Speaking of uh. ‘Just about everybody else’.
Could you uhm. If you don’t have too many prompts already. Do something more with Jon/Peter? Really enjoy their possible dynamic and. … Possible size difference/body contrast outside of the normal bounds of that trope.
I will never have too many prompts, and Peter is just too fun to write.
This is a lot like my "Intoxicating" fic, although there's no weed and it's a different boy Peter's stolen out from under Elias's nose.
(I thought about making Jon more monstrous, but unfortunately, could not justify shoehorning that into this one. Very sad.)
Ultimately, Peter had lost his bet with Elias, yes. (Which wasn’t entirely fair, given you could very easily argue he had gotten one of Elias’s employees to pledge themselves to the Lonely or at least to Peter, but he did not think Elias was in the mood to be debated at the moment, nor would he be at any point in the next few decades.) Peter did not have the Institute, he did not have the Panopticon, and most infuriatingly of all: Elias was still alive.
But all told, Peter was simply not that upset. Elias’s precious Archivist was quite the fair consolation prize.
The overall details had been tedious and entirely alien to Peter. There was something between Martin and Jon, which he had been aware of, part of the reason he’d chosen the Blackwood lad to begin with, that delicious one-sided yearning spinning slowly down into a comfortable numbness. He never would have taken Martin if he had known it was at all reciprocated which, unhappily for them all, it turned out it was. At least things had all worked out in the end.
There’d been some “Take me, not him.” There’d been some “Jon, no, you - you can’t.” Elias had broken out of prison apparently for the sole purpose of throwing what was, by his standards, a tremendous strop. And Peter had left the Institute and then London in rapid order and with a new pet in tow.
“There’s no place in the city you could put me, then?” Jon asked quietly on the way.
“Well, much as I would like to…” So close to the rest of Elias’s little band of gathered misfits, Martin Blackwood especially, and yet so far! Truly delicious. “I think Kent will do quite nicely for now, for us both. And not just because Elias threatened to make a new desk blotter out of my skin.”
“When did he say that?” Asked with faint surprise.
“Oh, he didn’t as such, but I could tell he was thinking it. I know him quite well, you see. Despite my best efforts.”
So Jonathan Sims, Archivist (because that title was lifelong), former head archivist of the Magnus Institute, new…something or other of the Lukas Estate, Peter would figure it out later, came to reside at Moorland House. Twice-claimed now, all-marked, especial beloved of two gods who really worked quite well together when given half a chance. Peter saw Jon settled (insomuch as one could ever “settle” at the old family homestead, which was to say he didn’t), then it was with great relief he left England entirely, returning finally to his beloved Tundra. Where he remained for months, a beautifully-long and fantastically-healing voyage where he spoke on average to one person a week.
Peter preferred to have no contact with land while he was gone, feeding his god and his own soul, but it was unavoidable this time, the family themselves contacting him. They were nervy: the House had never seen so many visitors as it had begun to get with Jon installed.
They came over the moors and down the roads, traveling for hours some of them, driven inexorably by the need to make a statement, to deliver the phobic cargo riding poisonously in the bellies of their lives. These were people, as Peter understood it, who would ordinarily have found themselves drawn to the Institute to tell their story. It gave him some pleasure to imagine Elias tearing his hair out over that.
The Archivist received the statement-givers, those phobic pilgrims, when they arrived. Ordinarily he would have hunted, sought them out, but they came to him, the constraints of his new god and Peter demanding isolation. Speaking of, Peter had his concerns about so much socialization, but when Conrad dropped in to observe and reported back, Peter’s fears were assuaged. They recounted, they left, neither greeting nor goodbye passing between them and the Archivist, a distance maintained always between him and them. Acceptable.
Peter sailed, the statement givers came to Moorland House, and the Archivist gorged himself on as much fear and loneliness as he could hold.
(Conrad had said Jon seemed fit to burst by the time he left, belt unbuckled and trousers undone, Corruption-scarred belly swelling free of his jumper in an overfed bloat.)
When Peter returned, as he sometimes-regretfully but always had to, he found Jon much changed. The gray in his hair had spread and deepened, pale silver translucence rapidly overtaking the black, frost blooming out from his scalp. Those striking eyes had also paled, nearly luminescent, hue reminding Peter of Elias…but where there were rays of iridescence in his irises, Jon’s were flat, marble instead of opal.
He’d also gotten quite fat during Peter’s absence.
There were tits, there was a second chin, the hawkish angles of his face had softened considerably. A heavy, well-fed gut flowed back into creased love handles that sat atop much-widened hips, with an ass and thighs to match.
Jon had kept up with his wardrobe as his clothing sizes changed…barely. His trousers clung to him, and his top threatened to come untucked from his waistband and dump his soft underbelly out to jiggle and wobble.
“Ah, I see,” Peter said after he’d spent an appropriate amount of time examining and, yes, admiring - good to see a well-fed Avatar. Good to be a well-fed Avatar too, apparently: he could swear Jon was preening as he was perceived. Apparently there was more of Elias in him than just eye color. “Elias was starving you.” Peter paused, putting his head to one side. Though I suppose I can’t blame him since, left to your own devices, you obviously overeat…”
“It wasn’t as if there was much else for me to do,” Jon said, sharply defensive.
“Clearly.”
A statement giver had come in all but on Peter’s heels. Jon took their story sitting across from them, belly spread luxuriously in his lap and Peter’s hands on his shoulders where he stood behind him. Once Jon was finished, gut having long spilled free of his clothing with the meal, Peter took him to bed.
They did not fuck. Peter had no interest and suspected that neither did Jon, not that he cared. But Peter kissed him, tasting fog and fear in his mouth, and lay in bed with Jon straddling him. Peter was a big man, much taller than Jon and stout through the middle, but Jon was heavier than him and no doubt fatter. He pressed Peter measurably into the mattress, plush thighs enveloping Peter’s pelvis, and made soft, high little noises as Peter kneaded at the generous spread of his stomach where it spilled down across him.
Jon was warm. Hot, even, studded in sweat as he flushed. Clearly they still had work to do.
“I ought to go,” Peter said dispassionately, and enjoyed Jon’s sharp intake of breath as the stab of loneliness that caused filled him just a little further.