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Broken Down

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Elias’ hand is gentle but unyielding in its grasp on Jon’s throat. Keeping his back flush up against Elias’ chest while the other hand touches him wherever he pleases.

It’s awful. He can’t help shivering, can’t help the soft whine that rips out of him as those possessive fingers trace up his thigh. Elias presses a soft, wet kiss behind his ear.

“Please,” Jon whispers, “Please, Elias.”

Elias smiles against his neck, traces the pitted Corruption scars with his tongue. It’s awful. Jon keeps his hands twisted in the hem of his jumper, keeps his eyes on Elias’ desk. If he concentrates hard enough on the dark whorls of fine wood or the same four lines of meaningless expense reports, maybe he can block out the heat of Elias’ body, the breath in his ears, the horrible crawling of every inch of his skin. His body begs him to get away, to fight, to scream.

He can’t. If he makes a fuss, someone will hear, and the only thing worse than submitting himself to this is the idea of being seen like this.

“My Archivist,” Elias murmurs, so saccharine and fond that Jon wants to be sick. Elias sucks tingly marks into his skin and slides a warm hand between his legs.

“No, no.”

He knows, objectively, that it should feel good. He should be grateful that anyone cares for him anymore. That anyone wants to touch him like this even if it feels so rotten. It feels the same as ropes and plastic fingers and cold lotion. It shouldn’t, but he’s always been like this. Difficult. Skittish. Ungrateful.

“Stop it,” he says, miserable. The expenses waver and blur and there are tears, now. God, how pathetic he must look. “Please stop, please.”

“Hush, Jon,” Elias purrs, kisses softly back up to his ear, grazes it with teeth and tongue. “My lovely Archivist.”

Elias pushes him forward, bends him over the desk, and he sobs. Elias shushes him, slipping warm hands under his jumper, under his shirt, under the waistband of his trousers.

“I’ll teach you, Jon,” he murmurs, kissing now at Jon’s shoulder, pulling aside his clothes to get at his skin, “I’ll show you how to like it.”

Jon wants to scream, hates the helplessness of it all, the hard line of Elias’ cock against him, the cool air rushing in to bite every bit of exposure as his trousers come down. He chokes back all but a weak whimper as Elias slides his pants down, too, and sucks in a breath at the sight of him.

“Stop, just stop, no more, Elias, Elias--”

He’s sobbing openly now, he can barely breathe for it and can’t see at all. Not that he needs to, not that he wants to. He sobs his name like a prayer to an uncaring god. It may as well be.

Then Elias touches him and he wails. He doesn’t want to be seen, to be Known like this. The piece of himself that will always feel wrong, even when there are good days it’s there nagging at the base of his consciousness.


Elias wraps an arm around his chest, pulls him close and rocks him gently.

“Hush, relax, relax for me. You’re alright,” Elias coos.

“Please, don’t touch me there,” Jon sobs, “Please, stop.”

Elias hums in his ear, rubs little circles into the inside of his thigh, massages the seam where his body goes soft and wrong.

“You’re alright, Jon, I’m going to make it good for you.”

His fingers slide there again.

“You’re doing so well, you’re so wet for me.”

“I’m not—I’m not, don’t touch me--”

Elias slides his cock between Jon’s legs but doesn’t penetrate him, just drags through the sick, slick heat nestled between his folds. Fucks into the tight seal of his thighs. On every stroke it slides against his cock, and he hates the tingly heat, the electric buzz of pleasure settling into his bones. Jon hangs his head and shakes and cries and cries and cries until Elias’ quiet moans turn strained, until his hips stutter and there are splashes of sticky, cloying heat all over Jon’s thighs.

He expects Elias to let go. He wants Elias to pull away.

He doesn’t.

“Good boy,” Elias says wet into his ear, and his hand, oh god, his fingers press rudely against Jon’s cock.

“No,” he manages. He barely recognizes his own voice, choked and snotty as it is.

“Cum for me, Jon, let me see you.”

He tries not to, he really does. But Elias seems to Know just how to touch him, things Jon doesn’t and can’t prepare for. He tries so hard to focus on anything else, to think about the uncomfortable stickiness of his thighs, or the pain of biting his lip. This is all he has left that’s his, something no one else has seen. Something secret and sacred. Just the sort of thing to feed to Elias’ ravenous god.

And then it’s happening, and his legs are shaking and he’s gasping and making humiliating noises and Elias keeps touching him through it. More, until he’s digging his nails into Elias’ forearm and trying to squirm out of his grasp as it turns painful, as the rush of sick ecstasy turns to bone-deep exhaustion.

“You’ve done so well, Jon.” Elias sounds so proud and warm and Jon feels like clawing his skin off. “My Archivist.” He presses kisses into Jon’s hair, his ear, his cheek. Rights Jon’s pants and draws him into his arms. He’s too weak to resist, still trembling with aftershocks of the forced orgasm.

“Next time we’ll do this properly.”