The route to Jared is different from the first time Jon travelled Helen’s corridors. It’s subtle, but the angles of the walls, the shade of the carpet, the patterns of the wallpaper, are all just a bit to the left of his first visit. He keeps his eyes off the corners and reflections and stays on course.
He keeps one hand pressed to his side, where his rib isn’t. It doesn’t hurt , not exactly; the pain of it lies in the foreign pressure of a thin space where support is lacking, in the severance of bone clean and without wounding. It leaves the surrounding muscles achingly sore, a tender hollow in his ribcage. A missing tooth. A missed step in the dark that he feels with each breath.
Gore from the Flesh attack still splatters the walls, leaving a wide trail that ends around a semicircle of clean tiles surrounding a front door set into a brick facade. A mop, still wet with blood that is somehow fresh, leans against the wall beside a mailslot and a plaque that simply reads ‘J’.
Jon rings Jared’s doorbell politely this time.
When the Boneturner answers, he has a book in one hand and a pair of neat half moon glasses on. They’ve clearly been manually bent to fit around his massive head. He has to bend dramatically to see out the normal sized door. Jon has to crane his neck back to look up at him.
“Back already?” Jared asks, “That eager for more?”
“Yes, well. The rib worked, so I feel that I can trust you to fulfill the rest of the bargain. Assuming you want your freedom sooner rather than later,” Jon says.
Jared only nods and leaves the door open as he heads back inside, joints gristling and popping as he moves. Jon crosses the threshold. Closes the door, for all that the illusion of privacy does not matter here. Inside, the air is cold and humid, unlike the slight dry chill of the halls. Meat locker conditions. The book Jared set on the table is an advanced textbook on human anatomy, the pages well thumbed and dog-eared.
Jared grabs his— Helen’s— couch and sets it against the far wall like it weighs nothing more than a pound or two to him, then slides the table away, too. The teacup on its matching saucer rattles, but doesn’t tip. The liquid inside is very red. Jon swallows hard, watching his calm work. Clearing the space. His heart pounds in his thin chest. Throbs in the gap of his ribs. He shivers.
“Come ‘ere,” Jared says, jolting Jon back into focus.
The Boneturner stands tall, fills the clean space of the little sitting parlor with paradoxical ease. His form is a mass of unmatched flesh, body parts arranged in whatever configurations he finds comfortable. He removes his glasses. Folds them neatly. Sets them on the table with his tea service.
“Well? Not chickenin’ out, are you?” he sneers.
Jon forces himself to relax, to release his ribcage, and steps forward. Then, Jared’s hands are on him.
They are unmatched pairs in all sizes and colors and shapes, and the constant movement and shifts leaves them beyond count. Jon is overwhelmed by it immediately. The sensation of so much touch, the warmth that crawls into his skin. The rush of it.
He’s laid back on two huge arms that hold him easily, several slightly smaller hands pushing his clothing out of the way. His sweater and cardigan are rucked up under his arms, his shoes slipped off, pants tugged down. Further. Off. Exposing him. He lets out a breath but bites his tongue. Watches Jared so he doesn’t have to see himself.
Then a sure hand begins to peel back the sleeve of his prosthetic.
“Hey— “ he snaps in protest.
“Let me do my work, Archivist.” Jared warns, his massive body shifting around Jon, caging him in. A hand that spans his entire upper back squeezes at his shoulders. The one under his head twitches. Both are enough to silence him. Jon’s prosthetic is removed with professional ease. He watches closely to see it set safely on the table.
He wasn’t planning on running, anyway.
Jared gives an unimpressed grunt when he has to roll off the stack of socks Jon’s been wearing to fill out the socket. Jon huffs back at him. It’s not his fault his weight has been fluctuating so much. A pair of hands tugs at his glasses chain.
“Leave them, I want to watch,” Jon interrupts, turning his head away as much as he’s able to. One hand combs through his hair at the motion. Not hard enough to pull, but it still makes him wince.
“Ha,” Jared smirks, “Sounds about right. Could fix ‘em for you.”
“N-no thanks. I’m good as is.” The idea of Jared going for his eyes makes Jon shudder, clench his teeth in something like rage.
Jared shrugs with one set of shoulders. The sight of constant, well coordinated independent motion at all points of Jared’s massive body is beginning to give Jon less vertigo. Either he’s getting used to the overwhelming visuals or his patron is showing through.
“Whatever. Can’t do anything about this, either. Web in the way,” Jared squeezes lightly at Jon’s residual limb, strokes over the stump. Jon shudders, unused to feeling any touch there.
“Wonderful diagnosis, thank you,” he gasps, voice coming out raspy from the large hand stroking his throat as his sweater is pulled off.
Once Jon is fully laid bare, Jared hums out a thoughtful noise of contemplation. He shifts his hold, prods at Jon’s flesh with all his hands. Lays one flat on Jon’s belly, pressing lightly. Slides downward, slowly.
Then he gets to work.
Jon already knows what hands plunging into his body feels like, but the revisit still leaves him gasping, moaning openly in pain as his flesh and bones are manipulated. There’s evidently a lot of prep work to be done on him. Or maybe Jared is simply making a meal of him, taking power where he can after months of starvation.
But Jon has a god, too. In the heart of another’s domain, it is quieted, but even so the imperatives of it are lodged firmly in his soul. This is what he came back for, after all. Damnable curiosity, fascination with experience. Change. Indulgence. A certain degree of hedonism.
The Boneturner’s work is clean; bloodless; efficient. There is no wasted motion, no prolonged action. Just a small army of hands rearranging Jon with intimate understanding of his body: a more perfect understanding only exists in his own Knowing. He cannot Know now, but his greedy eyes drink in every detail, each careful modification, and he will Know the exact angle of his tilted pelvis, the name of each muscle shifted in worship of the Flesh, every ounce of new fat on his frame.
He does not struggle. Not only because he physically cannot, with Jared’s hands in him, or because he had never planned to, but because the objective Watching sets something in him at ease. Comfortable as a trance. A statement, taken and experienced and offered up. Jon’s body made medium, in lieu of his voice. This may count as autocannibalism, in its own way. An act of worship at the altar of the Archives, but not for any god.
Some feeble connection roves through him - someone’s eyes being twisted through Helen’s hallways, turning the wrong corners, not truly finding him among the twisting deceit. Not here. This spectacle is Jon’s and Jon’s alone. He’s in too much pain to focus on that small victory.
Jared works silently, with the focus of a master at his craft, only offering the occasional insight. Jon’s bones are ‘weird, but okay’ and he ‘lacks flesh’ which is fair enough, Jon supposes. After those quiet observations in Jared’s liquid rumble, there is only the wet sounds of flesh and Jon’s pain.
Almost more prominent than the shifting of his organs and the pinching of flesh between his legs, is the abundance of hands on him. All sizes. Holding. Wrapping around him at whatever points Jared commands them to, firm and exact, no lingering emotion or attention about them. Clinical, almost. Precise. Jon Watches as they lay adjustments on his body, helplessly eager for any changes.
Hands hold his wrists above his head, tightly enough that he can’t tug away, if he wanted to; more hands glide up along his arms. All the body heat, the pain, the humid little room: it leaves him gasping, sweating in the fever heat of Jared’s hold, shaking with chills. His glasses are fogging.
Jon’s flesh molds soft as ferrofluid under Jared’s power; easy as a dream. A nightmare. Just as inexplicable. Just as inescapable. Hands on his chest, coaxing his breasts fuller. Hands tug at his hips, his thighs. Hands wrap around his ankle, into, through, then out. Curve around his calves, press under his knees as they hold him open. Stroke up his legs. Settle at his crotch, where Jared’s personal attention stays.
The shock-sharp rush of modified chemical output brings fresh tears to his eyes as his hormonal balances are abruptly shifted. It’s overwhelming, so much change. It nearly overrides the physical pain. Everywhere he has been transformed— each part of his body that was sacrificed in worship of the Flesh— is petted and stroked and palpated intently. Cataloging the way his rearranged nerves sing under pressure.
It certainly does not feel good , not physically, not in the moment. But the places where he’s been changed and then released are— sore. Sensitive. The Flesh leaves his body satisfied. A complete release of tension. Deep tissue massage. Deep tissue integration.
All the hands pull out of his breasts at once.
“Ah—” Jon barely manages to gasp out in a startlingly frantic denial, broken from his trance by what feels, down to his soul, as something left agonisingly incomplete.
“Calm down,” Jared says, and his tone is almost soothing, “I know what your flesh wants for.”
Then his new breasts are cupped and weighed and pulled larger until, quite suddenly, they are perfect— and there they stop. Jon whimpers with the pain of it, but settles and watches rapt as his swollen chest heaves for breath. Soothed. Satisfied by the wobble of his softer flesh as his body is rocked between shudders and jerks and shifting holds. The repetitive motion of tapping, dragging fingertips that paint cellulite on his thighs. The scrape of nails that leave shimmering lichtenberg stretch marks on his skin.
Slowly, the outline of something wonderful is filled in with his flesh, until Jon is left feeling heavy and secure and blissfully exhausted, even as the transformation aches down into his bones. The pain is worth it.
“There,” Jared says, gruff and proud. “Not bad work at all.”
He pulls his hands away from Jon’s— Jon’s sore, wet cunt. It aches with a pain he’s never felt before. It’s bare, yet. Only newly formed flesh that he can barely see from this angle. Jon can barely see at all; his hair is being stroked and tugged on and with it his glasses knocked further askew. But the space there is clear and open and empty of excess flesh. There’s a coldness, now that Jared isn’t keeping him warm there. The wet of it quickly grows chilled. Jon shivers. Squeezes his thigh muscles, just to feel the difference in the space there. Even that motion leaves him aching and further exhausted.
Then Jared shifts him slightly, a firming of his hold, a reaffirmation of control. The busy hands on hands on hands abruptly go still, resting atop his skin instead of inside it. Hold steady. All the pain recedes but for how his whole being is a fresh bruise. Jon can feel his pulse pounding under each individual grip, for all that he can’t count them.
Jared reaches into his own chest, high, just below the shoulder, where firm ribs should be. There is no resistance. When his hand withdraws, it brings out an organ.
It is red and fleshy and round with water weight. There is no blood, but it is wet. Glistens under the buzz of the fluorescent lighting. It’s so small in Jared’s palm. The veins on the surface pulse faintly. Something inside it shifts; an odd little bulge rises from within, sends wet ripples of motion across the surface.
It’s so simple— it takes only a second or two for Jared to lay it on Jon’s belly, but he feels like his heart beat a thousand times, like his lungs throbbed a hundred gasping breaths in that time.
It’s heavy , is all he can think, his first truly coherent thought in hours, it’s so small , then it’s over. It’s so hard to see through his steamed lenses, but all Jared does is tug at Jon’s skin and pull. Tucks it in, like a blanket. Like soft dough.
It’s a little harder to breathe, with the weight of it on his diaphragm, but Jon makes a good effort at gasping through it anyway. Hands sink back into him, low in his hips, and the fresh pain leaves him arching. The larger hands holding him wrap more securely around his sides, his hips, his ribs, his thighs. Tangle around his wrists. Keep his legs spread wide. Hold him steady through the finishing touches.
A small eternity crawls by in those few seconds. The sweat on his skin starts to cool.
“There,” Jared pronounces, sounding satisfied. Gives Jon’s fuller belly a pat. “Finished with you now, Archivist,”
All Jon can do is moan weakly.
There’s movement, maybe. Jon just crawled out of the Buried, and yet he is more exhausted, his flesh more thoroughly worked over than he even imagined he could ever feel. His glasses are gone. He doesn’t care.
Something soft is pressed against his shoulders— or he’s laid down somewhere comfortable. A rock would be comfortable right now. A coffin. A thin hospital bed.
Jon passes out into something like bliss.
When he wakes, he’s too disorientated to even attempt to recognize his surroundings. Everything aches. His body feels strange. His glasses are— oh, the chain of them is still around his neck.
He’s still in the well appointed little suite that Helen made for Jared. Lights off but for a lamp in the other room, open windows that lead to nowhere. Popcorn ceiling.
Jon can only blink up at it, trying to ease the dryness of old tears from his lashes. There’s a thin white sheet pulled over him. It does little to disguise the small mound at his middle, the larger mound at his chest.
He struggles to sit up, his arms as sore as the rest of him as he pushes up off the mattress. Ungainly and unbalanced. Unversed in this form. Jon moves slowly, carefully, until he can sit properly at the edge of the bed. Foot on the floor, thighs spread fat, a bit of his lap taken up by the new weight of his stomach.
“Mornin’,” Jared drawls from the sitting room, head propped up on one fist, the elbow of that hand resting on yet another massive fist. Book in third hand. Glasses back on. “Wanna review the results?”
“Yes,” Jon tries to say, but his voice comes out a croak. He clears his throat as Jared huffs out a deep laugh. Jared grabs a mirror from where it was leaning against the wall and sets it before Jon. It’s full length, clearly ripped out of the bathroom. In it, Jon recognizes himself. Dysmorphia doesn’t grip him by the throat, even as he continues staring.
That sucks the breath from his lungs, tucks some long-frayed part of himself back into place. He slots comfortably into his body, a genuine wave of euphoric recognition keeping him silent. He drinks in the sight, swallows every perfect detail, tucks them each down deep in his heart.
This is the form he’s missed all his life, come home at last. Breasts and belly and curves. Comfortable fullness and soft, plump edges. Jon. That’s Jon .
His fingertips hover over his belly. Settle. It’s soft and warm. Of course it is, it’s him; his skin, his muscle, his flesh— but not his uterus. By ownership rights it is now, he supposes. It’s smaller than he thought it would be. What had rested like a chestnut in Jared’s hand fills his lower belly out round, hardly looking any different than the softer, fatter expanse of the rest of his abdomen. Not big at all, really; more than small enough to hide under loose layers yet. But not for long. He’s still not sure how he feels about that, whether it is a price or a prize or a burden or a gift.
Jared had been clear that the only full set of reproductive organs he had on hand were ‘in use’ and Jon is not an idiot. Except for how he absolutely is. It’s too early for regret to set in, but this time the consequences of his impulsive actions have left him with a little more than just scars. As far as prices to pay for chasing bliss go, this one is not too bad. Heavy handed with symbolism, and he could easily write an essay critiquing the currency of reproduction in exchange for the total freedom of gender identity and sexuality afforded by this affair, but for now he’s too caught up in the simple, exhausted joy of the experience to really put that much thought into it. He’ll do that later, like many other important things.
“Oh,” he marvels, watching with a thrill of joy as his own hand raises and presses lightly against one of his heavy, drooping breasts in the mirror. “They’re uneven.”
“Big ones usually are. I like ‘em,” Jared shrugs, looking over Jon with a keen eye from behind the mirror, searching out his work for flaws. Jon finds none. The neat little stretch marks look old and dark and well healed, like they had grown there naturally, accumulated over time, instead of overnight. The texture is softer than he expected, thin and smooth in those little spaces given to growth. His nipples are much larger and darker; sized to compliment his breasts. There are cute little rolls of fat on his sides. The space between his legs no longer makes him wince.
His scars are all still present, of course. His left leg still ends at the calf. His right hand still lacks feeling in the palm. The little Prentiss scar that bisects his left brow is still present. It is still Jon’s body; just made more familiar to him.
It looks natural. It looks right.
Jon nods, fixes his glasses. “Pleasure working with you, Jared.”
Jared snorts, straightens up to his full height. Fixes almost absently at the bulge in his sweatpants.
“Ready for the test drive?” he says.
Jon swallows hard, unable to look away as Jared hooks his thumbs in his waistband and tugs his pants off. It’s big, but not as overly large or disproportionate as Jon might have thought. The space between his own weak legs feels very small and smooth in comparison.
It’s a singularly distracting sensation.
Jared sets the mirror aside, puts his hands on Jon with the same familiarity, the same power, as both times before. Same intent. But they do not slide into him painfully. The penetration of the flesh he is promised will be one of pleasure, this time.
He doesn’t remember agreeing to this part of the session, but now that he’s here the interest is very much welling up. Jon’s not usually one for sex for multiple reasons, but this is very much not just sex for the sake of pleasure or intimacy. This is an experiment: an experience. One that already promises to be better for him than any in the past.
Jon Watches with the same rapture.
He’s eased back on the bed rather than manhandled, which is a pleasant surprise. Jared looms over him, hands everywhere. Jared handles his body— that’s Jon’s body! —with a confidence and surety that leaves him floating. Jon’s pulse pounds in his ears. His face burns as Jared sets two large hands on his thighs and parts his legs, tugging his ass to rest at the very edge of the mattress. Kneels. Sets Jon’s legs over his massive shoulders. Holds him open. There’s cold air on a very hot, wet place, very suddenly, and Jon shudders with it.
Jon watches Jared draw closer in confusion for a solid few seconds before realising what is about to happen and slapping a hand over his own mouth. This fails to contain his moan at Jared’s hot tongue licking his cunt. It isn’t that it feels that good immediately, but it feels new and strange and exciting. And right. It feels so right.
Thin fingers part soft folds, and that tongue hits something that does feel good, this time. Jon pants around the back of his hand and tries to wriggle in Jared’s grip, wanting to see, trying to sit up. But even before Jared readjusts his grip and tugs Jon back in a supine pose on the bed, hips raised by a hand the size of his back, Jon realizes something that strikes an odd thrill through him, much as it also leaves him frustrated.
He can’t see his own cunt over the swell of his belly.
That is... That is a lot. Jon feels a lot about that, very deeply.
Whatever Jared is doing down there - and it involves quite a few more fingers now - Jon can only feel it. He twists his head and tries to watch, anyway, but all he can see through his once again fogging lenses is his body heaving with his panting and the top of Jared’s head. Jon’s hands shoot down and grab at his hair when they both discover Jon’s clit. His legs twitch almost violently, and he wraps them around Jared’s head without thought.
Jared has other mouths, other lungs, so he only grunts and starts sucking. Since Jon’s hands are busy holding on for dear life, there is nothing to muffle his cries.
“You like that, little Archivist? Haven’t even done anything good to you yet,” Jared growls, his smug voice echoing out of his body despite his tongue licking Jon open.
Then there are hands squeezing at his tits, tugging firmly at his nipples in pinching strokes, massaging his sides, holding down his hips, fingering him relentlessly. The stretch is soft and easy and wet and new . His body gives into it, making way for Jared to rub against something inside Jon that has him whining, his sore muscles twitching sharply.
Jared pulls his tongue out, sets his mouth firmly on Jon’s clit and tugs with blunt teeth, thick fingers plunging in deep and crooking at the same time. Jon’s vision whites out for a moment, but Jared draws back at the last second. His fingers still.
“Easy to please, aren’t you? You want it? Wanna come from just getting your clit sucked on?”
“Yes!” Jon sobs out. Tugs at Jared’s hair desperately, needing something to happen before he just breaks without it, cries out when another finger is abruptly thrust inside and pushes against that perfect spot.
Jon’s had sex before, but never like this. It’s so different , when clit isn’t just a word.
For all that his body trembles with exhaustion and flinches with pleasure, leaving him barely able to control his own movement, he can’t help but dwell in it deeply. Drowns in the ecstasy of it. Jared holds him down, presses him steady into the bed, and implants an orgasm into Jon just as methodically as he did the fluttering cunt he is still tonguing at lightly.
Jon shakes, panting, fucked silent.
Jared lowers his legs and detangles his hands. Jon moans at him in complaint, too sore and blissed out to form words. Instead, he weakly fixes his glasses from where they dug into his ear, just in time to watch Jared stand and take his massive cock in hand. Jon swallows hard, watching the idle pump of his fist. His cunt throbs.
“Ready for the real thing, little Archivist?” Jared drawls, lifting Jon lightly, trading him between hands that span almost his entire waist. Jon is settled on his lap as Jared lays back on the bed in Jon’s place. Legs forced wide open to fit around his huge torso. His hard cock bumps against Jon’s backside, leaves a little kiss of wetness on his skin.
“Don’t I get a moment?” Jon complains weakly, leaning into the support of Jared’s hands to keep himself upright. Clutches back at the smaller ones that hold his own. If Jared seriously expects Jon to do any work here, he’s going to be disappointed. He doesn’t even know how. He’s never been penetrated before; isn’t sure how to move his body, how to make it feel good.
“Nah, you’re ready. Never taken a cock before, have you? Tight little pussy like that, gonna be a real squeeze to get it in.”
Jon swallows hard, licks his lips, settles himself more firmly on Jared. Tightens his grip on Jared’s hands. Nearly moans at just the sense of how much sturdier and bigger his own body is. For all his current weakness, he doesn’t feel like he’ll keel over in a strong wind anymore. It’s wonderful.
So is the steady pressure on his cunt. It throbs with his racing heartbeat, swollen open and very wet, and Jon can’t decide if he loves the new feeling or if he would like it even more under further stimulation. Only one way to find out.
“Well, you’re going to have to put some work in, if you expect me to—”
Jon’s voice is cut off abruptly as Jared lifts Jon like he weighs nothing, positions him kneeling over his crotch. The head of his cock nudges against Jon’s folds, parts them gently. Jon whimpers as he’s gently eased in a slow rock that drags Jared’s cock up against his clit, down his slit, then back up. Barely teasing his entrance, just enough pressure to send little waves of pleasure through his belly. It coils tight as lightning, fiercer than he’s ever felt before.
“You talk too much. Gonna have to fuck all those words out of your head,” Jared says.
Jon tries to look down, but his belly blocks his view again. He moans in frustration and euphoria and wanting under another pass that pushes a little harder, sinks inside him a few teasing centimeters before withdrawing. He gathers his breath, rolls his head to meet Jared’s eyes. He’s lounging on the bed, the mattress dipped down to the floor, arms upon arms folded behind his head. Expression smug and lascivious. Looking at Jon like that. Looking at Jon’s body like that. He shudders, licks his dry lips.
“Wait,” he rasps, “The mirror. I want to see.”
Jared’s perfect eyebrows go up, then he laughs, though his fleshy voice has a breathless quality to it.
“Sure thing, little watcher. Tell me how good I did, how good you look gettin’ fucked hard.”
He reaches out with an arm that is far too long suddenly, then a fanfare of hands are supporting the mirror behind his head, angling it just right. Jon is backlit by the harsh lamplight, shaded by the not-sunlight from the windows. Every inch of him on display.
He automatically flinches, but the only thing he feels at the sight of himself is a thrill of elation. He swallows, watches his own throat move. Savors the sight between his legs.
Dark curls with swollen labia pouting through and a fat little clit sticking out in excitement. The cock between his legs is attached to someone else, and abruptly, it looks enormous. It drips with what must be Jon’s own slick alongside Jared’s precome. It’s huge, straining up proudly, nestled against Jon’s cunt. He swallows hard again as Jared ceases his slow rock and keeps Jon still, lined up perfectly. There’s no way that will fit. But Jon wants to try. Wants to find out how it will feel. Hungry for it.
“Bet you’ve never seen a real cock before, huh? Nobody’s ever fucked you before, not properly. Not like how your wet little pussy deserves. Show me how much you want it in you.”
Jon moans quietly, squeezes a few of Jared’s hands tight as he eases himself down with Jared’s largest hands steady on his waist, keeping him stable. Feels the stretch inside himself, even with how open and wet he is from Jared’s fingers. Watches as it feeds into his body inch by inch. It’s odd, how clean it looks. A disappearing act as simple as what happened to his own, but swallowed up into his flesh rather than cleaved out. One could call it poetic, even.
He sinks down slowly, feeling, watching , each centimeter, until he is seated on Jared’s hips once more, his huge cock sheathed inside, filling Jon to the brim. His soft belly bulges with it.
It feels good, but not as earth shattering as his clit being sucked. He feels full with it, in yet another way he never knew his body could feel fullness. It’s just as pleasurable as filling himself with a satisfying statement; an emptiness sated, faint pleasure singing along new nerves he doesn’t yet know the names for, a craving for even more rising up slowly until he can’t contain it. A desperate want to drive it into excess. A strange hunger.
Jared strokes his belly, pressing in gently, measuring himself inside. Another hand tugs lightly at Jon’s clit, makes him gasp. Rolls his hips a bit, wanting more.
“Good girl,” Jared groans. He sounds kind, almost. In as much as someone who speaks like wet rocks tumbling downhill can sound kind . Jon blinks, realizes that he’s tearing up. Silent tears of stimulation and hormonal release and honest joyful fulfillment blur the important sight before him. He blinks them back to clear his vision, if nothing else.
“Please,” he breathes hoarsely. “Please, I— I need more,”
Jared snorts, shifts in a way that makes the mattress creak, makes his cock move a little. Jon sucks in a breath and feels something inside him flutter. Jared raises Jon by the waist and hips. The slide out is strange; another brush along new, sensitive walls that Jon instinctively clenches down on, whining at the sudden, distinct feeling of emptiness. Then Jared brings him back down, a little quicker, and the speed makes a difference that punches a moan out of Jon’s throat. The head of his cock nudges something pleasurable this time.
“‘Course you do, greedy little thing. Not gonna be happy till you’ve gotten all you can take, huh? I’ll fix you up,” Jared groans.
On the upward pull, Jared holds Jon steady at the halfway point, then abruptly thrusts upward. It’s fast and strong and deep and Jon cries out as the different angle pushes on the perfect spot inside him. A thumb rubs circles on his clit, and his hips buck helplessly, wanting to push into that pressure and thrust down for more. More hands reach out to cradle Jon’s heavy breasts, pinch at his nipples.
He grasps two different wrists for stability, overwhelmed by newborn pleasure, unable to look away from the mirror. The sight of himself, so new, so perfect, covered with hands and being pleasured and enjoying every moment of that pleasure winds up another orgasm in his belly. He pushes back against Jared’s thrusting desperately, gorging on the sight of the slight bulging of his already full stomach every time Jared sinks in deep. Jon whimpers and presses one hand tight to his belly, trying to hold steady, wanting to feel that motion and see it at the same time. Feels the pressure of the next thrust under his palm and inside himself and moans weakly with it.
“Fuck, you’re so tight, Archivist. Think you’ll get even tighter when your belly gets big? Heard that’s what happens to women,” Jared growls, a low rumble that Jon feels through his core. Goes faster, grinding deep. Jon pants through the race of it. Another hand is suddenly on him, pressing at his belly, pushing at the outline of his cock, the fullness inside Jon, and oh, god, it’s so good —
Jon screams as he cums, arching into every hand, clenching down hard. His vision disappears with the intensity, but he’d seen the precipice, and that’s more than enough.
“ Fuck, ” Jared snarls, grinding in deep until Jon shakes with overstimulation. Too much pleasure is new, too. He almost doesn’t want it to stop. He’d beg for more if he could get the breath. Jared groans and drives himself so deep Jon can practically feel it in his lungs, and cums.
Jon rolls his head on his drooping neck, trusting the flexing, squeezing hands to hold him steady. The mirror has grown misty, but he can still clearly see the drip of white down his thighs, the reappearance of Jared’s cock from his cunt as he gently pulls out, the twitching of his muscles from each little shock of pleasure. Jon is left empty, but satisfied, his cunt drooling and pleasantly sore. Fucked out.
All of him is. He can’t imagine moving; thankfully, Jared does it for him, laying him down in the thin space on the bed that his massive body leaves empty. Jon tries to get his breath back, shivers with aftershocks and cooling sweat. He shifts his legs, squeezes experimentally at where he can feel himself dripping. Groans at the soreness. Tucks a hand there instead, presses gently at his swollen lips. Drags his fingers through a pool of cum.
A little thrill runs through him. He is full of cum. That - that is something that matters to him, now. But Jared’s cum won’t spark anything in him, because Jon is already in use . He smooths his wet fingertips up where his stomach curves with what might be fat or what might be baby weight. He can’t know , not here.
It’s a different thrill that rushes through him, this time; an expectant one. He’d kept thinking about this, in the depths of the Buried. What his body could do, if it suited him well instead of being an ill-fitting costume. What being in use himself would feel like. So far he just feels a little bloated. Full.
“Not bad, for a first time,” Jared grunts. Jon hums absently, too tired to think. A loud click echoes through the room. They both raise their heads to look at the door. It’s new. Jon drops back onto the mattress with a sigh.
“Guess you’re free to go,” he mutters, voice hoarse.
“‘Bout time,” Jared says, then stands. The entire bed rocks and resettles. Jon is impressed it didn’t collapse at any point.
Jared stretches horrifically, tucks a few limbs away to get himself dressed. No aftercare, eh? Jon can’t say he’s surprised. But at the same time, this is the first time he’s not been left uncomfortable or crying after sex. He doesn’t feel worse in the aftermath than he did going in, for once. He feels good. Full and warm and sated.
Jared pockets his book, then pats Jon’s belly as he passes the bed for the door.
“Take care of those for me,” he says.
Jon hums tiredly, then pulls his head out of the pillow to start to say, “Wait, was that plural— ” but the door is already gone.
Jon sighs loudly, bundles himself up in the sheet, and shelves that problem for later.