2025-03-21 5:01:03 ¶ ●

Okay I can’t lie I’m tired as hell but the idea Called to me until I had pulled it put of my exhausted half-functional brain, so here it is. It’ll need major editing at some point I’m sure but currently I need makor bedtime so that editing shall not happen tonight. Anyway, short lil incest Yearning fic. Warnings for:

- Elias just straight up puts out a cigarette on his son out of curiosity.
- Um. The Incest Thing.
- I can’t actually remember if I ever explicitly stated that Jon’s in college in this? So his age is up to interpretation. Or not idk.
- I feel like there’s other things but I forogr. Idk leave me alone I’m mega tired rn I just want this posted.

Ok ok. Now. Fic time <3

Lights from the house catch in Jon’s hair, illuminating strands that are already beginning to go gray. He exhales a curl of smoke from his mouth, watching it dissipate into the dark.

Probably, he shouldn’t be smoking here. The back porch is hardly the most discrete of locations. If his father doesn’t discover him here, now, then he will in the morning when he steps out for his morning coffee and smells the lingering smoke. But something about the thought of wandering beyond the bounds of their townhouse, where the gazes of neighbors and strangers will rest cool and heavy on his shoulders… it itches. His father’s disappointment is always a heavy burden to bear, but there’s something in his eyes when he’s angry, something that has always made Jonathan want to push.

His father has always been something of a fascination.

He almost jumps at the soft creak of the back door, the whisper-sound of his Elias’ foot hitting the wooden boards. His gaze is pulled towards him without his input. Hopeless, he thinks. Helpless to resist the urge to drink his father in. Handsome as always, of course, in a way that Jon still longs to reach out and steal for himself. There’s something tired in his posture, or perhaps in the way his hair has gone uncontrolled, darks strands mussed, a curling lack resting over his forehead. His eyes are sharp, steady. Cooled disapproval glinting in silver-gray. Jon cannot resist the urge to shiver.

“That’s a terrible habit, you know.” He says, and his voice is clear and chilled and everything Jon has been needing to hear for all those weeks away. He comes to a stop just inside Jon’s space, close enough that Jon can feel the warmth radiating from him. See the faint scare on his nose, (from childhood, the remnants of a broken pair of glasses), feel his father’s breath puff softly against his face.

It takes a few moments, to realize that Elias is waiting for him to respond. He shrugs, looks away. “I do,” he says, and the words are far too soft for either of them. Takes another drag to try and wash the taste of shame from his mouth.

Elias’ mouth curls in displeasure. His hand reaches up, and — before Jon can react — he snatches the cigarette from his mouth. He stares at it, as if considering what to do with it. The lit end still smouldering away, wafting plumes of smoke. Jon wonders if he’s going to stomp it out on the floor. To lift it to his own lips, thin and chapped and so, so soft looking.

His father’s expression shifts into something of curiosity, consideration, as he studies it. For a long, long moment, there is only the rustle of leaves and the chirping of crickets. A silence that stretches on, and on, and on. His hand twitches, and then-

The pain is sudden. And fierce. Flames sinking into the skin of his neck. He lets out a yelp of surprise and pain. Reaches up to clutch at the place where Elias had stubbed the cigarette out on him. “Dad- what…”

The heat of the burn is beginning to trickle down, coiling low and hungry in his gut. Nestles permanently inside of him, another of the thousand memories he finds himself circling in the dead of night, in moments of need and pleasure. Elias smiles, pleased, or perhaps content. “I don’t want to see another of these in this house. Do you understand?” Jonathan nods, staring still, and his father turns and disappears back into the house.

There’s a shameful, unmistakable dampness in his trousers. There’s a circle of ash at the place where neck and collarbone meet. There is a longing in his chest and belly and head that gets harder and harder to deny. Without even thinking, his hand goes to the raised, red circle sunk into his flesh. Presses down on the mark. New, painful. He thinks he should be terrified, betrayed… but instead he rubs it until he cannot bear the pain, and wonders if it will scar, if he will be allowed to carry the mark of his father on his skin forever.