Work Text:
Jon always knows when his rut is approaching.
As with most things to do with sex, Jon is apparently an outlier in this regard. If pop culture is to be believed, being blindsided by one's cycle is a problem so common it's nearly cliché. It happens every month, they say, but it catches me by surprise every time!
Jon has never had that problem. The sensation of Jon's rut is so distinctive - and so alien to Jon’s normal frame of mind - that Jon can identify the warning signs immediately.
The first thing Jon notices is the anger. From the first moment he opens his eyes in the morning, there's a restless, directionless agitation simmering under his skin. It drives him out of bed precisely one minute before his alarm is due to go off, with none of his usual groggy reluctance, even as the gentle patter of rain against the roof of his flat tries to tempt him to indulge in a lie-in.
Jon picks up his phone and disables the alarm manually before it goes off. His nerves can't take it today. Then he pads off to the bathroom to do what needs to be done, idly shifting his shoulder blades to crack the stiffness from his back, and he is angry, angry, angry. But not in the bleak, anhedonic manner of his usual bad moods, or the frazzled irritability so often forced upon him by circumstance. No. It is, bizarrely, a pleasurable sort of anger. That's how Jon knows.
Jon is in rut, and rut, for Jon, means being so aggressively full of joie de vivre he can hardly stand it. For better or for worse, his entire perception of the world is pleasantly amplified. Jon eats his breakfast voraciously, shoveling down heaping forkfuls of leftover fried rice, because food tastes better today; he turns his kitchen radio up to full blast, humming absent-mindedly along to Somebody To Love while he does last night's dishes, because music sounds better today; his cock feels so good in his hand during his morning shower that he ends up delaying his departure to engage in an entirely uncharacteristic bout of masturbation, and comes so hard he shudders with the decadence of it.
And then he has to spend an awkward ten minutes walking around with a washcloth cupped over his groin while he waits for his knot to go down, trying, to the best of his ability, to accomplish the remainder of his morning routine one-handed. Behold, the unchained eroticism of rut.
Despite this slight hiccup, the rest of Jon’s morning proceeds uneventfully. The usually inoffensive smell of Jon’s deodorant feels overbearing today, so he decides to forgo it, after he covers each of his apocrine points in a thick, waxy layer of odorless sealant. Before he gets dressed, he tucks his recalcitrant half-hard cock into a pair of waterproof briefs, in case it decides to get ideas during his workday. He dithers in front of his closet, eyeing the sets of crisp new work clothes he’d bought shortly after his promotion, and then brushes them aside and chooses the most comfortable outfit he owns that’s still technically office-appropriate. The worn-soft button-down shirt and wash-faded slacks are, in truth, a little too old to be presentable, but Jon is in no mood to suffer for the sake of appearances.
Then it's time for his commute. Jon double-checks the contents of his pockets, grabs his umbrella, and leaves for work feeling invigorated and infuriated in equal measure, wanting nothing more than to eat and sing and fuck and rip the face off of anyone who stands in the way of him doing these things. He is terribly preoccupied by the idea of interlopers. How dare they, he thinks about no one in particular, feeling vaguely hostile towards the world at large. How dare anyone consider interfering with Jon doing what he wants to do. He scowls at the rain for making his walk unpleasant and clenches his jaw when the wind tugs at his umbrella and restrains himself from shouting at the woman in front of him at the café who takes too long to order, because Jon is going to be late and he wants his coffee now and surely it cannot be that fucking difficult to decide which fucking pastry she wants.
Jon rarely indulges in coffee. Tea is cheaper and easier on his blood pressure and doesn't require him to remember to buy creamer or clean a coffee pot. Right now, however, Jon is in no mood for frugality or moderation of any sort. The very idea is repellant to him.
At last, Jon succeeds in acquiring his overpriced iced coffee. Jon sips it vehemently as he walks, savoring the creamy garnish of pistachio-flavored foam, and imagines biting anyone who might try to take it from him. The tingling buzz of caffeine hitting his bloodstream makes his eyelids flutter with euphoria. Lord help him. He won't sleep a wink tonight.
Jon is in a sorry state by the time he gets to the Institute, nodding a curt greeting at Rosie as he stalks past the front desk. It's not even seven yet and his BPM is through the roof. He swaps his half-drunk coffee from one trembling hand to the other as he reaches for the basement door’s disgusting round door knob, wishing, as he does every day, that someone would replace it with a lever door handle, so his hand wouldn’t have to make contact with the hand grease of every single other person who has ever touched it. Is no one else familiar with the concept of germ theory?
Jon’s condition is not at all improved by Tim, who apparently felt like coming into work early, for some reason. Tim waylays Jon the moment he sets foot in the archives, immediately launching into a spirited monologue involving…oh, Jon doesn't know. Something to do with architecture and Robert Smirke. Jon is only listening with half an ear. He can't focus. Tim's grinning face and good-natured chatter fill Jon with too many contradictory emotions. At one point, Tim nudges him a bit, bumping their shoulders companionably, and Jon isn't sure whether he wants to finger-comb Tim's hair or take a swing at him.
(There's a cowlick sticking up at an awkward angle from the otherwise impeccably-gelled top of Tim's hair. The sight of it is making Jon unreasonably upset. Jon needs to get to his office quickly, before he commits an act of workplace harassment.)
Jon’s escape attempt is unsuccessful. Tim follows Jon right into his office, as though he has no doubts whatsoever about his welcome, shutting the door presumptuously behind them. The corners of Jon’s mouth twitch up slightly, even as Jon manfully resists the urge to slap Tim upside the head.
"Right," says Jon, once Tim finally deigns to let him get a word in edgewise. He has absolutely no idea what Tim just said to him. He sighs and rubs his temple, trying in vain to ward off his impending caffeine headache. "Well. Send Martin in, if he ever decides to show up. I need to ask him about his follow-up on the Ex Altiora case."
Tim shakes his head like Jon is talking nonsense. "Jon. You can't talk to Martin."
"What? Why not?"
"Because you'll scare him to death. He doesn't know you like we do. He's not used to…all of this," says Tim, with an illustrative gesture that illustrates nothing.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Jon bristles slightly at the implication that he's an acquired taste. It's probably true, but that's completely beside the point.
Tim leans in seriously. "Jon. I know you only get Starbucks when you're rutty."
"Excuse me?" That can't be true, can it? Jon is almost certain that isn't true.
"And I'm not gonna let you bite the poor guy's head off just because you're horny."
"Because you're the one I should be coming to for advice on professionalism," says Jon acidly. He knows that's not fair. The quality of Tim's work is consistently excellent, even if his methods are occasionally unorthodox.
"I mean, I could help, but-"
"Of course you could," Jon snaps, powerless to stop himself, regretting the words the moment they leave his mouth. "You've never met a problem you can't fuck your way out of."
Tims eyebrows raise. Jon holds his gaze for a moment, glowering. Then his shoulders slump. He hangs his head. "...I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
"Yeah, kind of." Tim doesn't compound Jon’s shame by lingering over it. He’s looking at Jon with an entirely unwelcome expression of sympathy. Then he opens his arms invitingly. "Oh, come on. Get over here, grumpypants."
Jon hesitates, experiencing a brief agony of indecision. Jon really shouldn't. The sort of comfort Tim is offering was just barely acceptable coming from a fellow researcher. Coming from a direct subordinate, it's…no longer appropriate. It doesn't matter that both of them are well aware that quid pro quo is the furthest thing from Jon's mind. There's the look of the thing to consider. If word ever gets out, it will reflect poorly on both of them. Jon can't risk it, not now that his career has just started to get off the ground.
"Come onnn," Tim says again, cajolingly. "You know you'll feel better after. It'll boost your productivity."
Jon snorts, annoyed at being so shamelessly manipulated. In equal measure, he's chagrined at himself for how quickly his resolve begins to crumble.
…well. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt, just this once, thinks Jon, with the sort of guiltily pleasurable sensation he normally associates with reaching for the cigarette carton. Just a little. For old times' sake.
Jon sets his coffee down on his desk, steps stiffly forward, and lets himself fall into Tim's arms. He leans luxuriously into the reassuring solid warmth of Tim's body, putting his face in Tim's neck and inhaling a lungful of vaguely pine-scented aftershave, underlaid by a soothingly neutral pheromone profile. Not for the first time, Jon takes a moment to envy the even keel of Tim's hormones. The benefits of type A biology are wasted on Jon.
Tim knows just what to do, damn him. He hugs ferociously, like a human hydraulic press, crushing Jon hard against his broad chest in precisely the way Jon likes. He also rocks back and forth in a comically exaggerated manner, like he's soothing a fussy baby, which Jon doesn't especially appreciate.
"Aw, are you gonna be cranky all day?" Tim croons, snuffling his lips and nose against Jon's temple. "Is that the plan? Just hole up in here with your blue balls and be sad? While your good buddy Tim is right here?"
Jon isn't even going to dignify that with a response, because that was, in fact, his plan. It was a good plan. He never should have deviated from it. If Jon had any moral fortitude whatsoever, he would abandon his current course of action and return to that plan.
Instead, Jon sighs and grumbles noncommittally and allows Tim to squeeze him into something resembling a decent mood.
Thankfully, Tim has the good grace not to rub it in any further. He leans hard against Jon, inducing in Jon a vague desire to wrestle. Jon firmly quashes it. Tim withdraws slightly, and then leans in again. And again. It takes Jon a moment to register that he is being humped, which is blatantly insulting. Jon growls forebodingly, because he's annoyed, and also because he's so hard the crotch seam of his trousers is hurting him. When Tim starts to kiss him, Jon kisses back.
(Jon puts in a little more teeth than necessary, just so Tim doesn't forget who the boss is.)
Tim doesn't bother with a lengthy seduction. They both know Jon doesn't care a fig for Tim’s Adonian good looks. Jon's body responds because Tim is warm and safe and his friend, and Jon trusts Tim to ask no more of him than Jon is able to give. When Tim starts to stroke Jon’s back, kneading the tension from his muscles, Jon trusts him enough to let it feel good.
And then, sliding easily into the steps of comfortable routine, Tim guides Jon to turn around, bending - somewhat reluctantly - over his own desk. Sensing Jon’s dissatisfaction, Tim gives him another indulgent smile. "Sorry, bud, but I'm not gonna let you knock me up."
"Of course not," says Jon, even as he experiences a momentary pang of distress at the idea that he will not, in fact, enjoy the privilege of impregnating his coworker. Tim gives him a knowing look. Jon curls his lip at him, then turns his face away.
Jon lets out a soft hum of relief as Tim eases his trousers down, freeing his cock from the unpleasant sweatiness of his pants. Tim cups one of Jon’s not-particularly-well-endowed buttocks in his big, strong hand, squeezing affectionately, and then slides down behind Jon’s balls, gently pressing against Jon’s perineum, soft secret touches in a soft secret place. The pads of Tim's fingers are ever so slightly rough. As Tim strokes him slowly, mindful of Jon’s almost unbearable delicacy, Jon imagines he can feel every whorl of Tim's fingerprint. He shudders involuntarily and arches his back.
This part of Jon is unaccustomed to being touched outside the demands of hygiene. Jon's rare assignations with Tim are the only time it happens; Jon doesn't do this to himself. Even now, as Tim carefully probes the small, shallow vestigium, coaxing Jon to unfamiliar wetness, unfamiliar pleasure, the act carries a hint of forbidden novelty. In Jon’s mind, the sensation is associated indelibly with Tim.
The first time Tim had tried this, Jon had thought Tim was hinting towards anal sex, and had stammered a hasty refusal. Tim had set him straight, laughing, and had ridden out Jon’s mortified irritation - first at his own ignorance, and then at the state of England's sex education curriculum as a whole - with tolerant good cheer. Tim had patiently explained that yes, Jon has a hole, yes, that kind of hole, yes, it's totally normal, no, Jon is in no danger of getting pregnant, and yes, if Jon can get over his macho type A bullshit, it will feel good if he lets Tim play with it.
The injustice of being accused of machismo by a man whose bicep is nearly the circumference of Jon’s thigh had outraged Jon so severely that he had agreed to penetrative sex more-or-less out of spite. He was subsequently fingered to orgasm three times consecutively.
When Jon hears Tim unzip, Jon can't resist glancing over his shoulder. Tim's cock is nothing out of the ordinary, for his sex; a modest middle ground between the tiny type O pseudopenis and Jon’s own perfectly respectable type A equipment, with a gentle upward curve. Jon has no particular opinions about it, apart from being faintly grateful that it isn't bigger, because when Tim finally takes it in hand and guides it inside, it feels like it fills Jon to bursting.
Tim's cock is hot and hard inside him, and the shape of it finds Jon’s prostate mercilessly when Tim begins to move his hips, a deliberate, rhythmic roll, almost cheeky. Jon flushes with indignance. Jon isn't just getting fucked; Jon is getting mounted. He feels the distinction keenly. It makes his cock throb with humiliated pleasure.
"There you go. That's all you needed," Tim murmurs, sounding very proud of himself. "Aw, you big softy. I've got you."
Jon is distantly aware that he is being teased, but the part of him that balks at condescension is outweighed by the part of him that would do just about anything to make Tim continue touching him. Jon's face smiles without his permission when the back of his neck is nuzzled and nosed and nibbled, making Jon's entire body sing. At one point, Tim starts smooching him with big, playful kisses, the kind that involve an exaggerated "mwah" noise every time Tim's lips make contact. Jon despairs at himself for finding this arousing.
Tim chuckles warmly at Jon’s overjoyed squirming, a deep rumble that Jon feels more than hears, and rests his left hand on Jon’s hip, as if to steady him. The other hand reaches around and under and fondles fondly. Embarrassingly, rather than thrusting forward into Tim's hand, Jon finds himself thrusting backward onto Tim's cock, spreading his legs like some kind of whimpering type O catamite.
"Oh, you like that," says Tim, sounding delighted, as though it's any surprise at all to find Jon achingly, drippingly hard. "Is that good?"
Obviously. It feels so good Jon is nearly weeping with it, muffling soft pleading noises into his own arm. Tim really is very good at this. He has a truly remarkable talent.
Tim fucks him for a small eternity, but it still feels like it ends too soon. One of Tim's hands covers the head of Jon’s cock just in time for Jon to orgasm copiously into Tim's cupped palm, pouring out come in long pulses while Tim's other hand continues to pump him. Jon's knot begins to swell, and Tim grips it firmly from behind, squeezing and tugging and thoroughly satisfying the demands of Jon’s hindbrain, the part that wants him sheathed to the hilt and milked until he has nothing left to give. Despite the fact that Jon emptied himself less than an hour ago, Jon’s enthusiasm quickly overflows Tim's hand, falling to the floor in obscene little dribbles. Jon makes a mental note to clean it up before the others come in.
Tim fucks him for a moment longer, then removes one of his hands from Jon and pulls himself out with a faint wet sound. Jon hears the soft skin-on-skin sound of Tim stroking his own cock. Tim finishes himself off with a low grunt and a long sigh, saving Jon the discomfort of walking around with Tim's come oozing out of him for the next several hours. As per usual, Jon’s own orgasm is inconveniently lengthy and messy. Tim keeps his other hand wrapped firmly around the base of Jon’s knot, allowing him to enjoy the full duration of it. That's something Jon likes about Tim. He's a considerate lover.
The two of them spend a long moment catching their breaths, breathing loudly in the dusty silence of Jon’s office. After all is said and done, Jon is unsurprised to see Tim produce a wet wipe packet from his back pocket. Tim tears it open and starts tidying up. First he cleans Jon’s sticky areas, then his own, then the floor, and then he folds it discreetly and re-pockets it. Then Tim walks over to the high, narrow basement window and cracks it with a creak of hinges, letting in a whoosh of fresh air that will hopefully make the room smell a little less like a tart's boudoir by the time the others come in. Speaking of which…
"Are the others…?" croaks Jon, once he regains the ability to speak. He straightens up with a slight crackle of his back and gingerly tucks his spent cock back into his pants, pulling up his trousers.
"Already told them they're on field work today," says Tim. Of course. Foresight and logistics are another two areas where Tim excels. Jon acknowledges him with a grateful hum. He leans back against his desk and picks up his forgotten coffee, watery with melted ice, and takes a sip.
"So, do you think you'll be able to survive the workday?" says Tim, with well-deserved smugness. He sidles in beside Jon and copies Jon's pose. When he helps himself to a sip of Jon’s coffee, Jon barely wants to smack him at all.
"I think I'll manage," says Jon dryly. Peacefully, languidly, he thanks Tim with an open-mouthed kiss, tasting coffee and pistachios.
And then, because it's still bothering him, Jon reaches up and fixes Tim's hair.