rusty_kink | Prompt Post: The Magnus Archives #1

Prompt Post: The Magnus Archives #1

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Page 104 of 139

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(episode 190)

“You didn’t have to scare him like that” Yes Actually He Really Did

Can be sexual or nonsexual depending on how you take your dark!Jon, I just want him to fuck Arun up. The more Beholding of how, the better.

Optional idea for how to make it happen that occurred to me after posting: Jon snaps at him semi-accidentally* (tunnels = somewhat cut off from the Eye above but hangry instead of brainfog this time?) except what he says is Asking “where did Melanie and Georgie even find you” or something similarly classic-flavor trauma Compulsion, things escalate from there?

*I am also down with it being calculated but that requires more work to get there so it’s not the first way I think of Jon acting

Anyway, leaving that here in case anyone finds it inspiring/appealing.

This is an Incredibly late comment, sorry (holiday overload made me retreat from the world for a while). But. This chapter. Freaking destroyed me.
First of all, this is such a peak horror scenario for both Jon and Martin, and the atmosphere at the beginning taps straight into that—the surreal, nightmarish quality of the Eye’s pursuit that only sometimes obeys the laws of reality is just lovely. I particularly like the way that it’s somehow both patient and gleefully reveling in Martin’s bad feelings; there’s almost a weirdly innocent quality to it, like a child that doesn’t know it’s going to break it’s toys.
And then oh gosh the eye gouging scene hit like a load of bricks. All of the imagery is just so vivid no immediate, and Martin’s realization that his last resort option isn’t going to work is just fantastic. Because this feels like (by storybook-apocalypse-logic) an appropriately horrible and symbolic sacrifice for him to be able to make, and the way that it’s subverted by demonstrating his utter lack of agency is just *mwah*. (I feel bad for enjoying how badly Martin’s feeling, but the writing is just too good.)
(Also, the way his panic attack is mirrored in the actual landscape, with the walls closing in, is just. Very good.)
And the ending! I love how this story makes me sympathize with the Eye without toning down the horror in the slightest, and that ending gives me hope!

Ohhh Hilltop Road again I’m Curious as to where that’s going. (also you’ve got to stop predicting plot points; I listened to ep 189 and was like... wait... I just read about WTGFs mounting risky blind spot rescue missions)
I wonder how much the Eye actually believes that Jon wants what it wants/is basically just a part of it, or if it’s just saying that for Martin, because it seems like he’s still got some level of autonomy/resistance.
Also love the Eye’s slow little character evolution. It’s not much yet but it’s changing! And the characterisation of the End as different from the rest of the entities intrigues and alarms me. Continue to love this!

YES JON! YES *MELANIE*! SUPURB!
Once again I am LIVING for the Eye’s characterisation—in particular, the way it seems to be becoming more no more comfortable claiming its own actions and saying “I”. (Is this character development? I choose to think so.)
I continue to be in awe of the way your portray Martin’s slow journey through the stages of despair, it’s just so true to life, and his emotional responses are so real and vivid. I like the way that even in his shut-down mode he can’t quite maintain hopelessness; he still, like it or not, keeps on hoping just a little. I really cannot appreciate enough how this fic plays with the ideas of agency. I hope on the one hand that the Eye starts to listen to/understand Martin about his and Jon’s need to have autonomy (it’s trying now, at least!), but the very fact that it has control over whether or not to grant it makes the whole concept of consent and agency tricky. Also, I really appreciate how Martin’s lack of privacy is directly tied to his lack of power/safety (both his and Basira’s), as the inherent violation of surveillance is so central to the concept of Beholding!horror. I feel like sometimes the series proper makes the horror of being known/seen slightly theoretical, so the use of that as the primary source of Martin’s fear here is incredible and also just done so well.
Also hidden pocket! Jon! Melanie! Wow I’m so hyped to see what comes next!

Oh hey! I am actually super flattered that you came back and commented on older chapters. Seriously, this made my day.

I am so glad you like the surreality of the landscape during the Eye’s pursuit. The buried corridors were SO fun to write. I think calling the Eye ‘’childish’’ is spot on. It’s utterly gleeful about tormenting Martin, and oblivious to the idea that there might be permanent consequences to this.

Ah yes, the eye-gouging scene! Agency in this story is weird because most of the main players don’t really have… any. :’D. The story up to this point has mostly been a slow realization of how trapped they are. And that realization finally hits Martin here. There is one thing that could conceivably work to free Jon from the Eye--but it doesn’t. Martin has no power or even a way out.

I am always glad to hear people finding the Eye compelling and sympathetic even though I have also written it to be utterly horrific. That’s exactly the mix I am going for!

I was SO vindicated when I listened to episode 189, let me tell you. Especially since I posted this chapter before that episode aired :D

The Eye actually does genuinely believe Jon wants what it wants. Because… well, that is true to an extent. Jon actually does feel Beholding impulses the same way he feels impulses that originate in his own brain. Of course, Jon still does have autonomy/resistance! But the Eye doesn’t register that because the majority of input it has re: Jon is Jon just mirroring its own wants, so it dismisses evidence to the contrary as irrelevant.

Incidentally, this is why Jon can pull one over on the Eye in the next chapter :D

I am so glad you’re liking the Eye’s character development. The Eye’s own conception of itself is changing. Before the apocalypse (and loving Martin) the Eye never wanted to speak directly to anyone, or control a body so directly. Doing so now forces the Eye to think differently about itself.

Ah, Martin’s journey through despair. It is a slow, painful process. He knows now that he can’t escape or fight, so he just shuts down and does his best to stay shut down as possible. But yeah--he still can’t keep his own darn hopes and feelings completely down. It is one of the many reasons the Eye loves him.
I am so glad you’re still loving the exploration of agency and the lack thereof in this story. Martin’s lack of agency is so directly related to his lack of privacy, to the Eye watching him every moment, even down to his thoughts. He can’t even keep his suffering to himself. And now the Eye has another point of leverage to hold over Martin (Basira) even if it doesn’t mean to be unkind about it.

Jon and Melanie getting one over on the Eye was SO satisfying to write. Jon’s slow but deliberate attempts to maintain what agency he can have paid off!! And you can’t keep wtgfs down! Thank you SO much for the comment.

So, somehow, Jon gets himself wasted. Maybe the person he's with planned this and nudged him into drinking too much, maybe he was having a bad time and trying to cope, maybe he went to a work outing and just didn't keep track of what he was drinking, whatever it was, he's just about legless and in no fit state to get himself home. Someone, out of what is obviously altruistic kindness with no other motivation, says, lest he come across someone unsavory and get hurt, they'll look after him for the night and see him safely to bed. And to be fair, they do actually do that, they just fuck him first. Maybe a few times, actually.
I'm picturing that, with all his inhibitions down like this, Jon gets very touchy and physically affectionate, but has just about enough awareness that he shouldn't be having sex when he's like this. He slurs something like Too drunk, shouldn't... but whoever he's with just slips a hand down his trousers and squeezes, and he's so out of it all he can do is press into them, whine into their neck, and stutter yes yes good more.
> Some mild somno, in that Jon eventually passes out, but the pair were just in the middle of something and the other person sees no reason to stop before finishing just because Jon's gone all limp on them.
> If going a route where Jon drank this much because he was feeling badly, the other person shuts down some of his concerns with assurances of Shh I'm just trying to cheer you up, this will make you feel better.
> The other person stops for a minute on the street to kiss Jon silly up against a wall and get discreetly handsy and Jon starts trying to take his clothes off right then and there, the only time the other person has to calm down and reel in Jon.
> Jon's so drunk that he can't remember a thing the next morning, he just hopes he didn't embarrass himself in front of whoever was nice enough to look after him.
> Any assortment of trans/cis headcanons are good.
> I'm defaulting to picturing Elias as someone both interested in Jon and unbothered by things like "morals" or "bodily autonomy," but go with anyone you want.
> DNW unsanitary, outright noncon where Jon's distressed the whole time.

Because the only thing worse than being restrained while an evil mannequin rubs lotion all over your helpless naked body...is what happens when the evil mannequin decides to entertain herself by cataloguing every single one of your tickle spots.

Writer's choice whether it takes a turn for the explicitly sexual or just stays 100% torture.

hhhh fuck yes, good good prompt

(there was a different drunk JE prompt a while back I'm still working on filling - without the "going out at night" element - I would be happy to come back and link when done since it seems rtyi, if you'd like?)

OP here, go right ahead

Jon hadn’t thought ahead any further than to wonder if he could still get drunk. After what he’d seen it seemed the time to find out if there ever was one. Anyone would need a drink at minimum after that, he’d rationalized, even if they weren’t affected by being a bystander the way Jon in particular was.

(God, he’d thought it might hit him harder from the outset and he’d thought it might balance out, but her eyes—)

So far the answer seems liable to be ‘no’, he thinks. He thinks; who knows what else his metabolism does now. He’d picked up and headed a seemingly random direction, on the Tube and then by foot, aimlessly looking to get away from the Institute for once and deal with how unnatural that feels for him now only after; had a brief thought toward not getting lost, before he realized that was irrelevant. Of course it was.

And now he’s several drinks in and it’s finally occurring to him what a man who looks like he does – anyone, really – drinking alone on a weekday evening… well… looks like. Probably that’s what got the young woman whose party’s still stayed in line of sight to try to talk to him a couple times: pity, bit of nosiness. Maybe more than a bit. Though if it is she’d hid it well.

(He does still like whiskey, apparently. So that’s relatively nice. Jon doesn’t like to face up to how much he finds himself counting up features he has in common with the man who had his name last like he’s looking for common ground to make small talk with some stranger. Facing it would mean admitting that’s how he thinks about his identity at all, let alone dealing with how pathetic the little endorphin hit when he gets an answer ‘right’ really, truly is.)

She reminds him vaguely of Georgie, Jon keeps thinking – the woman who’d tried to talk to him, who doesn’t seem to like her friends all that much. Less Georgie last year and willing to give him the time of day than maybe when they’d met. He’s not sure why exactly, when they look nothing alike. For a while he gets himself convinced tha tit’s just rumination on his part, the back of his mind cheating in the idea that it doesn’t count as obsessing over the Melanie-shaped hole in his Knowing if he gets there by way of his ex. Has himself almost all the way convinced right up to the point when the woman he doesn’t know gets up, apparently to leave; at which point it finally occurs to Jon that the illusion of resemblance is just courtesy of the fact that no other way’s occurred to him to articulate having realized someone’s trying to pick him up.

No accounting for taste, he thinks, faintly dazed in a way that might make him reconsider his assessment of his alcohol tolerance. Also she’s leaving.

Leaving, alone and – out the back, actually, Jon hadn’t realized that door was an exterior door, what with most of his point being to get somewhere he hasn’t been before – and that’s not why he gets up to follow her. Not why he’s not sure he could bring himself to stop to pay off his tab if he hadn’t handled that already. He’s… not sure why he does, in fact, in a way that would be concerningly familiar if it weren’t all of a piece in the same interminable fugue state. But there’s nothing actually stopping him from getting to his feet, and heading out, and something in the back of his skull says: important. This is important.

Not like his own ideas have that great of track record, really. (But it’s – no, that’s wrong, isn’t it? This is his idea as well, all the way down. It has to be.)

It’s an alley on the other side of the door, turns out; red brick, assorted plant life no one really asked for present nonetheless, altogether unremarkable. She startles to see him. “Oh,” she says, weight shifting backwards with obvious, practiced subtlety, even with her face in that open and breezy smile, “hello, are we headed the same way or—”

“You have something to tell me,” Jon says. It isn’t really a question, even if he didn’t know until he said it, scraping in his throat like a whetstone working inside of him.

There’s a long enough pause before it takes for a handful of things to happen: she says, “Oh God,” under her breath, eyes gone tight at their edges, and Jon sways on his feet a little, suddenly incapable in the face of having something, anything—

The hunger he’d been learning to almost ignore, to not think of feeling better than, that hollow, chilling, gutted ache, it’s all he can think about with the prospect of reprieve at hand, and it’s like there’s nothing holding him up in response. (Like a puppet with his strings cut, but – that’s still not right. It’s still him. No strings, no redeeming features. No wherewithal to let that do anything like stop him.) He has to steady himself with one hand flat on the wall for how much facing it altogether hurts, and then – oh, that’s funny, really, that it means he’s physically boxing her in, just by having fallen forward.

“You do, yes,” he prompts, gently, and she takes a sharp, unsteady breath in.

“Bit hard for you to get all the way there, isn’t it?” Peter says offhandedly. “That’s all right,” he adds, of course only after reintroducing the suggestion that Jon’s not even managing to competently be whatever kind of— perverted freak as could be made to like this. After providing another point against Jon’s barely-conscious hope that he can just stop being an interesting victim eventually. He’s never felt there’s much innovation or variety to how he reacts to pain and violation, anyway.

Jon’s good eye’s watering again, he thinks; there’s a kind of whimpering, hitching moan he could suppose for his own dignity could pass for a more pitiable-but-not-depraved pained sob, if someone were listening. If someone were listening and cared.

If someone were listening, and cared, and wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt in terms of what they thought they were hearing.

“You know,” Peter says conversationally, “I have to tell you, I almost wish I were up to go another round. I’m not as young as you are, you understand. But you’re very much worth the effort to get you squirming on my fingers like this, Archivist, hole that you are, and it’s just only natural I’m thinking about what this tight little thing could do on my cock, wouldn’t you think?”

Jon’s not all that sure if he shakes his head in obvious denial or if he just thinks about it very hard. Thinks about how much—how little—say he gets. Thinks about how utterly unable he is to judge one extreme or the other.

Thinks about how utterly fucked he’d be as far as any attempt to avert a more mundane repeat performance.

“Little thing like you, extenuating circumstances aside, you already pulled the short straw as far as stamina, huh? At this rate I’d be surprised if you can keep it together long enough to make yourself come, if you’re just like this. Must be a sorry combination to live with, but I’ve got time.” There’s that false reassurance that Jon shouldn’t be affected by—he wants Peter to get fed up and stop, wants no part of this—and that still crawls under Jon’s sternum and stays for later, a mundane kind of insecurity he’d not given thought to until Peter brought it up.

He wonders if he’d be able to be less present, less relentlessly aware, if Peter were back to using Jon’s body to get himself off, if instead of clever flexible fingers he was split open on the brute-force instrument by comparison of his dick again. More. If that would qualify as some kind of reprieve. He’s grimly sure it wouldn’t, though, as the imagined prospect takes still-hazy explicit form, even putting aside—well—current evidence indicates that he could make Jon come on his cock just fine if he’d wanted. And he hadn’t. No way out there, twice over.

“So presumably I can count on if I just leave you laid out on the floor here you couldn’t not stay nicely long enough for one of your people to find you like that. Wouldn’t want me to be the only one to get to see the picture you’d make—it’s a pity but that’s all right, I get it—you’d think it was a waste, right, the way you work? Not to get yourself seen like that by someone who didn’t expect it, get to make them know what you looked like fucked out and gaping and dripping my come out both ends, without you lifting a finger to make them. You’d love that too much to miss out on it.”

Jon’s skin prickles with what must be revulsion, at how much fun Peter’s audibly having with all his indulgent detail if nothing else. He doesn’t say anything cutting about that, or try to, though; doesn’t say anything at all. Because his mind’s snagged on imagining someone (Martin— not Martin, not Martin) stood stock still in the doorway, the kind of look in their eyes he can barely guess at as they raked unwillingly up and down his body, and it’s not fucking fair for Peter to know to go there and Jon to listen and he doesn’t want it and he doesn’t but God, fuck— He squeezes his good eye shut and feels the other still fail to follow suit but that’s not enough to ground him as he feels his head loll back and he whines.

“Knew it,” Peter says, blandly pleased, and Jon’s got his eye closed because he’s still within the brief sort of interval he can do that kind of thing but he can still all but feel the smile in how Peter’s hand picks up the pace, slight but noticeable, Jon playing into his hands or the fantasy or both giving him renewed enthusiasm that translates to the same three fingers seeming to punch the breath out of him.

Jon should be— it’s no contest with his head, but he should be getting sore, shouldn’t he? He just feels filled, hot and sensitized and twisted in reward for it. Almost, between the sick warm ache ebbing from the wet mess of his face and the slick, demanding heat of his cunt—like any of him actually wants Peter’s fingers there—not sated, but differently full, almost as unambiguously a good thing. His body feels solid, feels present, feels alive in a way it hasn’t since…

“Ah, you know, it's just as well I won't,” Peter goes on, voice shifting from relish back to jarringly incongruous reasonableness, once he’s blatantly let the idea sink in. “It’s not that you wouldn’t love it once you let yourself, but it’s a bit, well… mixed messages, you understand. Wouldn’t want to give you the excuse not to enjoy your reward and all that. This is about you, right now. But maybe some other time!”

Jon more or less tries to let that go by him, the alternative of thinking about how other parts of him felt about the prospect completely out of the question. Specific rebuttals seem far beyond him, anyway; but Jon begs him to stop, still, even now, even after that and undeniably fucking himself on Peter’s hand, his voice getting stronger in increments. Jon begs him to stop and Peter seems to treat it like a challenge, or an invitation, even more than he had been before, seemingly delighted at each No twisted off into a moan. At some point he gets enough motor control back for one of his hands to find Peter’s shoulder for support as his spine bows and his thighs shake; somehow this isn’t enough control, conversely, to drag that hand back down.

It’s not as strange as it should be that he’s making almost the same noises, and not as distracting as it ought to be that the full-body jerk gives him a hollow kind of whiplash where his eye isn’t. The feeling of movement inside his face should be sickening, or at least grounding somewhat, but it's finally, blessedly all outward, new and rebuilt tissue slowly forcing its way into available space and refusing to feel wrong. The pain is ebbing steadily to something bearable from where it had seared itself into his orbital bones, easing slowly from utter violation to merely the hot, sore strain of a body well-used. And against the gradual recession of pain Jon’s body keeps responding, slow, radiating heat unsteadily traversing his face to ease away terror he'd honestly almost rather have to keep him grounded than feel this reprieve; then lower, unloosening his lungs until the sharp irregular breaths Jon pulls in, on reflex and to make noise he's barely interested in with, are full and deep again.

There’s a terribly doable stretch to this part: three fingers not scissoring, not working to open any more space inside him, less thrusting than just crooked and pressing unrelenting steady patterns in counterpoint to the equally relentless but far more generalized pressure on the inside of his face. Arousal curls slowly up Jon’s spine in infinitesimal little increments, as he ignores the sounds pushed out of him each time Peter hits one of those angles that tear through him like a second-long snapshot of an orgasm.

Alongside it, harder to ignore, is relief: its own kind of awful lassitude, anchoring Jon in his body, against all odds still relaxing and warm. He is going to survive this intact in the ways that actually matter. The rest is memory, horrifying and unique and his (and, he presumes, thoroughly witnessed), and in that sense he can’t but almost welcome it, one more awful thing to tuck safely away inside him once it’s over. The relief lets his body lean further into the present, demands it, keeps him attentive with the promise every moment is more bearable than the last. To a certain extent Jon really isn’t sure why he hasn’t come yet, what perverse incentive it is this time that’s keeping him wound tight and increasingly aware of it, the pleasure having largely plateaued at a higher level of intensity than Jon would have thought he could actually bear.

There’s something sick and heady about knowing how many decisions this has made for him, the future horrors finally and fully taken out of his control as much as his body’s been. That he wouldn’t have had the stomach to blind himself, with or without Martin, no matter what he told himself he wanted, and that it wouldn’t work, that he’s survived beyond that kind of damage mattering for longer than it takes to comprehend the hurt. That he’s so terribly certain he won’t be able to bring himself to actively resist what comes next.

Jon’s very much aware of what fuels him, and how ragged he’d been running himself already. That he hadn’t had any remaining margin for error before.

There are parts of this Jon thinks he understands. Tearing his eye out, however violently, was meant to prove a point. (And it did, Jon’s mind adds reflexively when even the ghost of the question could present itself—skipping and stuttering like there's any actual safety risk there, like Peter is anything who'd actually get to know if Jon thought otherwise—but it did, god, it did, he did.) Fucking the hole afterwards was… unintuitive, to say the least, but once Jon concedes that it happened the answer to what Peter was getting out of it is more than obvious.

This he understands far, far less, the occasional insight into what else Peter’s thinking about hardly enlightening contrast. It’s not like he has any particular reason to want to… to watch Jon come, is it? And Jon’s— failing, his mind skipping tracks to the stomach-turning not-pain and the arousal winding itself hot and tight just below in turn, to imagine what else someone could want. There’s not much room left in him for going further afield of that in terms of imagination.

There’s not much room left in him for anything; it feels like the increasingly cohesive moans he can’t bring himself to catalog are forced out of him by that sort of physical inevitability, like the lost-cause miscellanies that cleared his eye socket and trickled down his face as the tissues reformed, not a reaction but simple displacement. (He felt the tapetum a human wouldn’t have pull itself together, oddly elastic—sealing the new and vulnerable flesh and nerves off, although he knows what little that means. Still there’s relief.) He’s felt, as if in some freakish harmony with the way his body hangs and stutters at the edge of what is by now an obvious and almost-welcome orgasm, himself become meaningfully real again. He’s so close he can’t fucking stand it, except—

He can feel his other eye trying to close when his good eyelids flutter. He can feel it, less sick mockery and more line-of-best-fit approximation, as the part of him that matters builds itself from concavity, and it’s obvious, actually, that what he was waiting for is—

Jon shuts both his eyes. Both of them. Something more comparable than not to a twisted echo of how it feels when the Eye takes him every night lances through him, all heat and light, as he opens them immediately; he comes with his eyes open. It’s all he needed. It’s everything he needs.

It escapes him if he screams. He feels like a bloody full-body scream, tearing out of him to its end.

At some point in the subsequent time Jon largely loses, dizzy and with ringing ears and unsure for a much more natural reason how exactly his legs should work, face dirty but fresh and whole and his whole body from missing ribs to knee throbbing with hot aftershocks—well—he’s not particularly equipped to tell when Peter leaves or where he fucks off to, even aside from the obvious reasons it’s a hopeless thing to try.

Good riddance, Jon thinks. But it falls a bit flat.

He’s sprawled on the floor. He stares at the ceiling. His new eye is still a little dry.

Cleaning himself up seems like it will take some grand level of executive strategy he’s not sure if he’s up to yet. And he’s not as willing now to think about what debt he’s racked up to his own existence, what his first order of business will have to be once he’s presentable as human again.

But after, he thinks, in spite of himself almost; yes. After, he thinks he’s going to talk to Melanie about quitting.

ao3 link, with things like "editing" and "html": https://archiveofourown.org/works/28699428

aaa I'm glad! like decently close to done with the last part, ftr, it's in "okay come on will you fucking get off already" purgatory but I know what I'm doing and the second half of it (of course) is finished entirely. just. segues...

Oh excellent! (I'm at a loss for ETA but, well, you see, I was thinking about what the worldbuilding would have to entail to square this with Jon with Peter and Elias's implied existing relationship, one thing led to another, the idea of existing norms for hierarchical "established couple fobs off actual breeding on an omega they're keeping around" relationships - albeit usually alpha/beta/omega instead of alpha/omega with strong opinions on what exactly happens to his body/omega with strong opinions on what exactly happens to his body but being 100% ignored this time - was arresting and then I was thinking about power play and... well... what I'm saying is I just think we could use more dub/noncon threesomes around here--)

Peter’s dry hand lands on the back of his neck — that’s unambiguously a whine — and trails heavily, considering, across his shoulder, baring skin on the way. "Mm. What was I saying? Oh, right! If you're actually so informed and responsible, I'd think you'd be conscious of the risks! I suppose I could try to pull out but as lovely as you'd look painted over in come it's not exactly realistic--"

Jon thinks, why is he being this stupid — like he hasn’t already knotted Jon once, like he didn’t fucking bite him and then blame Jon for it, like there’s any bloody question left in the matter — and then he realizes that's why. That Peter thinks this is funny.

It maybe is, a bit, though that just makes him hate the whole affair an impossible bit more.

"I am asking you to knot me," he says, almost all one word, to the floor.

"Sorry?" Peter asks, the tone making Jon immediately decide that, even though it'd be somewhat fair if he hadn't heard what Jon said first, if Peter claimed that he'd be lying. "There's risk and then there's all but guaranteeing I'd knock you up, I mean…"

"That is the point, generally," Jon agrees, almost through gritted teeth. Not quite--he can't seem to hold that level of tension, just enough to try for the umpteenth time to clench down as if that would--would help the situation as regards his cunt at all and have that just utterly backfire.

"It's just not really what I'd expect of you to want, even more than all this!" Peter says, the irony as thick and prone to grating on Jon's nerves as his dick but without any of the marginal redeeming features. "I think you should tell me exactly what it is you want from me, just to make sure I'm understanding right. Doesn’t that seem fair?"

No, obviously. (As fair as anything thus far, Jon considers; would say it if he could spare words for anything unnecessary.) It's not fair. It's wanton and unnecessary cruelty and it's burning precious seconds of relatively clearer thought as everything but the instinctual sense of threat slips away from him and it's still a fucking stupid fake-conversation for Peter to have started.

But he needs— he needs, in a way that puts the fugue state of his worst starvation to shame. So presumably they’re both well aware of what his answer’s going to be.

“Please.” Jon’s voice cracks on it; on the fact that, among a very, very strictly limited set of options, he is technically telling the truth. “I need— I— I want you t-t-to--" God, he can't, he can't but he has to-- "I want you to knot my cunt and I want you to come inside me because I want you to get me pregnant is that fucking clear enough." He'd be more pleased with the successful spite in full sentences if it were carried on something other than a sob. His ears are ringing with instinctual panic and it makes him snappish but it makes him helpless in every way that actually matters.

“Really,” Peter says. Despite the way Jon's reeling, his voice comes through perfectly clear. He’s still keeping up the act enough to sound surprised, but there’s hairline cracks in the false affect now; more relevantly, there’s the broad head of his cock ghosting against Jon, not close enough for the limited motion of Jon rocking his hips back on reflex to force it inside but there, probably dragging lightly through Peter’s own come no less.

“Yes,” Jon says. Hates how sincere it sounds, on the relative scale of things, even with how it’s dragged out of him. “Yes. Please. Just— that.” He wonders, briefly, how much more Peter intends to make him fucking debase himself. He cuts himself off with the knowledge of how condemned Jon is to play along if he does.

"Oh, really, Archivist, it's my pleasure. Almost an honor, even," Peter says with a kind of solicitousness that makes Jon's hands curl into fists against the floor with irritation more than violence, not least because he’d begun to work himself up to expecting worse, "I'm very glad you asked."

The panic-frozen tension all goes out of Jon as soon as Peter fucks into him, all puppet-with-strings-cut, relaxing where he is with his face against the floor and everything to the point where it feels like he’s only held up by the hard cock coring into him exactly how he doesn’t want to want like this, the side of his face blissfully hitting the floor. It doesn’t even register as a form of discomfort, let alone injury, not compared to the parts of him that matter being hot and full again. Jon relaxes into the hands on his hips and the arch of his spine and, for a long moment, his mind goes quiet.

"So," Peter says, for all the world like they're continuing a conversation Jon should have any way to understand, "what do you think it's going to be, anyway?"

Jon’s first attempt at a reply is stolen as a whine, the second as a gasp. He has, just barely, the presence of mind to resent both, as well as to scrabble some level of support back under his cheek, if only in the form of his own forearm. “Wh-what?”

“You— you know,” Peter says, as casual as could be save the underlying strain of exertion. The roll of his hips ebbs and slows until he’s not doing much more than an insistent nudge, just enough motion to make Jon — to make them both, Jon presumes — unceasingly aware there is in fact a great deal of space inside him and a great deal of cock filling it. It’s a cheap trick, but it works well enough, leaves Jon clenching around him impatiently (insofar as he can) with a dull thrum of physically contented arousal from how he’s bottomed out, how Jon’s whole cunt feels stretched into that new and awfully correct fullness, waiting only for the knot to cap it off. “This,” Peter says, hand trailing from Jon’s hip to possessively round his belly. “Not that there’s anything here yet, but, well. That’s what you’ve got me to fix! I’d— I’d expect something interesting, surely, and you're the one who's supposed to be curious in the first place. The Eye’s favorite worldly investment repurposed as a sheath for my cock and an incubator for my god— doesn’t it make you wonder what you’re going to create?”

Peter starts fucking him again, properly, finding a rhythm that turns harsh and then harsher. Pleased with himself, Jon assumes, rocking his own hips back to meet each thrust as his back arches and his own cock and cunt throb insistently and seemingly in rhythm. Thinking about it, because of course he is. The thoughts starting slowly and then picking up speed until his mind's racing--if there's no way something could come from him and be human, what would the lesser evil even look like? Is a lesser evil possible when it comes to him literally being responsible for bringing more--

“But that's all you'll ever get to do, because the most you’ll ever get to know—fuck—about what exactly you inflicted on the world will be when— you start hearing about it from their victims,” Peter finishes, absolutely vicious.

He finally (finally) stops talking, shuddering against Jon, leaning over him like a fall risk as his hips try to jerk and can’t. His knot’s too thick inside Jon for even that little of movement, once more, cock pulsing as he comes inside him and Jon hopes none of the sounds he himself appears to be making are words. His head’s swimming too much to be sure.

Sex is so profoundly repetitive, Jon thinks, probably not for the first time and thus proving his own point, body shaking as if he’s the one who’d orgasmed. (You may not be able to come on my knot alone yet, but I’m sure we could get you there, he remembers with egregious clarity.) It’s not fair that it shouldn’t get old, that the same thing overwhelms him just as much each time, that he’s already growing familiar with this particular line of resentment. He wishes before he manages to stop himself that he did have the kind of toy Peter’d talked about, just to give up and keep it in his cunt all the time so he wouldn’t have to deal with this, presuming if he fucked himself full almost to the edge of what he can tolerate maybe he’d be able to get anything else done. At the moment Jon can’t muster a higher aspiration than that.

“That’s a while in your future yet,” Peter says, straightening up, once he’s got his breath back. He sounds repulsively fond; Jon supposes the thinking about all the ways he gets to hurt him must have helped. “Plenty of other things to be concerned about first. Case in point,” he says, ”you should be starting to feel some better?”

It’s an absolutely absurd question on the face of it. Jon would really rather prefer being able to open his mouth and say that. As it is, he shifts his face to be braced on one forearm only, and feels at his own belly with the other. There’s the slightest curve, one he could almost chalk up to the arch of his back if it weren’t for that Jon thinks can tell he can’t feel the obscene press of Peter’s cock as clearly despite that he’s at least as deep as he was before, and the touch of his own hand makes Jon sigh. He can't really tell what's heat-crazed fantasy and what's relentless biological reality in terms of proportion, but he's so warm and full he could cry with relief if he cared to abandon the dignity. Keeps hold of it by his mental fingernails only with the slightest press of knowledge of how temporary this feeling is, if anything.

(Jon can’t actually feel gravity and being relentlessly fucked open conspiring to let Peter fill him to the womb more easily—that’s ridiculous—but the illusion of it is the form that his arousal takes nonetheless. As if he could feel his cervix relaxing against Peter’s dick along with the rest of him, welcoming all the come he’s kept, managed to keep, inside even deeper, past the point where he can feel it, all but guaranteed to take. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to feel horrified at the ache of his own want for it, the way his mind semiconsciously luxuriates over the things Peter had said, either.)

He wants to feel only disgust, repulsion, some ordinary kind of jittering desperate personal fear, even the bare minimum of awareness he’s stuck in a deeply uncomfortable position would do for a start; but his whole body is pliant and buzzing with sensation. Peter feels so effortlessly good inside him, and Jon’s starting to get the vaguest sense that it’s actually possible for this thing his body’s turned into to be sated. To be full enough, for longer than an interstitial moment, even knowing he’s nowhere near there yet. It’s honestly a novel sensation at this point, with the year he’s been having. “I-I am,” he says, grudgingly still, once he’s finally exhausted managing not to.

“There we go,” Peter says approvingly; Jon thinks he might be nodding. “Does it bother you any, you know, not having any basis for comparison?”

“Comparison of what.”

“Well, this being your first heat and all that, and with how long it’ll be until your second… Seems to me you’d be positively itching for a different experience by then, right? So from a certain perspective we both win!”

It seems obvious by the time Jon’s speaking, enough that he somehow manages—despite all odds and his current position—to be embarrassed by the fact that he’s said, “You’re… already planning to leave me alone for it?” So he can hardly begrudge Peter not dignifying it with an answer.

Mostly because he’s full up on things to begrudge him already, with the looming prospect of really, truly thinking his new predicament through promising to make him lightheaded as soon as Jon’s got his wits about him to process it with—

Jon takes a moment trying at following up on the actual conversation at hand, imagining the worst of the need and the deprived panic being all of it. Thinks through, not for the first time, what he remembers of learning being mated does to a person. His blood runs cold.

“You’ll get used to it,” Peter says—confident, smug—and he thumbs at the thoroughly scarred nape of Jon’s neck, over Jon’s high and broken protests, as if to drive home that he must be lying.

Smirke introduces late-teens/early-twenties Jonah Magnus to the world of Fears. Before Jonah chooses the Eye, Mawell spends an educational visit making sure Jonah knows to fear the Dark.

+ Jonah urged and let him blindfold him and otherwise get him in a compromised position because he was expecting a different kind of traumatisation and doesn't realise what he's done before Rayner gets really suggestive
+ Mawell blindfolds him to start off with, and when Jonah is begging for him to take it off, he does only to already have submerged the area around them in complete darkness so Jonah still can't see
+ Maxwell playing with the hiding and covering aspects of being affiliated with the Dark (ie. "do you even exist to anyone else if they can't see you", "nothing I do will ever come to light", "you're easier to like when you can't see what's in front of you", etc.)
+ this experience is what pushes Jonah to The Eye

Okay with trans Jonah, but would prefer no vaginal penetrative sex. Fingering etc. is fine.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24160507
(same as above but with a bit more polish and also warnings.)

Filler anon thinking about paths I didn’t take now that it’s finished but… thinking about “Elias and S3” to go counter “Peter and S4” and the amount of potential for a very different genre of “gentle”, controlling noncon/praise and gaslighting etc. is… hmm… Much To Consider

much for someone other than me to consider beyond just idle thought, one hopes, fixating on individual prompts as much as I do gets fuckin wild, but. C o n s i d e r

So we've all seen fics centered around characters accomodating and comforting Jon through his varying levels of discomfort with sex. How about the reverse of that?

Jon is a sex positive ace with a decent amount of experience and an efficient and pragmatic attitude towards the act of sex itself. Martin is a 31 year old virgin who wasn't expecting Jon to be, uh, quite so ready to get right down to business, and needs a bit of coaxing and reassurance.

seconded!

I could see this going one of two ways:

1) Jon doesn't enjoy sex, but does enjoy Martin fucking other people and then describing it to him in detail later

or

2) Martin's particular flavor of jealousy and insecurity causes him to find the idea of Jon fucking other people to be INTENSE boner fuel.

oh, there are a LOT of hot lines here. all the casual violence and heat fuckery. and now the ending has me imagining jon murdering peter muuuch sooner than he does in canon. it'd be trickier for jon here, but he'd be a whole lot more motivated too. 0.0 peter sure likes to shame jon for being a dangerous monster without fully considering what it might mean for him that he's assaulting and threatening a dangerous monster who won't lack absolutely all agency in every moment of every day of the rest of his life. *mentally sharpens knives*

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Page 104 of 139

Prompt Post: The Magnus Archives #1

Prompt: Jon/Arun; fuck that guy.

Re: Prompt: Jon/Arun; fuck that guy.

Re: Apple of Your Eye 8/???

Re: Apple of Your Eye 9/???, part 1

Re: Apple of Your Eye 10/???

Re: Apple of Your Eye 8/???

Re: Apple of Your Eye 9/???, part 1

Re: Apple of Your Eye 10/???

Prompt: Jon/any; drunk sex; soft coercion

Prompt: Nikola/Jon, noncon tickle torture

Re: Prompt: Jon/any; drunk sex; soft coercion

Re: Prompt: Jon/any; drunk sex; soft coercion

Fill: Gen, feral!Jon (1/?)

Fill: Peter/Jon, noncon, gore, eye trauma, skullfucking (6/6)

Fill: Jon/another Avatar, noncon, gore, eye trauma, skullfucking (ao3 link)

Re: Fill: Trans!Jon/Any, Noncon, A/B/O, Heat mid-statement (4/?)

Re: Fill: Trans!Jon/Any, Noncon, A/B/O, Heat mid-statement (4/?)

Fill: Trans!Jon/Any, Noncon, A/B/O, Heat mid-statement (6/6)

Prompt: Jonah/Maxwell, non-con, blindfolds, age difference

Fill: Trans!Jon/Any, Noncon, A/B/O, Heat mid-statement (ao3 link)

Re: Prompt: Trans!Jon/Any, Noncon, A/B/O, Heat mid-statement

PROMPT: Jon/Martin, experienced Jon and virgin Martin

Re: PROMPT: Jon/Martin, experienced Jon and virgin Martin

Jon/Martin - cuckolding kink

Re: Fill: Trans!Jon/Any, Noncon, A/B/O, Heat mid-statement (6/6)