[Minors this blog isn't safe nor made for you] [She/Her, Bi] [Marie, 1994, France.] [This is mine. My precious.] [#random cute stuff as comfort tag if you need it]
here are some verified charities (rated by charitywatch.org) helping palestinians. several of these organisations also provide aid to others in need, such as people suffering in ukraine & haiti. please donate if you're able to.
doctors without borders are an impartial humanitarian organisation providing medical assistance to palestinians in gaza.
project hope are working to deliver medical aid too, along with mental health support.
anera are delivering humanitarian aid (blankets, blood bags, mattresses, hygiene kits & food) to palestinians in gaza & the west bank.
world central kitchen have partnered with anera & have limited access to gaza via supply trucks to deliver water, food & food prep equipment.
muslim aid USA are working with their partners on the ground in gaza to deliver food packages, hygiene kits & medical equipment.
Being chronically single really sucks sometimes. And I hate when I try to talk about it with people and they say stuff like ‘oh there’s someone for everyone, don’t worry, it’ll happen one day, you just have to be patient :)’
Like I get that they mean well and are trying to be nice/comforting, but when you’re pushing 30 and have never felt desired or wanted or loved in your entire life, it becomes really fucking hard to believe that.
Are you normal or do you have hypervigilence problems because you always had to be aware of your family members moods growing up in order to deescalate situations before the arose
people know what they’re doing. there is an intrinsic human knowledge of how relationships & friendships are meant to work. you don’t need to teach them how to treat you like a person. yes, there is a learning curve to every relationship where you learn how to mesh with each other, but you should not have to advocate for being treated with basic human decency.
nobody brings enough to the table for you to willingly put up with mistreatment. if you are safe to leave, then this is optional, and you have a one-up over them in this situation. don’t threaten to leave, just go. even that is a waste of your time. they should already know how to treat other people like they’re human. there is no excuse.
The house of his spirit crumbles... He is burning... Already burning...
Denethor & His Son Faramir + Ivan the Terrible & His Son Ivan
I have seen many artists' renditions of this painting, yet I have yet to see one with Denethor and Faramir, despite its narrative potential for perfection. So I tasked myself to bring it into existence--
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Six: Made for Me
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter Summary: Once Brendon has you safe and comfortable at home, your shared heat and rut take over. You finally learn the perfection that comes with accepting your fated mate.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, scenting, mating time yay, oh god so many smut tags here we go, musk kink, fingering, fisting, piv, riding, mating press, missionary, creampie, breeding (they even talk about it youre welcome), knotting, mutual mating bites, multiple orgasms, everyone cries during sex, just so much smushy lovey pillow talk
Content Warnings: smut smut smut, minor blood (from bites)
Author's Note: i love this one so much everybody be nice!! also i Think this is the final chapter but i Might write an epilogue
Word Count: 7.6k
Brendon’s on high alert until he has you – softly crying, anxious, needy – safe in his car, strapped in, protected from the rest of the world. Even then, his knuckles are white on the steering wheel, unable to relax while you’re still so upset. He holds you close with his right arm, tugging you to his chest, kissing the top of your head at every red light.
Meanwhile, you’re restless. Your hormones and your emotions are all over the place. Arousal pools in your gut and spills out between your legs while anxiety grips your brain stem. There’s an unreality that you’re not sure how to deal with in the liminal space of Brendon’s car. All you know is that you need him. So you keep your nose at his neck and try to breathe.
Once Brendon has you inside your apartment, the scents and sights and sounds familiar, the anxiety slips behind the raw need that comes with your heat. As Brendon gets his bearings in your space for the first time, you follow him around like a lost puppy, your limbs getting weaker and your brain going squishy. While he puts your things away from your backpack, you yank on his scrub top and stand on your toes to kiss him.
Brendon wraps you in an all-enveloping embrace, his huge arms sturdy around your shivering form. You whine and palm at his cock through his scrubs, consumed by how badly you need him, but he catches your hand and presses kisses to your knuckles instead. “Not yet, baby, you’ve gotta relax a little first. Your nervous system’s fried. We’re gonna eat something and then we’re gonna sleep a bit and then you can have whatever you want whenever you want until your heat’s over.”
You grip his shirt tight and your eyes are wide and teary. “You’ll stay with me?”
He’s never felt his heart splintered in so many pieces. This is the time where he can turn all your fear to safety. Solemn and assuring, he cradles your face and vows, “Nothing on earth could stop me from being with you.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” Tilting your chin upward, he kisses you. Sweet and warm and slow. You melt against him. Suddenly, you can see sturdiness in his eyes, complete authority that you can yield to. Looking down at you sternly, knowing that you’re beginning to fold into the role of omega to his alpha, he asks, “Now what do you want to eat, sweetheart? We can order in or I can make something from what you have here for now.”
You shake your head and reply, “You pick. Can’t think.”
Brendon sighs and brushes your cheek with his thumb. “That bad already, huh?”
“I always have a hard time,” you start, trying hard to focus on what you want to say. “During my heat, I mean. With talking.”
He gives you another soft kiss. “That’s okay. I’ll take care of everything.”
When you gaze up at him this time, he can see any of your worries evaporating and turning to nothing but trust. “I know you will.”
So Brendon steps away from you and into the kitchen. Immediately, you whine at the lack of closeness. Brendon knows why, of course, because you’re his. So he smiles, rolls his eyes overdramatically to make it clear he’s playing, and opens his arms for you. “Come on, koala, hop up.”
You let out a happy squeal and jump onto him, wrapping your legs around his hips and your arms around the back of his neck. You nestle your nose against his scent gland and breathe deeply as Brendon walks around your kitchen, inspecting the cupboards and fridge to see the state of things. He’s pleased to find that you’ve definitely been preparing for your heat. Not only is the place loaded with baked goods from your days of nesting, but there are plenty of groceries. All your favorite snacks, fruits and vegetables, the works.
Brendon presses a kiss to the side of your head and says, “Good girl. I’m really proud of you for taking care of yourself.” You grin and squeeze him tightly, all awash in happy chemicals having him in your space and, frankly, having an alpha strong enough to carry you around like it’s nothing in the first place. Brendon collects a Tupperware of baked goods and a few Gatorades before telling you, “After you get a little rest, you’ll need to eat something with protein and nutrients, but this’ll do for now. Where’s your nest, kitten?”
You nod over toward your bedroom and he obediently goes that direction, one arm beneath your ass and the other balancing the snacks. He can balance your whole weight with only one of his huge arms. His strength is intoxicating.
After pushing open the door to your bedroom, Brendon sees your nest and stops in his tracks. You’ve always been a little intense about your nest and it doesn’t necessarily match with the cutesy homemaker image that a lot of omegas aspire to when it comes to designing their space. Instead of dreamy, gauzy linens and low lights, it’s a bit more…chaotic. Like you’ve turned your bed into a blanket fort. The bed is pushed into the corner and you’ve tented it in beneath sheets and blankets tied to your ceiling. The far wall has built-in shelves where you’ve painstakingly arranged everything you could possibly need during your heat in overflowing baskets: All your sex toys, your favorite snacks, lotions you like, scents that make you happy, a speaker you can connect to your phone with its own remote.
On the opposite side of the bed from the bookshelf, Brendon notices a large swath of canvas rolled up and attached to the ceiling; with just a bit of observation, he realizes that, when it comes down, you can use it as a screen with a projector on the bookshelf. Your own personal movie theater. There’s an ocean of stuffies in the far corner, mostly Jellycats, and he wonders how you’d decided which ones to collect. Among them, there’s a collection of lots of fuzzy blankets and favorite pieces of clothing. You’ve got miniature paper lantern string lights criss-crossing along the top of the whole space, their pastel colors shining soft rainbows on everything.
A serene smile spreads over Brendon’s face as he takes in the space, imagining himself curled up with you as often as you’ll have him. You pull your face from his neck, eyes wide with worry at the idea of being rejected, and whisper, “I know it’s messy.”
He squeezes you tight, meets your eyes seriously, and assures you the way he always does and always will, “It’s perfect, princess. I promise.”
As Brendon sets you down on your own two feet again, you straighten up and give him a sweet, proud smile. “You really like it?”
“I really do,” he confirms. As his eyes chase every detail of your most intimate space, there’s a vibrant enthusiasm about him right now that you haven’t seen before. His energy is high and bright and addictive. Now that you’re totally safe, away from any real or perceived danger, he can relax into being the loving, supportive, affectionate alpha he really is. “Everything is just so…you. I love that; it feels so special.” He draws a step closer and breathes deeply. “And, god, it smells fucking incredible.”
Before he can fold into the incredible display of coziness, you wrinkle your nose, nudge him in the bicep, and tell him, “No outside clothes.”
Brendon nods like that makes sense. To him, it does. You’re his perfect, precious girl and everything you do is just as perfect and precious as the rest of you. So he strips off his scrub top and discards it in the nearby hamper. Then, seeing your pupils dilate as you get your first real look at his body, Brendon turns to you with a cocky smile on his face. He steps out of his pants and kicks them away, leaving him in only his tight heather gray boxer briefs.
On his next breath, the mild, sweet scent of your slick coats his lungs. Beside himself as your pheromones unfurl into their most primal level, Brendon grips the door frame to your en suite bathroom and groans, “Oh, fuck. You smell so- God.”
He surges forward without thinking and grabs you. His fingers find yours and he lifts your wrist to his nose. You’ve never seen such a peaceful, ecstatic expression on his harsh features as when his nose touches the scent gland at your wrist. He knows that, between your legs, it’ll be ten times as intense, your slick and your sweat and your scent all mingling into a cocktail designed specifically and exclusively for him to consume.
Your hands go uselessly to the tie on your scrub bottoms to try to get your clothes off, but your fingers are shaky and awkward. You pout and demand, “Help.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he chuckles, taking the reins for you. Brendon makes quick work of your pants and then your tee. When he has you in only a sports bra and frumpy panties – thankfully your heat stops you from feeling any embarrassment that you aren’t wearing something ‘cute’ underneath your clothes – Brendon can hardly breathe for how gorgeous you are. It’s his turn for shaky hands as he tentatively touches your waist, not wanting to push you too hard too soon. He breathes out slowly, “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
You bite your lip and glance down at the floor, swaying gently under his praise. “Thank you.”
Brendon tilts your chin up, needing to see your eyes, and checks, “Do you want to put on some pajamas?”
With a sheepish, flirtatious smile, you shake your head no and start to remove your bra and underwear. Brendon steps forward to help you, thinking of nothing but making sure you’re comfortable. It’s strange, this rut. On one hand, the sight of you naked in front of him has his cock throbbing with desire. But, on a much deeper, more visceral level, the singular focus on his mind is ensuring that you’re safe, comfortable, loved. He thought he’d want to claim and mark and fuck his mate until you were both numb, but, first and foremost, he wants to give you whatever you need. It goes beyond ‘want,’ actually. If you aren’t perfectly content, he can’t even breathe.
So, when he steps out of his own boxer briefs to join you in nakedness, it doesn’t even feel sexual to either of you. It’s comfort, simply speaking. You take his hand. Unable to disguise your nerves at the vulnerability, you pull him into your nest, immediately curling your arms around your knees because it feels so intense to have an alpha in here. To have his heady spicy scent filling the cracks and crevices of all your most beloved things.
Noticing your strained posture, Brendon rubs your back and murmurs, “You don’t have to be worried about anything, pup. This is the happiest I’ve ever been. Right now. Just being with you here. Let’s just relax a while, okay?”
You smile easily at that and suggest, “Music?”
“Music sounds good,” he confirms. He takes your phone from your discarded clothes, connects to the speakers with bluetooth, and scrolls through your playlists. He smirks and offers, “How about ‘Heat Wave’? Is that for your heat?”
You giggle and nod, so he hits play. As “Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy” flits through the speakers, Brendon nestles backwards, sprawling out his large body, and pulls you to his chest. You sling your leg over his, your warmth permeating him, and everything starts to make sense for the first time today. You take a deep breath and let it out. Finally. Skin on skin. Body on body. Self on self. This is what you’ve needed to fully relax.
Brendon can’t believe how calm he feels. The irritation, the anger, the restlessness are all gone with your weight on him. When he’s had to deal with his rut alone, he’s always so damn frustrated that he can barely breathe, let alone think. He thrusts into fleshlights or his hand until his cock can’t do anything more, but he’ll still be agonizingly turned on, seeking out something to fuck.
Now, though? With you? He can feel the pulse of his cock, a quiet hum reminding him of what he craves, but it doesn’t feel urgent or consuming. Just there. Because it’s yours now, not his. His rut isn’t something to fight through; it’s something to give to you. It’s his biology knowing how to protect and nurture yours.
After a few songs swing by, your breaths are even and slow and you start to purr. Brendon’s whole body shimmers when he feels that soft vibration against his chest. He kisses the top of your head and checks, “Feeling better now, sweet girl?”
“Mhmm,” you coo, eyes still closed. “You’re comfy.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” he chuckles, shifting his weight so you can have even more of his body as a pillow. As he adjusts, his hand moves to your comfort pile, where he finds a pair of suspiciously familiar basketball shorts. And a navy tee. Followed by a white tank top and boxer briefs. Eyes widening with surprise and amusement, he straightens up slightly to get your attention. “Baby, are these mine? When the hell did you steal these?” Tears prickle at your eyes and you whimper, guilt tightening around your throat at the idea that he might be upset with you. But he laughs and hugs you close, flipping you into his lap, quick to assure, “No, don’t cry, it’s okay. I’m not mad at all. It’s really sweet. I’m…impressed, honestly. I’m so crazy about you that I didn’t even notice my fucking gym bag going missing.”
You giggle and avert your eyes, telling him dreamily, “They smell good.”
“Yeah?” With you seated on his thighs now, Brendon rests his hands on your lower back, nips gentle kisses up your neck, and teases as you smile, “My gross gym clothes do it for you?”
His joking tone dies in the air when you pull back to answer. Your pupils are blown so wide he can’t see the color of your irises at all. You’re not teasing or bashful anymore. Every feature reveals pure and simple lust.
You nod slowly, the admission not at all shameful with your heat prickling through your body. Without thinking, following desires that don’t have names or words, you take his hands in yours and lift them up above his head. He just follows your lead with wide eyes; he’s not going to stop you from doing anything you want to him. With him. For him. He’s yours.
With heavy lids like you’re high, you nuzzle into his armpit, breathing deeply. After morning surgeries and the high intensity of his search for you, Brendon smells like his gym clothes. Warm, masculine, animalistic. It adds a richness to all the smells that have already sent your logical brain far, far away. His breath catches in his throat and his cock twitches against your stomach. He’s never been wanted so viscerally and it has his hips bucking involuntarily, his toes curling into your sheets, his mind racing.
You lick a long stripe up the center of his chest, chasing a bead of his sweat until the salt coats your tongue. His breaths speed up until he’s on the border of panting. His eyes lock onto your drunken expression while you burnish his chest with your cheeks, scenting him and inhaling him at the same time. You move lower, no agenda or intention to your movements. When you reach his thick, dark pubic hair, you brush your nose deep against his skin. The mix of his pheromones has slick dripping from your core.
Not a thought in your pretty little head as you lavish at the scent glands of his inner thighs, you rub your bare cunt over his shin because it’s the closest thing you can get friction with.
Brendon’s hand goes to the side of your face. You look up at him with nothing behind your eyes. Breathless, he groans, “Christ, baby, you’re gone, aren’t you?”
All of a sudden, as your alpha, he understands what you need more deeply than you do. His logical mind wants to make sure you’re fed and clean and well-rested, wants to make good on his initial plan, but it’s like he can see through you right now. And he knows that you need him. You won’t even feel the hunger or the tiredness until that first, most primal need is filled.
So he orders in his lowest, most wanting voice, not disguising the plain want, “Come here, omega.”
Your brain tingles. You crawl upward and sit in his lap and wait patiently. In the next millisecond, he locks his mouth with yours. He’s all teeth and tongue and you let him claim every millimeter of the kiss, leading it, demanding from you. The smell of your slick is overwhelming, soft and almost floral and spreading like a secret you only want to share with him.
His dominant hand drops between your bodies, fingers plunging into your ample wetness. With no resistance, he twists his wrist to curl his two middle fingers up into your cunt. For all the times he’s imagined your hot wet pussy inviting him in, he still couldn’t have gotten all of the delicious, divine details right. Everything is in technicolor, ultra high definition, his brain operating on a different frequency than it’s ever been able to access before. You cry out when he adds his third finger, feeling your need, and you both already need so, so much more. Against your mouth, he growls, “Fuck. Fuck.”
His thumb barely touches your clit and you’re in outer space. Your hips chase his touch and your tits bounce in his face as a result and he has to take one of your nipples between his teeth or he’ll fucking die right here and now. His free hand flies up to grab your other breast as he sucks and nibbles your sensitive nub relentlessly. Moans drip down the edges of your lips and he drowns in them as they pour over your tits.
Brendon’s sharp teeth dig into the flesh of your breast and you gasp. He shoves you forward, flopping you onto your back, without releasing you for a single second. His nails dig into your hip as he holds you down, mouth going to the other side to torture you equally. He shoves a fourth finger into your cunt and you wail in response. It doesn’t hurt, not when you’re in heat, but it stretches and it sings. Your back arches and pleasure zaps up your spine alongside the pain. You throw your head back as your clit thrums and your cunt devours and your whole body vaporizes into delicious agony.
You cum without warning and without preamble, swallowing his hand nearly to his knuckles. Your thighs thrash back and forth as ecstasy strangles you. The presence of your mate’s pheromones, his presence, his eyes locked on you, his everything, shatters you.
“You’re doing so good for me,” Brendon purrs as you clamp down around his fingers over and over, the orgasm refusing to let up until he does. And he’s not going to. The hand on your hip crushes you into the bed, refusing to let you squirm away. His thumb leaves your clit and you whine from the loss – until his thumb joins his other four fingers inside of your sopping cunt.
Tears crest over your waterline out of nowhere. The intensity of having most of Brendon Park’s massive, surgically precise hand inside of you has your brain on fire. But you breathe through it. You grab at his hair and yank to ground yourself, forcing him into another kiss. This time, you’re the one who bites at his lips, his jaw, his throat, his ear, whatever you can get. When you tighten your teeth around his trap, biting down hard enough to draw blood, Brendon growls, “There you go, pup. Good fucking girl. Don’t you ever hold back with me.”
Your thighs clamp around his wrist as your cunt tightens again, if it ever even stopped in the first place, and he chases you up the bed, not letting you get away. With the orgasm at its peak, beside yourself, unable to think of anything else, you cry, “Breed me, Bren, please. I need- I need your knot right now. Right now.”
Brendon snarls and pulls his hand from inside of you, using the slick that drips from his fingers to lube his fat cock. You realize with a thrill that he needed to use all his fingers to warm you up like that because his cock is positively monstrous. In his full rut, it has to be the size of a can of Monster. Fitting. Even with your heat making you loose and drenched, you have a hard time imagining it fitting between your legs. But all doubt dies when Brendon shoves your legs back next to your ears and lines himself up with your entrance.
He straightens up just enough to watch, rapt, as he slides his cock into you for the first time. It stretches you wide. The sight of your slick coating him, the sight of each inch sinking into you, the sight of your eyes closed and your mouth open in rapture – it’s all too much for him to bear. His hand slams into the wall above you, the drywall cracking and chipping beneath his cruel fingers, and he finally bottoms out at your cervix.
When he actually starts to thrust, each one opening you like never before, your hands scramble upwards, nails clawing into his biceps. He shivers when you leave behind harsh red lines that trail down his stomach before grabbing at his hips, trying to pull him in impossible closer.
“Baby, I’m not-” He gasps in a breath when you moan, unable to handle him using pet names while he’s deep inside of you. “I don’t have an implant or anything. You could actually- Fuck. Fuck. Jesus. You can’t- you can’t grab me like that, honey, I won’t last.”
“Don’t care,” you pant, rolling your hips up to meet every pump of his cock. You need him closer. Deeper. More. More more more. You manage to find words only because they’re identical to your thoughts: “Wanna give you so many pups, Bren. Wanna be yours for good.” Your voice breaks and you beg, “Please, alpha, please. ”
“You don’t have to beg. You never have to beg for anything from your alpha,” he rumbles. His lips go to your neck and his cock drills into you and he swears warmly, “Anything you want, princess. Anything. It’s all yours. Everything I have is yours now.”
“Knot,” you gasp. Back arching. Lungs burning. Stomach flipping. You can see fireworks in your mind and Brendon’s eyes are so fucking intense as they bore into you and all you can do is whine and groan, “Need your knot. All I need.”
When you feel him beginning to swell, his balls tightening and his thighs stuttering, your brain goes totally flat from everything but pleasure and need. It’s a white-out of thought and logic. Nothing exists but Brendon and the fact that only he can give you what your body truly craves.
His lips connect with yours one more time as his cum paints you with vibrant adoration. Your breath is his breath and your body is his body. You hold his knot so well, immediately wrapping your legs around his hips to encourage him to stay there, with you, as long as he can. His chest against yours. Breathing together. Lazily kissing and scenting and nuzzling each other. You’d stay here forever if you could.
“Brendon,” you whisper reluctantly against his ear, “this is really nice, but you’re squishing me to death and I need to pee.”
His low chuckle vibrates your whole body. Without taking his cock from your body, he slides his knees forward so he can take more of his own weight on his legs. It relieves the pressure on your chest just enough, but he’s still playfully holding you down. He kisses the tip of your nose and teases, “Is that better, princess?”
Not quite able to get to a better comeback, you cut back, “If you want me to piss myself.”
“Mmm. Don’t tempt me. I’m pretty sure I could get off on anything you’d give me.” As you laugh, he gives you one more kiss, deep and knowing, and shifts off of you as his knot softens. You reach up with grabby hands and he smiles as he tugs you out of the bed and into his arms. Cum and slick drips from you and onto his skin as he steadies you against his torso. God, you’re burning up. They don’t call it heat for no reason. Bringing you to the en suite bathroom, he touches the back of his hand to your forehead and murmurs, “You want a nice cool bath, sweetheart?”
You nod with heavy lids. “Mhmm. Sounds nice.”
“Good.” He sets you carefully on the toilet – your limbs are clearly still out of commission for the time being. Brendon draws you a bath, swirls in some sweet-smelling oils, and helps you in once you’re finished. With a firm kiss to your forehead, he orders, “Stay here a minute to get your temperature closer to normal. I’ll change the sheets and get you something to eat, okay?”
You nod again, happy to do whatever he tells you.
While you soak and get sleepier and sleepier, Brendon does what he said, yes, but he also indulges in some behaviors he knows are maybe slightly silly alpha things. He checks your door locks over, makes sure your windows are properly secured, checks to see if there are batteries in your smoke and carbon monoxide detectors. You’ll forgive him for feeling a bit crazy right now. When you’re not in his arms or in his sight, the edginess returns, something at the base of his brain stem insisting that he do anything he possibly can, no matter how minor, to care for you.
By the time he goes back to the bathroom to collect you, you’re asleep in the tub, head against the wall, mouth open slightly. Brendon takes a minute to gaze at you, so open and vulnerable, certain that you’re completely safe with your alpha in your apartment. He rumbles a bit with pride at knowing he makes you feel that way – fucked out and content.
Ever so gently, he kneels down and touches your cheek. You stir slightly, turning your head and giving him a sweet, innocent smile. Then you once again lift your arms for him. Brendon’s addicted to the sight of you so easily expecting his strength. He guides you to your feet, helps you step out, and then dries you off with the closest soft towel he can find. All the while, you put your weight on him, trusting him, yielding to him. Your brain is fuzzy and happy and your body is loose and calm.
Brendon guides you back into your nest, where he’s replaced your sheets with the ones he found in your laundry room specifically for your heat, extra silky soft and moisture-wicking. You sink into the coziness, thoughtless in the most wonderful way. Before joining you, he pops into the kitchen for a minute and then presents you with a makeshift charcuterie board on a plate that he’s put together from your fridge, focusing on meats and cheeses to try to get you enough protein and fat to get through your heat comfortably.
The moment you see the food, you realize that you’re ravenous. Your stomach growls loud and Brendon laughs affectionately as you snatch the plate greedily from him. Looking for all the world like a wild animal, you wolf down food fast and furious until your stomach stops screaming for more.
Brendon rubs your back as you eat, praising, “Good girl. Need you nice and strong.”
When you’ve finished the actual food Brendon wanted you to eat, you look at him with bubbly hope and ask, “Dessert?”
He grins and cracks open the container of your homemade snickerdoodles, chewy and pillowy. You open your mouth obediently and he happily feeds you a piece, taking another for himself. He groans loud, “I hit the fucking mate jackpot; these are insanely good.”
You preen like a peacocking alpha as he feeds you another cookie, happy and giggly in the best way. As you lazily lick the extra cinnamon sugar from his fingers, lips wrapping around his digits, he watches with dilated pupils and praises, “That’s my good girl.”
You giggle and lean forward to nuzzle his neck with yours, mixing your scents unabashedly now that it’s just the two of you in your happy cocoon. “You already said that.”
“It’s still true,” he murmurs, leaning forward to pull you into a kiss. He sets the container aside and then takes your hand in his. “Now that you’re with me again, sweetheart, I need to ask if you were being serious earlier. About- about giving me pups.” He cradles your face in his hand and studies your expression. You can’t quite read all the details of his. “I can send someone to pick up some emergency contraception for this week that was just-”
“I was serious,” you tell him softly. Your eyes run over his, wide, needy, scared of rejection. Searching for love and stability in the one place you need to be able to find it. “But if- if you’re not ready to do that with me, or if you don’t want-”
“I want to,” he whispers. It sounds like an admission, like something he’s never been willing to say – or maybe something he’s never been allowed to want. He touches his forehead to yours and, so soft you can barely hear, he says, “I love you.”
You maul him with a hug, shoving him onto his back. He catches you with a wheezing laugh as your weight knocks the wind out of him. As your hands push down his broad shoulders, your tentative smile glows into something huge. “You do?”
With a soft, self-deprecating chuckle, he rests his hands on your waist and tells you, “I knew I loved you the day you shoved your finger in my chest and chewed me out for being an ass to Frankie. Nobody talks to me like that.” Then, much more urgently, he goes on, “I’ve been working to be good enough for you every day since. So if- if you think I’m good enough to be- if you’re willing to give that to me.” He can barely breathe as he almost cries, “Yes, please.”
You throw your arms around the back of his neck and nestle into his chest and say, on the verge of giggling and crying at the same time as it bubbles out of you, “I love you so much, Bren. You’re gonna be such a good dad.”
“I don’t know about that,” he replies with a sigh, “but I think, maybe, if I follow your lead, I could become one.” He kisses your forehead and murmurs, “Now get some rest, princess. Your body’s working really hard; gotta keep your energy up.”
You nod and shift onto your side, bringing him to face you. All teasing and sweet, you tangle up your limbs with his and ask, “Does this mean you’re gonna buy me a nice house and a big fat diamond?”
Needing to kiss you again, he nods and holds you and promises, “And anything else you could ever want. They pay me way too much money at that damn hospital; you need a new car and a better place and a huge ‘fuck you’ ring that stops other alphas from even looking at you.”
“Mmm.” Your eyelids start to feel heavy as that settles into your cells. You have it now. The mate, the life, the dream you’ve always had. Sleepy and adoring, you breathe, “Tell me you love me again.”
Brendon kisses your cheek as he cradles your head, making sure you’re comfortable no matter how you position yourself. “I love you, cherry.”
When you’re woken up by the need pulsing between your thighs, you’re curled up between Brendon’s legs, enveloped by his body that seems much larger in rut. He’s sitting up straight, watching the door like a hawk, with his hands resting on your hip and your waist like he’s ready to scoop you up and haul you to safety at any second. He notices the change to your breathing and focuses all his attention on you right away.
“Hi, baby.” With gentler hands than you would’ve thought him capable of, Brendon cups your flaming cheek and murmurs, “You’re burning up. What can I do?”
Your tongue feels weird and heavy in your mouth again, your brain flickering away as another wave of heat starts to wash over you. It’s always been hard for you to put words together when you’re in heat. So you just sit up, turn yourself around, and maneuver so you’re in his lap. He instinctively shifts his weight to make space for you, arms coming to rest on your lower back. You drop your mouth to his neck, lap your tongue over his scent gland until you feel his cock rapidly hardening beneath you. Right against his ear, you whine, “Knot.”
Brendon kisses you warmly, like he’s greeting you after a long time away. His hands trail down to your hips and he manhandles you to push your hips back and forth, your slick running over his shaft. “Your wish is my command, princess.”
You nod your heavy head and feel your cunt beginning to pulse just from the way he’s looking at you with complete adoration in those blue eyes. As he lifts you up a bit by the waist so he can notch himself against your entrance, you coo, “My alpha. Love you.”
Brendon plunges into you in one slow, needy thrust. An uninhibited wine spills from his lips when he’s once again enveloped in your perfect warmth. He slowly grinds his hips up into yours, groaning with every little twitch of your pussy, “Fuck, kitten, I’ve never- never felt this good with anyone. It’s like you were made for me.”
Beginning to bounce on him because you can’t stand any teasing right now, you whimper, “I was.”
Brendon snaps when he hears that. When he knows it down to his core. Because this isn’t a choice between the two of you. Not really. It’s destiny. It’s fate. It’s fucking magic. You were always going to mold to him. His cock was always going to be the only one that could satisfy you fully.
He growls under his breath and flips you onto your back, needing to have you closer. You’re powerless to his strength, limp, and that’s exactly how you want it. You want to be a small, helpless thing that he takes charge of. Protects. Possesses. He links his fingers with yours above your head, holding you down but grounding himself, too. With his lips hovering above your scent gland, he asks softly, “That better, baby?”
“Perfect,” you moan. “Yours.”
“That’s right.” His thrusts speed up, the sound of his cock plunging inside of you obscene in the timeless quiet of your bedroom. “All mine.”
Brendon drops one hand to your clit and the contact has you keening upward. Your legs snap him in closer, locking around his muscular ass. Your eyes close and your back arches and you can only moan and take whatever he’ll give you. Finally, finally, you’re being taken care of the way you’ve always wanted, your whole body held and tended to and ravished.
As your orgasm threatens, in Brendon’s complete and total control, a droplet of water hits your chest and your eyes flicker open. It’s not sweat from his shiny forehead like you’d thought, though. When you look up at Brendon, you find his forehead wrinkled, his eyes pink, his breaths shaky. You reach up and brush his cheek, bringing his focus back to you. Barely able to speak with everything swirling around your mind, you breathe, “You’re crying.”
He nods and sniffles and swallows hard, trying to come up with the words. Unable to stand making eye contact while he’s being so fucking vulnerable, he buries his face in the side of your neck and nearly weeps, “Never thought I’d have this. Never thought I’d have a mate as perfect as you. Never thought I could deserve a woman who’s so fucking beautiful and kind and smart and who wants to give me a family and I just- I just-”
His voice chokes off as a wave of pleasure billows through you, making your cunt clamp down around him. Feeling overwhelmed with light and softness and adoration, you tilt your head to the side and whimper a request Brendon Park’s been waiting his whole life to hear without even knowing: “Bite.”
He doesn’t second-guess you. He doesn’t challenge you.
He bites.
Brendon doesn’t fuck around with claming you once he has permission. When he hears your true need for his ownership. His cock is pistoning like a machine designed for your pleasure and he’s thrumming on your clit with his thumb and his teeth don’t hesitate to pierce your neck. You loose an orchestral crescendo cry when the perfect, blissful, heavenly pain stamps you as his. There’s no stopping the orgasm that slaps you across the face and holds you down by the throat while Brendon grips your hand above your head, keeping you in place while his teeth forever mark you as his possession.
As he tastes your blood – strangely sweet with your hormones swelling – Brendon kisses your neck, leaving the shape of his lips all over your skin. You’re whimpering and crying and you can hardly move with the intense, addictive pleasure that’s boiling you alive. He flips you so he’s on his back and you’re in his lap, barely able to keep yourself upright, insanely cute to him in your woozy lust. Then he tilts his head to the side and taps his own scent gland with two fingers. “Your turn, princess. Don’t be shy.”
He’s expecting you to protest, to giggle, to turn bashful at the idea.
Not you.
Not his omega.
You bend down, rolling your hips all the while, and kiss your own blood off his lips before lathing your tongue up his neck. You drag your teeth over his pulse, his tendons, breathing his scent deeply and licking up his sweat. You’re drunk on him. On the pheromones you can only produce together. When your teeth graze his scent gland, you feel him shiver beneath you. His hands lock onto your hips to keep your bodies grinding together as you lose control at last.
Opening up your mouth wide, you start off by sucking his flesh into your mouth, enjoying the way his breath stutters and his thrusts deepen with each added sensation. By the time you add your teeth, you can feel his knot starting to swell up as he desperately tries to stave off his orgasm to stay with you longer, panting and groaning and right on the edge with your teeth meeting his skin.
When you break the skin, tasting the fat and iron of his blood, Brendon’s world explodes into the second Big Bang. Sparks and stars and fire. Everything is you. Every molecule, every atom, every neutron and quark and particle. You pull off him with a proud smile, his blood at the corners of your thrilled lips. His pupils turn to pinpricks so he can memorize it, the light of your bedroom a flashbang that burns the memory into the film of his soul. He’s never cum so hard in his life, his knot quickly filling and locking the two of you in place.
You collapse onto his chest and he holds you so close. His soft voice is a constant stream against your ear as his hands run up and down your back and sides. I love you. I love you. I love you. Your sopping pussy keeps gently pulsing around him, the aftershocks still rattling you both. There’s no ecstasy like the one that comes after mating. Neither of you need to speak to know it to your cores: This is it. It’s the end of dating, the end of craving, the end of begging. Never again will you go without.
As the haze of broken skin begins to recede, you gently kiss across Brendon’s chest. You bring your lips to his and you both half-smile against each other. It’s perfectly simple, the two of you, and it makes more sense than anything you’ve ever known. Still hard inside of you, Brending shifts you both upwards so he can hold you in his lap. His hands roam lazily, happily, knowingly. He’s learned the curves and edges of you now.
With both your brains turning on again and your bodies still intertwined, Brendon kisses your temple and murmurs against your ear, “You’ve known all along, haven’t you? About us?”
You brush your thumb over his chin – there’s evening stubble there now, rakishly handsome – and admit gently, “I knew the first time we met.”
With a sigh, he asks, “Why didn’t you say anything? We could’ve been together so much sooner.”
You give him an ‘as if’ sort of look. “Because you’re kind of an asshole, Bren.”
“Fair enough,” he laughs. “God, I’m sorry, baby. I can’t imagine my life without you now.”
“I know. Me too.” You go back to kissing him for another minute, unable to resist with him completely at your mercy. After a minute, you explain further, “I just wanted to see if we liked each other beyond, y’know, the whole biology thing. If we could fit together.”
“I always liked you,” he says back, fingers tracing beads of sweat that fall down your body, “even before I could smell you.”
You giggle and smack his chest. “Liar.”
“No, I swear,” he insists urgently. Even though he’s softening now, neither of you goes to move, too enamored with one another. “I thought you were competent. Good with patients. Funny. Pretty.”
“Those are just facts, Brendon. Everyone thinks I’m wonderful.”
“And I thought you were so modest,” he needles. While your laugh brushes against his skin, he tells you, much more softly now, “Every time there was a page for me to the ED, I hoped it was you because, every time we worked together, I left so fucking frustrated.”
You scoff and tease, “Weren’t you trying to say you’ve always liked me a second ago?”
“No, baby, I mean…” Brendon struggles to find the right words, but you wait patiently, beyond curious. Nobody gets to see this version of him: Reflective, sweet, innocent. He meets your eyes again and tries to explain, “I wasn’t frustrated the way I always am with Robinavitch or the Ken doll or the mousy one or- God, they’re all so fucking stupid compared to you,” he laughs, making you do the same. “I would leave every consult with you frustrated that I wasn’t good the way you are. Frustrated that you put people at ease without trying while everyone’s scared of me even when I try to be softer. Frustrated that you don’t let anything stop you when sometimes I get so fed up I have to punch a wall. Frustrated because you made me want to be better – a better doctor, yes, but a better man and a better alpha, too. Nobody’s ever made me feel like that.”
You pout your lower lip and hold back tears. You can’t help but kiss him. There are no alternatives. And he really, really likes being kissed by you. With every touch of your lips, he can taste the rest of his life. When you pull back at last, you’ve sniffled back the tears and replaced them with an adorable, mischievous smile. You tell him cheekily, “I didn’t like you back then, if you were wondering.”
“You made that plenty clear, baby,” he chuckles, giving your ass an affectionate squeeze. “What changed your mind?”
With a soft shrug, you give him the truth: “You told Frankie you’d go to his track meet.”
“It meant that much to you?”
“Yeah,” you murmur. It feels like a secret, but you want to tell him all your secrets, especially the ones you’d never share with anyone else. “Becaues you listened to me. Apologies don’t count if you don’t change your behavior – and you did. But I could tell it wasn’t just for me. You really wanted to make it up to him. To fix what you’d broken.” You gingerly trace the harsh angles of his face with your forefinger, memorizing the lines. When you touch his lower lip, he sighs and smiles contentedly. You tell him, “That’s the sign of a good man, I think. A good partner apologizes and means it. A good father screws up and then fixes it. I didn’t have a choice in being your mate, but I made the choice to love you.”
Brendon blinks hard. He covers your hand with his and kisses each of your fingers. Rough and thick with love, he breathes, “Christ, kitten, are you trying to make me cry here?”
You kiss him so softly it could be a butterfly’s wing. “You already did, softie.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
Unavoidable - Dr. Brendon “The Shark” Park x Reader
Chapter Five: Safe
Series Summary: The moment you meet Dr. Brendon Park, your entire world changes. He's your mate. The person you're destined to be with. But, god, does he have to be such an asshole all the time? Really, does he?
Chapter Summary: An emergency code in the hospital finally pushes you and Brendon into each other's arms for good.
Tags/Notes: omegaverse, alpha!park, omega!reader, fated mates, heat/rut, kinda hurt/comfort, panic, possessive/protective park, brendon threatens robby bc....im me
Content: umm so a "code silver" is a feral alpha on the loose in the hospital, so i guess there's a level of implied threat? it's just kinda high tension/panic
A/N: i like stealing ideas from myself bc i have good ideas!! anyway just wanted to get this out since i have to focus on mrs. danforth for the next 48 hours. expect happy slutty emotional mating fest sometime in the next week!!
Word Count: 2.1k
You know you’re going to be pushing it the moment you start getting ready for the day. You feel a little warm but not quite feverish, a little aroused but not quite dripping with it, a little emotional but not quite overwhelmed. But it’s just one shift; you’ve made it through a day feeling like this before without issue. You load up with a scent-suppressing lotion for the sake of your coworkers, take a deep breath, and resolve to make it work for a few more hours before you can super casually find a way to ask Brendon to spend your heat with you even though you just had your first kiss two days ago.
You even go the extra mile and ask Robby to put you on lighter duty and stick you with omega patients if possible to keep yourself and everyone else calm. It’s a thankfully easy day in the ED where you get to text Brendon and hang around with your friends pretty regularly in between sutures and meds and intubations. Your heat’s definitely threatening, but it’s under control with regular breaks, a steady water schedule, and plenty of support from the rest of the staff when you need help.
And then things get derailed.
You’re in the middle of tapping away at Frankie’s chart after his latest rehab appointment when a robotic voice crackles through all the hospital’s speakers.
“This is a Code Silver. All omegas report to their nearest shelter. If you cannot access a shelter, press the silver button on any patient remote for additional security instructions. Repeat: This is a Code Silver. All omegas report to their nearest shelter. If you cannot…”
Panic bubbles up in your throat as your instincts flare, all senses fading out so that you can focus on getting to safety during your heat. Code Silver. Feral alpha on the loose in the hospital. Usually they’re in the ED after being picked up for an assault or reckless accident.
You can’t remember where the nearest shelter is up here; you’re not on the ED floor and you’ve never thought to check up here. From behind the glass wall, you see nurses and doctors milling around, none of them alarmed the way you are as they head to the pockets of the hospital designed to protect them.
Inside of you, everything is burning. Your stomach tightens up and your hands start to sweat. The lights are too bright. The sounds are too loud. You catch yourself whimpering under your breath as your feet start to feel like hundred pound weights holding you to the floor.
You have to get out of here. There could be danger anywhere. You have to move. But the idea of the omega shelter is terrifying to you right now. Too many smells, too many bodies.
So you just give in to your instincts and run.
Brendon hears the code in the middle of surgery. Forty-five minutes deep in an ACL reconstruction, his mind goes blank. His ears start ringing and, for the first time in his career, the surgical field in front of him is complete gibberish. Usually he can read the bones and tendons much more easily than any text. They make sense to him when nothing and nobody else does.
But, right now, all he can see on a loop over and over is your distress.
He knows you’re going into heat and a major stress is the last thing you need. He knows you’re sensitive and sweet and in the exact right headspace to be scared.
And you’re alone.
Wherever you are in the hospital, no matter how many people may be around or what you were doing when the code was called, you don’t have your mate there. For an omega in heat, away from their nest with nothing else for comfort, there’s nothing more frightening.
After a few deep breaths to try to stop himself from losing it, Brendon withdraws from his position and quietly orders, “Garcia, I need you to take over for me.”
“What? Why? We’re right in the middle of-”
He barks, “Take over. Now.”
With Brendon giving her no choice as he withdraws the arthroscope and sets his tools aside, Garcia shifts over and starts mentally going over the steps she needs to take. She rapidly gets herself up to speed and demands, “What the fuck is going on, Park?”
“I have to find her,” he rumbles back, already pushing out of the suite. “Atterman’s on call if you need more support.”
Garcia understands right away. She shakes her head and sighs to the rest of the team, “Remind me of this moment if I ever think about bonding with an omega at the hospital.”
The nearest nurse laughs and then it’s back to business.
Brendon rips off his surgical gown and cap, tosses out all his PPE, and sprints away from the surgical wing at a full clip. He shoves into the nearest stairwell – the elevators stop functioning during most of the emergency codes – and launches down them until he’s at the bottom floor. The ED is going on business as usual, its few omega doctors safely in their nearby shelter while Robby and Abbot lead the charge in keeping the machine running smoothly without them. It’s chaotic to say the least, but Park still catches the lightest trace of your scent among all the others. It doesn’t go toward the Pitt’s shelter or any of the exits. You’re not here.
Brendon practically barrels into Robby, catching him off-guard. As Robby stumbles back when Park’s hand goes into his chest, Brendon pushes, “Robinavitch. Where is she?”
Robby can smell the rut bleeding off Park’s skin. He can see it in Park’s overly dilated eyes, the sweat on his brow, the way his breaths are more like pants. It puts him on edge immediately. With a gentle voice, he tries, “Park, you’re supposed to stay in your department during-”
“Don’t. Don’t start with me right now.” His voice is pure danger. It’s a match hovering above gasoline. Lethal. “Where’s my fucking omega?”
“I think your rut’s breaking through, Shark,” Robby says with a heavy, serious tone. A warning. Alpha to alpha. “You need to go home or at least get back to your office before-”
“No,” Park growls back. A real growl, not the kind you hear in any old alpha argument. It makes Robby’s scent go sour as he shrinks beneath Park’s presence. Everyone within ten feet notices and shivers from the intensity. Park’s fingers bruise into Robby’s shoulder as he insists, “I need to know where she is. Right now. Or I’m going to put your head through the desk and ask the next dumbass doctor I see instead.”
Robby’s frozen in submission and can’t do anything but rush out the truth, “She was supposed to be with a patient up in physio a half hour ago. The- the teen whose leg you worked on together. She probably went into their shelter, but I don’t know for sure. Start there.”
Park lets go of Robby with a push and turns around. He burns through to the nearest stairwell, leaping upward three steps at a time. Right now, if that feral alpha came across him, Park would rip him limb from limb with his bare hands if it meant getting one single step closer to you.
At the physical therapy department, on the same floor as ortho, Park shuts his eyes and breathes deeply to try to catch your scent. The alphas and betas work quietly, on edge as they wait for either the all-clear or a follow-up code that they have to shelter in place, too. But Park just pushes past all of them, his eyes half-lidded as he chases down the faintest trace of you, getting stronger with his every step. There’s a pool of you by the orthopedic surgery rehab suite, tracking back and forth, mixed up with lots of others. Your appointment with the kid and his family. He passes by the suite, toward the omega shelter, and immediately loses your scent. With his brows furrowed, Park backtracks a few paces to the next-closest intersection of halls. He tracks your scent toward the wing of offices, where it gets stronger and stronger. His pace picks up when he realizes where you’ve gone, heart pounding against his ribcage.
Brendon pushes his office door open, following his nose, and finds the blinds in his glass office drawn, something he rarely does, with all the lights off. Frustration rises in his gut when he can’t see you right away, relaxing on the couch opposite his desk or something. But your smell is so vibrant and it definitely dead-ends here. So he locks the door behind himself and tentatively asks into the quiet, “Are you alright?”
Your tiny voice slides out from behind his desk. He can hear you shivering and it makes him snarl at the idea that anything has hurt you or frightened you. “Is it safe now, Bren?”
“They haven’t called the code yet, but the lock on my door is as good as the shelters,” he tells you quietly, carefully crossing his office toward your voice. He flicks on the dim lamp on the bookshelf behind his desk and finds you when the light fills the room’s corners. You’re curled up around yourself beneath his desk, your whole body shaking slightly. Low and protective, he asks, “What are you doing in here? You should’ve gone to the shelter, baby.”
Your eyes are so wide and frightened he can hardly bear to look at you without surging forward to hold you. But he doesn’t want to move too fast. Scaring you even further right now would be a fate worse than death for him. After a second, you squeak out, “I- I saw all the security guards drawing their weapons and everyone rushing around and I just- I got scared. I didn’t want to be trapped in there with everyone.”
He nods slowly. Really slowly. Like the gears that control the motion need grease. “You were scared. So you came to my office.”
You nod gently, too. Tentatively. Your tongue is heavy and your brain is moving so slowly, but his presence is a guiding star. His scent is finally helping your heart rate slow down. With chattering teeth, you whimper, “Smells safe here.”
He drops down onto the floor to get a better look at you and sees that you’ve wrapped yourself in his hoodie, which had been hanging on the wall, wearing it backwards with the hood high up on your neck, the perfect spot for burying your nose. You’ve also dragged the throw pillows from the couch under his desk and rummaged around for his spare scrubs and the clothes in his gym bag.
You’re nesting.
This isn’t just an omega being freaked out by a Code Silver. He’s seen that before. You’re definitely in heat early, triggered by the stress. It’s radiating off of you in waves. And now you’re seeking out the comfort of your mate to calm your fear because it’s ten times as visceral as it would be at any other time in your cycle. This is pure instinct.
Something deep inside of Park stirs as he looks at you. Puzzle pieces snapping into place. His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it as he presents his hands. “Can I help you come out, angel? I promise I’ll keep you safe.”
After a minute of studying him for any signs of deception, you gingerly crawl out from under the desk, but you don’t stand up. Instead, you fold into his arms. He cradles the back of your head and shifts you fully into his lap. While he breathes deeply, encouraging you to match his slower pace, you press your nose to his neck, softly whimpering and shaking against his chest.
He kisses your temple and soothes into your skin, “You don’t have to be scared anymore. You’re safe with me. Nothing will ever hurt you while I’m here, pup.”
Pleasure shivers up your spine when he calls you that. You’re lost in a sea of his scent and his strength. You barely even hear it when the code is called off, buried inside of Brendon’s safety. You don’t even realize how your fingers are gripping into him hard enough to bruise. He doesn’t care. All he cares about is protecting you. He wants to envelope you in his arms so tightly that you can live there forever, never having to touch the cruel earth that could dirty your feet.
After a minute of quiet, Brendon murmurs, “I’m gonna get you home and take care of you now, angel. Don’t worry about a thing.”
With your fists clutching his scrubs and your tears staining them dark, you nod and manage to whisper, “Alpha.”
In lieu of my ko-fi, please consider donating to my mother's long-term dementia care fund.
If you could have one Shakespeare play done by the Muppets what would it be?
obviously a Midsummer Night's Dream, can you imagine? Kermit as Oberon, Miss Piggy as Titania, the non-fae characters are played by the only humans, when Bottom is transformed he physically becomes a muppet, Puck is naturally Gonzo with bonus Rizzo
After getting dragged by Dustin to see Project Hail Mary, Steve comes back home a teary, emotional mess. Eddie keeps asking what this is about, did something happen with his parents or Dustin, was it really just the movie? "Come on, Stevie, talk to me about what's happening in that incredibly hairy head?"
Steve gets all teary-eyed again, hugs Eddie tightly. He whispers something, Eddie thinks it's something serious, but then he hears it.
"Would you still love me if I was a blind five-legged rock spider and you had to wait for me for decades before I came home?"
The answer is yes, of course, but what the hell was that. The next day, Eddie sneaks out to watch the movie, even though sci-fi isn't always his thing, but he needs to understand, damn it!
Steve is washing the dishes when Eddie arrives home, more quiet than usual. Before Steve can turn around, Eddie hugs him from behind like an octopus, squeezing his waist and sniffling into Steve's shoulder.
And Steve gets worried for a second, sure, but then he hears Eddie whisper "yeah, Stevie, I'd be your Adrian."
Spencer calls you drunk and in need of rescue. You confess a few secrets to him while he won’t remember them (or so you think). 3k, fem
cw drunk!spencer, mentioned past drug use, confident/bombshell!reader, flirting, spencer getting some well deserved comfort, a handful of his drunken compliments, insecurity, intense mutual pining
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
You’re blissfully sleeping in the arms of a REM cycle when your phone rings. It pulls you by the chest, a punch of shock and expectancy at once. It’ll be someone calling you into work, Hotch himself if you’re lucky.
You search blindly for your phone. If you’re even luckier, it’ll be a wrong number. Your fingers curl around the little body of your phone and you bring it to your ear without checking the number, frazzled. “Hello?” you ask hoarsely.
Total quiet.
“Hello?” You pull the screen away. The caller reads: SPENCER. You pull it back rather than hang up. “Hey, Spencer. Are you there?”
“Hello.” He laughs. “Hello, are you there?”
“I’m here, Spencer, where are you?”
“That’s an interesting question, actually, and I’m sure there’s a great answer, but…”
“But what?” You sit up quickly, your throat aching with sleep. Your room is black as coal pitch. “Spencer, what time is it, my love?”
“You shouldn’t call me stuff like that.”
“Stop being weird and tell me where you are.”
He laughs like a hyena. You can see it in your mind, his smile and all his pearly perfect teeth. You love it when he smiles like that and he rarely ever does. “I’m somewhere and I need your help getting home!” he says with another funny laugh.
“Are you alright? You sound…” He sounds inebriated.
Spencer struggled with his drug problem for so long before you found out. You just hadn’t been around enough, and when you were he’d gotten good at hiding it. You can still remember how furious you’d been with everyone, including him, because you could’ve helped, would’ve done anything to support him through it. If he’s hurting now and hasn’t told you, you love him, but you’ll be insanely angry.
“Spencer?” you ask quietly.
“I went for drinks with a girl but she didn’t like me and I may have drowned my sorrows too much,” he admits. “Um. Did you know gin is very strong?”
“Aw, baby. You’re cheating on me?”
“I’m afraid so,” he says, and hiccups.
“Where are you?”
After some hassle wherein you persuade Spencer to give the phone to someone else in the bar for a slightly less drunk interrogation, you dress and gather your bearings for the drive. You zip a hoodie up over your pyjamas, stuff your feet into some old converse, and set out into the dark to find him.
He calls you again as you’re parking. “Hello,” he says as soon as you answered. “I need you to come and get me.”
Spencer called you twice to save him. Even if he doesn’t remember, he’s called you to come and get him when he knows he needs help, and that realisation is hard to ignore. “Spencer, I’m two minutes away, I’m parking. You’re still where you were?”
“Where was I?”
“At the bar, sweetheart. Are you still there?” It’s scarily dark out and you didn’t grab any sort of defensive measure before you came, which you regret now, climbing out of your car to walk the dimly lit road. The bar glows like a beacon to be followed.
“Still where?”
“Did you hit your head?”
“Not to my knowledge. Though I’m not sure I have much right now. I feel like I’m forgetting everything I’ve ever read, and I’ve read a lot. You know I can read about eighty average length novels in one hour on an e-reader? The buttons make it faster.”
“You haven’t told me that before.” You shiver against the nighttime winds, footsteps heavy on the grey sidewalk.
“I’m trying to be more conversational. Emily says it’s not working.”
“You’re conversational. Isn’t the only condition of being conversational to prompt a conversation? We’re always talking.”
“…What?”
You laugh like crazy. “Spencer, you don’t need to change the way you talk.”
“I annoy people.”
“You don’t annoy me.”
You approach the door of the bar, a ramshackle sheet of plywood over what looks to be a glass door. The bar building seems in similar dessaray, with modern features wrecked by scratches and smashed panes. It’s a real dive. Spencer couldn’t have meant to come here.
You war with both hands to open the door and find yourself faced with a long and empty corridor leading to another door. Worried you’re going to get kidnapped, you bring the phone back to your ear, Spencer’s chatting an immediate greeting. “…telling me I’m doing something wrong without telling me what it is, it’s impossible.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart, can you come to the door?”
“I don’t think I have control of my legs,” he says without inflection.
“It’s definitely the building with the smashed door?”
“Yesssss. Are you here?” he asks excitedly.
“I better not get murdered, Spencer Reid.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“How are you even keeping the phone to your ear right now?”
“I’m on speaker phone. Milly showed me how to do it. Say hi, Milly.”
“Hi Milly,” a new voice says.
You rub your eyes with one hand and square your shoulders, prepared to defend yourself if the creepy door leads to a creepier room.
Spencer is immediately visible from the get go. You open the door on to a rather cosy looking bar, which you’re thinking might be the whole point; wretched exterior, secret attraction. Warm orange light ebbs into the space from sconces and a faux fireplace, while a wrestling match playing from the small TV behind the bar casts brighter light down onto Spencer’s shoulders. He looks out of place, dressed in a white oxford shirt and a suit jacket, his tie loosened and hanging from either side of his neck, compared to the lingering patrons who sit dotted around the room in booths and on barstools. One such patron sits in a plaid shirt and a trucker hat, her hair to her back, thick and dark.
You hang up the call and put your phone in your pocket. Spencer gasps like he’s been smacked and picks his own phone up from the bar, clicking at buttons with clumsy fingers. “No,” he hums sadly.
“Spencer,” you say, not wanting to disturb the people spending their sorry-looking night here. “Spencer. Hey, Spence!”
His phone tips between his fingers. The woman you assume to be Milly catches it and offers it back without looking too far from her beer.
“Hey,” you say gently, crossing a wide empty space to meet him. The room itself is shaped like a horseshoe, the bar taking up a surprising amount in the centre, and booths and tables placed around it. Spencer’s off of his barstool as you approach, eyes like puppy dog’s, arms extended. “You okay?” you ask.
You can feel eyes on you both from every angle, but it doesn’t matter, not when Spencer’s falling into your arms (or on to them —he’s surprisingly tall when you aren’t wearing heels). “You alright?” you ask again.
“You don’t have to be worried, I’m fine.”
He’s less coordinated in real life than he’d sounded over the phone, his slurring unmissable, his hands like jumping fish as he tries to hug you. It’s weird and straining to take his weight but you do it without complaint. He smells the same, at least, only his cedary cologne is sharpened by the tang of gin on his breath.
“Thank god you’re here,” he whispers.
“Why?” you ask, pulling away to check for danger.
“I missed you.”
“I missed you too, handsome,” you say, genuine but laying it on thick simultaneously as you ease his head back to cup his cheek. You can’t help yourself. He’s the prettiest man you’ve ever met, and it gets worse every year.
He frowns at you deeply. “I don’t like first dates.”
“Then don’t go on them,” you suggest, “you don’t need to until you’re ready.”
“I’m ready for love,” he says. You pull your lips into a flattened line, unsure of what to say, how to explain that it’s waiting for him, but his chin dips towards his neck and his eyes lock onto your face. “You’re not wearing makeup. God, you’re so pretty.”
You flinch away from him. “Fuck, Spencer.”
“I’m sorry! It’s not that you don’t look pretty with makeup, but I never see you without it!”
You’d forgotten you weren’t wearing any. Makeup isn’t a shield, exactly, but you like putting your best foot forward, so to speak. You’ve no clue what you look like tonight, hadn’t managed to look in the mirror, you’d been focused on getting to Spencer before he got lost. You can imagine the puffiness.
Spencer touches your cheek. You let him turn you mostly because he’s surprised you, his eyes roving up and down your face with a fawning curiosity.
“You’re beautiful. You know that already, but people don’t tell you enough,” he says, his hand falling from your cheek.
“Spencer,” you say softly, “let’s get you home.”
You thank Milly for her help and grab Spencer’s bag from the floor to hang on your shoulder. You’d make a joke about how heavy it was if you didn’t think he’d take it from you, and, considering how drunk he is, topple over from the imbalance it provides. His shirt is clammy where you push your hand through his arm to link them, his footsteps wobbly.
“I didn’t want to go on a date,” he says.
“Then why did you go?” you ask, helping him over the door jam into the long hallway.
“I don’t want to be alone forever.”
“Spencer, you won’t be.” It doesn’t feel like the best time to bring up how much you like him. You’re sure he thinks you’re kidding, doesn’t everybody? Don’t torture him, they say. Don’t toy with him. Every time you flirt with him the team acts like you can’t mean it, and for a while it worked for you; you weren’t in love with Spencer. You weren’t playing with his feelings, but you didn’t love him, and then you joined the team and got to know him, watched him fluster at every comment you made or under any soft looking and realised you could love him. It was easy to fall for him. You liked doing it. But now he’s determined to write your affection off as a joke and going on dates?
In the morning, when he’s sober, you’ll have to tell him how you feel. Or you could let him find someone more like him… ugh. It’s such a mess.
You grapple with the size of your feelings for him as he hums and laughs his way down the hall to the glass door. On the street, he squints and straightens his back, fighting to regain his arm from your hold to cover your shoulder instead. “It’s cold,” he says in surprise. “You okay?”
“I’m fine, I got my jacket. It’s a short walk, come on.”
His arm stops acting as protection and starts to use you for support. “I didn’t mean to drink so much.”
“Drowning your sorrows is always a terrible idea because it tends to work,” you lament, less scared of the dark with him at your hip, though what protection he might offer is negated by the alcohol.
“She kind of looked like you.”
You squeeze your eyes together quickly. “Oh.”
“I didn’t know she was going to. But she didn’t– she didn’t– it’s hard to talk. She didn’t listen like you do,” he says, lightly slurring, “she just stared at me like everyone used to in high school. Like she could tell there’s something wrong with me.”
“Spencer, there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“I know,” he says.
“Do you?”
“Yes.” He frowns. “No, I don’t know. I don’t feel like there’s something wrong with me,” —his voice turns to a nearly indistinguishable mumble— “but everyone else always does.”
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”
“Is that why you make all your jokes?”
“What jokes, babe?”
“Like that! Like babe. It’s funny ‘cos you’d never date me.”
You’d slow if he weren’t already walking at a snail's pace. “That’s not true. Let’s talk about it in the morning, okay?”
“I won’t remember to ask you in the morning.”
“Spencer, you remember everything.”
He drags his feet. “I wish I wasn’t so weird,” he whines. It’s playful at the forefront but desperate otherwise, and it gives you pause. “I wish I was normal, and you could like me normal.”
You look down at your hands, panicking, a flash of Is this a good idea? like an alarm in your head as you turn on the sidewalk to face him. He’s looking at you like he’s begging you to disagree with him.
You’re happy to.
“Spencer, I like you like this,” you insist loudly. His eyes and all his sweet lashes track the movement of your hand as you touch your chest, and your neck. “You’re not normal, I’m not normal. Do you know how many times I’ve been rejected? Just for being me? I’m too bossy, too outspoken, too– too high maintenance. I've had friends with good intentions tell me I need to lower my standards, need to relax, because otherwise I’m going to end up alone for the rest of my life. I feel alone all the time.”
“But you’re perfect,” he says, puzzled.
“To you. And you’re perfect to me.” Your hand crawls to the base of your throat. “So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do. You think I’d come and get anybody else in the middle of the night dressed like this?” you ask him, gesturing to your ratty pyjamas and your dingy converse.
“You look so cute,” he says mournfully.
You roll your eyes. He’s too wasted for this conversation. “Come on, sweetheart. You can think about this too much in the morning. Let’s just get home in one piece.” Physically and emotionally.
“Can I come home with you?” he asks.
That had always been the plan. “Ask me nicely and I’ll consider it on the way.”
— —
Spencer shuts his eyes, hands itching to clap over his ears as you scratch the head of a spatula across your frying pan. “Is three eggs too many? People usually have two but that’s never enough for me.”
“I think…” Oh my god the metal screeching is so loud. “You should have as many as you want. You know your body. There’s this study on intuitive eating…” I'm too hungover for this. “Three eggs is better than two.”
“So you want three?”
He cannot eat right now. “Yes. Please.”
Spencer’s half sick with dehydration and half grief. He stayed at your house last night and he was too drunk to be nosy. He slept in your bed. He slept in your bed. He woke up to you at your vanity doing your hair, the nutty smell of hair oil mixed with the heat of the hair tool on high and realised with a start that he’d missed something he thought about all the time.
You’d tipped your head back to smile at him. “There’s my boy. Sweet dreams?”
He didn’t dream, but if he had, it would’ve been another agonising wish where you were his girlfriend, or his wife, or just there looking at him with love. He wakes up feeling sick because it isn’t true. And now you’re making him breakfast, humming a tune under your breath, sourdough sizzling under the grill and a shoddily blended avocado sitting in the bowl in front of him.
You asked him for one thing. He picks up the fork and starts to mash the avocado again. He can’t fight the foreignness of sitting in your kitchen, a gap in his memory.
He knows he told you about his date, how she looked like you, how she didn’t seem to like him much, but he’s struggling to collect the finer details. Why had you picked him up? He must’ve called you, but you could’ve said no. He remembers thinking you looked beautiful, but he always thinks that.
The avocado is making him feel sick.
“Here,” you say, sliding a plate of toast in front of him. “Do you want butter?”
“I think I'm gonna throw up.”
“You’re okay.”
“I can’t believe how I acted,” he says, pressing his palms to the hollows of his eyes.
You turn off the hob. Fat bubbles and pops until it’s cooled. The clock on the wall by the refrigerator ticks incessantly. His slept-in shirt feels too tight despite the undone button.
“Hey…” You round the island but don’t touch him, your voice gentle. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He drags his hands down his face. “I can barely remember what I said.”
“You were really nice to me… told me I looked pretty without my makeup, n’ that I was perfect. You were really nice.”
Your tone is off. No flirtatiousness, no endless confidence, you sound wistful, like you’re glad he said it. You take the bowl of avocado he’s made a mess with and put it aside with the toast, resting your arm on the counter, and leaning into his space. “Spencer, last night? You didn’t do anything to be embarrassed of. You were nice, and kind. You tried to open the car door for me and you almost lost your eye, but you were fine. You don’t have anything to be worried about, really.”
“But it’s you.”
“Gonna touch your hair,” you say, giving him enough time to move away as you reach out and rake back his fringe. His heart leaps into his mouth. “You said something last night like that, you know? Do you remember that? You said if you were normal.” You grace the skin beside his eye with the tip of your thumb, your perfume floating his way as you move. “And I said–”
“I’m not normal,” he says, remembering now.
You’re not normal, I’m not normal, you’d said.
But you’re perfect, he’d said.
To you. And you’re perfect to me.
“Right. We’re not normal, Spencer Reid, so forget that girl. She didn’t deserve you anyways,” you say.
You draw a short, silken line down his cheek with the side of your pinky. To be touched so lightly has his stomach in knots —he’s not shocked by the swiftness with which your affection can make a bad situation good again.
You turn away. “Now we should eat before everything goes cold.”
He watches your shoulders move, and he remembers one last detail. So don’t say you’re weird like it’s ugly, honey. And don’t think I don’t like you, ‘cos I do.
The way you’d said it… you couldn’t really mean…
“How’s your appetite? Still feeling sick?” you ask.
Spencer smiles to himself, the ghost of your touch glowing warm on his cheek. “I’m feeling a lot better, actually.”
˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
thank you for reading!!! please like/reblog or comment if you enjoyed, i appreciate anything and it always inspires me to write more<3!! my requests are pretty much always open for bombshell!reader (even though this one strays a bit from their usual story haha) so if you wanna see more let me know❤️
2022: Women wait their turn to participate in a television recording of the Quinamayó festivities. In Quinamayó, a town in south-west Colombia inhabited by the descendants of black enslaved people, Christmas is celebrated in February, 45 days after the traditional date of the birth of Jesus Christ, because the town’s residents were not allowed to use the same date as their slavers.
Surviving and Thriving in Collapse: A Good Library and Reskilling
March 25 2025, Dana O'Driscoll, AODA
Excerpt:
In my first post in this series, I talked about the global collapse that is happening and what to do about it–and as hard as it is, the reasons to keep up the hope and the vision for a better future and paradigm. As I shared in my first post, what we need to do now, as things are collapsing, is to lean into and create the world we want to create. But how to do we actually get there? One step at a time, my friends. In my first post, I outlined the situation as I see it and then shared some resources to help orient our minds and mentally prepare and cultivate mental resilience. This post assumes that you’ve read the first post, and also, that you are feeling like you are in a place to take a few more steps. And so today’s topic is: building a good library!
Read the full post on The Druid's Garden.
Dana O'Driscoll is the Grand Archdruid of the Ancient Order of Druids in America and the co-found of the Pennsylvania School for Herbalism. She is also a Certified Permaculture Designer and Teacher, and the creator of the Tree Lore and Plant Spirit oracle decks. She has published two books on connecting modern pagan practices with permaculture, sustainable living, and responsible land stewardship. Sacred Actions and Land Healing are both available from Schiffer Books.
So you've never felt the attraction that comes when someone who's capable of doing terrible things for some reason cares only about you? I'm going to convince Ric to let our girls help you out with this.
Marie's Small Universe @absentmindeduniverse - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
