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besotted-eros · 3 years

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Eren x Reader (WoC) 18+

Summary: The ocean sends you a man stuck to a piece of driftwood, and he knows you in a way you don’t know yourself.

Chapter 2 Content: Smut, lil angst, Eren being a horrid tease and flirt, hot and cold feelings, use of “little girl” (not during sex), bit of choking, bit of thigh riding, unprotected sex, Eren being a talkative dom, sexy swimming.

Masterlist here

"All of them?" Your mouth was ajar as you stared over the counter at the ruddy cheeked woman. She patted her chin with a handkerchief, nodding solemnly.

"Government decided that Upria was a bigger threat than Liberio, some grand scheme about surrounding their coasts since it's a peninsula. Some of the men were recruited," the word dropped from her mouth with disdain. It was obvious how voluntary the recruitment was. But no one would ever admit to not wanting to serve Marley. " -as they were helping with that wreckage. The rest they scooped up on the way back. Alls that's left is the tiny rowboat the Alecksons own, can't even make it a kilometre out to sea with that one, they're going to have to work her to the bone." Her hands moved adeptly as she spoke, twisting a length of dough into an intricate braid.

"So we're functionally trapped here? And our catches?" You ran your fingers through your hair, agitating the already wild mess.

You may have had longer with him than you thought. At least four weeks. Four weeks with him in your home, your bed, your mind.

"The government was kind enough to drop off rations and allow our boys to pull in the nets once more. A supply ship should be coming to us in 4 weeks time, if we're lucky." The smile plastered across her face was careful. Even though you were well enough removed from the mainland, you never knew who could be listening.

"I better get my hands on those rations then. And see if Elias is in a good enough mood to let me buy. I'll be back in a week for those stuffed buns." You sighed, placing the loaves you had traded for in your basket.

You made your rounds, exchanging curt nods with the townsfolk. There was a lack of men, their wives and children stepping into their stead. The butcher's young boy almost cut his finger off trying to slice your order, and you resigned yourself to taking your chicken whole in hopes of saving the boy a hand. The old curmudgeon Elias, the only fishmonger left in the town, begrudgingly sold you your list of fish and crab, muttering about the increase and how we would soon need to learn how to "make do".

There was not much warmth in the little village, but it was enough to make do.

You took the long way back, your boots tied and slung over your shoulder as your toes sunk into the sand. The ocean was a grey rolling mass, reflecting the cloudy sky. Beautiful in its ceaseless violence. You couldn't tell where the sun was, but it seemed past it's mid point. You had left the man alone in your home for hours. You wondered how he was faring.

You ripped a heel of bread from one of the fresh loaves as you walked, tossing it out to meet an oncoming wave. It caught the morsel, pulling it into the sea. You watched it till it sank underneath the surface before making your way back home.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed when you opened the door. With his feet on the floor, elbows rested on his knees. Pekoe sat between his legs, staring up at him with her pink nose twitching erratically. His bare chest was stilled, breath barely perceptible.

You stood in the doorway motionless for a moment, unused to seeing anyone, let alone a half naked young man, in your bed. Krueger raised his head, his tired green eyes flickering in the dull grey light. His hair was tied up haphazardly, loose locks framing his face and falling about his shoulders.

"So you've come back Pekoe. Done terrorizing the forest creatures?" You inquired of the cat, moving to the table to place your basket and removing your coat. The tabby meowed at her name, but refused to take her eyes off of Kruger's face.

"She brought me a ribbon." He said, gesturing to the tie messily tied in his hair. It was a light cream, matching the pallor of his skin.

"Kind of her." You mused, putting away your groceries. "She never brings me anything." You packed things neatly into the small icebox, organized jars and bags of flour and rice into cabinets. All while pretending you didn't want to trace the way his collarbones faded into his shoulders.

"How are you feeling?" You asked finally, leaning back against the counter. His eyes darted away from you, becoming suddenly interested in his hands.

"Better. Can't lift my arms too high without it hurting. Got my hair up and then had to take a break before I put on the shirt. Then I just fell asleep." He rubbed the side of his face, exhaling through his nose. "Couldn't even stand properly." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Any news on that boat?"

You winced and you could see his jaw harden. "The government has commandeered our boats for the forseeable future. Something about an attack on Upria." His fingers curled into fists and Pekoe's ear flicked towards him.

"There's a supply ship coming in four weeks. I think I can get you on that one, if it's the same soldier manning it. Old family friend." He moved his head into his hands, the muscles in his back rippling. He wore his anger quietly, but it showed through the cracks.

"Knew I'd spend some time with you... Didn't know how much... Is this okay?" He whispered, soft enough you could have missed it. Pekoe mewled in response, wrapping herself around his ankle and purring deeply. His lips twitched at that, reaching down to smooth the fur on her forehead.

You didn't know whether to question him. Something about his words felt heavy. But they scared you.

"You're welcome to stay here until then, of course." You took a tentative step forward and his head snapped up. You faltered, hugging your arms to your waist. You found yourself wanting to apologise for letting him down. You bit it back, tearing your gaze away to look at the abandoned shirt beside him. "Do you want help putting that on?"

Kruger straightened, side eyeing the cloth before regarding you. "Sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?" The tone was polite and measured. But there was a slight brightness to it, like the hint of sun from behind a cloud. Was he teasing you?

You didn't know how to take that either.

You rolled your eyes and grabbed it from the bed, quickly moving to pull it over his head.

"Easy, gonna do more damage if you keep that up." He groaned and you stopped yourself. You were standing between his legs, his body warm around you. You looked anywhere but his well defined chest, at how his abs cast shadows from the light given to them. You inhaled slowly, and then started again. You guided each well formed arm through carefully, wincing at how his chest shifted unnaturally, still swollen. You let him finish pulling it down, stepping away the first chance you got. For a moment, it looked like he was smirking.

"Now that my sin is covered, do you mind helping me to the bathroom?" He asked, the mocking tone off set by the way he stared up at you from under thick dark lashes. You wondered if he realised how attractive he was as you carefully pulled him to his feet and let him wrap an arm around you. You were his crutch, carefully supporting him to the door and then letting him hold the wall to get inside. You busied yourself with preparing supper as he cleaned himself in the basin. He grunted as he did, and you found your heart twisting with sympathy. Something clattered to the ground, and you dropped the fish you were scaling back onto the counter.

You were at the doorway when he lurched through it, losing his balance over his heavy feet. His eyes were closed, face pale, body heavy, as fell against you.

"Krueger?" You gasped, catching the tall man as best as you could. He swore softly, trying to straighten as his body trembled.

"'m sorry, weaker than I thought." He mumbled, large hands gripping your upper arms as he clenched his jaw through a dizzy spell. You were pressed together, flush against each other before he managed to get his bearings.

You didn't know where the rise of his chest stopped and yours began. His breath was hot on your ear, and you felt as a lock of his hair slipped from the loose bun, falling to brush against your cheek.

He whispered something, too quiet for you to hear.

"Pardon?" You asked, trying to keep the tremble from your voice as he gripped your arm a bit tighter.

"Mind if you help me to the chair?" He asked, his voice duller now, more guarded.

"Only if you're honest. What did you really say?" You tried to keep your tone light, but something about the way you could hear his clothing shift and how his fingers felt on your skin made the words drop like stones.

His breath stopped for a moment, and you felt him turn his face to rest his lips beside your ear. The tip of his nose brushed into your hair, making you shiver.

"Said you were cold." He breathed into your ear, and despite yourself you felt your knees weaken. "Do you need to be warmed, y/n?"

Your head jerked back, staring into the green pools of his eyes with furrowed brows. The warmth was gone suddenly, his eyes dull. So unlike what he had sounded like against your skin.

"The fire's been out for a while, probably need to relight it." He finished, expectantly moving his arm across your shoulder as yours made its way around his waist. You considered stepping away and letting gravity take him, but you had given your word. Instead you let him slump rather unceremoniously into the armchair, silencing your heart when it rang with empathy at his wince. He glowered at you as you smiled sweetly back.

"Ready to eat?"

At first you meant to take yours at the table. Krueger was sat comfortable in your arm chair, and seemed to be grateful to be out of the bed. It was either here, or at the ottoman that rested beside the fire place. The one you used to sit on while your father hummed his way through his notes.

But then his fork fell from his grasp. He swore loudly, his fist banging against the arm rest. His face twisted into something fiery, jaw flexing with frustration. This was a man not used to being useless. You were grabbing the fork before it had chance to settle, wiping it on your skirt and offering it back to him.

"Thanks." He muttered, refusing to meet your eyes as he grabbed it from your hand. You arched an eyebrow at the attitude but dragged the plush footstool closer and sat on it, balancing your plate of fish and potato on your knees.

You ate in silence for the most part, only the sound of metal grazing against porcelain. You noticed yourself sitting straighter under his gaze, which found you more often than not. He cut an imposing figure, reclining like a king upon a throne and not an injured soldier in a threadbare chair.

"You didn't take much." He commented, eyes flicking between your plates.

"Don't you know you're not supposed to comment on what a lady eats?" You flung back, indignation making you turn your body away from him to hide your plate.

"Food will be sparse, because of the boats."

You sighed. He was quick.

"Yes, but that's not for you to worry about. We'll be getting rations and I can still fish in the rivers." You took another bite of the flaky white flesh, staring into the dancing blaze of the fire. Krueger had been right, you were cold.

"Y/n." He said, and his voice was simple in evening's light, pure and unfettered. He said your name like he had said it a million times, his mouth tracing the shape with that odd accent of his. You rotated to him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted, face upturned to his figure.

You had never heard your name so clearly before.

"Eat." He murmured, pressing a speared piece of potato to your lips. Your mouth opened of its own accord, mind enraptured by the way his green eyes poured into yours. Your teeth sank through half of the potato, the buttery flesh still hot on your tongue. He nodded when you began to chew, sitting back. He stared at the half eaten morsel contemplativly before bringing it to his own mouth. His eyes refused to break gaze as he ate, still impassive. But there was a flicker in them, one you couldn't attribute to the fire.

"Good girl." He murmured. You jolted at the sound, becoming overtly aware of how deep his voice was, how large his hands looked. How red your cheeks felt. You opened your mouth, unaware of what was going to come out. A reproach, a thank you?

But he was pushing food onto your plate before you could formulate anything but a muted sigh.

"There, equal. Don't do that again." He said, and you felt it a command. You swallowed the potato and finished in silence, trying to calm the heat that rushed through your body.

Good girl. You flushed again thinking of it and busied yourself with clearing the now empty plates. The words repeated in your head as you furiously scrubbed them clean, and then furiously changed your sheets and furiously sorted through the preserves and dried foods to take inventory. All the while he watched you impassively, unbandaged hand thrumming on the armrest. The heat grew louder and louder in your chest every time you caught the sight of him. Head rested back on his shoulder, hair soft and loose about his face. He was unabashed, unashamed.

How could you let a man talk to you like that? Especially when you're helping so, it was disrespectful, it was infuriating, you ought to give him a piece of your- you wheeled around to face him, a lashing ready on your lips.

But he had dozed off, eyelashes fluttering and lips parted, no longer a firm impenetrable line. The purple of the dusk sky and the orange of the flame painted him like masterpiece, and your anger died in your throat.

"You're lucky." You muttered, stepping to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, driftwood. Let's get you into bed."

Krueger's eyes snapped open and he flinched away violently, pulling from your touch while attempting to bring his hand to his mouth. You stepped back, eyes wide at the feral look that over came him. He had snarled like something from a nightmare.

For the first time, you felt apprehension about the stranger you had brought to sleep in your bed.

When his eyes cleared and he saw the threat was nothing but you, shame crashed over his features. He dropped his hand, almost meekly.

"Was having a bad dream." He splayed his hands out on his lap, movements careful.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." Krueg’er voice was restrained, his words creeping from his mouth. You could hear the worry behind them.

"You did." You placed a hand over your chest and smiled half heartedly. "Gonna have some nightmares myself. Come, you should lay down."

"No, take your bed. I'll sleep here." He settled back, turning his face away from you. He was still bothered by his outburst, ashamed of letting you see him as an animal and not a man. But you had already guessed to the existence of horrors that plagued his past. No soldier is unmuddied.

"You're the patient. You take the bed. You'll get stiff sleeping here. I'm not allowing it." You chided, stepping in front of him and offering your hand.

It was okay, you wanted to say. You couldn't scare me away if you tried. He eyed it cautiously before refusing.

The argument went on for what felt like hours. There was no bargaining or compromise at first, both of you too stubborn to show stomach. Finally you put together a makeshift bed on the floor, and then another round of bickering commenced about who would take it. Your voice would raise and fall, hands gesticulating wildly as you made your case. While he would lean back, coolly crashing through your words. It ended with you in bed, back turned to him and silent. The only sounds was the forest's nighttime symphony, hugging the cabin as it sighed in the cold.

He was the only warm thing in the world right now, it seemed. You could feel the heat radiating off of him, over the space between your bodies. You had pressed against the wall in your stubbornness, but still. Parts of him reached you.

"Aren't you afraid?" Krueger asked, his gravelly voice cutting through your mulling. You twitched towards him, the confusion loosening your lips.

"Of?"

"Sleeping next to a devil."

Devils. You grinned as you buried your face into the pillow.

"Next you'll be asking me if I'm afraid of the monster under my bed. Devils don't exist, driftwood."

He hummed softly in response. You could picture him clearly, even if you couldn't see him. The broadness of his chest, the dip of his clavicle, his hair falling like a halo.

"You're brave, in a naïve way." he yawned, the sound of shifting sheets almost covering his words. "You don't know me. I could crawl into your bed tonight. You sleep so soundly." He sounded bored as he spoke, uncaring at the fire he was setting in you. "Pull you against me..." He trailed off, and your imagination took over.

"You could. But you won't." You responded, trying to swallow the warmth in your cheeks and throat.

"What makes you so sure?"

"I'm not." You moved across the bed, hanging off the side to look at him. He had been laying on his back, staring at the ceiling. His eyes turned to you now, pinning you with their depth. "But you won't."

He smirked, shrugging slightly before rolling onto his side. "You're right."

You woke up reaching for him. He had rolled closer to the bed, and a long arm stretched up, hand splayed on the covers, inches from yours.

The tension only grew over the next day. He grew stronger, quickly. By the fourth afternoon he was walking by himself easily, wandering around the cabin and forcing his help onto your day. You wanted to be annoyed by it, how he would slide his hip against yours and push you away from the sink. Or get up earlier to feed the chickens before you woke. But it was hard.

You didn't want to become used to him. You didn't want his tall frame to become a fixture in your home. To expect his help with the bags of feed, or filling water for the troughs. To learn the patterns of his day, how he made his bed like a soldier the moment he woke. How he always missed a lock of hair when making his bun, and would fiddle with it for the day. You didn't want to become familiar with his scent, to learn how he took his eggs and that he strawberry was his favourite jam.

Most of all you never wanted to become familiar with his touch. How his hand would press against your lower back as he passed by, how he would tuck your hair back when it fell over your cheek while you worked.

Because every day you would find him stockstill, lost in a world of his own. Listening to voices from miles away, and staring out over the sea from the window. And at night he would whisper those names. He would beg for forgiveness, swear his life. And you knew that his place could never be here. A man whose duty haunted him so could never belong somewhere so dark and discreet. He would leave you, as you had been left before.

He had came in from tilling soil, the most physical task you were willing to give him. You were too busied with washing jars, preparing them for your next harvest, to look up at his soft noise of greeting.

"Tired yet?" You asked as he stepped towards you, plucking a cup from the counter.

"Just thirsty." He murmured, his frame enclosing yours as he leaned over you. An arm wrapped around, pushing you against him as his long fingers turned the tap, the water barreling into the sink. You were frozen against him, his chest pressed to your back as he filled his cup. The line of his body was hard against yours, and you could feel his measured heartbeat. Feel the way his hips shifted every so slightly. And where your shawl slipped, revealing your bare shoulder, you could feel his skin.

Your hands stilled, gripping the jar tightly as you came to terms with your position. He had followed the bend of your body slightly, but otherwise Krueger gave no sign he knew what he was doing to you.

You swallowed, feeling the flush warm your cheeks, set a fire in the pit of your stomach. He turned off the tap, bringing his hand out of your eyeline. Now you could hear him drink, the soft noise of him swallowing by your ear. You closed your eyes, imagining how the tendons in his neck must be flexing, how his Adams apple must jerk with each movement.

A hand came down gently upon your hip, startling you out of your imagination. You had leaned into Krueger unknowingly, and his fingers indented the flesh of your hip. Your back was arched slightly now, allowing your ass to fit perfectly against his hips. From over your shoulder he swallowed, a drop falling from his full lips and sliding down your back. You shivered at the sensation, the cold dot of water fighting against the heat that raged every other part of you.

His head dipped, lips moving close to your ear.

"Would you like a sip too?" He murmured, hand coming to tip your chin up. Your lips parted as he brought the cup, letting the cold liquid fill your mouth. You swallowed as he pulled it away, murmuring his approval as he set the cup down. Your heart felt like a live thing, furious against the cage of your chest. There was a soft noise as your shawl slipped from your body, leaving even more vulnerable to him. You had chosen something sleeveless today, the heat urging you to bare skin. But now it was for him.

"Krue-" you started and a dulcet click of his tongue stopped you.

"I thought I was driftwood?" He asked, tightening his grip slightly. "You haven't called me by my name yet. Why now?" There was a bemused tone in his voice, and it was enough to make you break away.

"Heat must be getting to me." You snipped, glaring at him. You hoped to catch something in his face. Something that let you know it wasn't just you coming undone. But he was again stone. He had stripped his shirt and wore it thrown casually over a shoulder. He pulled it to his forehead now, mopping away sweat as he regarded you from heavy lidded eyes.

"Can see that. You're all red." He commented as you stormed past him, checking him brazenly with your shoulder. "Ouch, hitting the patient. Not good bedside manners. " He shot at your back. You responded with shutting the bathroom door firmly behind you.

Compose yourself. You are more than this, more than some simpering, heat driven girl. You leaned against the door, pressing your hand between your legs. A heartbeat seemed to have grown there, one you had never felt before. You tried to stifle it, berating yourself for the weakness. But every pulse of your palm made your knees weaker.

You ripped your hand away, swearing crassly. Your eyes darted around the bathroom, the cottage leaning in. Forcing you closer to him.

It wouldn't have been a problem if he had been ready to give himself back. If you could see the same heat in him too. But his face was nothing. You were ready to give him so much, and for what? To him to notch his bedpost and laugh with his fellows?

You needed a clear head.

You threw the door open, making Krueger's head turn from his position at the sink. He had taken over washing the jars. You spared no thanks, instead grabbing a ribbon from your vanity and quickly pulling the dark disarray of your hair into a bun. Krueger halted the water as you pulled on your boots, wiping his hands on his pants.

"Where are you going?" He asked, and you didn't respond. Instead you threw open the door, and allowed it to clatter closed behind you. Your feet guided you down the well trod path. Soon the gross and dirt gave way to silt, then sand. You were running now, feet flying across the beach. You stopped before the water could kiss your toes, stepping back from an oncoming wave. The sun was violent in the sky, blazing down on you openly. You turned your face to her, inhaling the scent of salt and sea.

You were kicking off your shoes when you heard him behind you. He stepped carefully, cautiously towards your back.

"You forgot a shawl." Krueger said, and you shrugged. You didn't need one. You were unbuttoning your blouse, and let it fall from your shoulders, to around your waist, to the sand. He had been about to say something, but you heard it die in his throat.

Your skirt came next, cascading like a waterfall down your legs to a pool over your feet. You stepped out of it, now only in a cream shift, the wind catching the lace edging and making it dance.

You stepped into the water, feeling the cold bite your heel. Another step, foot placed firmly in the wet sand. It held you as you stepped forward, and seemed to ask why it had been so long. Soon it came up to grace your calves, to kiss the soft bronze of your thighs with azure. You walked until it caressed the curve of your breasts, the tips of your toes barely tracing the ground below. With a gentle push, you fell back. There was the sound of surprise from the shore, but you didn't have time to dwell. You were in your element.

The ocean was tame around you, pressing against your body, refusing to let you up or down. It was dark here, velvet and muted.

You held back your gasp as you resurfaced, flinging your hair back as you turned away from the shore. A small wave came to meet you and you let it guide your body up, then down. It was comforting to float like debris, to let the water take you as its own.

The cold hardened your nipples, drew goose flesh across your skin. But still you danced with her, the sea. Swimming out to be pushed back, floating with your locks fanned like the rays of sun. The ocean had caught your ribbon, taking it as another gift.

You broke like a wonton wave, rising slowly. Your hair hung back, chest to the sky and eyes closed.

You were better now. Grounded.

You let your chin drop slowly and opened your eyes, wincing slightly as the sun hit you, finalizing your emergence from the depths.

From there, he stared at you. He was unmoved from his spot. In one hand the shawl fluttered, wrapping itself around his leg. The other hand was rested over his heart, clenching the fabric of the shirt he had donned before following you.

You walked towards him, the water dragging you back stubbornly. You were aware of the way your chemise stuck to you now. It hugged every curved in a manner that was nothing short of sensual. He could see you, all parts of you, but barely. The fabric had been thinned by the water, and the darker brown of your nipples shadowed the precipice of your breasts. You flicked your hair back daringly, running your fingers through it to shake out the excess water.

You stopped in front of him as his gaze devoured you. His full lips were parted slightly, and you watched as his teeth grazed against the lower. There was a slightly blush across his high cheek bones, the most colour you had seen in him. His eyes flicked between your face, which you composed quickly, your tempting breasts, and where the cloth clung between your legs.

"Can I have my shawl, please?" You asked, but he was still caught in his daze. Your eyes dragged down from his face, his chest, to the now obvious bulge between his legs. Your gaze snapped away, but it made you fiercely proud to know that you were the one to cause it. There, evidence right there. That a heart existed behind his firm chest. And even a small part of it beat for you. "Hey, driftwood?"

Your voice seemed to pull him from the fog this time around, and he stumbled over his words for a moment. You bit back a smile as you held your hand to him. He stared at it blankly.

"My shawl." You repeated. He raised it, past your open hand as he stepped closer. With a sharp snap it was unfurled and Kruegar wrapped it around you. You watched him closely, face upturned brazenly to his. The shade over his eyes seemed to have faltered, and he refused to meet your gaze. But his hands were still firm on your shoulders.

"Are you done covering up my sin?" You asked, and he winced at the echo of his words. His hand ran from your shoulder, tracing its way up your neck, down your jaw, to your chin. His thumb and forefinger held you there for a moment.

"What you are is so much decadent than sin." He murmured, staring openly at your lips as he ran his thumb across them. "You are so much worse."

Your breaths mingled as you took each other in. Surrounded by so much movement, the waving leaves and rolling sea. But you were both still, both predator and prey caught in each other's touch.

And his lips were inches away.

And he didn't belong to you.

In three weeks time you would be left holding the air and mourning the ghost of a man who you never really knew. Not even his name.

But you were lost in the forest of his eyes, and his hand had moved to your waist, clutching at you as though he was afraid you would be ripped away by a strong current. There was a need there, a sadness. A fear. A want.

So you closed your eyes and let your lips meet Krueger's like waves breaking on a cliff. You kissed your desperation into him, your sadness. Your fear. Your want.

He gasped against your mouth, hand moving to curl around the back of your neck and pull you closer. He tasted like salt from sea and mint from the garden, and kissed you like a drowning man kisses the sky. You clung to him much the same, twisting your fingers in his hair and digging your nails into his chest. Your lips parted, inviting his eager tongue as he tasted you, and you tasted him in return. He groaned low in his throat as your tongues slid against each other and pulled your hips to his forcefully. You could feel him once more. The heat that you had cooled so carefully in the water was now raging. You wanted to step back, to have his eyes and hands on you as you pulled off your shawl and chemise, to feel his mouth on your soft skin, to-

Krueger broke the kiss, turning away quickly as he untangled himself from you. You caught a glimpse of his face, of unimaginable pain warping his features. Of regret?

"I-... I'm.. I shouldn't h-" You attempted to begin, not sure where you would end. But he cut you off with a sharp shrug of his shoulders, as though he was shaking off the feeling of your touch.

"Need to get back inside. You're gonna catch a cold." His voice was grey again, his jaw set firmly. He walked on without you as you scrambled to grab your shoes, head still spinning from how he stole your breath.

He avoided you for the rest of the day.

Sidestepped you in the kitchen, no hand on your waist. Took his dinner to the porch and stayed there long after he was done.

It continued to the next day. There was no soft goodnight, no gentle good morning. He did his chores dutifully, but without a word. Once he finished he sat on the porch and refused to move.

You wished desperately to take it back. Though it would be a kiss you dreamt of for the rest of your life, if this continued for much longer it would never be worth it. He infuriated you, he broke you. To have held you so close and then pushed you away, to have made you warm enough to melt your walls and then built them again himself.

You sat now in your armchair, feet tucked under you and your book of poetry balanced on the arm. You had stopped checking the window for his figure, trying to deduce if he had moved from his slump on the top step. If he wished to spend the night out there with the mosquitoes, that was his prerogative.

Instead you read over your comforts, trying to recall the sense of stability they had always given you. You murmured the words, reading out to Pekoe who had perched upon the footstool.

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;

I lift my lids and all is born again.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,

And arbitrary blackness gallops in:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed

And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

Pekoe's tail seemed to flick with the flames, her large green eyes focused on you.

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:

Exit seraphim and Satan's men:

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,

But I grow old and I forget your name.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The door creaked and she mewled in greeting, hopping off of the stool to rush across the room and meet him. Your voice died on your lips. The floorboards creaked as he made his way to you, stepping carefully over Pekoe's attempts to come underfoot. You held your breath as he stood beside you, staring down intently at your form.

"Please. Finish." He entreated. He knelt by you, face shadowed. His large hand rested on your knee, stroking the dark linen of your trousers with his thumb. Underneath was the skin that burned for him, but you had resolved to hide it away till he was gone. You were ready to hide so much. But he turned his face up to you, fingers clinging, eyes soft. It drew the words from your throat.

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;

At least when spring comes they roar back again.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

His head dropped, forehead against your knee as he went quiet and silent. His hands slid across your legs, moving from your knees to your calves, then up to your thighs. You shifted under his touch, confusion creasing your brow.

"What- what are you doing? What game are you playing with me?" You hissed as his head snapped up. His eyes narrowed dangerously, fingers tightening on your thighs.

"Game?" He growled. "What game?"

"The way you drag me in and then when I finally, finally let myself give up to you, you shun me?" You snapped, shutting the book quickly and tossing it onto the side table. "You're tearing me in half. Pick a side before I pick for you."

His eyes searched your face for something, but you met it with a steely glare.

"It's already been picked." He said finally, the edge still painting his tone. It warned you to be cautious, but you were beyond being careful now.

"Glad to hear it, tell me when you get the chance I guess." You went to push him off, but his hands circled your wrist.

"Tell me not to."

"What?" You gawked at him.

"Tell me not to do this." He stood now, moving your hands to pin against the armrests. You felt heady as you stared up at him. His face was shadowed, and all you could see was the emerald glint of his eyes.

"Why?" You questioned, jutting your chin towards him. You noticed he was shaking, ever so slightly.

"I'm going to hurt you, y/n. I know I will. I'm holding myself back, I don't want to. But it's inevitable." He squeezed your wrists as he leaned forward, pressing his mouth to the top of your head. "Didn't your daddy tell you not to trust strangers, little girl?" He murmured.

Your eyelids fluttered closed as you turned your wrists in his grasp, allowing yourself to grab him back the way he held you.

"No. He didn't. But you're not a stranger." His grip loosened and you took the chance to entwine your fingers. They fit so well you wanted to cry out. As though there had been a burning hole in your hands you had never noticed. "And I'm not a little girl. I know this..." You reached up to touch his cheek and he turned his face to press into your touch. "I know this isn't going to last. I know your place isn't here." Your hand traced down, resting over his chest. His heart was a war drum, pounding heavily. "But I want you to leave me broken." He groaned, low in his chest, at your words. "I want you to ruin me."

"Ruin you?" He repeated, his voice gravel. Your hand was flat on his chest as you slowly moved it up, grabbing onto his shoulder and pulling him lower.

"Ruin me."

He took your hand, gripping it tightly as he lead it between his legs, making you feel the hard bulge that had grown there. He throbbed under the thin cloth as you gasped. "With this?" He asked, spreading your fingers and pressing into your palm. You pushed back, earning a soft grunt of approval from his full lips. All you could do was nod.

His lips found yours quickly, pressing you back into seat as you squeezed him, as you felt the proof of his want. Your world became nothing but him. The scent of him, sharp like cinnamon and heady like sandalwood. The feel of him, heartbeat under your hand, the way he lifted you from the chair. The taste of him as your tongues twisted like snakes.

There was urgency in the way your mouths met, in the way you pulled at the waistband of his pants and how his mouth carved trails upon your neck. His kisses on your skin were teeth and passion, making you gasp for air as you gripped his chestnut bun. You didn't know when he had made his way to your bed, but soon you were thrown onto it, not having time to bounce before he was upon you.

Your lips met again, this time his teeth coming forth to tug desperately. As your mouth opened for him his hands moved across your body. They did not wander, docile and careful. They moved like two avalanches, ripping the buttons from your blouse before cupping the swell of your breasts beneath. You were thankful you had forgone a brassiere, as it would have been torn to shreds by him as well.

His thumbs graced across your already hardened nipples, and he broke away to stare at them.

"Look at you..." He murmured, his tone low and thick with want. Yes, you wanted to say. Yes. Look at me. Look at every part of me. But all you could do was arch your back, pressing your breasts into him as his mouth attached itself to your neck. He kissed and nipped his way down before latching onto your breast with ferocity. You clapped a hand over your mouth, attempting to subdue a squeal of pleasure. But Krueger was quick to rip it away, making a sound of disapproval as he pinned it beside your head.

"Need to hear it. Wanna hear everything" he whispered against your skin as his tongue slid against your hardened nib before grazing it with his teeth. You shivered as he switched sides, his thumb and forefinger pinching the now bare nipple. "You're so quiet. So contained." He pulled at your nipple with his teeth, making you pulse with pleasure and shock. "Wanna see what you're like undone."

As he spoke his leg forced its way between yours, pressing his thigh against the heat. The pressure made your eyes roll back and you instinctively ground against it, making him purr against the nipple in your mouth. He shifted back against you, urging your hips to move faster. Soon you were soaked through your trousers, leaving wet streaks on his. His eyes swam with delight, watching as the way your face twisted in pleasure.

"Enjoy yourself, y/n? Getting off to just my leg, I haven't even touched you properly. Look at you, wetting our clothes. So fucking messy."

But this wasn't enough. Your frustration only mounted, as did Krueger's. You were close to crying with relief when he finally yanked down your waistband, and swiped at his in return. You both paused for a moment as you took in the sight of each other. Krueger's jaw dropped at your wet slit, at the soft shades of brown and the pink that tempted him from within.

At the same time you were enraptured by his length. It was long, longer than you had dared to hope, with pulsing blue veins and a fat pink head that dripped with desire.

He lifted himself up to yank his shirt over his head, making it bob deliciously. Your pussy walls contracted over nothing, excited at the meet sight of him. He caught your eye and moved his hips forward.

"Touch it. Feel it. This is because of you."

You obeyed instantly, curling your fingers around his shaft as he twitched at the warmth. Your eyes were locked onto his expression, his heavy lidded gaze as he thrust in your fist. You held tighter, your skin becoming slick with pre-cum as he fucked into the tight hole you created. His chest shone with a sheen of sweat, abs rolling with each movement. It was intoxicating. But it wasn't enough for him.

He was suddenly pressed against you again, chest to chest, skin to skin. He bit at your ear, his breath hot and heavy.

"No stopping now."

"I told you. Ruin me."

His eyes flashed with something dangerous as he grabbed his shaft, pressing it through your lips to bump against your clit. You cried out faintly with pleasure and he caught the noise with his mouth, kissing you passionately. He wet his cock further with you, making his skin slick with your juices.

And then he was pushing into you, fingers planting bruises like flowers onto your thighs as he entered your tight hole. You stretched around him, your body unused to the shape he desired. But he was steady, insistent, molding you to his ideal. And as he bottomed out in you, filling you in a way you could never imagine, you moaned. It was brazen, loud and aching.

He met it with a buck of his hips, making you grip onto his shoulders even tighter. Your nails dug into the skin and he hissed with pleasure, thrusting once more.

"So fucking tight." Krueger groaned, and you melted at the pleasure in his voice. "So wet for me, huh? You've been wanting this as bad as me?" He asked, turning his head to nip at the skin on your jaw. You nodded, entwining your fingers in his hair. The sensation made his eyes close, covering those emerald jewels, and he began to pick up speed.

You were at his mercy, completely. He overcame you, the way his hips snapped into yours, sending his thick cock driving deep inside you. Your plush walls clung to him, the wet velvet stroking every inch, every vein.

You met his hips with yours, pushing back, tempting him further and deeper. Each motion sent your breasts shaking, trembling with the force of how he fucked you. This sent Krueger wild and he pawed at them, growling his pleasure.

He was roaming hands and sharp teeth. Hard cock and flashing eyes. He fucked you like a feral man, like you owed him this. And you took it like you were made for him. A part of you wondered if you were.

His breath was ragged, panting. With a groan he sat back, pulling you up with him. He held you easily as he raised, ensuring he didn't slip for a single moment. Now you were sat upon him, knees planted on the mattress, his cock sheathed in you as you stared down upon his face. Your chests were pressed together and God- you could feel his heartbeat. Feel the way it thrummed through his cock and torso. The heart you had fought death for.

You kissed him. Earnestly. Deeply.

And then he milked himself in you, holding your bronzed thighs for purchase as he bounced you upon his shaft. Your nails dragged across his shoulders, you tugged at his hair as moans ripped from your throat. The cabin was full of the sounds of you, of your lewd squelching and your unhinged moans. The slap of his skin against yours.

And your name.

It dropped from his lips like rain. It barraged against you, his lilted way of saying it.

"Kru-" you began, your voice cracking from pressure. But before you could finish the sound he had slammed you into the pillows, hand grasping at your throat.

"No. No." He panted, back arching as his pounding increased desperately. "Not that."

He moved his mouth to your ear, kissing the lobe as he pushed your dark hair back.

"Eren." He whispered. "Say it. Say Eren." You could feel the heat between your legs, in the pit of your stomach, become an inferno. He was pushing you to the precipice, eager to see you over the other side.

You pulled his face to yours, pressing your brow to his. His eyes were the green flashes you hunted for at sunset, the sight of an anomaly on the horizon promising you there was so much more in this world you do not know. You flexed around him, your walls clamping down as your body tightened. He jerked in response.

"Eren." You said it clearly, softly, whispered against his bruised and puffy lips.

His eyes widened, pupils midnight and irises jewels. And then he was cumming, filling your desperate pussy with thick, sticky cream. The sensation pushed you with him, and you fell into the shakes of an orgasm together, foreheads pressed together. You pulsated upon his shaft, encouraging every last drop to drain into your hungry body.

This was him. Eren. Dripping out onto your thighs and messying your sheets.

You clutched him to you as the high wore off. His face had slipped to the crook of your neck and he panted hazy kisses to your skin.

"Wow." You said softly, and you could feel him smile. You don't think you had ever seen it yet, beyond a half smirk. But it felt full, warm.

"Yeah, wow." He agreed, his fingers loosening their vice grip on your thighs and instead tracing them, learning the way they curved. For a moment it seemed like he would pull out, but a quick flex of your arms made him pause.

"Stay in. Just for now." You felt embarssed, flushing slightly as he pulled back to look at you. But his eyes held an uncharacteristic softness, their sea glass green gentle in the light of the dying fire. He seemed like a different creature than the one who had just bent your body to his well.

"Of course." He settled against you, his firm muscles organizing themselves to settle into your curves. Tentatively you reached up to run your fingers through his hair, uselessly afraid after all that had been done. You undid the half done bun, letting it cascade across you. He let out a gentle noise of content as you moved from his scalp to the roots, twirling the smaller hairs by the nape of his neck.

"Eren, hey?" You asked, and he twisted from the stupor your fingers had put him to.

"Do you believe it anymore than Krueger?" He asked, finger tracing its way over your hips now.

"I do. You look like an Eren." You lifted his chin with your finger, admiring his sharp nose, the angle of his jaw. He was beautiful. "It feels right to say. Like I've said it before. Eren."

There was something indiscirinble in his eyes. It looked like mourning. But he silenced you with a kiss, rolling over to pull you atop of him. He slid out finally and you tried not to feel empty. It was easy when he caged you in his arms, pressing his lips to your forehead as he held you.

"You say it funny." He whispered, sending your hair fluttering with his breath.

"Not as funny as you say mine." You yawned back, your head lolling against his shoulder.

You didn't hear his reply, sleep taking you as wholly as he had. Your last thought had been wondering when you had given him your name.

Hi guys! Here is chapter two, hope you'll enjoy it. Finally get some action. The next chapter is more or less going to be all smutty so enjoy waiting for that! As well I'm starting a tag list for this so please comment if you'd like to be tagged! Poem from this chapter is Mad Girls Love Song by Sylvia Plath.

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len-scrive · 3 years

Photo

Rating: Mature

Fandom: Hannibal TV/Adam (2009)/Charlie Countryman (2013)/Basic Instinct (Movies)/Men & Chicken (2015)

Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham – Nigel/Adam – Adam/Elias

Characters: Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham, Nigel, Adam Raki, Elias Thanatos, Adam Towers

Tags: Hannibal Extended Universe, Spacedogs, Basic Chicken, Arguments, Control Issues, Things you're not supposed to do

Language: English

Summary: Three couples face the same problem.

A translation of L’hai Fatto davvero?

-----

HANNIBAL AND WILL

“Hannibal, did you happen to install a ghost app on my phone, to track my location?”

“No,” Hannibal answered. His eyes even widened, as if that was the worst accusation ever received.

Will pulled out his phone from his pocket and shook it before Hannibal’s eyes. “The app is here, I found it.”

“Oh,” Hannibal muttered, “Then yes.”

Continue reading on AO3

-----

Something…a little different.

I thought of putting three different couples in a specific situation -extreme, as my usual- to see their different reactions. It was fun dealing with characters who talk in very different ways while having basically the same conversation. It was fun and challenging both in Italian and in English.

This extreme situation I’m talking about -I’m going to repeat myself over and over again- it’s a sick and squalid action to do especially in a relationship and in my house it’s immediately condamned, without appeal.

But our beloved friends have their own lives and they decide what to do, say and how to react, I’m merely reporting their stories. They can do what they want because they don’t live in this world, good for them. I’m just an impartial spectator.

Sorry for the mistakes I wasn’t able to spot, I still learn something new every day, the process is endless.

I hope you enjoy the reading.

Hugs

Len

#Fanfictions #Hannibal #Hannigram #Hannibal Extended Universe #Basic Chicken #Spacedogs #Basic Chickens

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dwellordream · 3 years

Text

“In court records of defamation suits, a common neighborhood jest was to pretend that a suspected cuckold actually wore gigantic horns, with neighbors warning him in mock concern that his horns threatened to break doorways and walls. This street jape has its parallel in printed jests. In one, a jealous husband always sticks his head out the window to check on his wife when she leaves the house, "which she taking in great endugine [dudgeon], roundly told him that if hee used continually to looke after her shee would clappe such a paire of horns upon his head that from thenceforth he would not be able to put his head out of doores." Her spatial manipulation requires theatrical projection: he seeks to control her access to the outside world and thus her sexuality, so she uses an imaginary scene of neighborhood humiliation to control him.

…In Berangier du long cui ("Berangier of the Long Ass"), an unhappy lady is married to a craven knight who only pretends to go out and fight. When he returns from these faked bouts, he kicks her and reviles her. One day she has had enough. She crossdresses as a knight in full armor and follows him into the forest, where she spies on him hacking his own sword. Accosting him, she challenges him to joust. Cowering before her, he cravenly begs for mercy. She forces him to kiss her bare ass. Bending over, he is shocked to see only a long cleft, with no testicles. She tells him in a rough voice that "All other men are beneath my class. / I'm Berangier of the Long Ass / Who puts to shame the chicken-hearted."

The fabliau culminates in the wife's confrontation with him at home, where she boldly sits in bed with her new lover. When he rages, she silences him by saying she knows all about his meeting with Berangier of the Long Ass and that she will tell the world if he says another word: He felt checkmated. He felt ill. And from that day, she did her will: She was no common girl or fool: When the shepherd's weak, the wolf shits wool. Such tales about tails are short and sharp, a feature that has led Howard Bloch to argue that the analogous French pun on tale/tail (con(te}/con) functions as more than an apt quibble. Accepting the Aristotelian rule that comedy is rooted in the defective, he locates that defect in the voice of the con (cunt/fabliau), whose "illogical" and "scandalous" speech cuts meaning short.

Logic is phallocentric: every child believes in "the ubiquity of the phallus [which] by analogy accounts for the presupposition of logic." Laughter produced by a joke or conte disrupts this logic and therefore cuts or castrates. His theory has its own shortcomings. Bloch fails to address the peculiar dramatic form of the fabliau, which is less punchline-focused and more hermeneutically demanding than a modern joke. In Berangier du long cui a new kind of logic plays out for a full forty lines beyond what he reads as the curtailing "punchline" of the anal kiss, which, rather than ending the narrative, spurs a denouement focused on the wife's triumph and mirth.

Indeed, Bloch discounts everything outside the castrating moment; he cannot allow that the con may also result in laughter that is its own logic, issuing from certain hearers for whom the phallus is not "ubiquitous." If the joke brings forth a "rule ready-made in words/' as Freud ordained, the rule of the fabliau is that laughter is already present: if it symbolically cuts some, it somatically pleases many others. In song, jest, and verse, women certainly do take special delight in hacking away at phallic pretensions. The topic figures large in gossips' literature, such as the early Tudor A Talk of Ten Wyves on Their Husbands Ware. A group of wives drinking in the alehouse vie to outdo each other in belittling their spouses' equipment.

The first wife sets the terms of the debate: Talys lett us tell Off owre hosbondes ware, Wych of hem most worthy are To-day to bear the bell. And I schall now begyn att myne: I knowe the [measure] well & fyne, The length of a snayle, And ever he warse is from day to day. All ten have a go. One wife moans in anguish that her husband is "the length of four beans" even when "he was in his most pryde/' another compares her mate's parts unfavorably to those of her cat Gyb, and a third says her spouse's ware is long enough but as weak and thin as her little finger. Narrators in some tales do call lusty women whorish, but in general jests do not; and on closer inspection many are more accurately about women satirizing men, especially for inept lovemaking.

Such tales often circle back to cuckoldry because a man who cannot pay his marriage debt is inviting horns. It is too easy to dismiss a narrative such as Talke of Ten Wyves, in which women express sexual desire or connoisseurship, as nothing but formulaic satire on vulgar female tongues and women's frightening insatiability. In her foundational study of cheap print, Margaret Spufford takes a minority view by arguing against reading an automatic tone of disapproval or satire in all such references to women's sexual desires: "Women were depicted in the chapbooks ... as taking positive pleasure in lovemaking. Certainly, the whole tenor of the merry books conveys that seventeenth-century women enjoyed their own sexuality and were expected to enjoy it."

Whatever women's experience of their own sexuality-and Spufford's comment raises more issues than it answers-most women would have been familiar with jesting literature that held men responsible for providing them with a degree of pleasure in bed, expressing that expectation through shrewd criticisms of sexual performance. When placed in a social context of neighborly surveillance, cultural discourses about cuckoldry elicit judgments about female duplicity, to be sure. But as these texts show, the conversation also recruits female pleasure and involves negotiations about the limits of male violence and criticisms of male stupidity, impotence, and hypocrisy. Many tales recruit women's laughter at drunken, jealous, and hateful husbands; and some attempt to discipline men by teaching that such behavior will result in horns.

Some jests can almost be considered primers in verbal evasion for harassed women, while others seem calculated to heat hostilities to the boiling point. Sometimes the language of play translates struggles ending in blows and blood to contests for linguistic mastery, especially in the jest topos of the forced oath, which turns on the unanswerable riddle of chastity. But the threat of violence is not always hidden. Pasquils Palinodia paints an unforgettable picture of cuckolds as sadists and blowhards, egging each other on:

And what is then his prattle with his mates, His fellow drunkards, sitting o'er the pot? There he begins the story, and relates What an infernal! fury he hath got, An everlasting scold that's never quiet, But checks him for his company and his ryot. Why bang her well, quoth one, for by this quart, If she were my wife, I would break her heart. Well, quoth another, fill a cup of Sacke, And let all scolds be damn'd as deep as helli Abridge her maintenance, and from her backe Pull her proud clothes, for they doe make her swell. And thus in divellish counsell there they sit, Til of Sherry they have drowned their wit. The anonymous narrator concludes this remarkable passage by observing that it is "too great a wrong, and most unjust/ The weaker to the wall should thus be thrust" and "deny'd the favour of the laws".

Perhaps it is this antimasculinist edge in cuckoldry humor-that utter lack of sympathy for the "wronged" husband-that led later generations of critics to disdain cuckoldry so completely. Norbert Elias, Keith Thomas, and others have ascribed the shift in taste to the massive change in manners that occurred in the later seventeenth century. What is less clear is how much this change depended on establishing new standards of female respectability and on restricting the kinds of stories they should hear and tell. In any case, it is important that the vast field of early modern cuckoldry narrative not be dismissed as rank misogyny. Any given tale may be heard as a lesson in amorality, a fable about the subordination of patriarchs, and prime laughing matter for all-but especially for women. Subject to sexual attacks, slurs, and scrutiny, they knew danger in a physical as well as psychological sense. They were, therefore, even more likely to enjoy a simulacrum of mastery that proved a stage husband wrong or wronged, again and again.”

- Pamela Allen Brown, “Between Women, or All Is Fair at Horn Fair.” in Better a Shrew than a Sheep: Women, Drama, and the Culture of Jest in Early Modern England

#history #sexuality #renaissance #tudor #elizabethan #jacobean #pamela allen brown #better a shrew than a sheep

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pucksnsticksnhockeyboys · 4 years

Text

betting on you

summary: your date doesn’t go to plan, and Jake won’t stand for that.

warnings: a gross date

word count: 2.6k

Your life, described in one word, was chaotic. Being friends with an entire professional hockey roster tended to have that effect. Not that you really minded, especially with the company you usually kept.

More often than not, there was at least one hockey player on your couch. Sometimes you regretted letting them know where you kept your spare key—you couldn't count how many times you’d come home from work and had a heart attack seeing someone already on your couch.

But there were nights, like tonight, when the boys were invited over, that you enjoyed their company the most. Currently, Elias, Brock, and Jake were sitting around your kitchen table as you bounced around the room in an effort to cook them dinner as a thank you for always leaving you tickets for their games.

“You’ve got a text.” Brock called, your phone sitting on the table beside him.

“Who’s it from?” You questioned, hands too busy with putting the chicken in the oven to check it yourself. Though, when Brock spoke next you wished you had just waited a moment to figure out for yourself.

“John, uh, he wants to know if Friday at eight works.” Brock told you, a bit of hesitation in his voice as his gaze flicked to Jake for a moment. Your whole body tensed and you practically lunged across the room to get your phone back, all the while avoiding the questioning glances from the three boys.

“So you’ve got a date?” Elias asked, and you would’ve hissed at him to shut up, but it’s Petey, and you’re pretty sure he’s the sweetest guy you’ve ever met, so instead, you just flush completely. It was answer enough, though, because suddenly the Minnesota native was wearing a teasing grin.

“Oh my god, you have a date!” Brock all but shouts, raising the beer bottle he’d been sipping and gesturing it towards you like he was cheering. You were certain that by now you looked like a tomato, and with all three boys looking at you, you shrunk into yourself and typed furiously on your phone.

“Why do you sound so surprised?” You finally found your voice, and Brock just laughed heartily at how defensive you got. The boys then started making teasing comments about John, and you completely ignored them because there were three boys sitting at the table but only two were talking. Which was something, because you couldn’t remember the last time Jake had ever been so quiet.

“So is it a first date?” Brock questioned, his chin propped up on his hand as he grinned at you. He was having way too much fun at your expense, and you made a mental note to get back at him later. You mustered up a nod, setting your phone down on the counter after confirming your plans with John.

“How’d you meet?” Elias asked, being ever the gentleman. Once again, your whole body flushed in embarrassment at his question. Jake still was silent, brows furrowed and expression unreadable.

“Um, Tinder.” You offered meekly, finding the veggies you had roasting on the stove suddenly very interesting. It wasn’t necessarily embarrassing that you were on the app, but it was awkward admitting to it surrounded by three guys who probably never would never have to use Tinder to get a date.

Plus, the massive crush you had on Jake probably didn’t help the redness of your cheeks. One wine night with your friends led to you downloading the app in a last ditch effort to get over the hockey player. Now, you were regretting it. Brock was giggling at you, and Petey was trying his best to suppress his grin. You couldn't even look at Jake, until—

“You can’t go on a date with him.” His voice was firm, and for the first time since this whole debacle started, all heads snapped to him. You spun on your heel to face him, and still the look on his face was unreadable.

“And why the hell not?” You questioned, arms crossed and brow raised. You weren't looking for a fight, but Jake was absolutely in no position to tell you whether or not you could see someone.

“Because Tinder guys suck.” He had a point, but your embarrassment had switched to stubbornness, and with the way Brock and Elias were looking between you and Jake like this was the most amusing thing they had ever witnessed, you weren’t about to back down.

“Not all of them.” You mumbled, features softening as you leaned back against the stove. You kicked yourself for the way your heart skipped a beat as you briefly wondered if him caring about whether or not you were going on dates meant something, but you quickly realized you were wrong as Jake spoke next.

“Let’s make a bet.”

“Oh, it's getting interesting now.” Brock murmured, but neither you nor Jake broke the eye contact you’d been holding since he first spoke., and you quirked a brow at him to continue.

“If your date goes bad, you have to be my personal chef for a week.” Jake started, and you rolled your eyes. You’d probably end up cooking for him anyways, but you weren't about to point that out and end up with a worse punishment—not that you thought the date would end badly, of course.

“And when the date works out?” You prompted, one corner of Jake’s lips twitching up at your sentence.

“If it works out, I’ll get you and James—”

“John.”

“—ice level seats to the next home game.” Jake finished, and you could tell from the smirk on his face that he had intentionally messed up the name and was proud of himself for it.

“Really?” You questioned. You tried to ignore the fact that you really didn't want to go to a game with John, because that meant bringing him around the boys and though you loved them all dearly, you knew they could all be a bit much.

Plus, the idea of introducing John to Jake made your stomach twist.

“Really.” Jake nodded, leaning back into his chair. For the first time in a moment, you spared a glance to the other two men sitting at the table. Elias was trying, and failing, to hide his amused grin. Brock on the other hand, was extending no such curtesy. He was clearly entertained, and you briefly wondered if you should offer him some popcorn to go with the show you and Jake were putting on.

“Fine. Deal.” You said before you even really knew it. You were oozing false confidence, but none of them needed to know that. Jake grinned, but you didn't see it as you turned back to the food on the stove.

You figured that the date would go okay, maybe it’d be a little awkward but soon you'd either grow to like him or you'd part ways after the game that Jake promised.

Except.

Nothing seemed to go right. Firstly, John had picked some fancy restaurant, which, though it wasn't your style at all, would’ve been fine. But then he kept making comments like how a guy needed to spend a ton of money to get someone to put out and how the top you were wearing was the same color as his sheets—which was followed by an invitation to find out for yourself.

Your favorite was when the waitress had left the table after taking drink orders and he had the audacity to turn to you and make a comment about how he wondered if she’d go home with the two of you if he asked.

You got up and left before he could say anything else.

Once you were in your car, you took a moment to catch your breath and bask in just how awful the date had been. Before you really even knew it, your phone was in your hand and you were dialing the one number you knew you could count on no matter what.

“Jake.” You breathed the moment the line connected, not giving him a second to question why you were calling when you were supposed to be on the date. “If you say anything about that stupid bet I will hang up. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever. Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you?” Jake’s concerned voice sounded from your phone's speaker and the corner of your lips turned upwards at the sound.

“I’m fine, I drove myself.” You explained with a shake of your head. You leaned back, relaxed from just having Jake on the other end of the line. It was scary, how much he meant to you and how hard getting over him was proving to be. John wasn’t the first guy you’d gone out with since you started trying to shift your affection away from Jake, and even the guys that were total gentlemen never seemed to work. Nothing was as easy as it was with Jake.

“Are you still there?” He asked after a moment of silence on your end.

“Yeah, sorry. Just in my head.” You muttered, feeling absolutely defeated after the way the past twenty minutes had played out.

“Come to mine, we can watch a movie or something.” Jake offered, causing the corner of your lips to quirk up. The idea seemed infinitely better than anything else you could have done, so it was easy for you to agree.

“I’m on my way.” He told you to drive safe, and you hung up, fastening your seatbelt with a grin. The drive was quick and uneventful, the radio playing quietly as your mind went wild with all the ways Jake was probably going to tease you.

By the time you were at his apartment, you had figured that he’d make a show of how you lost the bet, maybe even draw up a plan for you to get groceries for him to cook. He'd more than likely threaten to beat up John, and though you knew it was for your benefit, you knew Jake wouldn't exactly be happy about how he acted.

And for the second time that night, what you assumed would happen was completely wrong.

You knocked on Jake’s door and it took him a moment to answer, but when he did you were met with an unexpected sight. Your best friend was there, but instead of the sweatpants and t-shirt he usually wore around the house, he had on a pair of dress pants and a nice button-up. His sleeves were rolled up, and you pretended that you totally didn't eye his tattoos the second you spotted his exposed forearm.

“What’re you dressed up for?” You questioned, seeing as Jake was just looking at you with a sheepish look on his face. You were certain that you were imaging the slight blush on his cheeks, and as he stepped aside to let you in, he still hadn't spoken. “You didn’t have plans, did you?”

“No, I, uh—okay, listen.” He stuttered, hand tugging through his hair and eyes bouncing everywhere across the room but you. His actions concerned you, Jake was not a nervous guy, so whatever he was about to say clearly had an impact on him.

“Jake?” You prompted after a moment of silence. You knew he was trying to collect his thoughts, but you were getting anxious to hear what he had to say.

“So I know your date was bad, but that must be, like, an understatement, because it's only half an hour past your reservation.” He started, and your eyes widened a bit as you realized he remembered when the date was supposed to start. “And I wanted you to have a good time, so, I figured, we could, if you want, have a date night here?”

He was blushing, and his words were rushed, but you had heard him loud and clear. Your heart was racing as you contemplated the reasoning behind his actions, certain that you are reading too much into things. Jake had never hinted that he wanted anything more than a friendship with you, and friends cheer each up other after bad dates, right?

But the way he was acting, and the way he simply said date night seemed to imply so much more than your typical movie nights or dinners. And usually the other guys were there, too.

“Why?” You found yourself asking on. Of the dozens of thoughts that were running through your mind, the only thing you were able to ask was why. You felt stupid for it, but something was telling you that there was a reason for his behavior.

“I, uh, I might really like you.” Jake muttered, and suddenly you felt like the two feet separating you from him was entirely too much. He finally settled his gaze on you, and you could see the worry in his eyes. You probably should’ve said something right away, but you were too caught off guard by his confession to formulate actual words.

Panic had clearly set in on his face, blue eyes searching your expression for any hint of a reaction. You cracked a grin, and the simple action had some of the tension visibly leaving Jake’s body. You took a few steps forward, standing before him and his hands instantly landed on your waist. His grip kept you in place, not that you planned on moving away anytime soon.

“Please say something.” He breathed, a hint of a chuckle at the end of his plea. Words were failing you, the feeling of Jake’s touch and the smell of his cologne practically turning your mind to mush. Instead, you wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down to connect your lips in a long-awaited kiss. You could tell by the way his hands gripped your waist tighter and tugged you closer that he wanted the kiss just as much as you did. When you pulled away, Jake’s grin was as wide as you’d ever seen. “I was going to ask you if you kiss on the first date, but I guess I know.”

“Shut up.” You mumbled, leaning in to peck his lips again. It was a bit clumsy, with how wide you both were smiling, but you wouldn’t have traded it for anything in the world. The two of you were lost in each other, wrapped around the other and grinning like fools for who knows how long. That was, until, you pulled away just enough that your senses weren’t completely clouded by Jake. “Is something burning?” His eyes grew wide, and he all but knocked you out of the way as he raced to the kitchen. You followed after him, not trusting him if there was an actual emergency.

“I was going to make dinner.” Jake pouted. Apparently, what had been burning was the spaghetti sauce he was going to make, and you couldn’t help but giggle. He shot a playful glare in your direction, but that did nothing to stop your amusement at the whole situation. You were pretty sure the only reason he even had a jar of sauce in his pantry was because you had left it there last time you cooked for him.

“We can get takeout.” You reasoned, stepping into Jake and wrapping your arms around his torso. “I’ll even let you pick what we get since you’ve been so sweet.” Jake chuckled, and you felt the vibrations from where your cheek was pressed against his chest. He pulled back a bit, his forefinger tilting your chin up so he could connect your lips once more.

“Takeout can wait.” He mumbled, and before he could deepen the kiss like you knew he was planning to do, you slipped out of his grip. He pouted again, and you chuckled at his adorable expression, even if he was being a bit childish.

“Not so fast, Virtanen. You’ve got to buy me dinner first.”

#Jake virtanen #Jake virtanen imagine #Jake Virtanen imagines #Jake Virtanen x reader #vancouver canucks #vancouver Canucks imagine #Vancouver Canucks x reader #hockey imagine #hockey #nhl #NHL imagine

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

Text

Illicio 11/?

Part 10

Gerry gives a dry, humorless snort as he sits up on the chair, and Jon lets go of his face to give him more movement. "It's- she was fond of me, she says." Jon stiffens, when Gerry's forehead lands softy on his stomach. "Where was that when she was making my page?"

"...I don't know." Jon whispers, bringing his arms to rest across Gerry's shoulders. "I- there are a lot of things I don't understand about her."

Gerry's arms tighten around his waist. "Of course. Night and day." His voice is muffled against Jon's sweatert, his breath filtering through the fabric, searing hot against Jon's skin.

"You loved her." Jon says, not really asking what he already knows.

"It didn't matter, in the end." Gerry snorts again. It sounds like it did. Like it does.

The fact that the Institute building is so beautiful when it holds so much horror is both very fitting and very jarring, Georgie thinks.

Once you know what you're looking for, you can see the subtle eyes carved amongst the leafy motifs wrapping around the exterior pillars, and the unnerving gaze of the rounded window above the double oak doors.

She doesn't go too close despite the pouring rain, preferring instead to lean against a lamppost across the street and text Melanie that she's already there. This is how she gets a first row seat, partly hidden behind her large umbrella, when Jonathan Sims comes down the street towards this terrible place.

With him is a man she's heard plenty about, tall and broad-shouldered, with long black hair and blue-green eyes. The hand he's not using to hold an umbrella above their heads is deep inside the pocket of Jon's coat, along with his own; Jon is leaning against his arm in that way Georgie knows means he wants you to hold him closer.

That last thought draws a sigh out of her, as the two men draw closer to the Institute. Jon has always been a complicated subject, but he's so much more so lately. Georgie loves him, but she's also terribly aware that every time she allows herself to care, she comes out burned. Just earlier this year she had to sit by his bedside wondering if he would ever wake up again, and if it would really be better if he did.

They seem to be saying goodbye now, and Georgie can feel the tension from here. Jon is tilting his chin up and slightly to the side, but also leaning slightly away from the man, who's leaning towards Jon, but retreats after a moment, taking a deep breath. Jon lets their hands fall apart as he climbs the steps towards the Institute. The man watches him disappear behind the door, and Georgie starts crossing the street.

"Hey." The man doesn't flinch at her voice, and Georgie wonders if he knew she was watching. "You're Jon's Gerry, right?"

The man snorts with a hint of resigned humor. "Yeah. I guess that's the only of putting it. You're Georgie?"

"The very one." Georgie nods. "Melanie has told me about you."

"Has she? I'm almost afraid to ask." Gerry smiles at the name, and Georgie finds herself mirroring it. "You look well. Jon will be happy to know."

Georgie sighs. "Actually... please don't tell him you saw me."

"Oh?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.

"I don't- we're not really talking anymore." Georgie shrugs. It's painful to say aloud, because Jon grows on you, with his rare smiles and his quiet gestures of love. Every time she lets him back in, it's a battle to rip him out.

"Huh. I thought he'd stayed with you last year while-"

"While the police looked for him, yes." Georgie crosses her free arm over her chest.

"That's... you do know he didn't do it, don't you?" Gerry frowns.

"Wouldn't have let him into my house if I didn't believe him. I just-" Georgie's gaze drifts towards the Institute. While it -like anything else, really- doesn't inspire any fear in her, she can hardly ignore what she knows about it. "I don't really approve of his decision to stay involved in all of this."

Before her, Gerry stiffens. "Excuse me, his what?" His eyes harden.

Georgie scoffs. "I'm not sure how long you've been here for, but Jon is very self destructive."

"Oh no, trust me, I know." The man shakes his head, and Georgie knows there's a story there. "But calling it his 'decision' is-"

"Listen, I'm not interested in discussing it," Georgie says, shaking her head. "I saw Jon recording his creepy stories even when he didn't have to, when I asked him to stop, and now Melanie's trapped here because-"

"Because you brought her here," the man snarls, and Georgie freezes.

"Excuse me?" she asks, her voice low and dangerous.

"Wasn't it you who told her where to give her statement? You're flinging a lot of bullshit accusations around for someone who doesn't even know-"

"Georgie?" Melanie's voice drips down on them colder than any rain could be. "Gerry? What's going on?"

Gerry's face does soften when he looks at Melanie, who descends the stairs and slips her hand into Georgie's like a reverse of the scene she just witnessed from across the street.

"Nothing. You should talk to her." He turns around then, and starts the walk back up the street, without a single look back.

"...What happened?" Melanie asks, squeezing her hand and looking up at her with a frown.

Georgie forces her body to relax, the man's last accusation still echoing in her mind. She looks back at Melanie, taking in the worried curve of her brows, the raindrops shimmering in her hair, the bags under her eyes from the nightmares. She loves her, Georgie thinks, she has for a while. Was this really all her fault?

"Melanie?"

"Yes?"

Georgie knows, really, that it is her ignorance as well as her lack of fear that has kept her somewhat safe from this world her loved ones move in; it's becoming increasingly difficult though, to stay that way. "I need you to tell me everything."

--------------------

"What are you thinking?" Melanie asks, reaching a hand to intertwine their fingers together. "It's a lot to take in."

"It's true." Georgie looks down at her cold, untouched meal, replaying Melanie's story in her mind. "If I hadn't suggested you give Jon your statement-"

"Elias would have found me some other way," Melanie says immediately. "I- it's not even like I was marked already when I first came to the Institute. I think what really matters is that I came back, once I was. It's- really, nobody forced me to go around looking for more ghosts, Georgie. I just had to know. The Eye... it really is subtle."

Georgie runs a hand through her hair. This is- all of this, it's too much. "Is there really no way to stop it?"

Melanie pokes at her own half-eaten panini. "Not- I mean, I'm not controlled by the Slaughter anymore. But I signed the contract. That's- as far as we know, we're trapped in there. Jon says he and Daisy sort of were human again when they were in the coffin, but that's another dimension. I don't think there's a way to break it, not while we're alive."

She mulls this over for a moment. So... so Jon wasn't just being difficult when he said he couldn't stop recording the statements, or when he got his hand burnt. He- it's like all the frustration she's been harboring towards him the past year has congealed into a viscous, disgusting knot at the bottom of her stomach.

'You don't even have the credentials to be the head archivist', Georgie had said. It's terrible to know that that's probably the reason why Jon was offered the job in the first place. Jon, who's always doubted himself, and overcompensates by throwing himself head-first into things. Almost too easy, like throwing a stray dog a sausage stuffed with crushed glass, and watching it die painfully because it gave in to the need to eat.

"You don't have to just... like him again, you know?" Melanie reaches out to lay her hand on Georgie's. "I don't. I just- this is Elias' game."

And yet the only thought in Georgie's mind is that she left the hospital room without saying goodbye, and the dozens of unread texts and ignored calls in her phone. The fact that they stopped coming, when it became clear they weren't well-received.

"I- let's talk of something else, please," Georgie mutters, nearly begs. Were the nights on her sofa the last peaceful rest Jon had? "Did- did I show you this picture of-"

"Georgie, you're shaking-" Melanie mutters, and Georgie's voice cracks. "I- tell me what's wrong. Please."

But she can't, can she? Distancing from Jon was the right decision, even he probably agrees with that. Still, Georgie can't get rid of the feeling that Jon was reaching out a hand while he drowned, and she just watched him go under.

"I just- I need a moment. Please."

She doesn't look up when Melanie moves her chair beside her, but Georgie does lean into her embrace. This at least she's sure of.

"All the time you need." Melanie says, patient in a way Georgie knows is non-existent with anyone else. "I'm here."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Everything feels different about statements, lately.

The ones at the Institute never feel like the ones he gets fresh off the source, of course, but even reading those old stale ones, or listening to Gertrude's recordings, bring forth a barrage of information that leaves Jon feeling as though he just finished a well-seasoned meal.

Exactly ninety-eight prisoners were 'freed' from the Japanese encampment by the Nemesis. A hundred and twenty two Japanese soldiers killed each other to the beat of the drums, and some of their hearts were still beating as their recently liberated prisoners stepped over their bodies to go meet the boats at the shore.

Leonard Holden's last thought, as he twisted Milton Gallagher's neck, was that the commander officer was right, and this was really just like killing chickens back at the farm. When the bayonet first stabbed into his back, he let out not a scream of fear, but the bestial bray of a pig after you slit its throat. He never stopped tapping his feet to the Piper's music.

He barely registers the sound of his door opening and closing, his eyes focused -but unseeing- on the tape recorder on the desk.

As Gertrude moves on with her suppositions, Jon can See the Spider's webs all over the Nemesis, obscuring it from those who could have fed more violence into its fire.

"Doesn't help with the Unknowing, though," Gertrude says, and Jon gives a bitter smile, leaning back against the wide, warm hand that comes to rest at his nape.

"I don't suppose it would." Jon brings a hand of his own to cup the back of his neck, and Gerry intertwines their fingers together.

"Dekker always did have fun ideas," Gerry chuckles.

"Gerard may have a connection to the Eye, but I'm not sure it's enough... besides, I must admit I've grown fond of the boy."

Oh shit.

Jon scrambles to stop the tape, but Gerry reaches it first, and puts his weight on Jon's shoulder to keep him from getting up.

"Gerry, don't-"

"I do wonder sometimes, if I should tell him about Eric. He might decide to follow in his father's footsteps, but it's not like it did Eric any good in the end... Anyway, point is..." Gertrude continues to ramble on, but Jon couldn't care less about what else she has to say as he pushes his chair back. Gerry's grip on his shoulder has grown lax, as he stares at the tape recorder in his hand with a raised eyebrow.

"Gerry-"

"What does she mean, my father's footsteps?" Gerry's eyes, confused and hurt, fix on his when Jon climbs to his feet. "Jon?"

"I- I don't know." Jon closes his eyes, but the Watcher won't volunteer any information. He digs harder, but is only shoved back with the same ferocity with which knowledge is forced into his head. "Gerry I- oh!"

When he parts his eyelids again, twin streams of ink are flowing down from Gerry's nostrils, and Jon wipes at them with his sleeve.

"Your shirt-"

"Stop it," Jon snaps. "What makes you think it will let you Know, if it won't let me? Sit- just stay still already!" he bats away at Gerry's hand, pulling and pushing at him until Gerry's sitting on his chair and Jon stands between his legs, dabbing at the still flowing ink. "Stop trying to-"

"Jon, I can't!" Gerry snaps, wrapping a hand around each of Jon's wrists to pull them away from his face. "Do you even- what does she mean?!"

"Gerry, I don't know." Slowly, very slowly, Jon moves his hands to cup Gerry's face; his eyes are still unfocused, his breathing wild, and the ink is starting to run down his neck. "Please stop. You're hurting yourself." Jon's voice is very nearly begging, but he couldn't care less because Gerry's eyes finally focus on him.

Gerry lets go of his wrists, and Jon's heart skips a beat when his hands come to rest at Jon's hips almost tentatively.

"Doesn't-" Gerry starts, then clears his throat when his voice comes out hoarse and rough. "It's not fun when it's someone else, huh?" he asks, his breathing still coming in long, shaky pulls.

"I- I suppose it's not." Jon slides his thumb over Gerry's cheekbone in an awkward gesture that he hopes transmits comfort. "Are you alright?"

"...I don't know." Jon whispers, bringing his arms to rest across Gerry's shoulders. "I- there are a lot of things I don't understand about her."

Gerry's arms tighten around his waist. "Of course. Night and day." His voice is muffled against Jon's sweatert, his breath filtering through the fabric, searing hot against Jon's skin.

"You loved her." Jon says, not really asking what he already knows.

"It didn't matter, in the end." Gerry snorts again. It sounds like it did. Like it does.

Jon digs a hand in Gerry's hair at the base of his neck, a mirror of the gesture Gerry uses on him all the time.

"I think it matters. I- I don't think Gertrude could afford to care, Gerry, but these recordings- they were for her." She couldn't have expected anyone would find them in her mess of an Archive, for sure. "She cared for you."

Gerry flinches like the words are yet another blow, and Jon tightens his grip on him, this man who only ever wanted to do good with his life, and who was hurt in return every time.

This man who is his now, something dark and slithery whispers at the back of Jon's mind, to correct the damage, to protect and comfort, if only he was powerful enough.

It's really hard to ignore the Beholding, when it speaks Jon's thoughts aloud.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Martin waits until the woman leaves, before he heaves a long, tired sigh.

This is... Less than ideal. He gives the whirring tape recorder an accusing glare and a shake of his head.

"Don't just 'brrrrr' at me. What are you doing, Jon?" he snaps. "Are you just- preying on people now? What am I supposed to do with this?!" He can't give it to Basira or Melanie, they'll kill him before they give him a chance to explain. Martin runs a hand through his hair.

There is someone else isn't it?

It's a dreadful thought, but after talking to the- to Jon's victim, he feels human enough to realize it's the Lonely feeling it, not him. Gerard is... whatever he is, he's helping. With Jon.

Martin pockets the tape recorder, and locks the door to Peter's office before starting down the corridor. It's relatively easy to follow in the specific direction the Lonely doesn't want him to go, but Martin feels another, lighter pull against his destination that he suspects might be the Eye.

"Of course you'd prefer him to keep doing it, wouldn't you?" Martin grumbles, glaring at one of the carved eyes in the masonry. "Well-"

"Are you talking to yourself?"

"Jesus!" Martin flinches, turning in time to see a smug smirk spread over Gerard's lips. "Could you stop doing that?!"

Gerard lifts both hands in surrender, his smirk still there and not apologetic in the least. "Sorry, sorry. It works just fine to get a bit of color back into you, though."

Martin huffs. "Well, don't. Anyways, I was looking for you."

"You were?" Gerard raises an eyebrow. "Got another Extinction statement?"

"No, actually..." and now that Martin has him before him, he's not really sure of how to put this into words. "Its- Jon has been taking statements," he says, shoving the tape in his direction. That's probably easy enough to understand right?

"O...kay? That's his job, isn't it?" Gerard does take the tape, but he's still giving Martin a quizzical look.

"No, I- he's- Gerard, he's been looking for statements. From people who don't come to the Institute to give them." And that's when he seems to catch on, because he grimaces, and lets out a low whistle. Martin nods. "A woman came to my office today, he- I think he compelled her."

Gerard looks down at the tape in his hand, the slightest curl of distaste at his lips. "How did she look? Was she...?"

Martin sighs again. "Said she's been having nightmares."

"Yeah..." Gerard shakes his head slowly. "That tracks."

"I just thought... he'll listen to you," Martin says, every word a little sting in his chest.

"He'd listen to you too," Gerard frowns, "I know you don't want to talk to him because of your isolation thing, but I think it would be better-"

"He loves you," Martin says simply. Like ripping a bandaid, if ripping a bandaid felt like tearing your skin off. He misses the numbness of the Lonely a little, but it's very unlikely he'd be able to call on it right now, not with Gerard right here.

"Whoa!" Gerard's eyebrows shoot up again, and a nervous chuckle escapes his lips as if it's been punched out of him. Martin doesn't miss the color rising on his face, and his lips twitch. "That's- you don't know that."

Martin rolls his eyes. "Gerard-"

"Actually, can you not... call me that?" Gerard interrupts. "It gets on my nerves. Just... Gerry's fine, alright?"

"Oh." Martin blinks. "Okay? What does that have to do with this?"

"Nothing. I just- listen, I've spent every single moment since I was brought back to life hearing about how bad Jon has it for you." Gerry pockets the tape recorder, and Martin wonders if it's really alright, that they went from talking about Jon's victims straight to discussing which one he's in love with. Maybe Peter wasn't that far off when he called the Archives a soap opera. "And it's very frustrating when you keep being as obtuse as possible about it."

"I can't exactly do anything about that, can I?" Martin rolls his eyes. "I'm supposed to be isolating myself to- to save humanity or something, and like we established before, he has you, so-"

"There's more than one way to do these things, you know?" Gerry speaks over him, and Martin has to stop on his tirade due to choking on absolutely nothing. Gerry pats him on the back, and Martin bats his hand away, face burning.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Martin asks.

Gerry groans. "You're impossible. I'll talk to him."

He stomps down the stairs to the Archives, and Martin stays there, mortified, confused and a bit exasperated, which is apparently becoming his usual state after any interaction with Gerry.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"I know you've been feeding." Gerry says once they've sat down at the café, because there is probably not a good way to tell the man you're in love with that the man he is in love with had to come to you so you'd ask him to stop feeding on the fear of innocents.

Across the table, Jon pales immediately. "I- how?" he stutters out, and Gerry wants more than anything to reach over and lay a hand on his to reassure him, but there are things that must be said first. "Who told you?"

"Martin did. He... there was a tape. Apparently someone came in to complain." Gerry reaches inside his jacket, only to find that the pocket is... empty. "Huh. Wait."

He pats the other pockets, as well as the ones on his jeans just in case, but the tape is just gone. Gerry frowns, confused, until the very clear memory of a yellow door at the bottom of a drawer pops up in his mind, and he groans.

"Why- what would Helen want that tape for?" Jon asks, and Gerry frowns at him when his eyes start to give off the faintest green glow.

"Don't do that. That's exactly why we're here, Jon."

"I- yes. Sorry." Jon sheepishly lowers his gaze to the table. "I... know. I know I shouldn't have done it," Jon sighs. "I just..." his elbows come to rest on the table, and he buries his face in his hands. He looks... small.

There are places of power, for people aligned with the Entities. Mooreland Manor for the Lukases, Ny-Alesünd for the Dark's freaks, and Gerry can't even think about Hilltop Road without getting a headache.

The Archives are like that for Beholders; Elias is never as powerful as he is when sitting behind his desk, but Martin put him in jail and that means Jon is the biggest dog at the Archives now. Here at the little coffeeshop, however, apologizing for his very existence, Jon has never looked more frail. It's a relief, really. He doesn't know what he'd have done if Jon had reacted differently.

It means he's still Jon, even after all that's happened.

When Gerry reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder, he's half afraid Jon will crumble to pieces under his fingers. Instead, the man's desperate gaze is aimed straight at him, and Gerry's relieved to notice it's not the bright green of the Archivist's eyes, but the sweet dark brown that looks at him over the edges of books at home.

"I don't know how to stop it. I don't even know why I'm doing it. It's- I don't want to hurt people." Jon says in the strained tone of a confession. "I- before the coffin, I knew I would need the strength, it was for Daisy. But after that I've just- it even made the statements a bit better, because I can Know more things about them-"

"Makes sense. Feeding regularly would make you more powerful." Gerry observes. Jon flinches back like the words had been a strike, and Gerry gives him a sympathetic shrug. "It's what you're doing; it's what Avatars do. At least people survive when you feed from them."

"That's... not helping." Jon's face looks pinched.

"No. I don't suppose it is." Gerry squeezes at his shoulder.

"I just- maybe I can live off of statements alone from now on. It's- they don't really.... but it's better, isn't it?" Jon asks, with the same fervor of a child insisting they can fix the toy they just broke.

"You don't have to stop." Jon's eyes widen at his words, narrowing in suspicion just a moment later. Gerry rolls his eyes. "Yes, yes. You do have to stop feeding off of innocent people, that's not debatable. I wouldn't let you, either. It will only make you change faster, and I'd like to think that's not what you want."

"Of course not!" Jon snaps, shrugging Gerry's hand off his shoulder with an indignant huff. "I don't- that's the opposite of what I want!"

"Mhm. Thought so." Gerry nods. "Feed from willing people, then. People who won't be afraid of you." Jon's face is still fairly flushed after his little outburst, and Gerry has the sudden, very distracting thought that he would very much like to kiss him. But he's got a purpose, at least for now, and most importantly, he doubts it's the purpose the Eye had for him. "Feed yourself, not the Watcher."

"I don't- is that how it works?" Jon frowns.

"Maybe? It can't hurt."

"That's- I don't think people like that exist, Gerry. Should I only take statements from Institute employees now? Basira won't hear of it, and I won't ask Daisy or Melanie. I'm not going to-"

"Well no, not them." Gerry feels a smile tugging at his lips. Jon is ridiculously blind sometimes, for someone on the cusp of becoming quasi-omniscient. "Start me off, come on"

"...What?" Jon asks, and Gerry doesn't bother holding his grin back. "Gerry, what on Earth are you-"

"Yeah. You know...." Gerry schools his face into stern determination and forces his voice into a deep, affected accent. "Statement of Gerry Keay, regarding-"

"Are you crazy?!" Jon snaps. Gerry doesn't miss the new hungry, predatory gleam in his eyes. Maybe if Gertrude had reached this stage of becoming the Archivist, Gerry would've had an easier time mistrusting her; but then again he's literally just offered himself up as a meal for Jon, so maybe his self-preservation instinct is just not great. "I'm not going to take a statement from you!"

"Why not? I've got them in spades." Gerry shrugs.

"Haven't you heard what happens to my statement givers?!" Jon insists, but Gerry can see his hands shaking, white-knuckled around the edge of the table. A dog before a steak that he knows he's not allowed to have.

Gerry chuckles. "I have nightmares all the time, Jon. This would just be choosing which episode I get to watch. And honestly? Having you there will add a bit of novelty, if you ask me."

"Novel- are you mad?" Jon is shaking. Gerry wants to hold him close and whisper in his ear about the time he set a Vast avatar on fire. "Gerry, you don't want me in your dreams, trust me."

Gerry leans an elbow on the table, resting his chin on his hand with a smile. "Maybe I do, you don't know that."

"Gerry!" The result is just as he expected, Jon goes red from neck to hairline, and Gerry gives him a wink. "I- that's-"

"Oh my God, he's flirting with you, you absolute moron," comes a new voice from somewhere next to their table. "No wonder you never noticed Martin wanted your sorry ass."

Gerry turns to face the newcomer, and his mind flares with alarms when his eyes land on the man's and the only thing he can see is fire. He was marked by the Stranger once, and the Eye as well; both marks have been burned away though, and they remain in his soul only as a reminder, with no real pull over him.

"Coffeeshop date and everything, statement included? You're getting lucky, Boss." The man speaks again, fixing Jon with an amused smirk, like this is a shared joke between them. Gerry can feel the temperature rise around them however, and see the barely concealed anger in his eyes.

It's not a look Gerry specially likes on a Desolation avatar looking at his Archivist.

Jon's face that was so flushed with color just a minute ago has gone pale, and Gerry tenses in preparation for a fight.

"... Tim?" Jon's voice is soft, almost... hopeful. After a moment though, his brow furrows, and his next words are grave and laced with a compulsion so heavy Gerry can taste the resentment as the words flow into his core. "Are you the real Timothy Stoker?"

The man's face contracts into a bitter mask as the compulsion washes over him. His body stiffens and his shoulders tense as he tries to resist the pull, but he fails, of course.

"Thought I'd hate it less now, but it's still the fucking worst." The man rolls his eyes, letting out a huff of steam. "I am. At least as much as you're, you know... you."

"The Desolation claimed you-" Jon doesn't really ask now. "At the Unknowing?"

"Big fan of my work, it looks like." Tim shrugs. "They buried my remains you know? The Desolation turned the whole grave into a cremation chamber for me to wake up. Climbed out just like that; I think I'm made of ash now."

And… yeah, that would explain the random fires they've been hearing about.

"So- so you're..." Jon starts, stops and clears his throat. "You're what, an avatar now? You're lik-"

"Boss, if you say 'like me' I'm going to punch you," the man interrupts him, and Jon's face tightens in pained recognition, like the threat of violence is much more credible as a confirmation of this man's identity than a compelled confession.

Maybe it is, and Gerry feels a burst of unreasonable irritation at the way Jon looks at his former assistant like he's both a ghost and a miracle, when Tim looks at Jon like he's a bug he'd like to step on.

"Tim... why are you here?" Jon asks. The compulsion is subtler this time, but still there.

"Honestly?" Tim asks, like he has any other choice. "I'm not sure. When I woke up, I wanted to see how the others were. Martin at least. Melanie, maybe. And..." he purses his lips, but doesn't manage to keep the rest of the words in. "I wanted to hurt you, if you were still alive."

Gerry stiffens in his chair, ready to hop up as soon as the man moves too abruptly. Across him, Jon looks... resigned. Like he'd known the answer before he even asked the question.

"Ah. Yes I- I can believe that." Jon sighs. "Are you going to?"

"He can certainly try," Gerry responds before Tim can even open his mouth, because he's getting sick of seeing Jon grovel for this guy's abuse.

"Gerry-"

"I'm not a hunter, but I've put out some fires before." Gerry speaks over Jon this time, his eyes fixed on Tim. He makes sure to lean back on his chair, and leave his chest open. Show this man that whatever fear he came looking for, he's not going to find here. "Molina died just fine with a scalpel."

Tim frowns, and much to Gerry's displeasure, looks much more confused than he does concerned. Something seems to click in his mind, because his eyes go the size of saucers, and he whips around to face Jon again.

"Gerard Keay?! The Gerard Keay?" he asks, and now it's Gerry who's confused. How does- "You're getting your freak on with the angry goth that shows up in every other statement? Isn't he supposed to be dead?"

Oh.

"I don't think either of us have any right to criticize anyone for not staying dead." Jon frowns. Gerry feels his mouth dry up; that's not the part he expected Jon to take issue with. "Now answer the question, please."

"Oh? Why don't you try your thing again? Don't really want to know?" Tim arches an eyebrow in challenge.

Jon rolls his eyes. "I know what you think of me, Tim. I'm not going to-"

"You literally just did it."

"Because I didn't know if you were... something else!" Jon snaps "I wanted to know if you meant harm to anyone in the Arch-"

"Oh, so you're the watchdog now?" Tim takes another step towards the table, and Gerry's napkin begins to smoke. "You keep everyone safe, you protect them?" He asks. His words are laced with mockery, striking like a cracking whip.

"I try-" Jon stutters angrily, only to be interrupted once more.

"Well isn't that great? You're definitely good at that, Boss, it's not like you've gotten what? Four people killed already?" Tim snarls. Gerry puts his napkin out with a couple pats, but he finds himself realizing he's not too worried. Desolation avatars know how to destroy. Tim could probably send the entire shop up in flames so hot only he would survive it, but he clearly doesn't want to. "They must be so reassured that you're taking care of them, Martin must be over the-"

"Shut up!" Jon's voice cuts cleanly through Tim's, and Tim's mouth clicks closed as static builds up around them. "I'm- I tried Tim. I did- I am doing my best to fix what I did wrong. I'll be the first to admit I- I made mistakes. And I know you won't forgive me, but- but I'm done. I- I'm done with begging you. What was it that you told Elias while I was gone? Either kill me, or-"

"Or fuck off" Tim nods. His eyebrows are arched, and when he speaks again his voice carries a hint of reluctant admiration. "Grew a pair while I was away, huh? Bit too late. If you ask me."

"Tim-"

"Yeah. Yeah, whatever. I'm not... I should hurt you." Tim shrugs. It's stilted, too tense when he's trying to look casual. "But I don't want to. I think that part died too. The real me, you know?"

Jon's face goes from closed off to hopeful so quickly Gerry cringes a little. Whoever this man was -is-, he's... important, for Jon. Whether he likes it or not.

"So you-"

"I don't want anything." Tim rolls his eyes. "Well that's a lie. I want to destroy things. See the world burn and all, you know the drill. But I don't- Just stay away from me, Jon."

Jon flinches at his name, almost as if 'Boss' had been a quirky nickname and not some sort of mockery. Gerry guesses it could have been, and the thought makes him like it even less.

"Those are some bold words, when you were the one that came in here." Gerry arches an eyebrow, his hand balled over the smouldering napkin.

Tim rolls his eyes. "I figured I'd decide whether or not I wanted to melt his face off when I saw him," he says. "Wouldn't get too close if I were you. People who care for him don't end well."

He walks away without waiting for a response, and the air around them begins to cool down immediately. Gerry watches his back until the coffeeshop's door closes behind him.

"Do you want me to go after him? I can- Jon?" whatever he was going to add fades from his mind when he looks back.

If Jon had looked sad when apologizing for feeding, now he looks... miserable.

Gerry knows all too well he's not built for comforting people. He can protect them alright, but there's a lack of action inherent to comfort that always manages to make him feel like he's doing everything wrong, like he should be doing something to fix the problem instead of just being there.

Maybe it should've been Martin who brought Jon here, Gerry thinks bitterly, because he would fight the world for Jon, but what good is it if he cannot make things right?

"... Do you want to talk?" he asks. That's how this is done right? Communication, catharsis, comfort. He can't fuck up a simple formula.

Jon looks up at him, a hand buried in his tangled mess of hair. His eyes are still shiny, but less with the thrill of a potential statement, and more with something Gerry doesn't want to even think about.

"Tim was my friend," Jon says, and he seems to grow even smaller as he talks. "He moved to the Archives for me."

"Jon..."

"Guess this is the best outcome there could've been. At least he's free now."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Martin notices the melted doorknob as soon as he walks up to his flat door. It's not a great sign, probably, but also not something he's really in the mood for dealing with after the day he's had.

The Lonely kept coming and going at random today, and the complete numbness of it coupled with the bursts of intense emotion when he found his mind clear of it were exhausting.

"Whoever's in there-" Martin calls as he pushes the door open, careful to not touch the still warm metal "-I'm really tired. Please just say what you want, and go?"

The flat is completely dark, and Martin's eyes latch on to the two burning embers that he guesses belong to whoever came to kill-

"Dear, sweet Martin, telling the entities to behave. Things really have changed, haven't they?"

The voice crashes against him like a wave, terrifyingly familiar and entirely too disorienting; Martin leans heavily on the table by the door, knocking his mother's picture back. The warmth and the slight hint of humor contrasting with the raw bite of the words.

"T- Tim?" Martin gathers himself enough to flick the lights on, and sure enough there's Timothy Stoker, leaning by the door to his kitchen.

He looks exactly like he did the day he left for the wax museum with Jon; the scars from the worms littering his skin, the artfully messed hair, the confident curve to his lips. The only difference is his eyes, two burning coals in the middle of the much beloved face.

"Surprise," Tim says, elongating the word so much Martin can see the sarcasm bleeding off of it. "Turns out my old flat is not mine anymore, who knew? I'm going to need a place to crash for a while."

"I don't- how are you here?" Martin asks, still holding to the table for the stability that seems to have fled his world so suddenly. "You were- we buried you! Is- is it really you?"

"I had my doubts." Tim shrugs, making no move to get closer. "But I said I was when Jon asked, and it's not like I can lie to him, so I-"

"Jo- you went looking for Jon?" Martin's heart skips a beat. That can't be a good thing, that- "did you hurt him?"

Tim laughs at that, long and loud and bitter in rivulets of steam that raise from his parted lips.

"I should've known. No, Martin, I didn't hurt Jon." He says, his voice curling venomously at the name. "I wanted to. I really did. But when I was there, I-" his mouth moves around half formed words that he can't seem to give voice to, and his eyes flare up bright enough that Martin sees the glow even with the lights on.

"You couldn't." Martin blurts out when the revelation strikes, and Tim flinches. "I- that's- not that that's a bad thing, but Tim-"

"He compelled me, you know?" Tim spits out. "At the Unknowing. I was going to give her the detonator, but then he asked me to look, and I was so angry at him that everything was clear for a moment. And I killed us."

Martin takes a small, careful step towards him.

"You saved the world, Tim."

And Tim looks up at him, with a humorless smile.

"All I wanted at that moment was to kill him, her, and me, Martin. And I couldn't even do that." He pushes sharply off the wall then, and Martin restrains the urge to move back. "And I had him there today, he was practically begging me to do it, and I couldn't- why couldn't I kill him, Martin?"

He looks... devastated. Like the only certainty he had was just ripped from him and shattered before his eyes, and Martin has a moment to consider just how sad it is, that Tim depended so much on his hatred for the man whose friendship he treasured once. This new world has made strangers out of them all, empty husks that feed on resentment while yearning for a past that won't come back.

Martin takes a step forward, and then another, and another, and he only remembers Jack Barnabas' statement by the time his arms are closing around Tim, but it doesn't do much to stop him. Tim is in need of a friend, and Martin -or whatever is left of him that Gerry has managed to wrestle out of the Lonely- is the only one left.

Tim's arms come to wrap around Martin's back roughly, almost violently- Martin guesses that's now just as much a part of Tim as anything else.

"You melted my doorknob," Martin mumbles into the hug.

Tim snorts, and just for a moment, everything is right.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"Ouch," Basira grunts, and Daisy flinches back like she's been burned.

"Did I bite you? I'm sorry, I-"

"No, stop." Basirs lays a hand down on her head to still her, and Daisy looks up. Basira's rubbing at her with a pained frown on her face. "Something just fell on me."

Daisy scowls, but a look around the room reveals they're alone. "What-" she catches the corner of something black and shiny poking from between the sheets. "Is that a tape recorder?"

Basira groans, and Daisy pats her thigh with a sympathetic smile.

"I'll ask Melanie to talk to Helen about timing."

#jongerrymartin #illicio #vit writes

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