#i just want to not have to choose between seeing a doctor or having a place to live

[whumpdoyoumean]

13, you can choose the victim 😈

thank you :]

I loved that you let me choose the victim on this one, Nonny! It provided the perfect opportunity for me to crank out a lil fic I've been meaning to write for ages, based on a throwaway line in the lightning strike episode where Bobby tells the doctors that Buck is allergic to naproxen (:

xxx "can't – breathe--"

Buck sighs as he heads into the locker room. He'd had a bit of a headache when he woke up this morning and was hoping that eating breakfast would help, but it's still bothering him – nothing too serious, but enough to be an annoyance.

"Hey, Eddie," he says as Eddie opens his locker. "Do you have any ibuprofen?"

"Naw, man, I don't. Sorry about that." Eddie leans around his locker door to look at Buck with a raised eyebrow. "You okay?"

"Just a bit of a headache," Buck says. "It's not a big deal."

"You could ask Chim," Eddie says.

"Ask me what?"

Buck and Eddie look up as Chimney walks in.

"Buck's got a headache," Eddie says.

"It's really not that bad," Buck says, shooting a glance Eddie's way.

"Do you have ibuprofen?" Eddie asks Chimney, pretending he didn't hear.

"Uh, don't think so," Chim says, opening his locker. He digs around for a minute before pulling out a bottle. He looks over at Buck, giving it a little shake. "But I have Aleve. Would that work?"

"Yes, please." Buck holds his hands up, catching the bottle of pills as Chimney tosses it to him. He shakes one of the pills into his palm and pops it into his mouth, washing it down with a swig from his water bottle. He throws the bottle back to Chim. "Thanks."

"No problem, hope it helps."

Buck grins at him. "I can feel it working already."

-

The first call, barely two minutes after the start of shift, is a house fire. It's a small one, thankfully, and the homeowner had called 911 quickly so the 118 is on scene before too much damage is done. It doesn't even take ten minutes to put the flames out and secure the scene. It's an easy call.

So Buck isn't sure why he feels like this: short of breath, nauseous, a little dizzy, and shaken. This is one of the milder calls they've gotten in his time at the 118. So why does he feel like the world is ending?

"Yo, Buck," Eddie says, walking up to where Buck is leaning against the engine. "Are you gonna help pack up or what?"

"Yeah," Buck says, straightening up. "Yeah, sorry. Uh. Did you-are you feeling okay?" Maybe there was something in the house, some chemical in the smoke that's affecting him badly.

Eddie frowns, moving closer to him. "I'm fine. Are you feeling okay? Is it that headache?"

Buck shakes his head, closing his eyes when the movement makes the dizziness worse. He feels Eddie's hand tighten on his arm.

"Whoa, hey, why don't you sit down? You're really pale."

Eddie keeps his grip on Buck, lowering him to the ground. Buck sits heavily, putting his head between his knees in the hopes of helping the dizzy spell to pass.

"Talk to me, Buck," Eddie says, and Buck opens his eyes to see Eddie crouched in front of him, staring at him worriedly. "What's goin' on?"

Buck swallows thickly, and it takes more effort than it should. "I'm not exactly sure," he says, voice shaky. "I just don't feel good."

"Don't feel good how?" Eddie presses, pushing up the sleeve of Buck's turnout coat to press two fingers to the inside of Buck's wrist. "Anything hurt?"

"No, the headache's gone," Buck says. "I'm kinda...dizzy. Nauseated. 'n my chest is kind of tight. I thought maybe there was something weird in the smoke but everyone else seems fine...What?"

Eddie's brow is furrowed and he's chewing on the inside of one cheek.

"Your heart is racing," he says, sounding almost distracted. He looks over his shoulder. "I'm just gonna...Hey, Hen? Chim? Can one of you come over here?"

"Everything okay?" Chimney says, jogging over from where he and Hen had been checking over the homeowner. Bobby is right behind him.

"I was going to ask the same question," Bobby says.

Buck wants to insist that he's okay, but the tight feeling in his chest is getting worse.

"He's tachy," Eddie says. "Said he's dizzy and nauseous, and he's short of breath."

Chimney kneels next to Eddie in front of Buck, setting his bag on the ground next to him. "Okay, Buckaroo, I'm gonna need to take your blood pressure. Can you get that coat off for me?"

It takes Eddie and Bobby both helping him for Buck to get out of his turnout coat. Buck would be mortified if he weren't feeling so awful. There's an ominous darkness starting to creep in on the edges of his vision, and the noise around him is growing muffled. The only clear sound is the quiet wheezing of his own breathing as he struggles to pull air into his lungs.

"Whoa. Cap, his BP is really low," Chim says, his voice sounding far away. Buck barely hears him over his own growing panic.

"I-" he gasps, eyes wide. He's not getting enough air. His mind flashes back to his date with Abby, what feels like a million years ago now. This is like that, but there's nothing stuck in his throat. Oh, god. "Can't – breathe--"

"Eddie, I need you to go in the rig and get the EpiPen," Chim says. "Hurry. Buck, this is looking a lot like an allergic reaction. We're gonna get some epinephrine into you to help open up those airways, okay? Buck?"

Buck's chest aches, his lungs desperate for oxygen, and he's so dizzy. His head feels heavy and he leans back, his head hitting the side of the rig with a soft thunk. He can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't--

There's a sudden sharp pain on the outside of his thigh. And then, just like that, he can breathe again. He gasps, pulling in a long breath, and then another.

"That's it," Bobby says. He's crouched on one knee next to Buck, though Buck doesn't remember him getting there. "That's it, kid. Breathe."

"Don't...don't need to tell me twice," Buck says between breaths, and Bobby smiles. Eddie, standing behind him, chuckles. "I don't understand, though. I'm not allergic to anything."

"Have you ever taken naproxen before?" It's Chim that asks. There's a guilty look on his face.

"Uh..." Buck thinks about it for a second, hand rubbing absently across his chest. "I don't think I have, no. My heart is beating really fast."

"That's the adrenaline," says Eddie. "Totally normal."

Chim is on his feet now, an anguished look on his face as clasps his hands behind his head, elbows pushed toward his ears. "Oh my god, I almost killed you."

Buck turns to him with a frown. "What?"

"The Aleve I gave you before shift." Chim groans. "Oh, god, your sister is going to kill me."

"I'm fine," Buck says. He decides not to mention the fact that he's still a little freaked out and that he kind of feels like he's going to puke. Chimney feels bad enough already. "Really."

"We'll let a doctor decide that," Hen says. "Cap, he's gonna need to be checked out at the hospital."

"Guys, really," Buck says.

"She's right, kid," Bobby says, a soft fondness in his voice. "An EpiPen isn't a substitute for medical care. You know that."

Buck sighs. "Fine."

"I'll drive," Chimney says, already headed toward the ambulance. Buck watches him walk away, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth.

"He's gonna be weird about this for ages," he says. Hen reaches down to squeeze his shoulder.

"Just give him a little time. You scared him, that's all."

"You scared all of us," Bobby says.

"Not for the first time," Eddie adds.

Buck looks up at all of them with a sheepish smile. "And probably not for the last."

xxx

[amtrak12]

HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY!

So there's this Season of Drabbles thing that I just discovered yesterday??? Basically a drabble exchange that's open to virtually any fandom/character as long it's already been nominated. I'm late to the summer party, but sign ups are still open through June 30! I tried to sign up last night but 3/4 of my fandoms/characters hadn't been nominated yet.

👀 Well, I fixed that now. My nominations for Warehouse 13 and Ghostbusters 2016 (and Law & Order SVU -- WHAT? I'LL DRABBLE ABOUT IT. FUCKING TEST ME!) along with some missing characters from nominated fandoms have all been approved! \0/

So maybe think about signing up too? 🥺👉👈 Because if you request/offer WH13 or GB16, we might get matched up. 💜

[endlessfuckup]

can someone from another country adopt me please

[scealaiscoite]

‧₊˚ 🗣️ ✩ three hundred assorted dialogue prompts

¹⁾ “it’s too early for this.”

²⁾ “say that again, but take all the words bigger than two syllables out for me.”

³⁾ “you never came to bed last night.”

⁴⁾ “ibuprofen and a red bull is not breakfast.”

⁵⁾ “where the fuck have you been?!”

⁶⁾ “i can’t believe you told him.”

⁷⁾ “look, all i’m trying to tell you i- oh god, no, please don’t cry.”

⁸⁾ “taxi- taxi!”

⁹⁾ “i broke it off last night.”

¹⁰⁾ “no way that’s true.”

¹¹⁾ “i’m not letting you sleep on the couch in your own house.”

¹²⁾ “red’s definitely your colour.”

¹³⁾ “i don’t even want to know how the glitter got there.”

¹⁴⁾ “second time the electric’s been cut off so far.”

¹⁵⁾ “come on, the water’s fine!”

¹⁶⁾ “i’m so mad at you for this, but i’m angrier at myself for knowing i’ll forgive you for it.”

¹⁷⁾ “nice tan lines.”

¹���⁾ “christ, i don’t know how you drink that shit.”

¹⁹⁾ “that was the best meal i’ve eaten in years.”

²⁰⁾ “i got fired yesterday.”

²¹⁾ “are those handcuffs?!”

²²⁾ “hell of defense to put on for someone you say you don’t care about anymore.”

²³⁾ “i love you, i swear it, but not enough to watch another western.”

²⁴⁾ “just hold the ladder, and i’ll do the rest.”

²⁵⁾ “is there any chilli powder left in the cupboard, or is it all on my plate?!”

²⁶⁾ “i know what exes are, and i know you two aren’t them.”

²⁷⁾ “please, please just leave me alone.”

²⁸⁾ “neither of us are leaving this room until you tell me how you got that shiner.”

²⁹⁾ “fucking liar.”

³⁰⁾ “scooch over, i’m about to fall off.”

³¹⁾ “i nicked your shirt on my way out- i hope you don’t mind.”

³²⁾ “the cold will kill us before they can if we don’t find shelter.”

³³⁾ “just- please, can’t you see she’s in pain?!”

³⁴⁾ “a pint of coors and a passionfruit martini, plea- no, i told you, i’m not calling it that!”

³⁶⁾ “only you could crochet in a time like this.”

³⁷⁾ “they know i hate boats!”

³⁸⁾ “your mother called.”

³⁹⁾ “i can smell vodka and bubblegum toothpaste on your breath, and i’m totally sure which concerns me more.”

⁴⁰⁾ “it’s midnight, please turn off the jazz.”

⁴¹⁾ “i didn’t read that book, but i slept behind [name] in bed every night for a week while they did.”

⁴²⁾ “please, we need a doctor!”

⁴³⁾ “you’ve done shitty things to me before but you’ve never been cruel.”

⁴⁴⁾ “normally i can get behind your stress baking because of how much i benefit from it, but come on. it’s two in the night; what is a red velvet cake going to fix that some sleep won’t?”

⁴⁵⁾ “i found an earring under the passenger seat.”

⁴⁶⁾ “please, if the choice is between ice cream for breakfast or whiskey, choose the fucking ice cream.”

⁴⁷⁾ “you’re still bleeding- stop and let me look at it.”

⁴⁸⁾ “we’ve been broken up for a year now. you’ve got no right to look at me like that.”

⁴⁹⁾ “mama will be home soon, promise.”

⁵⁰⁾ “in the name of the father- “

⁵¹⁾ “i’m going to lose them either way. better they hate me and live, than love me and die.”

⁵²⁾ “you have a son?!”

⁵³⁾ “boss wants to see you.”

⁵⁴⁾ “i figured we were close, i just didn’t think it was “call me at two in the morning from a police station” kind of close.”

⁵⁵⁾ “are we just going to ignore that massive rock on your finger?”

⁵⁶⁾ “you of all people don’t get to question my parenting skills.”

⁵⁷⁾ “is that a fucking chicken?!”

⁵⁸⁾ “fuck- you’re hurting me!”

⁵⁹⁾ “mind the puddles.”

⁶⁰⁾ “you’re sick. you’re not going into work, end of story.”

⁶¹⁾ “what on earth are you wearing?!”

⁶²⁾ “she’s too old for you.”

⁶³⁾ “you play mario kart like it’s your first day on earth.”

⁶⁴⁾ “you’re gonna break an ankle walking in those heels.”

⁶⁵⁾ “if it was important, you would’ve remembered i don’t answer fucking calls!”

⁶⁶⁾ “late night?”

⁶⁷⁾ “i’m terrified.”

⁶⁸⁾ “i’ll call you when i land, yeah?”

⁶⁹⁾ “try and get some sleep, pet.”

⁷⁰⁾ “where is that blood coming from?!”

⁷¹⁾ “it is sheeps or sheepses?” 

⁷²⁾ “so you can fold a paper crane from a candy wrapper, but you don’t know your times tables.”

⁷³⁾ “clerk said they only have one room left.”

⁷⁴⁾ “why did you get an apartment on the eighth fucking floor?”

⁷⁵⁾ “it’s snowing!”

⁷⁶⁾ “when the shooting starts, stay down and only look at me, okay?”

⁷⁷⁾ “how fucking dare you- i am married.”

⁷⁸⁾ “we should be safe here.”

⁷⁹⁾ “i’m at the store, what kind of monster did you want again? and don’t say ultra violet, i’m not bringing that filth into the house.”

⁸⁰⁾ “the cat misses you.”

⁸¹⁾ “i’ve been having nightmares again.”

⁸²⁾ “i can practically hear your stomach growling. come fill up a plate.”

⁸³⁾ “i’m proud of you, kid.”

⁸⁴⁾ “are you sure you’re not mad at me?”

⁸⁵⁾ “please don’t tell me you lost it.”

⁸⁶⁾ “wanna pick the movie?”

⁸⁷⁾ “bit late for boxing, no?”

⁸⁸⁾ “i don’t care if it’s harmless, kill it!!”

⁸⁹⁾ “if you so much as look in their direction again, it will be the last thing you ever do.”

⁹⁰⁾ “do you wanna go out sometime?”

⁹¹⁾ “is- is that [name]’s shirt?”

⁹²⁾ “c’mon, sit with me a minute.”

⁹³⁾ “good boy!”

⁹⁴⁾ “no, fuck- i can’t swim!”

⁹⁵⁾ “your friends are unbearable.”

⁹⁶⁾ “oh, kill me now.”

⁹⁷⁾ “can i bum a light?”

⁹⁸⁾ “just listen to me for once in your life!”

⁹⁹⁾ “someone call an ambulance!”

¹⁰⁰⁾ “i don’t think i’ve ever seen you in pink before.”

¹⁰¹⁾ “i told you i was done talking about it.”

¹⁰²⁾ “the lock’s broken- i think someone’s inside.”

¹⁰³⁾ “you kept it.”

¹⁰⁴⁾ “i have somewhere to be; make it quick.”

¹⁰⁵⁾ “you’re unbelievable.”

¹⁰⁶⁾ “they never meant anything to you, did they?”

¹⁰⁷⁾ “is the point of giving me such bad advice to force me into seeing an actual therapist?”

¹⁰⁸⁾ “your smile makes my day.” 

¹⁰⁹⁾ “how do you remember where all my jewellery goes?”

¹¹⁰⁾ “… but you’re definitely nothing more than coworkers. sure.”

¹¹¹⁾ “i’ve been waiting for this my whole life.”

¹¹²⁾ “can i help with your hair?”

¹¹³⁾ “i always forget how pretty the city looks at night.”

¹¹⁴⁾ “the dog, for all his failings, did not do that and i’m taking it personally on his part that you’re trying to claim he did.”

¹¹⁵⁾ “you have many strengths; all i’m saying is that parallel parking is not one of them.”

¹¹⁶⁾ “let me drive you home.”

¹¹⁷⁾ “thanks for bringing me in on this ritual of yours.”

¹¹⁸⁾ “what time do you have to be at court?”

¹¹⁹⁾ “do you, uh- do you maybe wanna get dinner, sometime? like, with me?”

¹²⁰⁾ “i’m- *achoo* a-allergic to one kind of- *achoo* of flowers in the whole world, and you- *cough* really m-manage to pick them out for me?”

¹²¹⁾ “table for three, please.”

¹²²⁾ “you’re getting so grey. i’m kind of liking it.”

¹²³⁾ “of course i noticed.”

¹²⁴⁾ “hey, quit forcing yourself to talk before you lose your voice altogether.”

¹²⁵⁾ “please, please wake up.”

¹²⁶⁾ “was anything you said true?”

¹²⁷⁾ “get in the fucking car!”

¹²⁸⁾ “where’d you get that?”

¹²⁹⁾ “you put me through so much, and still all i can think about is how i’d do it all again if you asked me to.”

¹³⁰⁾ “i’ll stay while you sleep. nothing’s gonna happen while i’m here, okay?”

¹³¹⁾ “you said you wanted to talk it out but all you’re doing is shouting at me!”

¹³²⁾ “we broke up a few days ago. i guess i was too embarrassed to tell you after you warned me about them.”

¹³³⁾ “family don’t pull this kind of shit on each other.”

¹³⁴⁾ “i phoned in sick. i’m yours for the day, if you’ll have me.”

¹³⁵⁾ “i’ll make the reservation, you just worry about turning up looking half as good as you do right now.”

¹³⁶⁾ “that’s still how you take your tea, isn’t it?”

¹³⁷⁾ “stop throwing those damn paper planes at me!”

¹³⁸⁾ “i’m so c-cold.”

¹³⁹⁾ “… i can hear meowing.”

¹⁴⁰⁾ “want some?”

¹⁴¹⁾ “fuck all of them, anyway.”

¹⁴²⁾ “i could look at your tattoos all day.”

¹⁴³⁾ “ever considered sending me flowers without a keycard for a hotel room tucked inside?”

¹⁴⁴⁾ “i made coffee.”

¹⁴⁵⁾ “c’mon, sit with me a minute.”

¹⁴⁶⁾ “fuck, they’re gonna flank us- get someone on the south wall, now!”

¹⁴⁷⁾ “christ, get up.”

¹⁴⁸⁾ “put some pants on.”

¹⁴⁹⁾ “it’s over!”

¹⁵⁰⁾ “not another broken bed frame.”

¹⁵¹⁾ “that thong really brings out your eyes.”

¹⁵²⁾ “you’ve already stolen from me; don’t twist the knife by lying about it, too.”

¹⁵³⁾ “... i thought you locked the back door.”

¹⁵⁴⁾ “they were saying awful things about you. every last one of them had it coming.”

¹⁵⁵⁾ “so you had a can of monster and a pack of sour patch kids for breakfast eight hours ago, and you really don’t understand why you have a headache?”

¹⁵⁶⁾ “i think someone’s in the house.”

¹⁵⁷⁾ “walk me home?”

¹⁵⁸⁾ “this song reminds me of you.”

¹⁵⁹⁾ “can you pick up some eggs on your way home?”

¹⁶⁰⁾ “i’ve got a flat tire.”

¹⁶¹⁾ “you broke his fucking nose!”

¹⁶²⁾ “do you remember the room number?”

¹⁶³⁾ “i can’t see anything.”

¹⁶⁴⁾ “lab results are back.”

¹⁶⁵⁾ “is it really so hard to pick up the damn phone when i call?”

¹⁶⁶⁾ “don’t you dare run.”

¹⁶⁷⁾ “bulleit, please. neat.”

¹⁶⁸⁾ “will you marry me?”

¹⁶⁹⁾ “how did you get tickets?!”

¹⁷⁰⁾ “your tie’s all crooked.”

¹⁷¹⁾ “license and insurance, please.”

¹⁷²⁾ “i’ll get a nurse in to do your sutures, and then we’ll send you on your way.”

¹⁷³⁾ “you’re a dead man.”

¹⁷⁴⁾ “you’re the worst thing to ever happen to me.”

¹⁷⁵⁾ “no, this is her secretary. i can take a message, if you’d like?”

¹⁷⁶⁾ “the money’s gone.”

¹⁷⁷⁾ “yeah, but it’ll cost you.”

¹⁷⁸⁾ “we need to find that phone.”

¹⁷⁹⁾ “can i crash here tonight?”

¹⁸⁰⁾ “i, um… i saw you. online.”

¹⁸¹⁾ “what do you mean husband?!”

¹⁸²⁾ “the fire’s growing- we need to keep moving.”

¹⁸³⁾ “your lipstick’s all over me!”

¹⁸⁴⁾ “four broken ribs… fuck.”

¹⁸⁵⁾ “what happened in shanghai?”

¹⁸⁶⁾ “you and these awful horror movies!”

¹⁸⁷⁾ “next door’s cat is back. do you remember where i put the kibble?”

¹⁸⁸⁾ “glitter and faux fur. classy.”

¹⁸⁹⁾ “since when were you blonde?!”

¹⁹⁰⁾ “do i even want to know?”

¹⁹¹⁾ “we were by a river. that’s all i remember.”

¹⁹²⁾ “please, let me call you a cab.”

¹⁹³⁾ “my hands are killing me, get these damn zipties off.”

¹⁹⁴⁾ “you don’t have to talk, if you don’t want to.”

¹⁹⁵⁾ “i read your last article. you’re not half bad at this shit.”

¹⁹⁶⁾ “is now a bad time to say i’m afraid of heights.”

¹⁹⁷⁾ “- quick, hide!”

¹⁹⁸⁾ “test came back negative.”

¹⁹⁹⁾ “say, ah.”

²⁰⁰⁾ “some friends they turned out to be.”

²⁰¹⁾  “you look oddly good in sequins.”

²⁰²⁾ “now there’s a headline: murder in mittens.”

²⁰³⁾ “we need to swab your hands for gunpowder residue.”

²⁰⁴⁾ “black, three sugars.” 

²⁰⁵⁾ “i need you to listen to me, okay? this cannot happen again. ever.”

²⁰⁶⁾ “we shouldn’t be here.”

²⁰⁷⁾ “if you’re going to be such a die-hard fan, could you please start picking better teams? for my sake?”

²⁰⁸⁾ “… did you make me a packed lunch?”

²⁰⁹⁾ “i got a little bit stabbed.”

²¹⁰⁾ “no, it’s too late; you’re not walking home alone.”

²¹¹⁾ “i don’t care if she’s ten, she cannot be led to believe that derek is an acceptable name for a cat!”

²¹²⁾ “they were just here.”

²¹³⁾ “oh captain, my captai- “

²¹⁴⁾ “come to my room in ten.”

²¹⁵⁾ “no part of this was in the training manual.”

²¹⁶⁾ “i think i’m gonna lie down for a bit.”

²¹⁷⁾ “i can’t come out tonight, i’ve got to re-pot my roses.”

²¹⁸⁾ “you kick like an ass in your sleep.” 

²¹⁹⁾ “i think we kissed.”

²²⁰⁾ “i never want to be a burden to you.”

²²¹⁾ “there’s someone in the trees.”

²²²⁾ “where’s that smoke coming from?”

²²³⁾ “my sheets smell like you.”

²²⁴⁾ “what did sarge say?”

²²⁵⁾ “the funeral’s at ten.”

²²⁶⁾ “she’s asystolic.” 

²²⁷⁾ “it’s too loud in here. i’m going to start biting people.”

²²⁸⁾ “give it back!”

²²⁹⁾ “don’t make me call the cops!”

²³⁰⁾ “we tried everything. i’m sorry.”

²³¹⁾ “another round?”

²³²⁾ “come on the carousel with me, and i’ll think about it.”

²³³⁾ “this is why we didn’t stay married.”

²³⁴⁾ “i like your hair.”

²³⁵⁾ “homicide are on the way.”

²³⁶⁾ “i just ran.”

²³⁷⁾ “want a drink?”

²³⁸⁾ “i’m scared of the things i feel for you.”

²³⁹⁾ “can you remember anything about last night?”

²⁴⁰⁾ “you left this at mine.”

²⁴¹⁾ “i made us a reservation.”

²⁴²⁾ “pass the goddamn ball!”

²⁴³⁾ “someone cut the brake lights.”

²⁴⁴⁾ “wanna come to vegas with me?”

²⁴⁵⁾ “… did you use my body wash?”

²⁴⁶⁾ “go shower, then we’ll talk.”

²⁴⁷⁾ “how dare you say something like that to me!”

²⁴��⁾ “there’s a letter for you.”

²⁴⁹⁾ “i need to see you. now.”

²⁵⁰⁾ “i’ll kick this fucking door open!”

²⁵¹⁾ “don’t look at me like that.”

²⁵²⁾ “i can’t do this anymore.”

²⁵³⁾ “got a light?”

²⁵⁴⁾ “i don’t care if we both get hypothermia, i’m not sharing a sleeping bag with you!”

²⁵⁵⁾ “do you hate me?”

²⁵⁶⁾ “please don’t leave.”

²⁵⁷⁾ “i’m sorry i missed dinner.”

²⁵⁸⁾ “i have a name, and it’s sure as hell not kid.”

²⁵⁹⁾ “you are a grown man, don’t pout.”

²⁶⁰⁾ “ah, look who’s awake.”

²⁶¹⁾ “if you’re after a ransom, i’m sorry to say you picked the wrong person.”

²⁶²⁾ “don’t you dare track all that sawdust in here! leave your boots at the door.”

²⁶³⁾ “if you’re not here to pay my tab, you can leave.”

²⁶⁴⁾ “you’re so warm.”

²⁶⁵⁾ “bit kinky for a monday morning, don’t you think?”

²⁶⁶⁾ “not again!”

²⁶⁷⁾ “i think i pulled something.”

²⁶⁸⁾ “kiss me.”

²⁶⁹⁾ “watcha reading?”

²⁷⁰⁾ “i ordered room service. possibly on your card.”

²⁷¹⁾ “this isn’t gonna work out.”

²⁷²⁾ “i saved you a seat.”

²⁷³⁾ “the dog got ahold of your scarf.”

²⁷⁴⁾ “i want to see my son.”

²⁷⁵⁾ “my friend’s an ass, i’m sorry.”

²⁷⁶⁾ “please, she could scare the balls off a brass monkey with a single look.”

²⁷⁷⁾ “you’re an almerciful pain the ass.”

²⁷⁸⁾ “give my compliments to the chef.”

²⁷⁹⁾ “wanna catch a movie at the weekend?”

²⁸⁰⁾ “you said i only had to stay for an hour- you got an hour and seven minutes! what more could you possibly want from me?!”

²⁸¹⁾ “i think i left my phone at the bar.”

²⁸²⁾ “... why is there a pool noodle in the hall?”

²⁸³⁾ “can you turn the lights off?”

²⁸⁴⁾ “was any of it real?”

²⁸⁵⁾ “do i want to know how you got that nickname.”

²⁸⁶⁾ “you’re like if an angel had a very severe ketamine problem.”

²⁸⁷⁾ “i think i fucked up my ankle last night.”

²⁸⁸⁾ “take the sunglasses off.”

²⁸⁹⁾ “i don’t know how i’m going to forgive you for this.”

²⁹⁰⁾ “i can’t believe i fell for this shit again.”

²⁹¹⁾ “morning, killer.”

²⁹²⁾ “who names a goldfish andrew?”

²⁹³⁾ “... i could’ve sworn you had too eyebrows last time we spoke.”

²⁹⁴⁾ “i’m scared shitless of dolls.”

²⁹⁵⁾ “how’d you get the shiner?”

²⁹⁶⁾ “here, let me help.”

²⁹⁷⁾ “look, my tomatoes are finally ripe!”

²⁹⁸⁾ “you can hold my hand, if it’d help.”

²⁹⁹⁾ “i brought you croissants. as like, um, an olive branch.”

³⁰⁰⁾ “do you trust me?”

[rafayelxsylusho]

The Holy Trinity

TW: Filthy Smut

In the name of the doctor, the crow and the unholy step bro. ❄️🐦‍⬛🍎

You pause, hand hovering over the doorknob as you take a deep breath.

Steeling yourself, you open the door to find Caleb standing there, a smirk playing on his lips. He looks different than you remember, harder somehow.

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to see you here"

🐦‍⬛❄️🍎🐦‍⬛❄️🍎🐦‍⬛❄️🍎🐦‍⬛❄️🍎🐦‍⬛

You recall the heated conversation with Zayne and Sylus not long ago. They had been livid when you told them about your encounter with Caleb in Skyhaven.

You saw Sylus move, you knew he was leaving, he was going to look for him, he was going to hurt him.

Zayne had spoken up, his voice ringing out with authority even as Sylus stormed towards the door in rage. "Stop. She doesn't want you to hurt him."

Sylus paused, glancing back at you with a scowl. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign of hesitation or doubt. When he found none, he let out huff. "He deserves it. He is like a brother to her, why would he do that? You were supposed to take care of her there, Zayne. Where the hell were you?"

Zayne's gaze softened as he looked at you, a hint of tenderness in his eyes despite the tension. "I was working" he explained, though his jaw clenched at the reminder of the tragic loss. "I didn't know he was alive. And we lost two kids..." He trailed off, pain flickering across his face before he pushed it down. Turning to you, he reached out to gently tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. "And he is not like a brother to her, Sylus. He is so much more than that... isn't he, darling?"

You blushed and Sylus' eyes narrowed as he looked between you and Zayne "What is that supposed to mean?" His eyes piercing through to your very soul. "What is he to you then?

Zayne beat you to the answer, his thumb still crooked under your chin. He gazed at you tenderly, a small smile playing on his lips. "They've been in love since they were teenagers," he revealed, his tone almost nostalgic.

Sylus scoffed, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms. "Teenagers? That was years ago. People change." Despite his dismissive words, there was a flicker of something unsettling in his eyes, jealousy, perhaps?

Zayne let go of your chin, his hand drifting down to rest on your shoulder as he turned to face Sylus. His expression was serious. "Caleb is not going to give up on her," he stated, "I've known him since we were children"

As if to challenge this, Sylus strode over to where you sat, his tall frame looming. He knelt down in front of you, bringing himself to eye level. His eyes searched yours as he asked, "Aren't we enough for you, Y/N ? Do you want us to step aside and let him have you?"

"She..."

Sylus held up a hand, silencing Zayne. He turned to you, his gaze unwavering. "No, let her answer," he said, leaving the decision squarely in your hands.

You felt the hot tears spill down your cheeks, your voice choking with emotion as you pleaded, "Please don't make me choose. I can't..." The thought of losing any of them was unbearable.

Zayne's eyes flashed at Sylus, his jaw clenching. "He doesn't share, he won't agree to this"

"Well, he has to," Sylus said "Because our greedy little kitten here doesn't just want the two of us..." His gaze raked over you "She wants him too."

He reached out, his fingers catching a tear on your cheek and bringing it to his lips. His tongue flicked out, tasting the salt of your sorrow. "Tell me, sweetie," he murmured. "How are we supposed to share you with a man like him?"

And so you talked about it.

🍎❄️🐦‍⬛🍎❄️🐦‍⬛🍎❄️🐦‍⬛🍎❄️🐦‍⬛🍎

"Did you see my forgiveness coupon?" he asked, his voice low, almost hopeful, but with an undercurrent of something more, a desperation he could hardly hide. "Because I think it's time I cash it in."

"You think so?"

"I know so" Your heart races as Caleb steps closer, the air between you thinning with each step. You see the hope in his eyes, the desperate longing. Just as his face begins to dip down, his intentions clear, you hear Zayne's stern warning behind you.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Caleb's head snaps up, his eyes locking with Zayne's over your shoulder. Zayne's stance is protective, his body language making it clear that he won't hesitate to intervene.

Caleb's smile didn't reach his eyes, a cold, calculating glint remaining as he regarded Zayne. "Long time no see, Zayne," he drawled. His gaze flicked back to you, lingering on your face, before he turned his attention fully to Zayne.

"What are you doing here?" Zayne asked, his voice tight.

"I'm here to talk to Y/N" Caleb said, "So if you don't mind, I'd like some time alone with her." His words were polite, but they sounded like a demand.

"No," Zayne said, his voice rising slightly, a clear refusal "I don't think that's a good idea." 

"Zayne..." You try to speak, but before you could utter another word, Caleb cut you off, his smirk growing wider and mocking.

"I think Y/N can decide on her own who she can or can't talk to," Caleb said. "It's not like she belongs to you," he added, throwing the jab at Zayne.

"She belongs to us"

Your eyes widened in shock as Sylus abruptly walked in through the open door.

In an almost aggressive move, Sylus stepped towards you, his fingers gripping your chin firmly. Before you could react or pull away, he crashed his lips against yours in a kiss. It was branding, a claiming, his way of staking his territory in front of Caleb.

When he finally released you, leaving your lips tingling and your mind reeling, Sylus stood tall and turned to face Caleb. He stepped forward until he was standing in front of him, his broad shoulders squared and his chin held high. With a smug, almost challenging smirk, Sylus looked at Caleb and asked, "Do you have a problem with that?"

"So this is what you were doing in the N109 zone?" Caleb asked, a mocking chuckle escaping his lips.

Sylus merely smirked wider, unfazed by Caleb's hostile demeanor. "Ah, so you must be the adoptive brother then. Caleb, wasn't it?" He spoke as if he already knew the answer. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you in person." His voice dripped with false sincerity. Despite the pleasantries, the air remained thick with tension as both men stared each other down.

Caleb's expression shifted, a mix of disgust and anger flashing across his face as the true nature of the situation sank in. His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "So I see," he said, his voice was tight and laced with contempt. "You've been pretty busy, haven't you, Pipsqueak?" he sneered at you, before turning his glare back to Sylus. "I never took you for the sharing type Y/N. You always kept your little secrets close to your chest, especially when it came to..." He paused, letting out a harsh laugh. "Well, everything. I'm surprised you'd let this..." He jerked his head towards Sylus and Zayne. "...be a part of your life, let alone your bed."

Zayne stepped forward "Watch your mouth," he growled at Caleb, his protective instincts flaring. " Don't you dare speak to her that way."

You squeezed your way between Sylus and Caleb, your voice rising. "What? You want to call me a slut?" you demanded, your eyes flashing with anger and hurt. "Go right ahead, at least I wasn't a coward for years!"

Caleb recoiled as if you'd slapped him, your words striking a nerve. His eyes flashed with a mix of anger, hurt and guilt. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, your accusation leaving him momentarily speechless.

Into the tense silence, Sylus chuckled darkly, a hand coming to rest possessively on your hip as he pulled you back against his chest. "Well," Sylus murmured "Looks like my little kitten has claws after all. I do so love a feisty one."

Zayne remained tense, his eyes locked on Caleb. He seemed to be holding back.

Caleb's jaw worked as he struggled to find a retort, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Finally, he spoke. "You're right," he said, "I was a coward. I should have acted on my feelings long ago. But I'm here now." His gaze bored into you, intense and searching.

"Are you willing to share Colonel?"

Caleb's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at Sylus's words "Share? I don't share what's mine," he growled, "Y/n is not some toy to be passed around." His eyes flicked to you longing in their depths before he turned back to Sylus.

Sylus tightened his grip on your hip, "Everyone's entitled to their opinion, but I have a feeling our little kitten here knows exactly what she wants," he purred, "Don't you, Y/N?"

You closed the remaining space between you and Caleb, your voice steady and clear. "I do" you said, your gaze locked with Caleb's. Then, with a newfound confidence, you continued. "Sharing doesn't mean you have to pass me around or take turns, Caleb. If you want me, cash that coupon and show me you truly mean it, once and for all." Your words were a challenge, daring him to finally make a move and stop holding back.

Caleb leaned in, his lips brushed against yours in a whisper, his breath hot "I'm sorry," he breathed, the words a desperate plea before he pulled back and turned towards the door.

He paused for a moment, his hand gripping the doorknob tightly as if weighing his options. Then, with fierce determination, he muttered under his breath, "Fuck it."

Caleb slammed the door shut and strode back towards you. Before you could react, he had you in his arms, his lips crashing against yours in a messy kiss. It was a collision of teeth, tongue and pent up longing, a kiss filled with all the years of desire he had held back.

This was a moment you fantasized about for years as a teenager, and now it was finally happening.

As you wrapped your legs around Caleb's waist, lost in the heat of the moment, you heard Zayne's voice cut through the haze. "Take her to the bedroom, Caleb"

Caleb didn't hesitate, his hands gripping your thighs, never breaking the kiss. He carried you towards the bedroom, his heart pounding in his chest as he finally gave in to the desire that had consumed him for so long.

He kicked open the bedroom door and laid you down gently on your bed, his body hovering over yours, his eyes shining with a hunger that took your breath away.

"Tell me this is what you want," he whispered "Tell me you want me as much as I want you." In the doorway, you could see Zayne watching, his expression unreadable, but his eyes never leaving you. 

Caleb's eyes darkened with desire as you whispered those four words, "I want you, Caleb." A growl rumbled in his throat as he watched you start to remove your shirt, revealing the skin beneath.

Sylus and Zayne stood side by side in the doorway, their eyes fixed on you. Sylus's expression remained smug, a satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, relishing the sight of Caleb giving in to his base instincts.

Zayne, on the other hand, looked to be a mix of emotions, the stoic doctor's composure was slipping, revealing a man consumed by jealousy and an urge to assert his own claim. His jaw clenched and unclenched as he watched Caleb worship your exposed skin with reverent touches.

Caleb's fingers splayed across your stomach as he leaned down to capture your lips in another kiss, his tongue claimed your mouth.

"Fuck," Caleb rasped against your lips "I've wanted this for so long. I've wanted you for so long." His hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing it as he ground his hardening cock against your core.

Then he paused, his hands gripping the waistband of your pants as he slowly dragged them down your legs. He tugged the fabric past your knees and ankles and tossed it aside, leaving you in only your bra and a pair of delicate panties.

He took a moment to drink in the sight of you, his gaze roaming over your curves, a look of desire etched onto his face.

"Beautiful," Sylus murmured, his deep, smooth voice cutting through the charged silence. "Isn't she?"

Caleb's chest heaved with a shuddering breath as he tore his eyes away from your nearly naked body to look at Sylus, a flicker of defiance perhaps, or just plain annoyance, flashing in his eyes. But before he could say something, Zayne spoke up.

"Touch her, Caleb," he ordered, "Make her feel good."

Caleb's attention snapped back to you, his hands already moving to the clasp of your bra. He unhooked it, the scrap of lace falling away to reveal the soft, rounded swells of your breasts. He took a moment to admire them, before leaning down to press open mouthed kisses along the delicate line of your collarbone and the swell of your breasts.

"These tits are what wet dreams are made of" he whispered against your skin.

Without hesitation, he spread your legs apart, hooking his fingers into the fabric of your panties tugging them to the side. The material strained against your hip, baring your most intimate place to his eyes.

"Fuck, look at you," he rasped, "So fucking wet and ready for me." He couldn't resist, his fingers delving between your folds to spread your lips apart. The sight of your aroused flesh, so inviting and eager, made his hard cock throb painfully against his pants.

Unable to hold back any longer, he pushed two long fingers deep inside you and sucked the sensitive peak of your nipple as he felt your walls flutter and clench around his fingers, your body welcoming him in.

"Oh god, Caleb!" you cried out, your back arching off the bed, the soles of your feet pressing against the sheets as you instinctively spread yourself further for him, giving him complete access to your cunt.

Sylus watched Caleb finally take what he had long craved. "Such a needy little thing, isn't she? I bet she's going to look even better stretched around your cock."

Your eyes fluttered shut, lost in the sensations of Caleb's fingers pumping in and out of your dripping sex, his mouth lavishing attention on your sensitive nipples. The pleasure was overwhelming, your body writhing beneath his touch.

Suddenly you heard Zayne's voice, startling you with his proximity to the bed. Your eyes flew open to see him standing close, his gaze intense and focused where Caleb's hand disappeared between your thighs.

"Curl them," he instructed, his voice a husky rumble. It took a moment for the words to register through the fog of arousal clouding Caleb's mind.

"Huh?" Caleb glanced back at Zayne, his brows furrowing in confusion. His fingers stilled inside you for a moment, but didn't withdraw.

"Curl your fingers inside of her, Caleb. She likes that."

Caleb's gaze flicked back to your face, taking in your flushed cheeks and swollen lips, before he turned his attention back to your body. Following Zayne's advice, he curled his fingers inside you, pressing against a sensitive spot deep within your core.

"Ohhh!" you cried out, your voice pitching higher as a jolt of intense pleasure ripped through you. Your back arched even further, your hips bucking against Caleb's hand as he began to stroke that perfect spot.

"That's it," Sylus murmured. "Make her scream for it."

"Fuck, I can feel you clenching around my fingers like they're your last lifeline," Caleb growled, his thumb rubbing circles over your clit. "You like that, don't you? You like having my fingers buried deep inside you?"

Caleb's gaze never left yours as he listened to your breathy cries, watching your face contort with pleasure. "How badly do you want to cum, princess?" he asked, his tone almost teasing. His fingers slowed their pace, sliding out until just the tips remained inside you.

"S-so badly, Caleb please!" you nearly sobbed, your hips bucking frantically, trying to force his fingers back inside you.

Caleb looked deep into your eyes, his intent clear, then he buried his fingers back inside you, pushing in so deeply that his knuckles pressed firmly against your sensitive skin. At the same time, he lowered his head and captured your nipple between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to toe the line between pleasure and pain.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he gritted out, his fingers pumping faster, "I can't wait to feel your perfect little pussy squeezing my cock."

He could feel your body tensing, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as he drove you closer and closer to the edge.

"So fucking pretty," his voice was rough with desire as he drank in the sight of you coming undone. "Struggling to take even my fingers like this. But you're going to cum for me, aren't you Pip?"

Unable to form a coherent response, you could only nod frantically, tears of pleasure already welling up in your eyes. His thumb kept circling your clit with teasing strokes.

"Show me," he demanded, "Show me how much you love this. How much you need it." His fingers curled inside you, pressing ruthlessly against that perfect spot.

Your climax hit you with the force of a tidal wave, back arching clean off the bed as a silent scream tore from your throat. Tears spilled down, your vision blurring as pure, white hot ecstasy consumed you. Your cunt clenched like a vice around his fingers, walls rippling and spasming as a gush of liquid heat flooded out of you.

Caleb groaned as he felt your release gush out around his fingers. He didn't let up, continuing to stroke and caress your flesh, drawing out your orgasm for as long as possible.

You slowly blinked away the haze of your orgasm, your chest still heaving with ragged breaths. As your vision cleared, you found Caleb's eyes on you, his gaze heavy with a hunger that made your spent body ache for more.

You watched, almost in a trance, as he slowly pulled out his fingers from your core. They were coated in your release, he made sure to keep his eyes locked with yours as he brought them to his mouth, his tongue darting out to lap at the slickness clinging to his skin.

"Mmmm, you do taste as sweet as you look" He made a show of sucking your juices from his fingers, his lips wrapping around each one, his tongue swirling and lapping until they were clean.

"Look at you, dripping all over the sheets," Sylus said "You're absolutely fucking soaked, aren't you?"

His gaze cut to Zayne, "But none of it is for us, is it Zayne? That sweet little cunt is clenching and fluttering for someone else's touch." 

Zayne's eyes flashed with dangerous intensity as he walked closer to the bed. He could see the way your chest heaved with each breath, the flush of your skin, and the damp patch darkening the sheets beneath you.

Stopping at the edge of the bed, Zayne looked down at you, his expression unreadable "You are so beautiful sweetheart, you don't deserve everything we are going to do to you," he stated "But you will be a good girl and take it, right?

You nod as you reach for Caleb, his muscles tensing as he feels your fingers start to tug at the hem of his shirt, his abdomen tightening reflexively. His gaze turned intense as you leaned in close, your lips a mere hairsbreadth from his. He could feel your warm breath ghosting over his skin, smell the sweet scent of your arousal, and it made his heart pound in his chest.

"I...I don't know if I can," he admitted. Sharing had never been his strong suit, and the thought of another man's hands on you, bringing you pleasure, filled him with jealousy. "But fuck, the way you're looking at me right now..." His eyes darkened, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I think I'm willing to try, for you." His hands covered yours, helping you pull his shirt off and toss it carelessly to the floor.

Your fingers moved to the waistband of his pants, tugging them down over the bulge straining against the fabric, he lifted his hips slightly to help you.

"Impatient little kitten, getting straight to the point"

You turn to look at Sylus and say "You too Sy, take it all off"

"As you wish," he grins, shrugging the shirt off and letting it drop to the floor.

He looks at Zayne, a challenging glint in his eyes. "There, I've done as she asked. Now, are you going to strip for us too, Doctor? Or do you need a little more...encouragement?" 

With a calm, almost clinical efficiency, Zayne began to remove his own clothing, his fingers working at the buttons of his shirt before shrugging it off.

Sylus made a show of shimmying out of his pants and underwear, his movements graceful and sensual. The dark fabric pooled on the floor, leaving him bare, his cock already hard and heavy.

You turned your attention to Caleb, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his underwear. With a tug, you dragged them down his thighs, your eyes widening as his impressive length sprang free. It was magnificent, thick and long, just like Sylus's and Zayne's, the swollen head already glistening with arousal. A bead of moisture clung to the tip, and you found yourself licking your lips as you imagined the taste of him on your tongue.

Caleb's lips curved into a smirk as he watched your reaction "See something you like?" his cock throbbed under your gaze. He reached out, his fingertips tracing along your jawline, tilting your chin up to make you meet his eyes. "What are you going to do with it?"

His eyes widened in surprise as you suddenly straddled his lap and said "Sit on it"

Feeling the heat of your pussy pressed against his cock, a deep flush crept up his neck, coloring his cheeks "For fuck's sake" he muttered, his voice strained with a mix of embarrassment and arousal.

Sylus threw his head back with a dark, delighted laugh. "That's a dangerous offer you're making. Our poor Colonel looks like he might just fucking explode."

Familiar hands come up behind you grabbing your ass and running up your back. Brushing your hair to the side, exposing your neck before a tongue drags up the length of it. Zayne.

You could feel his breath fanning over your ear as he leaned in close. "What are you waiting for?" Zayne asked "Sit on his cock. Show us how badly you need it."

Caleb's breath hitched as Zayne lifted you effortlessly by your ass, aligning your dripping entrance with the throbbing length of Caleb's cock. Your small hand reached down, gripping his shaft, and with a long moan you slowly sank down, taking every inch until he was buried to the hilt inside you.

"Fuuuck!" Caleb's eyes squeezed shut at the exquisite sensation of your gummy walls gripping him. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your hips, kneading and squeezing as he fought the urge to start pounding up into you.

Unable to hold back, Caleb leaned in, catching your bottom lip between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp. He soothed the sting with his tongue before pulling back, pupils blown wide with lust.

"I knew it," he growled, his voice rough and ragged. "I fucking knew it would feel like this, like coming home." He rolled his hips, grinding against you, and you could feel every hard, thick inch of him throbbing deep inside your cunt. "Fuck, I'm done. Ruined. I need this every single day. Need to feel this sweet little cunt squeezing my cock. Need to make you mine."

"You feel so goooood inside of me"

"That's because I belong there Pip"

"Belonging already? Don't be greedy, Colonel," Sylus said "You haven't even seen her ride it yet."

Caleb watched you catch your plump bottom lip between your teeth. "Now ride me, pretty girl. Take what you need."

With that you began to move, rising up until just the tip of his cock remained inside you, before sinking back down, taking him to the hilt once more. His fingers dug deeper into the flesh of your hips, guiding your movements as he urged you to ride him harder, faster.

"Fuck, just like that," he grunted, his hips rolling up to meet yours, driving himself deeper into your core. "Your little cunt feels too fucking good squeezing my cock."

Behind you, Zayne watched with a tense jaw and a storm brewing in his eyes, as you struggled to take all of Caleb's length, a frustrated whimper escaping your lips "Too big..." Zayne's hand slid up your back, his fingers splaying across your shoulder blades possessively.

"Not a chance, this pussy was made to swallow our cocks. You'll take every inch." He used his other hand to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing across your bottom lip. "Just breathe through it. You can take it."

Then he used both hands to grip your ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he spread your ass cheeks, allowing you to take Caleb's thick length more easily.

As you pushed against Caleb's chest, he fell back onto the bed, his eyes flashing with confusion as Zayne climbed up behind you.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Caleb growled, his voice tight with a possessive anger as he watched Zayne settle in behind you.

A smirk curved Zayne's lips as he met Caleb's glare over your shoulder. "I'm teaching you how to share."

Zayne's fingers brushed over your entrance from behind, still stretched wide around Caleb. You could feel the heat of his breath on your skin as he leaned in close, his chin resting against your shoulder.

"Unless you want to make this a real competition," Zayne murmured as he watched Caleb's face for his reaction. 

His fingers dipped a bit lower, gathering the arousal there to slowly spread it on your back entrance. "I thought I could help Y/N take your cock a little better. She's just so fucking tight, it's almost painful to watch."

Sylus leaned against the wall, a grin spreading across his face as he watched the scene unfold. " And it's about to get even tighter. So don't go blowing your load too soon"

Caleb's eyes widened at Sylus words, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What the fuck does that mean?" he questioned, glancing between Zayne's smirking face and your own flushed expression. The head of his cock throbbed inside your stretched pussy.

Behind you, Zayne's hand gripped your ass tighter as he notched the head of his cock against your smallest hole. You felt the sticky heat of his saliva as he spread it around, prepping you for what was to come.

"Don't think about it too hard," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear "Just breathe for me, darling. You know what to do."

You took a deep, steadying breath, just as you had done before when he and Sylus had taken you together like this. Your body remembered the delicious stretch, the exquisite pleasure of being filled so completely.

As Zayne started to sink into your ass, a strangled moan escaped your lips. Your hands clenched into fists, nails digging into the palm of your hands as you struggled to relax, to let Zayne's thick length slide deeper.

Caleb's eyes squeezed shut once again, a loud moan tearing from his throat as he felt your walls clench even tighter around him, squeezed almost painfully by Zayne's cock. The sensation was overwhelming, more intense than anything he had ever experienced. His heart raced, pounding against his chest like a drum, as he struggled to hold back the orgasm that threatened to crash over him.

"Fuuuck," he gasped, his voice breaking on the word. "I can't...I can't fucking believe..." He trailed off, unable to form a whole sentence as pleasure consumed him. Tears of overwhelming sensation pricked at the corners of his eyes. He had never felt anything so intensely pleasurable, so all consuming. The feeling of Zayne's cock sliding against his own through the thin wall of your body was too much.

"Breathe, kitten," Sylus reminded you "Look at you, taking them so well."

Zayne's hands gripped your ass harder as he bottomed out, his pelvis flush against the globes of your ass. You could feel Caleb's cock throb and jerk inside your pussy in response, trapped between your clenching walls and Zayne's length.

Caleb's eyes widened in shock as you collapsed against his chest, his hands coming up to grip your waist as he felt your arms give out.

Beside you, Sylus had claimed a spot on the bed, stroking his own impressive length with slow, teasing pumps of his fist. His eyes gleamed with dark satisfaction as he watched you struggle to take Zayne's and Caleb's cock.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, my poor feisty kitten... you need to pull yourself up and suck my cock." Sylus ordered" You wanted this, didn't you? So now take it."

At his words, you felt a surge of determination, a need to please all of them. With trembling arms, you pushed yourself up on Caleb's chest, turning your head to face Sylus's throbbing erection.

Caleb watched in awe and a hint of jealousy as one of your small hands wrapped around Sylus's thick shaft, guiding it to your parted lips. His cock throbbed against your palm, leaking precum that you smeared across your bottom lip before leaning in to run your tongue along the swollen head.

Behind you, Zayne's hips snapped forward, driving his cock into your ass as he chased his own climax. One hand tangled in your hair, gripping it tightly as he held you in place, while the other slid around to your front to rub tight circles around your clit.

Caleb's eyes rolled back, his head falling against the pillow as you began to ride him in earnest, your hips rolling and grinding against his own. His fingers dug into the flesh of your waist, undoubtedly leaving bruises in their wake as he gripped you with desperate, bruising force.

Zayne's fingers worked your sensitive clit with skillful strokes, he rubbed mercilessly at that special spot, the one that made your toes curl.

Your moan vibrated around Sylus's thick cock as you took him deeper, sucking hard on the swollen head before relaxing your throat and letting him slide further into your mouth, your cheeks hollowed as you sucked.

When you felt Caleb's mouth close around one of your hard nipples you stopped, frozen in place as pleasure overwhelmed your senses, your moans muffled around the thick cock stretching your lips.

"Did I say you could stop sucking?" Sylus growled. "Close that pretty little mouth around my cock and suck again. Now"

Zayne swore under his breath, his hips never faltering in rhythm. "Fuck, Sylus," he bit out.

"Goddamn it," Caleb rasped, his teeth clenched. "She tightens up when you talk to her like that. I'm not going to last much longer at this rate. She's too fucking tight."

Despite their warnings, Sylus' hips snapped forward to drive his thick length deeper down your throat. "Then make her take it," he challenged, grin curving his lips. "Fuck her through it. I want to feel her scream around my cock as she cums on both of your dicks."

At Sylus's barked command, Caleb surged up into you with a strangled groan, his cock driving to the hilt inside your spasming cunt. The sudden, forceful thrust pushed you forward, and you couldn't help but let out a muffled scream around Sylus's cock.

Zayne gave a sharp, stinging slap to your ass "Move, sweetheart" His fingers dug into the reddening flesh, the force of his thrusts rocking your entire body.

Tears streamed down your face as you looked up at Sylus, your eyes wide and glistening with overwhelming sensation. A choked sob mixed with the obscene slurping sounds of your mouth working over his cock as you struggled to take him deeper, your throat constricting around his throbbing shaft.

Sylus's eyes flashed with cruel amusement at the sight of your tears, his smirk widening into a dark, almost feral grin. "Aww, crying are we?" he taunted, "How fucking pathetic...I don't care. Take it.

With that, he began to fuck your face with brutal intensity. His heavy balls slapped against your chin with each thrust, your nose filled with the musky scent of his arousal. Despite the brutal pace, he showed no signs of slowing down, determined to use your mouth for his own pleasure.

Caleb and Zayne matched each other thrust for thrust, their hips slapping against your ass as they chased their rapidly approaching releases.

Your body shook, back arching as your walls clamped down around the two cocks. Your scream ecstasy was muffled and distorted around Sylus's lenght as your orgasm ripped through you.

Almost in perfect sync, as if they had planned it, Caleb surged up into your spasming cunt one last time before throwing his head back with a loud moan. His cock throbbed and pulsed as he finally found his release, hot ropes of his cum painting your walls with thick streaks.

Zayne followed close behind, his fingers digging into the bruised flesh of your ass. With a sharp, harsh grunt, he slammed into you one final time, his cock driving as deep as physically possible. He let out a string of curses under his breath, his body going rigid as his own orgasm crashed over him. You could feel the heat of his release, the way his cock jerked and throbbed as he pumped your ass full of his own thick cum.

More tears streamed down your face as you struggled to breathe, to think, to do anything but surrender to the overwhelming sensation. Sylus, not to be left out, gripped your hair almost painfully tight and drove your head down, forcing your nose to press against his pelvis as he hit the back of your throat. Your moans around his cock vibrated deliciously, the sensation pushing him over the edge. With a harsh moan, he erupted, his thick essence flooding your mouth and throat in what seemed like endless spurts.

The feeling of being completely claimed by three men, was almost too much to bear. But bear it you did, taking everything they gave you and more, your body shaking and trembling with the force of your shared releases.

For a moment, the three men remained still, their grips on your limp, trembling body tightening as they rode out the aftershocks of their orgasms. Finally, with a shuddery breath, Sylus pulled out of your mouth abruptly, thick ropes of saliva and cum connecting your bruised lips to his cock.

"Don't swallow" you heard Sylus say with labored breaths "Show me"

At his command, you parted your lips, allowing the thick strands of saliva and cum connecting your mouth to his cock to break. You stuck out your tongue, letting the mixture of fluids drip down your chin and onto your heaving breasts.

"Good girl," Zayne praised, his fingers released their grip on your ass, only to trail up to your breasts, smearing Sylus' release across your skin.

"You look so beautiful like this, sweetie"

Caleb's voice cut through, his tone leaving no room for disobedience. "Swallow"

With a shaky breath, you did as you were told, tilting your head back to open your throat. Sylus's release was thick and bitter on your tongue, coating your mouth with its musky essence. You had to swallow multiple times to get it all down, your throat working around the heavy load.

As you swallowed the last of Sylus's release, you felt Caleb's and Zayne's cum begin to seep out from where they were still buried inside you, dripping down your thighs.

Sylus's fingers trailed down to your chin, tilting your face up to look at him as he loomed over you with a satisfied smirk. "There now, wasn't that everything you hoped it would be and more?"

[p1psqueaks]

LOVE AND DEEPSPACE — MISSION GONE WRONG

ZAYNE

You stumble through the sterile white corridors of the hospital, the world around you spinning, and the sharp sting of pain gnawing at your every step. The mission had gone wrong in ways you didn’t even want to think about, but there was no avoiding it now. Blood stains your uniform, and exhaustion weighs heavily on your body as you drag yourself toward the medical wing. Every breath feels shallow, and your chest burns, the aftereffects of near-death lingering like a bad memory.

As you turn the corner, you catch sight of him. Zayne. He's standing by the nurses' station, his back straight and his usual professional composure in place, but his eyes immediately snap to you the moment you appear. The flicker of worry in them is unmistakable.

"What happened?" he asks his voice dropping an octave. His calm, steady demeanor never falters, but you can see the tension in his jaw. “Are you hurt?”

You try to give him a reassuring smile, but it’s weak and fails miserably. “Mission went south. Nothing I can’t handle.”

His eyes scan you from head to toe, quickly noticing the bloodied bandages peeking from under your torn jacket. His brow furrows in response. “You’re not handling this. Come on, we need to get you to a bed, now.”

You swallow, wanting to protest, but you don’t have the energy. Zayne’s hands are gentle but firm as he guides you toward the nearest treatment room, keeping you steady on your feet, as if the sheer presence of him is enough to keep you from collapsing.

He glances at one of the nurses, Yvonne, over his shoulder. "Have Dr. Greyson look over my post-ops for now."

Once inside, Zayne immediately takes charge, his usual calm and methodical self taking over. “Sit down,” he orders, voice soft but commanding. You sink into the bed, too exhausted to argue.

He begins assessing your injuries with a practiced eye, checking your pulse and temperature before gently peeling away the tattered remnants of your uniform. His hands are gentle but quick, his movements sharp, yet there’s an undercurrent of something more—something deeply protective. The quiet intensity of his gaze speaks volumes, and you realize, for the first time, just how much this affects him, seeing you like this.

"What happened out there?" he asks as he begins cleaning a deep gash on your arm. His touch is careful, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the unspoken fear of seeing you so badly hurt.

You take a shaky breath, the memories of the mission flooding back in waves. "They ambushed us... a trap. We weren’t ready. We should have known. I should have known. I couldn't save everyone."

Zayne’s face softens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, his voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it. "You did what you could. You always do. It’s not your fault, my love."

But the guilt presses on you, suffocating in a way you can’t ignore. "We lost good people, Zayne. People who trusted me. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t—"

"You’re here," he interrupts softly, his voice dropping to a more intimate register. "You made it back. And that matters more than anything."

You look up at him, your heart twisting at the quiet sincerity in his eyes. It’s so rare for him to drop the doctor’s facade, to let down the walls that keep him so emotionally distant from the world. But with you, there’s no hiding it. There’s no barrier between the hunter and the man who cares about you.

"You don’t deserve this," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I didn’t want to drag you into this... into my mess."

Zayne pauses, taking a breath before continuing his work, his hands never stopping as he applies a fresh bandage. "You didn’t drag me anywhere, my love," he says, his voice so soft, so sure. "You’re my partner. I’m here because I choose to be. I’m not going anywhere. You’ve got me, and I’ve got you."

His words settle in the room like a blanket, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself soften. You feel the weight of your guilt slip just a little, the sharp edge of fear dulled by his steady presence.

"I don’t know what I’d do without you," you admit, your voice hoarse. "You keep me from falling apart."

Zayne meets your eyes, his expression tender but firm. "I’m not going anywhere. Not now, not ever. We do this together, no matter what."

You let his words sink in, closing your eyes briefly, just allowing yourself to feel his presence, to feel the safety of being here with him. The hospital room, with its harsh lights and sterile smell, suddenly feels a little warmer, a little more like home.

Zayne finishes bandaging your arm and moves to your side, carefully sitting next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. His hand finds yours, his fingers lacing with yours with such ease, like it’s second nature. You squeeze his hand, the simple gesture grounding you in a way nothing else can.

"I love you, you know," you whisper, the words coming out before you can even stop them. You’ve said them before, but here, now, they feel even more significant—vulnerable, raw.

Zayne’s lips curve up into that small, rare smile you love so much, his eyes softening as he leans in close. “I love you too. Always.”

For a moment, everything fades—the mission, the pain, the guilt—until all that’s left is the quiet rhythm of your breathing and the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your side.

You lean your head on his shoulder, feeling the overwhelming weight of everything start to ease. There’s still work to be done, still losses to grieve, but for now, you know you’re not alone.

And with Zayne by your side, you know you’ll heal.

XAVIER

The metallic hiss of the docking bay doors echoed in the vast emptiness of the ship. You had just returned from a mission that should have been a simple recon, a sweep through an abandoned space station. But as the airlock cycled open and the faint glow of the docking bay lights illuminated the vessel, a heavy silence fell over the crew.

You stumbled through the door first, your body battered, clothes torn, and your movements sluggish. You had barely made it back at all, much less in one piece. Your face was smeared with dirt and blood, and your usually sharp eyes were clouded with exhaustion.

Xavier was the first to spot you.

His usual calm, collected demeanor faltered for a split second as he rushed forward, his boots making swift, purposeful strides across the floor. His face tightened with worry, eyes scanning your battered form. He had heard the distress call, had heard the urgency in your voice, but seeing you like this—bleeding, broken—hit him harder than he anticipated.

"Hey," he breathed, his voice tight with concern.

You looked up at the sound of your name, eyes blinking as if you had just woken up from a deep sleep. "Xavier..." you muttered, your voice barely above a whisper. The exhaustion in your tone was unmistakable, but there was something else there too—something darker. Something haunted.

Xavier took a step closer, reaching out instinctively to steady you, but you pulled away slightly, as though the contact hurt more than it helped.

"Easy," Xavier murmured, his voice gentle but firm. He hated seeing you like this. He hated the thought of you suffering alone out there in the cold, vast expanse of space. "What happened? We heard the distress call."

You swallowed, trying to push down the nausea that rose in your chest. The mission had gone wrong so fast—an ambush, a trap, enemies from a faction you thought you'd left behind. But none of that seemed to matter now. The only thing that mattered was getting through this, surviving long enough to see the others. To see Xavier.

"I was... outnumbered," you said slowly, words falling heavily. "They weren't supposed to be there. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Xavier. I couldn't..."

"You don’t have to explain," Xavier interrupted, his hand gently gripping your arm, this time making sure you didn’t pull away. "You’re here now. That’s all that matters. You’re safe."

But you could see it in his eyes—he didn’t believe it. Not fully.

You let out a shaky breath, a faint laugh that felt hollow in your chest. "Safe? After what happened out there?"

Xavier said nothing, but his grip tightened, his gaze never leaving yours. The silence between the two of you grew thick, like a storm cloud hanging in the air, heavy with the unspoken words that neither of them seemed ready to say.

Your voice was low but insistent as you looked up at him. "I should’ve... I should’ve called for backup sooner. We could’ve avoided this. I should’ve been better, faster, more prepared..."

"No," Xavier said, his voice low but resolute. "You did what you had to do. And you made it back. That’s what matters now." He leaned in, his forehead touching yours, eyes filled with an intensity that spoke of more than just concern. "Stop blaming yourself. You did everything you could."

The warmth of his breath on your skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath the thin fabric of his uniform, grounded them. You closed your eyes for a moment, fighting the overwhelming flood of emotions that threatened to rise up.

"I’m sorry," you whispered.

Xavier's hand, which had been hovering near your shoulder, finally settled there, steady and unshaking. "You don’t have to apologize to me,. Not for this. I’m just glad you're here."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The world outside the ship continued on, the hum of the engine a distant, comforting sound. But in that small space between you, the silence held more than just words—it held everything they couldn’t say aloud.

"I thought I lost you," Xavier finally admitted, his voice raw, his usual composure cracking. His hand gently cupped their cheek, his thumb brushing over the cut there, as if he could somehow erase the pain just by touching them. "For a while, I didn’t think you were going to make it."

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. You had always known Xavier as a strong and capable hunter, someone who could face anything with a cool head and unwavering confidence. But now, as he stood before you, his own walls seemed to crumble, if only slightly.

"I’m here," you murmured, their voice hoarse. "I’m still here."

The corners of Xavier's mouth twitched in a faint, weary smile. "I’m glad."

You both stood there for a while, silent but connected in a way that no words could express. The past was still there, heavy on both of you, but in this moment, all that mattered was the present. Xavier had always been a steady presence in your life—strong, supportive, always there when you needed him most. And now, after everything you had been through, you could finally allow yourself to lean into that strength.

"You should get some rest," Xavier said after a while, his tone softening with a concern that was unmistakable.

You shook their head slowly. "I can’t. Not yet."

Xavier raised an eyebrow. "You can’t stay awake forever. Let the others take over for now. You need time to heal."

The words were gentle, but they carried an undeniable weight. For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to relax, to let go of the tension that had been holding you together in the aftermath of the mission. You felt the weight of Xavier's gaze, steady and unwavering, and knew that, no matter what came next, you wouldn’t face it alone.

"Okay," you whispered. "I’ll rest."

Xavier gave you one last look, a silent promise hanging between them. "I’ll be here when you wake up."

You didn’t need to say anything more. There was nothing left to say.

The storm had passed. And for now, you were home.

RAFAYEL

The door creaks open on rusted hinges, the metal groaning in a way it didn’t the last time you stepped through it. The studio smells the same—linseed oil, old wood, drying paint, and the faint ozone tang of filtered sunlight through the solar skylights.

But something about it feels emptier.

You stand in the doorway a moment longer than necessary, your gloved hand still braced on the frame like it might be the only thing holding you upright. Your gun dangles from your other hand, cracked but intact.

Your boots leave damp prints on the worn floorboards as you step inside.

"You're back," a voice says from deeper in the room.

Not accusing. Not angry.

Just... frayed.

Rafayel doesn’t move from where he sits, half-hidden behind a leaning canvas. The stool beneath him creaks as he shifts, brushes idle in his fingers. He doesn’t even look at you at first—just stares at the wall, at some invisible point only he can see.

“You’re painting,” you say, your voice rough. You haven’t spoken much in the past forty-eight hours. Not since extraction. Not since you watched someone you couldn't save drift away into the black.

He finally looks up, eyes scanning you like you're part of the composition. Not a subject, not a muse—just someone he’s been trying to remember how to see.

“You weren’t supposed to be gone that long.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t send a message.”

“I couldn’t.”

A silence stretches out between you. It isn’t uncomfortable—it’s the kind of silence where everything lives. Fear. Relief. The ghosts of unspoken thoughts.

You shift, unfastening the collar of your suit. Your shoulders sag the moment the seal breaks. It’s always heavier when you come back. You remember the stars being beautiful once. Now they just feel cold.

“I thought about this place every day,” you say. “It was the only thing that felt real out there.”

Rafayel rises slowly, setting the brush down on the edge of the easel. Paint still clings to his fingers, ultramarine and burnt sienna smeared across his knuckles like bruises.

He crosses the studio to you, stopping just short of touching. His expression is unreadable. Distant, almost. But his eyes—those impossibly expressive, storm-colored eyes—are too full.

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

You hesitate.

“We lost half the team. Comms were knocked out. We drifted... longer than expected. Long enough to think maybe no one was coming.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the moment you left. When he steps closer and finally touches you, it’s with a gentleness that makes something in your chest give way. One hand on your cheek. The other rests against your side, feeling the tremor you can’t suppress.

“I didn’t paint for the first week,” Rafayel murmurs. “Every time I picked up a brush, I just... stared at the canvas. I kept thinking, what’s the point of capturing light if I don’t know whether you’re still in it?”

Your breath hitches. “I’m sorry—”

“No,” he interrupts, firm but soft. “Don’t. Not to me.”

He pulls you in slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don’t. Your arms slide around his waist and you press your forehead against his shoulder. The tension doesn’t vanish—it can’t, not yet—but it loosens. Bit by bit.

You stand like that for a long time.

When you finally part, Rafayel brushes a streak of dried blood from your temple with his thumb.

“Let me show you something.”

He leads you to a side alcove where the light is softer. A single canvas stands there, turned away from view. He hesitates for a heartbeat before flipping it around.

It isn’t finished.

Your silhouette is there—sharp and luminous—but your face is only partially rendered. One eye stares back, half-done, ringed with shadows that haven’t been painted in fully. The rest of the canvas is sketchwork, graphite and ghost lines.

“I started this the night before you left,” he says quietly. “But when I didn’t hear from you... I couldn’t keep going. I didn’t know how to draw someone I might never see again.”

Your fingers reach out, brushing the edge of the canvas.

“You don’t have to finish it,” you say.

He looks at you, startled. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not the same person you started painting.” You turn to meet his eyes. “But maybe you could start a new one.”

His lips curve—softly, not quite a smile, but something warmer.

“Stay,” he says. “Just for tonight.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And this time, when you kiss him, you mean it like a promise. Not to the stars. Not to the mission. But to him.

To here.

To home.

SYLUS

The lights in the apartment are dim when you step through the door.

Your body aches. Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, and your suit—still streaked with dust from the failed mission—feels like a second skin you can’t shed fast enough. The echo of the explosion still rings faintly in your ears, muffled now by the silence of home.

You don’t expect him to be here. Not this late.

You barely make it two steps before you hear movement from the living room.

"You're late," Sylus says, voice calm but edged in something sharper—something tight. "Three hours. Mephisto couldn't locate you."

You turn toward the sound and find him sitting on the couch, long legs stretched out, hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it all night. His gaze sweeps over you in one quick, calculating motion—assessing. Scanning.

"I'm here now," you say softly, your voice hoarse.

"You’re hurt."

You look down. There’s a cut along your forearm—dried blood, not deep. Another scrape near your collarbone. The mission had gone sideways, fast: an ambush, one of your own turning against you, comms scrambled. You’d barely made it back.

"I’m okay," you say, but even to your own ears, it sounds like a lie.

Sylus is already on his feet. In three steps he’s in front of you, his hands ghosting over your arms before settling on your shoulders. His grip is gentle—but grounding.

"You were off the grid for too long. I thought—"

You lean into him, the rest of the sentence unnecessary. I thought I lost you. You feel it in the way he holds you closer, in the way his forehead drops to rest against yours. He breathes you in like you’re the air he’s been missing.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

“You don’t have to be,” he says. “Just… next time, let me come with you.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “You know you can't do that."

“Then quit."

He’s only half-joking, and you love him for it.

You pull back enough to look into his eyes. “I didn’t want you to see what happened.”

His expression shifts—more serious, more tender.

“Then tell me,” he says. “Tell me everything.”

So you do.

You tell him about the ambush, the way your mission had been sabotaged, how you’d lost communications and one of your team had turned traitor. You speak in low, halting sentences while Sylus cleans your wounds with steady hands. He doesn’t interrupt, just listens—his silence filled with warmth and quiet fury on your behalf.

When you finish, he doesn’t offer hollow reassurances. He doesn’t say it will never happen again, because you both know the truth: it will. That’s the job. The risk. The cost.

Instead, he says, “I’m proud of you.”

Your eyes sting.

“You made it back,” he continues. “You brought the rest of your team home. And you walked through that door.”

“I almost didn’t,” you admit. “There was a moment when I thought—I didn’t know if I could.”

“You did,” Sylus says, voice low, sure. “You always do.”

You sit together after that, on the couch, the silence between you no longer heavy but healing. His arm curls around you, his fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your back. You let your head rest on his shoulder, your eyes fluttering closed.

“You know,” you murmur, “you should’ve been asleep.”

“I was waiting for you.”

“You always do.”

He kisses the top of your head. “I always will.”

CALEB

You wake hours later, the house quiet, the lights low. The faint scent of chamomile lingers in the air. Caleb’s not beside you, but you hear the low hum of the kettle in the kitchen. The clink of a spoon against ceramic.

He’s always like this — never sleeping when you’re out on a mission, never resting, always waiting for you to come back in one piece. He was always waiting, even when he didn’t show it.

You sit up slowly, stiff and sore in ways you didn’t feel before. The herbal tea calms the knots in your stomach, but there’s an ache deep in your chest, one you can’t ignore.

Caleb appears in the doorway, two steaming cups of tea in his hands. He looks at you with that same unreadable expression, but something’s different now. It’s softer, as if he’s peeling away the layers of control he holds so tightly around everything.

“Chamomile,” he says, his voice steady, though there’s a faint quiver in the way he says it, like he’s holding back something more.

“Thanks,” you say, taking the cup from him, your fingers brushing his. It’s a small thing, but it feels like a spark between you.

He doesn’t sit immediately. Just stands there, his eyes on you — searching, like he’s trying to read the unspoken things in the spaces between your words.

“You were gone for three days longer than planned,” he says, voice low. “No communication. No updates.”

You look down at your hands, your grip tightening on the mug, the weight of his concern pressing down on you. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“I know,” he replies quickly, too quickly. “But I still thought…”

He stops himself, and the silence stretches between you. It’s thick now, heavy with things neither of you have said.

You glance up at him, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “What did you think?”

He hesitates for a moment longer before answering. “I kept replaying every transmission you ever sent. Listening to the tone of your voice. Trying to figure out if there was something I missed. A clue. A hint. Anything.”

Your heart stutters. You set the cup down, the liquid inside forgotten. “That’s—Caleb, you didn’t have to—”

“I did,” he insists, his eyes fierce now, jaw tight. “Because you’re not just another hunter to me. Not just some mission on a schedule board. You—”

He stops himself again, and the weight of his words lingers in the air, like they’re trapped somewhere between his lungs and his lips.

You whisper, “Say it.”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His hand is trembling just slightly when he reaches up, cupping your cheek in his palm. His thumb strokes along your skin, slow, deliberate, like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

“I kept thinking about what I’d do if you didn’t come back,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with it. I don’t think I’d be able to breathe.”

You close your eyes at the rawness in his voice. “I’m here.”

The words break something inside him. He leans forward, just enough that his lips brush against yours — a tentative, barely-there kiss. A question, an offering.

It’s not neat. It’s not perfect. It’s messy and hungry, tasting like relief, like heat, like every unspoken word between you two that’s finally tumbling out.

When you finally break apart, he doesn’t pull back. His forehead rests against yours, breath coming in shallow bursts, and you both stay there, suspended in the moment, unsure of where the next breath might take you.

“You terrify me,” he murmurs, his lips barely brushing your skin.

“Because I might get myself killed?” you tease, though there’s a tremor in your voice, too.

“No,” he says, his voice soft, but filled with something more. “Because I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. And because I want you so much it hurts.”

Your heart flutters, a distant star shining brightly in the center of your chest. You’re close now, too close to ignore the heat thrumming between you.

You whisper, “I didn’t think I’d make it back.”

He smiles, just barely, the corner of his lips lifting. “I did.”

You reach up, curling your hand around his, pulling him closer until there’s nothing separating you two, until you feel the heat of his skin, the thrum of his heartbeat.

And as he holds you, his arms wrapping around you like gravity itself has shifted, you finally let go of the last vestiges of fear, the mission, the blood, the fire.

You’re here now. Alive. And Caleb is here, too.

That’s enough.

[nereidprinc3ss]

just like heaven

in which flirty!reader finally confesses her feelings to a pining spencer reid after a night out. she's slightly buzzed. it's complicated.

fluff (some angst) warnings/tags: fem!reader, reader drinks alcohol, dirty jokes, so much flirting and banter, some arguing kinda, but spencer is such a gentleman, everyone gets flustered at least once, they really wanna kiss, happy ending a/n: gif :D I hope u like this! not bandages reader but like same vibes. like an AU for my AU

“Emily!”

You drawl the ee sound long, the same way you reach across the table and wiggle your fingers at her half-empty glass. Thin dark brows dart up beneath that glossy sweep of reddish-black hair. 

“Oh, wow. That’s unsettling. What?”

It’s been at least an hour since you had a drink of your own, but enough alcohol is still flowing through your veins so as to render her offensive comment inoffensive. You love Emily. You love the Tequila Sunrise sweating onto the sticky table in front of her which she’s not going to finish. 

“I think she wants your drink,” JJ assists, cheek balanced tipsily on a propped up fist. 

“Uh…”

Emily’s doe-sweet eyes flash uncertainly behind you. 

“I’m basically sober,” you insist, laying your head on your outstretched arm and letting your hair cascade as you bat your lashes, offering her your sweetest smile. “Please, Em?”

It does not go according to plan. She scoffs. 

“Are you flirting with me right now?”

“... Would that work?”

“Oh my god, just… cool it with the fuck-me eyes,” she laughs. “You can have the drink.”

You sit up, turning just barely over your shoulder to address Spencer. 

“See? Emily buys me drinks. Basically.”

She slides the drink toward you, with a subtle roll of her eyes that you choose to interpret as affectionate under the dim canned lighting. As you sit back, content and free drink in hand, her eyes slide to Reid in the seat next to you, brows arching. 

“Are you sure you can handle her all on your own?”

“Handle me?” You frown deeply as Emily gathers her purse and slides out of the booth, followed shortly thereafter by JJ. “I don’t need handling.”

“Then why do you have a handler?” JJ teases.

You slump against the worn vinyl, stirring what is mostly orange juice. 

“He most definitely is not my handler. He’s my science project.”

“I got it,” Spencer assures your friends, with his trademark flattened smile. You can’t help but watch him with a grin of your own, flipping the straw in the drink and nibbling on the end until it’s stained sparkly pink. Goodbyes are issued, and soon it’s just the two of you. Perhaps it’s a tipsy delusion, but you think he seems to relax slightly when you’re alone. His eyes are easy on you. “You know, you’re not actually decreasing the amount of germ transmission by using the other end of the straw.”

“Mm… pretty sure alcohol kills germs, Doctor.”

At that, you giggle. 

Doctor. 

Soon you’re covering your face and having a full-fledged laugh attack. 

“What?” Spencer asks. From between your fingers you can see that he’s smiling guardedly, brows furrowed in a way that reminds you he’s often worried about being the butt of a joke and not knowing it. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” you assure him quickly, gathering yourself. “I just… can’t believe you’re a doctor.”

“Why not? What’s so unbelievable about that?”

“You’re so young.”

And handsome. 

“I’m not that young. I’m older than you,” he defends. Only by a handful of years, but you know he’s defensive about his age after a lifetime of being told he looks young for—well, everything. 

“You’re… 32?”

That’s not right—you know as soon as you say it.

“Thirty three.” He very politely captures a hand—your hand—that had at some point ended up a little too close to his eye. You’re not sure what you planned to do once it got there—you don’t recall moving it at all. 

“Sorry.” You take your hand back, choosing to instead fiddle with a button on his coat ponderously. “33 is a good age.”

“Yeah?” Spencer laughs, angling his head as if to regard you from a new angle. It warms you all over. Burns in some places, like a shot of liquor down your throat. Makes you just as dizzy, too. “You have a lot of experience being thirty three?”

“No, I just…” your cheeks heat and you wrestle with a timid smile, averting your gaze and dropping your hand for fear his grin this close up might actually kill you. “I like 33 year old you.”

“So… you didn’t like me when I was thirty two?”

“Stop,” you beg, a self-effacing laugh into the cup of your palm. “I can’t banter. I’m not at peak performance.”

The truth of it hits you, and you sigh, folding your arms on the table and resting your cloudy head. Only then, from this new perspective, do you allow yourself to fully admire Spencer Reid. He is smiling at you, and your heart does skip a beat like you’ve got some school girl crush. These days he wears his hair falling over his face, messy on purpose, and always smells so nice. You wonder when he started caring about that stuff. You want to see what products are in his shower, and learn why he chose that cologne, or how he decides to pair his socks. He probably has some sort of algorithm. 

“Spencer,” you begin, the serious quality of your voice diminished by the smush of your cheek against your arm. Still, he tries to respect your tone, zipping the smile and answering with a playfully twitching brow. 

“Hm?”

You want to push the hair out of his face. Why is he looking down at you like that? Like he likes you?

“You’re a very good handler.”

His eyes narrow as he considers this, but the glimmer in them could still spark a forest fire. You’re probably grinning like an idiot. 

“Oh, I couldn’t handle you. You know this.”

You hum thoughtfully. 

“I bet you could. Wanna try?”

Spencer shakes his head, huffing a laugh through his nose. To his credit, your bold-face innuendos don’t always send him into a tailspin these days. 

Just sometimes. 

“You need a ride home, don’t you?”

You sit back up, stretching your arms out. 

“You don’t have to. I could get a cab.”

“I know,” he assures you, still a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. Why. Is. He. Looking. At. You. Like. That?

“Will you let me drive?”

“I would. But, you know, my affairs aren’t in order.”

You roll your eyes as he gets out of the booth and offers you a hand. 

“I’m not that drunk.”

Spencer just wiggles his fingers. 

“If you can recite the alphabet in reverse you can drive my car.”

You roll your eyes again. Obviously he’s fucking with you, because 1. He’d never let you drive even the slightest bit inebriated, and 2. He knows you can’t say your ABC’s backward when you’re dead sober. 

The truth is you’re more buzzed than anything. You could get up and walk fine without any assistance, but he’s offering you his hand, so you take it. After you’re standing, you wonder how many excuses could you possibly dream up to get it back in yours. Should you pretend to fall?

No. Not quite worth your self respect. 

“You know…” you muse, reveling in the brief brush of him against your back as he holds open the door for you, “it’s a good thing you didn’t become, like… a medical doctor.”

Now walking side by side on the street, he glances over at you, a poorly veiled smile on his perfect face. Like a trap door brushed over with a few leaves. He wants you to see it.

“Why’s that?”

A breeze ruffles your hair. The brisk cold and the walk seem to be making things crisper already. You shrug, bunching your sleeves in your hands against the increasingly frigid night. The skirt and tights you’d chosen were perfect for a stuffy dive bar. Not so much for an early DC spring. 

“Nobody wants a hot doctor.”

He looks down at the sidewalk, hands pocketed, but the curve of his lips doesn’t lessen.  

“Hm. You’re drunker than I thought.”

“What? No! I’m—barely!” Again he laughs at you, and again you flush, looking down and counting the cracks in the pavement as you journey slowly under the bath of yellow street lights. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you called me hot.” He sounds almost delighted as he grins sheepishly around the final word. 

You snort. You’ve said worse things, more graphic things within the past few hours alone—but you suppose they’ve all been more like dirty jokes than compliments. 

“Yeah. You think you aren’t?”

Sandy locks fall side to side as he carefully measures a response. His cologne is warm—sort of smoky. It’s very nice. He doesn’t seem like he’d wear cologne. Have you already thought about his cologne tonight? Once was probably enough. 

“I just think sober you wouldn’t have said that.”

“But don’t you prefer it when I’m aggressively flirting with you? I mean, I know I do it sober too, but it's not as good, right?”

A silent stretch begins and shortly ends, and you don’t mind it. Right now, everything is a winding path through the woods. You’re willing to follow any fork off the trail if it means spending more time with him. 

“I guess I wasn’t aware that was what you were doing.”

“Oh, bullshit,” you laugh, and it echoes through the canyon of a nearby alley, “I’m not subtle, Reid.”

“I don’t know! You—for all I know that’s just how you are! I mean, what did Emily call them earlier, your—your fuck-me eyes?”

Like he does when he’s flustered, he gets shrill and stuttery. It’s nice to be reminded that he’s still a complete dork on the inside—and the outside, too, as pink stains his cheeks like watercolor. You smirk at him in your periphery, watching him against the darkened city backdrop. 

“You noticed those, huh?”

“No,” he denies forcefully, but his brow is pinched like he doesn’t quite believe himself, “I mean, yes, I notice when you look at other people like that, but that’s not what I would call them—I wouldn’t call them anything, I’d just call them your eyes, you know? Not that you always look like you’re soliciting… the implication isn’t there, it’s just—I notice when you flirt with other people! With Emily, and Derek, like, not even half an hour ago. You’re lucky Hotch wasn’t there. You’d probably have given him a heart attack.”

“I’m more concerned with yours, to be honest.”

“My heart is fine,” he laughs. “Worry about my dignity.”

“Hm. I was going for both. Guess I’d better try harder.”

You don’t notice you’ve come to a stop until you’re face to face in front of his vintage Volvo. Spencer is standing closer than usual, hands perpetually stuck in that nice wool coat. He’s all windswept and pretty, smiling crookedly and eyes sparkly with humor. A strand of hair sticks to your lip gloss, and you brush it away, tucking it behind your ear and squinting up at him against the chilly breeze. The flush is either from the nip in the air or your brazen flirting. 

“Or, you could go easy on me. I’m frail. Like a… sickly Victorian child.”

Again his brow knits and he smiles like he knows what he’s said is ridiculous. But his tone is gentler now. Softer. Invites you to fall in deeper and see what you might find. 

“And ruin all my fun? Toughen up, Reid.”

For a long moment, you don’t get a response—only his eyes, soft and thoughtful on you, before you’re distracted by the sweet bow of his lips. If he notices you’re staring, it doesn’t seem to bother him. 

But something evidently does, as when he next speaks, it’s troubled. Curiosity straining against a rope that says maybe it’s better if I don’t ask. 

“Do… do you actually flirt with me? When you’re sober, I mean.”

He expects to be ridiculed. In his most vulnerable moments, he’s still bracing for rejection—turning his cheek slightly so he’s ready for the stinging blow. It opens a fissure in your chest. You frown, and speak gently. 

“Yeah, Spence. More than anyone else. You really don’t notice?”

Sometimes his face is so expressive, in the pull of his brow and tightening of his eyes and the way he wets his lips. But he probably doesn’t know that. And he can’t seem to meet your eyes, instead choosing to study the leather of your heeled boots. Sounds of late-night traffic, of tires on wet asphalt buffer the pauses between sentences. 

“I notice… when you talk to Derek and Emily and JJ and Penelope the exact same way you talk to me. I didn’t think…”

Another gap in conversation, filled with the chatter of some group pouring out of a bar somewhere. You realize he’ll need some gentle prompting to bridge it. 

“You didn’t think what?”

When his eyes flash back up to meet yours, you have a feeling like he’s shutting the pipes off. 

“It’s—uh—” he clears his throat— “it’s not important, we can—we’ll talk about it a different time. We should—”

“Wait.”

He’d been turning away but snaps right back to look at you as if on command, wearing a brand new face that tells you he’d like to wipe the past minute or so completely away. 

“Yeah?”

“Spencer. I wanna know what you were going to say.”

“I told you. It’s nothing.”

“You didn’t tell me. You mumbled evasively and walked away. We were in the middle of something and I want to know what you were going to say. Please?”

“Well, you’re drunk,” he finally sighs, and it’s a bit sharp. Stinging. 

“I am not drunk,” you defend, and it feels true, with a bitter cold lashing at your cheek and blood heightened from the walk. “You know I’m not too drunk to have a coherent conversation. Why are you being weird?”

“Because I asked you to drop it! We can’t have this conversation right now, all right? I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Your stomach flips, and your breath comes a little heavier. Spencer is clearly frustrated with you. Maybe being on the wrong end of this mild vexation, and so suddenly, should make you feel guilty, or some kind of bad—but all you feel is a sort of buzz in the tips of your fingers and the thrum of your heart, something deeper than excitement pooling in your veins at having inspired this sort of passion. It means he feels something. Something for you. 

“I’m sorry,” he tries halfheartedly, unable or more likely unwilling to stay angry at you for very long, “you didn’t—”

“What conversation?”

It’s jarring how quickly this has spun on its head. The very air you’re breathing seems to have changed. The metropolitan soundscape is a rife undercurrent of tension and louder from all the words unsaid. 

Finally he swallows. 

“There’s no conversation. I’m—it was a poor choice of wording. I just meant we should get you home.”

Before he can make it to the driver’s side door, you’re calling out. 

“You think I don’t like you. And I just flirt with you ‘cause I flirt with everyone.”

Spencer stops, and turns to face you once more, sighing and head dropped to one side like you’re doing something incredibly inconsiderate. He’s never looked at you like that before, but you don’t let it shake you. 

“That’s what this is about, right?”

He says your name, but you don’t let him get further than that. 

“No, I think there is a conversation here, and saying I’m not sober enough to have it isn’t fair and you should have said something before and I think you should just say it now.”

You’re pushing his buttons with a heavy hand, though your own voice shakes. He’s feeling it too—you’ve never been so short with each other. His voice is raised. 

“What am I supposed to say?” 

It boils over. 

“That you like me!”

It rings. 

Then it’s silent. 

His face is mostly blank. A little sorrowful around his eyes. 

It’s cold, jumping into the deep end like this. 

“We can’t talk about this right now,” he finally says, glancing to the side as if to suggest a situation the size of the whole city. 

“Spencer, I—”

“It’s impossible to have a meaningful discussion until your judgement isn’t impaired, otherwise it’s—”

“I am telling you that I flirt with you because I really like you.”

“I—”

It appears you’ve truly thrown him for a loop.  For a moment his jaw works at nothing, a soliloquy of words go unspoken, and then he’s stuttering and fumbling for the right thing to say, looking everywhere but at you. 

“I can’t—that’s—regardless of whether or not it’s even true—”

“It is true.”

“Could you—stop?” He pleads. “You can’t tell me that. I mean, the power imbalance when you’ve been drinking and I haven’t—it’s—I mean, it's coercive. Because I brought it up, I asked an inappropriate question—or at least started to ask it, and you—not that it was your fault, I’m the responsible party in this instance, but if tomorrow you realize you never wanted to tell me—so I have to take that with a grain of salt. I’m just—I have to pretend I didn’t hear that, alright? And you can’t say it again.”

He’s ridiculous. You shift your weight onto one foot casually. 

“That’s not very nice. I just confessed to having a huge crush on you and you’re gonna leave me hanging?”

There is an undeniable sort of pleasure in the bright of his eyes, and you phrased it that way on purpose, just to see him preen and glow—also to see if you could make him trip all over himself some more. Right now, despite the liminal space your relationship may or may not be occupying, you’re teasing him like you always do. Like he’s a friend, because he is. Before anything else. 

He tries to glower, barely. 

“Were you listening to me at all?”

“It was hard with all the stammering. I thought you might pass out.”

“I might,” he grumbles, and the admission pleases you greatly. Your lips tug as you admire him for a moment—watch his defenses go down and his features ease into something more inviting. 

God, maybe you really had been too hard on him. Maybe he really didn’t expect that you would like him back. 

You’re struck with the need to reassure. 

A dampened clack emits from your shoe where the heel hits the ground as you step down off the curb. 

“You know… I do like you. A lot. I mean it. And I’m glad I told you, because... you like me too, right?”

He raises his brows, like don’t do anything stupid, as you approach unhurriedly. It’s good to see that you haven’t broken his spirit completely. 

Less than a foot away, you stop. Close enough to be in his space. Too far for him to have the grounds to step back. 

His eyes are careful on you, analytical as always, constantly predicting an infinite number of outcomes to any given scenario. That’s how he keeps his footing in the world. But he’s never very good at predicting you. And it helps that his razor sharp intellect is dulled, some, with affection. Attraction. 

It shows in his eyes. He’ll let you push boundaries he knows he shouldn’t. More so if you keep speaking to him this softly. Almost whispering.

“Tell me you like me, Spencer.”

Because he hasn’t yet. All the heavy lifting has been done for him, and that just won’t do. 

First, he opens his mouth, and you watch the internal debate, a million things he could say, spinning round in his eyes like pinwheels. Rules, and buts, and caveats.

In the end, he just clears his throat. Speaks in the same secretive tone. Low enough to be intimate.

“I like you.”

Such a simple thing has never made you feel so airy before in your life. You steal another glance at his lips.

“So it’s really not that complicated. We could probably just kiss.”

He tinges pink.

“We definitely can’t.”

“You also said we couldn’t talk about it, and yet…”

“Talking is different. As far as I’m concerned, nothing you say to me tonight is binding. Whatever just transpired happened completely off the record. We can… talk about it tomorrow, but right now, you and I are friends.”

You shrug.

“Friends can kiss.”

“No, they can’t,” he says definitively, though not without a healthy dose of sardonic self-awareness and a dark smile. His hand finds your waist, and it’s glancing, if anything a light push, but you’re delighted nonetheless. Almost as pleased as if he really had kissed you. “It’s cold. I’m ready to leave.”

You’ve pushed him enough for one night. And it is cold. So you shuffle around the car with quick steps to the passenger side door, hooking your fingers under the biting metal handle and waiting for him to unlock the vehicle. 

You’re shivering as your thighs press against leather upholstery, only the thinnest layer of synthetic material protecting your legs. Spencer is already starting the car, but the engine is too cold to bother turning the heat on yet. 

“I think it’s colder in here than outside. Look at my hand.” You hold it up for him, and it is discolored, waxy, as he mindlessly takes it between his own much warmer ones. “I thought alcohol was supposed to keep you warm. Didn’t that chef on the Titanic survive hours in the ocean because he was hammered?”

“That’s a myth. Not the chef—he did survive, but it was a complete anomaly. Alcohol causes vasodilation in the dermis layer of the skin, so you feel warmer, but it draws blood flow away from your internal organs and significantly raises your likelihood of developing hypothermia.”

Does he notice how he’s holding your hand? Carefully pressing his thumbs to the center of your palm and pushing up through your love and life lines, cupping the fingers, before sandwiching them between his own and generating friction the way a child furiously rolls a play-doh worm?

“I guess I’m really not that drunk, then.”

He’s not expecting it, and maybe he doesn’t know what to make of your exceptionally gentle tone at first. It was a mistake, you think, as he relinquishes his hold on your hand, and you curl it to retain the memory of his warmth. But then he tucks hair behind your ear, like he’s done once or twice before, and smiles in a way you don’t quite understand. 

“I know.”

You won’t push him. You won’t ask for anything else, and you won’t demand an explanation. Spencer is special. It can all wait, because you have something good with him already. Something important. Something like holding hands. 

It comes as a surprise when he leans across the console, and you lean in a trance to meet him, and another surprise when he gently redirects, pressing his lips to your cheek, close enough to match the corners of your mouths and nothing more. 

You’d let him do it a hundred times over, but he draws back after a fraction of a lingering second, and finds your hand to stroke the back of it, forgotten in your lap. 

“You said no kissing,” you murmur, as if in a dream. If you had the wherewithal to be embarrassed maybe you wouldn’t be ogling so much. 

“Compromise.”

If anything, you should be the cheek-kisser. But there will be time to feel slighted about that later. Time to amend. For now, you look ahead robotically. 

“Is there a rule against friendly hand-holding?”

“Probably,” he says.

But he lets you hold his hand in your lap the whole drive to your apartment, anyway. 

[lanawinterscigarettes]

Sweet Tooth (poly Joe Goldberg x gn reader x Love Quinn)

Summary: you're a big fan of the bakery, but Joe and Love are after something sweeter- you

Warnings: obsessive behavior from Love and Joe but that's about it

A/N: my mom made me a carrot cake recently and it inspired me to write this

Everyday you entered A Fresh Tart right after lunch, needing a little something to satiate your sweet tooth before heading back to work. Sometimes it was a cake, sometimes it was a cookie, sometimes a pie, but it was always delicious.

Love quickly caught on to your routine, always making sure she was free to assist you whenever you came in. If another customer needed help, they were just going to have to wait, because you were much more important.

The bell chimed above the door to signal that you'd arrived, prompting her to smooth out the front of her apron before putting on a bright smile. "Hey! I was wondering when you were going to come in."

"I had a meeting that ran a little late, so my lunch hour got pushed back some," you replied with a smile that mirrored hers. The unfortunate bags under your eyes didn't escape her, a sure sign that you were overworking yourself, but the faint dimples that formed on your cheeks quickly diverted her attention. How cute.

"Well, you're here now. So, what can I get for you?"

While you mulled over what kind of confection you wanted for the day, Joe peeked his head out from the back. So that's the person Love always raved about coming in just after noon. You were cute, he couldn't deny that.

"If you're having some trouble making a decision, why don't you try both and see which one you like better?" He heard his wife offer when you clearly became stuck on choosing between two different sweet treats.

"Oh, I can't do that," you began to protest before Love waved her hand dismissively at your words.

"Nonsense! It's my bakery, and I say you can have a sample if you wish," she insisted while cutting a small sliver of cake from the one in the glass display case before grabbing the second pastry you'd been eyeing, placing them both in a paper to go box. "Try both, and tomorrow you when you come in you can tell me which one you liked better."

"That's awfully kind of you. Are you sure I don't owe you anything?" You asked as she slid the box across the counter, already starting to pull out your wallet.

"Of course not! It's on the house."

Despite her words of reassurance and warm smile, you still felt as though she deserved something in return, so you took out a five dollar bill and stuck it in the tip jar. "I'll be back tomorrow at my usual time."

Her eyes twinkled with admiration at the small act of kindness. You were so much sweeter than any of the things she baked, that much was certain. "See you then."

Joe came out from the back as she was watching you leave, slightly amused at the exchange that just happened. Before he could speak, however, she beat him to it.

"I want them."

It wasn't a suggestion or a request, it was a demand, one that wasn't left open for any arguments. Love wanted you, and what she wanted she got. All she needed to do was get him on board, which shouldn't be too hard given just how irresistible you were.

The next day when you came in, Love wasn't there, having taken Henry to a doctor's appointment for a check-up, which meant the she'd left Joe in charge.

"Oh, hey," you greeted in a friendly manner despite never having met him before. "You must be Joe, right? Love told me that she ran the place with her husband."

Immediately he knew why she wanted you so much. Everything about you just screamed perfect, there was no doubt about that. "Uh, yeah, hi. She told me you were having some sort of difficulty choosing between two items yesterday," he casually mentioned, wanting you to think their marriage was much smoother than it really was. They couldn't lure you in successfully if all you saw were their problems.

"I did, you're right," you replied with a soft laugh, one that made his heart leap forward in his chest. God, no wonder Love always dropped everything just so she could see you whenever you came in. He suspected the only reason she'd offered to take Henry today was so he could officially meet you and become just as obsessed with you as she was.

"And were you able to make a decision?" He was curious about you already, curious about your personal taste, your likes and dislikes. He needed to know it all.

"Well, they were both amazing as usual, but I think I'm going to have to go with the cake. Everything about it was delicious, especially the icing," you fondly reminisced, almost beginning to salivate at the thought alone.

"Sure thing," he said while grabbing a knife to cut you a slice, unable to stop himself from thinking about just how sweet your lips must taste after every trip you made to the bakery. He'd have to try a piece of the cake himself a little later so he could imagine it properly.

Your eyes were wide with giddy delight as you observed his every move, clearly excited to be able to eat the cake when you got the chance. You were just about to pull out your wallet when he held up his hand to stop you. "Don't worry about it. Love told me to tell you it's on the house."

"You know, one of these days you're really going to have to let me repay you somehow," you commented while dropping aother five dollar bill into the tip jar, just like you did last time.

Joe was already thinking of ways for you to repay the both of them, but they were far too lewd for him to say out loud. "You have a nice day," was his response instead, giving you a small wave as you left.

Damn it, he was hooked. There was no way he could refuse Love's order, because now he wanted the exact same thing she did: you.

And they were going to have you, one way or the other, no matter what it took.

End notes: I loved writing this and I'd totally be up to making a part two if anyone wanted it <3

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[bjlipss]

— bug, part ii.

contents: college!sukuna x weird!reader. weird as in just odd and confusing behaviour but nonetheless cute, nothing pervy-weird. reader wears glasses because yes. really awkward and silly hehe

part i <- part ii -> part iii

day 2.

he figures it’s a one-time thing.

a glitch in the matrix. some weird campus cryptid latched onto him for ten minutes and then slithered back into whatever art building crawlspace you crawled out of.

he doesn’t even think about you again. not really.

not until the next afternoon.

he’s cutting across the east courtyard this time. earbuds in. hoodie up. gym bag slung over his shoulder like a threat. the sun’s too bright, his hangover’s kicking in, and someone spilled smoothie on the locker room bench this morning—so now his favorite hoodie smells like artificial strawberries and spite.

he’s halfway to the library steps, scowl already locked and loaded, when he hears it.

that same soft, off-key hum. buggy and breathy, like it’s being piped through a tin can.

he stops mid-step, completely still.

his playlist fades under the sound, like the world’s being tuned to your specific radio frequency.

no way. no fucking way.

slowly—too slowly, like a man turning to face a monster in a horror movie—he cranes his neck.

and there you are.

sitting under the big oak tree like it’s a throne made just for you.

same enormous sweatshirt swallowing your frame. same huge glasses slipping down your nose. bandaid still on your neck, but now there’s a little cartoon worm doodled on it in purple pen. legs swinging rhythmically like a little kid at the doctor’s office. there’s a juice box next to you—grape, he thinks—and you’re peeling a banana in slow motion. reverent.

you’re also staring directly at him.

unblinking.

he blinks once. then again.

you tilt your head.

he scowls.

“…are you fucking stalking me?”

“no,” you chirp, like this is a completely reasonable situation. “you’re just really easy to find.”

you tap your temple. “i have a sukuna sense.”

his jaw flexes. he’s genuinely not sure if you’re kidding or if you’ve genuinely installed some sort of psychic sukuna-tracker in your skull.

“stop saying weird shit.”

you pat the space next to you on the bench. casual. like this is a sitcom and you’re inviting your reluctant co-star to deliver his lines.

he doesn’t move. just glares.

you pat it again.

smile wider this time. not creepy—just patient. like you’re confident he’ll get tired eventually and choose to be around you.

“you’re not my friend,” he mutters.

“yet,” you say cheerfully, and punctuate it with a loud slurp from your juice box.

he stares at you like you’re an invasive species.

then snorts, half in disbelief, and stomps off without another word.

he doesn’t look back, not even once.

but the weird thing is—he’s not as annoyed as he should be.

day 3.

he’s at his locker. post-lift. sore, sweaty, halfway dead. earbuds in, head down. all he wants is a protein bar and a goddamn nap.

he spins the dial, opens the door—

—and three red skittles roll out and clatter onto the floor.

he freezes.

so do the guys around him.

one of them snorts. another mutters, “yo, what the hell?”

but sukuna doesn’t move. just stares at the skittles like they’re a warning. or a bomb.

he crouches, picks one up between his thumb and forefinger. there’s a tiny smiley face drawn on it in ink. the lines are a little shaky. probably drawn in a rush.

he grits his teeth. he doesn’t even like candy.

he glances down the hallway instinctively. doesn’t see you. doesn’t hear you. but something in the air feels off. staticky.

he tosses the skittle into his bag and slams the locker shut a little harder than necessary.

the next two he keeps in his palm.

he doesn’t know why.

day 4.

today he changes his route entirely. cuts around the humanities building. skirts the edge of the quad like it’s lava. ditches his usual corner table at the library and slinks into the back of the dining hall, behind a dusty fake ficus that smells like cheap plastic and desperation.

finally. finally.

no bug. no hum. no weird banana rituals or unsolicited commentary.

he grabs a tray, sits down, and pulls out his phone. opens it to scroll aimlessly. silence surrounds him.

for thirty blissful seconds.

then—

“hi.”

he flinches. audibly. jerks his head up so fast he nearly knocks over his drink.

you’re standing in front of him.

holding a tupperware container. it has a sticker on the lid that says “this is NOT poison” with a smiley face next to it.

“…how the fuck do you keep finding me?”

you blink innocently. “i told you. sukuna sense.”

he glares. “you are not funny.”

you shrug. “not trying to be.”

you pop the lid open and hold it out. inside: a peanut butter sandwich. no crusts. cut into the shape of a bat. it’s kind of ugly, if he’s honest, but also strangely… deliberate.

“it’s a snackrifice,” you say. “in exchange for your continued tolerance.”

he opens his mouth. ready to tell you to take it and leave. to stop harassing him. to go find a new person to haunt.

but the crusts are cut off and it smells kinda good.

he snatches it from your hands like a feral raccoon and mutters, “you’re so fucking weird.”

you beam and plop down across from him. he doesn’t kick you out. he eats the sandwich in silence.

day 5.

he gets to class early. because he has to. he’s not going to sit in the back like some loser just because you’ve wormed your way into his territory.

but when he walks in—you’re already in his seat.

you’re humming. chewing on a pen labeled penjamin in sparkly marker.

there’s a tiny paper crane perched next to your notes. it has googly eyes stuck on it and what looks like a cape made from a gum wrapper.

he stops in the aisle. glares at you. hard.

you look up. blink once.

and then calmly pat the seat beside you.

he stares. you pat again.

he makes a low sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a growl and a sigh, and drops his bag onto the floor with a thud.

sits beside you.

you don’t say anything. just grin like a cat who’s claimed a sunbeam. your knee bumps his under the table.

he tells himself not to react.

he fails.

day 6.

you don’t show up.

he notices immediately. not consciously—but something feels off. like the sound in the world is too clear. too unbothered.

he walks across the courtyard. eyes skim the oak tree. it’s empty. the bench is cold.

he tells himself that’s good. peaceful.

but then he lingers by the vending machines. glances around the quad. checks his locker twice.

finally, right before his next class, he opens the locker again.

and finds it.

a sticky note, crooked and half-folded, clinging to the inside wall. your handwriting is messy and weirdly round:

can’t bug you today. sick. dying probably. rip me. save me a seat. ps: don’t eat skittles from strangers. except me. i’m trustworthy.

underneath is a tiny doodle of a skull with glasses. and… a cape?

he stares at it for a long moment.

then slowly, carefully, peels it off and folds it into his hoodie pocket.

his hand stays there longer than it needs to. just in case.

—

after that, he doesn’t try to shake you anymore.

he eats lunch on the quad, and you’re there.

he waits for practice in the locker room hallway, and you’re there, too.

you show up like bad weather. like background noise.

but weirdly… you’re quiet.

you don’t talk unless you want to. you don’t interrupt or cling. you don’t demand anything from him.

you just exist beside him.

chewing on pens. humming under your breath. sometimes reading a book upside down, like that’s normal. you wear socks with frogs on them and have a bandaid on your hand even when you’re not bleeding.

you remind him of static electricity. of flickering lights. of a broken clock that’s still somehow right twice a day.

you make his eye twitch.

and yet—

every time he glares at you, and you smile back like he’s just being so funny, something in his chest stirs. something small and stupid. something flickering like a lighter on its last spark.

he tells himself he hates it.

he hates you.

but he doesn’t tell you to leave anymore.

and that’s how he knows he’s fucked.

[shotmrmiller]

extension to this

simon sits inside the vehicle he's rented right outside a quaint, little coffee shop. your last letter sits, folded and crinkled in his breast pocket, the very reason why he's even here.

there's nothing much to say to you, pen acquaintance. the semester's over in a week, which means that this will be the last you hear of me. i'd wish you luck in whatever task your superior assigns you, but i don't want to. adieu, british man. i won't miss your piss-poor humor and doctor's scribble. p.s. my eyes are permanently crossed from having to decipher every letter of yours.

unacceptable.

he pulls back his sleeve, looking down at the scuffed sports watch that adorns his inked wrist. 10:35 a.m. simon steps out of the car hastily, not even bothering to lock it. the chilly breeze nips at the tips of his ears as he jogs to the cafe door and holds it open.

for you.

"after you, love." his mancunian accent thicker than normal on his tongue. how pretty you are in person, almost a dream come true. you turn to thank him, and he watches your captivating eyes zero in on the glinting metal of his dog tags resting on the breadth of his chest. how quickly your grateful smile sours. he suddenly feels too hot, vision tunneling to your set brow and hardened gaze.

"right. thanks."

with a quick pace, you pass him by, your bag bumping into his thigh, yet you don't bother to look back. so brilliantly unapologetic. his pulse races as excitement thrums through his veins. simon is quick to follow, coming to stand directly behind you and your group of friends with his clenched hands in his pockets, pretending to read the drink menu above your head.

when you order, he grimaces behind his medical mask. all these endless choices for coffee, yet you choose to drink some blended ice mistake, with far too much whipped cream and imitation chocolate syrup poured on top. simon'll teach you to drink tea— preferably back in england where the leaves grow best.

he steps forward, around the vultures that surround you, and tells the barista that he'll pay for your drink. "just hers?" he asks.

"tha's wha' i said, innit?"

simon extends his hand to the barista, plastic between your fingers when you call out to him. "hey."

a mischievous grin tugs at the corners of his mouth as he turns to meet your gaze, unable to contain his amusement.

"what about my friends?" his dark eyes cut to their direction, before wandering back to you.

"wha' about 'em?" he goads.

he can practically see smoke furling from your mouth, a miasma of fury; tastes it in the air— a blend of salt and fire.

there you are. vicious little spitfire.

simon lets you bubble with indignation for a brief moment until he shifts his attention back to the person behind the counter, who's been watching the exchange with mild interest. "theirs too, then. since she asked me so nicely."

his chest rumbles with laughter upon hearing your irked hiss at his comment.

[pennyold]

Our little secret | c.c

Summary: after a long time holding those feelings, would you be able to resist when you are needy for your stepdaddy?

Warnings: stepdad!carlisle, corruption, manipulation, size kink, dirty talk, stepcest, p in v, cheating.

a/n: Peter is so hot, more in the Twilight Saga, and I have a serious kink w the stepdad thing, I’m into it, so maybe you would see the same theme in other actors I will post !! Enjoy !! and no proofreading, I wrote this a long time ago, if you see any mistakes, I'm sorry; my bad. Also, I'm back in college, so I lost my ideas for a new fic or blurbs, so if you have a request, leave it in my inbox!!

w.c: 1,046

main masterlist ↲

peace and love, penny ★

Midnight arrived, and you were writhing in bed, the tingling in your groin wouldn't let you be so wet in your panties, a total disaster. Your parents weren't home; your mom was out of the country, traveling, and your stepdad was working at the hospital as usual. It was the perfect time to touch yourself, but you couldn't. You desperately need more than that. Taking your blanket, you go down to the living room; you need a distraction. As you turn on the television, the front door opens, and you hear heavy footsteps; it's Carlisle. "I'm home," he says, entering the kitchen. "I'm here." After that mention, he appears behind the sofa, taking off his long black coat. "Are you awake?" he smiled. "And you so early?" he laughed. Normally, Carlisle would arrive home in the early morning after his long shift, but this time he arrived earlier. "It was quiet; there aren't many patients at this hour." It's Christmas Eve, and although doctors don't have vacations between shifts, some volunteers choose to stay longer than the scheduled shift. That's how it works at the hospital where Carlisle works.

"Do you want to sit down?" you said, choosing a movie, he agreed, sitting right next to you. You covered your small body with the blanket, you were wearing a somewhat inappropriate pajama. After a while, your hair fell over Carlisle's shoulder, sleep was overtaking you. "Can I cuddle with you?" you said, shyly but with a soft tone, you needed to be hugged even if just for a moment. "Of course, princess," that word makes you burst, he is so sweet with you, always caring and interesting, Carlisle is the perfect stepfather. The one everyone wants to have, but only you can have. 

You started to feel that heat in your stomach and groin again, with your heavy breathing and spasmodic movements, Carlisle noticed it. "Are you okay, princess?" His face showed concern, but also curiosity about the prominent heat you were producing. So hot. "Mmh," you said, and it almost sounded like a guttural moan you were suppressing.

He grabbed you by the chin while inspecting you closely. "Are you sure? You're sweaty and..." you interrupted him by kissing his lips. He stepped back, furrowing his brows, "What are you...?" you kissed him again in a messy and unkempt manner, and he followed your lead, gripping your jaw, demanding control. You moan, touching his chest, trying to unbutton his shirt. "Wait..." he says, stepping back again; his lips were swollen from the desperate kiss, pink and with ragged breathing. "We shouldn't be doing this." He grabbed his hair, resting his elbows on his knees, worried about what had happened.

He was cheating on his wife with his daughter, that's horrible, he thinks. "Carlisle... I need your help," you said, trying to convince him. Touching him gently on the shoulder, massaging him. "Jesus Christ..." he looked at you. You could feel some lust in him, you have aroused him. "I know you need it too," you kiss his neck dangerously, "you always help me..." You brush your lips against his ear, making him shiver, "Could you help me and take away this feeling?" While maintaining eye contact with him, you took off your silk shirt, leaving your chest exposed, your erect nipples screaming for attention, wanting to be touched and pinched. "I'm so horny, please," you plead, rubbing your breasts against his chest to kiss him. He hissed, grabbing your hair with his fist and pushing your lips against his, starting a session of kisses and touching your needy nipples, pinching them. "Mmh, yes, like that..." you moan, feeling the thrill from the pleasure and pain of his firm grip around your hair.

He let you go, taking you to his bedroom that he shares with your mother. He slammed the door shut, still holding you, and laid you on the bed while unbuttoning his shirt. "Take off your pajamas," he demanded, and you obeyed, doing it slowly. Now you are only wearing a tiny lingerie thong. "Take them off yourself" I nodded, biting my lower lip. "I need you to talk, darling, scream, and cry as much as you want." Before taking off his boxers, he grabbed a condom from his nightstand. "Ready, princess?" Carlisle was as excited as you, his cock ready to fuck you, hard and big. Slowly, he introduced the tip into your pussy, making you moan, he hissed, penetrating you slowly and deliciously. 

Your gummy walls welcome him eagerly, squeezing his size. He moaned again, saying some illegible words. He fucks you slowly, you were melting in his arms. You screamed his name and scratched his back with your long nails, "Oh god... so big," you moan loudly, echoing in the room. "I love those pretty sounds, princess." Carlisle kisses you, devouring your mouth. "Keep doing it" You hug him by the neck and open your mouth, letting him put his tongue in, you suck and kiss, enjoying his taste "I'm going to cum," he whispered with labored breathing "Me too, so do it faster." and he did it.

Your legs began to tremble, dripping with the juices that flowed from your tight and small pussy, his cum was expelled from his dick and ended up in the condom. Carlisle thrusts into you once more before pulling out, and as he withdraws his cock, you notice the shine on the condom from your juices. "That was so good," you exhale, "We're not done yet, princess." You lean on your elbows on the mattress, looking at him. "What…?" You say incredulously, if you felt it was too much, imagine it again. "So, turn around with your ass up," you obey, exposing your big ass, you feel him lean against your back, coming closer to your ear, "I thought you liked being my dirty little secret," he smiled, touching your hips and you nodded, "Yes, it excites me just thinking about it." he teased, moving you back close to his pelvis "That's right, princess" after that; Carlisle fucked you like a rag doll, making you scream, moan with pleasure and pain, but you liked it, of course, you did, it was what you wanted, right? Being fucked like the good whore you are.

divider: @/enchanthings-a

[lunarcowgirl]

feelings unfettered | three

I am a helpless victim of my own crush on this man, take a part three of my goofy little jack abbot x f!doctor!reader fic <33

you can read part one here, and part two here !!

not my gif! but i am foaming at the mouth because of it! follow @ho-ii for all your juicy jack abbot gif needs x

~

yeah, there's something in the air at your shared post-confession breakfast. and it's not just 50 years worth of oil from the diner fryer.

~

from the office of the author: literally obsessed with my own creations so I've made a part three. it's not my fault, blame shawn and his facial structure and chosen character aura of dork/loser/demon-in-the-sheets. more soon? i'm scared of smut but then again i'm scared of not seeing these two get freaky

REQUESTS IN THE ASK BOX PLS!!!

warnings/content: 10+ year age gap, very EaRNEST feelings from these two, mentions of the horrors of american foods, author disrespects consistent perspective and grammatical rules like they owe her money, veryyyy minimal angst, mostly fluff, someone gets a their ass grabbed as a treat <33

word count: 2.6k (woooo baby we're back)

Dr Abbot considered himself to be in control of his own hands at all times and places thank you very much. He had over 30 years of experience in the profession of control. He had studied it, mastered it. It was not his fault that just 20 minutes prior to this moment your lips had been at his throat and your body so very soft under his touch. Now the mere two feet of sticky diner table between the two of you seemed an ocean. Would it be so strange, he pondered, to pull your chair around to be beside him? To bump knees and elbows into each other, for plates to stack and glasses to get mixed up in the bubble of space carved just for the two of you? He coughed slightly at the path of his own brain, embarrassed at the enormity of his feelings.

You were focused on the menu, eyes ticking down the options with care, lips formed into a rosebud pout. Jack wanted to crawl across the divide and kiss you silly, to taste the sweetness and the redness and to hear your heartbeat’s call from your throat. He wanted to feel that fizzing life under his hands, he wanted you to laugh your laugh into his mouth so he could swallow it whole, he wanted—

The shrill screech of a pack of kids attempting a prison break called him swiftly to earth, their poor father one poorly timed arm barrier away from a dislocated shoulder. He really, really, didn’t want to have to be a doctor right now. In fact, it seemed mighty appealing to give up the healing business altogether and put all his energy into memorising every last thing there was to know about you. Some dam wall within him had broken up on the roof, now every truth he’d covered up and hidden and repressed now sitting out in the unfettered daylight. It was terrifying…and exhilarating.

“I can never decide between sweet and savoury when it comes to breakfast.” You declared, slamming the menu down in a huff.

An endeared smile twitched at the corner of Jack’s mouth. He filed the information away, “Why not have both?”

Your eyebrows raised just a touch, a smirk appearing, “Why Dr Abbot, what a dangerous proposition…”

Jack shrugged, if only to dislodge the growing warmth in his chest, “When was the last time you ate? Your body could do with the carbs and sugar.”

In a flash your hand was across the table, grabbing his and raising it to your mouth. Two quick kisses were pressed to his knuckles, “Finally, a man that supports women’s right to choose both.”

You bit your bottom lip at your own cheek, winked and carefully deposited his hand back to him in exchange for the menu once more.

Oh God he was going to eat. You. Alive. You looked so innocent, as you kindly waved over a waitress, ordering in a clear, polite voice. What he wouldn’t give to have that polite mouth all over him.

For two people who had spent more time in uniform than either would like to admit, you had vastly different approaches to the return to American food. Jack had remained staunch in his habits, maintaining his belief that well-done toast with bacon and eggs was all a person really needed. Butter, perhaps, if one felt luxurious. You on the other hand, had spent each and every moment on foreign soil waiting for the moment you could feel the preservatives hit your veins again.

“I don’t care that I’m a doctor,” You said, smoothing cream across your already syrup soaked waffle, “If food cannot hold pleasure, then neither can life.”

Jack had finished his meal in a flash, eating like he was being chased. Now he had all the time in the world to lean back and watch you, noting and labelling every pronouncement and observation you made, filing them away in a little part of his mind that until now, he hadn’t allowed himself to open.

You took a big bite, nose scrunching in delight, shoulders dancing at an amount of sugar running through your system that would likely kill a small child. Jack was keeping a very firm hold on his own elbows, fingers digging into the skin to prevent it from falling straight off his bones. There was syrup, right in the corner of your mouth that you hadn’t noticed, lost in your own ecstasy.

The older he’d become, the easier is was to just surrender. To drift. His hand swept across the table in one smooth motion, his thumb finding your skin, wiping the sugar away. Your eyes flew open, surprise bright and red and hot on your cheeks. One soft blink, another - like you were seeing him for the very first time. His touch lingered there, drawing a soft reverent line across your bottom lip, relishing the fullness of it. If he couldn’t have those lips on his face, his neck and mouth, then he’d have them all over his fingers. It was barely a thought then, to draw back and bring his thumb into his own mouth. The man that never even looked sideways at sugar having his fill of it, and you.

There was something unreadable on your face as your gaze flicked across him, hunger maybe, hope. And then the flash of your tongue across your lip - finding just the remnants of him there, the butter he’d had on them from picking apart his toast. You feasted on each other from opposite sides of the table, rolling tastes across your tongue, finding them satisfactory, finding them addicting. If the appetizers where this good; the main meal was set to fill an empty stomach that had ached for a long, long time.

Waffle forgotten, Jack watched as you dived into your purse, rustling out a haphazard chunk of bills, tucking them quickly under the nearest plate.

“Wait, I’ll pay—”

“If we do not leave right now,” You hissed, “I am going to jump you in front of those very nice families.”

Jack made a bizarre croaking noise, his laugh getting lost somewhere in a cough. All the same, he dutifully rose to his feet, only somehow remembering to grab his backpack and coat. The pair of your writhed down the tight aisle towards the door, struggling to bundle up, not make any unnecessary contact with each other or send coffee flying into anyone’s laps. Bursting into the street, your head twisted this way and that, as if you couldn’t quite remember where you were or what you were supposed to be doing.

“Hey, hey…” Jack reached your side, gently taking your hand in his, “It’s ok, there’s no rush.”

You let out a slow breath, dancing from foot to foot, “Well we might have to rush, cause I don’t have gloves and I kinda need my fingers for work.”

Jack smiled, the biggest one you’d seen, “Well then hand the others over.” With both of your hands in his he pulled you gently to him, lifting your important doctoring tools to his mouth. Warm air blew across them, quickly followed by heat down your arms and into your chest and heart.

This close to him, so bundled up and protected and safe, you let a truth fall out onto the iced pavement.

“I’m scared you’re going to disappear.”

Jack frowned, moving your hands aside so they remained warm pressed against his face, “Why do you say that?”

“Well,” You shuffled nervously under the intensity of his gaze, “I hate to get into it all in the immense privacy offered by this public street.”

He cocked an eyebrow in subtle amusement but didn’t say a word, silently urging you on.

“You have a bit of a record of running hot and cold. And while this is obviously the hottest you’ve ever been, and I really mean that in all senses of the word, well…” You fought for the right words, wanting desperately not to push him away, but wanting to honour the twin desire of respecting your own heart.

Jack nodded slowly, letting the faint grey stubble rasp gently across your hands, “That makes a lot of sense.”

A breath you hadn’t realised you were holding released, the desire to run melted into nothingness, your feet stilled.

“I am sorry for being so…unreadable all this time. It was my own selfish way of keeping myself protected while also getting to have tastes of you,” He offered, eyes a little sad.

You just couldn’t help it, the vulnerability of his gorgeous, perpetually cranky man was going to have you on your knees.

He ploughed on, oblivious to the effect his words were having, “It’s not that the tastes weren’t good or that I didn’t want more…they were too good. Too powerful, too…” He shrugged, “fucking scary.”

Tears were threatening to make a fool of you, so you quickly popped onto your tip toes, lips now seeking the warmth of his own. He relinquished his hold on your hands to slide his fingers to the back of your neck and around your waist, drawing you up and up and up until you thought you would float out into space.

Behind you the door crashed open, spilling dozens of children out into the street, rushing to get to school, their parents furiously clucking and scolding and shooing them along. Caught in the swarm, the pair of you clung to each other, cheeks pressed tightly together to maintain some kind of mutual centre of gravity.

“Ok,” You laughed, “Now I seriously have to get you alone.”

Jack gently extracted himself so he could face you again, his large hands still encasing yours.

“As much as I want that…and believe me—,” His eyes were dark, “I want that—I think we should take this slow.”

You ducked your head, something that felt like embarrassment churning in your gut. You were the one just expressing fear at his intentions, and now you were surprised he didn’t want to take you in the street?

He took your chin gently and lifted your eyes up to meet his. So many times, you had found that gaze across a trauma table, something horrible and twisted stretched out between you, so many times you had found trust and respect and understanding in those eyes. They never failed to steady you, then and now.

“I would like to take you out sometime. Somewhere other than the diner across the street from the train station,” He said, earnestness clear in each word.

You couldn’t help it, you laughed.

“You can call me old fashioned,” He said, smile wide, “I don’t care — I’m old.”

You reached up and took his face in your hands, thumbs smoothing across his skin that had seen and weathered a lot of grief and pain. You were ready to show him some joy.

“I’d love that,” Came your simple reply, “And you might be old, but that means you’re wise. And there’s nothing sexier than a man with wisdom.”

He scoffed, wrestling you playfully down under his arm, lightly pinching your side until you shrieked with laughter and danced away.

“You are trouble.” He called, as you skipped away from him, “Trouble!”

In the end he caught you before you could dash up to the train platform, insisting again that his old-fashioned ways wouldn’t allow him to let you take public transport when he had a perfectly good passenger seat in his truck.

You curled comfortably up in the leather, relishing the seat warmer and Jack’s hand sandwiched between both of yours on your lap. Every now and then, you’d peek over your shoulder just so you could see your backpacks sitting next to each other in the backseat. You felt altogether giddy, and at peace - completely beside yourself with your luck.

“It wasn’t luck,” Jack said, eyes not shifting from the road, his free hand placed with precision at 2 o’clock on the wheel. You had said the words aloud without realising, your heart now altogether open.

“Well it feels like luck.” You replied, gently tracing the lines on the back of Jack’s hand. “Very nice dorsal metacarpel veins by the way.”

He let out a puff of a laugh, then repeated himself, “It wasn’t luck.”

“Then what was it, did I subconsciously bewitch you with the speed of my oxygen concentration calculations?”

“They are very impressive; you are way fucking quicker than I will ever be at them. But no,” He looked over at you, “It’s because you are brave.”

You returned to your tracing, but it was difficult to find the lines with tears in your eyes.

“You never let your mistakes define you, you are brave enough to try again. You choose to keep being happy, you are brave enough to keep fighting. You kept seeing something in me, even when I wasn’t brave enough to let you in.”

“Jesus,” You muttered, “This is why you never talk; you’d have people falling to their knees for you every minute of the day.”

His hand in your lap squeezed, “No, that didn’t just come from nowhere. I’ve been thinking those things for a long, long time.”

“You are worth being brave for,” Your words were quiet, but they felt heavy and steady in the space between you both.

You looked up and realised with a start you had made it to your street, your apartment building just a few feet in front of you.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come up? After that speech the least I can do is offer you a tea?”

He reached over and tucked a piece of hair that had escaped from your braid behind your ear, careful not to bump your still healing piercing, “You don’t want me snoring on your couch, which is what I will be doing before the tea cools.”

“No,” You said, returning the favour by tucking a curl behind his ear, “I want you snoring in my bed.”

“God dammit James,” He groaned leaning back into his seat and running his hands over his face, “You are gonna kill me, I swear to God.”

“Don’t sound so—” A yawn overtook your words, “—pleased.”

He gave you a pointed look, “If we’re gonna do this, let’s at least be awake for it.”

You unclipped yourself, leant back into the backseat for your bag (sure to give Jack a full and unobstructed view of your favourite personal asset) and turned to open your door. At the last moment, you twisted back to him, face set.

He raised his eyebrows, a slightly braced smirk sitting on his face.

“If you’re not going to accept a lady’s very polite invitation upstairs then you legally have to do me a favour.”

The eyebrows shot down over a suspecting set of narrowed eyes, “This sounds dangerous.”

“Not at all,” You grinned, “Although…I thought you liked danger.”

“Like I said, you’re gonna kill me.”

“I’ve worked a tough shift Jack. A tough night shift. A girl sometimes needs a little extra something to give her the energy to make it up the front stairs.”

You leaned in with each word, letting your hand trail down his arm from his shoulder until you clasped around his wrist. Mouths inches from each other, you breathed in his anticipation, his hunger.

In one smooth motion you brought his hand to your ass, and closed your lips over his.

Something that tasted awfully like a moan slipped from his tongue to yours, and you relished each little bit of it. His hand squeezed, just a touch, as if unable to help itself. You released him with a pop, schooling your features into an innocent smile, and nudging the door open with your hip.

“I’ll see you at work Dr Abbot.”

A beat. A man restarting his heart, his brain.

“I’ll see you at work Trouble.”

~~~~

all for now, thanks for the luv xo

previous | next

[hedwig221b]

Do you have any recs for angsty sterek fics? The angstier the better!

and anon asked:

Hii. Do you have any angst fics that you could recommend? I mean like some heartbreaking , tear jerking, soul crushing angst. Of course with a happy ending if you know of any?

I have an angst fic recs here, but let's make a part two!

It's All I Can Do by Vanyela

This is what happened the night the Kanima struck at the pool. This is why Stiles really held Derek up and this is what happened when Scott got there two minutes later than a good friend should have. Based off the prompt: "Stiles shoves Derek to the top of the pool even as he’s drowning because Derek is worth so much more than Stiles could ever be."

Optional by Cheshyr

Stiles is acutely aware of the fact that no one really chooses him. They just get stuck with him.

Holy Injuries, Batman! by LadyDrace

Stiles gets hurt. Badly. Getting better turns out to be more of a process than anyone expected, and there are a few surprises along the way.

Empty by modestfuckup

Stiles stops listening to the words the doctor is saying, a stream of tears rolling down his face. His training taught him he has to remain calm. He uses a tissue to blot at the tears as his mind already turns to what is going to happen now. The doctor is talking about his options, and treatments he could undergo, but Stiles knows none of that will work. He’s infertile. With no way to supply his alpha with an heir, he is practically useless. Or the one where Stiles is an infertile omega, and society dictates that if an omega is unable to carry on the alpha's lineage, an alpha is allowed to take another omega. Stiles hides his condition from Derek while he copes and starts the process of finding a new omega for him.

The Mating Privilege by Kikileduc

Stiles and Derek have been happily mated. The pack is doing well, but in hopes of creating alliances for it to do better, Derek accepts a neighboring pack's request to allow two wolves to join the Hale-McCall pack for a full moon cycle. They hope to form a blood-tie, or at least a long term friendship between the two packs. The issue is Kohona, the tribal leader's daughter, has her eyes set on an unavailable alpha wolf. This could have drastic consequences for their young emissary, however…

Abiding By Pack Law by neil4god

Traditionally the Alpha mate must meet certain requirements, however there are always certain exceptions. For every rule there is someone who has broken it, well almost every rule. There is one rule that no-one has ever broken. The alpha's pack must approve the match, if they don't, well a new mate is required. Unfortunately Stiles know he doesn't fit the requirements, the pack hate him, Derek just hasn't realised it yet.

I Shouldn't Love you Anymore by wulfarchival (wyrmwolf)

After Stiles divorces Derek under mysterious reasons, Derek moves out into the middle of nowhere loosing himself to the wolf after the ache in his chest becomes too much. But after weeks of being lost to an animal someone he thought he'd never see again returns in his life. This time to stay forever.

All Derek Ever Wanted by Dexterous_Sinistrous

Stiles knew Derek always wanted a big family. And, for the longest time, he thought he'd be the one to give it to him. Life, devastatingly, has other plans. Prompt: "I've been thinking about omega stiles n alpha derek. They're trying to hav a baby. But one day stiles go to the doc, n he imply that stiles can't get pregnant. Stiles keep it secret and try to make derek divorce him."

This Quiet Torment

Derek has had a crush on Stiles, a young omega who goes to his school since he first laid eyes on him. He has watched him continually come to school with bruises and flesh wounds delivered by his abusive father and all he’s ever wanted to do was help but Stiles never let him get close enough. Until, one night, Stiles ends up at Derek’s house, with more than a flesh wound and Derek will do everything in his power to protect him.

Stay with me by Beautiful_noise

Derek gets a glimpse of the future in which Stiles has two biological daughters and that's how he knows he and Stiles are going to break up.

Leave It All Behind by asarcasticwitch

A coil of panic tightens in his chest as, after just three short rings, Derek’s voice—raspy as if barely awake—echoes through the speaker. “Do you know what time it is?” he grumbles, and at any other time, Stiles would’ve made a joke or retorted with something so sarcastic it would’ve undoubtedly earned him a huff in return. But right now, he can’t think of anything to say.

This Can of Worms by LadyDrace

Derek knows Stiles has been crying, and he's the alpha, dammit, he's supposed to be able to help his pack members. But what is he supposed to do when Stiles won't let him?

all stories deserve an end by bleep0bleep

No one hardly ever comes up to this area of the forest, especially with the rumors of the “mad wizard.” Stiles encourages the rumor, because it means people leave him alone. It’s a good, solitary existence as long as Stiles pretends the aching loneliness in his heart isn’t there.

I Just Need You by beckybrit

“Derek?” He’s surprised at how steady his voice is, considering he’s absolutely terrified. It’s been a long time since he’s been afraid of Derek, but the eyes looking back at him now are full of hate and the promise of death. Stiles shudders but steadfastly refuses to look away. “Derek, I know it doesn’t look like it, but it’s me… Stiles.”

[masterlist link]

[lunarsilver]

What are their sexual fantasies?

18+, minors do not interact

A reading regarding your partner - your current one (asking about their permission would be in good taste), or next one, or the most important one, or your future spouse... Whatever you prefer.

(Psst! I will be grateful for your answer to a simple question.)

REMEMBER

I’m not a doctor, a psychiatrist, a therapist nor a psychologist. Divination will never replace meetings with them.

It’s a general reading, so not everything will resonate.

If you can’t choose between two piles, probably both of them have some messages for you. You can also not identify with any of them, and that’s okay, too.

Readings can help you make a decision, but they shouldn’t be the main reason for making it.

1 ~ 2 ~ 3

PILE 1

Six of Swords - Strength (R) - Three of Wands (R) - Back of the Deck: Knight of Swords (R)

Six of Swords literally fell out as I was shuffling, which suggests to me this one is pretty important. Six of Swords is about change, leaving something behind and going on new endeavors. It looks like they’re really eager to try something new, maybe their earlier experience with intimacy wasn’t the best for them. Then we have Strength in reverse which seems to confirm that they felt or feel kind of trapped, and they fantasize about lashing out their raw emotions. The deck I use does not have a sexual theme, but this specific card has one of the most sensual imagery among all the cards in this deck: a woman, full of confidence, poses in just heels and lower underwear, a bra tossed aside. She’s very flexible and has a snake tattoo on her leg. I think your person wishes to be so flexible and confident in their body. The imagery brings a strip club or a sexy dance for a partner to my mind, and while there is a chance your person would like to see someone doing this kind of act (I guess going to a club like this would fit the theme of trying something new), for most this card is simply about having the courage to embrace one’s body and desires. Reversed Three of Wands says this person experiences some delays, some problems on their way to express themselves, and this leads to frustration. Knight of Swords in reverse confirms that. Your person is pretty frustrated sexually, and for some reason is unable to take action. As a side note, both Six of Swords and Knight of Swords in this deck show swords, so maybe some people here would like to try knife play? What’s interesting is that, in the way they lie now, all these swords point in the same direction, but what is exactly this direction? That’s unclear. Let’s pick up some more cards.

I asked for the reason why your person cannot fulfill themselves sexually and why they feel frustrated, and the cards are Seven of Swords (R), King of Cups, The Tower (R) and at the back there is Six of Cups. To put it short, it looks like they have this mental blockage. They may feel like they aren’t worthy of it, or it simply doesn’t fit them. For some, they grew up taught to think about sexuality as something shameful. I think the King of Cups represents them, and if so, they look really lovely and in tune with their emotions. They are at the start of their personal transformation and rediscovering what they like. No specific fantasies came here in this reading, other than the desire to have the courage to try to do what they are or may be into. It could be good to create a safe space for them, tell them that if they want to try something, you may always discuss it together. Whether you’ll actually do it is another matter, but letting them know having sexual desires isn’t shameful is pretty important here.

PILE 2

The Tower (R) - The Hierophant (R) - Two of Wands (R) - Three of Cups - Back of the Deck: Knight of Wands

Only after I realized I pulled four cards instead of three, I guess they have a lot to say lol. We’re starting with The Tower in reverse, so your person wants some inner change. The Hierophant in reverse is about questioning the rules, about freedom. Your person fantasizes about exploring, most likely about doing some kinky stuff. They’re excited about it, they want to do it, but they’re not ready and lack a proper plan or preparation (Two of Wands in reverse). However, it is clear they fantasize about celebrating their and their partner(s) bodies, treating sex as fun, as shown in Three of Cups. For some, Three of Cups suggests them fantasizing about threesomes. A side note, but a lot of cards show some pets, some on a leash, and I cannot help but wonder whether your person fantasizes about some kind of pet play. I think the reversed Knight of Wands at the back represents your person: impulsive, ready to action, fiery and with high libido, but probably they should do some research first. I felt like pulling some charms, asking what this person has to tell you, and the messages are “it will be better”, “I am with you”, “you are a master” (or maybe they want to say you are their master; whether “the master of their heart” or a master as in a BDSM dynamic - I feel like for quite a lot of you, pile 2, your person is a proud bottom, maybe a power bottom or a little a brat lol), “do what you love”, “you can count on me” and “fresh perspective”.

PILE 3

Ten of Cups - The Empress - Knight of Cups - Back of the Deck: The Magician

Okay, all upright, three out of four cards show people, two Major Arcana and two cards of Cups, plus three out of four cards are mainly pink and red. This person knows what they want and they like to be as clear as possible, they’re emotional and aren’t ashamed of it, that’s what I get right off the bat. Ten of Cups shows they’re pretty romantic, they fantasize about an ideal, fulfilling, committed relationship. The Empress and Knight of Cups represent you and this person - and I feel like for most of you, you are represented by the Empress and they are Knight of Cups, given how romantic and emotional Knight of Cups is, and how romantic is your person. The Empress and Knight of Cups look at each other from their respective cards. They look tenderly, smiling a little, and their eyes are on the same level. This person clearly fantasizes about an equal relationship, where at the same time they can adore you and spoil you. The Magician at the back suggests they manifest this relationship. Like, your person is so sweet, I asked about sexual fantasies and all that came out is that they want love. As an afterthought, the Empress is the only card having different colors than the rest, which only further proves the rest of cards is their energy and the Empress is you. I asked for some messages from your person to you and pulled out these charms: “I’ve been looking for you everywhere :*”, “I love your smile”, “something nice will happen to you”, “it makes me want to live”.

[kinardsevan]

houston, we got a problem

Tommy is mildly panicked when he walks into their home. He’s just come off his first day back at work after the shooting and is excited for him and Evan to have their first ninety-six off living in the same home. It wasn’t supposed to actually work out that way—he was supposed to have gone back to work earlier in the week—but his doctors had held him off for a little longer, and then with the process of Evan repacking all of his things and moving out of Eddie’s house, the time between of availability for them had dwindled away during his final recovery days. But now they have this, and he expects it to be great. As it is, it’s the first time they’ll really get to enjoy each other’s company fully since getting back together, since Tommy is considered officially healed. At least…

“Babe?” He calls out through the house as he slips his shoes off. “Did you hear me about the movie? I think we can still get those reservations, too.” 

The house is silent, but he knows Evan’s truck is in the driveway, and briefly he wonders if he younger man decided to take a nap after getting home from his shift. A smile drifts across Tommy’s face at the idea of crawling in next to Evan in their bed. They’ve certainly had their share of post-shift naps together, both at the loft and in this house—but this would be the first one in their bed, their home. The context of that is just as exciting as dinner and a movie. 

He walks through the house, little more noise than the sound of his socks on shag carpetting and the rustle of his jeans as they brush together, until he comes around the corner of the kitchen into the bedroom and his eyes fall on a familiar, small velvet box sitting on top of the dresser. His jaw drops open slightly as panic floods through him. He isn’t sure at all how to approach this topic, but as his gaze drifts over to Evan sitting on the end of the bed, the panic flooding the middle of his chest widens and deepens. The younger man does not look excited or even nervous, but instead upset. 

It takes everything inside Tommy to reel himself in—to remind himself that when he made the choice to break up with Evan a few months back, that choice hadn’t ended well—rather it had ended with Evan at his bedside in a hospital, telling him that there wasn’t another person out there who he wanted to be his last, and that he was head over heels in love with the pilot. Given the moves they’ve made forward in their relationship since, even though his own past trauma would like to suggest that maybe Evan has changed his mind, he knows that, logically, that’s very unlikely. 

“Baby?” 

Evan’s gaze doesn’t lift, and he doesn’t move, and after a moment, Tommy hears him sniffle, and his heart sinks. He picks up the box where it’s been left on the dresser and drops it back into the sock drawer before walking across the space between the door and the bed and kneeling down in front of his boyfriend. 

“I-I’m sorry,” Evan stammers. Tommy lifts a hand to his cheek, tilts the younger man’s face up more so he can see him clearly, and Evan looks so defeated that it twists a knife in his chest. 

“No, baby, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he answers, brushing his thumb back and forth on Evan’s cheekbone. “What’s going on?” 

Evan shakes his head, tears falling down his face, and it’s the first time that Tommy realizes the younger man has been crying. And as much as he’s trying to choose logic over emotions, he knows that whatever Evan is about to tell him has been weighing on him for more than just a few hours. 

“I-…” He inhales shakily, blinking and sending more tears down his face, over the back of Tommy’s hands as the pilot stares up at him wide-eyed, full of concern. “S-should be happy.” 

“You’re not?” Tommy says carefully, still forcing himself to toe the line. Evan turns his head, leaning into the pilot’s touch, and it’s mildly calming. He wouldn’t turn into him if he wanted to break up, right? 

“W-wanna be,” Evan answers, his voice shaking. “Feels- feels like I should- I should be. Everything has- …it’s good now. Everyone is- a-and we’re-..” 

Understanding sinks down over Tommy like the start of a midmorning drizzle, dripping into him one tiny drop at a time. He’s been here before, and he knows exactly what Evan means. 

“Okay, look at me,” he answers, his tone much firmer with the realization of what’s going on. Evan’s gaze lifts, but he doesn’t look any more settled or out of pain. 

“It’s been a tough fucking year for you,” he tells the younger man. “Lightning strike, changes in sexuality, Eddie left and came back, Maddie got kidnapped, we broke up, and I almost died. Even one or two of those events is a lot.” 

Evan sniffles and tries to look away, but Tommy turns his head back toward the pilot and forces his boyfriend to keep holding his gaze. 

“Y-you bought a ring, a-and I sho-should be ecstatic-..” 

Tommy scrunches his face in response, baffled at Evan’s determination to believe he should just suck it all up and give the expected response. 

“Did you hear anything I just said,” the pilot asks. 

“I’m needy and make everything about myself,” Evan tells him. “T-the break-up, Eddie leaving, w-when I called you while Maddie was- was gone. Fuck, Tommy, the- the shooting-..” 

“You were hurting,” his boyfriend reminds him, his tone almost angry. “Needing support doesn’t mean that you’re selfish. You deserve to have people there for you when you’re struggling.” 

Evan inhales and exhales wordlessly, more tears coming down his face. There’s a mountain of a statement not being made about how Tommy has been the only person to ever tell him that, to show up for him in the dark times and bring some light along with it, to love him through his ridiculousness. 

“They- they had more important things-..” 

“And that doesn’t mean that you don’t get to hurt too,” Tommy counters. “This is not the trauma olympics.” His gaze trails over Evan, taking in his demeanor. The way he seemed to curl in on himself, almost rejecting of what Tommy was telling him. And the thing was, for all the conversations they’d had about the places they’d lacked love and support in their lives, had struggled being on their own, he’d always held some degree of faith that the family his boyfriend had created around the 118 did something to show up and support him. 

And yet. 

“I’m exhausting,” Evan mutters, and it breaks something inside Tommy. 

“You are anything but that,” Tommy tells him, his tone bordering on argumentative. “You deserve love and support. You get that, right?” When Evan doesn’t look up at him, Tommy’s hand grips just a little bit tighter against his cheek, and he bobs his head forward to drive the point home. “Right?” 

“Sure,” Evan whispers. 

Tommy shakes his head, tilting Evan’s chin up toward him again. 

“Listen to me. You deserve all of those things,” he insists. “And if everything is too much right now, then we’ll figure it out. We’ll make some phone calls, you can take some time off work-..” 

“I’ve already been out since the shooting too much-..” 

“And that’s what paid time off is for,” Tommy counters. “I know you well enough to know that you haven’t used it all. And I know Bobby well enough that he’ll make you take the time to ensure you’re taking care of yourself more than just physically.” 

Evan opens his mouth to respond, his expression letting on that he’s about to try and counter Tommy, but the older man won’t be dismissed so easily. 

“Evan.” 

His boyfriend meets his gaze, his eyes brimming with more tears. “What?” 

“We’re going to figure it out,” Tommy says softly to him. “You can rest, and put yourself first. Let the people who love you put your first.” 

Evan sniffles again, the tears in his eyes coming down his face. It takes more than a few seconds, but eventually, he nods. Tommy stands and moves into the spot next to him, still keeping one hand on his face as Evan turns his head toward him. 

“What do you want to do,” he asks softly. “Not in the grand scheme, but right this second? What can I do for you?” 

Evan gulps, his gaze low. “I’m just so tired.” 

Tommy nods. “Okay. Do you want to lay down? Can I hold you? Would that help?” 

Evan nods, and then Tommy moves them up the bed. The younger man curls up tightly against him, but it’s not like how they normally are. Instead of Evan laying half on top of him, his body is rigid at Tommy’s side, like being tightly wound is all he can do to hold himself together. 

The pilot reaches over and combs a hand through Evan’s hair, brushing his thumb against Evan’s jaw when his hand settles. He feels the wetness against his t-shirt as they lie there. 

“‘m sorry,” Evan mutters softly, tucking his face into his hand against Tommy’s chest. 

“No, baby,” the pilot answers just as quietly. “Rest, Evan. Just let go. I’m right here.” 

There’s a period of roughly two or three minutes, where the only sounds in the room is their breathing, and the occasional sniffle. And then, like a wave cresting, it makes landfall and he feels the change against his chest as the tears come fast, the sniffles turn to sobs, and the walls come down. And for all the ways he’s had to let Evan in over the past few months, this might be the first time he’s really seen the younger man break. 

Selfishly, he wants to know who ever told his boyfriend that he was selfish or exhausting for being in pain. He wants to knock their lights out. But for now, he’ll settle for being the comfort. When Evan finally gives in to uncurling, letting the weight of all of his emotions settle over them and the urge that that brings to cling tighter to Tommy, the pilot holds him tighter, speaks softer affirmations to him. 

And then eventually, after a little while, the younger man seems to settle, if for no other reason than exhaustion. Tommy loosens his grip as Evan does, but he doesn’t let go. He feels the way Evan’s breathing deepens against him, and lays quietly next to him, making a mental checklist of what they’ll need to get done over the next few days. 

The younger man doesn’t doze long. After about twenty minutes, he rouses and lifts his head, looking up at Tommy. The pilot stares back at him quietly, observing him. He practically see the way Evan wants to apologize again brimming just beneath the surface, but he doesn’t say it. And then before long, the younger man is settling against him once more, his head on the pillow right beside Tommy’s. 

“You wanted to ask me to marry you,” Evan whispers. 

Tommy inhales a deep breath. He still wasn’t entirely prepared for that conversation today. 

“I still do,” the pilot answers, looking over at him. “But—and I’m not saying this in a bad way—I’d like to table that for when you’re feeling better. For when we’re both in a better headspace to dive into all that that means.” He’s quiet briefly, letting Evan consider his words. “Is that okay?” 

He sees the way Evan’s chin trembles and the way he tries to stuff down his feelings, sniffling instead of giving in to the tears. He nods and then tilts his head against Tommy’s shoulder, and the way he exhales feels a lot to Tommy like a sigh of relief, driving his entire point home that they’ll wait until he’s in a better place. 

“I’ve got you, Evan,” he whispers before pressing a kiss to the younger man’s forehead. “We’re going to be okay. I’ve got you.” 

[this-is-exorsexism]

i'm seeing a rise right now of binary trans people saying how nonbinary oppression is very different from trans oppression. spoiler: they don't mean the fact that we experience exorsexism and they don't.

every time in the last few days i've seen this the phrasing has already been deeply exorsexist. "nonbinary vs trans", as if most nonbinary people aren't trans themselves. it's also always "nonbinary = not medically transitioning" and "not medically transitioning = less oppressed", which is not how any of this works. they also seem to think that all medical transition is visible from the outside. it's not. i want a hysterectomy one day. it's medical transition. you can't see it from the outside. firstly, why are you assuming nonbinary people who medically transition don't exist? are you just acting like they're trans men and women? is your distinction between "trans" and "nonbinary" that trans people medically transition while nonbinary people don't? fuck your truscum ass. the amount of scrutiny, discomfort, harassment, violence you face also isn't fully related to whether you medically transition or not. i've been asked invasive questions about my genitals ever since i hit puberty. even fellow transgender people have weird ways of trying to figure out what my "real gender" is, i.e. what my genitals are but you all aren't ready for that conversation. i've been harassed in public bathrooms. i've faced dismissal of my actual problem from doctors due to my gender. people call me he and she in mostly equal amounts. none of this lines up with their narrative of the non-medically transitioning nonbinary person who is always perceived as one binary gender (and that gender is usually female because everyone thinks we're women lite). what i don't (currently) have to deal with is getting a gender dysphoria diagnosis, fight for gender-affirming medical care, worry about my prescription being taken away. this isn't exclusive to nonbinary people though. there are binary trans people who don't medically transition, too, but i guess according to this idea soaked in transmedicalism, these people don't exist, or you're just misgendering them as nonbinary.

a lot of binary transgender people treat us the way cisgender people treat them. many seem to feel threatened that us weirdos who won't choose a side have quite a lot in common with them, actually.

when nonbinary people talk about exorsexist oppression, we're either straight up told to shut up or not listened to at all. we're told we're being divisive by talking about our own experiences (and we have to, because again, research doesn't really include us), when the people doing the dividing are binary trans people going "we have nothing in common with those people", treating us like we cannot be trans etc. it's a tale as old as time: the more privileged people within a group separating themselves from the less "respectable"/more marginalised people within the group and then accusing them of being divisive.

i'm sick and tired of binary transgender people theorising about what it's like being nonbinary. we're not hypotheticals. we're not thought experiments. we're real human beings you can listen to.

yes, our experiences are a bit different. but not because nonbinary people are less oppressed. because nonbinary people experience an extra layer of oppression that binary trans people don't: exorsexism.