter hobble him.
“Pretty down here,” Peter says absently. This time, Jon watches as he lowers his mouth to him.
It was disgusting and uncomfortable when Elias did this but Peter is worse. Peter is good at this.
“Stop, stop stop stop that’s—I can’t--” He can’t get out a coherent thought, can’t do much of anything but babble and beg and writhe and shake as his body winds tighter. Soon he’s so close he can feel it burning in the soles of his fucking feet. He tries to think about spiders, about the sting of beard burn on the inside of his thighs, about worms and the Unknowing and the smell of his own burning skin. Anything to try to dampen this sick ecstasy. Tries hard not to think of Elias, no doubt watching from his office.
A broad, slick thumb pushes into his ass; he gasps a breathless oh and he’s cumming without warning, trying to breathe as his body locks tight. Everything seems to tilt and curl as it shakes through him, he stares down at Peter’s curls and tries not to grind down onto his mouth, tries not to shriek at this new, unconscionable violation.
It seems to take ages for the shocks to die down, for his muscles to unwind, and when it does he’s shaking in every limb. This can’t be happening.
“That was a big one,” Peter says, rests his head on Jon’s thigh and looks up at him like nothing’s wrong with this. “You like it in your ass, don’t you?”
“No,” Jon snaps. Tries to snap. It comes out like a whisper, like a whine. Like a plea.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never tried.” Peter’s cold eyes bore into his, and the smirk on his slick-smeared face says he knows full well that’s the case.
“Fuck off,” Jon says, tries to push him away. His arms are even weaker than usual, and shaking so badly he barely manages to hit his mark at all. Peter goes easily, tumbles back onto his ass with a breathy sort of chuckle.
“I’d quite like to explore that further,” he says, with the same tone he might use when suggesting he might like to try Thai food. “Come here, love.”
“Don’t call me that,” Jon says. “Leave.”
“You have two options, Archivist. Either you come here and let me play with you--” he pats his lap condescendingly, “--and get you nice and slick and loose, or I take you now and most certainly hurt you very badly. Would hate to send you to A&E over this.”
Jon glares but slowly manages to force himself to crawl into Peter’s lap.
“Excellent.” He stays stiff and lets Peter arrange him, bent over as though he’s about to be spanked, and doesn’t his stomach just roil at the thought of that?
“Since you’ve been such a good sport, I’ll be using a lot of this.”
Peter sets down a large tube of lubricant on the floor in front of Jon’s face.
“Aren’t I considerate? You ought to thank me.”
Jon grinds his teeth and squirms.
“Thank you, Peter,” he hisses. Fuck you, Peter, he thinks.
Objectively it should feel awful, and mostly it does. There’s pain, certainly, a rough ache of gently pulled muscle, though there’s enough slick to avoid the burn of dry friction. And there’s the misery of being violated so intensely, rough fingers rubbing along his insides, stretching as far as they can. Forcing him to take more than he thought he could.
But physically? Physically, it feels.
There’s no way around it; it feels good. After only one of Peter’s fingers he has to bite his knuckles against the noises that escape him. Two has him tasting blood and pushing both his palms against his lips to muffle himself.
“This is a new side of you, isn’t it?” Peter says, conversationally, as though Jon’s not mewling a steady chant of oh god oh god into his hands, as though his hard cock isn’t digging into Jon’s side. He shakes his head frantically. This is so much worse than pain. This is worse than anything.
“No? I suppose I’ll let you go, then.”
There isn’t even time for relief. Peter spreads his fingers a bit and starts to pull them out, turning them, stretching him, and Jon wails before he can stop himself. There’s no conflict, he wants this to stop, but Peter seems to take his incidental pleasure for enthusiasm. Or pretends to.
“Should have known you’d like this. A lot of guys like you prefer it.” Peter rubs the rough pads of his fingers along slick, sensitive places that make Jon’s knees shake, sinks deep until the webs of his fingers strain against Jon’s rim. “Less dissonant, or, what’s the word? Dysphoric.”
Peter starts to finger him properly with deep, quick strokes that make filthy noises. Jon can barely breathe.
“Elias could have saved himself a lot of trouble if he’d thought this through.”
Elias thought things through as much as he needed to, Jon thinks, He thought through how he wanted to use me to get off.
“I hate this,” Jon says, petulantly, miserably, honestly.
“Do you now?”
“I hate you,” he says, eyes burning with unshed tears. “Get out.”
“If you’re going to be a brat, I’ll just move on.” Peter sounds amused rather than angry. Jon tries to elbow him in the ribs before he’s rudely shoved off and sent sprawling on the dirty rug. He makes a last, desperate break for it. Scrambles forward on hands and knees.
Peter settles behind him with two hands on his waist.
“No,” Jon gasps.
“You know I won’t let you get away now. You’re not stupid, love.”
But he is, isn’t he? Stupid enough to let Elias get him alone twice. Stupid enough to make his own staff hate him so much they probably wouldn’t give a shit if they saw this.
“Please, no, you can’t--”
Peter spreads him open and starts to slide in with shamefully little resistance. He wails.
It feels very different from fingers.
In a way it feels the same as when Elias did this to him. Rougher hands, aching knees, staring down at his hands braced on the floor and trying not to scream or cry, those are different. But it’s the same horrible feeling of stretching, intrusion, even if something about the nerves here sets a constant burn of shameful pleasure into his belly, even (or especially) if Peter started to rub his cock in rhythm with his hips. It hurts the same way.
“Stop,” he gasps, struggles to stay upright with every rough thrust. “Stop, it—it hurts, please!”
“Does it,” Peter says vaguely, sucking bites into Jon’s neck. His whole body is tingling, throbbing, and he hates more than anything that the pain won’t crush the pleasure. Even Peter’s brutal pace doesn’t hurt enough to stop the slow crest building in him.
“I—I’ll give you anything,” Jon stammers. He can’t do this, he can’t finish like this, he’ll die. “You—you don’t—you don’t have to do this, I’ll get you off however you want.”
Peter doesn’t even respond. He tries to go away like he did with Elias but something keeps him in his body. Every time he tries to drift, to put fog between himself and what’s happening he’s shoved back in, feels even more intensely than before.
Beholding, he realizes. Of course the Eye won’t let him miss a moment of this.
“Please,” Jon whimpers, his thighs are shaking and coated in slick and he’s so close and he hates it. “Please, don’t make me--”
Peter groans raggedly into his shoulder and licks up under his jaw. Grinds his knuckles into Jon’s cock.
“Stop, please, I’m cumming--”
God help him, he is. Shuddering, suddenly too weak to hold himself up as he shakes and whines and feels himself gush, making a mess of his thighs and the ugly old rug as it roars through him.
“Again, already,” Peter says. “Greedy slut, aren’t you?”
Jon wants to tell him to shut up but that would involve being able to breathe through the increasing pain of overstimulation. Peter’s fingers are still insistent on his cock.
“Too...much,” he manages to pant, face pressed up against the horrible carpet. “No more, too much.”
Vaguely, he Knows that Peter isn’t even thinking about him. He’s thinking about how angry Elias is, right now.
He’s Watching. Jon curls up as much as he can with Peter still holding his hips. Shame and horror twist into each other and tie him in knots because Elias is watching, has seen everything and done nothing.
Peter shudders and wraps his arms around Jon’s waist and cums with very vulnerable, very human noises breaking in the back of his throat. Whines faintly with his forehead pressed to the back of Jon’s neck.
“Fuck,” Peter gasps, rutting into him, “Fuck, you feel so good.”
There is something desperate and broken inside Peter Lukas in this moment. Jon never wants to see it again. It’s too raw, too real, uncomfortably dissonant from the monster that has twice forced himself on Jon.
The office door opens and Jon claws at Peter’s cold hands, scrambles to get away before someone sees--
Elias does not look or sound pleased. He also looks ever so slightly rumpled. A lock of hair out of place and a missing jacket might as well be a plastic head for how alien they look on him. As does the stormy expression on his face.
“Elias,” Peter says, still ever so slightly breathless, and pulls out fast enough to hurt. Jon yelps. “I was in the area. Thought I’d drop in.”
“That’s quite enough,” Elias says icily. “Now get out.”
There’s a shriek like tinnitus and the room warms a few degrees and Peter is gone. Jon tries to right his clothes with shaking hands. Elias’ eyes are still thunderclouds and Jon is afraid. They turn on him, finally looking directly at him, and he’s terrified.
“I-I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I-I tried to stop him.”
Elias’ face thaws just a little.
“Please, forgive me.” He doesn’t know what he’s afraid of exactly, but Elias is angry and he has no idea what kind of punishment he might feel like doling out.
He crouches on the ugly rug and extends a hand, palm up. Coaxing, like courting a stray dog.
“Come here, Jon.”
He has no choice. He’s more afraid of what will happen if he refuses than being touched—oh god, what if Elias wants a turn? He can’t bear it, he thinks he’ll break if Elias makes him do this again.
He’s taken too long; Elias grabs him roughly by the arm and pulls him closer.
“I told him not to touch you again.”
“I’m sorry,” Jon says. It’s all he can think to say that may not get him hurt.
He blinks, the world lurches, and he’s in Elias’ arms. Face pressed against a warm shoulder. Tears well in his eyes and he hates himself but it’s such a relief to be touched by a warm hand. Being with Peter feels like everything is cold and rough and every comfort is worlds away. He breathes in the nightmare-sanctuary smell of Elias and tries not to let the whiplash make him dizzy.
“Oh, Jon,” he purrs, stroking Jon’s hair. Jon can do nothing but accept it and cry as Elias begins to rock him slowly. He hates that it’s the most comforting thing that’s happened to him in months. Hates that his hands cling to the sides of Elias’ vest.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t want to,” he sobs, stupidly, like what he wants has ever made a difference.
“I forgive you,” Elias murmurs sweetly, presses kisses into each fresh bruise and scratch. He rocks for a little while and then says, softly, with a curl of a smirk Jon can feel against his skin:
“I also forgive you for both of your orgasms.”
“I--I tried,” he sobs through hot shame and humiliation. “I didn’t want to—he made me—I tried.”
“I know you did, Jon. I’m not angry with you.”
“I forgive you.” Elias says again, presses a kiss to his temple and stays there. “My Archivist.”