The Archivist always protests when Peter comes to antagonize him, even after all this time. Whether that has to do with the action itself or the fact that Peter prefers to never let his presence be known until the moment he grabs a pinch of that little green sweater, he does not know. It does not matter, because the protest makes it all the more fun. It was before, when he could shove him against the wall or down over a desk. Now that he fits in the palm of Peter’s hand, though… well. Something about it is just even more entertaining.
“Good morning, Jon! How are we feeling today?”
The Archivist lets out a tiny yelp as he lifts off the desk, flailing. Peter decides to let him hang for a moment, dangling him up in front of his face. The Archivist’s face is a mask of fury and he squeaks out something inaudible as he pathetically tries to kick at Peter’s nose, his whole body swinging with the force of it.
Peter laughs brightly, lifting his other hand to set Jon on the palm. Immediately the little man scrambles for his thumb, presumably with intent to bite but Peter is prepared, catching his hair between two fingers.
The look on The Archivist’s face as he cries out in pain is lovely, his head snapping back. Gently Peter presses at his chest with one finger, pushing him flat on his back. He struggles weakly, shoving at the finger with both hands to no avail. He’s roughly the size of Peter’s large hand like this. Or the size of a little wingless bird, all little bony pointy angles. Deliciously fragile.
“Now, now. Do we have to do this every time? Have I ever hurt you?”
The scowl The Archivist gives him looks more like a pout as he glares and then nods, sharply.
“Oh well, not badly enough that you didn’t recover I’m sure. You’re fine, stop fussing.”
The tiny mouth twists into a snarl and The Archivist kicks at Peter’s hand. Peter clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “You’re only going to make this more difficult on yourself. Now,” he drags his fingertip down and presses it firmly between The Archivist’s legs. “Hush.”
The little man yelps and twists, still pushing at the end of the finger. His face is pinker now and his chest heaves as Peter rubs slightly. A bit of a nudge forward has him throwing his head back dramatically, back arching as his heels dig into Peter’s palm. His tiny fingernails prick at Peter’s skin.
“I’ve brought some new things to try today.” Peter muses as he gets his fingernail under the button of The Archivist’s pants and pops it off. Horror flashes on The Archivist’s face for a moment and he shakes his head, trying once more to scramble away. Peter closes his fist around him, then, leaving his bottom half free so he can flick off the little shoes and start tugging at the pants. There’s muffled protest, small hands pushing fruitlessly at his fingers and more kicks that do little to keep Peter from undressing him, exposing his mound and sharp little hips.
When he presses his finger between those skinny thighs again, The Archivist’s whole body shudders. His wiggling certainly only serves to rub his tiny clit more, and Peter smiles to himself as another angry sound pitches into a whine. “That’s right, that’s a good boy.” Peter says flatly. “I think we should get you a bit more wet than this, though, don’t you think?”
He adjusts his hold on The Archivist, trapping him with a looped thumb and forefinger under his arms as he brings him up close to his face again. When The Archivist realizes what is about to happen he tries to clamp his skinny thighs together, but all it takes is for Peter to pinch one ankle and tug for them to spread far enough that he can press his tongue between them.
The little body shudders against him as The Archivist lets out a furious little scream, hands scrabbling against Peter’s fingers and then at his nose. He ignores the struggle, pressing the point of his tongue in between the tiny folds like one might press into the hollow of their back tooth. Then he closes his mouth as best he can without shoving The Archivist’s thighs too far apart— he doesn’t want to break him too badly— and sucks, lightly enough. The Archivist howls.
When he goes limp and twitchy, even starts grinding against Peter’s tongue in helpless, aborted little squirms, Peter pulls him away. He brings his hand down close to the desk so he can open his fist and roll the dazed Archivist back onto the wood.
Too shaken up now to try and crawl away, The Archivist clumsily pushes himself up on his elbows and rubs at his face. His shirt is rumpled, hiked up to expose his pinprick belly button and his legs are sprawled akimbo, little pink pussy on full display, thighs and pelvis all soaked with spit up to his hips.
Peter takes this moment of confusion to sit in the chair and pull it up to the desk, casting a shadow over The Archivist as he settles. Blearily The Archivist squints up with him, hatred clear in his eyes even as he trembles.
“Now, where should we start?” Peter gives a bland smile, reaching out. The Archivist flinches but all Peter does is lay one finger on his stomach, pressing on the hollow between his ribs. The finger is roughly the width of his thigh at the knuckle, and The Archivist’s eyebrows furrow as he looks down at it, obviously not sure what the purpose of this act is.
Peter hums, considering. Then he moves his hand, replacing his forefinger with his pinky. This one, he thinks, they could definitely work up to.
“That seems manageable, don’t you think?”
The Archivist’s head jerks up, eyes wide with realization and he shakes his head, more furiously than before, and tries to scramble away again.
Peter traps him with a flat palm. “Come now, we’ll start with something easier. Let’s see…”
He pats his pockets with his free hand, searching mostly for show. Out of his coat he pulls a pair of glasses— Elias’s, stupid things with no lenses and thick smooth plastic temples. With a flick of his wrist he unfolds them and inspects one end, pretending not to see The Archivist’s aghast stare.
“This won’t be a problem for you now, will it?” He waves around the rounded end of the plastic. No bigger around than The Archivist’s skinny little wrist. Sure, one would usually start with something smaller but Peter would really like to move this along to the main event.
There are shiny tears on The Archivist’s cheeks now but he’s lying still under Peter’s hand, shaking almost imperceptibly like a little dog.
“Let’s see here,” Peter muses, easily tugging The Archivist’s legs apart again and pinning them, pressing his thumb against the tiny mound between them. Gently he drags his finger to the side, spreading the tiny folds. There’s glistening wet between them and Peter smiles to himself. “Yes, this will do just fine.”
The Archivist is fully crying, silent shudders, but he is still as Peter presses the blunt end of the glasses arm against him. There’s resistance, but it takes but one firm push for the little cunt to swallow the hard plastic end. The Archivist makes a sound like he’s been punched and then whimpers loudly, moving his hips like he’s trying to get away from the sensation, stomach muscles flexing as he clenches around the intrusion.
“Lovely," Peter says, wiggling it in a bit further. The Archivist chokes and reaches down, waving his hand furiously as Peter feels the thing hit resistance again. He pulls it back slightly, imagining how hard a push it would take to get through this second barrier.
“I could just slide it all the way up through you, hmm? Make a little Watcher kebob, set you somewhere all stuck. I wonder if you’d heal from that”
The Archivist lets out a soft sob. He knows Peter won’t do that. Knows he isn’t one for gore. Too bad, Peter thinks, that he knows. He’d much rather have him believe he might really follow through. More fun that way.
Slowly he starts to fuck the glasses in and out, careful not to go too far. The Archivist’s whimpers continue, a steady song, but his body relaxes by and by. Soon enough Peter can take the arm out completely and press it back in with no resistance, a slick slide. Which is no good at all— now the little man seems like he can practically ignore it, eyes closed, lip caught between his teeth.
“Alright, that’s enough of that.”
When he takes it away The Archivist looks almost disappointed as he squints open his eyes. They widen again, in that lovely terrified little rabbit way where the whites of them show, when Peter presses his pinky finger against the slick warm center.
“It will feel good in a minute and you know it, don’t be ridiculous.” Peter chastises as The Archivist begins to hyperventilate, chest rising and falling rapidly under his thin jumper. It reminds Peter of the way a bird’s tiny heart beats. He’s shaking his head again, slow, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, hands clenched into tiny fists at his sides.
Peter is surprised that he doesn’t try to escape until after Peter starts pushing. By that point it’s much too late and the attempt to twist and scramble away doesn’t help his cause at all. Peter catches him by the shoulders this time, and uses the leverage to his advantage, twisting his finger up as he pushes down. The tip of it goes in, then, not in a very satisfying way, just wedged there at the tight little entrance. The Archivist’s eyes are screwed shut and his mouth is hanging open, fingers scrabbling at the wood of the desk.
Peter hums, withdraws his finger and then pops it in his mouth. The Archivist whines and tries to curl in on himself but Peter pins him once again, shoving his fingers back between the skinny thighs without even bothering to try to flip him on his back.
When he starts to push again The Archivist rolls back over himself, resigned to making this as easy as possible now as he spreads his legs all on his own, visibly trying to relax.
And that is what does it, with a twist Peter pushes in up to his first knuckle and The Archivist just slumps, shoulders falling back against the desk as he lets out a little mewl of pain. “Oh very good, look at you. I told you you could do it.” Peter praises, patronizing. “Now, doesn’t that feel better?”
The Archivist limply shakes his head from side to side just once.
“Well it looks pretty good to me,” Peter says with a wry smile, and then crooks his pinky slightly, lifting The Archivist’s hips off the desk. There’s a broken, almost feral cry and The Archivist’s knees bend as he tries to get his feet underneath him, to get support from something other than the one point of contact he’s now hanging from. Peter lifts him just a bit higher, so he can barely touch his toes to the ground.
“A little puppet. Just like you were always meant to be. I think Elias would be pleased, don’t you?”
The Archivist just moans.
He takes it like this for a long while, Peter fucking into him until he’s mewling in something almost more like pleasure. It’s fascinating to watch him lose more and more of his fight as he realizes there’s no way he’s getting this intrusion out of him, no way to know how long he has to withstand this, no idea if he’ll ever get to stop.
Oh, he knows Peter will tire of him quickly, but that doesn’t mean anything about how Peter will leave him.
Peter is good at that. Leaving people stuck. And he has just the plan for how he’s going to do it today. But first he is going to admire how much he can make The Archivist’s flat plane of a stomach bulge obscenely by pushing up against it; the way it makes the little man squeal and his back bend.
It’s fascinating, the feeling of it. Just like you’d expect a cunt to feel: hot and wet but it’s so tight around his finger, feels tighter than anything has ever been around his cock. Briefly he wonders how it would feel if he did manage to get his cock inside. Impossible; it’s almost as big around as The Archivist’s shoulders. But maybe whatever cursed item got him to this impossible size could… well. That is a puzzle for another day.
He pushes up under The Archivist’s jumper when he gets a bit bored, hiking it under his armpits, revealing his mosquito bite tits. Cruelly he catches one between two fingernails, feeling rather delighted at the way The Archivist twists violently and squeals. When Peter moves on to the other one he even thinks the little man comes, his little body stiffening and jerking, whimpers becoming weak chirps for a long few moments.
He gets more fun after that, for a while, more squirmy and sensitive, kicking whenever Peter presses a knuckle down on his cunt, grinding on his tiny clit.
After the second little jerking orgasm though, he gets boring again, ragdolling, eyes glassy like he’s managed to disappear into his mind somewhere.
No fun, that. Peter finally takes him by the hips then, pulls his finger out too fast, and it jerks The Archivist back to reality.
Peter only gets a glimpse of the way the little hole gapes open in his absence before The Archivist pulls his thighs shut, trying to curl up again.
Peter lets him, taking his hand away. There is no attempt to escape now; The Archivist just rolls into a fetal position on the desk, his hands fisted in his sweater sleeves and pressed to his eyes.
There’s just one thing left now; really the whole reason Peter has come on this little visit. He’d been inspired by an object earlier that day, curious to see if he could use it the way he wanted to. Now, judging from The Archivist’s performance up to this point, he thinks he will have very little trouble.
He nudges The Archivist first, pushing him to roll over. The Archivist sits up with a wince, not looking up to meet Peter’s eye as he pulls his knees up to his chest. That is, until Peter sets the ebony chess piece on the table next to him with an audible clack. Slowly The Archivist looks it up and down. Then he dives for the edge of the desk.
Peter catches him and brings him back, setting him roughly on his feet. His knees buckle under him but Peter has a grip under his arms. “It will be better if you don’t fuss. You were doing so well before. Let’s keep that up, hmm?”
The Archivist doesn’t take his advice, kicking as Peter lifts him and spreads his legs one last time. The pawn was in his pocket; but that doesn’t mean it’s warm, and when the cold surface touches The Archivist’s cunt he jerks and squirms, leaving smears of slick on the smooth surface.
When Peter pushes him firmly down, The Archivist howls like a kicked cat. The round end of the pawn disappears inside him with a little pop. Peter tips him backwards to peer at his handiwork and he goes limp, shaking violently with sobs. The stretch of his pussy around the dark marble is obscene, and Peter smiles to himself, satisfied with his handiwork. “I bet that’s heavy,” he comments to no one in particular, and pulls The Archivist upright again. The little man lets out a sob so forceful that he starts coughing as Peter sits the chess piece on its base. It’s so large that The Archivist couldn’t squeeze his thighs together if he tried, and his bare toes slide against the curved bottom of it when he hopelessly attempts to get his footing to keep himself from being further impaled.
“Well, I think that will keep you busy for a while, hmm?” Peter says, wiping his fingers on the sleeve of his shirt. The Archivist’s head snaps up and he looks at Peter with pleading, terrified eyes, shaking his head weakly once again. His hands press against his lower stomach and flutter down to where the pawn splits him. He begs wordlessly, starting to shake violently with fear.
Peter smiles at him and pushes back in his chair. “I’ll try and remember to send Martin in to check on you.”