Archive of Our Own ^beta

It is the gentle shuffle of a warm body that awakens Jon. He blearily blinks his eyes open, the room blurring in and out. It takes a few blinks through squinted eyes until his vision clears enough that he can see the dreary wallpaper, sunlight bouncing off the pale coloring. Jon groans, eyes squeezing shut, weakly attempting to crawl back to that horrible darkness that promised nightmares.

Unfortunately, another shift of movement wakes his brain up. Jon slowly cranes his head, glimpsing the thick hand that rests on his abdomen, an arm wrapping around his waist. Jon feels that sweet domestic love bubble up at the nuzzling against his hair. He can hear the soft exhale that follows another adjustment as Martin subconsciously tries to get more comfortable. Jon’s hand twitches towards Martin’s, the urge to hold it is strong.

Remembering he is in the nude, and the events that transpired, make his hand pause.

You see, Jon loves Martin. Of course he does! If someone were to ask Jon who he loved most in the world he wouldn’t hesitate to say Martin. Martin who loves poetry, Martin who puts so much care into making tea, Martin who he had traversed the Lonely for– Jon doesn’t do that for just anybody!

However…

Jon’s hands strangle the comforter, an uncomfortable itch pickling in his throat as his mind scrambled for last night's events. Martin’s hand edges further down Jon’s body and he– he can’t–

Jon grips Martin’s hand and moves it off him without a second thought. His skin tingles uncomfortably as he swings his legs off the bed, feet bracing against the floor as he wobbles upwards.

Jon stumbles, taking an extra step as his right hand meets that too–bright wall. He groans, left hand gripping his head. He must have drunk too much last night; they were so excited to find Daisy had stored some cheap liquor in a back shelf. It tasted absolutely foul, but it did the job well enough if his hangover has anything to say about it.

“Jon?”

The sound echoes in the room, a gentle note that breaks the silence Jon had honestly been enjoying. Bracing his eyes against the sun’s rays, Jon glances at the bed, Martin’s sleep-ridden face rapidly waking up, taking in his form. The blush that rises from Martin’s neck quickly spreads to his face as his eyes linger, and Jon feels another wave of discomfort begin to build.

“Go back to sleep Martin. I’m going to the bathroom,” Jon replies. He can see that Martin is fighting the urge to get up immediately, before slowly sinking back into the sinfully plush blankets. His eyes still linger on Jon, but he makes no attempt to follow. Jon appreciates that, as he can go to the bathroom by himself just fine, thank you.

Jon trudges out of the room, feet making a quiet thud against the hardwood floor. Jon’s pace slows slightly as a thought pops into his mind: What if Martin simply doesn’t want to be left alone? It hasn’t been that long since he escaped the Lonely’s grasp.

It truly hasn’t been that long, right? What, a few months? That was a traumatic experience that could stick with Martin for life. Jon shivers as the phantom sound of a knock echoes in his head. No, he can’t blame Martin for wanting someone to be there with him at all times. It’ll get better the farther that incident gets.

Jon opens the bathroom door, carefully closing it behind him so it wouldn’t creak too loudly. His eyes catch on the mirror, frantically scanning his body. Jon’s breath hitches lightly– it has been a while since he properly looked at himself.

His hands rise so his fingers can skate across his scar-littered skin. His thoughts reminisce for each foreign blemish that stands out at very first glance.

There are the pockmarks from the Prentiss attack, the cut from Melanie’s knife on his thigh, two indents in his torso from his missing ribs, the various shrapnel cuts from the Unknowing, the jagged scar on his shoulder from Michael’s attack, and the ugly slice across his throat from Daisy.

Ah, he almost forgot about the burn mark on his hand. If it weren’t for the additional finger–shaped scarring, someone could’ve thought he had simply placed his hand on a stove for a prolonged period of time.

Jon’s hands pause their journey to rest on his neck. It was definitely one of the worst scars he received– both in pain and in memory. The pain he would never forget– the thought he wouldn’t be able to speak afterwards was still horrific if he lingered on it too long. Recalling how Daisy had spoken to him, made him fear for his life…

Jon cuts off his thoughts before the panic could properly settle in. He lets out a sigh, eyes closing as his hands firmly clasp against his chest. The furrow in his brow increases as he desperately repeats a mantra, reminding himself that he and Martin are safe.

He needs to believe that after all they had gone through, everything was fine. Jon and Martin could simply stay at this safehouse, live a new life in Scotland. At least, until things calmed down. In the meantime, though, they had all the time in the world to appreciate and love each other.

…

…

…Why doesn’t that feel right?

Jon’s eyes open, honing in on their reflection. Something is different– no– wrong. Something doesn’t feel right.

He leans forward, hands bracing against the counter. Jon gives himself another look over. Did he gain a new scar and just isn’t noticing it right away? It certainly wouldn’t be a first, sometimes he glances over things too fast to properly catalogue them. But no, it doesn’t seem to be anything along those lines.

Is it his hair? Sure, it has grown greatly after his six-month coma. Now it rests just below his shoulders, dark untamed frizzles accompanied by the occasional strand of gray. Jon hasn’t been taking very good care of it lately. Usually, Martin will prompt him to use some type of oil and carefully weave– no not weave– work it into Jon’s hair. But no, his hair doesn’t seem any different than usual, maybe just a little longer.

Is it his eyes? The deep, dark brown still stares back at him, so he supposes not. However, there is a circle of green growing around his pupil– he needs to eat soon.

Basira delivered a fresh batch of statements– (‘Not fresh! There is one statement from 1987, one from 1992, another from 2008, two from 2012–’) that arrived in the post yesterday that Jon can take his pick from. He feels more inclined to read the newer ones, a little bitter that Beholding has spoiled the years for him. Jon likes to actually work for information sometimes.

Jon shakes his head lightly as if that will cause his brain to focus on the task at hand. It seems to rattle something into the right place, as Jon is able to return to his inspection. There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong though. Sharp cheekbones, apparent eyebags, scuffed facial hair– He seems perfectly normal. Well, as normal as he could get.

Was that… that couldn’t be the problem, right?

Ha, surely not! Jon has never been less stressed in his life! He isn’t scared that worms are going to crawl out of the ground to greet him, nor that there are any clowns hiding around the corner wanting to flay him alive. He is safe! Martin is safe! Martin made that abundantly clear last night when he–

“God– Jon–”

When he…

“You’re so pretty Jon.”

Jon’s eyes glaze over, his body bends as his forearms rest on the counter.

“You make such cute noises.”

Jon’s stomach is gurgling with nausea and he doesn’t know why– (He definitely does, he’s just ignoring the truth.)

Shut up–! (You know exactly what’s wrong.)

There is nothing wrong! (Face it.)

Fine. Fine!

Jon shoves angrily against the counter, much too hard. His body slams against the wall from the force. His head bounces on impact, an irritated groan followed by tiny pricks of tears. His right hand reaches behind his head, feeling at his scalp. He could only hope at this rate his head beating against a wall would injure him.

No, there isn’t any blood. There isn’t even a bump.

Jon knows (and Knows) that getting any lasting marks on him is… difficult. The level of pain that would be required is brutal. It would require malicious, downright murderous intent. Whoever wanted to harm him would need to go in for the kill.

(‘Jon can still be bruised. The amount of force needed would be less than average due to the lack of fat he currently has. The bruises would take time to fade as well, since he hasn’t been feeding properly.’)

Oh.

Hm.

That bit of knowledge makes the bitter nausea in Jon’s stomach grow. Less than average? Really? Jon’s fingers tremble, anxiety growing hot, skin tingling. If it truly takes less than the average amount, then why is it that when he glances at certain parts of his body– his waist, his wrists, his chest, his neck, his thighs even– Jon can’t see even the smallest–

A knock at the door jolts Jon out of his thoughts.

“Jon? I um– You– I know you’re probably fine but uhm, I heard a–a noise? Did you drop something? Are you ok?” Martin’s voice is filled to the brim with concern, muffled by the door between the pair. Jon looks back at the mirror, at himself, and he can practically see the word ‘No’ plastered on every inch of skin.

Of course, that isn’t what Jon says.

“Yes, Martin. I just slipped a bit on the rug, I’m fine.” Jon’s exhaustion seeps into his speech. No point saying he simply dropped a toilet paper roll. Even Martin wouldn’t believe that one. “Go back to bed, please.”

A few stammers of abandoned sentences are muttered before Martin lets out a shaky “Alright, love. Let me know if you need anything.” Footsteps leave the door and Jon lets his shoulders slump in defeat, tears prick at his eyes.

Jon hates himself.

He has the most wonderful man as his boyfriend. A man who leaped out of bed at the first alarming noise, checking to see if he was alright. A man who knew exactly how he liked his tea, even made it better. A man who would always make sure to treat him with so much soft, gentle love.

That last part was a problem.

Jon’s lips curl up in a sneer, eyes honing in on those intimate spots on his body. The problem (and Jon is disgusted with himself as he thinks of it as a problem) is that there isn’t a single bruise or mark on his body from their lovemaking.

Martin, sweet Martin, is oh so gentle. Martin makes sure to prep Jon thoroughly, takes his time doing so. He leaves ghosts of kisses on Jon’s lips, his cheeks, his jaw, all the way down to his most private of parts. Even the prodding of his tongue is done carefully, making sure to go slow.

When it comes to the ‘main event’, Martin is always careful to not stretch Jon too suddenly. He will move inch-by-inch, even if it seems like he needs to fight to keep his pacing. Martin will use his hands to keep Jon down with the same amount of pressure he would handle fragile documents with. Somehow, that manages to stop Jon from moving his own hips. The only sign Jon’s body shows at Martin’s movements is the slick sound of fluids and tiny mewls that Jon can’t help but let out.

When Martin finishes first, as there hasn’t been a time yet otherwise, he pulls out slowly before leaning down and gently sucking at Jon’s cock. He’s a bit of a multi-tasker, Martin. While his mouth works on bringing Jon to a (semi)pleasant orgasm, his hands tug at the spent condom, pulling it off and tying it. When Jon finally, weakly finishes with a silent cry, Martin immediately moves off and leans back up to give Jon a kiss. And then they cuddle, and go to sleep.

Jon hates it. Hates himself for it.

Sure, maybe Martin is a little soft in bed. Maybe he likes to treat Jon with all the kindness he can muster. That doesn’t mean his body should feel ill at the mere idea of Martin touching him again.

…but Jon can’t help but think up ways that it could be better.

Maybe Martin could try gripping Jon’s waist instead of carefully holding it. Maybe he could kiss Jon like a man starved. Maybe when he makes love to Jon– no– fucks Jon, he could do so properly. Martin has a wider cock that, in those few moments Jon appreciates, fills him up rather nicely. Yes, it isn’t quite long enough to scratch that itch his fingers have grazed, but it still feels pleasant. Jon would very much like Martin to fuck him into their mattress and pump him full of cum.

After Martin finishes, Jon would love if Martin would rub at Jon’s cock while he’s still full. When Jon comes, he would be ecstatic if Martin wouldn’t stop. If Martin would just keep rubbing at him, even as his skin tingles with overstimulation. Martin could cause a second orgasm if he did that, Jon Knows he would.

But no, Jon knows that if he made even the slightest noise of pain then Martin would stop what he was doing and check in. ‘Are you okay Jon?’ ‘Are you sure Jon?’ Damn it, Jon wants him to stop with the questions on occasion. It’s hard enough to get in the mood for sex, and he’s definitely asked Martin to be a bit rougher sometimes. Scratch that, quite a few times. He’s told Martin he is free to grab on to him, tug him around, be rough with him. Every time though, Martin says he will, a slight grimace on his face, but doesn’t.

Jon wants that so badly. He wants Martin to make him squirm, to overwhelm him, to rough him up. Jon wants Martin to bruise him, leave marks on him that he can see in the mirror. Jon wants to be fucked so hard he can’t think about the awful wallpaper choice in the morning. He doesn’t even want to be able to stand up.

Jon groans, head buried in his hands.

He can’t have that with Martin. Martin wants to treat him so nicely after all the horror he’s gone through. Martin wants to make sure Jon never has to suffer any more scars or marks than he already has. It’s so sweet of Martin, so kind. Sweet Martin, who sings Jon's praises with kisses and poems that he doesn’t even understand. He only wants to shower Jon in love.

Love that Jon should– does return. He just needs to shake these feelings of… dissatisfaction. It’ll fade. Surely, it’s just the stress of it all. Things will get better. He can try sex again, and fully enjoy it this time.

(How many times has he said that now?)

He can do it for Martin.

The village is quiet in the morning, Jon has found. Usually Martin insists on making the treks, whether Jon comes with or not. This morning, for the first time, he felt like going alone.

The streets are nearly empty, apart from some children scampering off to the schoolhouse or those who are unfortunate enough to start work in the early hours of the day. Even then though, those workers have most likely left for the nearest town– the commute isn’t the worst. In fact, that’s the reason there has been a boom in new housing.

Jon and Martin had almost considered looking into a few of the smaller homes on the edge of town, but whoever handled Peter Lukas's finances now would surely notice that much money disappearing. No, they will stick to their cabin for now.

Jon exhales, a small misty cloud dancing in the air. The cold bites at his nose and he rubs his hands together, attempting to build some type of warm friction. Of course he forgot his gloves this morning. He had already taken a small solace in the nearby bookshop, feeling like there would be something good today.

He hadn't expected to find a Keats book, but knew that Martin would appreciate it. Whether it was out of pure love, or guilt for his recent thoughts, he didn’t quite know.

The book sits in his shoulder bag, feeling like it weighs much more than a normal book should. Jon knows he’s just imagining it, but it truly feels like his guilt is weighing him down in the form of a book of poetry. How preposterous.

Jon grumbles, adjusting his jacket. Forgetting his gloves was one thing, but he is deeply surprised at himself for forgetting his jacket at home. He had to stop by a shop and pick up a new one. It was thick with extensive padding, and two sizes too big. It also had a hood that Jon currently had up, attempting to shield his ears and at least part of his neck from freezing.

Jon was even beginning to regret wearing the heavy skirt that rested just above his ankles, as the chilly wind would manage to find its way under. Blowing some warm air on his hands, Jon really wishes he had something to warm him up faster.

The smell of freshly ground coffee slips in under the numbing cold air. Jon’s footsteps pause, head turning to gaze at the bakery across the street. Oh. That would work.

His shoes click against the hardwood floor, the jingle of a bell echoing in the small shop. There aren’t many patrons, just a pair that sits in one of the left-side window booths. Jon eyes one of the two on the right-side, tucked away in a corner that very few people wandered to. It is nice to sit there when he wants some peace and quiet. If he is fast enough, he could claim it before someone else did. Sure, he’s the first in line, but some people prefer to claim seats before coffee. Jon is– well– he should’ve, really. In retrospect. But, he’s already at the counter, and it would be far too awkward to go claim a seat now.

Except now he really wishes he had, because the worker is still busy with the first pair of drinks. Jon must’ve only walked in right after their orders were taken. Oh well, he can be patient. He hasn’t been out for very long, only about 30 minutes. That really isn’t much considering it is about a 15-minute walk to town. Look at him, finding a great gift for his boyfriend and getting some baked goods in such a short amount of time. A job well done!

Jon stares at a small plastic cat-shaped tip jar on the counter, wondering how much change it could approximately hold. He manages to estimate 43 pounds (if it were just the coins being used, and if they were dropped at just the right angles–) before the worker returns from delivering drinks, having their back to Jon to quickly wipe down their workstation.

The barista turns just as Jon registers there is someone standing right next to him. A hand settles on his waist and something in Jon’s head screams in delight. A mass majority of it though is panicking.

“G’mornin. Wha' can I get for you two?” You two? Surely the panic on Jon’s face is present, revealing he definitely does not know this– Oh no–

“He’ll have a tall, dark roast,” Elias speaks with such a casual tone, considering he hasn’t seen Jon in months. “As for myself, hm… I'll have the same. Ah, with a dash of nutmeg, if you'd be so kind.” He finishes with a polite smile.

Jon hasn’t felt this terrified since that night with Martin– no don’t think about that. Elias can read minds; Jon shouldn’t give him more ammo to shoot him with. He trembles at that thought. God, Jon hopes he isn’t going to shoot him. He knows he can, if he desires. Jon doesn’t want to die (again). His body shakes with fear at the man that is currently paying for their drinks.

Under his skin, however, something feels odd. Different. Some part of him is thrilled at the hand that holds on to him. Jon tests the grip by shifting just slightly away from Elias, and finds that the fingers dig into his waist further. There is actual pressure. Not lightly resting, not grazing, no– Jon is being held in place. He isn’t to move. For some reason, that makes Jon relax more than he has all day.

Jon lets his eyes wander down a little, ignoring some small conversation Elias is making with the barista. He hasn’t seen Elias in casual wear before, the everyday jacket and black jeans are almost as jarring as his actual presence. The trousers are rather tight too, particularly near his a–

“Jon?” His head snaps up to look at Elias. Those gray eyes stare back at him, but do not yet pierce through his mind for secrets. They are just making contact, letting him familiarize with their cold gaze once more. That something inside of Jon sings a joyous song. “Let’s go sit, yes?” The hand on his waist retreats to the small of his back, leading him to that booth on the right side that he loves.

Hm. Maybe those eyes did see something and he didn’t notice.

It isn’t until he sits down in the booth that Jon registers he’s just willingly sat across from Elias. Should he still call him Elias? While referring to him as Jonah would be correct, it feels odd to call him that. Damn it, focus Jon.

“How have you been, Jon?” Jon almost expects some type of compulsion with those words, and is slightly shocked to find none. “Oh, come now Jon, surely you’ve realized that is a talent specific to you, yes? Any compulsion I have is mere social skill– Beholding has no part in it.” Irritation bubbles up before Jon can grab a hold of it, face now twitching in anger.

“Don’t read my mind!” Jon seethes, teeth clenching.

His hands grip at his skirt, nails digging into the fabric. Elias on the other hand is simply looking Jon over, leather-gloved hands clasped together on the table. There’s a slight tilt to his head, along with a small smile.

“Quite hard when your mind is brimming with tales to tell, secrets to behold. However,” Elias pauses to give a small thank you to the barista, who walked over to give them their drinks. Jon does the same, even taking a small sip before Elias continues, “I’m not here to pick a fight, Jon.”

Jon’s trademark skepticism doubts that. His hands fiddle with his cup, a thumb rubbing at the cardboard sleeve, feeling the grooves with his nail. He feels anxious about what exactly Elias is doing here. What other reason would he have other than to kill Jon right where he sits? He had obliterated Peter Lukas, who, as far as he knows, was a major part of Elias’s plans!

Elias hums, eyes closed as he takes a sip from his drink. “Peter was… well to say he was even a colleague is a stretch.” While Jon jolts with the smallest bit of irritation, Elias sets his cup down, reaching up with a napkin to wipe at his mouth. “No, Jon, believe it or not,” Elias reaches across the table, taking one of Jon’s fidgeting hands into his, “I’m here to help you.”

Jon blinks, flickering his attention between Elias and his hand. What? What’s happening?

Elias lets out a small chuckle, and then Jon realizes that his other hand has met the same fate. He slowly tugs Jon forward, careful not to bump either of their drinks, until he has Jon’s hands right in front of him.

Elias flips them palms up, eyes analyzing every groove and dip. Jon is captivated by Elias’s eyes– the constriction revealing more of that color he sees in the corner of his nightmares. He is faintly aware of the drag of nails that travel the length of his hand.

“You’re starving, Jon,” Elias notes, disappointment evident in his glance upwards to Jon.

His gaze seems to narrow in on Jon’s face, and in a split moment Jon’s jaw is in his grasp. Jon fails to stifle his gasp, along with the noises of protest as Elias rotates his head left, then right. The leather digs into his face, rubbing at his stubble. Jon can feel the smallest, creeping heat build at his cheeks. When Elias moves him to face forward once more, he leans in, and Jon Knows he can see that the ring of green in his eyes has grown– slowly bleeding into his natural color.

Elias tsks, and then releases Jon’s face. Jon, who has been speechless throughout this whole endeavor, snatches his other hand back, cradling both to his chest.

Whatever fog he had fallen into fades as he frantically blinks it away. Why had Jon even let Elias cling to his hands that long? Why did he let him touch him in the first place? Jon tries to calm his breathing (when had he started panting?) as Elias takes another drink.

“Why are you here, Elias?” The static drips from his question, and Jon can see Elias’s eyes widen in brief surprise, before fluttering closed in pleasure.

That reaction brings both a wave of disgust, and oddly enough, pleasure to curl in Jon’s stomach. To see a mere question cause Elias to sigh and loosen his tie just slightly– Focus Jon.

“As I said before, to help you. That is no lie.” Jon Knows he is telling the truth. He still doesn’t have the full answer, though. Jon lets the heavy static coat his tongue once more.

“And what, exactly, does your help entail?” Elias’s mouth opens to speak, but he bites down on whatever words were instinctively going to be released. Jon quirks an eyebrow, seeing Elias’s attempt to fight his answer. The static in his ears begins to grow louder, demanding a response.

Elias groans, eyes clenched shut in effort, nails digging into his hands. “I have some fresh statements I can give you– to feed you. All within the last few months,” he finally gasps out.

While Elias tries to regain his breath, Jon mulls over his response. It’s true, yes, but there is still more. However, he is distracted; the idea of getting something that is less than a year old makes some tension in Jon’s weakened body relax.

…Now thinking about it, why is Jon so calm?

He hasn’t been thinking too hard about it, but he really has given in so easily, hasn't he? Elias walked in, and he was terrified, but then he sits down, has some coffee, and suddenly all is well? Something doesn’t feel right. Is it that fog that seems to settle in the closer Elias is? Should Jon be more concerned about it? Jon is tempted to sprint out of the bakery, to run to the safehouse and hide in Martin’s arms.

However, something in Jon feels differently. Like a part of himself that wants desperately for Elias to be close, for him to be trusted. Jon wants to grasp at Elias’s hands, to inspect every bend of ligaments, to see the small calluses that have built up, to press his lips to the back of his hand–

Stop.

What is happening? Jon feels that oh-so-familiar disgust build in his stomach– what is wrong with him!? He has a lovely boyfriend who is at home, waiting for him– and he’s fantasizing about their tormentor’s hands? Jon is revolted, he is ashamed, he is–

Suddenly being caged into his seat. A bell rings in the distance as Elias clambers onto Jon’s side of the booth; two arms bracing the wall, just under the window, one on either side of Jon’s hooded head. Jon processes with shock that Elias has moved his legs on the seat to manage this.

“E-Elias! What–” Elias shushes Jon, pressing his forehead against Jon’s. Elias’s eyes stare into Jon’s, who is now once again captivated by them. That pale gray looks like it has flecks of blue, or maybe even a green? Jon’s hands don’t know quite where to go, so they simply hang in the air near Elias’s too-close body.

“Do you feel him, Jon?” Jon blinks out of his trance, his brow furrowing in confusion. “His fear. Martin’s.”

Martin? What is Elias talking about? Is this a threat?

But wait, no. Jon can feel Martin’s fear; Or rather, taste it.

Ever since his coma, Jon has been acutely aware of the unique flavor of fear each person carried. Martin’s fear is one of his favorites (is it cruel to refer to such a terrible feeling in that way?). Jon doesn’t bring it up, but Martin’s fear tastes of a chilled oolong tea. It’s really quite subtle, but Jon could recognize it any day.

So why does Jon taste it in the air of the bakery?

Jon makes an attempt to move his head away from Elias’s, but is thwarted by Elias’s body pressing further onto Jon’s.

“Use my Eyes, Jon.” Elias whispers, warm breath brushing Jon’s lips.

Jon trembles with anxious anticipation, a haze building in the corner of his mind. He could refuse, simply wait until Martin’s taste disappears. It’s a small bakery, it wouldn’t take long. Martin could walk in, miss Jon (because surely his loving boyfriend wouldn’t be cornered in a booth with someone else, close enough to be snogging), and leave. Simple as that.

But, Jon is just too curious.

Not to mention, whatever it is that has made its home inside of the body of Jonathan Sims, it trusts Elias immensely. Each atom merges into a choir, singing a sweet serenade to coax Jon out of his wariness. The tension– the resistance he feels– begins to melt away. Jon can’t quite make out the words, but he understands the message: he can trust Elias.

And so, Jon opens the door in his mind; Just a crack. Enough to find his way to Elias, enough to let a part of his mind mist over.

Jon can See through the beady eyes of the cat tip jar that Martin is indeed in the bakery. He looks flushed, as if he had sprinted from the safehouse. Why did he look so concerned? Jon had left a note saying he was going to run to town, do some errands, see if Basira’s latest batch of statements had arrived. Had Martin missed that? No, Jon Knows he didn’t.

Martin walks just a little bit into the shop, greets the barista but doesn’t make further conversation. Jon can feel the slight vibrations that follow each step Martin takes. Martin has stepped out of his view, but shortly passes by to check the other side– the side Jon is on.

Jon’s breath hitches, nerves building. He knows what it looks like– gazing into Elias’s eyes while practically being straddled in a booth. He doesn’t want Martin to get the wrong idea! But, he also can’t think of any way to explain how he got here!

The vibrations are strong, and Jon Knows that Martin can see him.

Instead of stepping for closer inspection, Jon hears a small ‘Oh!’ before Martin seems to retreat for the exit.

Right. Jon isn’t wearing his normal jacket, his hood is up, and his face is being blocked by his smug ex-boss’s. The only way Martin could know it’s him is if he suddenly could see through a person. Jon lets out a sigh of relief as he sees Martin leave, bell trilling behind him.

The next moment Jon blinks, he’s staring at Elias’s eyes again. He seems closer, eyes slightly lidded. The haze in Jon’s head hasn’t faded yet, still tickling at the edge of his mind. Elias looks rather nice, he seems to have gotten a trim. His hair seems just a tad shorter than Jon has last seen, and it looks quite agreeable!

Elias huffs in amusement as he slowly pries away from Jon, leaving a cold absence in his wake. Jon carefully positions himself upwards, his spine making a humiliating crack that Elias most definitely could hear. Instead of sitting back down, Elias leans over the table and takes a long, final drink from his cup. Jon’s cup is full for the most part, but he finds the idea of drinking it to be undesirable.

“So, the statements,” Elias prompts, picking up Jon’s cup.

Jon groans, hunching in on himself. He really shouldn’t even entertain accepting anything from Elias. He picks at a loose thread in his jacket, considering his next options.

Jon is starving.

The statements Basira’s been sending have been… on the cusp of tolerable. They’re enough to keep Jon alive; but not much more than that. Jon is essentially living off of leftovers. Jon knows what a fresher statement tastes like– how it could satisfy his long-lasting hunger. He can remember how the words filled with terror rolled around his tongue, melting into the fibers of his being.

In the beginning, the older statements were enough by themselves. Jon would unknowingly be filled, slowly adjusting to the continuous meals. Now, it’s like trying to survive on crumbs. It is being given scraps when you know you could have a feast. Just the thought of being full again makes Jon swallow the sudden surge of saliva that builds in his mouth.

He really, really wishes that his decision could have been different.

“Alright Elias, fine. Hand them over,” Jon sighs, head tilted downwards towards the table, hand reaching out to receive the familiar weight of papers. When none are given, Jon looks at Elias inquisitively. That smug smile Jon is familiar with is painted on his face.

“Do you really believe I simply carry around statements, Jon?” Elias asks, humor lacing his words.

Jon grumbles as his cheeks flush in embarrassment, his arm dropping to the table. Of course Elias wouldn’t carry those around. He walks away from the table, tossing their cups into the bin. Then he saunters back, propping a hip against the table, eyeing Jon as he fiddles with his jacket sleeves. “No, I keep those at my current residence.”

Secondary location then?

That sounds a few alarms in Jon’s head. Jon’s jaw clenches and his nose flares in frustration. He knows that he should immediately refuse, he really does! He can read the statements he has, he can deal with the hunger.

If he follows Elias, there’s a chance he doesn’t come back. Jon looks up at Elias’s face, taking in every detail, honing in on those piercing eyes. Jon really shouldn’t follow him.

“Where are you staying?” Jon finds his mouth moving before his brain can fully catch up.

Elias’s smile melts into one of triumph, and Jon takes it in with anxiety and bliss rolling in his gut.

As it turns out, Elias had managed to snag one of those up-and-coming homes Jon had seen pop up. It was on the opposite end of town (The farthest from the cabin– is that a coincidence?) nestled between two others that looked exactly the same. It still held the stinging note of fresh paint, prompting a few coughs in the doorway as the pair removed their shoes.

“It may take some getting used to– I haven’t quite managed to be rid of the smell. It doesn’t seem to matter how many windows I open or how long I run the air conditioning. Really, for the price, you would think they’d have cleared it out beforehand!” Elias remarks, mumbling about how he ‘knew some of these were sold before the paint had the chance to dry but this was ridiculous!’

Jon faintly nods. He hasn’t been in any type of newer building in a very long time, so to be blasted in the face with the sharp and boiling smell of chemicals– it was nauseating.

If Jon wasn’t already sitting at the kitchen island, he is sure he would have fallen to the ground. Between the smell that permeates his nose and his lungs, and the hunger that snaps from his stomach as well as some other part of him– well he isn’t doing great.

Jon distracts himself while Elias prepares a kettle, tracing his finger along the marble design that decorates the surface of the island. It’s cool and smooth, grounding the fracturing bits of his mind. It is helping just the smallest amount, and Jon feels like he can almost see images in the patterns that dance across the top. It’s quite mesmerising, and Jon relaxes just the smallest bit, mind growing fuzzy at the edges.

When Elias almost immediately appears at his side holding a steaming cup of tea, Jon wonders if it truly was the table that had eased his spirits.

“I wasn’t entirely sure how you preferred this type, so I do hope you’ll forgive if it isn’t quite to your tastes,” Elias says before his eyes close, sampling his portion. Jon raises his own cup to his mouth, mumbling a quiet ‘thank you’, preparing to take a drink himself.

The smell of oolong floods through, and so does Jon’s patience.

When Jon slams his cup down, some of it splashes over his burnt skin, but the anger he feels is boiling. “Is this some type of joke to you?” Jon snaps, teeth bared. While there is no compulsion, his words still seem to inflict some type of emotion in Elias as he makes a pleased hum.

“Do have some, this is exported from southern China and was not cheap–” Elias is cut off as Jon stands, pounds his way to the sink, and promptly dumps the entire drink into the drain. Elias sighs as Jon shakes the cup, wanting every last drop to be washed away. He even turns the sink on for good measure. “You didn’t have to do that, Jon.”

Jon sets the cup on the counter, turning to Elias with a fire in his eyes. “Statements.”

Elias roughly exhales, setting his cup down. "I'm going to excuse your childish behavior with the fact we did just have coffee. Even though you hardly drank any." Jon fails to waver at Elias's pointed glare. Elias then adopts a neutral look, taking a moment to remove his gloves, before continuing. "The statements I have aren't on paper."

Jon gives a look of disbelief and irritation. "Where are they? You said you had statements, and like a fool I followed you to your– your house. If you lied to me, and I have no doubt that you would, then I'll just be on my wa–" While speaking, Jon had begun making his way to the front door, but before his hand can grasp the knob, there is a body firmly pressing against his.

For a moment, Jon's body is filled with immense pleasure tingling through his veins, mind fogging with ecstasy, and he has to choke back the moan that nearly finds its way out. Jon suffocates the sound and feelings with his own mortification of his new position. Jon's arms are held against his back, and he feels warm breath tickle his neck.

"Oh, Jon, there are statements. As I said, they aren't on paper. This is going to be a small exercise, to see how much you've grown." Elias chuckles, and Jon can feel the reverberations from his chest that is pressed much too close. "If you fail, well, then I suppose you'll have to continue with the stale diet you've had up until now."

Jon thrashes against the hold now, hating how Elias can tell exactly why he agreed to this. He knows it was easy to see, it's so clear to tell if you glance at his body, but to be called out for it was utterly humiliating.

"Get off!" The struggling only seems to tempt Elias to push further, and Jon begins to feel some liquid warmth pool into his gut. How long has it been since he had felt something other than gentle hands?

Elias releases a short, curt laugh before Jon feels that glorious pressure fall away, arms freed as well. He leans against the door as he turns, hoping his face looks more stern than debauched. He knows that isn't the case when Elias smirks at his expression.

"Come take a seat, Jon," Elias gestures towards the living room, where the couch– ('Loveseat') He isn't calling it that– is. Jon, who has now tensed every muscle in his body, carefully sits on the edge of his seat, slipping his jacket off and placing it on the adjacent seat. Moving the jacket to the floor, Elias slides himself right next to Jon, even though there is plenty of space, their thighs touching. Jon fights to contain the whine he feels bubbling in his throat.

"Just get this over with, Elias." Jon clenches his teeth while he speaks, tired of Elias ignoring the conversation. He says he has statements, but not on paper. Is there some poor soul locked up in his guest room, waiting for Jon to crawl in and pounce? He won't do it, he swore he wouldn't take any more live statements and he can't break that promise. Elias titters next to him.

"As entertaining as I believe that would be, no. Besides, watching you surprise them is half the fun," Elias purrs, setting his chin on Jon's shoulder, skin tingling where they join. Jon sighs, knowing that it doesn't matter how much he complains; Elias will read his mind no matter what. "It isn't my fault, Knowing what you want makes things much easier for both of us."

Jon can only wish that the connection went both ways. Elias chuckles at the thought, vibrations echoing against Jon’s trapezius. Jon closes his eyes tight in irritation with a slight groan.

That fog is nudging at him again, attempting to cloud his mind. Now that Jon is focused on it, he can feel as it attempts to burrow into his head. His brows furrow slightly as he attempts to see where it’s trying to go. It seems to want something further in– not satisfied with the outer layer it has found its residency in.

Jon is jolted out of his focus at the sudden heavy weight that has made a home in his lap. His hands automatically reach out, gripping Elias’s waist. Elias’s hands have found their way to either side of Jon’s head, tilting it up to meet those cold, gray eyes. There’s amusement, but also focus. Jon’s vision seems blurred at the edges…

“Look into my head, Jon.” Jon releases a shaky exhale, his pupils blown out in an instant. For some reason, the idea of reaching into Elias’s head fills his veins with excitement and anticipation. This part of him–the part that isn’t human anymore– is thrilled.

“Can I even…?” Jon whispers, eyes searching for any crack he could slip through. He has never been able to pierce the veil between him and Elias, and now the opportunity is being offered on a silver platter? He doesn’t even notice how deep the fog has reached; His attention is on the once-impenetrable mind that instinctually fights against him.

Jon doesn’t even react when Elias leans down, lips only inches from his own.

“Try.” Elias’s breath is warm, and Jon’s vision trickles away as he follows the scent of a fresh meal.

It feels suffocating, at first; Like being dropped into a raging river that wishes to drown you. Jon claws at the surface, attempting to break free. He gasps for breath, inhaling small facts he hadn’t known before. Elias prefers to take his tea with just a bit of cream. He’s a fan of spearmint, but not peppermint. He has mysophobia, but Jon can feel that there is something he fears more, but he just can’t find it on the surface.

Jon’s struggling to stay afloat. Useless trivia is still flowing in, tidbits that he couldn’t care less about in the current moment. None of it is satisfying, none can give him his fill. He needs statements, he needs knowledge. Jon isn’t leaving until he gets it. If Elias would stop putting up a fight, this could be over with already!

And then Jon pauses. Why is he kicking, paddling, and fighting? He doesn’t even know what he’s fighting– he’s only terrified of drowning. Whatever it is that attempts to bring him under, it won’t relent. It roars and crashes and Jon can feel it funnel into his nose and ears and mouth and eyes. With it, it brings more. Jon can taste something heavy on his tongue, it flows down in a steady stream.

Jon’s eyes widen in realization, and he lets himself sink.

Jon can distantly feel his body trembling, some part of him feeling warm and– and wet? He ignores it, instead reveling in the information that coats his skin, his tongue, his mind. He feasts on the words of fear and terror; Of a woman that woke up in a spider's web, a man that found his body rapidly decaying, another that was trapped in a never-ending corn maze. Their statements overflow, and a distant moan floats through the dark, murky space.

Jon’s throat constricts around his meal, swallowing every word and phrase. Something pushes and mouths at his neck, making some of the sweet haze fall away. Jon focuses on his food, attempting to ignore that which calls him away.

Unfortunately, he fails. Jon is pulled out of his personal banquet at the feeling of something hard pressed against his pelvis. The next thing he is aware of is harsh breathing against his tender neck. The moaning he had heard moments ago was coming from his own chest, which is a reasonable reaction when something is grinding against you.

…and apparently Jon had been subconsciously returning the favor.

Jon yelps, shoving against Elias, sending him tumbling to the floor.

“What the hell Elias!” Voice cracking, he abruptly stands, painfully aware of the wetness that seeps through his briefs. He can only hope he can make it to a bathroom for damage control. Unfortunately, he trips on one of Elias’s legs and joins him on the floor. Jon groans, a warm tingling spreading from his groin, prickling his skin.

A warm body presses down from above, hands on top of his own. Jon can feel a hardness press against his arse, and a puff of amusement against his ear. Something in him begins to change; a choir turning into a symphony of pleasure.

Whatever it was that was attempting to find its way into Jon’s mind has done it– crackling across every neuron and Jon finds himself melting into the feeling. His thoughts begin to muddy, words turning into fragments, that glorious heat spreading from his pelvis upwards.

“Apologies, Jon.” Elias sounds breathless, but Jon can still tell there's a smirk on his face. “I hadn’t expected that to arouse you.”

Jon can honestly hardly focus, his mind clouded over. The only thing he can really process is the hands that grip his, the gyrating of his hips, and the soft pants that leave his mouth. Jon feels so incredibly warm, and safe. He hasn’t felt this comfortable in his own skin in so long.

“Why– ah– why are you–” Jon’s cohesive thought is slipping through his fingers, mouth and tongue working against him. Oh he feels so nice, so warm, so good. Through the fabric of his skirt, he feels the hardness pressed against him throb.

Elias moans at the prickles of an attempt of compulsion. "If you can still– ngh– speak then I'm– hah– clearly doing something wrong."

Elias increases the pressure of his hands, hips canting forward to shove Jon’s onto the floor. Jon cries out, feeling absolutely overtaken. He registers the new input of teeth biting into his neck, a mouth sucking marks onto his already flushed flesh. Jon’s body trembles at the new feeling, and his head is crying out a stream of ‘yes yes yes’.

Elias’s hips are rocking against his, a dance of friction and arousal. Jon knows he isn't getting any direct stimulation, but his body is mimicking the arousal emanating from Elias. His eyes flutter, focused solely on the pleasure that is being fed to his body.

“Allow me to–hah– attempt something?” Elias pants heavily now, his rhythm growing slightly frantic. Jon moans a noise of acknowledgement, and screams as he feels Elias rake his Eyes through his head.

Oh.

Was this what Elias had felt? It was incredible. Jon can feel his every memory being combed, every thought picked apart, and every sight being analyzed. Jon had only been able to reach that small group of statements– but now he wants to see everything. He wants to dissect Elias’s mind until every secret is revealed. He wants to Know Elias’s plans. If it means Elias would feel what he was feeling, Jon wants to See him. Elias can feel that thought echo, and Jon feels the gaze of a hundred eyes focus on him, something coiling up tight before releasing.

A tremor travels along Jon’s body and his vision goes white, hips jerking, a guttural sound tearing through his throat. He heavily pants, body slowing its rocking as Elias’s movements begin to cease.

Elias’s hands leave Jon’s, and he is dully aware of the back of his shirt being hoisted up to just below his shoulders, followed by the sharp noise of a zipper. Jon hazily looks at the gray walls of the living room, appreciating the blinds toning the brightness of the room down. He focuses on that instead of the slick sound and quick, heavy pants behind him.

His mind is slow to process what he’s doing on the floor, trying to catch up on what’s happened since he entered this house. He remembers sitting down, tracing marble, dumping tea. He recalls sitting down, consuming, and then, in a way, being consumed.

When there's a low moan followed by something warm and wet landing on his back, the fog in Jon’s head snaps away, and shock takes over his system.

Oh god.

Oh fuck.

What the fuck did he just do?

A sob croaks out of Jon’s throat, which is followed by the sound of tissues being drawn behind him. Something wipes at his back, presumably removing the spend that he believes has permanently stained his body.

Jon’s hands weakly scratch at the floor as his eyes fill with tears, trying to find something to focus on– anything else but the sound of clothes being adjusted and the disgusting stickiness he feels between his thighs.

“Jon?” Elias calls behind him. Jon’s head drops to the floor as he cries, the strength to keep it up long gone. Why did he let that happen? Why did he allow Elias to press himself so close, to hold him down so roughly?

Why did some part of Jon want it to happen again?

Oh god. This was a mistake. A very, very big one.

“Jon.” A whisper, a hand running through his hair, at his scalp. Jon’s stomach churns as his eyes close, whimpering at how lovely it feels. “Come on now, let’s get you cleaned up.” Jon only shakes his head in response, eyes screwed tightly now.

There are tracks of tears that drip onto the floor, and an ugly sound that continuously flows from his throat. The thought of moving only makes Jon want to curl up, because he knows he will not be able to ignore the slick feeling with every shift of soiled fabric.

Elias gets up and wanders somewhere else in the house. Jon shivers at the cold as his bare back remains exposed. He welcomes the smell of chemicals if it can cover the musk.

Jon doesn’t quite know how long he is left alone, only that he's jolted out of his thoughts when Elias pushes his side with one hand, forcing him onto his back, and is tugging at his waistband with the other.

“D-Dont– please–” Jon weakly cries.

“I’m not doing what you think. I’m here to help you, Jon.” Elias utters before utilizing both hands, successfully pulling down both Jon’s skirt and his briefs. Jon quivers in both fear and the remnants of arousal, staring with the former as his clothing is tugged down and off. His hands dart to cover up his groin, as though Elias is even looking. No, his focus had purely been on removing Jon’s clothes.

Now though, Elias is staring at his hands. His gaze wanders up to meet Jon’s. He doesn’t say anything, but Jon knows he is asking a question. Jon really doesn’t want to say yes, but the idea of Elias touching him again is very tempting, as much as it revolts him to say.

“I don’t know if I should take that as a compliment, or an insult,” Elias quips. Jon glowers at him through the tears that haven’t stopped.

“...give me the damn tissues.” His voice sounds like a shell, or just a whisper, of what it was previously.

Elias slowly sets the tissues, along with a folded pair of briefs and trousers next to Jon. Then he stands, making his way back to the kitchen. Jon stills for a few moments until he hears the sound of running water and something being scrubbed. He hastily wipes at himself, repulsed at the fluids his body produced. Because of Elias. What the hell is wrong with him?

Jon shakily stands, attempts to keep his sniffling to a minimum, and swiftly pulls on the newly acquired clothing, desperate to cover himself. It doesn’t quite fit– the pants are slightly loose on his hips. Elias makes a noise of acknowledgement from the kitchen.

“There’s a belt in my closet, if you so wish.” Jon debates on going to get the belt, but decides against it. No use giving Elias more to hold over him. There's an exhausted noise from the kitchen, along with the clink of a glass being set on the counter. “I’m not going to hold anything over you, Jon. I really am being truthful when I say I want to help–”

“Stop it with the bullshit, Elias.” Considering how wrecked and ruined his voice sounds, Jon is surprised by the bitter tone he is able to muster. Elias turns, eyes widened slightly. It appears he is as well. “You lure me here with statements, make me delve into your mind, do– something that makes me react like– like some kind of– argh!” Jon throws his hands up in frustration. “And then you give me clothes since you made me ruin my own! You want something from me, and I want to know what. You wouldn’t do this otherwise!” The tears are flowing again, a steady stream down either of Jon’s cheeks.

Elias hums, leaning against the counter in thought. His eyes move from Jon to some point on the wall, then to the cabinets, then back to Jon. He’s clearly calculating his next words, and Jon feels irritation build over his sorrow with every second that passes.

“You’re having trouble in paradise, Jon.”

Jon freezes, hands gripping the too-loose waistband of the trousers. Elias couldn’t know. Well, that’s a lie– Elias could know. Most definitely Knows. Especially since moments ago, led by some carnally driven lust, Jon had let Elias crack open his head and revel in every bit of knowledge he held. If that hadn’t said anything, then Jon’s reaction to his statement most definitely did.

"I'm… It's not– we're fine-"

Elias gives a short interrupting laugh. "You wouldn't be here otherwise. You said it yourself– you could deal with the hunger, so why follow me? There was no need to! All you would have to do is wander out and… take your pick of the locals. Or, of course, there are some tourists around.”

Jon tries to calm his thundering heart; he can’t give Elias anything else. He can’t reveal that he’s felt the call of sorrow, the fear that lingers under the skin, which sings a song that he is so desperate to hear. All Jon would have to do is tear it out. It would be so incredibly easy.

But innocent people would be harmed. Jon doesn’t want to subject more people to their horrors every night, to make them suffer while he watches over.

“...I promised I wouldn’t.”

“Ah, apologies. Starvation is the best alternative, then?” Elias slowly steps closer to Jon, and he tenses, form remembering how close they had been moments ago. “How does Martin feel about that?”

Jon whimpers a sob, the cold and twisting feeling of betrayal biting at his throat. Martin knows that he still needs to– well– eat. However, he loathes hearing the statements. Jon has to wait until Martin either heads to the village, goes on a walk, or is willing to deal with the muffled murmurings of a statement through a thin wall. It makes Jon feel more monstrous every time he pulls a statement out from the box from the post office, seeing Martin’s face, without fail, drop into a disappointed stare.

“Hm.” Elias hums. Jon’s ears prick at the tiniest of tones that come with it. It sounds almost akin to anger, irritation. Jon rubs at his eyes, turning his gaze upwards to see Elias with a pinched expression, the slightest downward quirk of his mouth. His eyes flick upwards to meet Jon’s. “You could read here instead. I wouldn’t judge you for feeding, Jon.”

Jon can feel the truth that rings, echoing through his body. Elias’s hands cup his face, turning it so Jon is staring at the ceiling.

“You should run along to the restroom, clean yourself up.” A finger drags along the line of Jon’s throat, carotid jumping at the nail that traces it. Jon shivers, his heart pulsing underneath his skin. He pulls himself away in a daze, and turns to the hallway, slowly making his way to the open door on the left.

His feet meet tiles, and Jon stares at the ground as his hands blindly reach behind him to close the door. Tears fall and make a pitter-patter as they hit the ground. Jon looks up and another sob wracks his body as his eyes lock onto the mirror– onto the dark bruises on his neck. Oh god, those are very prominent.

His fingers reach up, poking and prodding at the blemishes. Jon hisses at the burn that follows, pain and pleasure tingling across his skin. He gently tilts his head, stepping closer to his reflection. His breathing is shallow as his gaze flickers to every spot that Elias had ravaged while he ate.

Jon feels panic settle into his chest. How is he going to hide this? He could hardly hide the jagged scar on his neck– how was he supposed to–

There is a knock at the door, which instinctively makes Jon jolt. It creaks open– he didn’t even lock the door– and a hand pops in just enough to set a small bottle down on the counter before it leaves, the door closing once more.

Jon is frozen for a minute, staring at the bottle. Once he blinks back his tears, he can clearly see the ‘FOUNDATION’ label, and the tone of skin it was meant to match. He slowly grasps it, bringing it closer, plastic cold in his hand. He doesn’t bother asking for some type of brush to apply it with, he simply pumps a small amount onto his finger, testing to see how it covers. He shouldn’t be surprised that it blends and covers smoothly.

The next few minutes are a rapid show of smearing more layers across the discolored splotches, attempting to cover them as best he can.

Jon slams the bottle down on the counter as he gives himself one last look-over. He tilts his head this angle and that– he needs to make sure he’s covered everything. If Martin notices even the slightest discrepancy…

Jon fights the urge to cry again. The tile against his feet feels frigid, and his skin tingles from the stagnant air. He can’t help but think of how Martin would react to this– to the newly added scar that his skin carries. The only difference between this one and the previous is that Jon had let this happen.

He had, hadn’t he? He could’ve fought more, screamed, clawed his way out. Instead he rolled over and took it. He allowed Elias to defile him in more ways than he ever should have.

Jon thinks of the boiling heat of their hips grinding against each other and tightens his grip on the bottle. He can hear the slightest crack as the plastic gives under the pressure.

Jon releases his death grip, cautiously making his way out of the bathroom. Elias is still in the kitchen when he gathers his jacket, pulling his arm through each sleeve. Afterwards, Jon tugs the bag with the Keats book close to him.

“I wouldn’t mind providing this… distraction again, Jon,” Elias calls.

Jon, ignoring the stinging pain from his tear-stained puffy face, scowls. “This won’t happen again.” He angrily pulls on his shoes, not bothering to tie the laces as he unlocks the door, twisting on the handle to open it.

“Of course it won’t,” Elias murmurs as the door clicks closed.

Jon enters the cabin with anxiety making his body tremble. He locks the door behind him, releasing a shaky sigh. He pulls his bags closer to himself, arms aching slightly when-

“Jon!” Is all the warning Jon receives before he is held to Martin’s chest. Jon feels covered entirely, the slightest pressure on his head and waist from Martin’s hands. “Where were you? It’s been hours and-and I was getting so worried! I was so close to going out and looking for you but I-”

Jon tunes out the rest of Martin’s ramblings. What? He had gone out! If Jon hadn’t seen it himself, he could also taste the falsehood that laced Martin’s words. Why was he trying to lie?

Something cold picks at where Jon’s heart is.

“-on? Jon, love? Are you alright?” Martin gently nudges him, and Jon looks up. His neck aches terribly from the motion, but he can’t exactly call attention to it.

“Ah, right- um- sorry Martin. I-I had some shopping I wanted to do, and I didn’t want to wake you so- I-” Jon can feel a blush rising to his cheeks, embarrassment seeping along the fear of discovery. His free hand twitches, desperate to grab onto something to distract Martin from suspicion.

Oh!

Jon’s reaches into the proper bag, pulling out the book he had gotten Martin– (Before you betrayed him). He freezes at the thought, but he is saved by Martin prying the book from his hands.

“Keats? Where-where did you even find this? I’ve been asking the bookstore for weeks-!” Martin stammers. Jon can, at least, answer this without feeling guilt choke him.

“I decided to check today on my way to the grocery store. Granted, I still don’t understand what you see in his writing, but I figured you would enjoy-” Jon is cut off as Martin presses their lips together.

The hand that isn’t occupied by a book reaches up and cups Jon’s face, thumb rubbing at the edge of his cheekbone.

Martin leans back, his eyes lidded, lips slightly parted. The slightest smile lingers at the edges of his mouth as he whispers, “Maybe I should- um- thank you properly?”

A cold dread drops into Jon’s stomach. His atoms are screaming at him to walk away from Martin, that symphony turning into a discordant mockery of a melody. He shakes from head to toe, a voice in the back of his head informing him that Martin thinks he’s shaking out of anticipation, eagerness!

There is no way for Martin to know it is the opposite. Jon knows that if he says the word, says he isn’t feeling up to it, Martin would back off, even if he wanted to go further.

…He owes this to Martin though, doesn’t he? Hadn’t he done something so horrible, so absolutely vile that he is actively trying to hide it?

Yes, Martin should be allowed to do whatever he wishes. If that means handling Jon as if he’s made of glass, then Jon has no right to complain.

Jon gives a shaky smile, a trembling hand finding a place in Martin’s hair, tugging him downwards.

He can do this for Martin.

The morning brings with it the glare of the wallpaper. Jon’s vacant stare traces every small discrepancy in the pattern– the slightest of tears, the places where a portrait blocked the bleaching from the sun. He focuses on those as he hears Martin attempt to quietly make his way to the kitchen.

He stops the breathing pattern he had adapted since waking, inhaling shallower breaths with every intake. Jon curls in on himself as he trembles, tears beading in the corner of his eyes. He suppresses his whimpers into a pillow, holding it close as his mind races.

He truly does love Martin; he has no doubts. He loves the man that is trying to make pancakes as silently as he can, even if he is making a mess of the counters.

Okay, maybe their lovemaking isn’t as rough as Jon would prefer, that’s alright! It’s sweet that Martin wants to be so gentle, he can’t forget that. It certainly isn’t the worst way to be handled.

And yet–

Not being able to move his hands up due to the force being pressed onto them–

And yet…

Teeth biting into his neck, marking him as someone else’s–

And yet.

His mind being flayed open, another pressing closer, almost merging into one–

Fuck.

Fuck.

Jon doesn’t make a sound as he sits on the floor next to the couch, a throw blanket draped over him. He stares at the fireplace mantel, eyes tracing the faint path the wood grain makes. When he reaches the end of one path, he restarts, following a different path.

Jon needs to eat. He knows he’s been starving himself, and the statements are the closest thing to a meal he’s gotten. The statements Elias had provided were… Well, satisfactory is underselling it; Jon hadn’t felt so full in so long. The idea that he could read somewhere without the worry of making someone listen was also rather appealing. Granted, Elias would be listening, but at least he couldn’t be judged.

A startled noise makes him look up. Martin is holding two plates of pancakes, one obviously smaller than the other.

"Jon! You're awake– oh– I didn't wake you up did I? Shit, I'm sorry!" Martin rattles off, walking up and gingerly placing the smaller plate in front of Jon. They're no strangers to eating on the floor, since Jon doesn't want to get crumbs on the couch, but also doesn't want to sit at the wobbly table in the corner of the small kitchen.

"It's fine, Martin. I was already waking up," Jon mumbles, poking at the plain offering placed before him. He eats them plain; the last time he'd tried the syrup he nearly hurled at how sweet it was. Instead of wasting their money on a different brand, Jon deals with the simple taste that comes without.

"Are you sure? I-I'm rather worried about you, y'know…?" Martin is muttering, mindlessly twirling his fork in his hand.

Jon puts a piece of pancake in his mouth and has to fight to swallow. Instead of the plush, subtle taste of batter he's used to, it tastes almost like a dried sponge. Jon turns to Martin, about to ask if he'd forgotten the recipe, only to see Martin chomping away. He didn't seem to notice the problem.

"Worried? How so?" Jon asks.

"You just– that is to say– um– you look rather thin? I noticed last night when– ahem–" A blush crawls across Martin's cheeks, overtaking his face. Jon Knows what he's talking about, and his fingers almost feel numb as Martin continues. "...I could feel your ribs. You aren't eating very well and so I wanted to make you breakfast but…"

Martin's blush fades as his eyes lower, voice fading out. Jon quirks an eyebrow at this, casting his gaze downwards as well. His eyes meet the plate that he's barely touched, yet it doesn't seem appetizing in the slightest.

Jon sighs, his fork clinking against the plate as he sets it down. Time to try his idea out.

"I need to read statements to properly feed now, Martin." Martin flinches at the idea, apprehension and hesitation bleeding from his expression. "As much as I hate to admit it, I'm not exactly…. human, anymore. I know you don't like it but–"

"I know, Jon… I know…" Martin croaks, his grip on his plate turning his knuckles white. "It– I don't blame you for having to read–" ('That's a lie–') "But it's, hah, very hard to listen to and–and it gives me nightmares sometimes, just hearing them…" Martin trails off, flickers of anger at the edges of his mouth and eyebrows.

Jon wonders for a moment if the anger is directed at himself or at Jon. Beholding is silent this time.

“What if I weren’t here?” The words tumble out before he can process them.

Martin gives him a look of disbelief. “Where else would you even go, Jon? I don’t exactly feel– I mean– How do you know you won’t, er, y’know…?” Martin makes a gesturing motion with his hand. “Go hunting?”

Jon cringes, a twinge of hurt settling in his heart. “I wouldn’t do that–”

“Can you say that with a hundred percent certainty? Really?” Martin gives a pointed look. Jon shifts uncomfortably at his gaze.

“If I find somewhere isolated, yes. While I was out, I walked past some alleys, abandoned houses. No one seems to wander near them, they seem safe enough,” Jon mumbles. He thumbs at the edge of his plate as he thinks back to the nooks and crannies he had passed while returning to the cabin, trying to find something to focus on instead of what he was running from.

To his surprise, Martin actually seems to think about this. Jon feels the smallest dredge of disappointment dig itself up. He understands that the statements can be a lot, definitely knows, but Martin really can’t even handle being in the same house as one is read? To the point that he would allow Jon to wander around outside, after he chased after him yesterday?

“If you think it would help,” Martin finally musters. Jon fully turns his head to look at him with genuine surprise. “Course, you need to let me know when you wander off. I don’t want to have to go finding you, alright? And-and you need to be back before dark!”

“Martin, are you giving me a curfew–” Jon begins the attempt of what is meant to be a joke.

“Yes, I think it’s for the best,” Martin says with a serious expression. The small smile that had begun to take place on Jon’s face drops. A curfew? Really now?

“...I think I’m done eating,” Jon speaks with an even tone as he stands, uneaten plate abandoned on the ground as he makes his way to the bathroom. He hears a stammered attempt at the beginning of a sentence that fades off. That’s probably a good thing.

Jon locks the door behind him, leaning against the wall. A curfew. God–

He’s upset, really upset. He understands that Martin is worried he’ll attack someone, he is too! But he hoped that Martin would trust him on how long he’d be out– (Why should he trust you with anything after what you did?) Alright, fair enough.

Jon sighs, gaze turning to look up at himself. He looked healthier, actually. At least, compared to yesterday.

For one, there was only the smallest ring of green around his pupil, almost glowing while surrounded by the deep brown. His hair seemed to have a bit more volume to it, even though his routine hadn’t changed in the slightest. To Jon, who had to look at himself every day, this was all obvious. Maybe Martin hadn’t noticed anything last night, the only thing he mentioned was his ribs–

Oh shit, his neck!

Jon scrambles forward, pushing his hair out of the way so he can inspect his neck. He had completely forgotten that the only thing hiding his recent endeavors was layers of foundation, which could be pushed off if someone simply swiped at it–

But wait. No, that- that shouldn’t- what?

Jon tilts his head, confusion painting his face. There doesn’t seem to be a single mark at all. There isn’t a blemish, a spot, a hickey– nothing. The only thing he can see is the familiar mark from a knife.

Jon blinks, trying to think. He had been weak enough before that he wasn’t healing as fast as he could. Is it possible that those few statements from Elias had fed him enough that he can heal near-instant again? Or maybe he had thought the marks were darker than they truly were?

He reaches up to feel the skin and jumps when it is just as tender as the night before. Frustration begins to join alongside the confusion, and Jon ultimately decides to take a piece of toilet paper, wet the corner, and swipe at his neck. When he pulls it off and sees the foundation and the skin that is hidden underneath, he makes a discovery.

The make-up hadn’t come off.

Somehow, even with Martin’s… activities, the make-up hadn’t come off. Jon swipes at it with the soiled tissue, bits smearing uncomfortably, leaving an almost oil-like feeling behind. It soothes the tenderness slightly as he wipes away.

The flesh underneath is healing, Jon can see that. Instead of the dark red it was before, it’s almost purple, already yellowing at the edges. But still, how come the foundation hadn’t come off between the sweat and the friction and–

Either Elias had some fantastic cosmetics, or Martin had managed to be so soft and gentle that he couldn't remove it. Or both.

Jon slowly presses onto his neck, ignoring the pain and pleasure that follows. He traces the darkest lines, where he had been bitten, letting his nails dig in just slightly. He wishes he could gag at how nice it feels, but instead bites his lip as he trembles, a warm feeling spreading outwards and throughout.

(Martin can’t make you feel like this-)

Oh good lord, not this again–

(–We’ve never enjoyed sex, not like that.)

Jon groans, clenching his eyes shut tight. The pleasant buzz in his head that had begun to build drops away, and irritation takes its place.

(We aren’t wrong though. You know that.)

Jon gently leans against the wall, slowly sliding downwards. He wants to say no, that Martin is perfectly capable of making him feel good, better even! Martin shows him so much love and affection, tries to make sure that he eats physical food, and is dealing with all the monstrous parts of Jon as best as he can! Jon appreciates that– appreciates Martin!

And yet.

(You want to go back to Elias.)

The thought invades Jon’s mind, bringing to the surface what he so desperately wishes he could keep down. Jon glances back up, looking at the marks that litter his throat.

(He treated you the way you wished, left bruises and bites that we craved. If we go back, maybe he can give us more. He can keep us fed, Jon. And he won’t judge us, or hide away from us.)

Jon exhales softly, hands pressing down again on his neck, harder this time. The pleasure that the action brings makes him quietly moan, which is an answer to an internal question.

He isn’t as happy with Martin as he wishes he could be. Maybe, just maybe that’s true. But he can’t just… leave. Not after everything. He still cares for Martin, as Martin cares for him.

Jon’s hands reach up, arranging his hair so his healing flesh isn’t visible. After today, he won’t need to worry about this. Today, he’s ending whatever is going on with Elias.

It’s not happening again.

“I’m going out to eat,” Jon calls. He doesn’t want to turn around to look Martin in the eye. He doesn’t need to move to see Martin is in the living room, perched on the couch, reading the book Jon had gifted him. There is a book on the bookshelf that has an eye on its spine– that is what Jon Sees through. He watches as Martin slowly closes his book, an unreadable expression on his face. The smell of chilled oolong begins to seep through the house, biting at Jon’s tongue.

“...be back before sundown, alright?” Martin responds, the faintest bit of mist leaving his mouth. Jon chooses to ignore it, disconnecting from the borrowed faux eyes.

“Right, of course…” Jon’s volume falters, he pauses for a moment in the doorway as he leaves. “I-I love you…” It crackles in his throat, edges bleeding into mistruth.

He Knows Martin didn’t hear him.

Instead of going into one of the numerous alleys or abandoned homes as he had promised, Jon finds himself standing in front of the door to Elias’ home.

He doesn’t even get the chance to ring the doorbell before the door is open and Elias is standing there, a polite smile on his face.

“Back so soon?” Elias teases. Jon scoffs, pushing his way inside. His nose wrinkles at the chemical smell, but he doesn’t feel nearly as nauseated as he was previously. He throws the statement, already consumed, onto the table. He pivots on his heel to Elias, who is locking the front door.

“I’m not going to be here for very long,” Jon declares, his chin up in an attempt to look more confident. Elias is leaning against the door now, arms crossed.

“Are you now?” Elias says with a lilt to his voice. Jon can feel his ears flush as irritation builds. Elias chuckles, moving to his full height, stepping closer to Jon. “Not to worry, I Know you’re here for a meal.”

Elias captures Jon’s face with one hand, forefinger and thumb holding his chin. He leans in close to Jon, and Jon is surprised at how eagerly he accepts it. The haze that took so long to fully take over previously needs only seconds this time, and Jon’s eyes close just slightly, his lips parting as Elias’ thumb moves up to prod at his lower lip.

And then he pulls away, leaving Jon cold and desperate just– just cold.

“Careful Jon, I almost would think you were here for something else,” Elias muses.

Right, right– Jon is here for something else! Jon shakes his head slightly.

“I’m not going to come here after tomorrow,” Jon strains to make himself sound as confident as before, but his voice comes out huskier than he’d wanted. He cringes at his voice, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate to Elias.

Elias gives Jon a look, plopping himself onto the loveseat. Jon glares at him as he takes the opposite end, kicking his shoes off, but can feel saliva build in his mouth. Elias is holding something in his head, and Jon can taste that there’s a statement for him in there, something that mimics nostalgia but isn’t quite right.

“Come here now, Jon. You aren’t strong enough to reach in without assistance yet,” Elias tuts. Jon growls in annoyance, shifting close enough that their thighs are touching. Jon attempts to block out what happened last time they were this close. He leans his head onto Elias’ shoulder, exhaling deeply.

Jon tugs at that thread he had seen earlier, the connection between them repairing in an instant. He is not thrown into a river; in fact, Jon is still sitting next to Elias, but is sifting through information that is in the older man's mind.

Elias presses a kiss to Jon’s hair as he hums, “You can say it out loud if you wish.”

Jon’s eyes widen in surprise. It has been a long time since he could read out a statement without fear of someone feeling uncomfortable. It would help Jon cope more with them, let him release some of the fear that attempted to overtake him, but if it meant those glances full of misery…

Jon shakes his head slightly, pushing the thought to the back of his mind.

“...Statement of Ron Crawford, regarding his roommate's girlfriend.”

As Jon narrates the witness of one of the Stranger’s pawns, he becomes aware that he can still move as he feeds. He isn’t helpless like last time; he can wiggle his fingers and flex his wrist. If Elias attempts anything, there is a decent chance that Jon can fight his way out.

For most of the statement though, all Elias does is put an arm around him, rubbing at his shoulder. Jon can feel something electrical at the touch, his thighs clenching together at every shift. He slowly moves closer to Elias, nuzzling into the crook of his neck while his hands brace on Elias’ forearms. Elias moves his hands to Jon’s hips, tugging him up into his lap.

Jon doesn’t even attempt to fight it, voice unwavering as the terrible tale is told.

One of his hands moves to Elias’ shoulders, thumb pressing lightly into a clavicle. Elias groans, a hand moving to grasp Jon’s free one. He brings it up to his mouth, kissing Jon’s wrist lightly as Jon feels the end approaching. Elias presses his tongue to where Jon’s vein protrudes, and Jon manages to gasp at the sensation.

His skin feels as if it’s burning, head foggy as he finally utters the final words the statement had to offer.

Jon pants down at Elias, a fierce blush covering his cheeks. Elias looks as kept together as usual, the slightest change in breathing the only sign he is affected.

Elias presses another kiss to Jon’s wrist as he murmurs, “I don’t think Martin would approve of this.”

Guilt drops into Jon’s head, jumping into his heart which now feels frigid. Right. Right, Martin.

“...I’m an adult. I’m capable of making my own decisions.” Jon’s eyes are downcast as he speaks, that fire he had felt previously now dying down. His fingers relax, slowly recoiling away from Elias’ body.

“Martin doesn’t think so,” Elias muses.

Jon freezes at his words, and the truth that rings in them.

“Don’t look into his head–” The grip on his wrist tightens.

“Martin thinks you should stay home, where he can protect you, keep you in his sight.”

Jon’s breath begins to pick up, he should tell Elias to stop again. He promised Martin he wouldn’t look–

“I never promised him anything,” Elias whispers as he nuzzles into Jon’s lax hand. “He hates that he let you go out. He’s worried you’re already feasting on a local. However…”

Elias leans up to Jon’s face, and his expression is nothing short of delighted.

“He trusts you so much!”

Jon can feel the panic build, his breath quickening further. What is he doing here again? Why isn’t he with Martin? Elias chuckles, tugging Jon further onto his lap, something pressing up into Jon.

“He trusts you, and you come crawling right back to me. Oh, Jon, you flatter me, truly,” Elias grins, eyes darkening with desire.

Jon’s heart threatens to beat right out of his chest, his hands now tremble. He should leave, he really should. Martin is most likely already worried, seconds away from storming the town again. If Jon hurries, he can wander back to the bakery, claim he was getting something warm for his throat. Martin would never know he was here, yes! Jon should do that! Martin-

“-wants to treat you like glass, Jon.”

What?

Jon’s vision focuses on Elias now, not glazed or looking past him. His face is now serious, eyes piercing into Jon’s.

“Martin imagines you as a small glass ornament that he needs to treat carefully.”

No, no that’s-

“He wants to put you on a shelf to admire, to handle you gently.”

Elias doesn’t know what he’s talking about-!

“He touches you like porcelain because he’s careful to hurt you. He knows you’ve been hurt so much, Jon.”

Jon thinks back to all the intimate moments they’ve shared. He thinks of how Martin would never grasp harshly, would always lighten his grip the second it was more than a phantom touch. He thinks of how slowly Martin would move, as if any faster would shatter Jon into pieces.

Jon’s grip begins to tighten once more.

He thinks of how Martin would stop him if he ever asked to be handled roughly, adamant that what he was doing was enough. How would Jon know, after all? This wasn’t something Jon had much experience with, right? He should trust Martin, he’s his partner after all.

“He wants to lock you away, somewhere he can watch you- So you won’t hurt anyone else.”

Jon’s mouth moves into a scowl, his panic turning to anger.

Elias smiles, biting his lip slightly as he gives the final blow, “His pretty, fragile, porcelain doll; all his.”

Fucking fragile-!

He’ll show him fragile-

Jon surges forward, capturing Elias’ lips against his. His mind screams, every tract reacting at the contact with pleasure and triumph. Elias moans into his mouth, hand releasing his wrist to join its match on his waist. The pair digs into Jon’s skin, nails scratching against the fabric of his shirt.

Jon’s hands move just below Elias’ collar, gripping and pulling at the cloth until there is the slight sound of tearing thread. He is lost in the heated haze, his skin aflame. Jon’s hips rock against Elias, those hands on his waist pushing down so he can feel the outline of a cock eagerly pressing against him.

Jon whimpers as Elias pulls away, breath hot as he pants.

“Let’s move somewhere more comfortable, yes?” Elias has a huskiness to his voice as he stands, pulling Jon with him.

As they stumble their way down the hall, Jon can help but lean up to nip and lick at Elias’ throat, tongue desperate to taste and catalogue every bit that is being presented. He feels the chuckle Elias makes more than he hears it.

When they make it to the doorway of the bedroom, Elias grips Jon by the shoulders and manhandles him onto the bed, biting onto the almost healed marks he had left previously. Jon gasps as he hits the mattress, his back arching at the pain of being bitten. Every bite leaves with it a burning arousal, and Jon can feel the slickness between his thighs that he had been ashamed of previously. Now, he can’t feel a bit of that shame; Turns out Elias is a fantastic distraction at such feelings.

Elias’ hands push Jon’s shirt up, and Jon jolts at the rush of cool air attempting to chill his burning skin. Jon looks down, as best he can considering the angle, watching Elias mouth at his clavicle. Jon shivers as Elias’ tongue pokes out, dragging its warm, wet heat downwards.

“It always surprised me how you never chose to wear a binder,” Elias says as he descends, wet kisses being pressed to Jon’s chest, giving particular attention to the pockmarks littered about.

It takes Jon a few tries before he barely manages to let out a, “M-my chest was so small I fig-ah-!”

Jon is cut off, crying out as Elias’ focus is on his nipples, swirling his tongue around one nub while the other is harshly thumbed. When Jon seems to start feeling familiar with the sensation, Elias swaps hands and mouth, and Jon has to adjust all over again. The heels of his feet dig into Elias’ back, and his hands grip into the sheets.

When Elias properly sucks one of Jon’s nipples into his mouth, Jon wails, hips jerking as he cries out. Jon can feel that mind-numbing heat approaching fast, his voice pitching upwards as Elias chooses that moment to bite down, fingers pinching at his chest. Jon squirms, and his back begins to arch up, his breath hitching more and more and–

Elias pulls away before that feeling can overtake Jon, a string of saliva connecting his mouth to Jon’s tit. Jon whines, hands grabbing at Elias’ hair, attempting to pull him back to where he had been making Jon feel oh so good. Jon watches Elias attempt to hide his smile as he lowers himself down, hands unfastening the belt on Jon’s trousers.

Jon hisses as Elias tugs them down, leaving Jon only in a pair of uncomfortably sticky briefs. The trousers make a thud somewhere in the room as Elias blindly throws them, not caring where they end up. Jon stares expectantly as Elias looks at him with lidded eyes, his hands dragging along the side of Jon’s thighs.

Their eye-contact doesn’t waver as Elias leans down to drag his tongue against Jon’s cock through the thin layer of clothing. Jon only moans in response, thighs attempting to move but the hands have gone firm, pressing them against the mattress. Jon can only squirm and bite back moans, watching as Elias teases him.

“E-Elias please- ah- ah-” Jon is cut off as Elias buries the lower half of his face into Jon’s groin.

“Were you saying something, Jon?” Every word Elias speaks only puffs more warmth against Jon’s most sensitive of parts.

“Just- f-fuck- touch me- mmh-!” Jon’s mouth opens in a moan as Elias pulls the soiled undergarment down, pressing a deep kiss onto Jon’s cock before the clothing is even below his knees. Jon shakes from head to toe, every vein boiling as his stomach tenses just slightly. The briefs join the trousers somewhere in the room.

Elias’ eyes finally close as he moves down to tongue at Jon’s hole. Jon keeps staring, biting his lip as he hears the slick sound of his own fluids being lapped up by Elias. He gasps as Elias pushes his tongue inside, a moan muffled in his throat. Elias moves a hand close, a knuckle rubbing against Jon’s cock. Jon’s thighs tense and he cries out, desperately trying to hold off the orgasm he feels approaching.

There is a wet noise as Elias’ mouth departs, leaving the man panting. He looks back up at Jon with a sly smile, mouth still slick as he pushes himself up Jon’s body to give him a kiss. Jon moans into his mouth, one hand grabbing at Elias’ hair, attempting to tug him impossibly closer. Jon keens as Elias keeps rubbing at his cock, digging his knuckle in so much that it hurts, yet Jon can’t help but find he isn’t complaining.

Seeing that Jon is once again close, Elias chooses that moment once more to pull his hand away. Jon actually sobs at that.

“‘lias, oh fuck- please-” Jon tries to move his hand down, to finish the job Elias left, but Elias grips his wrist harshly, pushing it to the mattress. Jon writhes against the mattress, attempting to grind himself against Elias’ leg, but the man lifts himself just high enough that Jon can’t do anything.

“What do you want, Jon?” Elias asks. Jon looks into his eyes through his frustrated tears, and can almost see how desperate he looks through them.

“I- I don’t- hah-” Elias moves back down to where he was, face-to-face with Jon’s cock. He lightly drags a finger against it, basking in Jon’s frustration.

Elias watches with sharp eyes the second Jon’s resolve breaks.

“Please- please make me come, please- plea- ffffuck-!”

As Elias finally takes Jon’s cock into his mouth, giving a hard suck, Jon comes with what can only be described as a whorish moan, his thighs clamping around Elias’ head. Elias grabs his hips hard enough to leave bruises, letting Jon ride out his orgasm. Jon’s head is without a single thought that doesn’t involve some mixture of the words ‘fuck’, ‘thank you’, and ‘Elias’.

When Jon finally releases Elias, legs trembling, Elias takes a moment to take in the picture.

There Jon lays, legs still spread, and cunt soaked. It’s a shame Elias didn’t get to biting his thighs; give him marks to match his throat. Oh well, maybe next time. At the very least, Jon’s chest didn’t escape unscathed. There are a few bruises there as well, his nipples are puffy and reddened from Elias’ ministrations. Elias admires how Jon looks panting; eyes glazed over as he comes down from the high.

Jon truly looks beautiful like this. There’s only one thing that could make it better.

Elias stands, and his hands go to his zipper.

Jon hears the noise, but doesn’t quite process it. He stares up at the ceiling, basking in the warm haze that surrounds his entire being. His mind feels sluggish, muscles more relaxed than they have been in years. He hasn’t felt this nice in so long, even Martin never-

Jon’s eyes widen at the tremendous amount of self-hatred that glowers from its place hidden in his mind. It travels down his spine, snapping at the lovely, comfortable heat that had been resting there. Jon’s mouth opens, words of sorrow and grief on his tongue.

Elias suffocates the flame of hatred as he gazes down at Jon from above, hands cradling his head. In those cold gray eyes, there is that familiar ring of green that connects to something inside of Jon. Jon can feel the anger extinguish as the connection grows stronger, Elias’ arousal being projecting into his mind.

Elias leans down and their teeth clack just slightly in his rush to devour Jon’s lips. His kiss is hungry, and Jon matches with a fervor he never thought possible. Jon’s hands reach up to lightly scratch at Elias’ bare back, a moan swallowed as Elias’ cock is pressed between their bodies.

Jon feels Elias smirk, pulling away just enough to speak, “Do you want to watch, Jon?”

At Jon’s inquisitive noise, one of Elias’ arms move to brace against the mattress, the other moving under Jon’s arse, tilting his hips upwards. Jon gets the message, wrapping his legs around Elias, feeling the heat that emanates from the close proximity.

It takes some arranging, but they manage to get into a position so that, while Jon is bent in a slightly uncomfortable angle, he can see the moment Elias’ cock breaches his cunt. Jon hisses at the sting- the only stretching he received was from Elias’ tongue, but it definitely wasn’t enough to ease the pain.

He whines, but doesn’t push Elias away. He takes the pain in stride, only giving hiccups and small sobs at the stretch. Jon feels so fuzzy in the edges of his mind as Elias actually starts moving, the quiet slick movements beginning to build in volume, barely giving him a chance to adjust. Elias brings down his other arm, both now bracketing Jon’s head as he pants above him. Jon’s nails claw into the skin of Elias’ back, each drag of hips bringing a pained gasp and a choked moan.

“You feel incredible, Jon,” Elias whispers from above, gazing down at Jon with such reverence and admiration.

Jon responds with a broken cry, pleasure fluttering in his body as he rocks back and forth from the motions, the small bit of fat of his chest being bounced. There is still the bitter sting with every thrust, but every pass brings with it an accompanied curl in his gut. He feels incredible, so- oh what’s a fitting word- well, full. That deep itch inside of him finally being satiated, molding around Elias, wanting to keep him close.

Jon can feel something changing, trying to reach further out to Elias. His breathing is quickened, and he is hyper aware of every drop of sweat on his skin, the bruises forming on his waist, his chest, his neck, and he can see the flickering focus in Elias’ eyes.

Somehow, Jon notices, he can even see the scratches he’s leaving on Elias’ back. There isn’t any Eye paraphernalia so close, so how is he-?

Jon’s mouth opens on a silent scream, pain shooting up his arm as small eyes pop open, beads of blood dripping down in their wake. Each iris is a vibrant green, and every pupil is focused on some part of Elias’ form- whether it’s a stray freckle, scattered graying hairs, or the reddened marks on his back from Jon’s nails; Jon Sees it all.

Elias groans, and Jon feels the throbbing heat along with the full-body shudder that accompanies the sound. Elias’ hips begin to feel slightly frantic, pent-up energy from earlier combined with the fresh sensation of Being Seen, and Jon catches a taste of something slipping from the carefully guarded mind of the man on top of him.

The taste of rot, dust, and disease settles on his tongue, just slightly. Jon can feel the foggy formation of words begin to take shape, questions begging to be asked, and answered. One of Jon’s hands reaches up, thumb rubbing at the cheek of Elias, who has temporarily closed his eyes in ecstasy. When his eyes open at Jon’s touch, something alarmed flashes, delicious panic registering in the air.

At that, it isn’t quite Jon underneath Elias anymore.

“What are you frightened of-” The Archive doesn’t waver as it Compels, its question already piercing Elias’ mind. It doesn’t matter that Elias had rushed to bring his hands to Jon’s neck, on that scar that is practically a guideline, desperately attempting to silence the words, too late after they were spoken.

Elias jerks, his pace increasing as sweat forms on his brow in concentration. His hands tightened around the neck of his Archive, and he takes some amount of pleasure in the choked noise it makes underneath him. His jaw creaks open around empty syllables, attempting to fight back the compulsion. The vibrant green eyes of the Archive stares back, probing through the passing thoughts of possible answers that present themselves. Elias can feel the pull tugging at his head, the walls he has spent years building up, fracturing with every painful yank.

At the same time, it feels so wondrous- the feeling of his God Gazing down at him from all angles, the warm heat of Jon around him, the gurgles of an attempted intake of breath mixed with moans- and Elias can feel himself approaching his peak. He looks down at his Archivist, look’s it in the Eye and presses down just a little more, hard enough that might have broken Jon’s throat a few months previously but instead-

It convulses underneath Elias, Eyes rolling to the back of its head, whispers of a gasp attempting to get past the hands that haven’t left. Elias moans, holding Jon’s body in place as he fervently fucks into it, his cock pulsing into the tight, wet heat.

When Jon looks back at him with a sliver of Beholding in his eyes, Elias curses, burying himself to the hilt into Jon’s cunt, filling him up as much as he can. He holds himself there, flush against Jon, panting heavily for a few moments, until he drops his head to Jon’s shoulder.

You, echoes in Elias’ mind. You frighten me. He is barely able to hide why.

There is silence for a few moments, the only sounds being the uneven breathing of the two intertwined men. Elias basks in the comfort of his God, glancing at the eyes that appear and disappear across Jon’s skin. Jon takes in the silence of his mind, his thoughts quiet for the first time in an exceptionally long time.

Elias leans up slowly, pressing a sweet kiss to Jon’s lips. Jon finds himself returning the gesture, making the smallest moan into it. Elias pulls back to give, what Jon sees as, a vulnerable smile.

“How do you feel, Jon?”

Jon slowly blinks at him, breathing deeply. He feels… relaxed. Good, great, really. He does! Did?

Now that he's thinking about it, the guilt comes out of hiding, tugging at his chest…

Elias’ face hardens at whatever expression passes over Jon. He hums as he moves to stand, a squelch reaching Jon’s ears as he suddenly feels very, very empty. There's an odd tingling in his groin, and Jon clenches his eyes shut trying to block it out. He distantly feels like he should be reacting differently– that something is wrong…

He jolts, gasping as he feels a finger prod at his sore hole.

“Run along to the bathroom now, Jon,” Elias orders, fully pulling himself away now, the rush of freezing air making Jon realize with a start the number of fresh markings on his body. The eyes blink open across his skin, cataloguing the various bruises and bites.

It’s the cold that snaps Jon into moving himself off the bed, but he notices as he stands that there is still that haziness that coats his mind like a blanket. Instead of grief, he almost feels relieved that it’s still there. He goes to the bathroom, gently closing the door behind him.

Jon doesn’t look at the mirror this time; he knows what he will see.

He winces as he takes some tissue to wipe at himself, tender skin aching with every swipe. He eyes the amount of slick he cleans up, along with flecks of red, confusion in his brow. That… seems like a lot, doesn’t it? He doesn’t normally get this wet. Something attempts to push its way forward, saying he should most definitely be worried about this— he should go to a pharmacy or a doctor or—

The fog in his head crawls, seeping through his nerves, soothing his worries.

If there was a problem, surely Beholding would tell him, right?

Jon splashes some water on his face, pointedly not looking up from the sink, refusing to face his reflection. When Elias knocks, Jon calls out, “Yes?” and the door opens.

“You left these during your last visit– I gave them a wash for you,” Elias says as he sets Jon’s folded pair of briefs along with his heavy skirt on the counter. He gives it a little pat before continuing, “Did you need more of that foundation?”

Even though Jon doesn’t look at the mirror, he sees himself through the eyes that scatter across his skin. His chest, he can deal with; It’s the fact that his whole throat looks like it should be shattered that makes that guilt crawl up. Could he even cover this with mere cosmetics?

Elias looks over him from head-to-toe with an analyzing expression. He’s thinking up something, a possible solution. Jon picks up on that, but isn’t able to see specifics. That does shoot a small thrill up his spine, the fact that he could begin to see into Elias’ mind with a glance.

“Why don’t we get you something to eat? I don’t think you’ll need to cover yourself; your neck is already recovering tremendously,”

Jon allows a single eye to blink open, staring at his throat for inspection. He can already see the edges of the darkened skin begin to fade into a deep yellow. Granted, it’s going rather slow, but definitely faster than it had been.

“It’s… I won’t be taking a statement like the previous, correct?” God, Jon’s throat sounds horrid. He hadn’t noticed with his one syllable response earlier, but maybe his throat was broken! He sounded like he was parched, as if he hadn’t felt a drop of water in years.

“No, you’ll have to take a physical statement, I’m afraid,” Elias sounds almost amused at the question as he departs for the living room area.

Now that Elias has wandered away, Jon focuses on cleaning the remaining parts of himself. Jon gently wipes at the dried blood along the places the eyes sprang up. He doesn’t want to get anything on his freshly washed clothing. He combs his fingers through his hair, slightly irritated at the number of tangles he snags.

Jon takes his time as he redresses, pulling on the briefs, tugging the skirt on and tucking his shirt in. He allows himself to look in the mirror, but pointedly doesn’t look up past his clothing. No, instead he does a little spin, looking at the way the skirt flows around him.

Truthfully, Jon feels very relaxed, nice. It almost feels like the edges in his mind are smoothed out; like he can let go for once. He smiles slightly, still swaying and watching the hypnotic swirl of the skirt around him. It was rather kind of Elias to wash it.

Normally he wouldn’t be so vain but… he feels rather pretty. Cared for. Well fed.

It is only the curious “Jon?” that prompts Jon to make his way out of the bathroom. He meets Elias in the living room, who has slipped into his clothes from earlier. In his hands is a small manilla folder, and the taste of fear gone stale bites at Jon’s tongue.

Jon sits next to Elias, taking the folder and flipping through his options. “Haven’t I already eaten today? Do I really need to read another?” He croaks, but it already doesn’t seem nearly as bad as it was moments ago.

Elias leans closer, looking over Jon’s shoulder at the statement he lingers on. “Think of it like dessert; simply topping you off for the day.”

Jon hums in acknowledgement, a low sound that feels comforting to his healing throat.

“How did you… do it before?” Jon tilts his head carefully, looking at Elias’ face as he continues to scan the statement. He doesn’t respond for a moment, his eyes still looking over the written words.

“I’m afraid you'll have to be more specific than that, Jon,” Elias muses. He shoots Jon an amused glance before saying, “Don’t tell me I managed to scramble your head so much when I-”

He is cut off as Jon’s hands darted to stop the flow of words. His face flushes, heat reaching the tips of his ears, and Elias lets out a muffled laugh. He breaks free from Jon’s hold, adjusting his hands so that they are palm-to-palm.

It feels… oddly domestic, this. Jon looks at their hands, to Elias’ face, seeing that surprisingly vulnerable expression. Elias looks… nice like this. Happy. Something warm bubbles up into Jon’s throat, reaching from somewhere in his chest to the tips of his fingers.

Jon’s nose scrunches just slightly as he smiles, a quick and fleeting thing. The question still bites at his tongue.

“How did you give me those statements before? I’ve taken live statements directly, and I’ve taken statements, such as with Breekon. I don’t think I need to mention the papers but…” Jon trails off, his skin tingling as Elias pulls a hand to his lips, pressing gently.

“You should attempt to strengthen your connection to Beholding. Do that, and you could take statements from the comfort of your home,” Elias sounds delighted at the idea. Jon is surprised to find the thrill that shoots up his spine, feeding off Elias’ proximity and intensity.

Jon gulps, another question already buzzing at his tongue, “Are you going to go more into detail? Or are you-”

“-going to make you figure it out by yourself? The latter, I’m afraid.” Elias actually looks apologetic at that. “I don’t want to hinder your growth by helping you more than necessary.” Elias leans forward, his face inches from Jon’s. “You’ve already progressed tremendously. I’m sure it won’t take you long.”

Jon finds, for once, he isn’t irritated at the lack of answers. Instead, he’s eager to test his limits; see what he can do.

Elias sighs, resigned. “You should get ready.”

Jon tilts his head curiously. Ready for what? Another round? Well, he’s not exactly in the mood-

“To head back to Martin,” Elias prompts, an obvious fact.

Jon freezes.

Shit, Martin. MartinMartinMartin.

Not again, fuck not again–

Jon’s hands rush to his mouth, his memory flickering in his mind of what he did, what he asked for. Elias’ hands stay suspended in the air momentarily, before slowly dropping to his lap.

Jon trembles, the warm haze becoming frigid as his fear spikes. He did it again, after he swore he wouldn’t. This isn’t like last time, where their clothes hadn’t left their bodies, or how Jon had crumpled to the ground afterwards, defeated and miserable. This time, Jon was an active participant. He had grabbed at Elias, pulled at his clothes, tugged him close. Jon had allowed Elias to press kisses and bites to his skin, to leave bruises and scratches, to- to-

Jon knows there's something else he allowed Elias to do, and it’s right on the tip of his tongue. His head becomes fuzzy when he tries to think of it, as if something doesn’t want him to pursue the train of thought.

Jon is interrupted when Elias releases an agitated sigh. The manilla folder makes a loud smack as it's thrown down onto the coffee table.

“Apologies, Jon, but I’m having a rather difficult time understanding your intentions,” Elias speaks with a sharpened tongue. The crease in his brow is more obvious than usual, the previous domesticity gone from his expression. “I thought that we were in agreement that you wished for our interactions to… escalate. You seemed quite eager, if memory serves correct.”

Jon pauses, mouth opening on unsaid words. His eyes dart from Elias to the folder, confusion mixing with the dread and fear on his face.

“You mean you- you didn’t…?” Jon makes some motion to his head, and Elias huffs.

“Alright then, I’ll play along.” Elias stands, “You come to my house, invite yourself inside, throw yourself into my lap–” Elias leans over Jon, one hand braced on the back of the loveseat, “–and now you claim it’s my fault?”

Jon stammers, trying to connect the dots. If it wasn’t Elias that was doing this, then who-?

Elias leans close, his gaze dark, an amused smile on his face. “Oh, no Jon. If you want to know whose fault this is, there’s one thing you have to do.” Jon looks up at him, his pupils constricting as his mouth trembles. “Not to worry, you’ve been doing it an awful lot already!”

Elias leans close now, nuzzling into the side of Jon’s face, his breath tickling Jon’s ear. A shiver travels up Jon’s spine as he feels the small stubble Elias has neglected rub against his jaw.

“Just look in the mirror.”

Jon shakes, a cry weaseling out of his throat, his hands attempting to muffle his voice. His eyes stare only at the ground, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. Elias says nothing as he stands up, moving to the kitchen, leaving Jon to tremble in his seat.

Jon reflects on every moment since entering the bakery that day. Had Elias truly done nothing? Had Jon been so desperate to be treated differently that he would turn to the worst person he’d ever met so easily? That he would find solace in the man that had hurt so many of his friends, not to mention himself?

That he would betray Martin?

It doesn’t matter if he would; he did. There isn’t any way to take back his actions.

“Cup of tea?” Elias calls from the kitchen. Jon tunes back in to the whine of the kettle, his cheeks damp with tears.

His actions thus far have been reprehensible, but maybe he can still do the right thing; even if it’s long overdue.

“I’m leaving,” Jon whispers. He slowly stands, grabbing his jacket from the floor, not even taking a moment to put it back on.

“Jon?” Elias asks. The noise from the kettle hasn’t stopped, grating on Jon’s ears as it continues.

Jon walks to the door, one hand picking up both of his shoes.

“Shall I expect you tomorrow?” Jon is already frantically shaking his head as he reaches to open the door.

“This isn’t happening again,” Jon croaks through tears. The house goes silent as Elias takes the kettle to pour water into his mug. Jon turns just slightly to see Elias staring back at him with a neutral expression.

He gives Jon a small smile, followed by, “Of course.”

Jon turns and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Jon manages to last a week.

The sound of the toilet flushing brings another wave of nausea crashing over Jon. His throat feels so sore, and his knees are aching after kneeling for so long. There are tears dropping onto the toilet seat, and the remnants of bile lingering at the back of his palate.

He feels worse when he wearily glances to the side at the small white and pink test, the plus sign on the digital display blinking at him.

He didn’t even need to take the test, really. When he rolled out of bed, moments after Martin called out he was going to take a walk, alarms had blared in his head, deafening him momentarily. His skin had burned, and he was unable to properly think until he unscrambled the frantic words Beholding pushed into his head. Even then, he refused– he couldn’t be– no–

Jon’s rather lucky that Martin hadn’t come home in the time he was gone. Trying to explain why he had run to town for a singular item, and wouldn’t even show it, would have been a nightmare. No, instead he was all by himself when the result showed itself.

Jon angrily glares at the test through tears, as if his weakened gaze would change the result. He grips the test and throws it into the bin next to the toilet, sniffling as that nausea that had been pestering him crawls upwards once more.

Of course it couldn’t just be a stomach bug. No, it had to be this. It had to be something Jon wasn’t prepared to handle. His hands gently press on his stomach, as if he could feel the difference in his body this soon.

The other problem this presents is how Jon’s going to explain it to Martin.

Jon isn’t stupid. He knows how people get here. He knows that Martin always took careful precautions, but Elias on the other hand–

Well, he’s forgotten a few times to prepare beforehand.

Even so, Jon was sure with the testosterone, and the birth control, that those few slip-ups were nothing to worry about. He doesn’t know what made him so confident, but in his mind at the time there was no possible way he was pregnant! Must be something he ate! Most likely the days old leftovers he hadn’t wanted to waste!

But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it.

Jon grumbles as he stands, wiping at his face. As he wobbles towards the sink, he stumbles slightly, foot knocking the bin over. This brings with it another wave of tears, as Jon frantically runs through what the hell he’s going to do about this situation. He leans back down, putting the bin right-side up, tucking the trash that fell out back into place.

He looks at himself in the mirror; properly, for the first time in weeks. He’s felt better since meeting with Elias, and he would appear much healthier if it weren’t for the redness in his eyes and the puffiness in his cheeks. Jon rubs at his face, trying to stop himself from crying any more tears. They just don’t seem to stop.

Then there's that familiar pull– like he should be somewhere else. He knows where it leads, and who he will meet if he follows it. While he definitely needs to talk to Elias, he is tempted to wait to leave until he gathers his thoughts together.

No, on second thought, he might as well get this over with; ‘bite the bullet’ and all that nonsense.

Jon pulls on his coat, grabs his keys, and puts his hand on the doorknob. Then, he pauses. He… should probably leave a note telling Martin where he’ll be. Or at least, where he says he’ll be.

He quickly grabs one of the junk pieces of mail from their pile on the kitchen counter, along with a stray pen– (‘Martin has the tendency to want to write poetry around the house, and sets his pens down in various places so he’ll always have a pen nearby-’) –now’s not the time– and writes that he’s not feeling well, so he’s going to get some soup from the store. Reasonable enough, they did just run out.

Jon bundles himself up as he steps into the chilled air, silently hoping Martin doesn’t come looking for him like last time.

The dread of anticipation coils in his stomach the closer he gets to the house. He wouldn’t be surprised if Elias is waiting to mock him and hold this mistake over his head. He’ll probably laugh at Jon for forgetting the consequences of his actions, will tell him he was asking for it when he offered himself up!

When Jon stands in front of that familiar door, he braces himself for the worst; and then he knocks. When, moments later, Elias opens the door, Jon is frozen as Beholding drops information into his head:

(‘He doesn’t know.’)

Martin shivers as he enters the cabin, paused by a feeling similar to something crawling up his spine. It’s been rather cold the last few days, but this feels off.

He shakes his head. No, nothing’s wrong. He and Jon are safe, far, far away from the Institute. There isn’t anything that can get them out here. He’s been having to remind himself of that whenever Jon leaves the house to read his statements. For some reason, this feeling only persists whenever that happens. It’s most likely just remnants of the Lonely whispering to him that Jon’s going to leave.

Of course, that’s ridiculous! Jon loves him, there’s no question about it. Martin loves Jon, even if he could do without the spooky stories that give him nightmares, or turning to look at Jon at night and seeing green eyes staring blankly into the ceiling, or–

He loves Jon. Even if he wishes he could be normal. Speaking of Jon…

“Jon? Love?” Martin calls out. It echoes in the cabin, bouncing off the walls. There isn’t a shuffle of blankets, the thudding of feet, a returning call– nothing. Martin can feel his fingers numb just slightly as he calls out again, “Jon? Where are you?”

He steps forward, passing the kitchen immediately. No need to look there, unless Jon is hiding in a cabinet. He peers into the living room, but it looks undisturbed. He moves to the bedroom, but underneath the bathroom door, he sees a light on.

He flings open the door, but it looks like Jon had simply left the light on. He silently apologizes, as Jon probably wouldn’t have liked the door being opened while he was inside anyways. Martin curses, knowing that if Jon were in the bedroom, he would have come out at the noise.

He feels irritated that Jon would leave without letting him know! Martin needs to know if he goes anywhere, because what if Jon hurt someone! Or got hurt! Or kidnapped again!

Martin is about to leave, but notices some tissue that's behind the toilet. He knows that Jon likes to keep everything in the house tidy, so he leans down to put the stray paper into the bin–

He sees a flash of pink, and his brow furrows in confusion. He reaches out and–

“Jon?” Elias looks down at Jon in confusion. He’s been frozen in the doorway for much longer than usual, and definitely looks more terrified than he was the first time.

Elias steps to the side as Jon silently steps forward into the house, dropping onto the loveseat, still without speaking a word. Elias is beginning to feel concerned.

He closes the door, a silent question to Beholding. Unfortunately, as it has been for weeks now, it is quiet when it comes to his Archivist. He’s been getting less and less answers, and it’s beginning to get on his nerves.

Elias slowly steps closer to Jon, who is still frozen, staring blankly at the wall. Elias kneels before him and then, finally, Jon looks at him.

“What’s happened, Jon?” Elias asks, as indifferent sounding as he can muster.

Jon reaches out, grabbing his hands oh so slowly. Elias lets him, still wondering what’s making him act like this. Elias’ hands are pulled up to Jon’s head, and Elias gets the message.

Elias pulls at the thread Jon has offered, glancing at the knowledge that’s being brought forth, highlighted, front and center–

Oh.

Oh.

Jon is trembling underneath his fingers, and Elias watches as tears well up and fall. There’s a feeling in his chest that he hasn’t felt in so long, but he doesn’t want to linger on it.

Elias just leans forward, silent, and wraps his arms around Jon. For the time being, that is all he can bring himself to offer.

Jon mimicking the action tells him it’s been accepted.

Martin kneels on the bathroom floor, staring at the test he holds in his hands. His eyes are stuck on the plus that erases all doubt from his mind. Next to him is another test, most likely to check for a false-positive, that had been buried further in the bin.

A laugh bursts out his mouth, and tears follow. Martin sets the test down, wiping at his cheeks as a bright smile makes a home on his face. He hadn’t expected this!

He gets up, test in hand, as he makes his way to the kitchen. He can’t stop smiling! He’s absolutely over the moon! He sets the test on the counter next to the junk mail pile and– oh! There’s writing!

Martin inspects the note, oh, how did he miss this? Jon had just run to town for soup. Not feeling well, well of course not! Oh, he had probably wanted this to be a secret, and here Martin is ruining the surprise.

Not to worry, once Jon’s back, he won’t have to run to town anymore– Martin can do that for him! He can get him all the soups he wants, all the treats, the snacks, everything!

Martin looks at the test again, eyes bright and happy.

He’s going to be such a great father!