fic repost: Skirmish (seven)
Title: Skirmish
Authors: neverwiser and sixtieshairdo
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dear Reid (Or perhaps, dear Doctor Oliver. How far into one’s soul does a person have to be before you’re on first name terms?)
Previous chapters: prologue | one | two | three | four | six
Authors' Note: As a general rule, neverwiser writes Luke and sixtieshairdo writes Reid. Warnings for angst.
I don’t know his name.
He had dark hair like Noah. Blue eyes like you. He was tall and built, covered in layers of muscle, strong enough to hold me in place with one hand.
He thought I was a sure thing, and I was. He thought I was drunk, but I wasn’t. He thought I was available, but I’m not.
When it started, it was teasing and light-hearted. I leaned into him, as if I was going to kiss him, but instead I merely ran my tongue across his lips, lapped around the bee-sting mouth like it was an ice-cream cone. My hand rested on his bicep and I felt him begin to shake. He tried to open his mouth, to pull me in with that thick, masculine tongue, but I teased him further, feathering my lips across his jawbone, sucking on his Adam’s apple. I’ve never met a guy who doesn’t go crazy when you do that: something to do with the manliness of that spot. It always worked on you.
I began to pluck at the buttons on his shirt, slowly and teasingly. But he was not the type to be teased, not the type to passively let things happen to him, and he ripped my hands away and tugged at his shirt, several buttons flying off as he ripped it open. There was a thicker layer of hair on his chest than on yours, and he pressed my face into it, sucking on his nipples like some sick and pathetic child.
He grunted, moaned, told me I was a slut, but I shut him up by grazing the nipple with my teeth, just as my hand dove into his waistband. You used to go wild when I’d do that to you - the two points of pressure, both so sensitive, seemed too much for you. You would arch off the bed, that sweet hiss whistling between your lips against your will.
You were often quiet in bed. I wondered if it was because you wanted to hide your emotions. You didn’t want me to know I was getting to you.
I’m getting to you now, Reid Oliver. I know I am.
I wrapped my fingers around him, and he snapped. He pulled away from me, covered my mouth with a messy kiss. He pressed me into the wall, held me there by force of his taking, taking kiss, such that I had no control. He didn’t say a word, just held me there with one hand and his lips as he opened my flies, fiddled with lube and condoms, biting at my lips all the while. You remember, don’t you, what I did next? Allowed my body to fall limp and heavy, allowed my head to roll back against the wall, allowed my limbs to go weak. Allowed him to play his fingers and lips across my body. Allowed him to press his slick fingers inside me, open me up and prepare me. Allowed him to slide into me, take me, own me.
You fucking loved it when I did that. When I stopped moving with you and let you use me like your own personal doll. Like I was nothing more than a mass of limbs and nerve endings for you to get off in. Your face would go primal, just like his did, your fingers digging into me. Your eyes...God, I’ll never forget your eyes.
As he pounded into me, over and over and over again, I raised my hips, pressed back into him, silently begged for it. It worked. His thrusts grew harder, more desperate, he whispered into my back dirty pretty words of want.
I turned him on like I was born to do it. You must remember, Reid Oliver. You taught me everything I know.
I knew all the ways to make him crazy. I worked him with my lips and my fingers and my ass until he came so hard I had to pry his teeth from my shoulder.
In short, I used all your favourite moves.
Afterwards he asked me for my number, told me we should hook up again. I’m taken, is all I said to him.
I am, you know.
*
Reid presses his face into the palms of his hands, the very figure of defeat inside the cold, barren womb of his office.
He knows exactly what Luke is doing and it surprised him that Luke took this long to do something drastic. He knows what Luke wants from him. He knows how Luke, his vehemently delicious Luke, always always gets his way.
He knows this is Luke pushing the envelope, desperate to break him.
Reid presses his face into the palms of his hands and feels a whirlwind of sand rising, accumulating, from the pit of his stomach to the edges of his throat.
When the first broken sob breaks out of him, he bursts into proper tears.
He doesn’t recognise the almost animalistic, muffled wails coming from his mouth.
*
That night, he books a flight back to Oakdale, his mind flushed with thoughts of Luke willingly allowing his body for play to random men.
Minutes later, he’ll cancel his booking, convinced that Luke devised the entire story from a vengeful imagination.
He keeps going back and forth until his eyes cannot shed anymore tears and his head pounds like a platoon of soldiers stomping through battlefields.
His dream is frightful, no empty plateau between him and Luke this time. Instead, a naked, boneless Luke is being fucked brutally over and over by different men with dark hair and blue eyes.
Reid tries to move, to stop the heinous abuse but he realizes he’s tied down to a chair, ropes tightly binding down. His mouth opens to shout but a hand claps hard over his lips, someone standing behind him and forcing him to watch the monstrosity ahead of him.
He struggles, fury burning through him, frantic to see who was holding him captive.
When he finally breaks free, his eyes stare in panic at an uncanny replica of himself.
He jolts out of bed awake, his back drenched with sweat, his heart like speeding bullets.
He doesn’t sleep after that.
*
He spends his weekend worrying.
He has patients to operate on, numerous doctors to meet in an upcoming seminar, and an over-friendly waiter, at a coffee shop he frequents, whom he believes is stalking him.
Beyond all that, he worries about Luke.
He knows what Luke is capable of, flashbacks of unrestrained behaviour permeating his flustered mind.
He remembers how Luke blew him in the hospital supply closet one day because he’d told Luke that one of his ex-boyfriends was in town for the night and wanting to catch up with him over dinner. Luke did everything right with that talented mouth of his, but stopped right before Reid could come. Reid ended up hard and fucking horny throughout the rest of the day - masturbation pales in comparison to having Luke finishing him off - and ended up blowing off his ex.
He’d rushed home, pulled a smirky Luke into a bruising kiss, before getting the rest of his blowjob.
He remembers Luke openly flirting with a bartender or blatantly dancing with a stranger, right in front of his eyes, whenever they have an argument in a club. The result is almost always the same.
Reid would burn with mad want and jealousy, grab hold of Luke’s expectant hand and he’d fuck Luke hard and good at home. Sometimes, they don’t even make it home, the back of the car providing enough privacy for them on a primal night.
He realizes now how much Luke enjoys riling him up, how much Luke enjoys the fevered sexual episodes, how much Luke enjoys watching him fume before claiming possession over his relenting body.
And yet, it is this jealousy, this possessiveness, that he advocates that angers Luke.
He has no inkling on how to go about responding to Luke’s letter.
*
He writes a multitude of letters, all of them incoherent and rushed and entrenched with outbursts of anger and sadness and regret and apologies.
Because he is Reid Oliver, he puts them aside to re-read them again, always unhappy with the way he is expressing himself. There isn’t structure or the calm exterior he’s been adamant in portraying within his other letters.
He is falling apart.
Luke wins.
He worries that each day that Luke’s letter took to reach him, Luke is broken into more and more by different strangers. He worries that the longer he takes to reply, the more frustrated Luke gets, leading him into a lion’s den filled with hungry lecherous men who are looking to vent, and release and forget.
He knows Luke.
In the end, he throws all his letters away, turns on his laptop and composes a flurry of words; words that come into his mind unheeding structure and composure and sense, words that no longer believe in hurting, words that are hurting, words that swim out of him effortlessly, the pain and loss of almost one whole year of being apart from Luke finally, finally, dawning on him.
He breaks open, wounded and dying, Luke’s bullets finally hitting him, punching through him, killing him.
He hits Send and falls asleep almost immediately after, emotional exhaustion swallowing him whole.
Authors: neverwiser and sixtieshairdo
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Dear Reid (Or perhaps, dear Doctor Oliver. How far into one’s soul does a person have to be before you’re on first name terms?)
Previous chapters: prologue | one | two | three | four | six
Authors' Note: As a general rule, neverwiser writes Luke and sixtieshairdo writes Reid. Warnings for angst.
I don’t know his name.
He had dark hair like Noah. Blue eyes like you. He was tall and built, covered in layers of muscle, strong enough to hold me in place with one hand.
He thought I was a sure thing, and I was. He thought I was drunk, but I wasn’t. He thought I was available, but I’m not.
When it started, it was teasing and light-hearted. I leaned into him, as if I was going to kiss him, but instead I merely ran my tongue across his lips, lapped around the bee-sting mouth like it was an ice-cream cone. My hand rested on his bicep and I felt him begin to shake. He tried to open his mouth, to pull me in with that thick, masculine tongue, but I teased him further, feathering my lips across his jawbone, sucking on his Adam’s apple. I’ve never met a guy who doesn’t go crazy when you do that: something to do with the manliness of that spot. It always worked on you.
I began to pluck at the buttons on his shirt, slowly and teasingly. But he was not the type to be teased, not the type to passively let things happen to him, and he ripped my hands away and tugged at his shirt, several buttons flying off as he ripped it open. There was a thicker layer of hair on his chest than on yours, and he pressed my face into it, sucking on his nipples like some sick and pathetic child.
He grunted, moaned, told me I was a slut, but I shut him up by grazing the nipple with my teeth, just as my hand dove into his waistband. You used to go wild when I’d do that to you - the two points of pressure, both so sensitive, seemed too much for you. You would arch off the bed, that sweet hiss whistling between your lips against your will.
You were often quiet in bed. I wondered if it was because you wanted to hide your emotions. You didn’t want me to know I was getting to you.
I’m getting to you now, Reid Oliver. I know I am.
I wrapped my fingers around him, and he snapped. He pulled away from me, covered my mouth with a messy kiss. He pressed me into the wall, held me there by force of his taking, taking kiss, such that I had no control. He didn’t say a word, just held me there with one hand and his lips as he opened my flies, fiddled with lube and condoms, biting at my lips all the while. You remember, don’t you, what I did next? Allowed my body to fall limp and heavy, allowed my head to roll back against the wall, allowed my limbs to go weak. Allowed him to play his fingers and lips across my body. Allowed him to press his slick fingers inside me, open me up and prepare me. Allowed him to slide into me, take me, own me.
You fucking loved it when I did that. When I stopped moving with you and let you use me like your own personal doll. Like I was nothing more than a mass of limbs and nerve endings for you to get off in. Your face would go primal, just like his did, your fingers digging into me. Your eyes...God, I’ll never forget your eyes.
As he pounded into me, over and over and over again, I raised my hips, pressed back into him, silently begged for it. It worked. His thrusts grew harder, more desperate, he whispered into my back dirty pretty words of want.
I turned him on like I was born to do it. You must remember, Reid Oliver. You taught me everything I know.
I knew all the ways to make him crazy. I worked him with my lips and my fingers and my ass until he came so hard I had to pry his teeth from my shoulder.
In short, I used all your favourite moves.
Afterwards he asked me for my number, told me we should hook up again. I’m taken, is all I said to him.
I am, you know.
*
Reid presses his face into the palms of his hands, the very figure of defeat inside the cold, barren womb of his office.
He knows exactly what Luke is doing and it surprised him that Luke took this long to do something drastic. He knows what Luke wants from him. He knows how Luke, his vehemently delicious Luke, always always gets his way.
He knows this is Luke pushing the envelope, desperate to break him.
Reid presses his face into the palms of his hands and feels a whirlwind of sand rising, accumulating, from the pit of his stomach to the edges of his throat.
When the first broken sob breaks out of him, he bursts into proper tears.
He doesn’t recognise the almost animalistic, muffled wails coming from his mouth.
*
That night, he books a flight back to Oakdale, his mind flushed with thoughts of Luke willingly allowing his body for play to random men.
Minutes later, he’ll cancel his booking, convinced that Luke devised the entire story from a vengeful imagination.
He keeps going back and forth until his eyes cannot shed anymore tears and his head pounds like a platoon of soldiers stomping through battlefields.
His dream is frightful, no empty plateau between him and Luke this time. Instead, a naked, boneless Luke is being fucked brutally over and over by different men with dark hair and blue eyes.
Reid tries to move, to stop the heinous abuse but he realizes he’s tied down to a chair, ropes tightly binding down. His mouth opens to shout but a hand claps hard over his lips, someone standing behind him and forcing him to watch the monstrosity ahead of him.
He struggles, fury burning through him, frantic to see who was holding him captive.
When he finally breaks free, his eyes stare in panic at an uncanny replica of himself.
He jolts out of bed awake, his back drenched with sweat, his heart like speeding bullets.
He doesn’t sleep after that.
*
He spends his weekend worrying.
He has patients to operate on, numerous doctors to meet in an upcoming seminar, and an over-friendly waiter, at a coffee shop he frequents, whom he believes is stalking him.
Beyond all that, he worries about Luke.
He knows what Luke is capable of, flashbacks of unrestrained behaviour permeating his flustered mind.
He remembers how Luke blew him in the hospital supply closet one day because he’d told Luke that one of his ex-boyfriends was in town for the night and wanting to catch up with him over dinner. Luke did everything right with that talented mouth of his, but stopped right before Reid could come. Reid ended up hard and fucking horny throughout the rest of the day - masturbation pales in comparison to having Luke finishing him off - and ended up blowing off his ex.
He’d rushed home, pulled a smirky Luke into a bruising kiss, before getting the rest of his blowjob.
He remembers Luke openly flirting with a bartender or blatantly dancing with a stranger, right in front of his eyes, whenever they have an argument in a club. The result is almost always the same.
Reid would burn with mad want and jealousy, grab hold of Luke’s expectant hand and he’d fuck Luke hard and good at home. Sometimes, they don’t even make it home, the back of the car providing enough privacy for them on a primal night.
He realizes now how much Luke enjoys riling him up, how much Luke enjoys the fevered sexual episodes, how much Luke enjoys watching him fume before claiming possession over his relenting body.
And yet, it is this jealousy, this possessiveness, that he advocates that angers Luke.
He has no inkling on how to go about responding to Luke’s letter.
*
He writes a multitude of letters, all of them incoherent and rushed and entrenched with outbursts of anger and sadness and regret and apologies.
Because he is Reid Oliver, he puts them aside to re-read them again, always unhappy with the way he is expressing himself. There isn’t structure or the calm exterior he’s been adamant in portraying within his other letters.
He is falling apart.
Luke wins.
He worries that each day that Luke’s letter took to reach him, Luke is broken into more and more by different strangers. He worries that the longer he takes to reply, the more frustrated Luke gets, leading him into a lion’s den filled with hungry lecherous men who are looking to vent, and release and forget.
He knows Luke.
In the end, he throws all his letters away, turns on his laptop and composes a flurry of words; words that come into his mind unheeding structure and composure and sense, words that no longer believe in hurting, words that are hurting, words that swim out of him effortlessly, the pain and loss of almost one whole year of being apart from Luke finally, finally, dawning on him.
He breaks open, wounded and dying, Luke’s bullets finally hitting him, punching through him, killing him.
He hits Send and falls asleep almost immediately after, emotional exhaustion swallowing him whole.