#impossible choice

"Now then, Medic, let’s have you make the choice. Seeing as you’re responsible for your team mates' health..."

The gun teased over Whumpee's trembling body and came to a rest against their shoulder, the muzzle digging in hard.

"The non-lethal but oh so complicated shoulder wound..."

Slowly, the gun trailed down to their lower abdomen.

Essentially it's the same choice. Make a choice; one dies, one lives. But it's also not the same choice.

Choose who dies - whose blood will be on your hands, who can you watch die, whose life is worth less.

Choose who lives - whose life is more important, who can you not lose.

Never mind that they both lead to the same consequences. Choose who dies? Whoever you don't pick will get to live. Choose who lives? Whoever you don't pick will have to die.

Are you sending someone to their death by actively choosing it, or by abandoning them to that fate?

Tags: longing, guilt vs desire, sinful thoughts, adult content, horny!Jud

Wc: ~950

Jud lay on the couch in the dark living room, one arm thrown over his eyes, trying to force sleep that would not come. Every time he closed his eyes he saw you, how you had looked at him when he brushed your cheek and your face when you whispered goodnight and disappeared down the hall into what you still called “the spare room.”

It wasn’t a spare room. It was his bedroom. The one he had given up for you without hesitation, the one that still carried the faint scent of his incense and old books. But you didn’t know that. And he wasn’t about to tell you.

He shifted restlessly, the old cushions creaking under his weight. Minutes dragged by, then an hour. The house was silent except for the low tick of the hallway clock. Just when his mind began to blur at the edges he heard it, a soft sound from down the hall. A sigh? A murmur? He wasn’t sure.

He sat up slowly, heart already beating too hard. Don’t, the voice in his head warned. But the worry won. Barefoot, he padded down the hallway and stopped outside the door.

“You okay?” he called, voice low.

He listened. Nothing. Still, something pulled at him like a thread wrapped around his ribs. After a long, guilty second he turned the knob and eased the door open.

Moonlight poured across the bed through the little window on the wall. You were curled on your side, sheet tangled low around your hips, wearing only the button-down shirt you’d borrowed from him earlier. Your lashes lay dark against your cheeks. Your lips were parted, breathing slow and peaceful, the tension that had been written all over you earlier had eased into something quieter. Softer. The collar of the shirt had slipped open just enough to show the soft curve of your breast and the delicate line of your collarbone.

God help me.

The thought hit him like a prayer and a curse at the same time, tasting like ash in his mouth. Jud’s chest tightened. What the hell are you doing, Judas? he thought, already backing away. This was crossing a line he had no right to cross. He had no right to be here. No right to look at you like this. He was supposed to be past desire, past want, past you. Yet here he was, standing in his own room like a thief.

He turned to leave. Too quickly. His knee caught the old wooden chair tucked against the wall. The scrape of wood on floorboards cracked through the quiet like a gunshot.

You stirred.

“Jud…?” Your voice was husky with sleep, soft and surprised.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, already reaching for the door again. “I thought I heard something. I didn’t mean to-”

“Wait.” The single word froze him in place. “Don’t go.”

He looked back. You had pushed yourself up on one elbow, the shirt gaping further, moonlight tracing the hollow of your throat. Your eyes were wide, dark, and fixed on him. Jud’s pulse thundered in his ears.

He knew this was wrong. This was everything he swore he would never do again. He had chosen the cloth. He had chosen Him.

Jud swallowed hard. “I should-”

“Please.”

That single word undid him. His feet moved by their own will. Three quiet steps and he was at the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat. For a moment you just looked at each other, the air between you felt electric, charged with every unsaid thing.

Jud’s breath caught. “I shouldn’t be here,” he said, low and strained. “Not in this room. Not sitting on this bed. Not… with you.”

“I know. But right now… I don’t want you to be anything except here. With me.”

Then you reached for him. Your fingers brushed his jaw, tentative at first, then bolder. Jud’s breath hitched… and that was all it took.

His mouth crashed down on yours, desperate, starving, years of restraint shattering in a single heartbeat. The kiss was anything but gentle. It was heat and need and the ache of impossible choices. You tasted like sleep and sin and everything he had tried to fight. His hands moved on their own, fingers clumsily working open the buttons of your shirt one by one, trembling with need and guilt and pure want.

When the fabric parted he tore his mouth from yours only to bury his face in the warm space between your neck and shoulder, breathing you in like a man drowning. His lips dragged over your skin, open-mouthed and hot, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him.

“Forgive me…” he murmured against your throat, voice hoarse and sinful. “God forgive me… but I want you so much it hurts.”

You breathed his name, the sound trembling. He answered with a low groan against your pulse, one hand sliding inside the open shirt to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your sensitive nipple.

Jud… Jud…

Your voice broke on his name, soft and needy, each repetition like a match to dry tinder. He kissed you harder, deeper, losing himself in the taste of your skin and the way your fingers twisted in his hair, pulling him closer, closer-

“Jud?”

His eyes snapped open. The room was wrong.

The bed gone.

He was still on the couch.

Chest heaving, skin flushed and burning, the dream still wrapped around him like smoke. Your taste, your scent, the heat of your body, the sinful words he’d whispered against your skin. Everything still so vivid. His hands clutched the blanket, knuckles white, his body painfully aroused.

Then he felt your gaze.

You were standing beside the couch in the dim light, watching him with quiet, unreadable eyes.

Thanks for reading~💜

Taglist: @quietly-kept @sidelit

Angstpril 2026 #18: Burning and #19: Impossible Choice

@chaos-company

“Happy anniversary!”

Rohan swept his arms wide enough to grab both of his aunts by the neck, knocking them painfully against each other. Many oomphs and grunts later, he pulled back, and shouted, “Now kiss!”

His playful kissing noises made Lin try to scowl at him. The pinch on her thigh startled her, though, and she turned to look at Kya.

Whose expression of amused reproach took her breath away.

And she just had to kiss her.

boom

Robert will protect his little sister at all costs. The things he does for the people he loves. Not everybody sees it, but Aaron does.

Self-sacrifice

Content warning: Discussion of death, rape.

It was an easy decision, really. When the whumpers locked her friend away and calmly gave her the choice for them to kill her or him, she instantly knew her answer.

She loved him with a fierceness that overruled self-preservation; she would protect him and ensure his freedom at all costs. And if he could safely return to his family? She would do anything to make that happen. She had nothing and no-one else to live for. Not anymore.

So she sacrificed herself.

It was surreal. It was the right choice, she knew it, but it was still surreal. She felt numb and hollowed out inside, determined yet peaceful, having agreed that her death would allow his release.

The reveal still felt like a gut punch, though, as her captors started to remove their masks, finally showing their faces for the first time in all these months of torture and rape.

She didn’t know them, but they knew every inch of her. They’d made sure of that...

A final flicker of hope (she could identify them now), crushed as they continued to undress. Naked. Bare skin where their black coverings had always been; revealing and telling stories about every tattoo, scar and even birthmark in some sort of twisted show-and-tell.

They were taunting her with this intimate display.