●

"I hate you" for joncest maybe? Or maybe the jon2+Elias polycule

FINALLY finished this one. I had the perfect idea for it but god did it fight me every step of the way…

Anyway enjoy. Um. 1k words of Jon on Jon action I guess. (Technically one of the Jons is also fucking Elias, but he doesn’t make an appearance himself) (Just know he is watching and stroking himself off the Whole Time). This one’s pretty rough around the edges but idc I just wanna post it lol. I hope you still enjoy it either way.

Right. Warnings. Okay.

Anyway, fic under the cut!!

There was something meditative about organizing the back shelves.

The lights were dim and flickering, the air was choked with dust and the smell of old paper, and the shelves were placed in such a way that one could easily get lost within them. A tremendously frustrating maze that Jon really should’ve done something about, except for how very useful it was to be able to disappear for hours without irritating assistants hounding him about this or that. Wasting his time with pointless trifles, needling him, fussing over him (wary gazes roaming his skin in search of new eyes, expressions colder in a way he couldn’t explain but knew all too well).

Really, it had almost become something of an oasis these last few months. Which was, perhaps, why he was so surprised when something grabbed him by the shoulders and yanked him back against a shelf.

Jon yelped, arm thumping painfully against a metal shelf as he tried to flinch away from whoever had grabbed him. “What the hell have you been doing?”

“Good lord!” Jon tried to catch his breath, glaring up at… ah. So the Archivist had crawled up out of… wherever they were when they weren’t with Jon. Their eyes were alight with a fury both alien and beautiful. Piercing. Captivating. (A spark he recognized in Elias’ eyes, now that he knew to look for it.) It took Jon a moment to gather himself back, remember what they had asked. “Well,” he said, somewhere between stern and shaky, “I was reorganizing this… disaster area before you decided to drop by.”

The Archivist pressed him harder against the shelves, metal digging uncomfortably into his back, Jon gasped, shameful warmth curling in his gut. (They were the same goddamn person. How on earth was the Archivist stronger than him?) “I meant. With. Elias.” Their voice was cold, venomous in that awful way that made them squirm.

Jon tried his best to arrange his face into an expression that looked arch and unimpressed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” It had, he supposed, been too much to hope that the Archivist wouldn’t find out about his… affair. Had to have known about it already, remembered it from their life. Regardless, Jon would really quite prefer to not discuss it right now. Or ever.

The Archivist looked utterly unamused. “Don’t lie.” Their expression twisted into one of deep disdain. Jon wanted to sink to his knees.

“Fine,” he said, “fine. We’ve been… seeing each other, I suppose.” He barreled on, before they could start off on another lecture about trusting Elias. “I’m hardly going to break things off with him over a handful of vague warnings-”

“I thought I was quite clear that-”

“You haven’t been clear about anything!” Jon snapped.

The Archivist loomed, their icy stare digging into his flesh. “You are insufferable, you arrogant half-wit. How you expect to be in any way useful when you can’t listen to even a basic request is utterly beyond me. I have been very clear that Elias is a highly dangerous man, that he is not to be trusted. And yet you cannot seem to manage to stop crawling into his bed at every opportunity!”

The words stung, wormed their way inside to rot with the memories of every other person he had ever disappointed. Jon could feel the heat rising in his belly, his groin. He clenched his thighs, trying very hard to think of a response that wasn’t utterly pathetic. This time, the Archivist caught on to his… situation. Their eyes flicked down, jaw tensed, lips curling with disgust. “Are you getting off on this?”

The words were torn from him before he could even think to stop them, the force of the Archivist’s compulsion raking through him. “Yes.” Shameful heat curled low in his belly, the electrical sensation of someone prying him open, peeling him apart and gazing over his twitching, squirming insides. Even as furious resentment bloomed inside of him, that the Archivist could make him confess, could reach deep inside, drag the mortifying truth out into the light.

(And there was quiet envy, too. A desire he dared not examine, even in the relative privacy of his own mind. What would it be like, to finally be predator instead of prey?)

“Pathetic.” They pushed him back against the shelves, pressing their knee hard into his cunt. Jon gasped, grinding down on it, needing that perfect pressure on his aching cock.

With brusque carelessness they unbuttoned his trousers, yanked them down to reveal folds that Jon knew were surely dripping wet. They slid one finger inside without preamble, then another. The sudden stretch both too-much and just-right, that perfect pleasure-pain which made Jon’s nerves sing.

“I hate you.” They snarled, fingers curling into a place that made Jon shudder and whine. “You never think about the goddamn consequences, do you?” They began to thrust their fingers in and out harshly, the slick sounds of it filling the air. Jon gasped and writhed, trying desperately to get any friction at all on his aching cock. “Throwing yourself at Elias. Spreading your legs for him every chance you get. So impatient you can’t even get a fucking condom on. Didn’t even think about the consequences, did you?”

Jon moaned, shame and hurt flaring in his chest, fanning the flames of his arousal. “Please, please… my cock, please.” He tried to reach a hand down to stroke his hard clit, but the Archivist slapped it away.

“You haven’t earned it,” they snarled. Jon nodded, thoughtless, desperately rolling his hips onto the Archivist’s thrusting fingers. “God,” they snarled. “I. Hate. You.”

He came with a sob, walls rippling around the Archivist’s fingers as they continued to thrust mercilessly. Soon, pleasure became overstimulation, and Jon began to shove at them weakly. They withdrew, wiping their slick hand on his jacket with an expression of distaste.

It took Jon a few moments to be able to finally focus on anything other than not collapsing to the floor. But, finally, they put themselves enough together to remember their earlier conversation, “was that, ah… was that everything, then?”

The Archivist sighed, brushed a finger over his stomach, face utterly unreadable. “No.” It was a long, long moment before they continued, the silence a yawning chasm opening between them. “I suppose you’ll find out, sooner or later.”