Content Notes: Violence, knife hands, impending noncon.
"Stop moving my things," Jon snaps.
Even in the dark flat, Jon can see that his bookshelf has been re-ordered again. As he steps towards it to fix it, Michael's laughter fills the living room, echoing in his ears like a bell. He jumps when it closes its hands around his neck, squeezing his throat.
"But it distresses you so, Archivist," it breathes - or pretends to - into his ear. The air that passes from its mouth against Jon is scalding hot, making him want to flinch away. "How could I not?"
It releases him, and for a moment Jon doesn't dare to move. He cries out when he's shoved from behind, hard, sending him flying down to the floor. He only barely manages to stop himself from cracking his nose against the hard wood, but then Michael is on him, crushing him with its weight, covering his mouth with its hand while grasping his belt with the other.
"Although this is better," it comments, pulling Jon's belt open. "You are like a rabbit, Archivist. Except you can't hop away." It unfastens his trousers, resting its sharp teeth against Jon's neck. "You can't even hide. Not from me, Archivist."
"I'm not even trying to!" Jon protests, although his words are muffled against Michael's palm. Its hands are still human now, but Jon knows that can change any moment. "I wanted answers, not games!"
Michael giggles, dragging its tongue along Jon's pulse as it shoves its hand inside his trousers.
"And that was very naive of you." He can feel as Michael's smile drops, hear the chill in its voice as it adds: "I won't tolerate that, you know. That's what gets you in trouble, Archivist."
And as if to demonstrate its point, it forces a finger between Jon's lips, and turns it into a blade.