rusty_kink | Prompt Post: The Magnus Archives #1

Rules

1. All comments to the meme must be anonymous. Linking to fills on AO3/Tumblr/website of your choice is allowed, but comments here must still be posted anon.
2. Concrit is welcome if the author requests it, but character bashing, kink shaming, and hijacking threads by derailing prompts with contrary comments or asking for additions to the prompt are not allowed.
3. Warning for spoilers and subjects such as non-con, incest, underage, character death and worms is highly recommended, but not mandatory.
4. Crossover prompts between Rusty Quill Gaming and The Magnus Archives may be posted to both posts.
5. Please link all fills to the fill post.
6. Don't be an asshole. Mods reserve the right to freeze, screen or delete at their discretion.
7. While it should go without saying (kink meme and all) please be advised that much of the content here may not be appropriate for individuals under 18.
8. Update: All prompts can be filled by more than one person. Two cakes (or three, or four) are always appreciated.

While spoiler warnings are not required, if you would like to spoiler cut anything, you can use the following code:

<div tabindex="-1"><b>spoiler title</b><div>Some spoilery content.</div></div>

Prompting Guidelines

1. The prompt should begin with "Prompt:"
2. The fill should begin with "Fill:". Otherwise there should be no change to the title.
2. Include the names of the character(s) or pairing(s) in the title, followed by the kink or trope if applicable. Pairings should be formatted A/B(/C/D).
3. If you would like to provide warnings, please put them in the first line of the comment to prevent the titles from getting too long.

And example title: Prompt: Jon/Plant monster, sex pollen

Links

Ask a Mod
Fills Post
Chat and Off-Topic Discussion
AO3 Collection

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From: (Anonymous)

content warnings: internal self-shaming by jon about his own kinks.

This should be embarrassing. Strike that, this should be humiliating. What sort of man is he, that he can't get off by the usual means? That he needs this from his partner, to go away in his own head?

The first time they tried it, he hadn't been able to stomach it. Used his safeword, stomach turning, and refused Georgie's attempts at comfort — simply took his clothes and left. He couldn't look her in the eye for a week after that, certain that this was it again — he'd ruined their friendship for good because even after all these years he was incapable of just being normal for her.

Of course, when he'd tried to express this sentiment she'd been indignant. "Maybe I don't want 'normal'. Maybe I'm not 'normal', Jon, and maybe I don't think there's anything wrong with that!"

The second time they tried, it went... better. He was flustered at first, found it difficult to play the part however much he wanted to, but Georgie offered to help take him out of his own head a bit—

("You don't have to, ah," he demurs, not meeting her eyes.

She grips his chin and makes him, full lips crooking. "Not a hardship," he tells him, fingernails biting into his jaw so sharp his eyes water. "Promise.")

— Which is why they have always started with pain. It gives structure to what they're doing that Jon enjoys: she'll hurt him until he's mindless enough to play with her, and then in return he gratifies her in some way to end the scene. His own orgasm is fairly incidental, not what he's seeking from this, but he'd insisted on pleasuring her being a part of it—

("Not a hardship," he tells her, words breathed against her bare shoulder, both hands dipped between her legs. "Promise.")

So by now he doesn't blush when she puts him on his knees, doesn't curl up inside with shame when the open crack of her palm across his face makes his cock twitch upwards. Georgie is well aware of the way his body responds when she slaps him like this. Her affect is careless, as though this is as thoughtless as running a hand through his hair, but she's taken all her rings off and each strike has a calculated deliberation.

She slaps both cheeks with firm, heavy blows, and though the end result is Jon all flushed with his eyes watering from the sharpness of the sting, he isn't humiliated. He doesn't fear her. His wet lashes fall closed, and he keeps his shoulders back so she can look down and see that she's got him fully erect, cock ready for use.

It's not really a surprise when she pushes him backwards. He goes, legs still under him from the knee, thighs burning as she pushes him flat on his back. "I've had a long day," Georgie explains, maybe a little apologetically, "And I just, I need to come, all right? I'm not going to be any good to you if I don't get off first."

Jon nods, looking up at her, serene and adoring. She hasn't given him paws and tail yet, hasn't taken him to that place where he's no longer Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London, but he's definitely already skirting the edges of sub-space, and even if he wasn't... well, his feelings for Georgie are as complicated as ever, but he cares about her. He wants to make her feel good. Aversion to this intimacy was never part of what he still quietly thinks of as his dysfunction.

Georgie pinches his nipple suddenly and he gasps, snapped back from chasing that thought down its rabbit hole. She's knelt over him, and parts the lips of her cunt with two fingers so he can see the glimpse of damp pink, bright in contrast to her dark skin. He watches, fascinated, as her other hand lifts his erection from tapping at his abdomen and she sinks onto it with an exhale. Not all the way down — this isn't fucking. She just angles him to where the head of his cock rubs inside her in just the right way, and grinds there.

"You like that, don't you, kitten," Georgie murmurs, sweet and a little mean. Jon's gaze trails up her body; she's arced over him a little, hand on his chest to steady herself, nails digging in hard enough she might draw blood. "You like being my dildo."

"I do," admits Jon, because he thinks sometimes she needs the reassurance herself — that she's not being selfish, that he gets something from this. He sucks on two of his fingers and slips them between her legs, public hair rough against his palm as he finds her clit and just presses gently there, letting her rub on them as she grinds.

"Fuck," Georgie exhales, eyes screwing shut, and he thinks he might love her like this, getting frenetic over him, the hair she spends so much time on in wild sweaty strands against her forehead, baby hairs re-curling a little with the moisture, her lower lip between her teeth, her tits bouncing, her cunt flexing around him as she rides him selfishly to her own rough climax. It's vulnerable, and human, and it makes him feel good to be allowed to see this — and to please her.

When she's done she seats herself on him wholly and goes rigid-tight around his cock, and then stays there, shaking and panting through the aftershocks. Jon watches, eerily unblinking, touches her until she winces and bats his hand away.

"You might have to," he starts, voice half an octave lower, husky. "I may need you to move— off."

She understands what he means, thankfully, and he shudders as she slides off him, his cock popping out of her and flexing upwards again. He can feel his pulse in every blood-hot inch of it — dangerously close to coming. He presses his hand to it quietly, closes his eyes, unsure. He's wet from her — it would only take a couple of good strokes.

"Let's get you ready," says Georgie gently. She always seems to understand what he needs, maybe better than he does. When to push and when not to.

She starts with the paws — they're just mittens, really, but they take away the use of his hands, and with it the tension as to whether he's going to jerk himself off. He lets his arms splay up over his head, passive again, and she rubs his stomach approvingly. Jon's eyelids go heavy.

Next is the gag, the whiskers of it brushing his cheeks. They have other accessories — ears, tail, more a costume than bondage, but he shakes his head when she offers them. Some days he needs them, others they just feel clunky, a little silly. So the final piece today is the collar, just a scrap of pet store plastic with a little bell.

"There," Georgie says, coaxing him up. "What a handsome kitten."

Jon snorts, and if he did have a tail it would be raising. Even with the pain and the sex he's always a little ornery to start with. He ignores her praise and stretches up, hearing his spine pop, and then goes on his hands and knees on the bed, puts his paws forward and his ass in the air, stretching that way, too. Georgie slaps his ass lightly and he makes a noise.

"Please," she laughs, "You know exactly what that little pose looks like. Come on, kitten. I'm going to wash up and get something to eat."

He follows her. It's very freeing, to have nothing to do except follow her — but also not be beholden. He's a cat, he could go and curl up on the bed, or join the Admiral in front of the radiator, or bother Georgie until she fed him or pet him. For now he's content to trail her into the bathroom and wait on the mat while she takes a quick shower — and he doesn't have to be embarrassed about watching her, fascinated by the slope and curves of her body, the way water beads and slides across her skin. It's not unusual for cats to stare.

After, she slips into panties and an old t-shirt, reheats them some tuna bake, puts Jon's in front of him on the floor but doesn't watch as he dips and eats it from the plate with delicate bites. He has to focus intently so as not to make a mess, and afterwards he sits and cleans his face, licking the back of his paws.

Georgie washes up their plates — he'd done the dishes while she was out today, so it's not long before she's retiring to the couch to watch the telly. He rubs at her calves with his cheek, allows her to coax him up onto the couch with her. There, it's so easy to just rest his head in her lap, breathe in the scent of her sex and the warmth of her thighs, her fingers playing soothingly through his hair. Jon's never cared about television before, and hasn't started now — it's just background noise as he sinks into the comfort of Georgie's touch, the bliss of mindlessness.

It's late when she wakes him, so she must have dozed off herself, though at some point she tossed a blanket over his naked form. Jon no longer feels like a cat, and he sits up properly so she can take off the gag and collar and mittens, pliable and a little sleepy.

"Could I, um," he says hoarsely, faltering, words coming slowly. "Could I request..." He knows Georgie prefers specificity from his requests, which means no euphemisms, but he still can't meet her eyes when he admits, "I'd like to come tonight, I think." The absolute on-edge need of earlier has faded, his cock softened, but he can still feel the itch under his skin, a physical restlessness that makes him want to squirm and rub against something.

"Course," Georgie says, always generous. "Come on, kitten, you're sleeping in my bed."

Jon follows her — walking, this time, though he sticks close, feeling very slightly awkward in his nudity now. Georgie gets them both a glass of water, and a damp cloth for Jon because she knows he hates being messy, and god it makes him feel warm inside, the way she knows him and cares about him in her own rough way.

"You're tired," he says, trying to show a little empathy of his own. "We don't have to—"

"Shut up, Jon," Georgie says. They lie down together and she tucks up behind him, one arm curling up across his chest to wrap a hand around his throat, the other dipping over his hip to grip him roughly. He groans helplessly as she works him hard, tight fist relentless except for the occasional twist of his balls, her nails sharp at his throat, hand squeezing occasionally to leave him dizzy. The only thing that would make this better would be if she was fucking him, using him again, and he imagines her soft grunts as thick silicon penetrated both of them, imagines how good he could make her feel, his lovely Georgie, and gets frantic, bucking into her hand.

"Come now, kitten," Georgie tells him, nipping his shoulder, and he cries out as he does, curling into the sensation. She works him until his cries are from pain instead of pleasure, and then just a little more after that, before finally letting him go. Jon sinks into the white noise of the aftermath gratefully, barely aware of her cleaning him up, tucking them in. He tosses a leg across her thighs, gives a long sigh.

"You okay?" Georgie whispers in the dark.

"Yes, thank you," Jon replies. Nuzzles against her chest through her t-shirt — she strokes his hair.

"I worry about you, you know," she tells him. "I mean, much as I can, considering."

"I know," says Jon. There's not much else he can say, even if he was feeling more verbal. It's not as though this changes anything, really. Tomorrow will bring with it all the usual stressors and fears, the slow loss of his humanity to something hungry... but for now Jon, relaxed, allows himself to be content.