niffin

[niffin]

what’s your quietest feeling?

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Rating: E

Pairing: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood

Word count: 3382

CW: mildly dubious consent, implied/referenced noncon/abuse, internalized acephobia

Other tags: trans Jonathan Sims

ao3 link

Martin opens the door to Jon's office, armed with a duster. He's procrastinating recording the statement Elias assigned him, some dusty old letter from well over a century ago - it's waited this long, it can wait some hours more. Jon hasn't spent more than fifteen minutes at a time in the Archives since he'd been cleared of murder charges, and Martin doesn't think he even notices the state of his office when he pops in there, but God knows Martin isn't doing this out of any real hope for recognition and it's basically a matter of personal pride to -

He stops halfway to Jon's desk because… Jon's in the hollow under his desk, his favorite knit blanket (Martin's thrown it over him countless times) wrapped tight around his thin shoulders, and he's just. Staring. 

"Jon?" No answer. Martin hurriedly sets the duster down, then pulls the desk chair out of the way so he can kneel next to Jon without trapping him under there.

"Jon, what's wrong?" Martin can't keep a note of shrill worry from his voice. He looks Jon up and down; no visible injuries, though that hardly means anything nowadays. He checks his watch - how long has Jon been like this? This is the first time Martin's seen him in over a week, but if he's been hiding in here? He could have just returned, or been back for hours. Days. A sneak attack on the Archives? Did someone, something get to him - 

Then Jon laughs hollowly, says, "I'm fine," with that old acerbic tone that used to intimidate Martin. But Martin's not scared of him anymore -

"You're not scared at all?" Jon shifts his eyes to look at Martin without moving his head. Has he slept in the past week? 

"Sometimes I'm scared of you, but mostly just for you." Then Martin frowns at him, anxiety spiking when he realizes Jon's voice had filled with static. "How did you know to ask - like. Like how Elias does -" Jon grits his teeth, and Martin promptly moves on. (How long has Jon been able to do that? How much has he… heard?) "Okay, Jon, that's weird, and more than a little invasive, but right now it's more important for you to be -"

Jon stares at him with unusual intensity. He looks exhausted, and his eyes look almost black in the shadows under the desk. (Martin briefly thanks the Eye for fixing Jon's vision and rendering his glasses unnecessary. Which is the only good thing the Eye's ever done.) "You know I'm trans, right?"

Martin's train of thought is violently redirected to a new track. He involuntarily inspects Jon from head to foot, then kicks himself. It's surprising, yes, but no reason to suddenly inspect him, and now Martin has taken too long to answer. Jon hasn't blinked, expression unreadable. "Um - no, I didn't?" Come on, he knows that's not nearly enough to say when someone comes out. "Well, uh, thank you for telling me, that's, good to know - I'm cis. I think. Maybe? I chatted with Tim, a bit - sorry, this isn't about me so - um… is that? Relevant? To… whatever… this is?"

Jon's eyes flash in an instant so brief and unsettling Martin thinks it had to have been a strange shadow that made them look like they contained too many irises and pupils. "Do you still want me?" 

Static permeates his voice and slips like a heavy caress into Martin's ears, throat, bones; and now Martin is very, very scared. He knows now how there's no denial or deception when Jon compels. He clamps his hands over his mouth, straining to prevent his jaw from opening. "I - I'm -"

Jon's eyes widen and he jerks towards Martin,  holds his hands out in apology, caution. "I'm sorry! Don't - you don't have to answer. I didn't mean - I won't do that again."

Martin clutches at his face for another long moment, capturing those muffled half formed words, until he's sure that hungry pressure is gone, that his tongue is his own again. He lets go to suck in a heaving breath as his heart hammers away. "Jon, why -"

"I'm sorry -" 

"I mean, I - actually, what I want is - is for you to be safe -"

"Martin -"

"That's normal, and e-everyone does too - more or less - "

"Listen -"

"That's it! We are all - just, so professional here, in this, workplace setting -"

"Martin, stop." Jon grabs Martin's hands to hold them still.

Martin stops, mouth hanging open, flushed to the tips of his ears. Jon has such a strange look on his face right now as they lock gazes over their joined hands. He has his answer even though he withdrew the compulsion, Jon's not stupid, but why did - 

Martin doesn't get the chance to analyze it because Jon bites his lip (that's just not fair), pulls Martin's wrist towards him and. He kisses it. He brushes his full lips against the thin skin on the inside of Martin's wrist, where his veins show pale green against sandy skin. His fingers are warm and they fold so gently around Martin's, uncurl them to lay Martin's hand on his cheek where his own flush heats his skin. Jon carefully asks, "Do you want to. Have sex with me?" He presses a kiss to the base of his thumb, and his breath ghosts over it as he speaks.

No static except for the buzzing in Martin's head and everywhere Jon is touching him. His fingers move of their own volition to stroke that high cheekbone, the curling gray hair at Jon's temple, before he arrests their movement. Not before Jon notices, of course. "Are you… You’re not Jon. What did you do with the real Jon -"

"What? No! It's me." A mirthless smile passes briefly over his face. (Even in the midst of total incomprehensibility Martin can't help but marvel at the fact that he is touching the rare wonder of Jon's smile.) "Not entirely human anymore, but certainly no Stranger." 

He had tried to compel him, after all. That blows Martin's theory out of the water. Martin leans back, putting more distance between them, though he can't quite make himself. Stop touching Jon. "You're… interested. In me? You, actually want to -"

Jon's face closes off. He looks away, drops Martin's hand and tucks the blanket in tighter around himself. Martin sometimes forgets how forceful his gaze can be until Jon breaks eye contact and Martin doesn't feel pierced through anymore. "Fine - you clearly don't, so just… do me a favor and don't tell -"

Martin knows there's something else going on, there has to be, God knows he's obsessed about every interaction he's ever had with Jon and concluded every time that his feelings were as far from requited as possible. And it seemed pretty apparent from casual conversation that he had just never been interested in anyone. At all. Ever. (That actually almost made his hopeless crush easier to bear, knowing that it probably wasn't entirely personal.) And the timing, and the state Jon was in when Martin came in - this entire thing makes no sense. But. Martin wants to. Maybe, this actually marks the point where Jon will let Martin help him, since he's reaching out for… Martin can't really see how sex would help anything. But he's just a little too selfish to ruin this opportunity. He seizes his panic, uses it to propel himself past the emotional walls he'd (mostly unsuccessfully) set around Jon, and says, "No, wait! That's not - um, yes. I would like to? Have s… do that. With you." Fear and excitement turn his stomach to ice.

Jon sighs in what sounds like relief, but the tension in his body ratchets tighter. Then he slides out from under the desk without further preamble to wrap his hand confidently around the back of Martin's neck and kiss him hard. 

As soon as those fingers stroke against his neck surprised heat flashes through Martin's body; then their lips meet and Martin's lost. The gentle scrape of teeth along his lower lip reminds him he can reciprocate. Jon had pushed him back with the force of that kiss - Martin grabs at Jon's shirt, shoulders, to give back as hard as he's getting. His mouth tastes like cigarettes and a hint of the black tea he prefers (he never remembers to take the tea bag out when he makes it himself but Martin knows how to steep it perfectly) and it's so warm, soft skin and hard pressure, and his mouth fits just right, and he feels so sharp in his arms and determined in his kiss, and Martin traces his tongue along Jon's lip and presses it into his open mouth -

Jon breaks away, blanket sliding off his shoulders, to push closer and kiss down his jaw. His knees bracket Martin's and suddenly he's practically in his lap, and all the blood in his body drains south. Martin dizzily hauls him in the last few inches to drag his tongue down the cords in that long elegant throat, nip lightly at the curve between his neck and shoulder, breathe shuddering kisses over his scars. God, he's so beautiful, warm solid weight pressed against him, panting and shivering every time Martin touches him like he'd never been touched before. 

Jon makes a soft breathless sound and holds up something in Martin's peripheral vision. He glances at it as he bites Jon's earlobe, and then sits up straight. "W-why do you have a condom - did you mean right now? Right here -"

"Now, and here - has to be - " 

Martin furrows his brow; that's concerning, isn't it? "Jon, why -"

Jon fumbles the buttons of his shirt open as he demands, "Why do you ask? I can handle this, I want to -" And before Martin manages to say anything, he yanks his shirt off and tossed it across the room. Wonder and hopeless awe shove Martin's concerns firmly to the back of his mind. He wraps an arm around him to keep them close, slides his hand over his chest and the round jagged scars on it (he wonders which ones he yanked writhing worms from, blood staining his hands, the corkscrew, Jon's shirt, Jon's voice). His heart glows hot as he kisses each scar - this one is an apology. This one is a promise. This one is sorrow. This one is faith. God, Martin's head swims with want and he's tried so hard not to think about the want (Jon needs him clear headed, effective, useful; and he absolutely isn't when he's thinking about Jon by candlelight and Jon on Martin’s couch quietly reading and Jon in Martin’s bed moaning his name -). 

Jon pulls hard at his jumper and Martin sways forward into it, slides his hands down for a firm grip on his thighs, and stands up. It hardly takes much effort, Jon’s so skinny. He clutches at his chest as Martin resettles him in his arms for long enough to take the three steps to the cot (with how often Jon just falls asleep at his desk, Martin’s not actually sure he remembers it’s there at all. Every time, he imagines carrying Jon there himself, with varying degrees of exasperation). Suddenly, Jon shoves at his shoulders and nearly pitches them both over. Martin drops him on the cot harder than he intended, catching himself on his elbows over him. 

They freeze, staring at each other. Jon does something Martin can only call shrinking away, flattening himself against the cot as his nails dig into his shoulders. Something is wrong. Then Jon turns that convulsive clench of his hands into hauling Martin’s jumper over his head, and it and his glasses get tossed to the side; he thinks, something is wrong. Jon arches his back and now they’re skin to skin, heat pulsing through his body. His hands smooth over his soft stomach, then the fingers curl and drag their nails down his ribs; what is he supposed to do? Something is wrong and if Jon would just give him a second to think, to realize that nagging worry has turned into a klaxon in the very back of his mind, maybe he could fix it. All he can manage is a retaliatory bite on Jon’s collarbone, soft open mouth kisses over his stomach as he strokes down the length of his legs to pull off his shoes (battered old dress shoes that he's been alternating with equally battered trainers since Jane Prentiss destroyed any semblance of this being a normal job), back up to hook his fingers into his trousers and peel them off. 

Martin leans back on his heels and drinks him in, sharp features, slender limbs, and bones a little too prominent (his top surgery scars and stretch marks are starkly pale, though the worms seem to have spared him somewhat. Bad luck, to be so easily marked). Jon refuses to tolerate that for more than a few seconds, squirming under Martin’s gaze before he finally lurches up to work on his jeans. His hands brush his erection and it all feels so real that dizziness strikes him dumb, stops his heart. Martin has to pull away from Jon’s insistent hands; instead drops to his knees between his legs. 

Jon follows him with his gaze, wariness furrowing his brow as he asks hoarsely, “What -”

Martin kisses his hip bone, licks the elongated line of it and earns himself a yelp. So he hitches Jon's leg over his shoulder and mouths at the soft skin on the inside of his thigh, sucks on it lightly and presses his tongue into it hard. Jon jolts and whines, leg squeezing around his shoulder, and Martin agreeably licks his cunt, a broad stripe from bottom to top.

“Martin -” He does it again. Jon’s hands find their way into his hair to tug hard. “Wh - oh, fuck -” He slides his tongue between Jon’s folds, tastes him soft and delicate, satisfaction shuddering up his spine as Jon convulses, bends near in half over him. “Christ -” He flicks his tongue over Jon’s cock -

He’s violently pulled away. Jon’s still breathing hard but it almost has the timbre of panic, and his hands quiver where they’re buried in Martin’s hair. Alarm clears some of the fog from his mind. “Oh no -”

“I don’t like that. That feeling, it doesn’t -” His eyes widen further, the whites showing all around. “I don’t need it, alright? It’s fine.”

Guilt joins the alarm. “I’m sorry, I should have asked if -”

“Just - don’t worry about me, about making me -” Jon swallows hard. “The rest of it is - I want that.”

That reminds Martin, now that he can hear his thoughts. “Jon, please tell me if you don’t, if there’s anything -”

Jon’s mouth works and he leans down, enunciates every word. “I want you to fuck me.” Kisses him, sinks his teeth into Martin’s lip.

And just like that, he plunges back into single minded need. Maybe if Martin had been a better person, he could still have stopped. But the only thought that surfaces with any clarity says there aren’t nearly enough red flags to override all of Jon’s yeses, to override that. 

He devours Jon’s mouth, barely gets his jeans off his hips before Jon rips open the condom packet. Their hands collide putting it on, and it strikes Martin that he would really like to hold that hand. Right after he spreads Jon’s legs open over his thighs and thrusts into his cunt. It feels… it all feels jumbled together into one utterly overwhelming whole, and his mind can’t sift out individual sensations to hold onto, though he tries. He wants to imprint everything in his memory so deep it’ll never fade. And when it comes down to it, what he’s experiencing is almost incidental to… Jon himself; how he looks (greying curls falling in his face, delicate neck arched, bottom lip caught in his teeth) and sounds (subdued moans and gasps - he had imagined Jon being a little more… voluble) and moves (tiny kisses peppered over every inch of skin he can reach, hips canted to meet Martin’s).

Martin takes Jon’s hand, intertwines their fingers, and pushes it into the cot next to his face with his next thrust. Jon makes a choked sound low in his throat and bucks his hips, his eyes closing. Then, without opening them, he unerringly grabs Martin’s other wrist. “Yes. Like that -” Pulls those hands above his head too. Martin swallows hard - holding someone down had been a tame, guiltless fantasy until it was about Jon. So it’s not a hard decision to capture both thin wrists and pin them. 

Jon goes slack, face softening; then he arches violently, fighting against his grip and weight. Martin lets go - or he’s about to, when Jon says sharply, “No!” He hooks his legs around his thighs. “Don’t let me go.”

Jon matches Martin’s confused expression as they lock eyes, but it turns into a very familiar stubborn jut of his jaw. Something inexpressible wells in Martin’s chest. A not insignificant part is the conviction that this is a bad idea. Another part says that worry and stress had fallen away from Jon for that split second, and he can’t remember the last time Jon relaxed. (A third part tries to convince his heart not to read anything into it.) “I… won’t. Until you tell me to.” He tightens his grip to prove it.

Jon growls and fiercely struggles, trying to work his wrists free and nearly succeeding, heels digging and sliding on the cheap canvas. He clenches down so hard on Martin’s cock that he thinks he might come then and there. Then he visibly calms. Martin drives his hips forward hard, eliciting an unrestrained moan for the first time. That, at least, matches his fantasies perfectly. He runs his thumb over Jon’s cheek, kisses him tenderly in time with forceful thrusts (Jon had pulled away last time so he doesn’t try to slide his tongue into his mouth; that does make it easier to fill the space between them with quiet praise, gratitude, appreciation). Jon reacts beautifully. So beautifully.

It feels like an embarrassingly short time before Martin feels he’s about to come. He pauses deep inside him, panting, fingers trembling when he pushes Jon’s sweat-dampened hair off his forehead. He’d said not to worry about him, but Martin can’t help an anxious, “Jon - I’m -”

His eyes open (there’s definitely too many irises, oh God, how are there so many -) and abruptly an omnipresent scrutiny flays him down to his bones. “Look at me.”

Martin wouldn’t disobey even if he could. His voice breaks on Jon’s name and those eyes dissect him and he shatters, and he does not look away.

Next thing he realizes is that he’s crushing Jon, but he’s thoroughly, unreasonably drained. It’s nearly too much simply to force his hand to release Jon. Starts to move off him but is stopped with a hand on his shoulder. “Was it really so inconceivable that I was interested?”

Martin does not comprehend for a moment (he is unspeakably relieved to see Jon looking at him with perfectly normal eyes. Does he know that they… do that?), then catches his breath for a moment more. “I mean - yes? Certainly not in… in me. And I just, had the impression you weren’t into… anybody, that way.”

Jon’s face twists in a way he can’t interpret. “Well, there’s - there’s nothing wrong. With that. I really - and you seemed… okay, with how things were? And I never wanted to push - to push that boundary. I didn’t - I was okay. With how, with how things were.” 

The question looms over them. Things are not the same. They are not the same. Is he okay with that?

Jon pushes Martin off - gently enough, but something brittle snaps in his chest. He slowly sits up, tries to control his emotions while Jon hastily gathers his clothes. 

“Thank you.” Martin’s just put his glasses on and looks up to see Jon paused in the middle of yanking his shoes on, shirt buttoned wrong, looking wholly disheveled. “You didn’t have to. With me. I’m… grateful.” 

Hope chokes him before Jon finishes, “I’m sorry.”

He nearly runs out the door, and Martin’s alone. Again.

“What?”

[niffin]

you make a fine shrine

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Rating: E

Word count: 2733

CW: rape/noncon, dubcon, emotional abuse, transphobia, acephobia

Other tags: pleading, trans Jonathan Sims, s3 spoilers

ao3 link

Elias watches his Archivist avoid the Institute for almost a week after they consummated their sacrament. Jonathan fled back to his college friend's flat and promptly got into a row with her over his disappearance, and injuries. After soothing Ms. Barker with enough of the truth to make himself feel better and secure her trust and assistance, he spent a total of fourteen hours over multiple days while she was absent cradling her cat and hyperventilating. He made frantic, furtive doctor's appointments, where he adamantly denied any recent trauma to several concerned medical practitioners. Elias thinks disapprovingly that he'll sicken himself with starvation, particularly after his intense exertion in their last interaction. He's ignoring how statements have become a physical need, and not just an obsession. It does make it simple to ensure he'll return; all Elias has to do is make sure no one thinks to smuggle him any, and wait.

He's enjoying a nightcap at home when he Sees that the prodigal son has decided to return. When Jon finally arrives at the Institute, skulking through disused corridors towards the Archives, he finds Elias awaiting him, settled comfortably in one of the dilapidated sofas his archival staff refuse to upgrade.

Ice seizes his Archivist's heart and surges through his veins, locking him in place. Elias savors it. His fear is… unparalleled, complex and heady, imprinted by so many powers and, of course, by Elias himself.

Elias holds out a thin sheaf of papers. "I think you'll find Lester Chang's statement will help clarify your next move. But you seem unwell, Jonathan - perhaps you ought to get some rest before you record this one?"

He looks wan, enervated. Elias Knows he hadn't slept for over a day before his deprivation outweighed his dread. He Knows the adrenaline pumping through Jon won't compensate for the exhaustion and starvation. Elias anticipates seeing what he will do.

Jon mumbles hoarsely, "I don't want it." But his eyes fixate on the statement, and he unconsciously licks his lips. He's gorgeous.

"Then what did you come here for, Archivist? The pleasure of my company?"

Elias hardly has to try to provoke Jon - it's wonderful how much sheer stubbornness motivates him. He braces himself against the doorway, shaking his head, a hiss of disgusted laughter escaping his gritted teeth. "You are... a nasty piece of work, and I don't want anything you have to give me -"

Elias smiles. "You will." A flicker of fury in Jon's eyes. "Do you know why? Why don't you ask me?"

Jon senses the trap closing around him but obstinately remains silent. Elias feels a swell of adoration for that battered pride. "This statement has the lead you're searching for. I'm sure there are others in the Archive that could give you the information you need, but you don't have the luxury of a leisurely search. And all you have to do… is cooperate."

Elias places it down on an end table, watching Jon's desperation build. Jon can't formulate an argument and they both know it. Surrender only slightly softens the tense lines of Jon's body; the first halting step is the hardest, but soon enough he's standing just outside arm's reach swaying with need. Elias is suffused with delight.

As Jonathan takes that last step into range, Elias stands. Cups his face to pull him closer, runs his thumb tenderly over chapped lips and fingertips over the pockmarks the worms left in Jon's flesh. Jon asks, "Am I… Elias, am I still human?" There's no power behind it, weak as Jon is, but Elias appreciates the attempt.

Elias only Knows truths, and can only make people Know true things. But every mind is primed to accept some assertions more easily than others, and most of the time all it takes is simple manipulation to change someone’s perception in such a way that subjective impressions feel like objective reality. Jon is afraid of himself. Jon believes that Elias has answers. Of course he will provide some.

"What does human even mean? You’ll fool those untouched, those who want to believe otherwise." Bleakest despair engulfs him.

"You're marked. Damaged, Jonathan. Since long before you arrived here. Your temperament, your body, your inability to love." Hot shame in his stomach.

"But I know all of you, the flaws and the inhumanity. You're mine, and I am refining you. Just do what you need to, and you will be… perfect." He implants in Jon's mind what he's feeling - the devotion, the reverence. Then he rips it away. Jon gasps, eyes flying open, and clutches at Elias' suit, presses close, heart to heart. Oh, he still thinks Elias is an amoral abomination, but who else could love a monster like him?

Jon's face twists as he comes to the same conclusion. "Enough," he says hoarsely. "I'm cooperating, aren't I?" But he's thinking about how he could still leave with his dignity intact; how gratifying it would feel to wrap his hands around Elias' throat, the rest of the Institute's lives be damned.

His eyes flick towards the statement, enticing and so close. Then he grips Elias' clothes tighter; his hands shake. He leans in. Presses their mouths together. Elias smiles.

He kisses Jon hard, devouring him and his wordless protests. Jon doesn't know how to reciprocate, especially when Elias nips at his lower lip and pushes his tongue into his mouth. It's taking everything he has not to flinch away, not to resist.

Elias retreats an inch and murmurs, "Good boy. Let's do this properly." He strokes Jon's shoulder, lightly tugs at his pullover. "Off with this."

Jon averts his eyes. Takes it off, then, reluctantly, his trousers too. He shivers under the weight of Elias' gaze. Ms. Barker has forced some much needed nourishment on him, and he's not nearly as scrawny as he was when Elias took the metal pipe he'd been struggling with and smashed Leitner's head in. Truly, if Detective Tonner hadn't been so consumed by the Hunt, she'd have realized that regardless of his motives, he wasn't physically capable of it. And as it stands, his Archivist has too strong a belief in the value of human life, especially his friends'. Elias touches a fingertip to his chest where that tender heart races. Jon thinks uncontrollably of sharpened knives and bloody altars, then of cold earth and his own blunt pocket knife at his throat when Elias cradles the side of his neck where Alice bruised him, now yellowed and faded.

"Hush. You've become too precious for that, Archivist." Elias shrugs off his coat, takes hold of Jon's hand, and places it on his own chest where his heart swells with pride and tender devotion. "Can you feel it?"

There's a part of Jon that wants to feel it. He tells himself he doesn't, that he's being coerced, even as his fingers fumble at Elias' shirt buttons. Elias runs his hands over Jon's chest and slender waist, and marks how his touch incites Jon to speed up, trying to get it all over with.

Elias tosses his shirt to the side and pulls Jon into his lap. He's hot against the climate controlled air of the archive, but Jon is the one who acts like he's been burned when their skin touch. He grabs Jon's elbow to hold him, warn him. "Properly, Jonathan. You can make this good."

Jon stares at him, trying to calculate how much effort Elias will deem proper, how much will get him that statement and an escape with minimal damage. He decides not to leave his lap, and as Elias wraps his arms around him, he slowly spreads his fingers over Elias' chest. Jon's feather light touch traces the lines of the stylized tattooed eyes across it, and slips lower over the intricate geometry on Elias' ribs. For all his claims about his reluctance, the Archivist intently catalogs every detail.

Jon thinks about kissing him but can't quite make himself do it. He leans forward, hands sliding over Elias' stomach and chest, to put his lips on his jaw instead. Elias obligingly tilts his head back for Jon to kiss down his neck. He stops when he reaches Elias' pulse - opens his mouth over his vulnerable jugular - bites down hard enough to make Elias gasp - releases him immediately. They both know it was an empty threat. It didn't even make Jon feel better; now he's angry with himself for lacking the stomach to go through with it. Elias laughs. How provocative. "If inflicting a little pain helps you, Jon, then I certainly shall not stop you."

The permission, predictably, aggravates Jon. He tenses, won't make eye contact. "Am I making it good for you?"

Elias smiles. "Yes. But there’s more to do. You’ll have to mind the teeth this time." His Archivist stares a moment, then understands as Elias slowly eases him off his lap, hand on the back of his head pushing him inexorably downward. Jon resists, tightens his nails on Elias’ shoulders, a low growl in his throat. Then obeys. More or less. There’s a little more pressure in his touch, a few scattered begrudging kisses across his skin as Jon slides down between his legs.

He would be hard pressed to accept this level of sloppiness from anyone else. But it doesn't much matter - his Archivist is inexperienced to say the least, and desire renders foreplay nearly unnecessary. He just needs to watch Jon on his knees, shaking as he undoes Elias' trousers, gingerly avoiding touching his cock until he can't anymore, the distress on his face as he fully wraps his hand around it. He glances helplessly at Elias' face and sees no mercy, no reprieve.

Jonathan takes Elias' cock in his mouth. He gags, naturally, merely from the taste and sensation. He barely overpowers the urge to escape, and tears escape his eyes three quarters of the way down his cock, unable to go any further. Unwilling to even try to take Elias down his throat. Next time, perhaps. There's much to teach, all of it gratifying. He has different plans for tonight.

Elias says, "Wrap your hand around what's left." Jon blinks up at him, then complies. "Cover your teeth with your lips, and pull back up." It's exquisitely sensual, the halting movement of his tongue dragging against the underside of his cock, his hand belatedly following and smearing his saliva. "And again." Jon does it again. He tentatively strokes his tongue this time - a quick study, though he nearly chokes and has to pause and take a deep breath. Elias softly murmurs appreciation, says his name tenderly every time he tries something new. His Archivist, so eager to learn. Trying so hard, and being so good.

He waits until Jon is panicking over the possibility of Elias coming in his mouth (it took him no more than two or three minutes to start thinking about it. His naivete is charming - it's not that he thinks he's good at this, he simply has no idea how long anything would take) to pull him off and to his feet. It hardly makes a difference - now that he's not blindly trying to get through that ordeal, he's consumed with horror he hasn't quite identified yet.

His breath hitches on a sob as Elias kisses him again. Jon jerks away after a second, covering his mouth, sparking the first real irritation of the night. "My mouth, it’s - I know now, I thought it would be better than -"

Elias considers him coolly before relenting. Useful information, that he doesn't need to act on while Jon is being cooperative. He tugs Jon so they're a breath away from each other, just as a reminder that he can, and pulls out a condom. Jon exhales sharply in relief, lashes wet with tears. So as Elias tears the packet open, he says, "How do we ask for what we want, Jon?"

One of the most fascinating things about Jon is how he struggles to choose between basic self preservation and hostility. For a man with weaker defenses than Elias would like, he's remarkably combative. Many things run through Jon's head: insults, threats, accusations, simple refusal. He looks at Elias rolling on the condom, then at the statement. He closes his eyes. He chooses self preservation. "Please. Elias." A long pause before he resigns himself to saying it all. "Fuck me, Elias. Please."

"Good boy. Keep going." Elias helps him align himself over his cock. His willpower barely overcomes his bone deep revulsion as he haltingly sinks down onto it. The lubricant, minimal as it is, eases his struggle; when he's taken Elias to the base, he thinks vaguely that it doesn't hurt as much as he was afraid it would. He can't decide whether that makes him feel better or worse than their first time. He lifts himself, thighs straining, and sinks back down. His cunt is unbelievably tight and hot, clutching at Elias' cock, and Elias runs a comforting hand over his back, pulls his head down to press a worshipful kiss to his forehead.

Before Jon can stop himself he leans into the kiss, and that decides it for him: he feels much, much worse. But he says please again, holding Elias' hand to his cheek. Gasps it when Elias grabs his ass to pull him up, and his voice breaks on it when he's slammed back down. When Elias reaches down to roll his cock between his fingers, he thinks better of pulling away after one blinding panic filled moment; then pleads for it to stop, shivering, eyes wide and filled with tears. Elias does not stop. He presses their foreheads together and, ever so gently this time, suffuses Jon's mind with his own escalating ardor. Jon recognizes the intrusion the moment they both hear genuine eagerness in his begging. He swears, hides his face in Elias' neck, his whole body wracked with hard thrusts, and with sobs and unwilling arousal.

But he doesn't stop asking for it. He even means it, now. Of course it's the path of least resistance to simply submit to whatever demands Elias makes of him; but he pushes the whole length of their bodies together, and tugs on Elias' hair with a quiet, breathy moan. And of course there's a part of him that solely craves the witnessing; but that part is neither entirely foreign or out of his control, and he makes no effort to shut Elias out of his mind. He asks for more, pushes back against Elias' fingers on his cock, because he wants to feel something other than pain and exhaustion, fear and guilt and helplessness. It doesn't matter that the physical sensation of how Elias experiences his pleasure triggers a visceral misery like what Jon felt before his transition, or that sexual arousal, whether his or others', disquiets him, or that the source is almost entirely external. He can deal with that later. He wants to feel good. So Elias takes him over the edge. His orgasm sparks Elias' - then they reverberate inside each other's minds in a fierce detonation that stuns them both with its intensity, leaves them perspiring, trembling, and gasping for air.

Few things surprise Elias anymore, and so when he recovers, he cradles Jon with real affection. He considers himself profoundly fortunate to have acquired this quarrelsome, unpredictable creature, laying quiet for once, trying to regain his faculties. Soon enough Jon will remember his hunger and what he did to sate it. He will leave, with the statement, seething with fury and the quiet agonizing fear that he deserved it. That if he had been the proper kind of human, who could love people and let them love him, if he hadn't already chosen to change his body as he saw fit, maybe it wouldn't have been so easy for Elias to make him a monster. Elias knows how much damage he's done to Jon's self perception, but even if Jon's pride is crumbling, he will be proud enough for both of them. His greatest achievement. Should Jon survive the next year or so, the world will be pleading for mercy at their feet. And Jon's own pleas will be exclusively reserved for Elias, just like this, forever.

Jon shifts lethargically, mumbles something that could have been a question. Elias strokes his hair and answers it. "This was love, Jon."

[niffin]

watching me is like watching the fire take your eyes from you

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Rating: E

Word count: 2000

CW: Rape/noncon, bondage, humiliation, violence, acephobia

Other tags: Trans Jonathan Sims, blindfold, s3 spoilers

ao3 link

“If you’ll all give me and Jonathan a moment alone, I’m sure we have some things to discuss.”

Jon watches them file out, these colleagues (maybe even friends) who he hasn’t seen in so long, all of them rattled, furious. Outwitted. Unease surges through him as the door shuts and their footsteps fade, but no. Elias doesn’t warrant his fear, and so he drowns it in rage instead, which he does thoroughly deserve. He whirls on Elias, too many recriminations, accusations, competing on his tongue. “So.”

Elias leans on the front of his desk, long fingers lightly curled around the edge, a faint smile on his sharp, arrogant face. Jon does not consider himself a violent person but he wants to slap that smile off his face. The smile grows. “Come on, Jon, there’s really no need for the scowl -”

“What do you want?” Naturally what actually comes out of his mouth is a question. He wonders if Elias will shrug this one off too, but he answers readily.

“Honestly? To offer some congratulations. You’re doing much better than I expected.” Oh. Jon blinks in surprise, the scowl dropping. Enough people have tried to kill him in the past weeks that a compliment throws him off balance. He pulls his hostility back up but it doesn’t come as easily this time.

“Feels like all I’ve managed to do is…” Elias pushes off the desk towards him, and Jon takes a step back before arresting the motion. Elias killed Gertrude and Leitner, blackmailed Daisy and Basira, but he surely wouldn’t hurt the creature he’s molding Jon into. He finishes his sentence, heart pounding, as Elias halts in front of him. “Not die.”

“And believe me, that is a remarkably rare skill.” Elias’ hand shoots out, drags Jon’s burned hand closer to inspect it. Jon intends to yank it away, but doesn’t. Looks at Elias looking at his burned hand, the raised striations on brown skin, the paler whorls where Jude Perry’s fingerprints remain, and remembers how he couldn’t help but witness his own torture with eyes wide open. Elias’ undivided attention heightens something restless inside him, and he Knows Elias is watching his memory. Elias knows that he knows. The recursion unsettles him as much as the fact that he hasn’t let go.

“Yes, that was a close call, wasn’t it?” Elias is looking at his face now, far too close, expression severe. Jon tries to break his grip, and fails. The fear rekindles, lighting up his nerves and propelling everything into sharp focus.

Elias moves far too fast, grabbing and slamming him into the wall, arm twisted up behind his back. Jon is painfully present in this moment. The impact against the wall knocks all the air from his lungs. Minute cracks in the wood paneling varnish rub against his cheek and jaw. His shoulder blade creaks with the strain, his fingers going numb with interrupted blood flow. Elias presses warm against his back, his legs. Jon knows what’s laying firm against his hip, what Elias’ heated, quickening breath on his neck means. He wants to push away from the wall but it’d put more of them in contact and he can’t. He can’t let that happen. He gasps desperately, “Why?” He throws as much force behind it as he can, trembling with the effort as the static leaves his tongue.

At that Elias sighs, hips grinding slow against him. Jon makes a low tight sound in his throat. “Because it is your duty to observe and experience. Everything you chronicle in that mind of yours fuels you, and our master.”

The anger sparks again at that and he seizes onto it, shoves his free hand against Elias’ hip to no avail. “I never wanted that!” He’s never wanted this, even with the very few people he loved enough to try for. Couldn’t make himself want them. For so many reasons.

Elias works his hand into the curls at the nape of Jon’s neck and tugs his head back to make eye contact. There’s plain arousal on his face. “You chose this path in every way that matters. Despite what you think you wanted. Do you really think this is any different?”

They stare at each other for a long moment. Elias seems to know the second Jon decides this really is different, and interrupts his attempt to stomp on his instep by yanking his arm up even higher, forcing Jon onto his toes. Fabric rustles behind him, and as he cranes his head to look, soft silk wraps around his eyes and throws him into darkness. This, more than anything else Elias has done, terrifies him.

“No - Elias!” He thinks he can’t breathe - he doesn’t understand how that can be when all it really is is a blindfold. But matters have meanings on more than one level of reality now, and despite how he tries to convince himself otherwise he feels like he may be dying. In his paralyzing fear, he is only dimly aware of Elias removing Jon’s own belt to cinch around his wrists, letting him slump back against his body.

“Jonathan, I fear for your safety if this is enough to incapacitate you.” The irony manages to penetrate his bone deep horror, but Jon can’t summon a laugh. “We belong to the Watcher, but there’s more than one way to Know, and you need to learn them if you’re to survive.”

Elias half carries Jon, whose muscles won’t cooperate, and pushes him onto his back on what Jon presumes is his desk. The edge of it cuts into his bound hands and the fresh pain grounds him just a bit, enough to realize Elias is between his legs and his shirt is being unbuttoned. He thinks about why he’s only ever trusted one other person to do that. He hates how dazed he sounds when he says, “Elias, wait -”

“I knew about this the day you signed your employment contract.” He runs a fingertip over Jon’s chest, tracing his top surgery scars, and Jon shudders in shock. “It changes nothing; you have been, and will remain, my Archivist. I do want this to be instructive, but honestly, Jon? I’ve simply decided not to wait any longer for what I want.”

Jon tries to Know, he really does. But his disoriented mind sifts out individual sensations to focus on, analyze, and won’t assemble them into a coherent whole. Elias mouths at the bruises on his neck, scorching breath and wet tongue. Teeth sink into the tender skin over Jon’s collarbone and he wonders if they’re leaving marks on the bone itself. Ruthless hands roam over his heaving chest, and when their nails scrape over his scars and ribs they leave trails of prickling fire. His tears dampen the silk over his eyes, making it itch against his cheekbones and nose.

“You’re avoiding this, Archivist.” Elias’ voice comes from right beside his ear and Jon’s hearing suddenly slots back into place. He’s been whimpering, tiny stifled sobs and heaving gasps. He turns his head away, stuttering choked denials. How could he be avoiding anything when he can’t escape?

A sigh. Then Elias tugs Jon’s trousers down, kisses him hard, and drowns him in… himself, all at once. So that’s what arousal feels like, for Elias anyway. Liquid heat pours into him from where their bodies are pressed together but it’s dizzying to simultaneously be in his cold numb bones and Elias’ flesh, both of them aching, and he can’t tell where his skin ends and Elias’ begins.

Elias recedes, but witnessing the totality of him bleeds any remaining energy from Jon. There’s nothing now but darkness, blistering physical awareness of his wholly exposed body, and something he’s sure Elias left behind - an unfamiliar discomfort pooled low in his gut, between his legs. He whines and arches his back, unsure how to assuage the feeling.

Elias takes advantage to slide his hands under Jon’s back and drag him closer. His fabric-covered erection bangs into Jon at the precise spot that sends that feeling bursting through his body. Jon moans. Realizes what he’s feeling.

“I’ve rarely seen anyone quite so determined to ignore the things he doesn’t want to acknowledge about himself.” Elias shifts against him, keeping the flare of pleasure from dying, and leans down to gently brush Jon’s sweat dampened hair off his forehead. “Don’t forget - I want to make this edifying for you.”

Jon shakes his head, eyes wide and uselessly straining behind the blindfold. “Don’t. Something else, not this. Please -”

A kiss where the tears drip off his jaw. One hand pushes his legs open. The other trails fingertips up the inside of his thigh.

“No, don’t touch - it’s not right - Elias!”

He presses his thumb against Jon’s cock and Jon jolts upward. There might have been a thrill there if it wasn’t too much, too wrong. It strokes again and tears a despairing cry from Jon. No one hears it except for him, Elias, and the Ceaseless Watcher. If he can’t stop them from witnessing him suffer then at least -

Don’t make me like it.

Elias inhales sharply and his hands clench tight. “Oh. That was perfect, Jonathan. My magnificent Archivist -”

Then he shoves into Jon’s cunt. It’s slow going - Jon wasn’t even close to being wet with that meager foreplay (he hates that word but he liked it, so it applies, doesn’t it). There’s just Elias’ cock filling him far past his breaking point, ripping him apart, then withdrawing and taking pieces of him with it. And again. Elias croons praise as he fucks Jon, but it doesn’t begin to make up for the contamination his hands and mouth leave on Jon’s body, inside it. He counts time by his shaking sobs, wavering cries. He is so very aware of all of it happening, all over, and again.

Elias kisses his temple, tells him he’s close, punctuates it with a particularly cruel thrust. Jon finally remembers what the biological goal of sex is and a vise closes around his heart. Surely he’s safe - he’d had surgery, but - Jon arches, pushing against Elias, hands wrenching futilely in their bindings, moaning please. Don’t. It just makes Elias wrap Jon in his arms as he gently says, “No.”

Jon always needs to know, as if knowledge will save him, change his fate. He thinks that’s why he Sees when Elias comes inside him. It feels like something opens and implacable light pours in, stupefying him before it slams shut again. He sees Elias bent over him, predatory bliss evident in every line of his body. He sees himself, face a mask of anguish, legs spread obscenely. He sees their laboring bodies frozen in this moment of Elias’ triumph, the Watcher’s sacrifice accepted. He does not watch it dispassionately. He’s never been able to be dispassionate, whatever he might pretend. He is consumed with horror and shame and despair and that is as much a sacrifice to the Eye as his body. Then it ends. Jon is merely himself now. Broken. Defiled.

Elias sighs, long and satisfied. He pulls out and Jon feels a sickening warmth slick down to drip on the desk. Elias slips his hands under Jon, unconcerned with touching his own spend, to carry him to Elias’ chair. Jon’s too weak not to lean against Elias as they settle in, but he manages to summon a spark of spiteful joy for the mess he’s surely leaving on Elias’ fine tailored suit.

Elias releases Jon’s wrists. Then, finally, with his hand cupping Jon’s face, he unknots the tear soaked blindfold. They look at each other. The restoration of his vision revives Jon just enough to grind out, “I hate you.”

Elias smiles. “I adore you. My sublime Archivist. Next time,” and he pulls Jon’s head to rest on his shoulder. “I do hope you’ll allow yourself to enjoy it.”

Jon can’t bear to think about it. He lets Elias caress his spine. He shuts his eyes.

—

RAINN for 24/7 sexual assault hotline/live chat Trans Lifeline Trevor Project 24/7 hotline/live chat for LGBTQ individuals

[niffin]

im probably back, i changed my username from umbrellaacademywhump to my ao3 account, i will cross post my magnus archives fic from ao3  to here and 8 months later mark off another slot on bad things happen bingo

[niffin]

gonna open up requests for other fandoms and change the name. im gonna fill what prompts i have already. check tags, feel free to request

[niffin]

Red: completed. Yellow: requested.

grabbed by the hair: Diego, Klaus

humiliation: Five, Klaus

cold blooded torture: any of the UA members

mind rape: Vanya

doesn't realize they've been injured: Ben

scar to remember: Diego

I have your loved one: Luther and a sibling

[niffin]

thanks for all the follows, likes, and prompt requests! im kind of going through it right now, and never exactly wrote quickly anyways, so don't hold your breath. ill post what prompts have already been requested, so we don't have more repeats. i may or may not choose to write repeat prompts! thanks for your understanding.

[niffin]

locked in a cage, klaus and alive!ben, do your worst

The Worst That I Could Say

Rating: M

Word Count: 712

CW: sibling incest, referenced child abuse

ao3 link

There were wondrous marvels and priceless treasures aplenty in the Umbrella Academy but its cells were not one of them. They were, of course, in the basement, frigid cubes of weathered concrete and steel bars with chipped paint. Ben laid his head against them and dug his nails under a paint flake to pry it off. He wondered when they’d been built - they looked much older than the fourteen years the kids had been alive - and what they’d been built to imprison.

The hiss and thud of hydraulics announced the opening of the basement hatch. Ben sat up. It would a minute or so until he could distinguish the voices coming down the excessively long stairwell. So he was leaning against the bars eagerly when Klaus and Pogo entered.

“What did you do this time?” Ben asked.

“Oh, when aren’t I pissing off the old man,” Klaus said cheerfully. “Not badly enough to earn a personal escort though. Does it matter? I came to keep you company!”

Pogo shook his head, hand resting on Klaus’ shoulder, and gently reprimanded him. “Your father is very busy, boys. He has to delegate some things.” He pulled out the heavy key ring and sorted through them to unlock the cell next to Ben’s.

“Pogo, let him in with me! It’ll be so boring if you don’t.” Ben slumped dramatically to the ground. “ Please , Pogo.”

Klaus grabbed his hand and pouted. “I got in trouble so Ben wouldn’t be alone, Pogo.”

Pogo hesitated, then sighed in defeat, a small reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. “You, Klaus… Four, are incorrigible. And Ben, you enable him.” He inserted the key into Ben’s cell door to cheers. Klaus bounced inside and looped his arm through Ben’s, grinning, and Pogo left them to a chorus of thanks.

The heavy door had hardly crashed shut before Ben threw his arms around Klaus’ neck and pressed his mouth to his ear. “You missed me,” he said, dizzy. Daring to say it drove his heart rate up for fear of a denial, but Klaus immediately wrapped his arms around him and nodded fervently.

They stood like that for a long moment and then Ben took a step forward, pushing Klaus back, telegraphing his movement and intent. Klaus laughed and wound his hands into Ben’s hair, allowed him to back them both up against the wall. Ben hesitated, briefly shy, then gently kissed him.

It was always too chilly down here for him, except when Klaus came too. Their hands roamed over each other. Warm fingers slid under their uniform jackets and worked at belts. Klaus pulled Ben’s tucked shirt out and began unbuttoning it, following his hands with his mouth kissing the newly exposed skin. Ben bit his lip to silence himself and arched eagerly into his touch. Klaus paused, mouth at his hip bone, and Ben sighed, asked in a raspy whisper, “Do you want to?”

Klaus pressed his cheek to Ben’s hip and closed his eyes, thinking about it. Ben pet his hair and waited, shivering with every puff of breath across his skin. When Klaus said, “No; something else,” Ben knelt down and kissed his forehead, his nose, and finally his smiling mouth.

Ben tugged Klaus’ hand towards him with one hand, reaching out with his other to palm at his groin. There was no hesitation this time. Ben hurriedly undid Klaus’ pants as fast as he could, distracted by the hand wrapping around his cock and stroking just so. He shuffled closer on his knees, pressing his face into Klaus’ shoulder and moving his own hand the way he’d discovered over pleasant trysts the best response. Their breathing quickened; Ben slid his fingers into the hair at the nape of Klaus’ neck and tightened them, hard; Klaus sucked on Ben’s earlobe; they entangled themselves in each other. They were warm.

Some time later, his head pillowed in Klaus’ lap, Ben asked, “Why aren’t you afraid to touch me, like everyone else?”

He looked up at Klaus. There was a crooked smile on his face as he carded fingers through Ben’s hair. “Everyone else is ignoring what they really ought to be afraid of. Hush, let’s relax.” He passed his hand over Ben’s eyes and Ben obediently closed them.

[niffin]

Make an example of them with klaus and protective team please??

Maybe They’ll Leave You Alone, But Not Me

Rating: T

Word Count: 666

CW: canon-typical violence, child abuse

ao3 link

“You are, once again, an immense disappointment, Four.” Sir Reginald Hargreeves, that absolute bastard, stood in the middle of his stupid little gym and glowered at Klaus. As if he had really expected Klaus to actually participate in this morning’s combat drill, and not distract his siblings. What was the point? But his discontent lost to his fear, and it seemed to tilt the floor under his feet. He broke eye contact and stared, eyes hot, at the ground.

Allison came up behind Klaus and gently bumped his shoulder with hers. “He was just showing us how to do a backflip. We were going to work again in a minute, sir, honest.”

It felt like a bubble popped in his chest. “Well, I wasn’t going to. This is all complete bullshit! You’re not making us good at anything, you’re just a sadist!”

His waxed mustache trembled. “Cease your insubordinate behavior at once, Four -”

It was too late to retreat. Might as well see how far he could get. “You’re the reason Five left us!” Silence dropped oppressively over the room. He could feel everyone’s eyes boring into him but it was Reginald’s that he had to meet. “You’re why we don’t even want to save the damn world.”

Everything was still. Then pain exploded across his face and ricocheted inside his head, down his bones, and when he could finally sense anything other than the agony uncounted seconds later, he was on the floor. Dark shapes surrounded him. He remembered to inhale; blood surged into his throat, and for the briefest moment thought he might drown here. Someone Diego-shaped shoved hands under his shoulder and rolled him over, and he barely got a hand down in time to catch himself. He hacked like his lungs were giving out and bright crimson spattered on the ground and over his fingers. His next breath went better, until he experimentally moved his tongue to explore the burning pain on the side of his face and dislodged a tooth. He made a shocked pained sound and didn’t react fast enough to stop it from falling out. Belatedly tried to close his mouth; realized moving his jaw worsened the terrible ache that spread up the side of his head. He watched blood drip from his numb lips.

Gentle fingers slid down the less inflamed side of his face and helped him stabilize his jaw, the blood unheeded, and Klaus carefully looked up to meet Ben’s fearful eyes and trembling smile. Diego was supporting his weight; rubbed comforting circles into his shoulder with his thumb, told him, “We’re getting you to Mom, okay? You know she’s got some real good anesthetics. Or you would know if you ever actually tried to get in on the action before. Sensibly, anyways. You’re a real dumbass, Klaus.”

Klaus mumbled an automatic fuck you as best he could. Diego laughed, sounding more relieved than anything else. Slid Klaus’ arm over his shoulders and stood, and Ben helped pull him up. He reached out dizzily for the tooth lying abandoned in his blood, and Allison picked it up gingerly, sleeve pulled down over her fingers. Klaus had complicated feelings about his siblings at the best of times, but right now he looked at them with tears that were at least partly gratitude.

Luther spoke in a low soothing voice to their so-called father, whose furious eyes were fixed on Klaus. He automatically dropped his gaze to the cane being held tightly in his hands, and saw blood smeared across it. Nausea and hatred roiled in his stomach. He hoped bitterly that the impact with his face and mouth had scratched it.

Diego started to turn them towards the exit but Hargreeves’ voice stopped them in their tracks. “Of all the moments you could have chosen to stop being a gutless cur. This meaningless protest was what you chose to waste it on. Get out of my sight before I make you more than metaphorically toothless.”

They went.

[niffin]

faux affectionate villain, reginald and ben, just fuck me up

If You Wanted Honesty

Rating: T

Word Count: 404 words

CW: emotional abuse, child abuse

ao3 link

Ben stared at the map until his eyes watered and the lines blurred into each other. If he blinked, the tears would fall and it would prove he didn’t understand it. Stupid, slow Ben. When Father quizzed them tomorrow, he would freeze up, mind whiting out, and they would all be ashamed of him.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he jumped. He had to know who it was before releasing the creatures, looked back wildly and -

“You’re up far past curfew, Number Six.” Father was still impeccably dressed at this hour, and his face was, as usual, unreadable to Ben. The knot of tension in his stomach from preparing to open the rift changed, shifted up to clench around his heart.

“I’m sorry, Father; I didn’t th-think -” Ben took a deep breath. It did nothing for the ache in his chest. “There’s the exam tomorrow and -”

The hand on his shoulder only seemed to get heavier as Father said, “So you wanted extra time to prepare, then. Time no one else was allotted.”

Ben fixed his gaze on the curve of the monocle chain; that was as close as he dared get to the eye contact Father demanded. “Yes, sir. I- I just don’t want to keep falling behind.” His voice faded to a near whisper at the end.

Silence. Ben braced himself. But Father’s hand simply fell lightly on his head, and after a moment his fingers ruffled Ben’s hair. He pushed into the unexpected contact without thought, eyes closing in surprised pleasure.

“It’s good that you recognize your deficiencies, and that you are working additional hours to compensate for them, with the noble motive of ceasing to burden your siblings.”

Something sharp unfolded in his chest, and Ben was transfixed between the affectionate touch and the words of praise. He took a deep shuddering breath and nodded fervently, finally making eye contact, each light stroke in his hair tingling down his spine. “I’m trying, really, I am!”

Father made a noncommittal sound as he inspected Ben up and down. “I want to see you bringing that same enthusiasm to your scheduled training. There’s no reason you can’t succeed with the same regimen the others have. Back to your quarters, now.”

Tears pricked his eyes again. He murmured assent, thanks, and his words seared him as much as his father’s had, and he could not understand why.

ao3 link

[niffin]

Here is your card for Bad Things Happen Bingo. Happy writing!

thanks so much!