Ford Might Have Misunderstood The Assignment

Me,when it comes out:

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possessed!scholar husband x reader |18+| 3.8k

in an act of self-preservation, your family marries you off into an exorbitantly wealthy family. it's a loveless marriage to a reclusive and reticent man. one day, he informs you of leaving to handle the last affairs of his deceased uncle's estate. when he later returns, you're convinced this man is not your husband...

story warnings; dark content, dubcon, explicit sexual details, masturbation (mc), mirror sex, implications of sadism, classism, animal death (mentioned briefly), grotesque details + body horror, murder, pseudo-victorian setting, I am well aware that this is not how Victorian marriages would've gone — bite me 👊🏻, detail + prose heavy, roughly proofread

this is a concept piece #1 for my upcoming project: the lord of phantasm. please let me know if you'd like me to post the other concept pieces!

sequel piece: root rot

reposted from my deleted blog: theoxenfree.

if you enjoyed, please leave feedback + reblog to help your girl out 💓

In the airless dark of your bedroom at night, you knew the man lying next to you under covers was not your husband. Once he had been, but now he no longer was.

The revelation had come to you before noticing the stillness of his broad frame in bed, certain stiffness which seemed more alike to rigor in a days old corpse rather than a man wrapped in the comforting spell of deep sleep.

His breaths were silent, if he even breathed at all, reminding you of childhood where the floorboards wouldn't creak so loudly if you sucked all the air out from your lungs into your throat, snagging it, holding it firm. Suddenly, you'd be lighter; effervescent; floating across the wooden slabs towards the kitchen past midnight, or out the front door during the years where testing your parent’s patience and fraying the head maid’s nerves was your favorite thing to do.

You’d learned later on, after the loveless vows and complicated legality behind joining your two families, that your husband had a knack for slipping away at night as well. Only, he wasn't at all the sort for flirtatious gallivanting and loquacious rendezvous with secret lovers in dim rooms, smells of mildew masked by a numbingly sweet, perfumey fog.

He was reclusive and reticent; one of those outstandingly brilliant scholars who believed the rest of the world was below him because he hadn't found an equal in conversation or thought. Social obligations—no matter the occasion or person—pained him to where he intentionally brought you as a buffer between himself and whomever was trying to speak to him.

Some of the talk was so astronomically beyond you that parroting the long-winded answers he spoke softly into your ear back to his audience made you burn under the collar from embarrassment and his proximity to you. His peers could not understand why he simply wouldn't talk for himself; meanwhile, they also wondered why someone without their level of formal education had even accompanied him.

At night, he became one with darkness and retreated to the depths of his study across the massive house you shared together. It was part of one of his family’s various estates dotted across the country and his favorite, due to its location near the university where he worked (at his leisure), and its closeness to his only relative he actually cared about.

“My uncle—he has passed. Of complications caused from tuberculosis, I've been told. I was the only family member placed in his will, therefore it falls to me to settle all remaining affairs he may have overlooked,” he said, letting you help him into his heavy, wool coat he left on a hook near the front door. At his side was a hulking suitcase; one he often used for trips that were days—weeks away from home, from you. “He was a far more private man than I, so there's no telling what I'll come across while I'm there. I cannot tell you how long I'll be away. I'm sorry.”

You expected nothing less from him. This man who had only ever touched you once, on your wedding day. He did everything that he was supposed to: tonelessly regurgitate scripted vows he committed to memory, hold your hands, and kiss you at the altar for more than two seconds but less than five, and then gently lead you away once both families were pleased with the performance.

Right after, now as newlyweds, he poured bourbon into exquisite crosshatch crystalware and examined the glistening amber under wan lamplight. He apologized for kissing you, that he wouldn't have had at all if it hadn't been so important for your families.

At the time, it made you feel very ugly and undeserving of the silk and ornate lacework decorating your body. The gold band fitted around your finger was a lofty symbol of acquired wealth, heavy and unforgiving.

“Write to me every once and a while,” was all you could think to say at present, managing your composure well enough as he gripped the handle of his suitcase and leaned into its heftiness on that side. “It'd just be nice to know how you're doing. If you find anything interesting. When you'll be coming home. It gives me something to look forward to.”

“I'll try to,” he said, but looked through you, pierced you, as though trying to see something else. You saw this look most often at events or parties where he'd fixate on a specific point (usually you) and seem to recede inside himself, into his thoughts, perhaps trying to dissect them or make them congeal into something linear.

“Uncle was an eccentric man. There's no telling what he's left behind for me to find. I must go. Be well, my dear.”

Once again, he left you behind without remorse.

Four months passed with agonizing, gripping slowness from the crisp mornings of late autumn into the icy vise of winter and a shimmering white-blue landscape outside your windows. In those days, you occupied yourself as best you could with guests and alcoholic merriment, whisked yourself away to parties and dinners after wringing out the invitations from friends, and spent many sleepless nights sprawled across the floor beside the fireplace coveting self-pleasure.

You imagined it was your husband there with you, immediately a renewed man after his return and finding you boundlessly desirable, fucking you with his cock rather than the freezing metal dildo you thrust inside yourself.

Even once you were finished, fucked out by your own hand and the object gaping you wide, you kept masturbating until you lost sensation, the motions and metal numbing you inside—until the intimacy and thrill of self-discovery had lost meaning to you.

Sometimes, you were found the next morning by a maid like that: thoroughly debauched with the phallus having rolled away nearby or still shallowly pressed inside. You only needed to threaten her livelihood once for her to never speak of it, pretend each time she hadn't witnessed a regrettable case of personal depravity.

It'd eventually become a frequent enough sight to her that she knew better than to look directly at you when she entered the room. Rather, now, she carried a laundered pair of trousers in with her. They were draped neatly over a bent arm, along with a warm and soapy rag in her hand, which she used to lightly clean you of dried fluids. Afterward, she helped you into the new garment.

“You have received a letter from the Master,” she said unexpectedly one morning, after fastening your pants and tucking your blouse inside them. “It's strange, though, because it doesn't feel like a letter. Not enough… substance. Shall I open it for you?”

“No! No, that's alright.” You took the long, pale envelope from her once she revealed it to you, realizing that she was right. There was nothing to it. Light as a feather, but completely sealed on the back with his personal emblem hastily stamped, or more appropriately, smeared, with red wax dribbling away from center towards the bottom of the envelope as if sudden jerkiness had unsteadied his focused pour.

You flipped the thing front to back several times, testing the way the opposite ends fluttered from nothingness within, and glanced aside to your maid.

She looked to be just as thrown.

“You're sure this is from him?” you asked, bemused. “Who delivered this?”

“Why, a courier on horseback, of course!” she said with conviction, so you knew she wasn't lying to you at that moment. It wasn't her habit to weave tales to get a rise out of her employers, anyway. “I even spoke to the courier for a while because I made a comment about it being so light. He wasn't sure about it, either, but the description of the man who hired him matched the Master almost exactly.”

You had found a letter opener on the desk nearby and made a quick cut under the wax to break the seal without ripping the envelope itself.

“Almost? What does that mean here?” you raised the intact flap with the messy seal attached, freeing all of the residual tracks of wax from the paper so that they fell to the hardwood below like pebbles shaken out of a shoe after a stroll through the yard. “The man was either my husband or he wasn't.”

The maid tried to subdue her intrigue of the envelope, turned, and moved onto bunching up the soiled sheet you'd spread out on the floor last night. “Please don't misunderstand. It was him. But, the courier described him as ‘a very interesting and friendly fellow to converse with’.”

“What?”

You were responding to two things simultaneously right then: what your maid had just told you, and the fact that the only content inside the envelope was a single shred of paper torn from an unlined journal.

The maid fluttered back over to your side as you plucked out the slither of paper, letting the envelope fall freely from your hand to the floor. Leaning into your proximity, she read aloud the same three words that your eyes skimmed:

“Father Marius DuMonde.”

Just as you had done before with the envelope, you flipped the scrap back and forth as though trying to magically flip something into existence. Your husband's handwriting was recognizable in the lettering, but it was impatient; scrawled across a page in one journal in his vast collection like he hurriedly walked past, and then ripped it out.

Nothing else was revealed to you in the seconds after, nor in your long, contemplative stare.

“Who is that?” you asked the maid to alleviate a fast yawning gap of uneasiness beginning to make you fidget and fluster. “A priest?”

The maid beamed in awe of your fast deductive skills and nodded eagerly. “It would seem that way! The city has more places of worship than it does homes for the hungry and sick. Although, I suppose a church offers some of those services.” However, the lightness sank out of her face when you didn't reciprocate that enthusiasm whatsoever. “You’re unhappy? What's wrong?”

“My husband is a scholar. A rigid man of science,” you said, bending over to pick up the discarded envelope to closer examine the disastrous wax seal. “He denounces faith in all forms. Why did he write a priest's name to me?”

That maddening thought followed you for days afterward, sufficiently distracting you from all the regular vices you'd come to rely on to fill the void of your husband's absence. Fulfill the needs he'd never tried to meet even while he was around.

You spent your days brooding in the window seats in whichever room was warmest, molding against their domed shape while leaning a cheek flush to frigid glass, eyes bloodshot and watering against the sun’s searing neon reflecting off of a lawn of undiluted, glittering white.

Seldomly, a finch or small vermin would come into your view—hopping or lunging through the snow, making tracks, digging holes, disturbing your beautiful wonderland and almost arousing you into unreasonable outbursts which then inevitably became the servants responsibility to contend with, should any be nearby to provoke you.

It was the early evening during one of your normal watches, just after dinner and a glass of red wine, when a great clamor carried swiftly to you from the foyer of the main entrance. The servants’ voices were a feverish amalgam of nonsensical babbling, high-pitched, and accommodating in a way that made you think of groveling dogs with flattened ears, wagging and tucked tails, bellies upturned to their masters.

“Come! Come quickly!” called your maid from the sitting room door, her shrill, excitable voice a violent jostling in your head, scrambling your thoughts and anger with it. “Master has returned! He's asking for you.”

You delayed the reunion, waiting several minutes after she had gone before standing. You realized that the anticipation you felt swelling in your chest, rising like growth—a malignant tumor into your throat, thickening your tongue and fouling your taste and smell, was because you were uneasy, haunted by the cryptic message he had presumably sent you weeks ago.

A while later, you entered the foyer to see most of the staff had already dispersed and the ones left behind were your husband’s most loyal. There among them, speaking so unremarkably, so casually in a way you'd never witnessed, was your husband. His good spirits and animated gestures as he handed off all his things to many hands were an odd sight, staggeringly unlike his typical dour.

So, the rumor was true. There was something discomforting in that.

Whatever topic he'd been engaged in fell wayside once he took sight of you: standing, waiting, subtly shifting your weight, picking your overgrown cuticles to remedy how nervous you truly felt in that moment. You'd always been a little uncertain of how to deal with him as he was hardly affable, but this—

“Oh my… there you are, my sweet!” his voice was exactly the same, but his way of speaking was too jarring, almost lilting. Unnatural. No one else seemed to notice. “I was worried you may have been cross with me for being away for so long. As it turned out, uncle had far more beneath the surface to find than I once thought. But, all is well! The old man has been laid to rest forever. The estate is in the right hands. I've come back to you.”

Could this man really be your husband?

He came to you in brisk strides with a certain clumsiness to the way he moved, somewhat off. You thought about seasoned drunkards who could walk along a path, but never on a straight line without gently swaying on and off of it. Mostly in control, but never so well to appear normal.

But, you didn't detect that stiff, hot, fermented reek of alcohol on his breath nor any subtle odor sticking to his clothes as he gripped you tight in an embrace. The only one he'd ever given you. Where you should have been over the moon in joy at his profound change in heart, the little sweetness was like an anchor—arms of a sinewy willow pinning you to an even stronger trunk.

“God, you're breathtaking.” He even sounded winded as he spoke, lifting your face up with both hands to see his dark, dark gleaming eyes. You startled from his cold touch, fingertips pinpricks of pure frost and ice as they pushed into your skin, but you felt trying to reach much deeper than that. “Come with me, my love. Let me show you just how much I've missed you.”

As if fantasy had become real, he fucked you relentlessly that night next to the fireplace, consuming you so completely that every orgasm made your insides churn in agony.

He laved at you with his entire mouth, tongue and teeth hardest at work while his hands bruised and fondled you, fingers thrusting up into your tight hole oozing his saliva and your arousal. It was shameful to think that it took this sort of handling from another person to get you off, squeal like a sow.

He fucked you however he could, wherever he could. Rutting you from behind and against furniture, pressing your bare chest flush to frosted over window panes to make your nipples erect and ache from the cold biting them. Then, you were settled on his lap in front of a mirror hanging adjacent across the bedroom, his thighs spreading you wide open before your own reflection where you watched his cock plunge deep, filling you to the base of his shaft, balls slapping your sticky skin.

“Touch yourself, darling.” His throat rumbled, turning over stones and shards of glass, overall sounding very husky. There was something of wheeze that trailed the end of his every word, like he’d been patched for a long time. “Touch yourself. Watch yourself while you do it. Fuck yourself like the whore you are.”

Although the things he said were horribly uncouth, unbefitting of a man of his status and who you'd known him to be, there was great allure in hearing him, obeying his wants. You'd only had one glass of wine that evening, but your head and body warmed and buzzed like you'd had several.

His voice was a raspy whisper in your ears, seeping deep into your mind; spreading; fitting the grooves of your brain like the slow sprawl of sap through the gaps in bark. You were hardly yourself those minutes, those hours onward where you witnessed your reflection stroking throbbing parts, moaning, weeping, cumming until it hurt, and then doing it all over again.

The person in the mirror seemed to be someone completely different, whether simply disassociation from yourself or some hallucination evoked by exhaustion and ecstacy. Your husband had faded into the background, his voice creating sounds and noises, holding the cadence of language while seeming entirely unprobable, unknowable to you.

You couldn't understand him, yet you could, and the things he said were vile and disgusting and moralless. He told you of every way he'd like to fuck you, watch you be fucked; but, mostly, he wanted you to fuck yourself with the bulbous bedposts, the metal phallus held under lashing flames to be inserted next to his own cock.

He suggested orgies where the servants could take turns with you. He had almost convinced you to call for your maid so he could watch you suck on her breasts and lick her clit, while he rammed you from the back. He suggested drugs and whores, robbing the mortuaries, and worse and worse and worse and worse…

The next morning, you were stiff and immobile, bedridden unless two servants came into your room to help you squat on the commode. Your abdomen was tender and your genitals were untouchable, forcing you to lie in bed without undergarments to alleviate the raw chafing that could happen with fabric.

“I'm sorry, my darling. I—I lost control of myself. I got carried away,” your husband confessed later on, his sallow complexion keeping a weird, waxy sheen to it. A mask that fits, but not quite perfectly. Some of his former somber nature had returned to him as he sat on the edge of your bed, caressing the side of your face. He was still ridiculously cold. “Forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. I didn't realize just how desperate I was to see you again until you were in my arms. And then—and then, it was like it was all a dream.”

You thought the very same. You could believe he forgot himself in an uncharacteristic blaze of lust, as men were never taught to be any other way, and most men couldn't fathom the level of restraint he’d had until last night.

Everything else, you'd wanted to believe, was simply imagined after drinking more than you once thought and getting inside your own head full of sinful indulgences.

Still, one thing bothered you: Father Marius DuMonde.

“I need you to go to the city and find him. And show him this paper. Explain to him everything that you know, you hear?” You'd handed your maid the old envelope and scrap of paper, and handed her a generous bag of coins from your own safe. She looked at you, everything else, in bewilderment. “Don't ask questions. If you're able, bring him back here. Beg him if you must. If it's all nothing, he will simply be an honored guest we feed well, house, and send off gracefully the next day. Should it be something…”

“Are you afraid of him? The Master?” asked the maid, perhaps out of faithfulness to him. Perhaps out of devotion to you the most. “What do you think happened at his uncle's estate?”

It would all be speculation and unjustified gossip without proof, of which you had none. So, you told her that you couldn't be sure of anything right now. “Wait until sundown. Take the old pony in the stables, the one that usually lags behind all the rest. Be silent. Be careful.”

The maid did as you asked and left right before the final light was extinguished by indigo nightfall. You were able to move to one of the windows, seating yourself gingerly, watching her lead the sluggish old pony into cover of tree tops and then nothing else.

But, five days later, the maid hadn't returned from her mission, nor had you received any correspondence from her, nor the priest that she was supposed to retrieve.

A week after that, it was revealed to you that neither she or the old pony had made it out of the woods. The details of the old pony were so gruesome you couldn't bear to remember them. But, the maid was found nearly decapitated, head twisted around to face backwards, her pale skin hideously purple and black and swelled where it had been stretched like a strap of wrung leather. It was mentioned she had been disemboweled as well, but you promptly burst into tears and ran from the room before the visiting coroner could finish speaking, leaving him to discuss the rest with just your husband.

That night, you lay next to your husband in bed. The deep silence of night filled your ears with static and crunching cotton, whereas a hum resonated inside your head, your chest, seeping into your bones like a cold blanket of rainfall. The black air took on weird shapes: imagined appendages curling, reaching across the ceiling towards the bed, towards you. Your eyes couldn't focus enough to ward them off, nor the depth of dark your husband's silhouette had at your side.

He was faced the other way, his clothes back to you, completely unmoving. You ventured closer to listen for the thin breathing of sleep, the automatic rise and fall of his body, and yet he could've been mistaken as one of the dead. As dead and gnarled as your maid.

“Who are you?” you asked him. Asked the swirling nothingness in the room. “Where is my husband?”

“You've nothing to worry about, my sweet,” he said readily, so clearly anticipating to have your voice ring out at some point in the night. “He is here with me. Such a selfish, unlovable man. I am the one worthy of this vessel and you. Not he.”

Then, he rolled on top of you and kissed you deeply. Your bedclothes were shucked from your bodies and he pushed your thighs apart to seat himself inside of you. He took you with greedy thrusts, face fitted against the arch of your neck where his breath left a moist film across your skin, but the rest of him was freezing.

Your whimpers of pains were dwarfed by his hot moans into your flesh, teeth suddenly sharper and sinking deep when he bit into your neck. You were trapped staring at the ceiling, wrapped in agony and pleasure, feeling his body under your fingertips beginning to distort and change into something far more monstrous.

a/n; the upcoming story is meant to be my take on the whole possession subgenre in horror. if you're interested in reading it, I suggest you stick around my blog bc I do intend to start working on the actual story here in the next month or so!!

also, father marius dumonde is the same priest from my vampire priest x reader fic—of flesh sin. so, father shaw will be making a reappearance in it.

𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐃 — f. megumi, i. yuuji

─── Caught between a man with a hidden curse inside his body and another man carrying the heavy burden of his father's sins, your fate was sealed the second you crossed paths with both of them.

genre — bd!megumi, soulmate!AU, love triangles

overall warnings — language, explicit smut, aged up!characters, pregnancy, violence, degrading language, possessiveness, angst, mentions of suicide, non-canon compliant, dark content, reader discretion is advised

author's note — this is a repost of one of my very first jjk series here on tumblr. i will be rewriting some scenes as my style has changed and evolved over the years and i wanted to reflect that growth

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ rbs to boost is very much appreciated !!

playlist 🥀

𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐗

chapter 1 ⋆ ★ chapter 2 ⋆ ★ chapter 3 ⋆ ★ chapter 4 ⋆ ★ chapter 5 ⋆ ★ chapter 6 ⋆ ★ chapter 7 ⋆ ★ chapter 8 ⋆ ★ chapter 9 ⋆ ★ chapter 10 ⋆ ★ chapter 11 ⋆ ★ chapter 12 ⋆ ★ chapter 13 ⋆ ★ chapter 14 ⋆ ★ chapter 15 ⋆ ★ chapter 16 ⋆ ★ chapter 17 ⋆ ★ chapter 18 ⋆ ★ chapter 19 ⋆ ★ chapter 20 ⋆ ★ finale ✧. ┊   alternative ending

all rights to the storyline is reserved by ©️ lalunanymph. do not copy, repost, or claim as your own.

Jjk flight attendants

YOU KNOW WHO THIS MOTHERFUCKER LOOK LIKE LOWKEY??

LOOOOK

𝐀𝐌𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐀 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

pairing. Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru. Nanami Kento. Zenin Toji. Ryōmen Sukuna x f!reader

summary. due to an accident you find yourself, with a severe form of amnesia, transported into worlds and situations unknown to you. Every day you wake up and live the same days but in different parallel lives, in the arms of a different guy, who loves you in a different way — each of them, however, will be a piece of the puzzle to regain your memories

genre. reverse harem, romance, smut, angst, fantasy

chapters:

Keep reading

evanescence bring me to life and britney spears toxic are sisters to me

Fucking two bad bitches at the same damn time 🎶

THREE'S A HOME — caleb. zayne.

after disaster strikes, your two boyfriends make an unplanned visit to your apartment and together, the three of you redefine what it means to be a home

୨୧───pairings caleb x zayne x you

୨୧───warnings medic combat zayne, fighter pilot caleb, polyamory, threesome (f/m/m), jealousy, blood and injury, unresolved sexual tension, double penetration, nipple play, oral sex, multiple orgasms, p in v sex, anal sex, explicit sexual content, awkward romance, mdni, 18+

୨୧───dawn says applesnow girlies i did this to see something.....

Goddammit. There’s an insane lunatic banging on your apartment door at 4.37AM.

The loud echoes reverberate across the walls, almost shaking your windows, and you jolt straight from bed, shoving your feet into a pair of pink cat slippers as you rush towards the front door.

Caution tells you to make sure the other person at the end wasn’t some psycho-murderous killer, and you peep through the keyhole only to find blank darkness greeting you. 

Huh? Your sluggish, sleep-deprived mind doesn’t register that someone could be covering the peephole, and driven by a lack of self-preservation (read: destructive curiosity), you pry open the door.

Immediately, the scent of blood hits you, and you’re looking right into a pair of frantic emerald-green eyes. 

“We don’t have time to explain—”

Your boyfriend Zayne pushes past you, and in his arms, he’s holding up your other boyfriend who looks like a train has wrecked him—his jacket is torn, duffel bag hanging limply off his shoulder, and… holy shit. Your eyes widen. 

“Caleb! Your shoulder—”

It’s bleeding.

Caleb shoots you a woozy grin as he stumbles past your threshold. “Heyyyy sweet cheeks. Miss us?” 

You stand there for a second, unsure what to do when Zayne hisses, “Close the door!” 

Hastening, you do as he says and slam the door shut. Your hands are shaking, breaths coming out in harsh pants, but this isn’t the time to freak out. From the stormy look on Zayne’s face to Caleb barely holding onto his consciousness, you can guess as much that this little pitstop wasn’t sanctioned by their superiors.

There’s so much you want to ask them—why are they here? Why did they come back? 

Where did they disappear for days without leaving you so much as a goddamn note? 

And, why, in the name of all that is catastrophic, is Caleb wounded? 

Zayne peeks at you over his shoulder, the sleeves of his combat medic jacket rolled up. The camo clashes with his pale pallor, giving him a deathly grimness. “Love, we need you to focus. Can you do that? Can you get a first aid kit?” 

As a doctor, he’s trained to stay calm in these situations, whereas you’re halfway through a hyperventilation party for one. But, he snaps you back to earth, clicking his tongue.

“Focus. First aid kit. Where is it?” 

Your stiff lips move. “Zaynie… I don’t think it’ll help him. How about a hospital—?”

“We can’t,” he snaps, and you’re taken aback. You’ve seen Zayne conduct a risky surgery on a patient with Protocore syndrome right before your eyes once, and even then, he didn’t break a sweat. This Zayne, however, is much shakier—his fingers trembling and mouth parted to drag in shallow breaths.

Something about his insistence makes you think that whatever happened must be too risky to involve officials, and you snap to attention, dashing to your kitchen cabinet and retrieving your stashed first aid kit.

He takes it from you and expertly treats Caleb’s wounded shoulder, starting to sterilize himself. You hover, doing what you can to help him with the immense task—retrieving glasses of water, wiping his sweat with a kitchen towel, holding your tongue to not berate him for his sheer stupidity—

“Almost done,” he murmurs, suturing up Caleb’s wounds. The smell of blood hangs heavy in the air, seeping into the couch and staining the upholstery a murky brown. 

You flicker your gaze towards Caleb, whose eyelids are twitching. He’s pale with pain, barely moving or grunting even as a needle keeps stabbing him. You gently take his face in your hands, cradling it onto your lap as Zayne flashes you an inscrutable look. There’s no time to dig deeper into his inexplorable mood, so you turn your attention to Caleb. 

“Ssh,” you murmur when he whimpers, thick brows furrowed when Zayne starts to close him up. You run your fingers through his sweaty hair, trying to soothe him and take his mind off the huge gash slowly being patched up.

When Zayne is done, you don’t move, needing to assess Caleb. Your hands travel over his broad chest, gently ghosting over the sutured wound, your Resonance helping to alleviate his pain. 

You glance down at him, and he’s giving you an exhausted smile. 

“Where’d ya learn to do that?” 

You hum. “Tara’s been teaching me how to control my Evol and focus it on a main anchor,” you continue, “Since the goal is to speed up your healing, I’m resonating with your body’s blood cells to duplicate the clotting faster.”

Caleb winces. “Feels like a bunch of little fingers in me,” he complains.

From the corner of the room, you hear Zayne heave in a disgruntled sigh.

“What you’re doing is dangerous,” your older lover berates, stepping in to plead for you to cut it out. “If anyone from the medical field found out—”

“They won’t,” you reassure. “No one knows about the extent of my Evol’s abilities besides you two and Tara. Swear it.”

Zayne opens his mouth as if to argue, and considers against it, shutting his trap and fixing you with an icy stare.

“You opened the door for us without even asking who we were. While no instance has been given to warrant such caution, you must be more alert, darling. What if it could be someone else?” 

You huff and glare at him. “If you’re so hellbent on following protocol and procedure, why bother showing up to my apartment in the first place?” 

Caleb snickers. “Oh, she got you there, Doc.”

The good doctor sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I had no choice. This buffoon—” he glares at the younger, dark-haired man, “—left his post after an ambush to search for me in the medical tent. He said, and I quote, ‘I had to check if you’re alright or else our girl is gonna be mad at me’.” Zayne sighs and shakes his head. “The whole infantry was in a panic. We stowed away and managed to drive off with a spare G-Hummer.” 

You gape, turning your wide eyes to Caleb. “You abandoned your post?” 

Caleb, realizing the heat is now on him, tries to defend himself. “You guys have it all wrong! I didn’t abandon it… took a little detour, s’all,” he grouses, and you have a feeling he knows something neither you nor Zayne knows.

Gripping his chin, you force him to look at you. “Caleb, what you did is irresponsible. You could be suspended—”

“Look,” he urges, shifting his violet eyes to Zayne, a maelstrom of emotion behind them that reminds you of a storm coming. “I know things—I heard them. There might be an attack in Linkon City. It’s why I broke formation and came here—” he winces, “—yeah, it’s a death wish for my career, but I couldn’t just let Pipsqueak be defenseless!” 

Zayne glances at you, and then back at the younger man. “There is going to be an attack?” 

His nebulous violet eyes grow a shade less lucid, and he mumbles his warning, the loss of blood and exhaustion catching up to him. “Potential… Wanderer explosion… new rift in the Deepspace tunnel—”

Caleb’s head slumps and he’s out cold. 

“Shit.” You pat his cheek. “Caleb? Caleb!”

“Let him rest,” Zayne advises, crossing his arms. You don’t see it in the dim lights of your apartment, but there’s a gash on his upper arm, too. The camo does a better job of hiding it than Caleb’s uniform. “His blood loss isn’t too bad, and he should be fine in the morning.” 

He grunts, and you glance at him in worry. “Darling? Are you alright?” 

Zayne waves off your concern. “Go to bed, love. I’ll be fine.”

Barely giving you time to argue, he disappears into the second room, closing the door behind him. A cold eddy stirs from his sudden departure, and you shiver, biting your lower lip. You want to go to him and ask if he’s alright, but Caleb needs you. Zayne’s already done his part to patch him up—now, all he needs is your tender love and attention.

Leaning down, you place a soft kiss on Caleb’s forehead. “Sleep well, gege,” you murmur, “You’re safe here.”

Morning rays filter weakly past the translucent kitchen blinds.

Zayne wakes up and panders out into the living room to find Caleb holding you fast to his chest, his lips drawing a flirtatious line down your throat to your clavicle, your giggles rebounding back to him like a fresh slap in the face. His nostrils flare, and he watches the two of you for a moment, feeling the old green-eyed monster rearing its ugly head again. Not one to reminisce on emotions and instead focus on facts, the brilliant doctor can’t help but understand you come from a world where no one existed to you but Caleb—the boy turned man who’s been by your side through thick and thin.

How he came to be this lucky to get back into your life, Zayne would never fathom. He doesn’t understand what you see in him, not when your Caleb exists in the same reality as you. 

As if you can hear the self-hating thoughts emanating from him, you lift your head from Caleb’s chest, fixing him with a gentle smile that reaches into the depths of his chest and squeezes his lungs together in a tight hug. 

“Good morning, you. C’mere.”

You open your arms to him, and he shifts his gaze to the mercurial purple hues gauging his next reaction. Caleb doesn’t welcome him, but he doesn’t reject him either.

Zayne’s first instinct is to decline your offer, putting up an emotional distance between you and Caleb. But, months of being together with you, and by extension, Caleb himself, chips at his icy self-restraint. He allows such foolish tides to ravage his curiosity, as he slowly advances towards the two of you like a researcher approaching his most studied test subjects.

Caleb’s brow dents, a fraction of his displeasure showing through his unflappable countenance, though he knows better than to let you see it.

You grab him by his arm and tug him onto the couch, squeezing yourself between the two men. You snuggle into his chest while your arms are tight around Caleb, pressing the younger man’s cheek against your shoulder. The effect nearly makes Zayne snort with irony—he looks like he’s cradling two huge babies in his arms.

“Pipsqueak, we need a bigger couch,” Caleb grumbles.

You have to agree. 

Due to the lack of space, your quick shift brushes on Zayne’s injured arm from the night before, and his loud hiss catch both of your attention.

“Zayne?”

“Four eyes—what’s wrong?” 

He winces and grits his teeth to keep from grunting in pain. “It’s fine—”

“Ha. Fat load of a huge lie. You’re bleeding, Li Shen ge,” Caleb points at a spot of blood steadily growing bigger, staining his grey shirt fast. 

Caleb is the first to get up and take the first aid kit, his bare back rippling under the low morning light. Zayne’s eyes track him, like a stag studying his rival’s motions, wondering why he’s being this nice. It can’t be because of you. They’ve both established months ago before this… arrangement… that they would try to be civil with one another, but not go the extra mile unless you requested it.

But, you haven’t said a word, and Zayne is sure he’s about to burst a vein in his temple when Caleb tosses him the first aid kit with a too-wide smirk. “Can’t be too careful so I’m leaving it up to the expert—you are a doctor, after all.”

The hint of jealousy isn’t hard to detect in his tone. But, neither you nor Zayne says a word. You toss Caleb a glare and pick up the white box, opening it to tend to Zayne’s gash. Out of the corner of his eye, Zayne senses a pervasive, possessive energy. Caleb’s eyes barely leave you, and even though he tries to play it cool by popping a can of apple soda and hiding his glare behind the metal rim, Zayne can see through him like they were kids all over again. 

When you three were younger and played house, Caleb would try to wrestle the designation of ‘husband’ from him, but because Zayne was older, you insisted he play the role of the man of the house while Caleb… Zayne tries not to smirk at the fond memory.

Caleb would play the role of the house dog.

“What’s so funny?” 

Zayne chuckles softly before he can help himself. Caleb eyes him skeptically, and he resists the urge to shoot the other man a bland look.

“Just… recalling some fond recollections of us when we were younger.” Zayne rarely speaks about their shared past, and it takes both you and Caleb off guard. “You and I would play husband and wife whenever we got together at the playground,” he slid his cool, emerald gaze towards Caleb. “And, he’d be the dog.”

The other dark-haired man guffaws, and you’re oblivious to how tightly he’s gripping his can of apple soda. “Funnyyy. As I recall, you also left ‘home’ quite often to work, leaving me, the dog at home with her,” Caleb sneers, and the insinuation isn’t lost on Zayne. While both of them work intensive, high-risk jobs, it’s Caleb who often makes the arduous trip back home, no matter how long and tedious his missions are. He can never stay far from you. But, Zayne’s job demands are different. 

He could be pulled away in the middle of dinner, or the middle of the night with little to no heads up, and his hours as a surgeon are erratic and unpredictable. While Caleb gloats, you bandage his wound and tug on it, tightening the makeshift tourniquet. Deciding to ignore the younger man, Zayne turns his attention to you. “Thank you, darling.”

Caleb rolls his eyes at the pet name. 

“Come on. I’m starving and you two are making me want to explode for the second time.” He grumbles as he plucks some eggs from the fridge and a couple of fresh tomatoes. As he makes breakfast, Caleb whistles, intercepting any peace that could descend between you and Zayne. After a quiet meal of scrambled eggs, tomatoes, and some leftover chicken congee, you’re resting on the couch when the surgeon approaches him quietly.

“Did Heath say anything?” 

Despite their animosity when it comes to you, Caleb and Zayne work surprisingly well on the field together. The younger man shakes his head. “Nada. Radio silence.”

Zayne stays quiet for a moment, hands tightening around his coffee cup. “It cannot be a coincidence. The second the alarm sounded, it’s as if—”

“—everything went into a frenzy,” Caleb finishes for him. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, and Zayne notices the sutures on his skin straining.

“You’re supposed to cover them up,” Zayne heaves a deep sigh and puts his mug down. He retrieves the now well-acquainted first aid kit and removes a roll of bandages. Caleb doesn’t argue when he starts to tend to him—in fact, it’s the quietest the fighter pilot has been since returning to Linkon.

Once Zayne is done, he debates returning to work, when a small whimper from the couch catches both men’s attention. 

Caleb is the first to run to you, always offering himself on the frontline when it comes to your safety and happiness. He gently shakes your shoulder, his free hand brushing through your hair and smoothing the crease in between your brows. Zayne hovers behind him, looking at you with equal worry, though he restrains himself from overwhelming you.

It’s clear you had a bad dream, and when your tear-filled eyes meet Caleb’s, you hiccup a sob.

The effect instantly softens the younger man, who bundles you in his muscular arms and holds you tightly to his broad and bare chest. 

“Ssh. S’okay, Pips. S’okay. I’m here.”

Zayne quietly fetches you a glass of water, and you take it with a slight nod, sipping on the cool liquid as you get used to your bearings again. Embarrassed they caught you doing something this vulnerable, you throw caution to the wind and set the glass down, wrapping your arms tighter around Caleb.

The air trembles with a stillness that reminds him of a bated breath. 

Your lips are the first to seek Caleb’s, and his chest squeezes. Zayne turns away when the younger man deepens the intimate contact, trying to hide how painfully hard his chest is squeezing. Jealousy is a foreign concept to the brilliant surgeon, but when it makes its mark, he suddenly finds its serrating edge digging into him like a rusted knife.

That is until you break apart from Caleb and reach out to grab his hand. 

Your intention is clear: I need you, too. I need both of you. 

Caleb’s shoulders are tense, but he doesn’t outright deny your silent request. He turns to you, and you turn to the surgeon, imploring him to be the one to break this tie—to finally give the three of you a chance to take this leap of faith.

Zayne hesitates for a second, his emerald eyes burning. He wants this—of course, he wants you. He can never say ‘no’ to you. But… his eyes meet a pair of pensive, lilac ones. Does he want Caleb the same way? 

It’s far too early in the morning to have a sexuality crisis. But, when Caleb rolls his eyes at his stagnation, it ignites something deeper inside Zayne’s chest. Something primal.

He’s always seen Caleb as a comrade. Sometimes a rival.

And, maybe, he might be persuaded to change his mind on the notion of Caleb as a ‘lover’. 

The atmosphere warbles with a sense of anticipation, and you look from one man to the other, waiting for them to end this stalemate and just fuck you. 

To your surprise, it’s Zayne that makes the first move. He leans in close, cool lips pressing to the juncture of your neck, working his way to your pulse point and leaving a trail of hot, needy kisses on your warming skin. Not one to be outdone, Caleb joins in, his kisses on the other side of your neck making your core clench, a shiver of heat running up your spine. The sensation of two men licking and sucking down your neck and jaw fills you with a flash of pure, hedonistic greed. Their bodies press closer, almost smothering you with their combined heat. 

Sharp pain blooms from where their teeth dig into your sensitive skin, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You need them both, parched for their affection and attention.

Caleb grunts when Zayne tangles a hand in your hair, tipping your head up further to give them better access to your neck. A warm tongue runs down the side of your throat, dipping to your clavicle where a necklace with an apple charm and snowflake pendant dangle enticingly.

Quick hands make quicker work of your clothes, shedding them to the floor, leaving you in just a pair of ratty, old cotton panties.

Caleb’s palm trickles down the terrain of your stomach, and slips under the loosening band, finding you soaked all the way through for them. He gathers the oozing droplets of glistening juices, smearing it all around your sweetly trembling clit, watching with hooded eyes as you tremble and gasp. 

Zayne takes your tits, his slightly cooler mouth trailing across the plush flesh, leaving goosebumps in the wake. Ahh-mhmm, you moan when his tongue starts to flicker over your right nipple in fast, little licks, before enveloping the whole of his mouth around the juicy mound, his other hand busy tweaking your other nipple. 

Somehow, the small couch doesn’t break from the combination of all three of your bodies on it. Even if it did, you’re hard-pressed to care—not when Zayne hooks your thigh over his, and Caleb spreads your other. There’s only a flimsy barrier left keeping your precious cunt from their prying fingers, tongues, and cocks, and like bloodhounds, your two lovers zero in on their target.

It was a mistake to take both a talented surgeon and a brilliant fighter pilot into your sheets. They’re relentless—precise. Neither Caleb nor Zayne would stop until they leave you a quivering, well-fucked mess.

Caleb tears your panties off, and in a swift motion, kneels onto the floor, as Zayne continues to play with your cherry blush tips, working your nipples to stiff points with his fingers and tongue. It’s all a hazy blur.

You feel Caleb’s tongue part through your folds, messily lapping you up like you’re the fountain of life and he’s been starved of manna for too long. 

Zayne groans around the plushness of your luscious tits in his mouth, his hard-on making an imprint on your hip. You grind back on him as Caleb spears you through with his tongue, sampling you with the finesse of a foodie consuming his favorite cunt. He starts to swirl his tongue on your clit. Zayne bites down on your left nipple.

A pleasure, frenzy cry flies from your lips. You gasp and writhe like a worm on hot concrete, feeling a pair of slender, scarred fingers slipping into your mouth, forcing you to choke on their impeccable length. You’re oozing all over Caleb’s chin. 

This scene is too taboo—too erotic. Two men, equally sculpted by the gods, pleasuring you like you’re a deity on the altar. You feel like you’re on the verge of the biggest orgasm of your life. Close is never close enough when it comes to Caleb and Zayne. 

Caleb moans and the vibrations send a shockwave through your entire body. Zayne massages your chest, taking care to nip and suck on your neck, too, his large palm sliding up your thighs.

 Not content to use his tongue, Caleb starts to employ his fingers. You sometimes forget how big he is. Though no match for his cock, his fingers are equally as formidable. Slender and nimble, with precision from his years of handling guns, he hooks around your cunt, fingers drumming into that sweet spot that makes your toes curl. From the root of your womb to your clit, you’re tensing. Zayne notices your thighs shaking and hums. He gently rolls your nipples, tugging on them lightly, and pinching the blushing buds.

“She’s close,” he observes. 

Endless streams of moans and whines slip from your swollen lips. You’re cross-eyed, gripping onto Zayne’s wrist with one hand and the other clutching onto Caleb’s hair. Your older brother figure moans into your folds, while your childhood friend flicks his wrist, pinching down harder on your throbbing nipples. You lurch forward, unable to stifle a loud cry, and like a burst of flames, you alight, your orgasm washing over you in tremendous waves.

Caleb doesn’t stop eating you out, and Zayne captures your lips with his, needing to taste your surrender right on his tongue. You jerk like a puppet on strings and whine right into the heat of Zayne’s mouth. The stimulation is too much—all at once. Caleb peppers kisses on your thighs and he glances at you, catching your eye, licking his glistening lips.

“Good girl.” Zayne praises you in a low, husky voice. “Came so well for us… now, it’s time for you to return the favor.”

He puts you on his lap, yanking his sweatpants down impatiently. Caleb positions his bigger build behind you, slotting his thighs around Zayne’s, taking up the rear—literally. His kisses brush your shoulder, and you turn back to catch his lips in a sensual, slow kiss where your tongues tangle together in a heated dance.

“Nmh—princess,” Caleb groans, running his hands up and down your sides.

Thank goodness for sturdy, wide couches. Zayne maneuvers you to sink on him, your previous release making you slick enough to take him right to the hilt. In your periphery, you hear Caleb grabbing a plastic bottle, and popping the lid. Cool, slippery lube drips between your cheeks, and you feel the head of his cock prepping to sink inside of your other untameable entrance. 

You shiver at the feel of him, and he growls under his breath. “Fuck—so tight.” 

The sound of Caleb cursing makes you clench down on Zayne, who also curses, and you whine. “Please,” you breathe, “Please take me—”

It's a tangle of limbs and messy kisses. Zayne kisses you. Caleb takes his turn. Both their lips also meet, with you smack in the middle to witness the sight of them French-kissing each other in sheer desperation. 

God, you groan inwardly. That’s fucking hot. 

You’re so full. Where Zayne begins, Caleb ends, and you feel them rubbing against each other. In and out. Over and over again. 

Until the sofa begins to creak. The room starts to spin. You’re clinging onto Zayne for dear life while Caleb looms behind you, his hands digging into your hips. He’s using his Evol to steady himself against falling backward. Mean and fast, his tip batters into your upper rim, while Zayne makes the concave of your pussy his home, his mushroom head bouncing against your cervix in firm plap plap plaps. “Fucckk,” Caleb drawls, smearing a messy kiss into the crook of your neck. He whines and flinches, teeth digging into the soft skin of your pliable, oh-so-defenceless neck. 

“Baby, you taste so fucking sweet,” he growls into your ear, “F-fucck, sweetness, I could eat you up for days.” 

“She’s perfect,” Zayne grits out, pumping his hips in a frenzy, pushed right to the edge; his eyes darkened and dewy with lust. “Ah, shit—” he bites out. His plush lips razor through your paper thin skin, bringing a bloom of heat developing on your already decorated neck. 

Over and over, they consume you. 

“S’good girl,” Caleb babbles right into the crook of your neck, every pump of his thrusts filling you deeper and deeper till you’re stuffed. Gritting out, he bites down on your jugular, nasty and hard, “Such a fucking good girl for us, baby.” His eyes transfix on your pretty lil’ hole stretching out on his cock, how you’re so good for the both of them—taking two thick dicks like a champ. His nostrils flare, and he gulps down a lungful of your sinful fragrance, catching Zayne’s eye.

“Looks like our little princess has been practicin’.”

The older man mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a low, drawn out fucckkk. Goody-two shoes Zayne, swearing, was not on Caleb’s bingo card for the year. But, shit—he can’t blame the Doc. Your pussy is a vice grip, making sweet, little squelches, a symphony he can never get enough. 

Zayne pitches his head forward to lap and suck your neck, while Caleb slips his hands between your thighs to move his fingers against you, rubbing firm circles that have you seeing stars. 

In a matter of minutes, the coil tightens again. 

You tense and cry out, a trickle of treacly drool dripping down your chin. 

A warm tongue laps it up, and your head is bent back, almost poltergeist style, as Caleb slurps on your tongue and moans. Zayne busies himself in between your plush tits, leaving bite marks on them. You’re folding—fast. The tension snaps like a band.

You’re gushing and creamin’ all over, a bit of squirt getting on Zayne’s abdomen and trickling down to Caleb’s thighs. Thick arms wrap around your neck, putting you in a headlock as he thrusts into you hard and fast, their tips bumping deep inside of you. Zayne feels Caleb past the flimsy barrier of your canals, and it would’ve been gross if it didn’t feel so… right. 

The ends of his ears scorch with a blushing intensity, and Zayne looks as if he’s just imbibed a sip of alcohol. Dazy-eyed and with his brows furrowed together, the sight of his unhinged and lustful expression makes you want to come again. Caleb grunts into your ear, and he tips your head back, letting you come face to face with the dark desire in his gaze—waiting to just devour you. 

“Shit.”

“Oh, baby—”

In a fit of simultaneous need, the two men explode deep inside you, filling you up to the brim with warmth. It triggers your own smaller release, and by the time the world stops spinning, you’re lying on a broad chest with someone’s arms wrapped around you. 

Caleb tightens his grip while Zayne buries his face in your hair. 

Miraculously, the sofa manages to hold all three of you. Really—whoever hates Ikea doesn't know the wonders of a Jattebo for threesomes. 

“You okay, love?” Zayne whispers into your neck, and you sigh, nodding. Caleb kisses the top of your head, and in your periphery, he reaches over and twines his fingers with Zayne’s. 

The subtle gesture of affection and acceptance is all you need.

As the morning gives way to the afternoon, you find solace in the comfort of the two men you will forever love. 

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