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“Happy birthday, Jon.” Elias smiles at him, a paper plate with the remains of his purloined slice of cake in one hand, a nearly empty glass of wine in the other.
“Thank you,” Jon answers, awkward now, unused as he is to talking to Elias in any scenario beyond the formal. Sasha and Tim and Martin are just on the other side of the room, yet somehow he feels isolated here with Elias. It’s as if they are miles away and Jon himself drowning, unseen below waves he doesn’t understand.
Jon supposes he should say more, but his brain is still occupied by the fact that Elias is here at all, at this birthday party he neither expected nor wanted, breaking down barriers between personal and professional that can never again be recovered. He wants Elias to think well of him. He wants to be a good archivist, to prove Elias right in choosing him for the job. He may not have the qualifications but he knows he can do it, knows he can fill this post, and he’s so grateful to Elias for giving him this chance.
(Terrified Elias will snatch it away from him at any moment, give it to someone more deserving at the first mistake.)
So he tries to smile, though he fears it comes out more pained than appreciative, and flounders for more to say. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss the cake for the world.” Elias’ expression remains smooth and pleasant, and surely this means Jon hasn’t somehow fumbled already. Right. It’s fine. Though there’s something behind Elias’ smile, some indefinable quality that makes Jon shiver. He ignores the feeling, firmly filing it away to be examined never.
Then Elias frowns, setting his wine down as he moves his hand forward, and swipes his thumb over the corner of Jon’s mouth. Jon flinches at the touch, the cool skin of Elias’ fingers soft and smooth and so very unexpected against him. The gesture is far too intimate. Jon shouldn’t know what Elias’ skin against his feels like, yet here he is, with the ghost of Elias’ fading touch burned into him.
He opens his mouth to ask what in the world Elias thinks he’s doing, but Elias is already pulling back. “You had frosting on your cheek,” Elias explains before Jon can say anything.
“Ah. Thank you.” Jon shifts, embarrassed to be seen in so childish a way on today, of all days. By Elias, of all people.
But then Elias is bringing his thumb to his own mouth, eyes locked on Jon’s as he licks it clean. Jon’s certain he doesn’t mean for it to be lascivious. Almost certain. He doesn’t have a napkin, that’s all. But the sight of his pink tongue flicking from between his lips to lick the finger that had so recently touched Jon brings a flush to his face, and a twisting heat within his gut that he tries his very best to ignore.
They chat for a few more minutes, meaningless pleasantries, with Elias pausing every now and then to take another bite of his slice of cake. After every bite, his tongue darts out to lick dark chocolate crumbs from his lips, and Jon can’t help but remember the sight of it licking Jon’s cake from Elias’ finger. Can’t help but imagine what it would feel like against his own skin. Again, he tries to file the feelings away. Elias is his boss. He usually isn’t like this, but he feels off-kilter, as if merely being in Elias’ presence is doing something odd and unwanted to him.
Finally Elias finishes eating and their conversation wraps up. “Why don’t you come by my office later, Jon? I have something I’d like to show you.”
Jon’s eyes widen. “Of course. When?” He can’t imagine what Elias would have for him, but of course he will show up. And it isn’t as if Elias can tell what he’s been thinking about, no matter his uncanny ability to guess Jon’s wish earlier.
“Take your time, enjoy your special day first. I’ll be waiting.” And with that, Elias gives him one last smile and wanders off, soon replaced by Tim. But Jon cannot keep his eyes from drifting back to Elias every few moments until, finally, he leaves, another slice of cake in hand.
It is hours later when he visits Elias’ office. Late enough to not seem eager, not too late as to seem negligent. This, too, Jon has agonized over. He hopes he’s struck the correct balance. He raises his hand to knock, but already Elias is saying, “Come in,” before his hand even meets wood. Jon firmly ignores the uncomfortable prickle at the back of his neck. He’s sure Elias just heard his footsteps.
Jon walks into the room and stands before Elias’ desk, the door closing with a loud click behind him. The room is large and spacious, filled with tasteful if slightly old fashioned decor. Elias sits back in his plush chair and smiles. Jon’s eyes dart around the room, a sudden and inexplicable feeling of entrapment coming over him.
“Jon. Thank you for coming.”
“You wanted to see me about something?” Jon asks, when Elias says no more.
“Indeed I did. Please, sit.” He gestures to the chair before his desk. Jon sits. “I would like to discuss your job performance.”
Jon’s eyes widen. Oh no. “I’m doing my best,” he says in a rush, pressing his hands into the table before him and half standing up again. “But with the archives in the state they are and—”
Elias waves a hand for him to sit back down and shushes him, then places his hands over Jon’s. “On the contrary, I wanted to congratulate you for your exemplary work.” Jon flushes at the praise, but can’t help but be distracted by the way Elias’ hands cover his. Elias’ fingers are long and elegant, the skin cool and soft, but saved from impossible perfection by slight signs of age and an ink stain on one finger. Jon finds his eyes drawn to the veins visible through the skin, running blue and vibrant just below the surface. Beautiful hands, Jon can’t help but think. His boss’ hands, a more sensible part of him tries to interject. It does nothing to deter him.
Elias lifts one of Jon’s hands, holding it in his as he continues. “And such exemplary work deserves a reward, don’t you think?” Jon can hardly think at all like this, unaccustomed contact short-circuiting his nerves. Elias is holding his hand. This isn’t a thing that happens. Should happen. And yet, undeniably, it is.
Then Elias lifts Jon’s hand, pulling it to his mouth, and presses the fingertips to his lips. It’s the briefest of kisses, but Jon can feel Elias’ lips against him, soft and warm, with a slight puff of air against skin as he breathes out. Jon freezes, his eyes wider than they’ve ever been.
Jon thinks wildly that he should probably report Elias for harassment, but who would he report to? Does this even count? And he can’t deny that he likes how Elias makes him feel, the way the slightest praise leaves him glowing. “I—” he stammers, face hot and blushing furiously, as Elias holds Jon’s hands in his, thumb rubbing circles into Jon’s palm. It’s soothing, almost hypnotic, and Jon’s eyes are fixed on that contact between them, unable to tear his gaze away.
Then Elias releases him. “Come over here.” Elias gestures for Jon to stand, standing as well as Jon walks over to his side of the desk. Jon pushes down his nerves. He still isn’t sure what Elias wants or why he’s been called here at all, his curiosity and anticipation warring with apprehension.
Elias isn’t a tall man, but he still has a few inches on Jon, and here, in his domain, Jon feels those inches more than ever. Elias’ presence looms larger than it has any right to. Elias once again grasps Jon’s hands, holding both within his as they stand facing each other.
It’s close enough for Jon to smell Elias’ cologne, something he’s sure is fancy and far beyond his own pay grade; though he doesn’t know the first thing about scents, and wouldn’t be able to begin identifying it. It is undeniably a good smell, though, pleasant without being overpowering, and undeniably part and parcel of Elias, fitting his confident air and well-appointed room.
And then Elias kisses him.
It’s soft, chaste, just a quick and gentle press of lips before Elias raises his head and Jon starts violently backwards. Jon should have expected this, he supposes, after Elias’ earlier actions, but never did he truly imagine it would— Elias would—
He wants to raise his hand to touch his lips, trace against where he now feels marked, but Elias still holds his hands captive, and Jon can do nothing but stare. His gaze flicks from Elias’ eyes down to his lips and back again. Lips that had just touched his.
His hands grip Elias’ tightly enough to hurt, but Elias makes no complaint, just pulls Jon back to him by their still enfolded hands until he’s nestled against Elias’ chest. Then Elias leans down for another kiss. This one is longer, still gentle, but no longer chaste. Elias opens his mouth over Jon’s, angling his face for a better fit, his tongue darting out to caress Jon’s lip. Jon sighs into the kiss, melting into the sensation, into Elias.
When Elias pulls back, he releases one hand so he can bury it in Jon’s hair, pulling Jon even closer until he’s breathing directly into Elias’ neck, proximity making the warmth and scent of Elias almost overwhelming. Elias’ fingers comb through Jon’s hair, the strokes comforting against Jon’s scalp as he relaxes.
“I think I’m going to fuck you now, if you’re amenable,” Elias says, breath low and hot as he murmurs directly into Jon’s ear, and suddenly Jon is not relaxed at all. Elias’ words send shivers of sensation through him. He could say no. He should say no. Jon doesn’t do this. He isn’t someone with much interest in sex, usually, certainly not with other people, just the occasional wank in the privacy of his own bed.
And yet he finds himself nodding, not daring to look at Elias, eyes squeezed tightly shut against Elias’ neck as he continues to stroke long fingers through Jon’s hair. This isn’t like him. But he wants it. He should resist, yet Elias’ pull is irresistible, dragging him in regardless.
Elias moves back, letting go of Jon, and he feels the loss keenly, though Elias still stands only inches away. He kneels at Jon’s feet, pulling off Jon’s shoes and socks. There’s something almost reverent in the way Elias’ hands travel up Jon’s legs, and Jon shivers as the fingers press just enough to be felt through the fabric of his trousers. Elias caresses over his calves then knees then thighs, leaving trails of fire in his wake with every touch. Elias cups the junction of Jon’s legs, hand pressing against him, but it’s not nearly enough. Not enough pressure, not enough contact, light touches that only tease at possibilities. Jon’s eyes are tightly closed, concentrating on the sensations, trying to ignore that it is Elias pulling them from him. But Elias stops, hand still and unmoving.
“Open your eyes, Jon.” Jon squeezes them shut more firmly, but Elias’ voice is impossible to ignore, and Jon begins to feel childish. He cracks open his eyes, and there is Elias before him, a smile—indulgent? smirking? With him it is so hard to tell—playing across his face.
“See, that wasn’t so hard.” Elias’ hand moves against Jon again, and he can’t help the small gasp that escapes his lips. Elias’ smile is definitely edging into a smirk now; Elias who is unfastening Jon’s trousers, pulling them down his legs. Even this rasp of fabric against skin feels like almost too much, but soon Jon stands there, naked from the waist down. Elias still kneels at his feet, and Jon looks away, eyes fixed blindly on the wall. Anywhere is better than Elias’ face, filled with a hunger that Jon hopes very dearly isn’t mirrored on himself. He can feel his cheeks flaming with warmth, the heat of arousal and embarrassment intermingled into an unbearable cocktail.
Then Jon is gasping again as Elias stands and picks him bodily up, setting him upon the desk. (A desk, Jon is now realizing, that is suspiciously free of any of its usual paperwork and pens and knick-knacks.) He’s stronger than Jon would have expected from his thin frame, moving Jon with ease. Then Elias pulls off his own suit jacket and loosens his tie, leaving him in waistcoat and shirtsleeves. Elias sits back in his chair, his face now level with Jon’s crotch. He starts, very deliberately, rolling up his sleeves.
And then Elias is touching Jon, spreading his thighs, the contact now direct skin against skin, and Jon can’t restrain another helpless gasp as Elias brushes a thumb over his clit. Jon buries his face in his hands. He can’t watch this. He can’t. His hands feel cold against his flushed face, welcomed relief in the face of Elias’ onslaught.
Elias strokes against Jon’s clit a few more times, then twists his hand until he can spear one finger into Jon. At that, Jon lets out an undignified squeak, then hurriedly moves his hands until they’re covering his mouth, trying to forestall any more, even as his breath starts to come in shuddering pants. Elias jerks the finger within Jon even as his thumb continues its assault on his clit, the twinned sensations nearly too much.
“Enjoying this, Jon?” Elias adds a second finger, spreading Jon’s cunt wider, and Jon tries very hard to keep a whine from escaping his throat at the unaccustomed stretch. He nods furiously, the only reaction he can trust himself with, lest a jumbled mess of incoherent words start babbling forth.
Then Elias pulls his hand away, and Jon does whimper, because even as the touches were overwhelming, their loss is an entirely new disappointment. But Elias does not leave him hanging for long.
Elias throws Jon’s legs over his shoulders, moves his head forward, and licks. Jon’s entire body shudders. He leans back on his arms, eyes shut, head thrown back, and mouth open, panting as he tries to stay silent. Elias affects him far too much, far more than he anticipated, and he can’t bear to let down this barrier more than he already has. He knows he’s being ridiculous, even in the space of his own head—here he is having sex with his boss on a desk during working hours, and he’s worried about how he sounds? But it feels a step too far, one last barrier between who he thinks of himself as and this wanton being he seems to have become.
Elias chuckles against him as if he knows precisely what Jon is thinking, sending vibrations through his body, and Jon shudders again. But all Elias does is give Jon’s clit another lick as he presses his fingers back into him. Then Elias changes his angle, takes Jon’s entire clit into his mouth, and sucks.
It’s overwhelming, his every nerve firing at the touch. The hot wet warmth of Elias’ mouth, the stroke of his tongue, the slight graze of teeth, all combine to leave Jon a shivering wreck. Sweat breaks out on his skin as each new movement pushes him higher, his whole body hot and yearning for release. He’s so close, so nearly there.
And then Elias twists his fingers and gives Jon’s clit another suck, and the pressure comes to a head, Jon’s climax shuddering through him. He clenches around Elias’ fingers within him, and finally he can’t help but whimper. Elias gives his clit a last few lazy licks, each one only amplifying the last, and Jon refuses to crack open his eyes just to see the self-satisfied smirk he knows must be on Elias’ face as he pulls his fingers free of Jon’s cunt.
Then something is prodding at Jon’s mouth, and he opens his eyes to see Elias pressing his fingers to Jon’s lips. The fingers that, until just now, had been buried within him. He’s too wrung out to do anything but obediently lick them clean, the taste of his own arousal mixed with Elias’ skin odd but not unpleasant.
“You’re doing so well, Jon,” Elias says, using his other hand to ruffle Jon’s hair. He didn’t think he could blush harder, but the praise does things to him. He closes his eyes again so he doesn’t have to see Elias’ pleased smile as he continues to suck at the fingers in his mouth.
Then the fingers are gone, and there’s a creak as Elias stands from his chair, then a rustle of cloth, and Jon feels blunt pressure against his cunt. Elias’ cock is pushing against him, into him, opening him far more than the fingers did. His orgasm was too recent, and he is still too sensitive, but Elias is relentless, and it takes him only moments to fully sheathe himself. Even oversensite as he is, the stretch is delicious, half pain and half pleasure, and Jon lets out another moan, giving in to wantonness. At last he is shameless in arousal, his usual hesitation banished by sheer physicality.
Elias wraps Jon’s legs around his waist, and pulls back, nearly pulling himself out entirely, before slamming back in, then again, and again, now fucking Jon in earnest. Each thrust builds Jon’s arousal back up, shudders wracking him with every movement. He gasps and pants and whimpers, utterly lost in sensation, the sounds of their breathing and slapping skin.
Elias is muttering things into Jon’s ear, phrases Jon can only half pay attention to. “Lovely” and “good” and “my Archivist” form a litany in time to each thrust and moan, a peculiar mix of possession and adulation, overwhelming in its intensity. Jon feels each word, the praise showered freely over him doing nearly as much as the physical movements to press his arousal ever upwards, heat coiling within him. His whole body tightens, reaching for that elusive peak.
Then Elias’ fingers once more go to Jon’s clit, and it takes only a few strokes combined with the unceasing thrusts to send Jon over the edge again, keening as he comes. He spasms around Elias’ cock, rhythmic involuntary clenching even as Elias continues to thrust, and the input is too much, too much. Jon can feel tears leaking from his eyes even as Elias’ thrusts start losing rhythm.
Then Elias groans, buries his face in Jon’s neck and biting down, a sharp pain in counterpoint to Elias coming, hot spurts within Jon.
Now there is only the sound of the two of them panting, the slick slap of flesh against flesh once again quiet.
Elias pulls out and tucks himself away, and Jon feels the drip of come leaking from within him, his face flushing hotter than he thought possible after his arousal had faded. But he can’t bring himself to move, still sitting on Elias’ desk. His trousers might as well be a hundred miles away for how much energy he has to retrieve them.
He barely notices when Elias goes to open a drawer, eyes vaguely following the movements. Whatever Elias pulls out, it’s vaguely cylindrical with a bulbous end, sleek and black, matte surface seeming to absorb every bit of surrounding light. Jon opens his mouth to ask what Elias is doing, when Elias turns back to Jon, his smile boding no good at all, and presses the object against Jon’s cunt.
Ah.
“Wha-what?” Jon finally manages to stutter, as if he can’t see very well that Elias is pressing a dildo inside of him.
“A gift for the birthday boy,” is all Elias says. It’s larger than Jon expects, uncomfortable against overstimulated flesh, and he squirms as Elias pushes it mercilessly into him, even eased as it is by the mess of come filling his cunt. Jon feels overstuffed and full once it’s in, clenching down helplessly around it.
Should he say thank you? It seems slightly inadequate for the situation, and yet if it is a gift, it would be the polite thing to do. Besides, Jon can hardly manage to gasp in air at the moment, much less speak. He figures Elias will not mind a missed courtesy, under the circumstances.
Elias gives Jon’s clit one last pat, sending more shivers through him, before turning and solicitously retrieving Jon’s clothing from where they lie discarded on the floor. Elias helps Jon gently off the desk, and he nearly falls, his legs almost too weak to support his weight, before he leans back against it as Elias pulls his underwear back up his legs, now holding the dildo in place as well. Next Elias helps him into his trousers, and then fusses over the rest of Jon’s clothing, combs fingers through his hair, as if any amount of faffing can make Jon presentable again.
Finally Elias seems satisfied, stepping back and looking Jon up and down with a critical eye before nodding. Then he reaches into the same drawer as earlier, pulls out a small black device, and presses a button.
And the thing within Jon starts vibrating.
Jon stumbles, and would have fallen for real if Elias hadn’t moved to catch him, the vibrations a sudden and unexpected onslaught on his already well-used body. Elias only smiles, his hands supportive and possessive around Jon’s waist.
“Now be a good little Archivist and go record a statement, why don’t you?” Elias smiles as he lets go and gives Jon one last pat on the shoulder, looking far too put together for what they’ve just done, for what he’s just done to Jon.
“Alright. Th-thank you?” Jon still doesn’t know what the appropriate words for this scenario are, and his brain is still mush, in no fit state to come up with anything else.
Jon turns and walks, gingerly, towards the door. He glances out, sees no one, and glances back to where Elias has already resumed his seat behind his desk to work. Elias looks up at him, as if one last thing has occurred to him. “And leave that in until I let you know it’s time to take it out.” His smile is bland, pleasant, far too ordinary for what he’s saying.
The vibration between Jon’s legs is simultaneously far too much and not nearly enough. Every step is agony and pleasure intertwined, sensation spearing through his body with every shift of the vibrator within him, the stretch and purring of it merciless. And with each step he feels like he’s leaking, his own arousal and Elias’ come dripping out of him around where he’s filled. He sincerely hopes no one will see him. The buzzing seems like the loudest sound in the world now, suffusing his entire being until he’s sure anyone would be able to tell just by looking at him. His steps, too, are awkward, mincing and uncomfortable from the unaccustomed object between his thighs.
But he makes it to his office unwitnessed by all but Elias’ ever present specter, and sits down heavily in his chair in relief. Or what would be relief, if the ceaseless buzzing could be ignored.
There is a statement already sitting on his desk, and Jon can’t even bring himself to be surprised. He hadn’t planned on reading one today, wanting to enjoy his birthday in peace, but apparently his plans have no part in this. So he reads.
He hopes, vaguely, that the tape recorder won’t pick up the sound of the vibrations. He is very much afraid it will.
The words flow from his mouth as they always do, and he loses himself within the chronicle of horror, nearly forgetting his body’s predicament. And then the vibration changes. After so long in one regular pattern, he is not prepared for this. He gasps, stuttering to a halt before he can continue, trying to read on as if nothing has changed. As if he has merely paused for breath, a normal, reasonable rationale for the reaction. Not a vibrator shoved within his cunt by the boss he’d just fucked. A vibrator that even now pulses within him, spreading heat through his veins.
He can feel sweat breaking out over his body, the renewed vigor of the vibrations distracting him from the statement he is determined to finish. Every time he thinks he’s become used to it, a new pattern begins, and he is once more aware of the stretch within him, the vibrations so close yet not quite enough to push him over the edge; just holding him, mind fogged with arousal, on the very precipice of pleasure. He’s oversensitive and sore and yet he finds himself wishing for Elias again, wishing for something, anything, to come and relieve this pressure.
But he can finish the statement. He will. He gasps, his breath shudders, his words shake. But he’s so close. So nearly finished reading. So nearly to his own finish. Jon runs his hands through his hair, anything to distract him from what’s within him.
And there it is. “Statement ends.”
The compulsion to read released, he leans back in his chair, closes his eyes, and once again tries to ignore the unignorable, the vibrations that are far too much for his oversensitized body. He’s so near to orgasm, so wet and ready and yet not there, despite everything.
He tries to ignore it, still. Tries to do other work that has accumulated on his desk, anything he can just sit and not move for. But the arousal will not leave him, and he feels speared through with sensation as every few minutes the vibration once again changes, pushing and spreading and leaving him unable to concentrate on anything but what his body insists on. He curses Elias, even as he yearns for him, for anything to finally end this.
Finally he slips a hand down over the front of his trousers. He can feel the vibrations now spreading to his hand, and he presses down on his clit, tries to nudge the vibrator into a position where it can hit just the right spot, push him over this edge he’s been on for so long. It’s still not enough. He glances around guiltily, as if anyone could see him despite the closed door. He’s at work, for god’s sake. He should not be doing this. Should not be continuing this. But he’s so very near and, and— He gives up thinking of excuses and quickly undoes his trousers, his fingers spearing into his underpants to rub at his clit, gasping at the relief of it.
Of course, now is the moment he hears a knock at his door. He looks up, wide eyed, frantically pulling his hand out of his pants as the door swings open, unbidden. He doesn’t want to be seen like this. He can’t be seen like this. He wouldn’t survive the humiliation of Tim or Sasha or, god forbid, Martin walking in on him debauched and masturbating here at work.
But it’s Elias. Of course it’s Elias. He smiles down at Jon’s panic as he closes the door, and locks it with a deliberate click.
“Still here, Jon?” His tone is light, as if this is any other situation, any other conversation. As if Elias hadn’t fucked the living daylights out of Jon not too long ago. As if Elias isn’t the one who’s brought him to this state.
Jon supposes Elias is better than the alternatives.
“Elias,” he bites out. He tries to glare, but he fears it falls far short of the mark. Elias’ mere presence is doing things to him, the memory of earlier combined with the unceasing vibration still within him leaving him weak with lassitude.
“I brought you another statement,” Elias says, walking around the desk. He places the paper on the desk before walking around to stand before Jon, leaning over to palm the front of Jon’s trousers, still undone and vibrating, damp and smelling of sex. Elias’ grin turns lascivious. “Earlier wasn’t enough, was it? I see you’ve made quite a mess of yourself.”
Now that is simply too much. “I had help, which I believe you may remember.” Jon scowls at him.
Elias’ expression is serene, butter-wouldn’t-melt innocence, even as he continues to caress Jon through the fabric of his trousers. “Oh, believe me, I remember very well.”
And then Elias is pulling Jon’s trousers back down, baring him once again, before pressing the new statement into Jon’s hands. Elias kneels between Jon’s legs. “Read,” he says, looking up at Jon, one hand splayed possessively over Jon’s thigh, the other grasping hold of the vibrator, twisting it. The new angle dredges an involuntary whimper from Jon.
So Jon reads.
“Statement of—“ he begins, but Elias doesn’t give him time to get started before he is once again toying with Jon’s clit, idly stroking it even as he continues to adjust the vibrator.
“Keep going,” Elias says; casual, yet the order in his voice is undeniable. Jon continues.
It’s hard. Jon usually reads only one statement at a time, the visceral horror contained in them draining him too much to continue. And Elias will not stop teasing him; one moment pressing against far too sensitive flesh, the next letting Jon relax back into the by now familiar vibrations. Jon focuses his attention on the page before him, dropping one word after the next like pebbles into a roiling endless ocean, failed stepping stones that do nothing to save him as he drowns. He’s already tired from reading the first statement, and worn out from Elias’ earlier seduction, and now he is being pushed beyond his limits.
It hurts, and yet the exquisite agony is underlain with a deep satisfaction, words ripped from his lips as pleasure is forced from his body. Jon shakes with each syllable and each movement of Elias’ fingers, overwhelmed and barely holding together. He is so close to release, but each time he approaches, Elias pulls back his onslaught, only to return and build Jon back up, keeping him on the very edge.
Jon is nearly finished with the statement when Elias grasps the vibrator and pulls it out of Jon with a slick pop. He whimpers, his cunt still seeming to buzz with phantom vibrations after having it within him for so long. And then Elias moves the vibrator to his clit and oh. Oh. He tries to keep reading, but now it’s too much, far, far too much, and he can only moan helplessly, all coherence lost. Within moments he reaches his peak, whole body shuddering, legs locked tight behind Elias’ back as he comes. But Elias does not relent, keeping the vibrations on Jon’s clit for longer than is comfortable, and Jon remains a keening wreck.
Finally Elias pulls it away, turns it off, and allows Jon to relax. Jon’s breaths come hard and fast, still incapable of anything but just existing, floating in the aftermath of orgasm. But before he’s recovered, Elias is pushing the statement back into his hands. “Read,” he says.
It takes all of Jon’s willpower, but he finishes. He can hardly remember a word of what he’s said, the horror of it subsumed in sex, but he perseveres. And throughout, Elias remains kneeling at his feet, hands stroking along Jon’s thighs. This does not help Jon’s concentration, but it’s soothing; a gentle counterpoint to his earlier pleasured anguish.
Soon Jon finishes, and as he does, Elias stands up, placing the vibrator, still slick with fluid, on Jon’s desk. He turns back to Jon, trailing his fingers along Jon’s face, tracing from his cheekbone down. “Think of me when you use it,” he says, touch lingering at Jon’s lips. Jon is too tired to do more than shiver slightly and blink at Elias, struggling to summon a response. He doesn’t want to, he thinks, and yet he knows, deep down, that one late night soon will find him weak and wanting and eager to give in, if only in the privacy of his own bedroom.
Elias smiles, a slow grin that fills his entire face, as if he knows exactly what Jon is thinking. He says nothing else as he walks away from Jon. Then his footsteps pause as he approaches the door, and he turns back for one final comment.
“Happy birthday, Archivist.”