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Your knuckles raised to the door in front of you, hesitating slightly.
Jonah Magnus lived in New Town, in a slightly more humble sized town house than his neighbors’, yet somewhat more impressive in the idea that not all of it retained the intended use. He was a devoted academic, after all, and he had gutted some of the property, rearranging it into both a home for himself, and an Institute in his name.
It wasn’t too long of a walk for you from your university lodgings- about thirty minutes. Of course, when faced with wind and rain, it was long enough to be unpleasant, and long enough to feel the rain through your clothes.
It rained enough to keep your chin down, blinking light drops from your eyelashes as you considered the man you were going to visit.
You’d seen him in lecture, a must-attend event for yourself, considering you aimed to revive the pitiful scraps of your own research. He was the most well-known scholar in the supernatural in the country, and your clinging attempts at digging yourself a name in its crossover with Celtic studies, made you eager to speak with the man.
You’d taken a seat close to the front, and as such were completely unprepared by the man himself. His hair was greying at the temples, betraying the fact that he was on the middling side of the aging process, but his face was beardless, and his steps still as sharp and crisp as the words that dropped from his mouth, corners tilted up in good-natured form.
The way he had lilted over his words, a slight accent no match for the careful attention to diction, depth, smoothness. It brought you to reminisce of your own practice, reflecting on the voices of men around you and parroting their pitch, the ends of each word dipping and the middle of them swelling in a way that your upbringing had not prepared you for. Your own voice had never reached the natural depth of many of your peers, but careful practice had trained you to where you were today.
You wondered if Jonah Magnus had practiced his own, and you briefly fantasized a deeper connection with the man. Perhaps you wanted to be him. Perhaps you wanted to get to know him better.
In either case, you found yourself leaning on the edge of your seat as the lecture continued.
“I have just enough time for a few questions,” he said at last, and he looked around the room.
His sharp eyes fixed on you and your breath caught in your throat, feeling your skin heat a bit under that gaze. You had nothing to ask, throat suddenly so tight and empty of the many inquiries you had sheltered during the course of the lecture, some to do with the topic, some wildly inappropriate and personal.
As you shook your head, those eyes moved away, of course, leaving you tongue-tied and practicing words in your head as you waited for the surface-level questions of the other students to end. You half tuned them out, many of them obviously attempting to prove their own intelligence rather than the man they had come to observe. To learn from.
When you’d stumbled up and introduced yourself, your research topic, and your need for guidance, (a push in the right direction to get you over your block) he’d regarded you carefully. Asked a few pointed questions, too short, leaving you feeling as if you were leaning over a steep cliff with no steadying hand. He eyed you in a deeply analytical way.
“...Perhaps I have something useful to you. I’ll be in touch.”
But now your thoughts had wandered long enough, and you were jerked back to the present when Jonah answered the door. Had you knocked? You must have.
He wasn’t dressed any more casually here at home than he was in the lecture hall; in fact, he was a touch more buttoned up. It was intimidating, and you found yourself fingering at the edge of your jacket, straightening yourself in reflection. You felt shabby, even if your own clothes were well-kept. Maybe it was the expectation for his sleeves to be rolled up, jacket put away. Or maybe you’d hoped it would be that way. Maybe you’d hoped his collar would have been unbuttoned, showing you just a glimpse of skin. But your eyes flicked down towards his throat, and all you got for your troubles was a lovely patterned neckerchief, green and silky over a stiff white collar.
Jonah led you through his home. Papers everywhere - You would call it a bit of a mess if it didn’t look so deliberate. Organized chaos, each stack leaned with intent, looking as if it were mid-motion. And it probably was, if only in spirit, if what you suspected proved to be true. He was running this institute alone, single-handedly collecting all of these stories in this archive and categorizing them. It was impressive, and you could hardly imagine how quickly his brain must be working to keep track of all of this. You knew he was brilliant and diligent, but this was beyond anything you could have imagined.
The two of you reached the end of the hall, and Jonah showed you into his study, far neater than the rest of the house. There were several bookshelves, fully stacked - you wondered if the ones in here had any significance over the others. Sentiment? Current projects? Prized and rare editions? Perhaps you’d get to ask - , and cabinets filled with odd curios. A big, sturdy looking oak desk sat in the center, oddly bare considering the continued whirlwind of paper around it, except for two books. Maybe he liked only one thing at a time to grace its center.
Jonah reached for the books and offered them to you, and your stomach sort of sunk. Did he invite you all the way over here, bring you into his institute—his home—just to hand you a couple books and send you on your way? That was it, you supposed. But when you go to take the books, a thank you on your lips, you find you can’t take them from his grip. Your hands twitch, and you wonder if you should pull them away. Had you misread something? What was happening?
Jonah smiled, a charming split across his face, on the edge of… you knew better than to consider it flirtatious, but it slid across you as if it was.
“And how do you repay your favors, sir? Surely you intend to.”
Heat rose to your face as the ability to respond left your body, mouth dry and empty of any words. Your mind conjured an image, deviant from what he surely intended, to your shame, of sinking to your knees, hands reaching to rest on his hips.
No. The heat increased, mingling with embarrassment. You must have misunderstood, must have jumped to conclusions a man like Jonah Magnus would have never intended. Not to someone like you. ...But what else could he have meant?
Jonah leaned in, and your heart just about stopped in your chest as his face inched closer to yours. So close he could no doubt feel your quickening breath, so close that if you even just leaned forward your lips would touch. He watched your face, flicking between your eyes and your mouth. You fought the urge to lick your lips, feeling their dryness against his observation almost unbearable, feeling as if you must surely move or be… Or be what? Consumed? He was still looking, and your thoughts were moving too fast for you to comprehend, your breath sounds too loud to your own ears, loud enough that he must be judging you for it. And he was certainly doing so, the longer he kept looking, and you watched Jonah’s eyes move: eyes to mouth, eyes to mouth.
You wondered if it was your imagination that he was closer now, that his head was ever so slightly tipped, staring at you through lowered eyelashes. You began to contemplate how he would react if you closed that little space between you, feeling smaller and smaller as the seconds ticked by.
“No ideas?” Came the response, Jonah’s lips quirked into a tight smirk, eyes watching as if he knew what you were thinking. And he did, somehow. It was in his eyes, the lilt to his voice, smug and understanding. “Lucky for you, I have a few .” A deliberate word, full of intent that fanned out in a breath warm over your lips, and your tongue shot out, wetting your lips as if you had anything to say to that. As if you could form any sort of sound that wouldn’t be a mortifying one.
Jonah pulled back, and his face was schooled into something sharper, leaving room for no argument. “Undress yourself.”
“P-pardon me?” It was miserably little for the amount of time you’d been silent.
“Undress yourself,” Jonah said slowly, words dragging out of his mouth with the commanding addition. “Do not make me repeat myself again.”
You froze, all of the fantasies coming to a halt as you realized what that would mean. You couldn’t get undressed. Jonah would see you, Jonah would know . Nobody could know. You’d worked too hard to get here. Your hands tightened into fists at your side and you opened your mouth to deny him before Jonah cut you off.
“Do you think I’d have invited you to my home if I didn’t know what kind of man you are?” Jonah asked. “If I wasn’t such a man myself?”
“Such a man yourself?” you asked, incredulous. Surely he couldn’t mean… Perhaps he misunderstood.
“Yes,” Jonah said simply, and though his tone was still firm, his eyes softened. “The very same.”
You felt your stomach sink a little. He could only ever be half correct, only half understanding.
You were attracted to him, you were attracted to men, but. If he claimed to be as you were, he couldn’t possibly be implying any further than that. Your circumstances of birth. Your fight and separation. All of the work that you had done to get here. Your stomach sank further, resigned to find a way out of this now to spare yourself disappointment and perhaps worse. “Mr. Magnus, I must-”
“You must not,” he said quickly, irritation crossing his face briefly. Annoyance at being misunderstood? ...At you? You hoped not. “I speak of more than attraction. We are the same.”
“Mr. Magnus-” you protested, and he gave you your first disapproving look. Your jaw clicked shut, hands curling in front of yourself, clasping together anxiously.
“We share the same… daily rituals and life adjustments. Jonah Magnus did not exist in name until I was my own man. You will not surprise me.”
You felt relief fill you, hands stilling. The implications behind each careful word gave you a hope you’d never felt before. A hope to be understood by another like yourself. Even knowing there was another like yourself, and older, wiser, filled you with a new and unheard of feeling. For once in your life, you felt safe.
“Now,” Jonah started again, voice soft and rising back to the firmness it had been before. Easing you back into the water. “Remove your clothes—including your bindings.”
And that settled any lingering worries.
“Yes, Mr. Magnus,” you responded immediately. Your voice slid out hushed, submissive, and though you could feel your cheeks flush, that heat slid downwards when you caught the small, satisfied smile Jonah gave you.
You slid your coat from your shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. Jonah watched intently, stood a few feet away, eyes flicking down to the heap for only a moment before rising back to your hands. You lifted them, up to your cravat, shaky fingers struggling for a moment at the knot before working it free and letting that fall from between your fingers as well. Your waistcoat joined the pile soon after.
Once you were down to shirtsleeves and trousers, Jonah began to walk a wide circle around you, as if inspecting you. Your breath came out in a bit of a pant now, which was pathetic, given nothing had happened. Jonah hadn’t even touched you, save for the brief handshake at the door when he let you in.
You went for the buttons of your trousers, sliding them down your legs and taking your stockings down with it. Toeing off off your boots, you popped the buttons of your shirt next, slowing down slightly as you tried to channel your anxious energy into pulling at the buttons without tearing one off.
That left you with neatly bound linen strips, tidy and flat. Jonah went to sit behind his desk, leaning back in the chair, head tipped back a bit, looking down his nose. His eyes dragged across the strips, down the curve of your hips.
You paused for a minute, hands at your bindings, a little insecure “Go on,” came the soft, commanding voice, nodding his head towards your chest. You took those off carefully, and the relief of the deep breath you could now take helped to calm your nerves. Before you lost your courage, you quickly removed your drawers, shimmying them down and off your legs. A chill went through you as you were fully exposed, and you stared at the ground, embarrassed.
It took a minute to work up the courage to look back over at Jonah, but when you did, you found him watching you closely, eyes running over your body greedily. Envious, almost. You couldn’t help but automatically cross your arms a bit across your hardening nipples (from the chill, surely), hands clasping together in front of your groin. Shifting revealed to yourself that you were so embarrassingly wet already, your slick spread down in between your thighs.
And then Jonah looked up to meet your eyes.
“Come,” Jonah said with a lift of his chin, “Up here on the desk.”
There was definitely a command in that voice, and you stepped forwards almost without thinking. You walked over to it and, unsure exactly what he wanted, you hoisted yourself up onto it, legs hanging over the edge opposite to Jonah. You looked over your shoulder, waiting.
Jonah tsk ed lightly and said, “ Facing me, don’t be foolish.”
The wood was cold under your arse and you could already feel the mess you were making, arousal already slicking the top of the desk where you were sitting against it. You turned, face burning, but kept your legs drawn up, crossed at the ankle. Perched awkwardly like this, too nervous to move any further, you glanced at your host.
“Spread your legs,” he said, and this close you could see the naked hunger in his eyes. “Show me. I want to see how wet you are for me.”
It felt like all the air had been punched out of your chest, and you were throbbing with need, desperate to be touched. You uncrossed your ankles and let your legs fall open wide, exposing yourself fully to his gaze.
“There we go,” Jonah murmured softly, “There’s a good lad.”
You wondered idly if Jonah was trying to kill you, holding back a quiet sound at the praise.
Jonah looked as if he wanted to devour you whole, and oh, you hoped he would. You wished he would. You could not help but imagine him bending forward to bury his face between your legs, pressing against the throbbing there. His tongue that was so clever and succinct with his words would no doubt make short work of you. Your thighs shook a bit at the thought.
But he didn’t lean forward, in fact he leaned back just a little, eyes flicking back to your face.
“Keep them open.”
You nodded, leaning back on your palms a little bit, inching slightly forwards until Jonah cleared his throat, an amused look on his face.
“Stay,” he chided, “impatient, aren’t you?” He chuckled, low, fond. You tried not to focus on how his tongue hit his teeth when he spoke, staring at his lips as he continued to talk. “You want to prove yourself. You want me to get on with it.”
You opened your mouth, slightly indignant. Jonah interrupted you, voice stern once more. “Ah. Did I ask for an answer?”
Your mouth clicked shut again, and you shook your head. The sternness didn’t fade. “Good.”
“I want you to touch yourself.”
You hesitated, and Jonah continued. “Lift your hand, slide it slowly down your stomach- yes. Like that. Spread your fingers as you reach yourself.”
You did, fingers framing around your cock, sliding into the cooling wet mess.
Jonah’s expression didn’t change much, leaning forwards to cross his hands under his chin. He hummed quietly. “Go on. Touch yourself how you’d want me to.”
You obliged, pressing down over your cock as he watched, your movements slow at first, and then you began to pick up, fantasies beginning to take over.
You imagined being pushed down onto the desk, and you sunk slowly back, bracing yourself on a shaking elbow. The image in your mind was vivid, your fingers supplying the push inside yourself, stretching you, fucking you down onto the desk. One finger, two, three. You groaned, legs involuntarily closing a little under the fantasy, imagining they could close around hips, tug the man deeper into you. There wasn’t any other sound in the office aside from the wet squelching and your heavy breathing.
“Pull out, touch your cock for me.” Jonah said softly. You obeyed, sliding your hand up to press down on your cock again instead, tight, slow circles.
“Faster.” Something cool touched your thigh, and you jumped, eye opening, glancing down as your leg was pushed open further. You met the eyes staring back up at you, bright and focused and intense . A whimper fell from your lips as you pressed down harder and faster, breath coming out short now.
A muscle on Jonah’s jaw tightened as you continued to look him in the eye, cane shifting up your thigh. “Good boy. Keep your eyes here. Look at me while you fuck yourself.”
You didn’t trust yourself to respond, nodding instead and keeping your hand moving. Your arm holding you up ached, your muscles were coiled so tight, and you were drowning in those eyes. Every second maintaining that eye contact brought you in deeper and deeper, and the irises narrowed as the pupils got larger and larger. Almost impossibly so, but that didn’t matter, the distance felt closed, his body was in the chair across from you but he may as well have been pressed against you. You wished he was, wished he’d press a knee against the hand moving on yourself. Push his hands down on your shoulders, tug at your hair as you shuddered against him.
You were lost in thought again focusing on the voice whispering to you. Go on. Good boy.
And was that out loud or in your fantasy? Where did the line blur?
It didn’t matter, because as if you were suddenly pushed away, you were dragged out of that comforting blurred form of reality and fantasy, tension of two simultaneous events leaking out in a quiet cry. Your body convulsed, liquid coating your fingertips and the wood below.
Your eyelids fluttered shut, slumping back, chin tucking down to your chest. Your thighs twitched, shaking a bit from how tense you’d been.
“My, what a mess you’ve made.” A hand extended from Jonah at last, thumb sliding through the shining liquid on the desk. You could almost feel it on you, skin prickling from how close the hand came to your skin. But it only touched that, pulling away as Jonah began to straighten.
His eyes sparkled with interest, forefinger and thumb pressing together as he eyed you. Considering. Slightly mocking. And you knew why. He hadn’t even touched you, in the end.
The silence stretched a few seconds, your heaving breaths beginning to slow. Just when you thought to regain your ability to speak the cane tapped you again, just below the slickness of your inner thighs.
“Up, I’ll have to clean this before it stains the wood.”
“Oh- oh. Yes,” you replied, pulling forwards to slide to your feet in front of him. You were looking down at him now, his head tilted back.
You should return the favor, right? Oh, you wanted to. He hadn’t touched himself once, and it seemed only fair. You wanted to drop to your knees, in fact, see him lose that tight control as you closed your mouth on him.
“May I?” You voiced softly, leaning into his space a little, hands hovering, waiting for permission to sink them onto his shoulders.
The answer was instantaneous, leaning back from your hands.
The moment snapped along with your confidence, and your fingertips curled away.
“ No , thank you.” His words were brisk, professional again. “I’m more than alright.”
And perhaps your shoulders slumped a little, or your mouth tilted in a frown, because he paused.
He ran his eyes over you carefully, as if digesting your worth, your ability. You tilted your head back, feeling a surge of pride pass through you, meeting his gaze with a confident one of your own. You had nothing to fear from your offer, perfectly capable of what had been laid out in front of him. Confident after his hungry gaze of the view you had to offer him as well.
The detached examination faltered for just a moment, a flash of emotion crossing his face. Wistfulness? Recognition? It was gone too fast for deep analysis, and replaced with a crooked smile, holding one of the books out to you again. “Come back for the second. I’d be delighted to hear your thoughts.”
You imagined that the book thrummed in your hands as he spoke. Or perhaps, as you would come to find not two chapters in, it thrummed when you thought , invasive, worming deeply into your mind, whispering questions. More and more questions.
Jonah averted his eyes as you dressed, reaching over and plucking at your lapels as you straightened yourself. It was the closest he’d come to touching you, tugging at the fabric several layers away from your chest, his knuckles not even brushing you. You leaned towards him, wondering if he’d rectify that situation, wanting him to do so. His amused expression remained as he pulled his hands away and stepped back. “Next time,” he murmured.
“Until then,” you heard yourself echo, unable to keep the eagerness from your voice. You barely remembered the walk, slick and uncomfortable in your trousers as you clutched the book to you as if it were your saving grace. Your lifeline.
Just days later your hand would shake with need as it lifted to knock on the door, pausing for a moment in hesitation.
The book had little to do with your thesis, in the end.
The start had hooked you in quickly, and then deviated so slowly you hadn’t realized the change until the thrumming had finally left the pages you held. You didn’t care. The vibrations settled behind your eyes now, humming into your dreams and tugging at your thoughts at the most inconvenient of times. You could barely rest through the humming, even if your dreams themselves were filled with images of Jonah Magnus, sexual and supernatural mixing into something that made you jerk awake every night, pulse racing, eyes wildly searching the room around you. As if you were going to catch someone that had been in your bedroom with you, standing over you as you slept, watching you.
Reading more and more of the book had only intensified your need for guidance, your need to understand.
There was only one man to help you do so. Only one man with the sequel and the answers to the questions that burned into your brain and tongue.
Your hand tightened, and you knocked on the door.