Archive of Our Own

Jon hadn’t meant to only have omega subordinates. It’s an incredible coincidence, he knows, but he hadn’t even thought about it as it had happened. 

He had picked Tim and Sasha to be his assistants because they were the two researchers whose capabilities he was the most familiar with and respected the most, and for no other reason. He was already used to working with them, asking for their advice or supporting them with their projects. The fact that they’re both omegas has nothing to do with that. He wouldn’t choose anyone based on such a shallow, meaningless metric. 

(The fact that he was more comfortable with asking them for advice back in research because they were omegas is conveniently ignored. That he knew he could ask them for help, and he could be certain that they wouldn’t use it as a point of evidence in their minds that he isn’t truly cut out for academia, that he can’t do this on his own. That he could lean on them without feeling like they’d be getting some sort of smug gratification out of it.) 

The fact that Martin is an omega as well is irrelevant. Jon didn’t choose him, doesn’t even want him. The man’s an embarrassment and an inconvenience that Jon doesn’t want to be associated with. 

All the same, that is the way matters have turned out. Elias promoted him, gave him the title of Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, and he proceeded to fill the archives with nothing but fellow omegas. He hadn’t even realized that that’s what had happened, how it might look, until he’d overheard some other Institute workers joking about it by sheer happenstance. 

Knew he was frigid, an alpha-hater. Made himself a little omega paradise the second he got the opportunity. 

Should we report him to HR for hiring discrimination? 

They’re not gonna get much work done once their heats knock them all on their arses. 

Jon hates it. He hates it, the assumptions people are making about him, reading things that aren’t there into his actions, as if he’d done this deliberately. The jokes had all been said with playful tones, but there had been a ghost of a sneer in all of them. Jokes, he knows, are just people's way of saying what they really mean with a veil of plausible deniability to protect them, so they can say it was just a joke, lighten up if anyone tries to challenge them. So that he can’t challenge them without seeming defensive, like he’s overreacting. 

He still wants to challenge them. Wants to announce that he picked the people he had for their competency, and that Martin had been foisted off on him by Elias-- who is an alpha, by the way. That he is on heat suppressants, thank you, and that it’s none of their business but he is not planning on letting any biological inconveniences get in the way of his job. And that he does not hate alphas. 

There are plenty of annoying, unpleasant people who happen to be alphas as well, but that has nothing to do with his dislike of them. It is secondary, coincidental, irrelevant. He has nothing against alphas. He has been quite fond of some alphas in the past, in fact-- Georgie, for example. He can’t quite come up with more names after that one, but he’s certain there are more. They’re just not immediately coming to mind. 

He can just imagine how that might go over. Him, flustered and defensive, proclaiming that he likes alphas just fine, to growing grins all around him. By the end of the day everyone would be snickering about just how much he likes alphas, and that’s probably why he doesn’t have any alpha assistants, Elias knew he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on his work with one around. Ridiculous nonsense like that. 

It’s the maddening sort of thing where if he actually addresses it things are just going to get worse, and so he just has to grit his teeth and let everyone gossip and joke as much as they like, content with their faulty assumptions. Jon quite enjoys his job; he only wishes he could have it without the other people part. 

And so he does the smart, mature, reasonable thing and he bites his tongue, stops eating in the little Institute canteen where he might overhear people talking about him, and does his best to sink himself completely into the distracting, overwhelming work of putting the archives to rights. He’s very surly about it, though. 

Jon has always found heats to be utterly annoying and utterly unbearable. He has a job to do, and his body expects him to just take a week off from his life to, what, desperately throw himself at some alpha and repeatedly orgasm until he’s dangerously dehydrated? All in a bid to trick him into procreating and continuing the human race, as if he isn’t already on birth control. All the knotting in the world isn’t going to get Jon pregnant, thank you. It’s completely pointless as anything but an exercise in exhaustion, frustration, misery, and humiliation. 

So yes, he’s on suppressants. He has been from the moment he was medically cleared for it, and he’s done his best to arrange his life so that his heats are nothing but a minor inconvenience, a packet of medicine in the mail, a regular reminder on his phone to take his pills that he forgets about as soon as he’s washed them down with a mouthful of water. 

Tim actually likes his heats, the heathen. They’re like sexy vacations, he said once, playful and grinning. 

Jon never liked vacations either. He doesn’t know what to do during them; there’s not enough to fill the days. 

This is why it’s a very, very unwelcome break in his routine when instead of getting his regular packet of heat suppressants in the mail, he gets a letter informing him in dry, legalistic language that according to medical law he unfortunately cannot be legally provided with more heat suppressants for several months, for fear of permanently damaging his ability to experience heats and his fertility in general. 

Jon, who would quite welcome the opportunity to never experience another heat again, nearly sets the damned letter on fire. 

“--you don’t understand,” he says into his phone, gripping said letter in his hand in a crumpled little ball. There had been a helpful little note at the bottom listing the address of their physical office if he’d like to send a letter, their email address for convenience, and their phone number if he’d rather call with any concerns or questions he might have. He does, in fact, have concerns. “I’ve just been promoted, I cannot afford to take the time off for a blasted heat right now--”

“We apologize for the inconvenience,” the person on the other end of the line repeats themselves. He’d think they were a robot, if it weren’t for the faint tinge of weariness in their voice. He’s distantly aware of the fact that he’s accomplishing nothing but bothering someone who had nothing to do with causing his current predicament, but he’s too frantic to make himself stop. He has to make them understand. “We can offer you a discount on your next order as an--”

“If the break could just be pushed off for one more month,” he bargains desperately. “Now is quite literally the worst possible time--”

“We apologize,” the representative says. “But we’re legally obligated to pause your suppressant subscription right now, or else you’ll face significant risk of permanent--” 

“That’s fine! I don’t mind that! I promise you I won’t sue, I’d be willing to sign contracts stating--”

“We apologize,” the person on the phone interrupts him. “But we can’t do that, no. It’s against company policy. We don’t make exceptions, sir.” 

The rest of the phone call goes much like that, with the representative being apologetically unyielding, and Jon’s futile arguments dwindling down into nothing more than ineffectual frustration. With resignation, he bitterly thanks the representative for their ‘help’, and hangs up the call. 

And then he gets his coat and goes to the pharmacy instead. 

Jon comes into work thirty two minutes late, gasping from a rare attempt at a sprint to make up for his delays. He hadn’t thought his quick errand would significantly delay him; after all, he didn’t need to be at work for another two hours when he’d started. 

He had, however, been thwarted when the first pharmacist he’d seen had politely chirped that she’d get what he needed right away, she just had to check something… and then after a few minutes of clicking around on the computer she’d made a dismayed sound, and apologetically informed Jon that no, their pharmacy unfortunately could not sell him heat suppressants. Yes, even if they’re right there on the shelf behind her, right where he can see them. Yes, even if he pays extra. Sir, that’s technically a bribe, I can’t-- 

He had been politely but firmly asked to leave. He had much the same experience at the second pharmacy, and the third, and the fourth, and so on. They’re all keeping careful track of how often he uses heat suppressants, damn them. He doesn’t quite know why he’d kept stubbornly hunting down more and more pharmacies; what was happening had quickly become clear. Perhaps he’d been vainly hoping that one of them would have a freak glitch on their computer system, and his file or whatever it is they have on him would appear in corrupted form, altered. 

That had not happened. And now, for the first time since his promotion, he’s late. He runs as fast as his lungs can bear, as if he can possibly make the clock run backwards if he does so desperately enough. He’s been early every single day since he was made the Head Archivist; if he can just slip in before anyone notices his absence, then--

“Jon,” Elias says, like he’s pleasantly surprised to see him. He’s leant against the front desk that Rosie sits at, his elbow casually resting on the edge of it. “Rosie was just telling me how you hadn’t showed up yet. She was concerned.” 

Jon staggers to a halt, resisting the urge to put his hands on his knees and cough. Rosie, sitting behind the front desk looking supremely innocent, clears her throat a little and says, “excuse me, I need to-- I’ll be right back.” 

Jon glares daggers into her back as she walks away, heels clicking on the floor, abandoning him to his fate after tattling on him. He doesn’t believe for a moment that she felt anything but vicious delight at the opportunity to inform Elias that Jon was late. He hadn’t even meant to insult her that one time-- he had been trying to be polite, asking her if she was feeling under the weather. How was he to know that she just wasn’t wearing makeup? He’d never seen her without it before. She looked pale. 

“Are you well, Jon?” Elias asks, all mild concern, and Jon’s attention snaps back to him. 

Jon is painfully aware that he’s still out of breath, his hair disarrayed, clothes hastily thrown on in the morning so he could go deal with his problem. His shirt is only half tucked in, his outfit doesn’t match. He’s wearing sneakers, for god’s sake. And here Elias is in his ironed and pressed suit, not a hair out of place, cool gray and blue tones to match his eyes. It’s horrible. 

Jon forcefully clears his throat and makes himself stand straight, even as there’s a part of him that just wants to lie down on the floor in a starfish position and gasp. 

“Yes,” he says, “I am-- I’m perfectly well, thank you. I apologize for being late, I merely…” 

He struggles for a moment for any sort of reasonable sounding excuse for his lateness that isn’t I overslept or I lost track of time or, even worse than that, the truth. That he is being refused his heat suppressants and he’s been fruitlessly scrambling all morning for some, any kind of solution that isn’t the inevitable, unavoidable, obvious answer of just suck it up and suffer through a heat. 

Elias has a habit of making piercing, unceasing direct eye contact with Jon whenever they speak. It can make him feel-- flustered at times, as if every little word and movement of his is being scrutinized, not a single slip up missed. He’s mostly gotten used to it, but there is still always the sense of being evaluated whenever he interacts with Elias. To being weighed and judged, and not knowing what the final verdict is. Elias’ eyes are like a one way mirror; clear from the inside, and utterly opaque from the outside. It can be a touch nerve wracking, on occasion. 

As Jon scrambles for an explanation underneath that penetrating gaze, unable to think of anything plausible besides the embarrassing truth, Elias-- blinks. His expression flickers, but evens out again so quickly that Jon can’t tell what emotion had been flitting across his face. Perhaps he’d only imagined it; perhaps it had been nothing at all. 

“Were you delayed by the troubles at the tube?” Elias asks him. “I’ve heard that there have been some issues this morning.” 

“Ye-- yes!” Jon says, grasping for the conveniently offered excuse too eagerly. “Yes, that is precisely it. The tube, it-- there was a, a malfunction. We were stuck.” 

“Well, that’s hardly your fault,” Elias says comfortingly. He smiles, almost as if amused. It makes the crows feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle. Some people, Jon thinks, age better than others. With his premature graying, he’ll be lucky to look anywhere near as good as Elias when he reaches his current age. “You don’t exactly control the trains.” 

“Exactly,” Jon agrees. “As much as I wish I could.” 

Elias chuckles. “I’m certain you’d run a tight ship. Well, I’ll delay you no further; your assistants must be concerned for you. This has to be the first time you haven’t arrived at least an hour early.” 

Jon feels himself flush slightly; is grateful that it won’t be visible. 

“I-- I find it helpful to get an early start in the morning,” he says, almost defensively. He’s simultaneously proud and embarrassed of how early he’s arriving, how late he’s staying. It shows dedication, he knows-- but he’s also worried that it might show how overwhelmed he feels, how much he feels the need to make up for it, desperately trying to catch up. He hadn’t realized that Elias had noticed.  “So that I-- so that I have assignments ready for the assistants when they arrive! Yes, that is-- that’s why.” 

“All the burdens us superiors have to put up with,” Elias says wryly, and there’s almost a companionable air to him, as if Elias is relating to him as a-- a peer. Someone he has something in common with, something they share. 

It’s utterly foolish to compare himself to Elias, of course. The man’s the Head of the Magnus Institute, and Jon’s just in charge of a messy basement. Jon isn’t Elias’ peer; he’s his direct subordinate. But it still makes him feel flustered in an undeniably pleased sort of way, his hands curling around the strap of his messenger bag just so he has something to do with them. 

“Yes, well,” Jon says, ducking his head to hide a hint of a smile. “It’s, ah, it’s a burden that I’m thankful for the opportunity to put up with.” 

“You say that now,” Elias says, “but I’m certain you’ll be in my office again in a week, demanding I transfer Martin back to the library.” 

Jon grimaces, half sheepish, half annoyed at just the reminder of the man. “I don’t remember him being a burden that I asked for. Nor is he a necessary one--”

“As much as I would love to rehash this argument yet again,” Elias interrupts, a note of exasperation in his voice, “I think we can do this at a later date. Don’t you have a job you should be getting to?” 

Jon jumps slightly at the gentle reminder. Here he is, already late for work, and he’s getting distracted chatting. 

“Yes,” he says, taking a step away from Elias, in the direction of the door to the stairs leading down into the archives. “Of course, I-- yes, I should be going. It was good to speak with you, Elias.” 

“You as well,” Elias says. Then, just before Jon turns to go, he tilts his head an inch to the side, his cool, obscure gray eyes sweeping over Jon, assessing him. “You’re looking a little… warm, Jon. Are you certain that you’re well?” 

“I-- yes, I’m perfectly well. I just felt the need to, er, run a bit to make up for my delay-- due to the trains, of course. Malfunctions. Entirely out of my control.” 

“I see,” Elias says. “Well, try not to overdo things. I wouldn’t want you to exhaust yourself in this summer heat.” 

Jon… pauses at that. The emphasis Elias had put on that last word, had he imagined--? 

But Elias is already walking away, unruffled and matter of fact, and Jon shakes his head at himself. He’s being paranoid, imagining that people can somehow see what’s in store for him on his skin, his face. It’s a ridiculous thought, of course. He’s uncertain when exactly he’s going to go into heat, having been on suppressants for so long, but it can’t possibly already be happening. There can’t even be a whiff of it in his scent yet. Elias has no way of knowing, none at all. 

Firmly putting it out of his mind, Jon turns and walks down into the archives to face yet another long, stressful day of decades-neglected work. 

Jon is a sore loser. While the realization that he will, in fact, have to face a heat sinks into him, he can’t bring himself to accept it with any sort of maturity or grace. He’s bitterly resentful, irritable, and cantankerous. He thinks he does a reasonable job of keeping these feelings bitten back behind his teeth, however, stewing unhappily inside of himself. This entire ordeal is humiliating enough as it is without letting any of the others know. It’s none of their business, not at all. It’s a private matter, and he’ll keep it that way. He might be upset and disgruntled, but he can at the very least disguise it well enough that the others won’t notice. 

Apparently, he was wrong about that. Utterly, completely dead wrong. 

“Jon,” Tim says, having let himself into Jon’s office. Notably, he’s closed the door behind him; his brow is furrowed. “We need to talk.” 

He hadn’t used that ridiculous nickname, Jon notes. 

“Tim,” Jon says. “Was there something you needed? I’m rather busy. Cleaning up after Gertude’s mess is one thing, but then when you add in Martin’s--” 

“Okay, that? That’s exactly what we need to talk about, right now. You’re being a-- a complete wanker, you know that?” 

Jon-- pauses. He properly looks up from the work on his desk. Now that he does, the furrow in Tim’s brow seems more obviously anxious and troubled. His shoulders are tense, uncomfortable. “Excuse me?” 

“The whole-- the Martin thing. I get that you don’t like him, fine, but-- did he poison your tea or something? Did he set something you love on fire?” 

“What are you getting at?” Jon asks, his shoulders hunching defensively. 

“You’ve just been a total nightmare for the last week. It’s like you can’t say a single sentence without finding something to complain about-- which is almost always him. You even scolded Sasha yesterday. Sasha!” 

“Well, she-- she wasn’t focusing on her work! I hardly believe that browsing gaming websites could have anything to do with any of her assignments. She--” 

“It doesn’t matter!” Tim snaps. Jon flinches; can’t ever remember Tim snapping at him. Tim visibly softens slightly before he continues. “You know Sasha does great work. She always turns in her assignments on time or even early, and her work’s always thorough as hell. It’s not a big deal if she messes around a little. Everyone does that. This isn’t like… Jon, why are you suddenly acting like this?” 

Jon feels himself fidget like a guilty child, avoiding eye contact. He forces himself to stop, to look Tim in the eye. 

“Nothing,” he says, quick and uncomfortable. 

Tim rolls his eyes at him. “Oh, sure. Seriously, what is it? Why are you acting like you want to be haunted by three ghosts on Christmas? Are you sick? Is Elias putting pressure on you?” 

Jon wishes it were something so simple. Something so clean and dignified, that he could admit to without any mortification. 

“N-- no, he’s not, I’m fine, it’s not…” He trails off. He can’t bring himself to say this while looking at Tim’s face, so he averts his gaze off to the filing cabinet in the corner of his office instead. He mutters, “I’m not-- I’m just going to have to have a… a heat. That's all.” 

There’s a deeply unpleasant beat of silence in which Jon’s admission is left to linger bare and vulnerable in the air, when all Jon wants to do is find a way to swallow it back down, make it unheard again. Then, with great tones of sudden realization, Tim says, “oh!” 

Jon squeezes the bridge of his nose, praying for strength. “Yes, oh. I-- I didn’t intend to lash out at any of you due to this. I didn’t realize that I was… nevermind. I’ll try harder to restrain myself in the future.” 

By which he mostly means that he’ll try to hole himself up in the office and avoid the others until this is all done and over with. Apparently, he’s not very good at holding his tongue when annoyed. 

“Now, I’d appreciate it if we could just drop the--”

“Hang on,” Tim interrupts, and Jon glares at him before he catches himself. He had quite literally just promised to try and stop this issue from making him behave so unpleasantly. “How long exactly has it been since your last heat? If having one at all is such a special, awful occasion.” 

Jon hasn’t exactly been keeping track, can’t recall the number right away. He prefers to order his life so that his heats are something he can forget, an aspect of his life he doesn’t even have to consider. 

“It was… some time ago,” he says vaguely, gesturing dismissively with one hand. “I’ve gone as long as I could without one, so it’s been a while.” 

“Okay,” Tim says, and he sounds deliberately calm. He gestures with his hands as he speaks for emphasis. “Okay. I’ve got another question, and this is really important, Jon. Have you gone as long as you could without a heat according to what’s medically recommended? Or what’s legal?” 

“... Is there a difference?” 

“Oh my god,” Tim says, as if Jon’s confessed to accidentally deleting all of their online transcripts and recordings of statements. A very particular mix of horror and exasperation. “You kept going until they literally wouldn’t let you buy more suppressants, didn’t you?” 

“Well, yes,” Jon says, drawing himself up with dignified defensiveness. He feels oddly flustered at being questioned, put on the spot. “I don’t see why I shouldn’t, it’s perfectly within my rights to decide whether or not to have a heat. I should think that you would--” 

“It’s not about rights, you doof,” Tim says. “Omegas are recommended to stop before they legally have to for a reason. You’re in for a hell of a time, you know that?” 

“I-- I do know what heats are like, Tim. I have had them before.” 

“Not like this you haven’t,” Tim says pityingly. “Like, I’m guessing not? Have you ever taken suppressants for so long that you literally got forced to take a break before this?” 

“... No,” Jon says, unhappy to give the answer that Tim’s so obviously expecting. 

No, he’s never been on heat suppressants for such a long stretch of time before. He’s never been particularly fond of heats, but-- Georgie had wanted to try and experience one with him, see if her presence would make it more tolerable for him, maybe even pleasant. Tolerable, yes. Pleasant? Well… that’s a complicated question to answer. In some ways, yes. In others, no. 

She didn’t want to convince him to keep having heats if her presence only sort of made things pleasant. And so that was his last heat. Which would put it at least… six years ago? 

Tim sucks in air through his teeth like he’s just seen someone take a painful fall in front of him, or fumble a ball in an important game. 

“Oh yeah, boss,” he says sympathetically. “You’re in for a storm. You know your body’s gonna be freaking out, right?” 

“Pardon?” 

“It’s a thing that happens if you take suppressants for too long, or if other stuff sets off your heat for a long time, like illness. Apparently things get super intense. Like your body’s forgotten how to deal with it, or like it’s trying to make up for lost time. It’s gonna be much… more than any other heat you’ve ever had.” 

That pause there had felt like Tim searching for a word that wasn’t worse or unpleasant. 

“How… cheering,” Jon says, reaching for dryness to try and conceal the fact that Tim’s words have-- shaken him, ever so slightly. 

Tim frowns down at him worriedly. 

“Have you got a heat partner ready and lined up yet?” 

“No,” Jon says curtly. “If you don’t mind--”

“Okay, sorry, I know I’m being really nosey here, but-- you’re gonna, right? Get yourself a heat partner? You have someone in mind?” 

“I don’t see why I should need one,” Jon says, clipped. “If this is going to be a misery, then an alpha’s presence would only make a negligible difference anyway.” 

“It doesn’t have to be an alpha,” Tim says, which is-- “And I really don’t think you get what you’re in for, mate. Seriously, if there’s anything that’s going to make this easier for you then you should make sure you have it.” 

“It-- it’s not that simple,” Jon says. “It’s not as if I could simply snap my fingers and summon someone willing to go through this ordeal with me.” 

Well. Perhaps he could. It would be more accurate to say that he can’t just effortlessly summon someone he could trust to go through this with him. There are quite a few alphas out there who very much enjoy being with omegas during their heats, even or especially strange omegas that they don’t know. There’s no doubt some website or godforsaken app that Jon could go on to get one of these alphas sniffing around his flat, eager and handsy. He isn’t interested. The idea doesn’t appeal in the slightest. 

“You don’t have to snap your fingers, Jon,” Tim says, exasperated. “You’ve just gotta ask.” 

“Who?” Jon demands, like it’s a gotcha. It only occurs to him a beat later that it’s more an embarrassing admission than anything else. 

“Well,” Tim says. “How about me?” 

Jon blinks. “Excuse me? What-- how would that even help? You’re an omega.” 

Heats, after all, are all about getting knotted. About luring an alpha to oneself, either with tempting noises or even more tempting scents. Which is why any heat without an alpha partner present lasts almost twice as long as a heat with one. One week for a partnered heat; two weeks for one alone. The heat draws itself out, lingering and plaintive, giving any nearby alphas as much time as possible to notice and find the omega. A heat spent with another omega-- it would accomplish nothing. Not anything that Jon is interested in, at least. 

“So?” Tim says. “I could still help you out. Get food and water for you, make sure you’re alright, and… help out with other stuff. Whatever you need. As buddies, right?” 

“But that’s not-- Tim, I’m not doing this for fun,” Jon says. “I want to get this over with as quickly as possible. Besides, if you think I’m being unpleasant now-- well, you most certainly won’t like me when I’m in heat. I’ve been told I’m utterly unbearable.” 

Georgie had informed him of this fondly; others, less so. 

“Well, fine,” Tim says. “How about I get you an alpha then? I’ve got like a dozen different options saved on my phone. Nice alphas that I’ve already tested myself, so you know they’ll be good to you during--” 

“Good lord, no,” Jon cuts him off. “That is-- I can’t imagine anything more embarrassing.” 

Tim, calling old companions of his, telling them about his bluestocking friend who’s going to have a heat but just can’t find anyone himself, please could they do this as a favor to him? He’d appreciate it so much. Jon, he’s not so bad really, he can just be so hopeless--

“Oh, come on,” Tim says. “Everyone gets that heats and ruts don’t really have to mean anything. It’s something everyone has to do sometimes.” 

“I don’t care. I’m not having you bring me some stranger to sleep with.” 

Tim throws his hands up. “Well, find yourself an alpha then! No, seriously. If you won’t let me find you one, you really should get one yourself. Spending a heat alone sucks enough already, but a heat like this? Jon, please get yourself a heat partner. If you don’t, then the offer’s still open. For me, or for me to find someone else.” 

“I’ll consider it,” he says, purely to try and end the discussion, and for no other reason at all. 

“Thank you,” Tim says. He turns to leave, and then pauses for a moment, shooting Jon a last grin. “Maybe getting to actually enjoy a heat for once might help you stop being such a wanker, too.” 

“I sincerely doubt it,” Jon says, and doesn’t know whether he means his ability to ever outright enjoy a heat, or if he means his ability to stop being a wanker. Most likely both. 

“Don’t always be such a skeptic, Jon,” Tim jokes. And then, finally, he leaves. 

Jon sighs, shoulders slumping. Shakes his head, tries to return his focus to his work. 

Even worse than a regular heat… 

Grimacing, Jon hunches his shoulders and does his best not to listen to any anxious voices in the back of his head. He has more than enough on his plate as it is. 

It wouldn’t be accurate to say that Jon forgets about his incoming heat. No, what precisely happens is that he takes that fact, that dread and anticipation, and he just… shoves it down into a deep, dark corner in his mind and then stubbornly doesn’t look at it. Why should he have to look at it, after all? Letting it gnaw at him is apparently just making him treat his assistants poorly, and accomplishes absolutely nothing productive. 

Besides, he has no idea when this heat is supposedly meant to hit him anyway. Any fragments of a schedule he might have once had has been utterly decimated by six years worth of suppressants. A regular, healthy omega has two to three heats a year. Is he a regular, healthy omega at this point? And when exactly has his body begun to count down the months and weeks and days to his next heat? Has the countdown already started, or are there still some lingering effects from his last round of heat suppressants that are putting it off? 

Jon might not go into heat for months, or he might go into heat tomorrow-- although that’s rather an extremely unlikely example, he thinks. But the fact is that he can’t afford to be stuck in some sort of dreadful limbo of uncertainty for who knows how long until the heat finally hits him, because who knows how long that span of time might last? He’d likely give himself an ulcer just from the waiting. 

No, he thinks, he shouldn’t have to look at it. It isn’t productive, it isn’t helpful. He’ll just shove it all away into the dark where he won’t have to think about it, and he’ll start dealing with the whole problem once he actually starts feeling the effects of his approaching heat. Omegas can feel the signs for up to one or two weeks in advance. He’ll have the time. 

And so Jon sinks himself into his work as he should because, frankly, there is a horrifying amount of it. Heats and alphas and other such unpleasantries drift away from his mind-- not forgotten, just deliberately put away for later. If he has any luck then this heat won’t come until he’s managed to actually put a proper dent in this utter mess of an archive. Maybe it won’t come for a long time. Maybe--

About a week after his resolution to deal with his heat when he comes to that bridge, he starts to come down with something. His skin feels tight and overly warm in a way that makes his clothes feel suffocating, itchy, uncomfortable. Restless dissatisfaction stirs in his gut, making it difficult to turn his focus on any one thing for too long without growing frustrated and distracted. He sleeps poorly, tossing and turning, unable to find any position that’s actually comfortable. 

It’s so massively inconvenient for him to grow sick at a time like this that he decides to just grit his teeth and work his way through it. Whatever it is - a fever? - isn’t serious enough for him to waste the time on sick leave, anyway. He isn’t vomiting or delirious, and that’s enough for him. It’s just some discomfort, really. Nothing worth paying attention to. 

In hindsight, it’s fairly embarrassing that he hadn’t connected the dots at the time. But it had been so long since he’d experienced those pre-heat symptoms that he’d almost forgotten what they actually felt like, and they were so much more. Slowly and inevitably sliding into heat like a car sinking into quicksand hadn’t ever felt like getting sick. It had been minor discomforts, small inconveniences, fleeting irritations. This is not that. 

Annoyingly, Jon doesn’t realize what’s happening to him until it’s brought to his attention for him. 

It happens when he emerges from his office for a furtive smoke. He’s not supposed to be smoking, he knows, and if Tim or Sasha found out then they’d instantly be on him for it. He put them through enough of his moods the first time he quit for them to be deeply invested in not having him go through the process again. He’s not really smoking again, though. This doesn’t qualify as properly smoking. It’s just a stray cigarette here and there, just since his promotion, just since his damned suppressants were denied to him. He’ll put an end to it any day now, he just needs it until he feels like he has a handle on things here. It helps him feel slightly less like snapping at anyone who so much as breathes in his direction. 

“... what’s that smell?” Martin asks, brow furrowed and eyes unfocused. 

Jon, who’d been passing his desk, straightens up defensively, taking a step away from him as if that might somehow take him out of range of Martin’s apparently delicate olfactory senses. 

“What? Nothing,” he says, intensely aware of Sasha sitting at her own desk, her head turning in their direction. Tim, at the very least, is gone for the moment. Nervously, he adds, “I don’t smell anything.” 

“No, no, it’s--” Martin stops to visibly scent at the air. He’s frowning in a mix of concentration and puzzlement. “I swear I can smell…” 

“What?” Sasha asks. “Smoke?” 

Jon flinches slightly, before he realizes that there’s no accusation in the word. She must mean like an office fire, not like secret cigarettes. 

“No,” Martin says. “Definitely not that. It’s-- christ, what am I thinking of? It’s right on the tip of my…” 

“Don’t you have anything better to do with your time?” Jon asks him sharply, and Martin winces. Behind him, he hears Sasha sigh, and he internally swears. Right. He was supposed to be snapping less, reigning himself in. Taking a deep breath, he tries to soften his tone into something blunt and neutral. “I don’t smell anything. You’re likely just imagining it. Just focus on your work, Martin.” 

“Right,” Martin says, cringing a little as he settles back into his chair from where before he’d been sort of leaning forward, as if chasing the stray scent that had captured his attention, ready to follow it. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine,” Jon makes himself say, because he’s supposed to not be taking out his irritation on Martin. Even if he’s a very irritating man. “Excuse me, I need to speak with Elias.” 

“What about?” Sasha asks. 

“About-- ah, the-- the filing system,” he hazards. He hadn’t thought to prepare specifics like this. In fact, he’d been hoping to be able to just walk right out of here without so much a raised head. 

“What does he have to do with--?” 

“Pardon me, I’m already late enough as it is, thanks to this nonsense,” he says swiftly, and quickly strides away, basically fleeing the scene. As soon as the door out of the archives slips shut behind him, he sighs, shoulders slumping. 

“Of all things…” he mutters to himself. 

Apparently, Martin has the nose of a damned bloodhound. And, of course, no subtlety at all. Why would he? Why wouldn’t he just immediately blurt it out whenever he might catch a whiff of a strange scent? It’s somehow just typical of him. Is Jon going to have to start bringing a change of clothes with him just to avoid being caught smoking? The thought makes him feel like an unfaithful spouse, changing their clothes to try and hide any traces of a secret lover's scent. Ridiculous. 

It’s only once he’s out in the little deadend side alley next to the Magnus Institute, flicking his lighter to try and get it to spark into life, that it occurs to him: he hasn’t smoked yet today. And this is a freshly laundered outfit, so how exactly had Martin even smelled cigarettes on him at all? Is it in his skin or something? No, that’s ridiculous. It truly has just been a stray cigarette here and there, nothing egregious. Which means--

Means what, exactly? What had he been smelling, then, just as Jon happened to be passing his desk? An odd scent. Nothing like smoke, he’d said. 

Jon feels poorly today, just as he’s had for almost a week now. His skin tight and hot and sensitive, his mind restless and dissatisfied and hungry, unable to latch his attention for long onto any one thing at all. He almost feels feverish, really. There’s the discomforting sensation of sweat, the worrying idea that it might get to a point that it starts to visibly stain, his armpits and shirt collar going dark with moisture. It’s why he’s out here, smoking. It’s the only thing he can think of that might help calm him, soothe him. 

Well, that and the persistent, irrational urge to strip naked and roll around on something soft and cool, but that’s obviously just ridiculous nonsense to be ignored. 

In an almost detached way, his hand that’s holding the unlit cigarette goes to the side of his neck. He had put on his scentblocker today, as he always does. A quick, automatic little part of his morning routine, entirely unthought of. Some people like to go without. He doesn’t. It implies a certain looseness to go out with an undisguised scent, something almost welcoming about it. Beckoning. 

Jon doesn’t want to beckon anyone. This morning on the tube, on his way to work, in the crowded car a stranger behind him had leaned in far too close for comfort and informed him that he smelled real good. Jon had responded by elbowing him away, telling him to piss off, and then unapologetically pushing people out of his way until he was on the other side of the car. He hadn’t paid it any more mind than that. It’s the tube, after all; it’s the sort of thing that happens there. 

He rubs roughly at his neck, worrying the scentblocker away. Bringing the heel of his hand up to his nose, he inhales. 

He smells-- 

“Damn,” he swears. 

Things quickly devolve from that point. He forgets all about his furtive smoke break, and instead flees into and barricades himself inside of the confines of his office, fueled by the incredibly alarming idea of having his heat in the middle of an alley. He must not feign calm as well as he thought on his way, because Sasha--or was it Martin?--call out after him as he goes, curiosity and concern in their voice. He pretends not to hear it. 

“Okay,” Jon says to himself senselessly, his back pressing against the door. “Okay, it’s-- this isn’t a disaster.” 

It isn’t, doesn’t have to be. To be so-- so careless as to end up having a heat at work would of course be an utter disaster, ridiculous and awful. But that’s not what’s happening. Not even Jon is oblivious enough of his own body to enter heat without noticing. This isn’t true heat; not yet. This is just… it’s like when an orchestra takes the time to fine tune their instruments before the opening act, warming up. This is still pre-heat, the span of time that his body has allotted to trying to lure in any nearby alphas to shack up with him during his heat, pheromones seeping out at the edges of his scentblocker, tempting and alluring. 

Obviously, this is not ideal, seeing as Jon doesn’t want anyone knowing about his heat. He’d prefer it if his body shut up and stopped putting up glaring neon signs declaring that it’s apparently open season on him, all comers welcome. It’s a thing of impulse and base desire, no self restraint or dignity factored into its reasoning. It doesn’t know what the hell it is that Jon actually wants. 

He can’t let anyone know what’s happening. He would, frankly, rather die. But that’s okay, that’s fine, because he doesn’t have to. No one has to know. Sasha and Martin are still oblivious; Tim isn’t here at the moment, which is good, because he has enough of the pieces to potentially figure out why Jon might be acting-- strangely. That it’s started, it’s happening now. 

How much time does he have left? How long has he felt like this? Days. How many? 

He can’t be sure. It started so gradually. 

It’s okay. It’s okay. He feels fine. Okay, well, not fine, he feels quite bad, honestly-- but he’d been gritting his teeth and forcing himself through it just fine before he realized what’s actually going on. He’s come into work feeling worse than this. Like that time he came in with a fever… and was sent home, because he was so obviously ill. 

Bad example. The point is, he can still control himself. He’ll just… he’ll do what he’d originally been planning. Get through today, act like everything is fine. He won’t risk leaving his office again, for fear of any of his assistants noticing what exactly is wrong with him. He’ll act as if all is normal, go home, and then… well, perhaps he can take a few sick days. He resents the idea, but he dislikes the idea of calling in for heat leave even more. 

Jon knows that, theoretically, all of the other omega employees here must have taken at least one heat leave at some point during their employment, but the thought of admitting that he might suffer any sort of biological function that might leave him feeling needy or vulnerable somehow feels deeply and profoundly mortifying. He wants to erase any trace of evidence that might indicate that he, Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London might ever so much as be naked. 

He’s being irrational, he knows. He can’t bring himself to care at the moment. 

“Right,” he sternly tells himself. “Just get through today, and then-- and then--” 

And then he’ll be stuck in his flat for two weeks marinating in his own misery, his body screaming at him for something he won’t give it. A heat supposedly ten times worse than his regular ones, when the regular ones are already so dreadful. 

It doesn’t matter. He’ll simply get through it; it’s not as if he’ll perish. It will just be… uncomfortable. Very, very uncomfortable. 

“Just get through today,” he repeats. He sits down at his desk, and he does his best to focus on his work. 

It doesn’t go very well. He’s been struggling to focus for days, and now that he knows why it suddenly all becomes even worse. His clothes itch, simple cotton turned harsh and grating on his overly sensitive skin. Every movement, no matter how small, is hyper aware as fabric scrapes across his skin, nerves lighting up with overwhelmed pseudo-pain. He is simultaneously too hot and too cold. Wearing too many clothes, while tragically not being cocooned in duvets and pillows. His office is a small, cramped little box of a room, a grown-familiar place that smells of dust and him but that doesn’t feel safe, doesn’t feel private. 

Jon catches himself faintly whining, of all things, and harshly cuts the noise off. Clenching his jaw until it aches, he viciously glares at his laptop screen as if this might mean that he’s actually reading the words on it. 

Time blurs. He doesn’t know what hour it is when a knock sounds at his door, but he knows that forcing himself to have a coherent conversation with someone is one of the last things he wants to do. He just wants to get this over with, just get through today, just finish the work day so he can limp his way home and hole himself up in his bedroom and be miserable in private where no one can see or judge him. 

“Not now,” Jon snaps, not turning his glare away from the screen. He’s reading, but he isn’t taking the words in even slightly. 

The door opens anyway. Jon turns to castigate Martin, because in that moment he’s furious and thus certain that it must be Martin-- and he freezes, stunned. 

“Jon,” Elias says, standing in the doorframe to his office. He’s wearing cufflinks and a tiepin that match the silver in his hair; Jon doesn’t know why that’s the first detail his mind latches onto. He’s not a fashionable person, just self conscious and worried about not being taken seriously. He rarely cares how other people dress. 

“Elias,” Jon says dumbly. Somehow, he’s the last person he expected to see. Which is foolish, considering that this is the Magnus Institute. It’s the only place he ever sees him. 

Elias smiles at him, mild and pleasant, and Jon can’t help but feel as if he’s been caught red handed at something. 

“I happened to cross paths with Sasha as she was leaving, and she mentioned that you wanted to talk to me earlier. I thought I’d drop by, for your convenience. I hope I’m not interrupting.” 

“Leaving--?” Jon says, which is when he spots the time on the wall clock. It’s past five; end of the work day. 

When had so much time passed? He feels as if he’s gotten absolutely nothing done since the last time he sat down. Then the rest of what Elias says catches up with him; Jon wanting to talk to him, when the devil had he said such a thing? He has nothing to speak to Elias about, he-- 

--Had that been the lie he’d come up with, when he’d been sneaking out for smokes like a teenager? 

“Ah,” he stammers. “Right, of course. About that-- I, I changed my mind, I don’t think that I need to bother you with-- with the issue after all, I can easily handle it myself, it’s no trouble. So there’s no reason for us to talk you-- you see, so-- yes. It’s fine.” 

Jon bites his tongue to make himself stop. Elias, not looking convinced in the slightest, raises his eyebrows at him. Jon can’t help but wince, a further condemnation of his lie. 

“... I see,” Elias says tactfully but pointedly. “Are you certain that there’s not something that you wanted to--” 

As he’s speaking, Elias actually steps the rest of the way into Jon’s office. In almost the same moment Elias’ voice abruptly trails off, his eyes blinking rapidly as if stunned. He stands in place, even though it had initially seemed like he’d been planning on walking in further. 

“Elias?” Jon asks uncertainly. “Was there…?” 

Elias audibly exhales, and then clears his throat. In the manner of a man composing himself, he needlessly straightens the lapels of his suit jacket. 

“Pardon me,” Elias says. “I merely wasn’t prepared to walk face first into several hours worth of pent up heat pheromones trapped inside of a small room. It’s-- potent.” 

Jon’s stomach plunges down into somewhere icy and cold, even as the rest of his body flushes with hot mortification. 

“I--” he says, the beginning of an attempt to defend himself, to act as if he doesn’t know what Elias could possibly be talking about, surely-- except he can’t imagine a single plausible thing he could say. This doesn’t stop him from, foolishly, trying anyway. “I’m not-- I would never be, that’s not--”

“Jon,” Elias says, in that way that isn’t loud or harsh at all and yet instantly makes Jon’s jaw click shut. “There’s no shame in admitting that you’re human. Heats happen, I understand. You’re not in any trouble… at least not from me. Your body, on the other hand, might not be so happy with you for forcing yourself into work under such circumstances.” 

He’s not mad at me, some part of Jon thinks, weak kneed with gratitude and relief. He viciously stomps down that part of himself, as it’s pathetic and embarrassing. The instinct within him that craves approval from whatever authority figure happens to above him and that he respects, wanting to win their acknowledgement and regard. He may have disagreed quite vehemently with Elias on some occasions in the past over his rather passive approach to dealing with the supernatural, but it cannot be argued that the man is the foremost expert in his field. The sheer amount of knowledge he holds-- 

“I didn’t,” Jon says, the paper thin lie of his condition crumbling in on itself. “I mean I-- I did not intentionally go into work in such a state, and-- I’m not in heat. Not yet, at any rate. I know it will be soon, but I still have the time to--” 

“Do you?” Elias asks. “I realize that of course you’re more aware of your own body than anyone else would be--” compulsively, Jon remembers that he’d only noticed that he’s been sliding into heat when Martin pointed out that he smelled strange, “--but speaking as an alpha… you smell very, very close Jon. I’m not certain you even have the time to get back to your home in this state.” 

Jon thinks about going into heat in the middle of the street, on the tube, in public. The idea is viscerally unpleasant. He’d be so exposed, everyone would know, seeing him and looking down at him, shaking their heads at the careless, foolish omega who let himself be caught in this position. He’s had stress nightmares about situations like that. 

He opens his mouth to say something dismissive, a rebuttal, shrugging it off. He can’t quite find his words for a moment. 

“You can’t stay here, of course,” Elias goes on, as if Jon was about to suggest that. Was he? “This is a place of business. The whole archival department can’t take a week off just because you’ve taken the archive as your nest. It would be wholly inappropriate.” 

“I-- of course not, I wouldn’t-- not here. I’ll leave, I…” 

“How about,” Elias says, as if the idea is only just now occurring to him, “I drive you?” 

“Pardon?” Jon asks, struggling for a moment to wrap his mind around the unexpected offer. 

“I drive into work,” Elias says. “Terrible of me with this London traffic, I know, but I still prefer it to the tube. It’s more… private. I could give you a lift to your flat, if you like. It would be faster, most likely, and there at least wouldn’t be any chance of a public incident.” 

The idea of imposing on Elias like this, to make his boss drive him home because of his own poor decisions, does not appeal. But the way he says public incident instantly repels Jon. 

“Yes,” he says, too fast and too desperate. He feels himself flush, and he clears his throat, trying to modulate his tone. “I-- I mean, if that’s-- if it isn’t any trouble to you, then-- I’d very much appreciate it, Elias.” 

Elias looks at him with his gray, obscure eyes - like a typical cloudy London day, all hints of sunshine or blue sky concealed and hidden - and he smiles. 

“Of course, Jon,” he says warmly, generously. “It’s no trouble for me at all.” 

The Magnus Institute has a parking lot off to the side of the building, small and discrete. If everyone at the Institute were to drive cars to work, it wouldn’t be large enough to fit all of them. But of course, most people generally just take the tube. There’s one madman in the Artifact Storage department who bikes year round. It’s always Jon’s first priority at any office holiday party to never be trapped in conversation with him. 

He should have guessed that the sleek black car that’s always parked there is owned by Elias. Jon doesn’t know enough about cars to say exactly what the model is, but he at least knows that it’s not one of those impractical sports cars that men buy during their midlife crises, but it isn’t cheap either. It’s more… posh. Shiny and clean like it gets regularly washed, dark tinted windows in the back. 

“After you,” says Elias, holding the door open for him. 

Jon would normally bristle at that sort of chivalry--he finds it condescending, not charming--but Elias is already doing him quite a significant favor, going out of his way for him like this. And the way Elias does it is… it’s hard to explain, but it’s like it’s only a habit, something entirely natural. Not an obnoxious little flirtation, but instead like it’s just what he’s supposed to do. Elias is old fashioned at times, from the way he dresses or decorates his office or comports himself. 

Jon has been accused of being old fashioned more than a few times himself. He gets into the car. 

The inside of Elias’ car smells nice, in that way that only clean cars smell like. The leather seat is plush, and the perpetual din of outside London muffles as the door closes. It would almost be pleasant, if Jon wasn’t rapidly starting to more and more feel as if he’s trapped in a hellish state between ‘feverish’ and ‘deeply restless.’ It’s like he can feel every stitch and seam on his clothes, the way sweat is starting to make it stick against him, damp and suffocating. The seatbelt, once he puts it on, is awful.  

Elias gets in besides Jon, in the driver’s seat, and he starts the ignition. Jon breathes, carefully forcing himself not to squirm uncomfortably in his seat-- and then holds his breath instead once he gets a heady whiff of alpha.  

Elias is an alpha. He doesn’t know why the thought is suddenly so arresting, as if it’s some shocking discovery, instead of just being a mundane fact that he’s known for years. Jon’s never had the most perceptive nose, and Elias isn’t in a rut or anything of the sort, but-- now that they’re here together, inside of the small, enclosed space of this car-- 

Jon’s lungs ache; he is forced to exhale, to suck in a gasp of air. Alpha, his brain screams. 

He holds his breath again. 

“Thank god for the invention of cars,” Elias says pleasantly, mildly. “Much more comfortable than horse drawn carriages, I imagine.” 

Jon makes a half strangled noise of agreement, desperately attempting to appear casual, relaxed. Oh, good lord, is that-- he feels slick. He’s growing wet. He’s not home yet, he can’t-- his trousers-- the car seat. 

“What was your address, now again?” 

“Ah--” Jon says, flounders. His address, of course he knows his own address, it’s just on the tip of his tongue. “It’s-- ummm. That direction.” 

“Very well,” Elias says, as if Jon isn’t giving directions like a child, waving his hand in a vague direction. Obligingly, he turns the car in the direction indicated. 

Jon twists his hands in the strap of his seatbelt, grabs at the handlebar, grips tightly at the sides of his seat. He desperately, stubbornly doesn’t squirm or grind on his seat. He breathes carefully and evenly, breathing in alpha alpha alpha with each inhale, and he forces himself to ignore it. It’s fine. This is fine. He just has to hold out a little longer, just a short little car ride and then he’s there, he’s done, he’s home and he can safely fall to pieces alone. He can do this. 

He wishes Elias would turn on the radio. So there might at least be some background noise to cover up his own ragged breathing, drown out his racing heartbeat that’s so loud that surely Elias must hear it sitting next to him. 

“Is it a right or a left here?” Elias asks him. 

“Left,” Jon answers quickly, unsure that that’s at all correct. He doesn’t drive home, he walks to the closest tube station; this isn’t his route. 

He wants to crack open the window, if only to be able to breathe in some air that doesn’t smell of Elias, but he can’t wrap his head around the controls and he can’t bring himself to ask for help, for fear that Elias will ask why, and Jon will be left to explain himself. You smell so good it’s making me wet. My body thinks you’re here to fuck me. 

Jon catches Elias’ cool gray eyes in the reflection of the rearview mirror by sheer coincidence. Biting the inside of his cheeks, he makes himself look away, as if Elias could possibly peel him apart and see the bitten back truth inside of him with his eyes alone. 

“Really, Jon,” Elias says. “I appreciate how hard you’re working to meet expectations, but going into work while in heat is above and beyond even for you. Not to mention that it’s a bit… counterproductive. You’re not exactly going to be in a state of mind to do work, nor do I think that anyone around you will be able to focus on anything but, well, you.” 

“It really wasn’t on purpose, Elias,” Jon defends himself, even though the truth sounds so utterly foolish and embarrassing. He was sliding into heat, he knew he was going to enter heat at some point, but he just didn’t notice, didn’t realize. It makes him sound like such a-- so damned vapid, ditzy. Like he’s a stereotype of an omega, the sort that needs someone to take care of him because he’s too much of an imbecile to do it himself. 

“Well, you should be more careful,” Elias, the alpha currently taking care of him, says. “I’d hate for you to end up in an… unfortunate situation. You don’t want to be taken advantage of.” 

Jon can’t even bristle, because he’s right, damn him. 

He still can’t help but bristle. 

“I will endeavor to be more cautious in the future,” Jon says primly, and he means it. He is not going to let himself be caught in a humiliating position like this again, not if he has anything to say about it. Once is quite enough. 

God, but he hopes that his slick doesn’t soak through and stain Elias’ car seat. He would never live it down. 

“That’s good,” Elias says, and Jon feels himself grow slicker at the praise. He just barely bites back an utterly mortifying noise in time. “I’m only glad I was there to assist you.” 

--oh, that’s right. Elias is assisting him. Even if Jon doesn’t leave an unfortunate stain on the upholstery, Elias is still likely going to have to have his car professionally cleaned just to get the scent of a heated up omega out of it. He’s going out of his way at the end of his day to drive Jon all the way home, just because Jon was too stubborn and shortsighted to think to stay home today. He is undeniably inconveniencing himself for Jon’s sake, doing him a favor. 

And Jon hasn’t even thanked him for it. 

“I’m--” Jon starts. 

“By the way,” Elias starts at almost the same time. 

“You-- you go first,” Jon says after a moment of confusion. 

“Thank you,” Elias says. “I was just going to say… should I stop by somewhere to fetch someone? Or would you like to take the opportunity to make a call so they might be there to meet you?” 

Jon doesn’t understand what Elias is getting at for a moment that lasts too long, his hands restlessly fidgeting, his skin feverishly hot and prickling at the slightest touch. Then it clicks. 

“Oh!” he says. “Oh, no, I-- I don’t have-- I haven’t-- no. No, you don’t need to, I’m not going to. I’m not planning on spending my heat with anyone.” 

The car is currently at a standstill, so Elias properly looks at him. His skeptical incredulity implies a wealth of unspoken words. Jon already feels flushed, but the flustered embarrassment inside of him finds a way to mount, heighten. 

“I don’t-- I’m fine,” he says. “I don’t need anyone.” 

“Well,” Elias says tactfully. “I understand that you’ll likely survive the next few days without an alpha, but… do you truly need to go through such an ordeal on your own? There must be someone you can call.” 

Yes, of course there is. Why don’t I just go ahead and call up my ex after six years of complete and utter radio silence after she dumped me and I can beg her to take care of me during a heat immediately, with absolutely no warning beforehand. That sounds lovely! I’m sure it won’t be hideously inappropriate or intensely awkward in the slightest. 

Jon’s composure really must be slipping out of his fingers, because he can’t stop himself from laughing. As if Elias has just told a witty little joke. Thankfully, he manages to cut it off after only a couple of moments, clearing his throat. 

“I don’t want to bother anyone,” he lies. 

“I see,” Elias says, eyes steadily boring into his. He tilts his head at him. “I hope I’m not overstepping, but… do you at least have some tools that could make the experience less trying for you?”

Sex toys, he means. 

“No,” Jon confesses, too honest and too blunt. “I got rid of all my toys years ago. I didn’t think I’d need them.” 

He had started regularly taking heat suppressants, after all. He’s aware that sex and self pleasure is a thing that can exist outside of heats and ruts, that people enjoy them recreationally and pointlessly. He just doesn’t see the appeal of it. He barely sees the appeal of it when he’s in heat, it’s just a necessity to make the screaming need and restlessness in his skin shut up.  

He’s just full of good decisions, isn’t he? 

“That’s… concerning,” Elias says, mild and tactful as ever. Diplomatically, he adds, “you seem a touch unprepared for this.” 

Jon has prepared nothing. He doesn’t know why; it isn’t as if he didn’t know that this was going to happen eventually. He just-- he put it off for later. Procrastinated. Didn’t want to think about it, to seriously consider it as an inevitability to be dealt with. He acted as if he could just completely forget about his incoming heat, then his body might follow suit and skip it as well. It was utterly ridiculous of him, in a way that makes it far too embarrassing to admit to. 

“I’ll manage,” he says instead. 

Elias hums. 

“I apologize if I’m overstepping,” he says. “But-- I have some equipment back at my home, for similar situations.” 

It takes Jon a beat too long to realize what Elias is implying, what he’s offering. He’s asking if Jon would like to c ome back to his place to borrow some of his sex toys. Jon immediately experiences what feels like a five car pile up of contradicting emotions and reactions inside of his head, and thus completely fails to make an intelligible response. It’s all hot mortification and social discomfort horror and speechless shock and yes yes yes PLEASE. 

That last one has entirely no business to be happening at all, but Jon’s omega hindbrain is in the backseat of the car of his brain, desperately and enthusiastically leaning into the front to try and paw at the steering wheel. He wants to bring me to his DEN, his instincts thrill, utterly delighted. He wants to carry me off and keep me! 

Jon is dangerously wet. He wishes he’d thought to casually drape his jacket across the seat before sitting down. Could he have convincingly pulled that off? That’s a completely normal and fine thing to do, isn’t it? 

“That won’t be necessary,” he forces himself to choke out, gripping at his seat belt with desperate tightness. 

Elias hums with something that’s half reluctant acceptance, half disapproval. There is a far too large part of Jon that is absolutely devastated to hear it. He grits his teeth to get past it. 

Jon truly doesn’t live that far from the Magnus Institute, but the drive somehow feels like it lasts an interminable age. It is as if with each passing minute, his body temperature rises by another degree, except that can’t be right because Jon would have spontaneously combusted by now if it were true. Clothes have never felt so detestable to him; it is as if his shirt is trying to suffocate him. The sight of people walking down sidewalks or across zebra crossings, right there and visible and too close when he should be somewhere nice and safe and private, grates on him like sandpaper. 

Worst of all is how he keeps breathing in alpha with each and every inhale; he can’t get away from it. It’s in the damned air, and it’s making him want to climb into Elias’ lap despite the obvious and immediate consequences that would wreak upon them. 

He loses the fight to resist squirming, fidgeting. He has to outright turn his head to try and subtly bite at the side of his hand to stop himself from making any lewd noises. He considers it a victory that he manages to keep his hands away from-- any problematic areas. 

He’s just about ready to try and crawl out of his own skin when Elias casually and matter of factly says, “we’re here.” 

“Oh, thank god,” Jon breathes, hopefully quietly enough that he isn’t heard. He immediately starts fumbling with his seatbelt, without much success; his fingers are clumsy in his desperate haste. 

“Let me take care of that for you,” Elias says firmly, and then his hands are suddenly there, matter of factly pushing Jon’s hands out of his way so that he can release the clasp for him. His hands are being held together by one of Elias’, as if Jon might try to interfere with his work. Click. “There you go.” 

Jon’s skin has felt like it’s been on fire for this entire drive. No, it has felt like that for days, except then it was only banked coals and embers, still glowing ash waiting to spark back to life. It’s only recently that it’s reached the heights of an inferno, crossing the threshold to where the firefighters stop trying to save the house and instead just contain the damage. 

Elias’ touch is deliciously cool, like ice in the desert. Immediately and completely, the only thing Jon can think about is how much he wants that feeling on every single inch of his skin. 

He looks up, and sees Elias’ gray, impenetrable eyes. He’s closer than he was before. To help him with his seatbelt. Close. 

Elias is kissing him. Jon closes his eyes and lets himself melt into it, Elias moving to press him back against the window. He kisses Jon like he’s hungry for it, eager and greedy and relentless. He’s still holding Jon’s hands together. 

There’s a vague flicker in the back of Jon’s mind that there’s something wrong about what’s happening here, but it’s difficult to pay it any mind. Elias nips at his lower lip, and Jon makes a noise into the kiss. 

“No,” Elias says, ripping himself away from the kiss abruptly enough that Jon sways and follows him for a few inches, unbalanced by the sudden lack of pressure against him. He blinks rapidly, dumfounded. Elias lets go of him and retreats back to his side of the car, not touching him even a little. It makes Jon want to whine.  

Elias wipes roughly at his mouth, and then inhales and exhales slowly. 

“I apologize, Jon,” he says seriously. “That wasn’t right of me. I was merely… overcome by your pheromones. I’ve been trying to control myself for the whole drive, trying to ignore the scent of you… For a moment, it was impossible.” 

Jon had been in a mindless sort of heaven less than thirty seconds ago; he feels as if he’s suffering from whiplash, trying to readjust to this level of interaction. 

“It-- it’s fine,” he says dumbly, because it’s the most coherent response he can think of at the moment. Determining whether or not it was fine is something that is currently beyond him. Right now, the only thing that feels not fine is Elias stopping.  

“The scent of you is-- overpowering,” Elias goes on, and Jon feels absurdly guilty suddenly. His scent, his pheromones, his bad decisions. Elias is only trying to help him; he shouldn’t be put in an awkward position because of Jon. “You should go, before I lose control of myself again.” 

Terribly, there is nothing Jon wants more for a second than to stay exactly where he is, waiting and hoping for Elias’ self restraint to snap once again. Maybe this time it will stay snapped-- and they can spend the duration of Jon’s heat here, in Elias’ car parked next to Jon’s apartment building. It’s absolutely brilliant. 

“Very-- very well,” he stammers, and it takes him two tries to open the door before he goes stumbling out onto the pavement outside. He instantly feels ten times more exposed, his hindbrain radiating distress like he’s just spotted a hungry panther. Violently shaking his head at himself, he forces himself to march in the direction of his building. 

He can’t stop himself from looking behind him, because this is the period of time in which his stupid, irrational, embarrassing instincts have the better of him, and he can’t stop himself from wishing that Elias might be following him, pursuing him. 

Elias is still in his car. He isn’t driving away-- is he waiting to see Jon successfully enter his building? Like a protective date. There’s a part of him that thrills at the idea, another that bristles, and a third that wants to whine because it’s not enough. Elias should be here, with him. 

Jon makes himself suck in a deep breath of air. He has to compose himself. He’s so close, so near. Just a few more steps, a few more minutes, and then he’ll safely be in his flat. He’ll be able to lock the door and sink to his knees and just fall to pieces.  

All alone, with no one to see him or touch him or take care of him. 

Isn’t that wonderful? 

It’s gonna be much… more than any other heat you’ve ever had.

Do you at least have some tools that could make the experience less trying for you?

You seem a touch unprepared for this. 

He doesn’t need anyone. He doesn’t need help. He put himself in this mess, and he will suffer the consequences without making anyone else go out of their way for him. He can at least do that much. He-- 

--he’s walking back to the car. No, he’s running back to the car. He runs so fast he has to catch himself against the door to stop himself from slamming into it, panting from just a short sprint. He scrambles for the door handle, before yanking it open like he wants to take it off the hinges. 

“Elias,” he gasps, like he’s surfacing from a deep dive underwater, like he’s just run a marathon. “This is-- this is entirely optional, if you aren’t willing then I understand, I don’t wish to-- to cross any lines between us, to put you in an unfortunate position or--” 

“Jon?” Elias asks him, patient and coaxing. A gentle get to the point. 

“Would you be willing to spend my heat with me?” he asks all in a rush so that the words follow right at the heels of each other. A request that’s unfamiliar in his mouth, something that he doesn’t normally ask of anyone. Nevermind the fact that you’re supposed to ask far before it’s actually happening. Jon is being hideously improper by just springing this on him right here, right now. Selfish, shameless, desperate. 

Elias blinks once, but otherwise shows no shock or disapproval over Jon’s actions. 

“Are you certain?” Elias carefully asks him, polite and considerate. Giving him a chance to back out, to correct himself. 

He isn’t saying no, a voice in the back of his head points out wildly. Which, no, he isn’t, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He could just be trying to be polite-- 

“Yes,” Jon says fervently and stupidly. His willpower has burnt out. All that is left is desperate grasping for what he wants, and he wants to not be alone for this. He’s already dreading what’s going to happen to him enough as it is. 

Elias takes a long moment to visibly think over the request, and Jon has to bite his tongue bloody just to stop himself from trying to beg. If Elias doesn’t want to spend Jon’s heat with him, then-- then he’ll just have to--

“... Alright,” Elias says, and Jon’s knees almost buckle from sheer relief. Generously, magnanimously, he adds, “I suppose I can do this favor for you.” 

Jon knows that it would be horrid of him to do anything improper in the lift up to his flat, so instead he clutches his hands together tightly. The lift is a small, enclosed space, which means that they’re standing too close to each other and it’s so very easy to smell Elias. There’s a wild part of him that wants to hit the emergency brakes and just dive for him. 

He gets so stupid when he’s in heat. Viciously, he ignores himself to the best of his ability. He tries to breathe through his mouth. 

“Is there anything I should know about?” Elias asks him, and Jon twitches at the sound of his voice. 

“I-- what?” Jon asks. 

“Before this all… begins. Heated omegas can be a touch incoherent at times, so I find it’s best to ask beforehand. Is there anything I should be made aware of?” 

Jon’s mouth opens and closes as he searches his mind fruitlessly for an answer. He feels as if he should have something to say, because surely there has to be something. Some little thing that he dislikes, gets upset by, would like to avoid entirely. But the problem is-- 

“I… I get very not lovely during my heats,” Jon confesses. He gives a weak grin, a paltry attempt at wryness. “That is to say-- even more so than I usually am, at least. I act-- I, I can be quite fussy. Difficult to please. Irrational, unreasonable. So just-- please just ignore me, during? Just-- just do what you think is best. I promise I won’t hold it against you… once it’s all done.” 

Jon always acts in such a humiliating way when he’s in heat; it was half the reason he’d been reluctant to share one with Georgie. Not a fear that he wouldn’t like her, but that she wouldn’t like him. He just gets so-- he wants conflicting, contradictory things. He acts upset when he doesn’t get touched, and then he gets upset when he is. He’s impossible, unpleasant, ridiculous. He’s a horrible omega to share a heat with. 

Elias looks at him for a moment, those eyes of his that feel as if they could cut through Jon with the neat precision of a scalpel, awakening no nerve endings. Then he smiles, and Jon breathes out. 

“Well, if you insist,” he says. “You would know best, in this instance.” 

The lift stops; the doors drift open. Jon barely restrains himself from diving out of the lift, desperate for air that doesn’t smell of Elias. He only just barely doesn’t run towards his flat, and he struggles to get his key into the lock, his hands unsteady in his impatience and nervousness both. He is both breathless with anticipation, and utterly convinced that he’s made a terrible mistake. He’s going to make a fool of himself. He’s going to act so utterly depraved and desperate and unbearable that Elias will permanently lose any respect he may have for him. He’ll demote him, fire him, and his life will be ruined and over. He’ll never live it down. What is he thinking? 

The door comes open. Elias, crowding close enough behind him that he’s practically breathing down his neck, gives him a firm but gentle push into the flat. Jon staggers so he almost loses his balance, and hears the door close behind him. A lock clicks shut. 

Jon turns so he can see Elias, his back no longer to him. Elias’ eyes are sweeping up and down him, as if summing up what he has to work with. Jon feels himself flush. He wants to hide, and he wants to stay rooted exactly where he is. Contradictory. 

“You should divest yourself of your clothes,” Elias suggests. “It would be a shame to make a mess of them… anymore than you already have made a mess of them, at any rate.” 

“I-- you knew?” That humiliating, horrible idea hadn’t even occurred to him at the time. That he was squirming in his seat, growing wetter by the minute, and Elias knew. 

“I could smell it on you,” Elias informs him. He takes a step closer to him, and Jon instinctively takes a retreating step away from him in turn-- which is ridiculous of him. He’s the one who invited Elias up here. “Your slick. You reek of arousal, Jon. Did you want me to take you right there and then? In the car? In your office? Out on the streets, where everyone could see you?” 

Yes. 

“I-- no,” he says. “Of course not.” 

This abrupt shift in tone is disorienting, leaving him flustered and on the backfoot. He tries to inhale to steady himself, and is instead met with the dizzying scent of an aroused alpha. A ragged, wounded noise leaves him on the exhale. Too late and too obvious, he presses a silencing hand against his own mouth. 

“I don’t believe you,” Elias says. “I think you wanted me as quickly as possible, no matter where you might be.” 

Jon tries to speak for a moment, to defend himself, before remembering that he’s muffling himself. 

Elias is still approaching him; Jon is still retreating. It makes him oddly feel like he’s being cornered by a stalking wolf, that gray gaze steady and intent on him. It’s making Jon’s breath come quick and shallow, as if he needs to run, but he can’t even bring himself to look away. He feels almost hypnotized. 

“Take your clothes off,” Elias says, no longer a suggestion. 

Jon desperately, desperately wants to no longer be wearing his clothes. They’ve itched and chafed against him all day, to the point of becoming utterly unbearable. His skin aches for softness. 

“No,” he says, stupid and rude and ridiculous, his hand slipping away. He asked Elias to spend this heat with him; what exactly does he think that that entails? Of course he’s going to have to be naked. He wants to be naked-- except for how he doesn’t. To bare himself in front of Elias, naked and vulnerable, all of him on mortifying display-- 

This is normally the point where his heat partner would grow exasperated with him, frowning and annoyed at how needlessly difficult he’s being. Elias smiles, the expression spreading slowly across his face. His canines are sharp, excited. 

“I’ll just have to use my best judgment, then,” he says. “Just as you asked me to.” 

Please, just ignore me. 

“That’s not--” he starts, and then Elias lunges for him. Jon makes some awful little yelping noise, before mindlessly turning to sprint deeper into his flat. Elias follows him, and Jon realizes too late that he’s run into the deadend of his bedroom--

Elias tackles him onto the bed, the mattress bouncing beneath them. Warm weight pressed against him, over him, pushing him down into softness, pinning him. The all surrounding scent of him. 

Jon, who should be delighted, cries out and tries to kick Elias. Elias laughs at him, as if he’s being amusing instead of extremely troublesome, and then his hands are on Jon, plucking at his clothes, untucking his shirt and popping open buttons with neat, deft movements that Jon can’t squirm away from in time. 

“Don’t, don’t, don’t,” he says, a dumb litany as Elias effeciently undresses him with zero help from Jon. 

“But you’re so wet for it, Jon,” Elias points out reasonably-- and he is , he’s so, so very wet. 

“Shut up,” he says hotly, as if it was an insult instead of an objective statement of fact. 

“Rude thing,” Elias scolds him without any particular heat, and then he’s pushing Jon’s shirt up and out of the way. 

Jon splutters as it bunches up over his face, blinded and partially restrained by it. He’s distracted getting it the rest of the way off so he can see, and by the time he does Elias is casually sliding his trousers off his legs. They hook onto his socks along the way, and Elias dismissively tosses the whole lot of it onto the floor, out of his way. Just like that, Jon is abruptly left in nothing but his pants, sprawled and panting on the bed as Elias kneels over him, his eyes cool and gray, the tilt of his mouth pleased. He runs his hands over Jon’s bare thighs, and Jon twitches like a spooked horse, tries to move away from his touch even though it’s soothing the fire in his skin, even though it’s good. 

“You’re so wet, your pants are clinging to you,” Elias notes, amused. “They’re practically transparent.” 

This was not the day to wear white pants. He tries to clamp his legs shut, embarrassed. Elias’ hands get in the way, taking hold of him by the knees and pushing his legs open wide. 

“Stop looking,” he says, pained. He feels so hot, like his brain is slowly being cooked inside of his skull into insensibility, his blood simmering inside of his veins. 

“I won’t,” Elias says implacably, his eyes tracing over Jon in a way that makes his gaze feel tangible, like a hand sliding across him. “You’re such a pretty little thing, you’re meant to be looked at. It’s such a shame for you to hide away behind clothes.” 

As if Jon should be left to walk around naked at all times, a lovely decoration to be admired and nothing more. He keens. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Elias asks him in an oddly chivalrous tone, as if he’s only pulling out a chair for him, holding open a door. 

Jon thinks about it, almost unwillingly. Elias over him, inside of him, filling him up to the brim, overwhelming pressure for him to clench down on, something to make the maddening buzzing in his skin calm. Getting fucked, pounded into the mattress with each thrust. Being able to scream and claw at Elias’ back, the shredded tatters of his self restraint and dignity falling away from him. 

Being reduced to a mess. 

“No,” he breathes. 

“You’re a very poor liar,” Elias says fondly. 

Then he moves to unbuckle his own belt. Jon, his knees freed, immediately starts to scramble away from Elias, stupidly retreating to the head of the bed. Before he gets the time to do anything more, Elias slides the belt out of the loops of his trousers, and then with one hand he grabs Jon's ankle and yanks him back down towards him. Jon yips.  

“You like to squirm, don’t you?” Elias asks him. “As charming as that is, I’m going to need my hands free for this. Come here-- the more you struggle, the harsher I’m going to have to be.” 

What follows is a frenzied and utterly pathetic struggle on Jon’s end. He ends up with his face pressed into the covers by a hand on the back of his neck - he’s a terrible biter when in heat, and not the fun sort of biting - Elias neatly pinning his legs down with his weight as he tightens the belt around his wrists, trapping them at the small of his back. 

“There we go,” says Elias, sounding slightly breathless but entirely satisfied with himself, as if he’s only had a brisk and refreshing jog up some stairs. “Much more convenient.” 

Jon pulls at the belt holding his wrists together, as if he can perhaps snap the buckle with sheer force. All he manages is to dig the edge of the leather into his wrists, cutting off his circulation. He feels at once the frantic terror of a trapped animal, and some sort of intense instinct to go limp and surrender that he feels down to his marrow. 

Torn between the two opposing urges, he just gives a distressed whimper. 

“Not so ferocious now, are you?” Elias asks him. His fingers curl into Jon’s hair, pulling at his scalp until he’s twisted Jon’s face to the side to better see him. “You just needed a steady hand, that was all. Someone not so indulgent.” 

He strokes a finger over Jon’s lips, daring him to bite. Jon opens his mouth-- hesitates. There’s an odd block in the pathways of his brain, something stopping him, as if biting down on Elias would be the same as biting down on himself. Self preservation. He has the finger between his teeth, but he can’t bring himself to clamp down, and so instead just ends up holding it. 

“Good omega,” Elias praises him, warm and mocking. It makes Jon want to bite down in a flash of spite, at the same time that he wants to draw the finger deeper into his mouth and-- 

Elias removes his hand, mercifully ending the dilemma for Jon. Then he shifts his weight on Jon so that he can pull his hips up, fingers curling into the waistband of his pants, and Jon’s relief swiftly ends. He flinches, trying to move away-- almost topples over instead, his hands bound. Elias, without missing a beat, slides Jon’s pants down his thighs; it’s almost a peeling motion, where his slick has soaked through the fabric. He feels the air hit his bare skin, sweet relief combined with the panic of being exposed, completely and utterly. Casually, Elias slips the pants the rest of the way off Jon’s legs even as Jon’s squirming to try and close his legs, hide himself, his weight mostly resting on his face shoved into the covers. 

“Now, don’t do that,” Elias chides him, the sound of his ruined pants hitting the floor behind them. “An omega like you, in this state? You’re meant to keep your legs open.”  

In demonstration, Elias grabs a firm, bruising hold of each of Jon’s thighs and shoves them open wide. It’s abrupt enough that Jon makes an alarmed noise, trying to catch his balance on his splayed apart knees. His back is arching just to try and hold this position, his arse in the air and his face down. 

“Really, you should have taken my offer to come to my home,” Elias says idly. “The amenities there are far more pleasing. Silk sheets for you to sprawl out on; a spreader bar to help keep your legs where they should be.” 

Before Jon can manage to untangle the frazzled mess of his thoughts enough to form some sort of coherent response - words are so difficult to line up in the correct order, suddenly - there is the ominous sound of a zipper sliding down somewhere behind him, and he feels his whole body automatically go still and silent in reaction, his breath held in his chest. 

“But then again,” Elias says, setting a hand on Jon’s hip, “now your flat is going to reek of me fucking you for weeks and months on end. Won’t that be nice for you?” 

A raw, agonized noise escapes his throat. Jon turns his face back into the covers to try and muffle it, because he certainly can’t stop it on his own. Entirely against his will, entirely against his wishes, his hips tilt upwards, filthy and encouraging as if he actually wants this. To be spoken to like this, touched like this, used. 

He doesn’t. He hates this. 

He loves this. 

He hates that he loves it. 

He-- 

Something blunt and bigger than a finger nudges at Jon’s entrance, and his thoughts white out with shock for a moment. Elias’ cock has fully unsheathed. Elias is--

Because of me, some idiotic, vapid, stupid part of himself notes excitedly, as if inspiring arousal in an alpha is something to be proud of. Jon’s practically sweating heat pheromones at the moment - any alpha with a functioning nose would be physically responding in his presence. It’s not some sort of achievement, it doesn’t mean anything. 

Not that he wants it to mean anything-- 

With a shallow thrust, Elias enters him. His cock slides into Jon easily, he’s so slick and wet, so very ready for it. Jon cries out with only enough air for half of the exhalation, stunned. Every nerve ending in his body is screaming YES and MORE and GOOD. It feels wrong. 

Above and behind him, Elias is giving a ragged exhalation of pleasure, satisfaction. He’s steadily sinking his cock all the way inside of Jon, not as if he’s being gentle, but as if he’s savoring the glide of it, the slick tightness and pressure that embraces every inch of his cock as he slips it into Jon. Jon keeps expecting him to bottom out, to stop, but it keeps not happening. It feels endless, and he has to gasp thinly for air before it’s even over, unable to hold his breath for so long. 

By the time Elias’ pelvis meets his backside, Jon has long since gone past the conviction that there can’t possibly be any more room inside of him left for more cock, right into overwhelmed stupefaction. 

Elias gives a self satisfied hiss between his teeth, his hands bruise tight around Jon’s hips, holding him in place. Jon thinks his knees might have collapsed underneath him by now if not for that fact. 

“Aren’t you--” Elias says, his voice not entirely steady, but just as self assured as ever, “--just the perfect little cocksleeve?” 

Jon makes a broken, wordless noise of protest even as a shiver runs down his spine, as if that had been a compliment, a sweet nothing to feel fluttery over. 

Elias pulls about half of the overwhelming hardness stuffed inside of Jon out of him, which half feels like raw relief, the other half-- not that. His body moves without his sayso, clenching down on the cock inside of him as if to try and keep it from leaving him. Elias audibly inhales, and there’s the ghost of a chuckle at the edges of the exhalation. 

“Don’t worry,” Elias says, as if he’s read Jon’s mind. “I’m not leaving any time soon.” 

As he emphasizes his last sentence, he slams himself back into Jon down to the hilt at the same time, as if to punctuate his statement. A cry tears its way out of Jon’s throat as if pushed out of his lungs by the thrust of Elias’ cock, and he has nothing-- nothing-- to clutch onto, to dig his fingers into as he endures this-- this--

Elias fucks Jon relentlessly, hard and fast, and with each thrust it feels like all of his thoughts slip out of his grip again, and they get a little bit harder to gather back up each time. He has no time to think, Elias is fucking him like he wants to make sure he won’t be able to walk.  

Compulsively, the image comes to him. Him, helpless and bed bound, Elias keeping him exactly where he wants him. Why should he need to walk, when all he’s good for is being spread out on his back? 

He moans, loud and helpless. Elias slams into him once again, and it makes the moan hitch, draw out longer.  

“Such-- a sweet-- little slut,” Elias says, not slowing his rhythm in the slightest. His voice sounds ragged at the edges, exertion underlying his words. “I knew you had it in you-- knew I could bring it out of you--” 

Jon sobs, and Elias growls his approval. He pulls Jon all the way down on his cock with his grip on his hips like he really is a cocksleeve, and he keeps him there this time. He grinds his pelvis against Jon, little hitches of hips like he would go even deeper inside of Jon if only it were physically possible. With a grunting sound, he curls up over Jon so that he can feel the wash of his hot breath against his back. 

Jon is-- he’s feeling something that is the opposite of being distant from his body. He is overwhelmed by it, he feels everything. The tight heat trapped in his skin, the fresh sweating prickling across it, the ache of his shoulders from having his hands trapped behind him, the belt digging into his wrists, his knees protesting at the position-- and the clashing of terror and delight as he feels himself stretched impossibly more as Elias’ knot expands. Jon makes desperate, keening, whimpering noises, but can’t bring himself to squirm. He’s too exhausted, too trapped, it’s already in him-- it’s too late. He just has to lie there and take it. 

He takes it. He takes it, feels it swell until he knows down to his marrow that Elias is stuck inside of him, that he can’t be pulled out. Then there’s a-- a pulse of wet warmth inside of him, and Jon makes a strangled cry as his brain is suddenly flooded with ecstasy intense enough to make tears come to his eyes, his body trembling as it washes over him. 

It takes him a long minute to realize that Elias just came inside of him, and that Jon’s body was so thrilled by this that it immediately rewarded him with an orgasm. Humiliation washes over him like an aftershock, feeble in comparison to the sheer overwhelming pleasure that is still tingling through him. Thoughtlessly, he clenches down on the knot stuck inside of him, and a small and sweet moan slips out of him at the feeling. 

Elias makes a noise that’s half a groan and half growl, and Jon’s body instinctively goes limp and docile. Several seconds later he feels betrayed by himself, by his body. He-- he’s not supposed to surrender, to lie down to sweetly and obediently accept cock and act like he likes it, squirming and moaning and orgasming-- 

Why not? a part of him demands. Why not feel good?

Because-- because-- god, it’s so hard to think. He’s so hot, and Elias is so big inside of him… 

“Good omega,” Elias tells him, and Jon shivers, and it makes just a little bit harder to think than it already is. Elias’ hands move, do something behind him-- and then the pressure around his wrists suddenly loosen, his hands falling apart from each other. His shoulders scream with relief. “Now that you’re being respectful, we can remove this. You’re already stuck in another way, aren’t you? You might as well make use of your hands later.” 

Jon struggles to parse Elias’ words; he’s speaking so quickly, addressing several different concepts all at once, when he’s struggling to wrap his mind around more than one thought at a time. His focus is taken up by how the belt is slipped off his wrists, discarded somewhere else. The sweet stretch of his muscles as he moves his hands so that they’re clutching at the covers over his head. 

Elias’ arms tuck up underneath his armpits before lifting him up into his lap, and a cry tears its way out of Jon’s exhausted throat as things shift, gravity pushing him firmly down onto the knot inside of him. Elias’ laughter tickles the shell of his ear. 

“You’re a noisy thing,” he says, and he says it as if he hasn’t decided yet whether it’s something to encourage or punish. 

Then he moves while keeping his grip on Jon, the two of them connected at their most sensitive places, and he carefully lies down at the head of Jon’s bed, propped up by the pillows there. There is the distant idea of fighting or struggling against being moved around like-- like an object, against being manhandled, but it feels impossible, foolish. He’s so wrung out and exhausted, so weak and helpless, and Elias already has him speared and trapped on his knot. He’s already utterly vulnerable. 

His back against Elias’ chest, he can feel bare skin pressed against his. It takes him a long moment to half wonder at when Elias had undressed; he hadn’t even noticed when it had happened. Elias’ fingers brush idly against Jon’s chest, almost casually tracing a nipple, and Jon’s thoughts slip out of his grip again like a slick soapbar. His breath audibly shudders on the exhale, and he can’t stop his awful, traitorous body from pushing his chest out just a little, as if chasing Elias’ touch. 

“I could get in so very much trouble for doing you such a favor, you know,” Elias murmurs into his ear, and Jon blinks dazedly. Trouble-- what? His mind lags as he tries to understand. Helpfully, Elias elaborates. “I’m your boss, after all. You asked me to help you with your heat, I’m doing this as a kindness… but all the same, it isn’t appropriate. I’m putting myself at risk by not abandoning you. At the very least, my reputation.” 

Everything outside of this flat, this room, this bed, right here and now feels-- distant. Fake and inconsequential, irrelevant. But-- that’s right. Jon had asked for this, hadn’t he? And when all of this is over… It’s difficult to try and wrap his mind around the idea of something that isn’t this, the thought that it could ever end, but Elias helpfully puts all of his formless, inarticulate thoughts into words for him. Trouble. Not appropriate. His reputation. 

Guilt stirs uneasily in his gut, and he can’t stop himself from faintly whining in distress. 

“Oh, don’t be upset,” Elias says sweetly, warmly. His hand has drifted up from Jon’s chest, now idly stroking at his clavicle. “I knew what I was agreeing to when I accepted your offer. I’m willing to take on those risks… but you really should show some proper gratitude.” 

“Wha--” Jon attempts, what feels like the first time he’s made a noise that wasn’t just a filthy moan since Elias stuck his cock into him. He’s interrupted. 

He blinks, disoriented. He can’t talk, there’s something in the way--? Skin. He tastes skin on his tongue, and he realizes what’s happened. Elias has casually put two of his fingers into Jon’s mouth. It’s such a startling turn of events that he doesn’t know how to react in the slightest. 

“Show me how grateful you are,” Elias says into his ear. 

Jon doesn’t understand. How is he supposed to--? 

“Say thank you,” Elias says, as if he’s sensed Jon’s confusion and is now spelling out an utterly simple equation for him. 

Jon makes a small, muffled and wet noise around Elias’ fingers, as if to point out that he can’t. Elias is quite literally making it impossible for him. 

“Try,” Elias says, intent and eager and hungry. Jon doesn’t--

Elias gives a hitch of his hips to where they’re both still joined, and it feels almost like a threat. Jon chokes a sound in his throat at the feeling of it, of that impossibly large thing inside of him tugging at him when he’s already beyond sore and achy from the pounding Elias gave him earlier, still slick and sensitive from his enforced orgasm. It’s so big, he can hardly handle it when he just lies perfectly still. If Elias starts to fuck him while he’s like this-- 

Thank you, Jon tries to say. It doesn’t come out that way at all; Elias is firmly pinning his tongue down, not allowing him any give to work with. The most he manages is the vowels, the garbled remains of the rest of the words clinging at the edges, incoherent and messy. 

“I didn’t quite hear you,” Elias says pleasantly. “Speak up.” 

Jon really should bite him. Instead, because he has a fully inflated knot stretching him to his limits, orgasm slick tacky and drying on his inner thighs, he gives a faint, pathetic whine of protest. 

“Try again,” Elias tells him, unmoved by Jon’s wordless begging. 

Jon tries again, to speak despite Elias’ fingers in his mouth. It makes him sound so-- so debauched, so lewd and wanton. Would this be what he’d sound like, if he tried to speak with a cock in his mouth? It’s an exercise in futility, frustration. 

Elias’ other hand slides up his stomach to his chest, and pinches at one of the nipples there. Jon’s entire body tenses, which makes him clench down on the knot that already feels far too large for him, and he makes a wrecked, pathetic little noise around his mouthful. Elias gives a breathy chuckle, mingled pleasure and amusement. 

“I accept your thanks,” Elias says, and Jon feels a distant pang of relief that he won’t have to keep trying and failing to speak. Elias removes his fingers from his mouth, and Jon just tries to breathe. “You’re being very well behaved now. You deserve a little treat, don’t you?” 

“Um,” Jon says, blinking stupidly. He can feel hair sticking to his forehead due to sweat.  Now that he can properly speak again, he finds that coherent words are still out of his reach. A treat? What--

“You do,” Elias decides. With that, he moves his hand down, down-- Jon sharply inhales as he feels saliva-slick fingers brush against the exposed, sensitive bud of the very tip of his sheathed cock. 

“Elias,” he gets out tightly, as it’s the only word he can think of. 

“Shh,” Elias says. He fondles Jon more firmly, as if he could possibly coax Jon to unsheathe with enough stimulation, a physical impossibility. He’s an omega, it’s vestigial and useless as anything but a bundle of nerves. He’s made to be slick and open and welcoming, someone to be fucked. The only reason for it to be touched is-- 

“Elias,” he says more urgently. His cunt is stuffed full with cock, kept firmly in place by an inflated knot at the base, buried inside of him, and as Elias relentlessly caresses him he can’t stop himself from-- from fluttering and clenching around it, feeling the sheer girth of it, involuntarily shivering and squirming as much as he can when he’s fully impaled on cock. Elias gives a pleased rumble that Jon can feel in his chest, pressed against him. “I don’t-- I don’t need--” 

“You’re not in any fit state to make decisions,” Elias informs him. “You can hardly think, you don’t know what’s best for you. I do.” 

Jon whines. He can’t get away from Elias’ touch, he’s stuck on his knot. It’s so much, too much, unforgiving deft touches at the most sensitive part of himself. With each featherlight brush of fingers and every harder and firmer stroke, something inside of him winds just a little tighter. It’s pouring an urgent, restless feeling inside of him, making it so that he can’t just lie still. His toes curl, his hands clutch at sheets, legs trembling, head tossing-- and worst of all, he can’t stop his hips from-- from hitching, grinding himself down on the knot inside of him in a bid for friction, pulling against it to feel it tug on him as it refuses to leave him, too large. Bouncing himself on Elias’ cock, as much as the knot will allow him. It makes the tight feeling inside of him go tighter, something pulled taut and straining. 

“You like it,” Elias says, the ghost of a smug, pleased purr underlying his words. “You love to be stuffed full of cock, don’t you?” 

Jon opens his mouth to protest, deny, but just then Elias pinches and tugs at one of his nipples at the same time that he does something similar with his other hand, and what comes out instead is a high, helpless moan. He can’t stop himself from arching, can’t stop his body from begging for more.  

“Slutty little omega,” Elias says, his voice low and satisfied, utterly pleased with the proceedings. Having Jon moaning and squirming on his knot, wet and at his mercy. “Aren’t you lucky that I found you?” 

“Elias, please,” Jon says raggedly, not even knowing any longer what he’s pleading for. 

Elias bucks his hips so Jon’s entire body jolts with the movement, a cry tearing out of him at the feeling of the knot tugging at his entrance, Elias’ cock rubbing against the inside of him, and Elias grinds the heel of his hand against Jon at the same time that he bites down on the shell of his ear, a bright, hot little spot of pain that brings all of the pleasure into sweeter relief. Jon’s breath escapes him, each of his muscles tensing and trembling as something rolls through him, washing desperation away with heady pleasure. 

A low, wrecked groan sighs out of him as his body goes limp, his orgasm leaving him feeling soft and boneless. He blinks dazedly up at the ceiling, sweaty and sore. The knot is still stuck inside of him, he’s still full of cock, and it’s all still so very large, but-- it feels like it fits now. Natural, right. Like he could lie like this for hours, warming his alpha’s cock, and he could be utterly content and comfortable. As if he could fall asleep like this, given the opportunity. The thought makes him feel-- 

--happy. 

“You’re welcome. That wasn’t so bad now, was it?” A hand cards affectionately through his hair, another tweaks at one of his nipples in a way that makes his breath shudder for a moment before he gives a happy hum. He moves his muscles to give the cock inside of him a slow squeeze, just to feel its presence. 

There’s a gentle huff of air that puffs against the skin of his shoulder. Then, an intrigued voice in his ear. “Jon. What’s two plus two?” 

He hopes his alpha’s going to play more with his nipples; it had felt good. 

“Did I actually fuck your brains out of your pretty little skull?” The voice is amused, delighted. 

He wriggles a little excitedly at the tone, glad at the idea that he’s pleasing. Then he keeps wriggling a little more, because that feels good, the way it makes the cock inside of him rub at his inner walls. He starts to purr. 

There’s a laugh, and he can feel it from how close he’s pressed up against his alpha, how they’re connected.  

“How wonderful. This really does exceed my hopes for how this would go. Did you know, if you hadn’t come into work today, I would have had to come and visit you. Entirely out of professional concern for a subordinate, of course. But once I’d caught your scent, I’d lose all control, you wouldn’t have any to spare, and then one thing would lead to another…” 

He likes the sound of his alpha’s voice. It’s lovely, soothing. 

“You did come into work, however. And if you had walked into your flat without going back for me, I would have visited you a day later out of concern for you, for how obviously unprepared you were. You would have been in the full swing of your heat by then, nice and desperate for me. But you were already desperate enough for me, weren’t you? Still, it’s almost a shame. It would be interesting to see what you’d be like, after being left to simmer in your own desperation for a day. I would have brought tools. Perhaps I could still order some to be brought here.” 

He arches his back slightly to hopefully push his chest up and out, tempting and coaxing. 

“The point is that this was always going to happen, Jon. I was always going to fuck you, make you mine. I would have made sure of it. As soon as I looked into your eyes and learned about your upcoming heat, I decided that I would be a part of it. How could I possibly resist seeing you like this?” 

His alpha generously takes the bait, both of his hands coming up to squeeze at his chest, thumbing at his nipples. He moans encouragingly, clenching his cunt around the cock in him. There are glowing embers of arousal in the pit of his belly, and he wants to keep stoking them, feeding them. It just feels so good.  

“But you made it so very easy for me.” 

The fingers gently caressing and tugging at one of his nipples turn harsh and punishing, and a surprised whimper escapes him. 

“I hardly had to put in any effort at all. I didn’t have to manipulate you so that you’d forget or fail to make appropriate arrangements for your heat. I didn’t have to find a way to make your heat partner fail to show, I didn’t have to put you in a position so I was your only option. You did it all on your own. The only - the only thing I had to do - was to make sure to just… be there. To drive you home, and that was only so I wouldn’t be spending a heat with you in your cramped little office.” 

It hurts, but it still feels good as well. He is trapped on his alpha’s cock, wouldn’t leave it even if he could; he wants to sit on it forever. Helpless and unable to get away from the rough hands on his chest, he can only make pitiful noises in reaction, hoping it might spark some indulgent mercy. His alpha continues to abuse his nipples without a pause. 

“It was like you wanted me to take advantage of you. I would suspect it, if I couldn’t simply look inside of your head and see how unwitting you were. You didn’t see it coming in the slightest, even though you should have. You practically held the door open for me. You’re so easy to trick into bed, Jon. It’s a wonder more alphas haven’t done it yet.” 

One of the hands stops playing with him, and it’s half a relief and half disappointment. His alpha raises the hand to his face, fingers grazing his lips. Automatically, he licks them, tongue flickering out to meet the fingertips. The hand that’s still toying with his chest gentles for a moment, stroking and rubbing instead of pinching and pulling. 

“So easy to fuck. Easy to use, to trick, to knot. You were made for this, weren’t you? Academia is nothing but a distraction for you. I should bend you over my desk every day, have you underneath it sucking at my cock. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, you hungry little cockslut?” 

Understanding sparks, and he eagerly takes the fingers into his mouth, sucking on them. His alpha fondles him sweetly in reward, fingers pumping into his mouth and across his tongue. His eyes close with rapt enjoyment, and he gives a happy, muffled moan around the fingers in his mouth. 

“I’m going to fuck you in every single hole you have. I’m going to cover you in hickeys and marks until you’ll look like nothing but a common whore. I’ll make you reek of me, so you’ll have to scrub yourself raw to get the scent out. These sheets will be ruined, will always smell of me claiming you.” 

His cunt stuffed full of cock, knotted so it won’t be leaving him any time soon, his nipples being relentlessly played with and his mouth full of something to suck on, his alpha’s voice close and ragged and warm in his ears, the words unintelligible to him-- 

“We’ve barely gotten started. We have a full week left, and I intend to savor every minute of it. I will have you in every last single way that I want, and by the time I’m done with you you’ll thank me for the privilege. You’re mine.”  

--everything feels right in the world.