#shed have a SHELF for them | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

blueywrites · 26 days ago

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welcome home

ghost x reader x soap

when soap and ghost return from mission and find you, a civilian medic working on base, curled up on the rec room couch, you end up giving the boys a thorough welcome home.

18+ only. plus size fem reader. scent kink. the guys are dirty (literally). mild bush/ball/cock worship. threesome.

The rec room is dim, lit only by a stingy bank of ceiling fluorescents that flicker slightly whenever someone leans on the wrong bit of wall. The overhead lights are switched off, replaced with the softer, amber glow of a crooked floor lamp someone had dragged in from god knows where. You liked it better this way; made the place feel less like a barracks common space and more like the kind of living room you'd grown up in. Well-worn couches, stained coffee mugs no one claimed, the faint whirr of the old mini fridge in the corner humming like a tired cicada.

You're unwinding there in your favorite crewneck, the fabric a muted russet that brings warmth to your features, its oversized fit far more comfortable than the scrubs you quickly shed after your shift ended for the night. The fleece lining on the inside is wearing thin at the cuffs, but the familiarity of it grounds you. In black leggings speckled faintly with lint, you sit curled up on the worn sofa, your socks mismatched but thick, the wool catching slightly against the cushions beneath your feet. You're halfway through a tepid mug of builder’s tea when the door bursts open behind you.

The scent hits you before the sound does. Sharp, brackish sweat cut with gunpowder and oil, layered under something deeper: leather, steel, the dry stink of sand and smoke. Your head turns instinctively.

Soap strides in like he owned the place, flushed and gleaming from exertion. His dark shirt clings to his chest and shoulders, translucent with sweat in places, and there's a scrape on his forearm that hasn’t stopped bleeding yet. His tactical vest hangs open, bouncing against his hips as he moves. He has that look again—eyes alight with residual adrenaline, skin pink from wind and heat, hair still damp and pushed messily back from his brow. He's chewing the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too broadly, which means he has something stupid or dangerous in mind. Probably both.

“Christ, it’s warm in here,” he mutters, toeing off his boots near the radiator, which clangs faintly with old heat. “Were you lot tryin' to boil yourselves alive while we were gone?”

Ghost follows him in, quieter. He peels off his gloves without a word, the black fabric damp in his hands. He isn’t even out of his gear yet, still dressed in his reinforced trousers, boots caked with dried mud, black compression shirt clinging to his back and chest. His skull mask is pushed up, exposing the lower half of his face; the mouth veneath is drawn, his jaw flexing beneath a few days’ growth of stubble. You can see the faintest smudge of something dark on the side of his neck.

Neither of them have showered.

And yet your stomach flutters.

“Back already?” you ask, voice lower than usual, though you hadn’t intended it to be.

“Early extraction. Ghost didn’t even break a sweat,” Soap drawls, flicking the fridge open and extracting a bottle of amber liquid from the back like it's his reward. “Which is bollocks, ‘cause I’m about two degrees from heatstroke.”

He unscrews the cap with his teeth and fishes out three glasses from the shelf: one a chipped mug, another intact, and a clear plastic cup with the England crest on it.

“C’mon, love,” Soap says, sliding onto the couch beside you with the practiced ease of a man who both doesn't understand personal space and feels he doesn't need any, especially with you. “You’re off shift, yeah?”

You nod. “Just.”

“Then drink with us. Celebrate a job well done." He wears a wide, slanted smile, one that makes your belly flip when it conjures the memory of him wearing the same expression above you, his ID disc swinging from the chain around his flushed neck, skimming the valley between your bouncing breasts. "No bullets in my arse this time,” he adds, and you blink the haze of the memory away, left warmer as you roll your eyes playfully the way you know he wants you to.

You've shared a bed with him more than once, during late nights when the air was too heavy to sleep, long stretches between assignments, moments stolen in the lull between your worlds. It was easy with him. Good. Sometimes rough, sometimes slow, always welcome. And never more than what it was. But lately, your eyes had started to wander to the sergeant's looming shadow: the man who never touched and rarely spoke, but always seemed to be watching you whenever you were near.

And Johnny had noticed; he wasn’t the jealous type. He’d seen the way your glances caught on Ghost, too, how the room felt just a little too loaded when he and the big man visited medical or you crossed paths with them at the rec. He knew, too, that Ghost had heard the sounds you made together through the paper-thin walls of their bunks. That he had listened. Johnny told you so once, voice low and filthy while he fucked you slow, laughing when it made you go all soft and squirmy underneath him.

But Ghost never said a word. Because Ghost, the reticent bastard, wouldn’t make a move.

Not unless coaxed.

And not by his sergeant.

You glance toward Ghost, who has folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the wall, his gaze cool and unmoved. The amber light flickers against his cheekbones, casting sharp shadows up the bridge of his nose. His dark eyes are on you again, and you shiver at the quiet intensity there.

“He’s not joining,” you murmur, more an observation than a question.

Soap flashes you a devilish grin, leaning closer. You can smell the salt on him, the heat rising from his skin like a slow exhale. “He never joins. He just sulks and stares.”

“I can hear you,” Ghost says flatly.

“Don' I know it,” Soap says wickedly, looking at you pointedly before pouring two fingers of whiskey into your glass, then his own. “Here. Just one.”

The glass is cool in your palm, slightly sticky from whatever surface it last sat on. You raise it, hesitate, then throw it back. The burn is immediate: sharp, medicinal, tinged with something smoky and a little sweet. It settles in your chest like a hot coal.

You exhale, lips parting with a soft hiss.

Soap watches your mouth the entire time.

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s a look,” he murmurs. “You always this good at takin’ it down?”

You shoot him a glance, more amused than offended. “You’re shameless.”

He leans in again, voice low now, warm as the whiskey. “Only when I’ve earned it.”

You don’t move when his fingers brush the hem of your sweatshirt, nor when he looks past you, over your shoulder, to where Ghost still stands unmoving. Sharp like a snap decision, Soap leans back and catches his index in your mug, dragging it with a scrape of porcelain across the table to meet his plastic cup for another drink. He pours with more ceremony this time, angling the bottle like he's showing off. The whiskey catches the low lamplight, shining golden as it sloshes into your mismatched glass. He fills it higher than before— definitely more than a shot— and slides it across to you like a challenge.

“One for my glorious return,” he declares, raising his own. “And one for the quiet bastard over there.”

You glance over the low back of the couch again, but Ghost still hasn't budged.

Soap tips his head toward you. “You’ve gotta drink both, since he won’t.”

You scoff, your eyes returning to the Scot. “That hardly seems fair.”

“But it’s fitting,” Soap says, nudging the rim of your glass. “You look like you can take it.”

You hold his gaze as you lift the second drink, the burn still humming low in your belly from the first. The rim clinks against your teeth as you knock it back, the heat sharp enough to draw a quiet gasp as you swallow. A trickle escapes the corner of your mouth, trailing down the curve of your chin and catching at your soft jaw before dripping slowly toward your neck.

You move to wipe it— too slow.

Soap is already there.

“Messy, that,” he murmurs, thumb grazing your jaw before he drags the tip of his index finger up the length of the droplet. He raises it to his lips, tongue darting out, slow and shameless, as he sucks the whiskey from his skin.

You don’t mean to stare, but your eyes can't help but linger on the wet pink of his mouth. And when they flick up, his are waiting.

“You’ve not eaten, have you?” he asks, voice lower now. Not concerned. Curious. Maybe a bit wicked. “Changin' colors on me. Whiskey’s gone straight to your cheeks.”

You shake your head once, feeling the heat settle high in your face, ripening your complexion. “Snack on the way out. Didn’t have time.”

Soap makes a low sound and taps the glass again, watching the way your fingers curl around it.

Ghost still hasn’t spoken, but you can feel the weight of him in the room— feel the press of his attention even if he pretends to be indifferent. But you dont look at him again, afraid any sudden movement might break his trance and send him stomping.

Soap leans back against the couch, legs spreading slightly, shoulder brushing yours. “He’s not lookin’,” he bluffs, just loud enough for Ghost to hear. “Not even glancin’. Could be all over you right now, and he’d just stand there, arms folded, like a fuckin’ statue.”

You smile, ducking your head slightly, a little drunk already. Not on the alcohol, though that helps, but on the smell of him. The salt and earth, the heady stink of his undershirt, still damp from the field. Sunbaked cloth and body heat and grit.

Without thinking, you tilt closer, let your nose skim his collarbone. Your lips barely brush his skin as you press your face to the crook of his neck.

He stills. Just for a moment.

Then: “Christ, you are drunk.”

“I’m not,” you murmur, voice muffled against him. “You just smell really fucking good.”

That makes him laugh, his chest rising underneath your palm. “Filthy, you mean. Sweaty. Like I’ve not washed in days.”

“Exactly.”

He hums, his hand sliding across the back of the couch, heavy and warm behind you. He doesn't touch you, but the implication is there, all that muscle close enough to make your scalp prickle.

“Look at her,” Soap says suddenly over his shoulder, lifting his chin toward Ghost. “Look at how she’s already meltin’. S’all big-eyed and dewy, lips parted, pressed into me like she’s tryin’ to crawl inside my shirt.”

You go still, both afraid and thrilled that Soap might keep running his mouth like this, burst the whole bubble open after all.

“You’re gonna pretend you don’t want to touch her?” Soap continues, that teasing lilt sharpening just a little more. “Pretend you didn’t notice how she looked at my mouth when I licked my fingers clean?”

You feel your pulse flutter; you listen for it, but Ghost doesn't answer.

Soap’s voice drops to a hush, loud in your ear but meant only for Ghost. “Pretend you don’t picture what her thighs look like wrapped around one of us— both of us— drunk off the smell of it?”

Your breath catches— not just from the words, but from the way Soap’s arm shifts behind you, his forearm brushing the small of your back, possessive without pressure. Your cheeks burn hotter than the whiskey.

You lift your head, just enough to peek out from the crook of his neck. Ghost stands across the room like a statue carved from shadow: arms crossed, shoulders squared, chin tilted down just enough to obscure his eyes in the dim light. But you can still see the tight set of his jaw, the way his throat works when he swallows, the faint glisten of sweat around his nose.

You look at him, and you feel... seen. Whether he returns the gaze or not.

And yet Soap is the one touching you. Soap is the one letting you lean into him, letting your weight settle against his side like he wants to hold it.

“You’re so bloody soft,” he murmurs then, just for you. His palm slides down your back, slow, sweet, to rest at the curve of your waist. “All warm and squishy and fuckin’ lovely. Like a proper bed after weeks of concrete floors.”

You blink slowly, that ache between your thighs growing bolder.

“Bet you’d let us sink into you,” he goes on, lips brushing your hairline now. “Let us get all tangled up in this sweatshirt and those pretty thighs. Be better than any mattress we’ve had since we enlisted.”

He lets his hand settle lower— just at the edge of where soft belly meets waistband— and then he stills again, as if daring one of you to stop him.

“You’d let me have a nap right here,” he says, nuzzling your temple. “Wouldn’t you, love? Let me fuck you slow, then pass out on your tits like a man who’s earned it.”

The breath shudders out of you.

And when you looked again at Ghost, you see it: the clench of his hands where they grip his biceps, the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the heat blooming behind his eyes like something primal, barely contained.

He is watching.

You shift, just slightly, pressing your cheek back to Soap’s shoulder. “I do want that,” you murmur, voice low and intimate, but not shy.

Soap’s breath hitches just enough to tell you he heard.

He pulls you onto his lap without hesitation, strong hands guiding your hips into place like he’d thought about it already, like he’d been waiting for you to say it. The denim of his trousers is rough beneath you, the hard line of him unmistakable beneath the worn seam. His palms settle over your thighs first, then slide up to squeeze at your hips and the softness there, wide fingers digging in just enough to claim.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass…” he breathes, softer than you'd expect. “You feel so good. Like you were made for this.”

And those words, that tone, make you sink right into it. You drape yourself over Soap’s shoulders, your arms loose and lazy with drink and heat, fingers threading into the thick hair at his nape. His skin is warm there, damp still with sweat and tacky with the remnants of field-dust that hadn’t yet been rinsed away. You nose along the side of his throat, breathing in the raw, masculine scent of him— salt, smoke, leather, the tang of metal and blood. Faint cologne still clings in the hollow of his throat beneath the grime, like it's soaked into his skin after too many missions and too little rest.

God, he smells like something that had survived.

You press a kiss there, just a brush of your lips. And when he lets out a quiet, clipped groan, you smile.

You don’t need Ghost to move to know he's still there.

He stays where he is, propped against the far wall near the door, one shoulder pressed to the plaster, half-shadowed by the dull glow of the crooked floor lamp. But you can feel the tension from here, can see it in the rigid lines of his body, the way his arms hang loose at his sides now instead of folded, fists clenched like he doesn’t know what else to do with them.

He can’t see Soap’s hands anymore, you knew; can’t see where they’ve slipped beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. Could only guess what Johnny is doing from the way your body shifts when your hips roll and your thighs tense around him.

But you know he can see your face. And oh, do you want him to see it.

You let your head loll back a little, exposing your throat, and your lips part around a sigh that could have been a breath or a moan. Soap is teasing you now, his hands slow and roving beneath your sweatshirt, thumbs circling just above your waistband, not yet touching anything obscene, just feeling. Mapping the soft swell of your belly, the dimple at your hip, the curve where your flesh overflowed his grip. His voice is a rumble against your ear, low and hot.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, breath catching as you shift in his lap, brush against the hard ridge of him pressing against the zipper seam. “All plush and warm, makin’ a mess on me already. Can’t even fuckin’ see what I’m doin’, can he? Poor bloke’s gonna lose his mind.”

You bite your lip hard enough to feel it throb.

Your skin buzzes under the low light, humming with the lingering warmth of the whiskey, the teasing drag of Johnny’s hands, and the fever-dream heat of being watched so closely. Your lashes droop, your mouth soft and slack with pleasure that hasn’t even peaked yet.

And always, your eyes drift back to Ghost, pulled there as that nervous thrill tightens in your chest until the heat and the alcohol finally make something snap.

Lifting your head, arms still loose around Soap’s neck, you find him across the room. You don’t say a word, just let your eyes lock with his.

And then— languid, dreamy— you open your arms again. Fingers spread, palms exposed. A silent but clear invitation.

Ghost doesn't reply. But his jaw clench hard enough you can see it twitch, even from here.

You feel Soap chuckle where your chests press together, his voice molten.

“She wants you to see it, Ghost,” he purrs, unable to help himself from teasing. “Wants you to feel what you’re missin’.”

Then, to you, as his hands finally slide lower, gripping your hips:

“Tell me, love. You want me to make you come while he watches? Want him seein’ your face when you fall apart?”

You don't answer right away; instead, your gaze stays on Ghost across the room, watching the stoic man closely. And the signs are there: the muscles in his jaw are visibly flexed now, his fingers still clenched tight by his sides. His whole frame looks wired, like he's barely holding something inside, his eyes dark and fixed to your face as if trying to read every twitch of your lips, every shift in your breath.

Behind you, Soap’s hands squeeze, fingers digging possessively into your hips, rocking you gently over the hard ridge of him beneath his trousers. But you don’t look at him. Not yet.

Your voice, when it comes, is husky, warm with heat and whiskey, but clear.

“No,” you say, loud enough to carry across the room, soft enough to sound intimate. “I don’t want him to watch.”

There's a beat of silence.

Soap’s brow arches, his lips quirking like he's about to tease again—

And then you add, your tone slipping into something velvet and filthy, “I’d like him in my mouth.”

The room goes still.

Soap lets out a bark of laughter— low, delighted, breathless. “Fucking hell, love.”

You feel his hands clench again, tighter now, just shy of bruising as he pulls you down harder onto his lap, grinding you against the firm line of him. His breath is ragged against your ear, his chest rising fast beneath your weight.

“You hear that, Ghost?” Soap calls, his voice all bright amusement and dark hunger. “She doesn’t want you over there, sulkin’. She wants you down her fuckin’ throat.”

Still, Ghost doesn’t move. But you see it— the shift in his stance, the widening of his eyes, the way his chest expands with a deeper, slower breath like he's trying to ground himself but isn't succeeding. His knuckles are pale now, clenched so tight his veins rise stark beneath the skin.

And you know he's imagining it. Imagining your mouth on him. Imagining how you’d take him: on your knees maybe, or still warm from Johnny’s lap, lips kiss-bitten, eyes half-lidded and wet. You can see behind his gaze how badly he wants it.

How badly he wants you.

When he steps forward, it's without a word.

He doesn't rush— just steadily closes the space between himself and the couch, cautiously, controlled. It's the kind of movement a man makes when he’s already lost the argument with himself and is just trying not to lose his grip on everything else.

His boots barely make a sound across the concrete floor, his eyes on you the whole time. But not just you— he looks between you and Soap, the press of your bodies, the way your thighs frame Johnny’s lap, the bruising grip of his broad, tanned hands on your hips, the way they slip lower to knead your wide ass. His expression is unreadable, but his body betrays him.

Because by the time he reaches you, the thick ridge beneath his trousers is unmistakable: heavy, straining against the front of his waistband. And when you reach out with one hand— slow, like he might startle— you feel the subtle flinch in him.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your finger traces along his belt, featherlight, then circles the buckle. You feel him tense; his cock twitches visibly beneath the fabric when your knuckles brush over it.

You look up at him, heat pooling in your belly, your voice low.

“I meant it.”

Soap hums low in his throat, one hand slipping under the waistband of your leggings to grope at your ass as your fingers work open Ghost’s belt slowly. The buckle clinks, its metal warm from his body. You mouth at the front of his trousers through the fabric, catching the scent of him now, and god, is it thick. Deep and musky, soaked with sweat and the faded presence of gun oil.

You drop your jaw, dragging your tongue over the rough fabric, and Ghost hisses through his teeth.

Beneath you, Soap begins to rock you more deliberately now, the denim of his jeans rough against your leggings, his cock straining against the fabric, grinding up between the softness of your thighs.

“Go on, love,” he murmurs, voice hot and wicked in your ear. “Show him how pretty you suck cock. He’s been dyin’ to know.”

You drag Ghost’s waistband down with practiced slowness, hands trembling slightly from anticipation, from need. His cock springs free— thick, flushed, heavy. Your breath catches at the sight. And you can't help it; you steal a moment to bury your face against the coarse, sweaty curls at the base, inhaling greedily. He smells like sex and tension and everything that makes your mouth water.

You kiss the root, nuzzling, tongue darting out to taste the salt of his skin, the sweat collected there. Ghost groans— a low, guttural thing— and finally, finally, touches you, resting one large hand at the back of your head. It's heavy, dizzyingly large, cupping the curve of your skull with the sort of latent power you know could crush the bone if he wanted to.

But he doesn't; doesn't even tighten those thick, rough fingers. Ghost just holds you there, letting you taste him for the first time. You lose yourself in it for a moment, so much so that when Soap shifts under you, pulling your leggings down to mid-thigh, you sigh out a startled moan against Ghost's silken skin.

Soap groans when the curve of your ass presses down harder against his lap. “Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, his tone almost awed as he bucks up to answer you. “You’re soaked.”

You don't reply, just open your mouth for Ghost, lips wrapping around the head of his cock, your tongue teasing the underside as you suck him in slow. Johnny shifts even more beneath you now, likely working his pants open, but it can't pull your attention from Ghost's cock. Its weight is obscene, stretching your mouth, and you revel in it— the taste, the heat, the way his thighs tremble slightly as you drag your tongue beneath the crown.

It's only when you feel Soap's blunt head bump clumsily against your pussy, red hot and eager, that you begin to quiver with need. Your hole flexes when he presses up, and your mouth drops open, and then they both slide into you in the same moment— your body welcoming them in, already open and wet, your breath hitching as your throat fills and your cunt does too. The angle is perfect: Soap buried deep from beneath, Ghost pulsing against your tongue, the two of them claiming you in tandem.

Ghost’s hips roll once— slow, cautious— and you moan around him in encouragement, the vibrations making him shudder. You keep one hand at his hip, grounding him, and reach the other to cup and knead his balls, slick with sweat, musky and perfect.

You're surrounded by them. By the scent, the weight, the breathless grunts and quiet curses and the heavy slide of Soap’s cock as he rocks up into you from below, forcing Ghost a little deeper into your mouth each time. Their rhythm syncs around you, your body nothing but sensation, exquisite and aching.

And Ghost—God, Ghost.

You look up at him, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth, eyes wet with want. And he looks as wrecked as you feel. Silent, but his breathing is ragged, his lip caught between his teeth as he watches your mouth work him over with filthy reverence. The sight makes you moan softly, the weight of him thick on your tongue, the heat of him flooding your mouth. His foreskin slides wet and slow with every pass of your lips, and you tongue beneath it deliberately, learning the contours of him by feel. His taste is already blooming over your tongue: clean salt and musk, the silk of his skin steeped in the scent of sweat, fabric, and restraint finally slipping loose.

Soap shifts his grip, pulling you closer into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him fully now, your knees braced on either side of his hips, thighs spread, his cock sheathing deep inside you with every grind of your hips. The denim rasps against your skin, hot and textured, a perfect counterpoint to the slick glide of his cock.

He rocks into you again and again, slow and deep, his hands gripping your back like he can’t decide if he wants to fuck you or hold you.

And your mouth is still full of Simon.

You arch slightly over the back of the couch, low enough to give you leverage, high enough for him to stand comfortably before you. One of his hands grips your skull, gentle but anchoring, while the other braces against the backrest beside your shoulder. He's staring down at you now, jaw tight, chest rising hard.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Johnny groans, his hands traveling up under your sweatshirt again, splaying even wider over your back, kneading more intently at your softness. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?”

You make a sound around Ghost’s cock: half moan, half admission.

“Having us both,” Johnny continues, voice velvet-rough. “Just like this. Me fuckin’ you full while you suck him off. God, you’re fuckin’ tight.”

You moan again, louder this time, and Ghost bites off a curse above you, soft and gritted. His cock twitches in your mouth, so you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, drag your lips slowly up the length of him before descending again, tongue tracing every ridge.

Johnny’s eyes never leave your face.

Your brow is damp with sweat, your skin glowing with heat, mouth stretched open and wet. You know how you looked— fucked-out, wanting, nearly wrecked— and knowing Johnny can't get enough of it just increases your pleasure.

“You love it, don’t you,” he pants, his voice rougher as he begins to fuck up into you harder now, making the slap of your bodies echo softly in the low-lit room. “Love bein’ between us like this. Mouth full, cunt full. Don’t even know who to come for.”

You whimper.

Then, just as he slams into that spot inside you that makes you jolt, you pull off Simon’s cock with a wet gasp, strings of saliva clinging to your lip as you drag your hand down to wrap around him instead. Still working him. Still letting him feel the slick grip of your worship.

Your voice comes out cracked and hoarse, eyes fluttering half-lidded as your body bounces in Johnny’s lap.

“Fuck, Johnny…” you breathe, loud enough to make Ghost shudder above you.

You jerk him slow, tenderly, your thumb rolling over the swollen head, still flushed and slick. Your free hand cradles his balls, gently tugging, letting your tongue drag along the underside of his cock as you look up at him, lashes damp.

“You can let go,” you whisper. “I want you to. I want to hear it.”

Simon’s mouth parts slightly, and something in your chest leaps, yearning for his answer. But no words come. Just a quiet, bitten-off grunt and the tremble in his thighs.

And all the while, Johnny keeps fucking you, his hips driving up into you from below, his voice spilling constant praise in your ear.

“You’re fuckin’ filthy, babe,” he whispers, biting your shoulder. “So fuckin’ perfect. Can feel how much you’re lovin’ this— fuck. Grip me like that again and I’m gonna come.”

You can feel it rising in you too, tight and dizzying, but it twists when he says that. And the sound you make, the sound that feeling squeezes out of you, is so desperate and raw it shocks even you.

The pace turns frantic.

Johnny's thighs flex beneath you now, solid and unyielding, the denim of his jeans rough against your bare skin, biting at the soft swell of your ass as he fucked up into you with brutal rhythm. Every thrust jolts you forward, makes your thighs and belly wobble with each bounce, your whole body alive with friction and heat. Sweat pools against your sides, between your breasts, slicking the waistband of your leggings where they cling around your knees.

“Fuckin’ hell, lass—” Johnny growls into your neck, his voice strained and ragged.

You're panting, moaning, arms limp around his shoulders as you take it, want it, so very badly.

But your mouth needs more.

It needs him.

You turn back to Ghost, eyes hazy, lips wet, and opened for him again.

His cock slides back over your tongue with no hesitation this time, just need. Your arms wrap loosely around his hips, holding him close, grounding yourself to the sharp lines of his body as Johnny bounces you hard enough to rock his cock deeper into your throat.

Simon doesn’t move anymore, doesn't thrust. just holds you, both of his hands gripping your head now, fingers flexing, breath hitched in his chest.

And still you moan. Louder now. Tighter.

Each of Johnny’s thrusts forces Simon deeper, and each inch of him against your tongue makes your head spin. Your jaw aches, your cunt aches, your mind spirals.

You can barely think.

You only know that you want them, both of them, to fill you, to unravel for you, to give you the evidence of their pleasure, that last piece of themselves.

You whimper around Simon’s cock, eyes glassy, drool slipping from the corners of your mouth, needing—

And then—

Low. Hoarse. Like it's being torn from him, Ghost speaks.

“Fuck— love, I’m not gonna last—”

It breaks you open.

You clench around Johnny so hard it makes him gasp. His hands fly to your hips, anchoring, his next thrust wild and uncoordinated as his orgasm slams into him.

“Jesus fuck—” he chokes, buried deep, spilling inside you with a low, broken moan.

You sob around Simon’s cock, grinding down hard on Johnny as your own climax overtakes you— wet and fierce, like your body can't hold it in anymore. Your legs shake, toes curling in your socks, pleasure crashing through you with dizzying intensity.

And Simon—

You feel him pulse on your tongue, thick and hot, his hips bucking forward in a stuttered jerk as he comes hard down your throat, voice breaking in a guttural moan.

“Shit, love— fuck—”

You hold him, let him give it all to you. Swallow what you could, the rest slipping from your lips, dripping down your chin as you whimper through the aftershocks. Your thighs tremble, muscles twitching, your whole body flushed and shaking with exhaustion and satisfaction and something more you can't begin to name.

Gradually, everything slows. Softens.

Simon’s hands ease in your hair, smoothing it gently now. One slips to your cheek, his thumb brushing away the mess with startling tenderness. Johnny is still beneath you, arms wrapped around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder, breath coming in hard, hot gusts.

And you stay there, bodies tangled in the low flicker of lamplight as your skin begins to cool. The room is quiet now, save for the slow, exhausted inhales of three people too wrung out to move just yet. Johnny’s face is still tucked against your shoulder, his grip slack but lingering, like he didn’t want to let go. Simon’s thumb is at your cheek, still smoothing gently along the bone like he hasn’t realized he's doing it.

Your voice breaks the silence— thin, rasped, but unmistakably smug.

“Welcome home.”

There's a beat.

Then Ghost huffs out a short laugh, almost a scoff, though still fond. He ducks his head slightly, one hand rubbing his face like he can’t believe you.

Johnny lets out a wheezy breath of a laugh beneath you, hands squeezing your waist.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, voice still hoarse. “You’re somethin’ else.”

“Good timing, right?” you murmur, your eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself sink into their warmth.

Simon’s hand moves to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading wide, grounding. Johnny’s thumb traces slow circles into the softness of your hip.

And for a while, none of you say anything more.

You don’t need to.

You're all home.

#blueywrites #call of duty fanfic #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #soap x reader #ghoap x reader #ghost x soap x reader #modern warefare ii

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iliketlou2alot · 18 days ago

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Nerdy Abby headcanons!

I love nerdy abby so much this needed to be done. this is college au btw.

GENERAL

definately majors in kinesiology with a minor in biology

Color codes her stuff like she had OCD

when she gets to do lab stuff she gets all giddy like a kid in a candy store

since shes all buff and stuff i feel like she'd try new protein powder or bars and rank them based off taste and effectiveness

i know for a fact in my heart of hearts she loves star trek. like she has 3 posters in her room and figurines on her shelf

lives off of energy drinks especially if she has a test and needs to cram studying but doesnt tell anyone coz she preaches that theyre bad for u and doesnt wanna seem like a hypocrite

watched neon genesis evangelion

her laptop has a bunch of stickers on it IN A RELATIONSHIP

her love language is acts of service

she took literal ages to confess so she tried to communicate her feelings through actions. ie: carrying your books, walking you to class or back to your dorm

btw the confession wasnt smooth at all. she blurted it out in the middle of a study session with you, palms sweaty and shaky. 'hey, so um... i like.. like you, like a lot- wait can i start over?"

your first kiss was right then and there, she froze for a solid five seconds but when you pulled away she was cheesing so hard

even if your doing a different major than her, she'll offer to proof-read your homework just because she can (and she likes it)

enjoys making your lunch (i also feel like shed be one of those people who disguise broccoli in brownies)

at first she was kinda shy about physical touch dont get me wrong, she loves her muscles but she also doesnt wanna hurt you by accident. like if shes hugging you shell ask 'too tight?' before settling in

at some point she wanted to cut her hair but ultimately kept it long since you loved to braid it so much

I KNOW FOR A FACTTT she follows the sidewalk rule like her life depends on it

if your leaving the dorm (coz ofc your sharing it now) she watches out the window for a min to make sure your good wherever ur going.

if ur sleeping in the same bed, in winter shes amazing but in summer your probably gonna wanna sleep on the couch coz that woman is a human heater

NSFW

she talks a big game but gets completely flustered when it comes down to it

SOFT DOMMM

doesnt matter if its the 50th time shes seen you naked, shes reacting like its the first. always mutters a lil 'goddamn' when the bra comes off

i feel like shes a boob kinda girl

only had one other experience before you (ow*n) but she never really enjoyed it

reads up on the female body and how to illicit more extreme orgasms and follows it to the letter until the one time she got way too lost in the pussy and went off-script, suckling at your clit like a baby getting breastfed. you ended up cumming super hard and she decided to perchance do what she felt in the moment next time.

super attentive to your reactions, if you seem to particularly like something she'll log it into her brain like data for next time

careful with her strength but if you tell her you want it rough, your gonna get rough so be prepared

if shes strapping you down, she ends up lifting you somehow without noticing, lifting your hips off the bed, your legs hooked over her arms while she pounds you against the wall.

likes having you on top too though, especially if shes tired. she'll happily lay back and grip your hips, letting her hands occasionally drift to your tits.

if your both up to it, she'd also be happy to film the two of you having sex. of course shed never share it, just save it for if your apart during a long night.

has a thing for nasty tongue kissing while she thrusts into you

shes got a sensitive spot right under her left ear, kissing it is like a button to get her flustered

loves it when you scratch her back, matter of fact, the next day she'll purposely wear a tank top with the back kinda cut out iykwim so people can see the marks

isnt meticulous about shaving so she has a bit of a bush, not that you mind

if shes feeling subby, she'll let you tie her wrists lightly while you eat her out or finger her or whatever you wanna do to her

HATES getting edged. may i repeat she HATES being edged.

overstimulation on the other hand... especially if shes stressed or something. your girl is just so smart her brain just needs a break from thinking for a while

loves when you eat her pussy while making her keep eye contact with you

AFTERCARE

if she was submissive, she's like a pile of mush after sex, mumbling shit and shed grab you if you try to leave the bed.

lay with her for a little bit then gently guide her up with you and clean her up in the bathroom

likes to have her hair washed after sex

she definately sweats a lot after sex especially if she was strapping so she needs to have a shower either way

'was that okay? did i hurt you? gimme a minute ill get you some water- or do you wanna wash first?'

likes having you in the tub with her so she can hold you against her chest from behind while she kisses your temple.

after that you guys sleep like babies

A/N if you couldnt tell i rlly love abby anderson

#abbyanderson #wlw #abby tlou #tlou2 #lesbian #abby anderson smut #headcanons #i love abby anderson #smut

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evilgwrl · 11 months ago

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TF 141 x Reader (Apocalypse!AU)

Immune: Two

WARNING: This is a 18+ Poly!141 series (MDNI)

CW: Suggestive themes, mention of rape, female masturbation, second hand embarrassment

Masterlist

You looked at the dishes piled up in the sink, a wave of nausea hitting you. A part of you was glad, comforted by the idea of having humans around yet you couldn’t shake the substantial feeling of dread.

What if they killed you? Or raped you? Or both? What would happen to your body? Would you turn? Would you just decompose and hopefully move onto a better place? Your mind thumped against the thick walls of your skull before you felt a hand placed on your shoulder. A hand clamped your shoulder.

“You ‘lright?” Price said, a comforting smile adorned on his face before you shrugged his hand off.

“Just fine,” you reply, a tight smile on your face, “I’ll show you the bedrooms.” They followed you upstairs, the pounding of their boots against the floor giving you a headache. You led them to a bedroom, the subtle smell of dust lingering as you took in the unused space. There was a double bed, a mint green quilt with pink roses adorning it, two pillows both placed neatly on either side. “You can figure out who goes where,” you say, pushing the door open from across the hall.

You walk into the second guest room, a queen sized bed splat in the middle, a dark blue quilt tucked in, a row of grey pillows furnishing the top. “There’s a bathroom down the hall to the right. The plumbing still works somehow but don’t over-flush. You can have a shower but the water will be cold,” you say, attempting to sound intimidating as you avert your gaze.

“Thank you,” Price smiled, stepping inside the room.

Gaz and Soap offered you a squeeze on the shoulder quickly, a polite thank you leaving their mouth. Ghost however, sorted just stared at you, blinking slowly before turning towards the first room.

You find yourself thinking as you brushed Cecil, his grey fur shedding quickly as you stroked his behind, whispering small praises towards the large animal.

What if you tell them to leave and they don’t? What if they take over your house and kick you out? What if-

You stop yourself, rubbing your head in your hands as you lead the horses back to the barn, preparing dinner for the other animals before locking the door securely. You finished up outside, ensuring the crops were well watered before heading up the porch steps and through the back door.

Gaz was sat on the couch, a book in his hands as he looked up. “I hope you don’t mind, found it on the shelf.”

You kept your face straight but nodded, “It’s fine.” Truth be told, it was as comforting to have people around, the same as it was fearful. You knew that if they tried anything, they would win, no matter what gun you hold.

Time seems to be going quicker as you prepare a salad with some grown vegetables with bread. You were glad that your father was a chef, always teaching you how to make things from scratch. You didn’t like to dwell, hoping that somehow your family were immune too. Maybe one day, you would see them again. Maybe.

You placed the loaf of dough inside a tray before lighting the woodburner and placing it inside. You hummed softly to yourself as you heard footsteps against the wooden stairs. “Feeding us again, bonnie?”

“Only if it’ll get you guys to leave me alone,” you reply, not bothering to look at him. You hear his tongue click softly as he shuffles over to you.

“Y’ need help?”

You lowered the knife, gesturing for him to take over as you step outside, sitting on the old porch chair as you tuck your legs up, arms holding them in place as you stare out, the hues of the sun disappearing as the night begins to consume it.

As night falls, you head inside, hands reaching into the burner to grab the bread as you let it cool. You looked at the large bowl of vegetables tossed together, the men gathered around the never-used dining table, chattering amongst each other.

You let them sit for a while before calling out. It was entertaining watching the four grown men subtly walk faster than the other to get a plate first. You cut the bread, steam gauging out of each slice before you sat down at the dining table, fingers nervously fiddling with the metal cutlery.

They sat down around you, looking at you occasionally as you ate. “Listen, we do appreciate-“ Price began before you cut him off.

“You’ve told me. You can stay for the night but you’re off tomorrow. I prefer living alone.”

Price nods as the others look down, the sound of lettuce and carrot crunching filling the awkward void. As they finished up, you locked the doors and shut the blinds, the gentle hum of the fire comforting you before you head upstairs.

Your eyes flicker between pages of a book as you nestle in bed. You were clad in a sheer nightgown, your usual pyjama set hanging to dry outside. Your eyebrows furrowed as you read. While cliche, for a while everything felt normal when absorbing yourself between lines of paper, like you were simply escaping reality.

A gentle knock sounded on your door as you looked up. Price stood there, gentle smile on his face as he asked to come in.

“What is it?” You answered.

“I know I’ve said it, but thank you. Even if it was just for a day, it’s helped us a lot. Not many people, especially a woman alone, would let four men into her home… not during a time like this.”

Your body tensed for a second before it relaxed. You let out a soft sigh, placing the book on the side as you stood up to look at him closer. There was no use in lying, he was very attractive. His stern looking face covered with a bushy beard and moustache, blue eyes staring intensely under thick brows. He was older, the evidence of faint wrinkles indented on his forehead, yet his body was still in shape.

You were never a prude, but also never pushed for unnecessary encounters with the opposite sex. You weren’t an ugly girl, your features working well together, especially when you weren’t scowling.

“I-“ you begin, trying to think of what to say, “I appreciate you saying that. You guys are the first… real people I’ve come across since this all began. I know how difficult it is. And I suppose it wasn’t bad to reencounter civilisation.”

Price lets out a shallow laugh, hand coming up to squeeze at your shoulder as he looks at you. You don’t shrug him away this time, allowing the grip to scold your skin with prickling heat. You didn’t speak, simply watching him back through hooded lashes.

You felt your nipples pebble, the cold air brushing through as you remembered the warmth of your bed. You watch his gaze flicker down to your chest, sucking in a silent breath before he looked back up at you.

Had it been 296 days for him too without a woman? Had it been 296 days for all of them without a woman?

You didn’t shy away from his gaze, heat spreading across your body as you felt the timid intimidation of a low throb in your pussy. You offered him a small smile before gripping the door. “Goodnight, John.”

“Night, love.”

You felt like a fucking teenager, with your gown bunched up at your waist, hands timorous as they softly rolled the sensitive bud in a circular motion, gentle pants spilling from your lips. Everything felt more real, more heightened, probably from the lack of touching down there for months.

Dipping your fingers into your slit, legs spread and needy, you could feel the antagonising slick tease your hole, pooling at the crevice of your ass. This wet over a random man? You should feel ashamed, should, but you don’t. The light sound of squelching lit your room as you plunged a desperate finger into your heat, a rough gasp leaving your throat as you lie back further.

You tease yourself, left hand reaching down to entertain your neglected clit as another finger braced your entrance. Did it always feel like this? Did my fingers always not feel like enough? Like they needed something more?

A wanton moan stained the room as you thrashed your head against the pillow, sticky fingers just reaching that gooey spot inside you, swift thrusts causing your eyes to roll back.

You felt like a virgin again, pussy barely able to take two fingers and minimal thrusts before the coil in your stomach began to form.

Would it be so bad to call him in? Soak his beard in your cunt? Feel what it’s like to take two fingers properly? Maybe more?

You felt like you had a balloon growing inside you, every swift movement expanding it more, ready to pop, ready to let your body release, ready to feel satisfi-

“F’cking hell-“

You looked at the sudden burst of sound, eyes darting over to your least favourite in the house, visible crinkles in his dirty mask. His eyes visibly darting to your heat, taking in your fingers stuffed inside, the slickness coating them.

You squealed, orgasm barely washing over you as you twitched, pulling your fingers out abruptly and straightening your nightgown.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” You screeched, voice cracking as you wobbled to the door and slammed it shut, body leaning against it as you panted. You stilled, listening to hear his footsteps walk over but the comforting sound never came.

#poly 141 x reader #141 x reader #call of duty x reader #simon riley #ghost #john soap mactavish #soap #captain john price #price #kyle gaz garrick #gaz #ghost smut #soap smut #captain price smut #141 au #141 smut #poly!141 smut

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marvelseries19 · 2 months ago

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STILL HERE

Chapter Three - Castaway

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: Time has passed. You've survived, learned how to get food and water, keep warm, and even made a friend, but at what cost?

A/N: I'm kinda lowkey proud of the summary this time :) Here's another chapter, probably out of four or five, maybe, not sure yet. As usual, your feedback is welcome, suggestions, questions, or anything is also welcome, I'm all ears... well, eyes. Enjoy :) By the way, do you guys actually read these things?

Warnings: +18, just because at this point.

Word count: 3k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

Time had become a blur. Days bleeding into nights, seasons shifting with little mercy. The island was cruel and beautiful, both a sanctuary and a cage.

You had grown leaner, stronger. Survival demanded it. The shoulder you’d dislocated never healed quite right, a constant, dull ache that you had learned to push through. The broken ribs had mended, though not without their own reminders—twinges of pain that flared up when you pushed yourself too hard.

The fire crackled steady and sure, a sound you no longer flinched at. It had taken you months to master fire — blistered hands, frustration, tears you hadn’t wanted to shed. Now, it came easily. A skill carved into your bones like every other survival instinct you’d been forced to learn.

You sat cross-legged on the packed earth outside your cave — your cave now — tucked into the cliffs where the ocean wind couldn’t reach you at night. It wasn’t home, but it was shelter. Dry. Warm. Stockpiled with everything you’d salvaged or shaped over three years: rusted metal scraps from the wreck, woven nets, jars made of carved-out gourds, sharpened bones, and a shelf of smooth stones that held what little was left of the emergency kit.

You’d even made a bed out of dried grass and woven mats. It still smelled like salt and earth, but it didn’t hurt to sleep on anymore.

The fish crackled over the flames, speared cleanly on a hand-carved skewer. You didn’t miss anymore — not when it came to spearfishing. The water was your rhythm now. You knew how the shadows moved, where the fish hid, and how long you could hold your breath before your lungs screamed.

You survived.

But that didn’t mean you were whole.

You turned to the coconut sitting beside you, her painted face faded but still watching—always watching.

Red.

You gave her a nod, like she was an old friend. Maybe she was. Maybe she was all you had left.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” you muttered, your voice hoarse from days without speaking.

It was always worse when you didn’t talk. Your thoughts got louder. Messier.

“She’d laugh, you know. If she could see this,” you said to Red. “I made a shelf yesterday. A shelf. Out of driftwood and spite.”

Red didn’t answer, but you imagined her smirking. Natasha used to do that — that crooked half-smile when you were being ridiculous.

The ache came back, low in your chest. The kind that didn’t go away with fire or fish or sleep.

“I don’t know what day it is,” you said quietly. “Haven’t for a long time. I stopped marking them when the notches on the wall started to look like a prison.”

Your eyes drifted to the makeshift calendar you’d abandoned. Years, etched in stone. A tally of time that had started feeling like a weight instead of a reminder.

“I talk to you more than I talk to myself now,” you added, glancing at Red. “It’s easier to pretend you’re listening. Pretend I’m not completely losing my mind.”

You leaned forward, resting your arms on your knees, eyes on the fire. The light cast shadows on your face, highlighting the sharpness that hadn’t been there before. The hollows. The scars.

You were still you. But not the same.

“I think I forgot what she smells like,” you whispered. “That’s the part I wasn’t ready for. How your brain starts… letting go. Of little things. Her perfume. The sound she made when she laughed. Her voice saying my name.”

You didn’t cry. Not anymore. You didn’t have the energy to mourn things you couldn’t get back.

“But I still remember how she looked at me. Like I was worth something.”

A breeze passed. You looked up toward the treetops. No birds. No planes. Just the whisper of wind and the endless sound of waves below.

You reached out and gently adjusted Red’s flower crown, then leaned your shoulder against her.

“I’m not crazy,” you told her. “Not really. Just lonely... I just want to go home."

The fish was done. You took it off the stick you made and tore into it with practiced ease. Nourishment. Function. Habit.

But when the fire dimmed and the shadows stretched longer, you didn’t move. You just sat there, shoulder to a coconut, staring at the dark.

And for a moment, just a flicker, you imagined you weren’t alone.

—

The Hydra agent coughed again, wheezing through cracked ribs and the blood clogging his throat. Natasha didn’t flinch.

She stood at the edge of the warehouse, the shadows clinging to her like a second skin, eyes fixed on the man she’d dragged here three nights ago. He was barely conscious now. Not because she needed answers. She didn’t.

She already knew everything.

Hydra had tracked your flight. Waited until you were far enough from any backup. Shot you out of the sky like they were swatting a fly.

They hadn’t even known where you landed. They didn’t care. You weren’t the mission.

You were just the message.

She didn’t scream when she found out. Didn’t cry. Natasha Romanoff didn’t cry in front of others.

But she made sure he did.

The man tied to the chair hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger, but he had smiled when she mentioned your name. That was enough.

Now, he couldn’t smile anymore. His jaw hung crooked. One eye swollen shut. The other darted toward the dark corners of the room like he was still looking for an exit.

There wasn’t one.

Natasha didn’t speak for a long time. The silence did more damage than any threat could.

Then, finally—

“She was supposed to come home.”

Her voice was quiet. Barely there. Almost soft. The kind of softness that came before a storm leveled the world.

“You didn’t take her from S.H.I.E.L.D. or the Avengers. You took her from me.”

She stepped into the light. Blood dried on her knuckles. Her face was blank. Hollow. She looked like someone who hadn’t slept in weeks.

Because she hadn’t.

“She fought for people who didn’t deserve her. She smiled when she was exhausted. She—” Her voice cracked. She swallowed it down. “She was going to marry me.”

The agent trembled. Natasha tilted her head.

“You don’t get to die easy,” she said. “You don’t get to be a name in a report.”

He opened his mouth — maybe to beg, maybe to explain, maybe to lie — but she raised her hand, and he stopped.

“Don’t. I don’t care what you say. I’m not here for closure. I’m here for balance.”

She didn’t scream when it ended.

She just stood there for a long time afterward, staring at what was left of him like maybe it would make a difference. Like maybe pain could fill the hollow space you left behind.

It didn’t.

The room smelled like blood and gasoline.

She left without looking back.

—

Steve and Clint didn’t know where she’d gone. Not exactly. But they knew enough to follow the silence. She hadn’t answered her comms in two days, and when Clint finally cracked and tracked her location, he showed the screen to Steve with a sigh that said more than words ever could.

They waited until she came back.

When Natasha entered the safehouse, covered in dried blood and someone else’s regrets, they were already there — sitting in the dark like ghosts.

She didn’t flinch. She just dropped her weapons on the table with a clatter and peeled off her gloves.

“I’m not in the mood.”

Clint’s voice was soft, like he’d practiced it a hundred times before saying it out loud.

“You’re not the only one who lost her, Nat.”

Natasha didn’t look at him.

Steve spoke next, standing near the window, arms crossed like he was holding himself together by will alone.

“She wouldn’t want this.”

That made her look up—slow and sharp.

“Don’t,” she said, and her voice had teeth.

“She wouldn’t,” Steve repeated. “You know it. She wouldn’t want you to burn down everything just to feel something.”

“I’m not doing this for her,” Natasha snapped. “I’m doing it for me.”

Clint stood now, voice low, pained. “No, you’re doing it because it’s the only thing you know how to do. Hurt the people who hurt you. Hurt them enough to numb the rest.”

“She’s not coming back,” Steve said gently.

The words hit harder than a punch. Natasha blinked like he’d slapped her. Then she turned away from both of them.

“You think I don’t know that?”

“You haven’t let yourself know it,” Clint said, stepping closer. “You’ve been chasing leads that go nowhere, carving bodies like they’ll give you peace. But there’s nothing left out there, Nat. And there’s nothing left in here either. Not like this.”

“I can’t let it go,” she whispered, not to them — maybe not even to herself. “If I stop, it’ll mean she’s really gone.”

Silence stretched.

Steve’s voice softened. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is,” Natasha whispered. “Because if I stop fighting for her, I won’t know who I am anymore.”

Clint came up beside her. Didn’t touch her. Just stood there.

“Maybe it’s time to remember who you were before you met her. And who you were because of her.”

Natasha stayed quiet. Long enough that they thought maybe she was shutting down again.

But then she spoke.

“I want to go home.” Though it wasn't really, not without you.

The apartment was still.

Too still.

The kind of quiet that didn’t feel peaceful — it felt wrong. Like the walls were holding their breath.

Her fingers hesitated over the lock, then turned. The door opened with the softest creak, and suddenly she was inside, and the air hit her all at once — stale and untouched, like time had frozen the moment you were gone.

Everything was exactly how you left it.

The coffee mug you always forgot on the side table. The jacket draped across the back of the couch, still wrinkled at the elbows where you used to fold your arms. The boots by the door, still dusted with sand from that last trip you took together — the one where you’d laughed so hard she’d forgotten to be afraid.

Her legs moved without permission.

She walked through the apartment like it might vanish if she stepped too loud. A ghost drifting through a life that used to be hers. Your toothbrush was still in the cup. Your handwriting is still on the list stuck to the fridge—"get milk / remember to breathe.”

She couldn’t breathe.

She opened the bedroom door last.

It smelled faintly of you — faded now, but still there. That quiet warmth you always carried with you, even when the rest of the world felt cold.

She crossed to the closet and stared at it for a long time before reaching out.

Her hand trembled as she slid the door open.

The clothes inside swayed gently, like they’d been waiting for her. She touched the sleeve of your favorite sweater, then the collar of the shirt she always teased you about — the one you insisted was “lucky.”

And then she saw it.

Half-buried in the back of the closet, tucked behind a shoebox and the coat you never wore — a scarf.

Yours.

She stared at it for several seconds, like her brain needed time to register that it was real. That something of you was still here, still whole, still untouched by the fire that burned everything else to ash.

Her fingers reached out. The fabric was soft and warm.

Her breath hitched.

She pulled it from the shadows slowly, as if afraid it might disintegrate in her hands. The color was faded in places. The end was frayed. It still had that slight bend in the middle where you used to loop it around your neck. She held it like it might break.

And then she broke instead.

Her knees gave out before she could stop them, and she collapsed onto the hardwood floor with the scarf clutched to her chest like a lifeline. Her forehead pressed to her knees. Her breath shattered.

The scent hit her next.

That faint trace of you — barely there, but unmistakable.

And with it came everything else.

The way you used to hum when brushing your teeth. The way you’d curl up beside her on the couch and tuck your cold feet under her thighs. The way you kissed her like you were memorizing the taste of home.

Gone.

You were gone.

And she was still here.

A sob tore free before she could choke it down. Raw. Violent. Like something in her ribs had snapped and let all the air rush out at once. Then another followed, and another, until her whole body was shaking from the force of it.

She curled in on herself, scarf clutched so tight her knuckles went white. Her shoulders shook. Her lips formed your name like a prayer — or a plea.

No one saw her.

No one heard.

Just her and the scarf and the weight of everything she’d been pretending not to feel. The pain she’d hidden behind missions and knives and revenge. The aching silence she drowned in every night when she refused to sleep in a bed that no longer had you in it.

She wept until her throat was raw and her chest hurt from the effort.

She stayed there long after the tears stopped.

Until her body went still.

Until the sun began to rise, casting soft light through the window onto the floor where she lay curled — a soldier made small by grief.

And in her arms, the last piece of you she hadn’t yet let go.

—

The rain had passed by morning, leaving the jungle slick with mist and the air heavy with salt. You’d waited for it — not just because the humidity made it easier to gather drinking water, but because the downpour loosened the earth on the cliffs and gave you better access to what remained of the wreck.

The quinjet had broken apart when it hit the ocean. You remembered that. The sound of metal screaming underwater, the taste of blood, the impossible pressure of being dragged down, limbs locked in panic. You weren’t supposed to survive that.

But you did.

And over the last three years, you’d pulled every salvageable piece of that ship from where the tide left it to rot — a shattered wing here, the broken skeleton of a cockpit there, the cracked remains of what once might’ve been a comms panel, now warped and corroded with salt.

You didn’t know what you were doing at first. Just collecting. Hoarding scraps like they might build a bridge home if you stacked them high enough.

But over time, you started remembering things.

Training. Systems. The way the emergency transponders were built to last, even in the worst-case scenario. They were buried deep — meant to survive a crash, even when the rest of the jet didn’t.

You’d found one last week. It had taken you six months of digging and prying and near-broken fingers just to reach that compartment. It wasn’t intact. Of course it wasn’t. But the casing had survived, and inside—something.

Maybe hope.

Now, sitting under the overhang just outside your cave, your fingers worked through the wires like it was surgery. You’d cannibalized parts from every ruined circuit board, every scrap of antenna you could find. You’d melted rusted solder with fire-heated blades. Wrapped copper with woven threads of your own hair when the cables snapped too short.

And now, by some miracle or madness, the thing sparked.

Just once.

But it was enough.

Your breath caught.

It wouldn’t send a full message — not voice, not even coordinates. But maybe it could do what transponders were built for: a repeating pulse. A ping. Something low-frequency. Something that, if someone out there was listening, could be traced.

You twisted the stripped cable back into the rusted port and flipped the switch.

Nothing.

You held your breath.

Then—

A faint click. A pulse. Barely audible. A slow, steady signal thumping out into the static.

It was working.

You didn’t smile. Not really. Your face didn’t know how to do that anymore. But your chest rose, a little higher than it had in weeks. You closed your eyes and let yourself sit with it.

Maybe someone would hear.

—

Somewhere far away — in the middle of a quiet SHIELD base buried in low orbit — a console that hadn’t lit up in months gave a quiet chirp.

Maria Hill didn’t look up right away.

She’d been running diagnostics. Useless protocols. The kind of tasks she took on when sleep refused to come and she wanted something to distract her from the impossible ache in Natasha’s voice every time she said your name.

But then the console chirped again.

She frowned.

An old transponder signature — SHIELD-embedded, but ancient. Malfunctioning. The code was warped and barely legible. Buried in interference. But the system flagged it anyway, because deep in the mess of static…

…it was repeating.

Her fingers moved over the keyboard.

Isolating.

Narrowing.

The pulse came again.

Her heart climbed into her throat.

It couldn’t be.

The signal was weak. Crude. Barely functional. Like someone had thrown together scraps and bones and coaxed them into whispering across the void.

But it was enough.

Maria stared at the screen, her hands frozen above the keys.

Then, slowly, she sat up straighter.

“…Natasha.”

She didn’t call her yet. Not yet.

But the screen glowed, and the signal repeated, and for the first time in years…

…it wasn’t just silence anymore.

-----

TAGLIST: @womenarehotsstuff @seventeen-x @ctrlaltedits @ciaoooooo111 @unexpected-character @redroomgraduate @natsaffection @cheekysnake @viosblog112 @riyaexee @lilyeyama @idontliketoread2127

#marvel #mcu #reader insert #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #black widow x reader #black widow #natasha romanoff imagine #black widow imagine #castawayseries #natasha romanoff x reader angst #black widow angst #natasha romanoff angst

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winterhowlett · 5 months ago

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Honey, I’m home

summary: hugh accidentally uses the honey packs you brought home in his tea

cw: daddy kink, oral f!receiving, finger sucking, squirting, honey packs (do they even work fr?), accidental drug use(?), overstimulation, age gap, reader is mid-twenties because i said so, he talks you though it, aftercare, domestic vibes, i think that’s it

this was a collab piece with @nymphomatique because i was stuck <3

It was a silly spur of the moment purchase. You had stopped to get gas on the way home and wanted something to drink too… but the honey packs sitting atop the protected shelf behind the checkout clerk had caught your eye. You’d heard people talk about them online and how they could make a man last longer in bed, not that your man— Hugh, had ever needed any assistance in that department, but what’s the harm in trying something new? So you had asked for a six count box, only a few, stuffing it into the plastic bag from the cashier along with your water and snacks.

You made it home before Hugh but you were so exhausted that your gas station goods and the idea of unpacking them were unfeasible to you at the moment, so you just set the plastic bag of assorted items on the kitchen counter as you passed on the way to the bedroom, ready to decompress and get into bed.

The next morning, you awoke to an empty bed. Hugh had a habit of waking up before you, for a workout most days if not to surprise you with breakfast, and today seemed to be no different. You had assumed Hugh to take up the former option, considering how quiet it was in your shared penthouse. Groggily, you peeled the plush sheets back from your master bedroom, and padded your way to the connecting ensuite bathroom to get ready for work. The used honey packs on the kitchen table went unnoticed by you as you exited the home.

The day trudged on painfully uneventful much to your dismay, and the late Friday afternoon traffic just only served to add to your boredom.

“I’m home,” you called out when you stepped through the front door, shutting it behind you and shedding your jacket to hang it on the nearby rack. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a m—” you were cut off by Hugh’s lips on your own and his hands pulling you close gripping your waist tightly. The force of the kiss pushed you both back into the door. He kissed you so feverishly, hardly allowing you to catch your own breath. His lips finally detached from yours only to dive straight into the junction between your shoulder and neck biting and sucking the sensitive skin there. Hugh grabbed your thighs lifting them slightly, a silent demand to wrap them around his waist which you did instantly.

“Hugh,” you whined. “I just got back from work, let me shower first,” you protested, laughing a bit at his needy exposition. What had gotten into him? He didn’t say a word to you, letting his heated gaze speak for itself. He carried you from the entryway, lips never leaving your body as he walked you into the kitchen to set you on the table. “Can’t wait,” he said breathlessly. “Need you so fucking bad, sweetheart.”

Hugh’s insatiable behavior and the opened honey packets on the counter beside his mug of tea have you putting two and two together finally. You push back against Hugh trying to get him to look at you and stop marking your neck. You cup his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over his graying beard. “Baby did you use that in your tea,” you ask with a hint of a smile on your face as you try to hold back a laugh. “That’s what you’re focused on right now?” he quirks, squeezing your hips tenderly. ”Yes, silly, those are like liquid viagra!” you giggle, watching him nuzzle his face in the warmth of your palms.

“I wanted to surprise you with them and take them together, but it seems like you beat me to it,” you hum, your hands trailing down from his face down to his chest, clad in a black polo that had your mouth watering. He eyes you quietly and you can feel the heat in his look, beyond the swirling mirth in his eyes. “Naughty, naughty girl. Calling me an old man who can’t keep up?” Hugh tuts, pulling your hips to bring you flush to him, legs wrapping around his back halfheartedly. You roll your eyes at his statement. “You know that’s not what I—” you’re cut off, your sentence trailing into a soft oh! as you’re suddenly picked up again off the counter, Hugh bringing you to your bedroom. “You want a surprise? You got it,” he hums, kissing you deep and hard as he carries you with ease.

Your back meets plush sheets, and from the night becomes a blur, your memory blacking in and out from the intensity of it. You’re stripped bare, left only in your lacy panties. Slotted beneath him, it’s here you’re his and his only. Hugh’s lips wrapped gingerly around your nipple, tweaking the other as he grinds his groin into yours, reducing you to a body of simmering heat and arousal. He toys with you like this until you break, and it has you begging. “P-please, touch- need you to touch me there,” you whine, his beard hair rubbing against your nipple making it hard for you to be coherent. “That’s not how you ask now, is it sweet girl?” he teases, sucking and pinching your chest, grinding into you so deep that you’re sure you’ve soaked his slacks through your panties. “Please, daddy?” you moan, embarrassed it took barely any teasing for you to reach this point. Still, ever the one to oblige in you, Hugh moves from your breasts, now tender with nipples beyond sensitive, trailing hot open mouthed kisses down to your panties.

He places a kiss atop your clothed mound and you squirm a little, ready for some due respite. “Impatient little girl,” he coos, no threat in his tone. His nose finds its way against your panty covered pussy, inhaling you once before licking and sucking your arousal through the fabric. “D-daddy!” you squeal, surprised at this new display of lust, one that’s new to you. I’ve never seen him this worked up. He sucks and licks you through the thin fabric, and it has you bucking your hips up to reach deeper against his face at the sheer lewdness of it. “My naughty girl,” he says, kissing your thigh. “That got you all worked up? And I’m not even touching you?” he laughs softly, fingered hooking into the gusset of your underwear and pulling it to the side. “So wet and ready for me, hm?” he asks, and you nod fervently, anticipating his lips on you where you really want them.

When they finally plant themselves against your clit, it’s like a dam opens and tension leaves your body, flooding with a warm throb in place. He sucks you in the most skilled way, his tongue and nose rubbing and sucking against you in all the ways you like. His tongue licks you up along your slit once and then again before he plunges the appendage into you, making you keen with a breathy moan. Your hands fist his greying locks as he tongue fucks you, his nose and rough beard hair grinding against your clit overwhelmingly good. He licks and sucks until you’re nothing but a babbling mess under his mercy, trapped against his mouth by his thick arms. The pleasure begins to overwhelm you in a way that borders pain and before you can tell him, you’re cumming against his face, trembling softly as he licks you through your orgasm.

Your mind goes fuzzy for a moment, and you barely notice Hugh’s lips leave you, only noticing when he comes back up to kiss you, seemingly undressing himself in the time it took you to come down from your orgasm. “Did so good for me, baby. My good girl, you are,” he coos into your ear softly, sucking at the skin on the juncture of your neck and rubbing the thick head of his dick against your inner thigh and the feeling on his precum smearing against you has you whimpering, grabbing into him with everything you have. “Need it inside now, daddy. Please? Need you now,” you moan, chest heaving.

At your words, Hugh lines his tip up against your wetness, and pushes in slowly. Your breath hitches at the stretch and his head is thrown back with a deep groan. “So wet and warm, fuck baby,” he grits out. You do nothing but whimper at the stretch, gripping his biceps until he reaches the hilt. When he’s fully sheathed inside you, it’s an overwhelming feeling, one you don’t think you’ll fully ever get used to, no matter how many times you find yourself in a moment like this with Hugh. “Feel so full…” you spill out, mind feeling hazy. After a beat, Hugh begins to pull back, then push back forth into your dripping pussy until he finds himself at a steady but bruising pace. With every stroke, it feels like the wind is knocked out of you, the thickness and curve of Hugh’s cock rendering you speechless. In a silent plea— for what, you aren’t sure— you lock your ankles around the juncture of Hugh’s back as he fucks you, looking up at him with half lidded eyes and your lip caught between your teeth. Harder. Faster. Make it hurt. Fuck me deeper. I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Fuck, baby. Feeling good cause’a your daddy, yeah? Feel me deep in there?” he asks, pushing on the midsection of your stomach for emphasis and you arch into him and moan deeply. “S’good, please don’t stop daddy. Love it so much,” you heave out, your pussy aching with satisfaction. He fucks into you hard and rough, lips whispering dirty words and leaving wet kisses anywhere he can reach and you take it like the good girl he says you are. Thick fingers poke at your lips for only a fraction of a second before they’re being welcomed into your mouth and sucked on fervently. “Nasty fucking girl,” Hugh groans, and your lips perk up in the corners as you suck on his thick index and middle fingers, bobbing your head up and down on them in blowjob fashion, eliciting a deep groan from Hugh. His fingers swiftly leave your mouth and find their way to your clit, rubbing at the bundle of nerves fervently. The stimulation has your second orgasm peaking around the corner, and you can’t help but sputter and wiggle under Hugh, the pleasure bordering a welcome pain. “Oh my god, I’m gonna-” you manage to speak out, but you’re interrupted by Hugh, increasing the speed of his thrusts and fingers as he chases behind your upcoming crux. “Just let it happen baby, give it to daddy.”

A white hot flash of please takes you and your limb go numb, feeling everything and nothing at once as your head tips back and mouth falls open in a silent moan. The pleasure is overwhelming and you’re squirting beneath hugh from it, dampening the sheets beneath you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you hear, and then you feel it, something warm begins to flood your insides and its effect on you is something of a muscle relaxant, making you go limp under him, feeling sated. Hugh doesn’t pull out of you, taking the moment to catch his breath along with you. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, lips attacking your face with pepperings of kisses. “Made a bit of a mess didn’t you?” he teases. You giggle and nod, hitting him playfully on the arm. “Mmm, feel really good,” you sigh, looking visibly relaxed. Hugh sits up and pulls your legs up with him, throwing them over his shoulders and your eyes widen in confusion. “Good,” he says, kissing your ankle, “Cause I’m not even close to finished with you yet.”

And he meant it. Hugh was still painfully hard as he thrust back into you slowly in this new position. You grip the sheets in one hand and hold on to the headboard with the other when Hugh picks up the pace slamming into you over and over and over again in a way that has your breath knocked out of you every single time. The room is filled with the sound of skin on skin and breathless moans from the two of you. He pushes your legs back suddenly until your feet are nearly touching the headboard. Practically folded in half Hugh fucks you, relentlessly chasing his high in a borderline animalistic fashion. “That’s it baby, just take it” he says in between breaths. This angle has him hitting you impossibly deep, his tip nudging your cervix with each push. You’re whining beneath him, partly from the stretch of this position, partly from the bordering overstimulation when he releases one of your legs and trails his hand down your body groping your breast along the way. He leans in closer, placing open mouth kisses along your neck, nipping and sucking the skin there in a way that’s sure to leave a mark. His deft fingers travel further down until they’re working over your sensitive bundle of nerves once more. You throw your head back in a loud moan nearly cumminf from the simple touch alone. “C’mon. You can give me one more,” Hugh says huskily. It’s not a suggestion, but a command from him. Hugh’s thrusts speed up again as his peak approaches and you’re just on the edge of yours. His fingers pick up their pace, feeling that tell-tale throbbing beneath them when that flash of overwhelming pleasure overtakes you once more. You clench around Hugh involuntarily and the feeling sends him over the edge next, spilling into you with a shout.

Finally, you come down from your third explosive orgasm of the evening. Both Hugh and you are spent, panting and sweating messes in bed. Hugh is practically collapsed on top of you but he musters up his strength to prop himself up by the arms. He plants a gentle kiss to your forehead, your nose, and then your lips. “Did so good for me, baby,” he praises. His hand comes up to push a sweaty lock of hair out of your face. “Took me so well,” he says with a fond smile. You’re still too blissed out to fully respond yet and just opt to smile and nod. Hugh chuckles at the response and finally pulls himself free of you. “Gonna run us a bath.” Hugh pads off to the ensuite giving you a view of ass on the way out. You let out a low whistle at the view and hear him laugh. You listen to the sound of the faucet running for a while when Hugh returns for you. You still don’t want to move though and lift your arms lazily telling Hugh to carry you. He rolls his eyes but does so anyway, knowing what he put you through tonight. He carries you bridal style into the en-suite and eases you gently into the tub. The water is perfectly warm just as you like it and filled with lavender scented bubbles from the soap he used. Hugh climbs in after making the water rise even higher, nearly threatening to crest. He’s settled behind you with you leaning back against his chest. A comfortable silence fills the room with just the sounds of water sloshing and loofas on skin as Hugh bathes the two of you. “I love you…so much” he whispers in your ear kissing the side of your temple. You turn your head to give him a chaste kiss on the lips before resending “I love you, too.”

As the water starts to cool and your skin begins to prune, you both note it’s time to let the water drain. Hugh steps out first and wraps a towel around his waist. He takes another and wraps it around you next, taking your hand to help you step out of the bath. Once dried off and changed into your usual oversized t-shirt (aka one of Hugh’s global citizen shirts) and a pair of panties you slip under the sheets, Hugh following short in just a pair of boxers. He pulls you close, your head tucked against Hugh’s chest and his arm wrapped protectively around you while his never ending legs slotted between yours. Exhaustion pulls the two of you under embarrassingly quickly.

#hugh jackman x reader #hugh jackman smut #hugh jackman #reader is female #reader insert #smut #smut fic #aftercare #fanfic #writing #my fics

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himbodruid · 1 month ago

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Blooming Fissures

Caleb x Reader

His return shattered everything you tried to bury. But some fissures don’t break; they bloom.

this is how i feel their reunion should’ve gone

INTENDED FOR 18+ READERS. MINORS DNI

･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･ ⋆｡°✩･ﾟ･ﾟ·:｡･ﾟﾟ･

“Kick me, hit me, scream at me,” he begged, his voice quivering with barely contained emotion. “Please, anything but this silence.”

You stood, staring at him without a single word. Just as you had been since he ushered you into his condo. Drinking him in, unable to remember how long it had been since you last saw him. It felt like a lifetime, but realistically it was probably only about eight months. You hadn’t even had the time to fully grieve, not after fully throwing yourself into your work to forget. But everything came crashing back into you all at once.

He was older, definitely, but something in your brain was almost too scared to believe that the man in front of you was the same Caleb you knew and loved. His jaw was more defined, eyes more tired, and he was fucking massive. He’d always been a giant to you, but now he had bulked out considerably while he’d been off doing fuck all.

“How fucking dare you,” you manage to say, your voice trembling. You couldn’t stand the way he was looking at you, like a heartbroken puppy. “You don’t get to stand there looking at me like that.”

You strode forward, giving him a reaction- like he wanted- when your fist collided with his rock-hard chest. “Do you have any idea what you put me through? How devastated I was when they told me they couldn’t find your body? How I lost hope after every passing day of seeing you alive again? And then you have the audacity to be alive after all this fuckin’ time?”

Each furious question was punctuated by another strike of your fists. Tears stung your eyes, but you stubbornly refused to let them fall. And all the while, he stood there, taking in your fury, your pain. He let you hit him, didn’t dare to react, didn’t even flinch, and instead he let you vent against him in whatever way you needed. The expression he wore was stricken, and you couldn’t bear to see it.

It was a surprise to you both when you stood up on your toes to crush your mouth against his. In a fit of heightened emotion, you’d given in to an impulse that you’d kept locked away since you were teenagers. Shock rippled through him, making him freeze, surprise evident in the wide eyed stare he gave you when you pulled away.

“You asshole,” you said before diving back in, giving no care to the rejection you all but expected with the way that he stood stock still.

Then his composure cracked and he was hauling you against him. You clawed at him, trying to climb him like a damn tree. Your chest pressed against him, you were already so impossibly close, but it still wasn’t enough. His mouth devoured you, coaxing you open to tangle his tongue with yours. You pulled away from him, but only to rip his shirt over his head, only for him to do the same to you immediately after.

Clothing was shed and scattered until he had your bare ass against a short bookshelf. He gave no hesitation in plunging his cock into you, and you cried out when the pleasure rippled through you. Fuck, how he filled you. It was more than you ever could have hoped.

He set a frantic, desperate pace. You clung to him, ignoring things that fell from the bookshelf. When the shelf itself heaved to the side and threatened collapse from your combined weight and vigor, he dragged you away from it. A short distance away, two strides at most, and he had you against his desk.

His pace didn’t decrease in the transition, the solid build of the desk inviting him to slam into you even harder. Items scattered from the surface, clattering to the ground while each thrust violently crashed the rear edge of the desk into the wall. He buried his face in your neck, his grunting moans fanning across your skin in heated puffs of breath.

“F-fuck,” he groaned, circling his arms around your waist to crush you against him. “You feel so fuckin’ good.”

You dropped your head back, cries echoing in the room as his mouth latched onto your thundering pulse. Clawing into his back didn’t deter him, just encouraged him to plow into you harder. With thighs cradling his torso, you locked your ankles behind his back. All you could do was cling to him while he drove hard into you, calling out his name with every forceful thrust.

“Fuck, I’m gonna-“ he groaned into your ear. “W-where?”

“In,” you breathe, clinging to him more firmly.

“Y’sure?”

“Yes! Fuck, Caleb! I need you to cum in me,” you cry, feeling pleasure rippling through you with every strike of his cock. At your command, he buried himself into you as deep as he could go. With a guttural shout, his body shuddered and he spilled into you. The pulsing twitch of his cock ripped your own climax from you, cascading flutters of your walls milking him for everything he had to give.

He leaned hard on a hand placed firmly on the desktop, crushing his mouth against yours. You dug your nails into him, squeezing your walls around him.

“More,” you growled into his mouth, earning a heated whimper from him. He obeyed without question, hips already colliding against yours again.

Desperate. Frenzied. Carnal. All words that would describe the way he fucked you, as if years of pent up desire between both of you finally found a release. As if the world would end tomorrow and this was the only chance either of you would ever get.

He took you against every flat surface, crashing into you with quick rhythmic snaps of his hips. Short grunting moans erupted from him with every hard thrust, while you were left breathless from the pleasure that coursed through you. Reason escaped you as the anger-fueled sex turned into primal mating. You forgot why you were even mad at him in the first place, all your focus turned to the way he fucked you.

His stamina was bullshit. While he wrenched climax after climax from you, he still had enough to keep plunging into you. Even when he would slam forward to spill into you, he would just start right back up again at the smallest of nudges from you. Even when his breathing turned ragged and sweat trickled down his chest, he kept going, bucking into you with whole body shudders when another release steamrolled him.

Until, finally, he slumped against you, panting as he dropped his head onto your shoulder. He had you back on his desk after making rounds throughout his apartment, a trail of destruction following your path. Even the poor bookshelf finally succumbed to your combined ardor and collapsed. You carded your hands through his hair, trying to catch your breath alongside him.

“Fuck,” he whimpered against your neck, pressing his hips flush against yours as he nuzzled you. “I want you so goddamn badly, but I don’t think I can handle anymore.”

“We have all the time in the world now,” you murmured, kissing his neck and coming away with the salty tang of him on your lips.

“It’s still not enough,” he complained, pulling away only enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“But it’s enough to shower and rest,” you chuckle. He huffed a short laugh, leaning in to give a quick kiss before he hauled you into his arms and carried you off to his bathroom.

Even under the hot spray of water, neither of you could keep your hands to yourself.

***

Later, when you were settled- quite naked- in his bed, you watched with keen interest as he left the room. Completely unashamed in his nudity, you couldn’t stop your eyes from raking down his fine figure. You marveled at the imposing physique he had, and briefly wondered if his bulk came from his time in the DAA, or if he honed himself into a weapon on his own. You never paid too close attention when you were younger, never indulged in the fantasies that roamed freely in your head as a teen when it came to him. But he was considerably larger than you remembered, his shoulders more broad and muscles more defined.

He returned moments later with glasses of water, and you averted your gaze with a blaze spreading across your face. Bites, scratches, and purpling marks made by your mouth and fingers decorated his skin, just as numerous as the marks he made on you. But that wasn’t what had you blushing like mad and looking away.

How can he still be hard after all that?

You wanted to jump him again. You wanted him to jump you. But you kept your hands to yourself, proud that you could accomplish this small feat. Even when he sat at the edge of the bed and handed you the water. Your hands twitched, but you forced them to stay busy by grabbing the glass instead of him.

“I never dared to hope to have you like this,” he said reverently. The pad of his thumb brushed against your lip and his eyes zeroed in on the movement. That keen gaze followed his hand as it trailed down your body. “I always kept this craving I had for you sequestered away, locked in my dreams.”

You sat up fully and set your glass aside, unable to stop yourself now from indulging in your own craving. Even after the frenzied fucking that left half of his house in disarray, you still hadn’t had enough of him. Your hand snaked around the back of his neck, pulling him into you so you could slant your mouth over his.

He kissed you languidly, drawing out a fire within you in slow measure. It was a stark contrast to your earlier foray, sending shoots of pleasure through you just from that simple contact. He pulled back, searching your face. You didn’t know what he searched for, but he stared at you in awe, as if he couldn’t believe you were in front of him. As if he couldn’t believe he was here with you, right now. He cupped your face, the pad of his thumb swiping against your cheek before he leaned into you again.

His bulk settled over you, pressing you into the mattress. His weight was like an anchor, confirming that this wasn’t some wild dream. He was here, he was real. His arms caging you, the strength of his shoulders and back under your exploring hands, his hips wonderfully tucked between your thighs- all of it was real.

This time when he took you, it was with such reverent worship that it made your heart pound harder than when he was plunging into you with primal ferocity. Each slow, full stroke was punctuated by a breathless moan escaping you. His hands weren't roaming, grasping, like they were earlier. Instead they cradled your head while his mouth claimed yours, devouring the sounds you made.

Your grip on him tightened, fingers clutching his hair while the other hand dug into his shoulder. Your legs wrapped more firmly around his waist, heels locking against his back. He obliged your silent command, every forward stroke lingering as a hard press against your pelvis before slipping away. The pace of his thrusts increased only slightly, instead offering friction over speed.

“C-Caleb,” you whimpered, dangling on the precipice of completion.

“Yes,” he groaned, somehow knowing exactly what you needed.

His hips jerked forward, driving as deep as he can. The climax was simultaneous, the twitching pulse of his cock matching the fluttering thrum of your walls as you shattered around him. You threw your head back into his pillows, arching beneath him while pure pleasure thundered through you. His moans spilled from him against the column of your throat, his hot breath fanning across your skin and raising goosebumps. You’d coupled with him multiple times in a matter of hours, but this was the most intense orgasm yet.

While the pair of you came down from the high, he nuzzled into your neck and peppered you with kisses wherever he could reach. Exhaustion tugged at you, but you resisted it in favor of stroking a hand through his hair, reveling in the softness you found. A sound rumbled in his chest, so similar to a cat’s purr that it had you chuckling. He lifted his head, a smile on his face that lit up the galaxy in his eyes.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, kissing you so tenderly that it was nearly painful. He rolled off you, tugging you into his embrace. You snuggled into him, letting his warmth envelope you.

“I’m still mad at you,” you grumble as sleep threatened to take you. You felt him kiss the top of your head with a soft chuckle.

“I know,” he said softly, tightening his hold on you.

For the first time in a long time, you slept without threat of nightmares.

#l&ds caleb #lnds caleb #lads caleb #caleb x reader #caleb smut #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x you #lads smut #lads x reader #l&ds fic #l&ds x reader #l&ds smut

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tinytownn · 2 months ago

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the weight on my shoulders –

pt. i – what would you do for a granola bar? series masterlist

[post-outbreak!joel miller x f!reader]

word count: 3.8k

summary: joel gets caught in trouble, forcing him to flee the boston qz. a few days into his trip, he takes refuge in an abandoned shed where he finds you–scared, starving, and struggling to survive. despite his better judgement, he takes you with him on his journey.

content: violence and brief mentions of death???, pretty much no actual tlou lore except the infected, joel's outbreak day, and jackson (and a little bit of boston??), slow burn??, age gap (27 and 49), no use of y/n

a/n: i'm so excited for this series you guys get the chapter a day early idc!! i won't be putting a lot of warnings so nothing is spoiled, but any major tw will be listed!!

June 26th, 2025 –

The air was thick and humid, each step like sifting through a sea of tar. Making his way through the dense underbrush had proven to be difficult. Branches reached out, lashing Joel’s arms, but the heat made him too hazy to care. Sweat clung his clothes to his skin, his shirt two shades darker from the liquid.

He was ultimately unprepared and the dry scratchy feeling that followed every staggered breath was a sour reminder of that. The search for any sort of shelter had gone on a couple days now and his hope was wearing thin. Night was closing in and he wasn’t sure if it was distant shadows, pure exhaustion, or a dream that formed the silhouette of a shed in the distance.

Hope surged through his chest, ignoring the ache in his limbs as he powered towards the building. It was an odd spot for a building–the middle of a thick forest that had long surrendered to the ways of nature–but that didn’t stop his legs from moving. He had nothing else to lose.

As he made his way to the entrance, he saw the door had long caved in, the remaining pieces of wooden scrap laid on the ground beneath his feet. Stepping onto the concrete flooring, his boots echoed through the small building. There was a wooden table and three legged chair tossed in the far corner and two bookshelves against the left wall–the rest of the items having succumbed to the hands of time.

Litter rustled underneath his feet–bits of cloth, wrappers, and leaves–while he looked for anything of value. His stomach was tight, relentlessly growling at the hopes of some sort of substance.

Joel scanned the shelves, mostly empty other than dust bunnies and cobwebs, but a small can at the top of the second shelf caught his eye. It was hard to see, but the faded yellow and red label churned the acid in his stomach.

“C’mere you little shit,” he said, standing on his toes, his fingertips grazed the rusted metal lip.

He nudged the can, trying to urge it towards him, but his force was too strong and the can fell on its side and began to roll to the ground.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Joel winced, expectantly awaiting the loud clunk of the can on concrete. But the sound never came. Instead, the can rolled off, out of sight, and landed with a soft thud.

Instinctively, Joel reached an arm out, ready to retrieve the food he was so desperate for, until a low groan reverberated through the shed–bouncing off the walls. The noise was soft, but it had caught him so off guard it rang through his body, stilling every movement.

There was a small gap between the shelf and wall where the can had disappeared to. The corner was void of any light, but the sound assured Joel that something was there.

His breath caught in his throat, debating if the mysterious can was worth facing whatever was possibly over there. But before he could even decide, the coaxing gurgle of his stomach urged his feet forward.

His steps were slow, barely lifting his feet from the ground before shuffling them closer to the corner. Typically, he would’ve rushed in, seizing whoever was hiding before they could make any sudden moves–but this wasn’t a typical situation. Joel was weak, hungry, and exhausted from his last two days stranded in the woods. He only had the stained clothes on his back and the broken watch wrapped around his wrist.

He couldn’t rely on his fists to protect him and he surely didn’t have a weapon, so he kept his movements quiet and steady. He squinted his eyes as they grew more adjusted to the dark. In the corner he could make out a human-like figure–slumped over and unconscious.

A sliver of moonlight slipped through the shattered window on the opposite wall, casting a slight glow on your face. Head hung low, Joel couldn’t tell if you were even alive. Your breaths, if any, were shallow. He couldn’t make out if he saw a gentle rise and fall of your chest through the blood soaked shirt that clung to your stomach. The pieces of skin that peeked through the caked crimson on your arms were pale, and a large, oozing gash dripped blood onto the concrete.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He didn’t know how he couldn’t hear it before, but seeing the reddened, aching muscle pulse made it deafening.

Tearing his eyes from the bloodbath, he turned his focus back to his original goal. The can.

The stiffness of your body led him to believe you were, at least, unconscious–less trouble for him. A wavering hand reached out, fingertips grazing the lips of the can. When he lifted it however, his heart sank, the can rested in his palm with ease–weightless and empty.

“Goddammit,” he hissed.

Gripping the metal tight in his hands, knuckles turning white, Joel threw the can to the bookshelves. The can screamed out as it hit the wood, followed by the lingering scrape of metal on concrete as it retreated.

Yet again, a low groan escaped your lips at the sudden noise. You weren’t entirely conscious, but the sound was enough to stir you from whatever daze your pain had you in.

Joel held his breath as if that would make him disappear from the room. He held still, praying your head wouldn’t lift, like you were even able to, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. In his panicked glance at you however, he caught a glimpse of a tattered, blue plastic peeking out from your shirt pocket.

Another appealing possibility of food pressed another strained gurgle from his stomach. Weighing the possibilities, Joel had a decision to make.

As far as he could see, you weren’t making it out of here, practically dead where you sat. Blood covered most of your body and although your injury wasn’t life threatening, the lack of food, water, and medical supplies would take you out in days. You seemed too weak to even wrap your wound and infection would surely spread soon.

Joel was still able to move–he had made it all the way over here. And if he could get even just a bite of that granola bar it would give him the strength to find some actual shelter and supplies. Give him an actual chance at surviving. Or that’s what he tried to convince himself.

A few hours and Joel probably would had been in the same state as you. Exhaustion had already begun to tear at his resolve, the dry, scratchy feeling at the back of his throat a constant reminder of all the things he didn’t have. But here you lay, food almost out on display like it was fate for him to be here and see this.

It was decided. He needed this more than you did.

He pushed back whatever thoughts crept in to force him to change his mind. The prickling reminder of what had even gotten him here in the first place. How if he did this it would be like all of that didn’t matter and he was out here, stranded, for nothing.

None of that would matter anyways if he was dead though.

So his hand crept into your front pocket–swift and nimble–snatching the granola bar between his fingers, the plastic crinkling under his touch.

Once again, that haunting groan left your lips. This time stronger.

His movements were quick and deliberate, ready to get away from your lifeless body. The end of the world had shook Joel to his core, taking away everything important to him and showing him the darkest parts of this world. There wasn’t much that got to him anymore. But exhaustion and hunger played with his mind, it had been years since he was this weak. The events of the past two days weighed on him heavy, the screams of that girl ringing in his mind, and for just a second he could’ve swore he heard that same scream leave your parted lips.

Joel blinked in disbelief. His mind was playing tricks on him. Your head twitched upwards slightly, your lips moving, but not a sound coming out.

Finally, through cracked and dried lips, you mustered out a soft, gravelly cry. “No…”

Shocked, Joel stayed crouched in place, as if you wouldn’t see if he stayed still enough. Guilt panged his chest, his hands tightening around the rustling plastic. He couldn’t believe you just spoke to him.

He stayed silent, waiting for your voice just to prove it wasn’t a trick of the mind.

Then again, your voice pleaded–louder this time. “Please don’t…”

Joel didn’t know what in him had softened. He had grown used to the harsh realities of this new world, prepared to kill any threat needed to get by. But you weren’t a threat. You couldn’t even open your eyes to remember his face and track him down later.

That didn’t stop his mind from racing…

“Please, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

The frail, broken voice rang out in his ears once again. The voice that hadn’t left his head–waking thoughts and dreams–for the past two excruciating days.

He felt sick to his stomach. The ache was still there, but the mind numbing need for food quickly turned to nausea.

“Didn’t know you were even alive.” He didn’t know where the words came from–cold and stern–a complete contrast to everything he was feeling inside.

Joints cracked under the pressure of his hands on his knees, pushing himself to his feet. Without looking your way, he tossed the bar back into your lap. A tense silence hung in the air–thick and unpleasant–like if either of you were to say another word the floor would simply crumble to pieces.

Then a movement, strained and slow, caught the corner of Joel’s eye. You raised your head to meet his unwavering gaze. Dirt or blood–he couldn’t tell–smeared the left side of your face, caked and dried onto the skin. Desperation filled your eyes and beneath your lidded stare he could see a glimmer of hope he had lost years ago.

“Please…” you breathed out, voice still hoarse. “Don’t leave me here.”

Joel’s breath hitched.

Your hair clung to your face, eyes still on him, and sweat formed on your brow like the very act of keeping your head up was strenuous. The sight was plain pitiful–but Joel had no pity. You couldn’t survive in this world with pity.

When he had fled two days ago, Joel left with no supplies, no sense of where he was, and a vague destination. Leaving on such short notice, he wasn’t able to get a message through to his brother–his last known whereabouts being somewhere in Wyoming. Without a town or county to go by, Joel wasn’t confident he’d find Tommy, but it was the only plan he had. And if he wanted to give it his best shot, he needed to get there fast. Bringing you along would only slow him down.

He dragged a thoughtful hand over his beard like it would come up with some sort of answer. But all it brought him was more time to take in the scene before him. The torn and bloodied clothes, every surface of your body either scabbed with blood or clammy in sweat, and the pleading look in your eyes–begging him to stay.

He thought of Sarah for a moment.

Just a moment.

He shook his head. Quarantine life had made him partially forget what life was like in the wild, the choices you had to make–and the ones you didn’t get to.

“Fine,” he spat, already turning his back to you. “But just until you’re back on your feet. I don’t have time for distractions so we go where I say and you do as I say. You hear me?”

You didn’t answer, only hung your head back down, sighing in relief.

Joel’s eyes flicked to the backpack you had hidden behind you, partially relying on it to prop you upright.

“What’dya got in there?”

He reached for the bag, less careful than before, like you now owed him something. Snatching the backpack from your side, he was shocked at the weight and hurriedly fumbled with the zipper.

“Christ, girl,” he clicked his tongue as vast amounts of medical supplies, food, and clothes that spilled onto the floor. “Who the fuck did you piss off and steal from?”

Your head snapped, a sudden intensity in your eyes. “S’all mine. I didn’t steal from no one.”

He turned to you, brow raised. “Then what the hell’s the mat– Shit! You’re not infected are ya?”

Before the words even left his lips he was already backing away, bag clutched under his arm.

“Does it look– Fuck!” The fabric clung to your wound had ripped off at the sudden movement, a wail of pain leaving your lips. “Some motherfucker stabbed me. I sprained my ankle trying to get away.”

Limply flailing your leg out in front of him, Joel could very clearly see even under the dim moonlight that your ankle was red and swollen. It looked painful to the touch and certainly untreated, you hissed the moment his fingers grazed the skin.

“Careful!”

Instinctively, you pulled back, but Joel certainly didn’t have the patience for this. He bit the inside of his cheek, giving you a moment to brace yourself while he gathered the necessary supplies from the bag–an old, ratty sliver of a towel and rolls of bandages.

He reached out, grabbing your calf firm and purposefully, his calloused fingers digging into the skin. You wriggled in his grip, trying to escape the searing pain that came with his less than delicate touch. Your skin felt like it was a roaring campfire and every sense of pressure from Joel were like drops of water making you squelch and squirm.

Other than the occasional “Be still” or “Quit movin’”, Joel had stayed silent. Knotted brow, he focused intently on the swelling, securely fastening the bandage to stabilize the injury.

Lifting your ankle slightly, tilting it so he could view it in the moonlight, he inspected his work. Satisfied with the wrappings, he pulled away, and you could feel relief wash over you now that your ankle had some sort of compression.

Curling his finger, he motioned you towards him with one swift, silent motion. You don’t know why or how, but you lifted your body, feeling almost weightless as if he was lifting you himself. By the time he had started working on the cut to your arm, you had succumbed to the pain, dwelling in the more warm and comforting aspects of his touch.

You didn’t know how long you were in there for, huddled into the dark corner, but each passing moment felt like your last. Each exhale was met with the lingering fear that maybe there would be no air to breathe in, that your heart, stuttering and frail, would no longer have the strength to beat. So when the bleeding stopped and the scorching pain finally subsided into a dull ache underneath the tenderly placed cloth, you found a brief solace within the moment.

“Thank you,” you croaked out between harsh breaths.

Lips stretched thin, he nodded. “Don’t mention it.”

The day had been tiring for you, a bitter taste of distrust and betrayal left in your mouth. When the can had thudded into your lap, startling you awake, you were sure you were dead where you sat. It was obvious the man needed food, and in this state of the world people would do anything for just half of what you had stashed in your bag. His kindness was worth more than just mentioning.

But you stayed silent and relished in the moment.

It had been so long since someone had cared for you, dressed your wounds–and although his touch was harsh, it still felt nice to be cared for.

With a grunt, he placed his worn hands to the concrete, positioning himself away from you once he was done.

“Should be good for a few days,” he threw the bandages back in the back, rummaging through for something. “You’ll have to rebandage it then.”

You nodded.

Silence fell over the room again, both of you too exhausted to speak. Metal quietly tinked against the zipper of the bag as Joel pulled out the canteen. He didn’t even shoot a glance your way before wrapping his lips around the opening, greedily gulping down the water.

You watched the gruff stranger as he ate, ripping open a can of beans and tossing his head back. His face looked tired–dark circles encompassed his weary hazel eyes, his jaw was tight and movements sluggish. Relief washed over his face the second food touched his tongue, even though you knew the food that had been boiling within the depths of your bag in the summer heat couldn’t have tasted that great.

“What’s your name?” you finally asked, growing tired of the distanced silence.

His shoulders stiffened. He was busy in taking count of the supplies you had, clipping the sheathed hunting knife to his jeans, and your voice had taken him by surprise. He had left the half emptied canteen next to you, a silent offer that you graciously took, and your voice had regained a shocking amount of strength.

“Joel,” he said flatly, his eyes only meeting yours for a moment.

You nodded, whispering your name to him in response. It pained you to hear him repeat the words softly under his breath, a practice you had heard throughout the countless introductions this world brought you. You couldn’t help but wonder how long until he forgot your name too.

The night dragged on slowly. Both of you had found your respective places on the floor, using spare clothing and scrap towels as a makeshift pillow.

Sleep didn’t come easy despite your exhaustion. You lay huddled in the same corner as before, a lingering distrust bubbling in your chest. Sure Joel had tended to your wounds, but he was still a stranger, a man–a strong one at that.

Each time you closed your eyes, you pictured his figure looming above you–broad shoulders, threatening stare, and balled fists, ready for conflict. You tried to brush off the feeling, but this world had taught you that would be the very thing to lead to your demise. So you laid there, eyes focused on the rotting ceiling tiles.

Occasionally, Joel would snore or stir peacefully in his sleep and your eyes would quickly snap to him as if he were a dangerous predator. But each time you were met with his unusually softened face, brow unfurrowed and jaw slack, sputtering out breathy snores.

Exhaustion had caught up to you at some point in the night, swift and dangerous, pulling you into a deep sleep until the bright morning sun crept onto your face. You felt the stiffness in your back from sleeping on the concrete all night and the throbbing in your ankle reminded you of your injuries.

The memories of the night came flooding in, knocking down whatever dam kept the events at bay. Fear crept its way into your mind, frantically looking around for Joel and your belongings you so foolishly let him keep hold of.

He was nowhere in sight.

“That son of a bitch!”

Using the bookshelf, you pressed your palm to the dusty shelf and anchored your weight onto it. The rickety wood creaked under the pressure, but you were sure it would support you.

Snap!

The shelf, rotted and worn with time, caved in on itself, splitting in two. Before you could even react, concrete slammed against your ribs, head colliding to the ground with a thud. You yelped both in pain and shock, but thankful you hadn’t fallen on your arm.

The makeshift door–a long tattered and torn sheet Joel had draped over the entrance–swished to the side and heavy footsteps rushed in.

Your heart pounded–more than it already was–the rhythmic thrumming accompanied by a deafeaning shrill. Breath still caught in your throat, lungs thrashing in its cage, you used every last bit of strength to face the intruder.

It was just Joel–and your backpack slung over his shoulder.

“What the hell are ya doin’, kid?” He snarled in a harsh whisper. “You tryin’ to get us killed?”

His demeanor had changed from yesterday. He shook with an undeniable rage and his jaw was so tense you thought it might snap. He lunged towards you, grabbing firmly at your arms, fingernails digging into the skin regardless of the blood that seeped beneath them.

Darkness encapsulated your vision, the concrete cool against your skin as he dragged you to the deepest part of the corner. Holding you tight against his chest you could hear both your hearts beating opposite each other–his beating just as rapidly as yours.

“There’s noth-”

A hand, rough and calloused, slapped over your mouth. His nails dug into the angle of your mandible, clamping your jaw shut with a painful sting. The smell of lingering cigarette smoke stuck between his fingers and drifted its way into your nostrils each time you tried to bite out a word.

Minutes of pure silence passed, the only noise coming from your original protests and the crunching of leaves under wildlife. It was only until you felt Joel’s pulse return to a regular pace that he stirred, lifting his hand from your mouth.

“Those little friends of yours,” he grumbled, voice gravelly and unsure. “They’re still lookin’ for ya.”

You scratched at your jaw where you could feel the impressions of his fingernails. Quickly, you distanced yourself from Joel. A palpable anger radiated off of him and the displays of his strength were just making way.

“What are you talking about?” you spat, growing defensive.

He crossed his arms, eyes not once leaving yours. “Two men came up to me, askin’ for you.”

“How’d you know it was them?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “They could be asking for anybody.”

Joel was quick to bite back. “They used your name. Said you stole from them and ran off.”

You stiffened. The distance was once again closing in.

They were still alive?

“Listen,” he said, grasping the straps around his shoulders. “I’m gonna need to start hearin’ the damn truth. Right now.”

It was your turn to furrow your brow, shooting him a menacing glare. “I told you I didn’t steal anything. They were trying to steal from me. And you don’t seem too hesitant to have a grab at my stuff either.”

Joel stood unmoving, his lips drawn tight, eyes surveying you while he pondered your sincerity.

Slowly, he nodded. Brushing past you without a word, he started towards the window.

“We’ll leave at night. Can’t risk them seein’ you.”

Biting your lip, your gaze fell to your shoes. All your weight was being pushed on your good leg and still pain surged throughout your entire body. You weren’t sure how much distance you were going to be able to make.

“Where are we going?” You eventually asked.

“Wyoming.”

a special thanks to my taglist ♡ @anoverwhelmingdin @lowrisemiller @iamawkwardandshy (message me to be added or removed)

#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic

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sunday-bug · 4 months ago

Text

Assisting Congress

Pairing: Congressman Bucky & fem reader/law librarian

Content: mutual pining, mention of masturbation

🖤

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes has a crush on his favourite research assistant and finally asks her out.

I’m thinking this could be part one of a miniseries. Let me know if you’d be interested. I also wrote the majority from Bucky’s POV.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

You’ve been working as a research assistant at the Library of Congress for a little over a year now, and you understand the importance of professional boundaries, but every time Congressman Barnes requests you specifically for research help on a bill, your thoughts can’t help but wander. Why only you? Are you imagining the way he looks at you?

“Good evening,” the Congressman says with a gentle smile as he approaches the door of your closet-sized office.

You stand up immediately and smooth your dress, “Congressman Barnes, hello. I have the documents you requested.” You swallow and do your best not to stare at the cords of muscle rippling through his flesh forearm. Why did he have to roll up his shirt sleeves? It should be illegal. Granted, it was a sweltering day and you felt your own office getting warmer as the day went on. You’d shed your blazer hours ago, leaving only your black sleeveless dress underneath. You start to walk over to the filing cabinet to get the papers for him.

He chuckles quietly as you do so, “Sir?” You ask self consciously.

“Long day?” He questions, gesturing to your bare feet. You’d taken your heels off a while ago at your desk to relax and had forgotten to put them back on before you got up.

You smile sheepishly, “Oh, my God, I forgot. Sorry, sir. That’s so unprofessional.” You rush back to your desk to get your heels, but he steps into your office and reaches out an arm to stop you, “It’s fine, really. I don’t mind. I-, I like the red.” He looks down again at your painted toes and you feel your cheeks heat.

“Thanks,” you stammer, barely making eye contact, “but let me just put these back on,” you reach again for the shoes.

“Leave them off,” he states gruffly.

“Um, ok,” you comply, feeling the blush from your cheeks spreading to other parts of your body.

——————————————————————————

Bucky can tell he’s made her feel awkward which wasn’t his intention. Seeing her pretty bare feet with toes the perfect shade of red made him stop short. He couldn’t look away. She was always so polished and buttoned up. So professional. Wound a little too tight. He’d developed a crush after he’d first met her, researching for a bill proposal. She’d come so prepared and knowledgeable. He recalls what she was wearing the first time he saw her: navy blue dress that was basically a second skin, much like the black one she was wearing now, hair in a low bun with tendrils framing her face, brown tortoiseshell glasses, and nude heels. He’d gone home that night and cum to the thought of her in just those heels. His reverie is interrupted by her whispering, “Damn it.”

He clears his throat and focuses back on the present, watching her stand on her tippy toes to try to reach something from a high shelf. The muscles in her bare calves flex as she reaches for the Manila folder without success. He feels his cock twitch as he watches her taut body stretch to try to reach it.

“Let me help,” he says, walking over to her. He steps behind her to retrieve the folder just as she steps back to get out of his way. Her back brushes against his front, and he feels that familiar twitch again. She turns around so she’s facing him and looks up to meet his gaze.

“I think my colleague put that there. He’s a lot taller than me,” she explains softly.

Bucky nods in reply, slowly backing up a step. Her hair is up again today and he can see her pulse racing in the delicious hollow of her neck.

“I made plenty of notes in there about relevant cases, so let me know if you need anything else or if you want to go over anything,” she looks down at the slim leather watch on her wrist, noting the time, “You reserved me for an hour block, so I have plenty of time,” she swallows, “for you.”

Bucky let out a sigh, thinking about how he'd like to spend the next 55 minutes with her. His jaw clenches as she moves back to her desk and sits down. She gestures for him to sit in the empty chair across the desk from her. He obliges and sits.

"We can go over the highlights, if you'd like, sir," she says with newfound confidence, like the physical barrier of the desk between them settled her. He realizes suddenly that she may be scared of him and looks at her with fresh eyes.

"Congressman?"

"You don't have to call me that," he says with a wave. "So formal."

"Mr. Barnes?" She asks.

"Mr. Barnes was my father," he teases.

"James?" She tries again, and his mouth twitches at the sound of his name coming out of her mouth.

"Bucky is fine. Call me Bucky," he says.

"Bucky," she tests out breathily, making him have to adjust his sitting position to hide the affect she's having on him.

He replies with her name and smiles.

"Now that we've been reintroduced, would you like to go over these notes?" She gestures to the Manila folder he's holding and he keeps it. She looks at him curiously, and he realizes he was wrong. She's not scared of him. Not at all.

“Are you hungry?” He asks suddenly, tossing the folder on her pristine desk. Not a pen out of place.

“Sir?” She asks with a questioning, yet playful look.

“It’s late. I bet you haven’t eaten yet. Have dinner with me,” he doesn’t word it as a question.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” she replies, “I mean, I’d love to, but it’s policy. It’s unethical.” She places air quotes around the last word.

She was wound so tight. Such a good girl following the rules. Fuck it, he thought, “It’s unethical for you to be sitting behind a desk surrounded by case studies while you’re wearing that dress. Have dinner with me.”

Bucky watches the blush creep into her cheeks again as he stands up from his chair, reaching out his flesh hand to take hers, “Don’t forget your heels.”

“Bucky, I could get in a lot of trouble if I went to dinner with you. If people saw us and got the wrong idea-,” he cut her off before she could finish.

“What’s the wrong idea, exactly?” He presses.

“Well, you know, fraternizing with a Congress member…” she looks at him pleadingly, “it’s grounds for termination.”

He sighs, “All of the red tape aside, do you want to eat dinner with me?”

He watches her swallow before answering, “Yes.”

“It’s a date, then. Put your heels on. If you get in trouble, I’ll vouch for you. You know,” he says your name again, “it’s healthy to break the rules sometimes. You might even enjoy yourself.”

He watches her grab her purse and drape her blazer over her arm before slipping her feet back into her shoes. She was still a head shorter than him.

“Where are we eating?” She asks as they head down the long corridor to the main doors.

Bucky smiles mischievously before answering her, “My place.”

She stops short, “Congressman, er, Bucky… I can’t just go to your apartment. I mean, I- I’m…” Bucky watches her struggle to come up with an excuse, but plays into her feigned internal struggle.

“Listen, if you don’t feel comfortable, we can go out. In public. Where people might see us.” He tsks.

She takes a step closer to him, looking up into his face with a stern glance, “Why me?”

“What do you mean?” He asks, confused.

“Why do you always request me as your research assistant? There’s plenty of research librarians with more tenure, more experience…”

“You’re whip smart, you always find exactly what I need, you’re organized, you bite your bottom lip when you’re concentrating… it drives me crazy,”Bucky steps toward her so they are sharing the same air, “and I would love to see how you look with your hair down out of this stressful environment”. He reaches to her hair clip and lets her bun fall into loose curls around her face.

He watches her shiver and her breath hitches.

“Why did you say yes to dinner?” He asks, his face inches from hers.

“Your sleeves,” she blurts out with wide eyes.

“My… sleeves?” Bucky looks down at his shirt.

“You have nice arms. Arm, I mean… they’re both nice. And a really nice face. Like the whole…” she gestures to his visage, “the whole thing is put together nicely. And you’re fighting for important stuff, politically speaking…”

“I like your face too,” he whispers and their lips brush before a loud creak sounds, and they break apart.

An older gentleman walks to the front desk and grabs a form before walking toward them, “Evening, Barnes,” he nods before heading down the hall.

“Evening, sir,” Bucky replies quickly before meeting her gaze again. “Let’s go,” he whispers.

She follows him out into the warm evening air, and he feels that familiar twitch once more.

———

Check out part 2.

#bucky barnes #sebastian stan #congressman barnes #james buchanan barnes #thunderbolts*#thunderbolts #congressman bucky #bucky x female reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky x reader

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black-dhalias · 2 months ago

Note

hiii!!! I saw your request were opened and got really excited lol

can I request a Legolas x reader having an angry love confession with a happy ending? U can add as much angst or fluff wanted !

I hope your day goes well <3

Until Dawn

Legolas X half-elf!half-human!Reader

The clatter of hooves and voices cut through the stillness of the late afternoon. You glanced up from behind the bar, pausing mid-wipe of a glass, your fingers tightening around its rim. Travelers were common in this stretch of the woods, but not ones with such purposeful strides or cloaks woven with the threads of old legends.

The door creaked open, and a gust of wind swept in with the first of them. A tall figure stepped through—and your breath caught.

Silver-blond hair. Eyes like starlight through a winter sky. Legolas.

You didn’t realize you’d frozen until he looked at you, recognition flickering across his face like sunlight on rippling water.

“You,” he said softly, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I had wondered if the stories were true.”

“What stories?” you asked, setting down the glass carefully.

“That the half-elf who once sang Dwarvish drinking songs and shot arrows through the dark of Mirkwood now runs an inn... and claims to be done with the road.”

You huffed a laugh, masking the sudden twist in your chest. “I made a promise to myself. No more goblins, no more dragons, no more running for my life. Just quiet, warm beds and decent ale.”

The rest of the Fellowship trickled in—Aragorn with his wary grace, Gimli grumbling about the cold, and a pair of curious Hobbits looking like they’d never seen such a place before.

“I never thought I’d see you again,” you admitted, voice softer now, carrying only to him. “I thought you stayed in the Woodland Realm.”

“I left,” he said. “There are greater shadows moving now. The kind that threaten all lands, even quiet glades like this one.”

You met his gaze, the old bond between you sparking back to life as though no years had passed.

“I’m not the same as I was,” you said quietly.

“No,” he agreed. “You’re stronger now. But the world still needs you.”

You turned your back, pretending to straighten a bottle on the shelf. "The road nearly broke me, Legolas. I don't know if I have it in me again."

A pause. Then his voice, low and sure: “You don’t have to decide tonight. Just share a meal with us. Rest. Then listen to what the world is asking.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, then turned back to face him. “One night,” you said. “No promises.”

He smiled. “That’s all I ask.”

And somewhere, in the quiet beneath your ribs, something old and restless stirred.

As the last of the Fellowship settled into the great hall, shedding cloaks and weariness like autumn leaves, you quietly made your way to the front door. The bell above gave a faint chime as you opened it and stepped into the dusky twilight

You looked out at the fading sun, your jaw tightening as you reached up and flipped the wooden sign to closed. The familiar scrape of it swinging into place felt heavier tonight. You didn’t want your usuals wandering in, recognizing faces from stories they'd only half-believed, or—worse—asking questions you’d buried under hearth and routine.

When you returned inside, your two staff members were waiting by the counter, mid-laugh over something. You didn’t smile.

“Here,” you said, pressing coin into their palms, “Head home early. Lock the back on your way out.”

They exchanged glances. One opened her mouth to protest—you never sent them off this abruptly—but you shook your head with a tone that brooked no argument. “Not tonight.”

A beat of silence passed. Then, with hesitant nods, they slipped away. As their footsteps faded, the inn fell into a deeper quiet. It was just you and the Fellowship now.

You lit the hearth anew and began preparing a meal: roasted root vegetables, venison stew, fresh loaves warmed over coals. The motions were old, soothing—until a familiar footfall approached behind you.

“I remember when you could barely cook a rabbit over a fire,” Legolas said lightly.

You didn’t turn. “And I remember when you were insufferable.”

“That cannot be true,” he said with a faint laugh.

Your hands stilled over the chopping board. You breathed in through your nose.

“I was not the one who kept dwarves as company.”

You exhaled slowly. The knife in your hand trembled.

“Don’t.”

His grin faded instantly.

“Don’t bring them into this,” you said, voice hoarse. “I live with their ghosts every day.”

Legolas was silent for a long moment. You resumed chopping, though your cuts were no longer even. Each thunk of the blade echoed too loudly in the warm space between you.

“I thought you might want to remember them,” he said softly.

“I do remember them. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. Kili, grinning as he handed me his last dried pear. Thorin, bloody and dying in the mud, telling me—” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your fist to your mouth. “You don’t get to walk in here and open that door, Legolas. Not like this.”

A long silence stretched. You kept your back to him.

Finally, he said, “I am sorry. Truly. I didn’t come to wound you.”

You swallowed, forcing the knot in your throat down, back into the place where you kept it buried.

“I know,” you said at last.

He didn’t leave. But he didn’t press. You felt him step closer, and for a moment his presence was a comfort—but still a dangerous one. A reminder of who you were. Of what the road takes.

And still… it stirred something in you. Something old. Something that had once burned with purpose.

You set the knife down and stared into the hearth.

The inn was warm now, the fire casting golden light over old wood and tired faces. The Fellowship ate in relative quiet, grateful for the food and for the brief peace. You worked behind the bar, polishing mugs and pretending not to watch them.

But you felt it. The way some of them looked at you with curiosity, as if trying to place you—not just as an innkeeper, but as someone... else.

Frodo was the one who finally broke the silence.

“You were in Bilbo’s journal,” he said gently.

You looked up, a mug still in your hand. “Was I?”

He nodded, setting down his spoon. “There was a drawing—almost like a sketch from memory. A half-elf woman with a braid down her back, and a scar across her temple.” His eyes flicked to the faint mark just beneath your hairline, still visible in the flicker of firelight. “He said you moved like moonlight with a blade. That you fought like someone trying to outrun the end of the world.”

You didn’t speak at first. You returned to your task, cloth circling the rim of the mug, slower now.

“Aye,” you murmured at last, “That was a long time ago.”

Aragorn watched you then, thoughtful, but said nothing. The room held a breath.

Frodo’s voice was quiet. “He wrote about how you fought in the Battle of the Five Armies. Said you moved with the grace of the Eldar—but when you struck, there was something in it... a fury, raw and burning. Like the world had wronged you.”

You paused again. Set the mug down.

“He wasn’t wrong,” you said, your voice steady, though your eyes flicked to the fire. “I lost my brothers that day. Kili... and Thorin. Perhaps not by blood, but in every way that matters.”

“I’m sorry,” Frodo said, with the quiet sincerity only someone still young in the world can offer.

You nodded once. “We all carry ghosts. Mine just sit closer to the skin.”

Legolas, across the room, didn’t look at you, but his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade—as though remembering the same battle. The same blood.

“I remember that journal,” he said quietly. “Bilbo called you Eluneth—Moon-blessed. Said you were the only one who could outdrink Bofur and outrun a Warg in the same night.”

That pulled the faintest smile from you. “He embellished.”

“No,” Gimli grunted, lifting his mug, “He didn’t. Bofur still complains about it.”

A small ripple of laughter lightened the air, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Your fingers curled around the bar’s edge.

Frodo tilted his head, studying you. “If you were part of Thorin’s Company… why did you stop?”

You looked at him, really looked. At the way his shoulders tensed with questions and quiet burden.

“Because I gave enough to the road,” you said simply. “It took my youth, my friends, and my peace. I thought if I built something steady, something safe… maybe the world would leave me be.”

“And has it?” Aragorn asked, his voice low.

You met his gaze. “You tell me. You’re sitting in my hall with war on your heels.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before.

You picked up the next mug and began to polish again. “Eat while the food’s warm. Sleep while the roof holds. Tomorrow, the world finds you again.”

And as you turned away, your voice softened to a whisper meant only for yourself.

“It always does.”

The inn had gone still. The fire burned low, its glow casting soft shadows across the stone hearth. The mugs were cleaned, the food cleared away. The Fellowship had long since retreated to their rooms or bedrolls, lulled by warmth and weariness.

But you sat alone in a worn chair near the fire, half-empty bottle of mead at your side, boots kicked off, legs curled beneath you. One hand rested on your knee, the other held a cup you hadn’t taken a sip from in a while. You stared into the flames, jaw slack, thoughts thick with the weight of old wounds.

The softest creak of floorboards stirred your awareness, but you didn’t look up. You knew who it would be.

Legolas appeared like a memory made flesh, moving without sound until he stood just beyond the firelight, arms loose at his sides, hair unbound from travel.

“You always drank honey-mead when you were thinking too much,” he said, a half-smile on his lips.

You raised the cup, but still didn’t drink. “And you always appear when I least want company.”

He tilted his head, undeterred. “Then I’m exactly where I need to be.”

You sighed, glancing sideways as he stepped closer and took the seat opposite you. For a moment, he just watched the fire with you, like you were back in some forgotten camp beneath the stars.

“I was thinking,” he began, tone light, “about the first time I saw you. You were being dragged into Thranduil’s halls, soaked to the skin, shouting at Glóin for getting you caught.”

You snorted softly. “He did get us caught. He sneezed. Loudly.”

“I remember.” He smiled wider now. “And you, snapping at the guards in three different languages before turning that fury on me.”

“I didn’t know who you were.”

“You called me a pompous tree-weasel.”

You choked on a laugh and finally sipped your drink. “Sounds like me.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming with some old, private amusement. “But I watched you. Even then. I couldn’t place what you were—elf and human both, but more than either. You didn’t carry yourself like someone trapped. You watched the halls like a soldier would. Like you were already planning how to get out.”

You didn’t answer. The fire cracked softly between you.

“When you escaped with the dwarves,” he continued, voice lowering, “I told my father I saw you leap into a barrel like it was a warhorse. And later, in the woods—when you fired into the trees to cover their retreat—your arrows flew like mine. No hesitation. No fear.”

Your jaw clenched. “You don’t have to say these things.”

“I’m not saying them to flatter you.” He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on his knees. “I’ve met warriors across all the ages. Elves, men, even the proudest Dwarves. But I never forgot the look on your face that day. You weren’t fighting to win. You were fighting not to lose anyone else.”

A beat passed. You looked into the fire, and for the first time that night, your voice wavered.

“I loved them. Not all of them—but enough to bleed for. To die for.”

“I know.”

“I would have taken Thorin’s place in that final charge,” you said quietly. “I would have stood before Azog myself if I thought it would’ve bought him another breath.”

Silence wrapped the room again.

“I think that’s why I watched you,” he said. “Because I knew—if I blinked, I’d miss you burning.”

You met his gaze now. And there it was: the truth of it, sitting between you like a long-unspoken vow.

“I’m tired, Legolas,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what I have left to give.”

He reached out, not touching, just resting his hand close to yours on the armrest. “Then don’t give anything. Not tonight. Just sit with me. Let the ghosts rest for a while.”

You looked down at his hand, then at the fire. And though you didn’t say it, you didn’t pull away either.

In the silence that followed, there was no war, no crown, no past. Just you, and the elf who never stopped watching.

The fire had burned low, now little more than glowing embers nestled in ash. The bottle beside you was empty, your cup untouched for hours. Legolas had fallen asleep in the chair across from you, arms folded, head tilted slightly to the side, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it in battle or daylight.

You watched him for a while, feeling a strange pull of comfort and sorrow. He always looked younger in sleep. Less of a prince, more of the curious elf who had once tried to understand why you, a half-blood stranger, would ever choose to walk with dwarves into death.

But sleep didn’t come for you—not anymore.

The silence wrapped itself around you like a too-tight cloak, and slowly, the weight of memory began to stir.

There’s a flicker in the fire and suddenly you were laughing again. The clamor of a camp at the edge of Mirkwood, Bofur’s wild song about mountain goats and bad ale ringing in your ears. Kili throwing a twig at you because you said he couldn’t grow a real beard yet. You’d thrown it back, striking him square in the forehead.

“Tell me I’m not the prettiest one in this company,” he had said once, arms spread dramatically. “Go on, say it. You can’t, can you?”

You had smirked, braid half-undone, fingers calloused from the bowstring. “You’re lucky you’re not my type.”

He’d clutched his heart as if you’d shot him, then winked and walked off into the trees.

The warmth twisted.

Another flicker—and you were in Erebor.

Blood in your mouth. Thorin’s hand in yours, his grip weak, eyes clouded with too much pain.

“I was wrong,” he said, voice rasping like wind through broken stone. “I see it now. I see you.”

You had begged him to hold on. Promised him that the sun would rise, and that he would see the mountain whole again. But his breath had rattled in his chest—and stilled.

You had sat there for a long time, knuckles white around the hilt of your blade. Kili lay not far. Fili, already taken.

Only silence answered you.

You pressed your fingers to your eyes, willing the sting away, but it clung, thick as smoke.

“I should’ve stayed,” you whispered, barely audible. “I should’ve done more.”

The ghosts didn’t answer. They never did. But the ache of their absence filled the room all the same.

And yet...

There were other memories too. Softer ones. Bifur teaching you Dwarvish insults you were far too proud of. Balin telling stories until sleep took him mid-sentence. Bombur slipping you extra rations when you looked pale. Thorin, once, catching you singing in Elvish to calm your nerves and saying nothing—just sitting beside you, silent, as though listening to a memory he couldn’t name.

And Legolas. Always watching from the edge. Distant at first. Then fascinated. Then something else.

The present curled around your shoulders again, and you looked over at him, still fast asleep in the chair, the rise and fall of his chest steady.

You reached for the blanket draped over the nearby bench, quietly laying it across him. He stirred but didn’t wake.

As you sat back down, hands loose in your lap, you whispered into the dim room:

“I don't know if I can face another war. But maybe… I don't want to be the last of us, either.”

You didn’t sleep that night. But for the first time in years, you didn’t feel completely alone in the dark.

Dawn crept in slowly, brushing the sky in pale blue and soft gold. Birds sang tentative notes outside your shuttered windows, but the inn remained hushed.

The hearth was cold now. The chairs had been returned to their places. Tables were wiped clean, mugs polished and shelved, the rooms above emptied of guest linens. The scent of firewood and rosemary lingered, but your inn—the life you had built to keep the world out—was closed.

Literally.

The sign on the door now read “Gone traveling. Indefinitely."

When the Fellowship awoke, one by one, they descended the stairs expecting breakfast and soft beds to still be theirs. Instead, they found you standing near the door, your pack slung over one shoulder, traveling leathers worn like a second skin, bow strapped to your back, and a dagger resting easily at your hip.

Sam blinked in confusion. “Are you… going somewhere, miss?”

You gave a nod, small but sure. “Aye. With you.”

Frodo froze mid-step. “You’re—what?”

“I packed light,” you said, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Can’t say I’m thrilled about sleeping under stars again, but…” You trailed off, eyes briefly scanning the group before settling on Legolas.

He was already watching you.

There was no surprise in his face. No shock like the others. Only a quiet calm. Like a note held long and true finally finding its resolution.

“I knew it,” he said, lips tugging into a faint smile.

Aragorn stepped forward, brows knit. “What changed your mind?”

You met his gaze evenly. “Nothing. Everything. I remembered that the world doesn’t stop turning just because I pretend it has. And if it falls while I sit behind a bar, what did I survive for?”

Even Gimli seemed speechless for a moment. “Hmph. Well. If you’re coming along, I hope you still remember how to march.”

“Better than you remember how to bathe,” you quipped.

That drew a snort from Boromir and a laugh from Merry and Pippin, breaking the stunned silence.

As they gathered their things, still murmuring about your choice, Legolas stepped closer, his voice low for only you.

“You were never going to stay behind,” he said, almost gently.

You looked up at him, your voice steady. “No. But I had to believe I would, until I didn’t.”

He nodded once. “Then let us walk forward. Together this time.”

You studied him a long moment, then gave a small, wry smile.

“Try to keep up, princeling.”

You pushed open the door, letting in the crisp morning air. The road waited, as it always had.

But this time, you didn’t face it alone.

The quiet had ended.

The road to Moria had been long and steep, but nothing compared to the cold weight that settled on your chest the moment you passed through the threshold of the once-great dwarven realm.

Darkness clung to the air like dust, and even your elven blood couldn’t soothe the dread coiling in your gut. These were not halls of glory now, not the shining marvel Gimli had spoken of with such pride.

They were tombs.

Your steps echoed too loudly as you walked. The Fellowship moved in a hush, each bootfall and breath drawing the stone’s attention like an unwanted guest.

Gimli had fallen silent long ago.

You watched him, the way he held his axe tight to his chest like a lifeline, eyes wide as he passed shattered archways and collapsed pillars. His gaze darted toward dark corners, as if hoping—aching—for a familiar face to emerge.

But none came.

And then you reached the Chamber of Records.

The skeletons lay still where they had fallen. Weapons rusted. Dust thick on old shields. It was not war that filled the space now, but mourning.

Gimli moved to the tomb at the center like a man in a dream. You followed without meaning to.

He brushed aside what little remained of a helm and whispered a name: “Balin.”

You froze.

Balin.

Old, kind, sharp-eyed Balin—who once told you riddles on long rides and always made you take the last bit of stew. Balin, who had held your hand when Thorin died, his voice cracking as he promised to carry the king’s memory home.

Your throat closed.

“He was the best of us,” you murmured.

Gimli’s shoulders shook. “He was our hope. Our history. And now—he is dust.”

You stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his arm.

“He believed in this place,” you said. “And if he had known it would take him, I think he would have come anyway. That was the kind of dwarf he was.”

Gimli didn’t speak, but he nodded once, tightly.

“I thought the ghosts I carried were mine alone,” you continued, voice softer. “But grief… it finds us all. And when it does, it binds us.”

He turned to you, eyes wet and fierce. “Do they ever stop speaking to you? The ones you lost?”

You hesitated, your gaze falling to Balin’s tomb.

“No,” you said. “But sometimes, they stop screaming.”

A long moment passed between you—two remnants of the Company, survivors of a story carved in blood and stone. Then Gimli nodded again, slower this time, and placed a rough hand over yours.

“Thank you,” he said.

You squeezed back. “We’ll carry them forward. As we always have.”

Behind you, the Fellowship waited in silence. Even Legolas, usually still and watchful, looked at you now not with curiosity, but understanding.

The grief had found you both. And for this moment, you bore it together.

They came like shadows with blades—goblins pouring from the walls, the ceilings, the dark. The tomb of Balin was barely behind you when the Fellowship was forced into motion, swords drawn, feet pounding over cold stone.

You loosed arrows until your fingers ached, each one flying true—some finding skulls, others throats—but they kept coming.

“RUN!” Gandalf’s voice cracked through the chaos, ancient and fierce.

The Fellowship fled, boots striking the echoing halls of Moria. Behind you, the goblins shrieked, relentless, swarming like ants through the cracks in the stone.

The drums of war pounded.

Dum. Dum. DUM.

You passed dark pits and crumbling bridges, pillars shattered by time. You didn’t dare slow. You barely breathed.

And then came the heat.

A low rumble.

A deeper shadow.

The Balrog.

It wasn’t just fire. It was rage made flesh, born from the ancient pits of a forgotten world. You stopped when you saw it—just for a heartbeat—but Gandalf didn’t.

He turned on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, staff in hand, sword gleaming like starlight in the dark.

“This foe is beyond any of you. Run!”

You didn’t want to leave. Every part of you screamed to stay.

But Aragorn pulled Frodo. Boromir shielded the hobbits. Legolas grabbed your arm as you hesitated, your eyes locked on the wizard’s back.

“Go,” he said. “Now.”

You stumbled forward, breath ragged, until you stood with the others at the far end of the bridge. Just in time to see the Balrog crash forward—flames licking the stone as it advanced.

And Gandalf—brave, maddening, kind Gandalf—stood alone.

“You shall not pass!”

The blast of light from his staff shattered the dark for one blinding moment. The Balrog faltered—then fell, crashing into the abyss.

Relief struck—until the whip lashed back, curling around Gandalf’s ankles.

You saw his eyes then. Not fear, not regret.

Resolve.

“Fly, you fools—!”

And then he was gone.

Silence fell.

And it screamed.

You didn’t remember how you escaped the mountain. Only that your feet moved and the world blurred and somehow, sunlight burned your eyes when you emerged from the tunnel.

The Fellowship collapsed to the grass and stone. Frodo sobbed quietly. Sam sat staring at the dirt. Gimli hung his head in shaking silence.

You stood apart from them.

Legolas approached, hesitant. “We must move on—”

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice sharp.

He paused, his expression faltering.

You turned to him, and for the first time in years, your grief burned through the surface like wildfire through dry wood.

“I have already lost Balin in this cursed mountain. And now I’ve lost Gandalf too.” Your voice cracked. “And it’s only just begun.”

Legolas reached for you—slowly, gently—but you stepped back.

“I don’t know how much grief I have left to carry,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what’s left of me when it runs out.”

He didn’t speak.

You looked down at your hands—scarred, steady, stained by years of blood—and saw the ghosts rise behind your eyes.

Balin, laughing over a campfire.

“You’ll never beat a dwarf at riddles, lass, but I’ll enjoy watching you try.”

His eyes always twinkled like he saw more than he said.

Gandalf, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder as you trembled in Erebor’s aftermath.

“Even the fiercest fire cools, child. But your spirit—it will forge something new from these ashes.”

You had believed him then.

But now… now the fire only took.

You sat down hard in the grass, legs finally giving out, and stared at the distant sky. The others were quiet. No one had words left.

Even the sun, warm as it was, couldn’t thaw what had been lost.

The Golden Wood greeted you in silence.

The moment you crossed into Lothlórien, it was as if the weight of the world loosened, only slightly, from your shoulders. The air shimmered faintly with magic—ageless, slow, and watching. Sunlight pierced the canopy in golden beams, illuminating the green and gold leaves like fire frozen mid-dance.

The others seemed to feel it too. Their steps grew quieter, breath deeper. The grief from Moria still clung, but here… it was dimmed.

Muted.

You stayed near the back of the Fellowship, your presence quiet and inward. Even Legolas, who normally hovered close, let you be—watching you with unreadable eyes.

Then came the soft sound of approaching boots across leaf-laden ground.

You turned at once, bow half-lifted—then lowered it instantly.

“Haldir,” you breathed.

The elf smiled, and it was like watching a tree in spring—still, serene, but warm beneath the surface.

“I thought the wind smelled of old fire and bowstring,” he said. “I dared not believe it.”

You stepped forward without thought, and for the first time in what felt like days—maybe longer—your posture softened. Haldir’s hand found your shoulder, and yours settled on his forearm, a brief clasp of warriors, friends, kin.

“I did not think I’d see you again,” you murmured.

“I often think the same,” he replied. “And yet, here we are.”

There was laughter in his voice—gentle, low. It stirred something in you that had been buried under stone and blood: memory. Of laughing beneath moonlight. Of shared patrols. Of long talks in old trees about the stars and the silence between them.

With Haldir, there was no past to bleed from. Only stillness. Understanding.

Legolas watched from a few paces away.

He did not speak. But his jaw tightened slightly as your laugh, soft and fleeting, reached his ears—something he hadn’t heard in days. Not since Moria. Not since Gandalf’s fall.

You barely noticed him at first. Only when Haldir led the Fellowship toward the inner woods did you catch the way Legolas lingered back, gaze not on the trees—but on you.

Later, as you stood beneath the trees, hands brushing bark that had seen centuries pass, Legolas finally approached. You didn’t turn.

“I didn’t know you were close with Haldir,” he said.

“He was my first real friend,” you replied, voice distant. “Before the Company. Before Erebor. When I didn’t know which world I belonged to.”

Legolas was quiet for a beat. Then: “You laugh more easily with him.”

You turned to him slowly. “Because he doesn’t ask me how I feel. He knows.”

There was a sharpness in your tone—not cruel, but edged by truth. Legolas flinched, just barely.

“I have tried to be patient,” he said. “To understand.”

“I know,” you said. “And I… I don’t fault you for it.”

You looked away, gaze lost in the gold-lit forest.

“But everything hurts, Legolas. I can’t breathe for the weight of it. Balin, Thorin, Kíli, Fíli—Gandalf.” You shook your head. “I don’t know how to laugh with you. Not yet.”

He said nothing, only studied you with eyes full of sea and silence.

You stepped away. “Give me time. I still want to be near the light. I just don’t know how to stand in it.”

And you left him there, beneath a barren tree—where even the sun seemed reluctant to intrude.

•••

The sky over Helm’s Deep was heavy, dark with the promise of death. Rain lashed the stone walls and wind howled through the crevices like a warning too late to heed.

The keep bustled with urgency—armor strapped on, arrows sorted, blades handed out with shaking hands. You moved among the chaos with steady steps, your cloak already damp, your bow newly strung. You had prepared in silence, your choice already made long before the gates had shut.

Legolas found you as you stepped out from the inner keep, near the passage leading to the women and children. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the sword at your hip, the set of your jaw, the steel in your eyes.

“You’re not going,” he said, water running down his cheeks like tears he would never let fall.

“No,” you replied simply.

“You’re meant to be with the others—”

“With the helpless?” you cut in sharply. “You forget who I am, Legolas.”

“I forget nothing,” he hissed, stepping forward. “But you were supposed to survive this. Do you not understand what’s coming?”

“I do,” you said. “And I’ll face it.”

He looked at you, truly looked at you, as if seeing the shadow of every battle you’d ever survived and fearing this one would be your last.

“I’ve already watched you fall once,” he said, voice low, taut. “When you lost them. Kíli, Thorin, Gandalf. You say you don’t know how much grief you have left—but do you know how much I have? How much more I can bear if you fall too?”

You looked away, breath catching.

“I’m not a memory to protect, Legolas. I’m not something fragile to lock away.”

“No,” he said. “You’re not fragile. But you are—” he stopped, jaw clenched, the words fighting their way out. “You are important. To me.”

That gave you pause.

The rain softened. For a moment, the world blurred around you, only his face in focus—his pain, his fear, his heart laid bare in the spaces between sentences.

“I’m still going,” you said, more gently this time.

He nodded, slowly. “Then I stay with you. On the wall. Not a step behind.”

You gave a quiet breath of what might have been a laugh, or a sigh. “Then try to keep up, princeling.”

He almost smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

As the horns of war blew in the distance and the thunder of Uruk-hai boots echoed closer, you stood together on the ramparts. He watched the enemy. But sometimes, you felt his gaze shift to you—sharp, quick, as though checking you were still there.

Still standing.

Still his.

The night deepened. The sky wept.

Beneath the thunder and screams of wind, the walls of Helm’s Deep trembled. The Uruk-hai approached like a black sea, endless, armored, merciless.

You stood on the battlement beside Legolas, scanning the dark, arrow ready. His expression was unreadable, though his hand never strayed far from his quiver. Every so often, his eyes flicked to you—not in doubt, but in worry worn raw.

Then came the horns.

Not the harsh blares of the enemy—but something ancient. High. Clear.

Hope.

The gates creaked open and light spilled in—silver cloaks, golden armor, moonlit helms gleaming beneath the rain.

Elves.

And at their head—Haldir.

You froze, a breath caught in your throat, disbelieving.

He moved like moonlight through mist, every step purposeful, calm amidst the storm. And when he saw you on the wall, his smile broke through the rain like dawn.

You descended the stone steps as he approached. The moment you reached him, you embraced—not as warriors, but as those who had feared they'd never meet again.

“I hoped,” you whispered. “But I didn’t dare believe it.”

“Lothlórien does not forget its own,” he said. “We came as soon as Galadriel sent word.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You always arrive when I need you most.”

A flicker of amusement touched his features. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”

Nearby, Legolas stood still as stone. His gaze hadn’t left you.

He watched the ease in your voice, the soft warmth you rarely showed. The way Haldir touched your arm when he spoke, the familiarity in your closeness. A part of him hated it—hated that Haldir saw a version of you he feared he no longer could reach.

Later, as the elves took positions and soldiers prepared for the siege, you and Haldir stood beneath the battlements, heads bowed close in quiet conversation.

He looked at you, studying your face. “There is pain in you.”

You nodded. “There always is.”

“But there is strength too,” he said. “Even when you forget it.”

You offered him a tired smile. “That’s why I keep you around. To remind me.”

Haldir placed a hand over yours. “And I always will.”

Above, Legolas stood watching, eyes narrowing just slightly.

He had never been jealous of Haldir’s grace, his skill, his rank. But this—the effortless way Haldir stood beside you, anchored you—this unsettled something in his chest.

Not because Haldir had it.

Because he used to.

The horns sounded again—closer now. The enemy was nearly upon you.

And still, you stood beside Haldir. And Legolas waited, bow in hand, fire in his heart.

The night would be long. Blood would fall like rain.

But not before Legolas promised himself: Whatever the morning held—he would be the one standing beside you when it came.

The sun rose, but it did not warm you.

The battlefield stretched beneath it like a scar—black blood soaked into the mud, bodies sprawled across the ruined stone and grass. The air reeked of smoke, steel, and silence.

You stood where Haldir had fallen.

His body had already been taken, wrapped in elven cloth and carried with reverence by the survivors of Lothlórien. But you had stayed behind, rooted, staring at the bloodstained spot where he had died defending the wall at your side.

He had smiled at you, even as the blade struck true.

And you had screamed—only once—but it had broken something in your throat.

You hadn’t spoken since.

You didn’t hear Legolas approaching until his hand wrapped gently around your arm.

“You should rest.”

You didn’t move.

He stepped in front of you, his face pale beneath the dirt and ash, his eyes rimmed red—not with tears, but restraint. “You fought with honor. He did too.”

Your voice was a rasp. “You pulled me back.”

A beat of silence.

“Yes,” he said. “You would have died.”

“I was ready to,” you snapped, stepping back from him. “We were overrun. I was going to cover the retreat and you—” your voice broke, rage surging into the hollow place grief had carved—“You should have let me go!”

Legolas flinched as if struck.

“I could have died beside him. I should have—” your voice cracked, your fists clenched, “—instead you dragged me back, again, and I’ve lost another piece of myself—”

“Because I can’t lose you too!” he shouted, voice sharp and cutting through the morning like an arrow loosed in fury.

You froze.

He stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving, all the composure of an elven prince burned away by the fire of emotion long held back.

“I watched you grieve them all,” he said, voice quieter now but trembling. “Thorin. Kíli. Fíli. Balin. Gandalf. Haldir—gods, even Haldir. And every time, I saw something break in you.”

He stepped forward, unflinching. “And I stayed quiet. I stayed patient. I gave you space because I thought it’s what you needed—but I—” he faltered, then whispered, “I love you.”

The words hung between you like a war cry stilled in the air.

“I have loved you from the moment you argued with me in the Woodland Realm, stubborn and wild and brave. I watched you fight beside Kíli and Thorin. I watched you mourn them, one by one. And still, I loved you.”

Tears had slipped down your cheeks before you realized they’d come.

“I couldn’t let you go,” he said. “Not when I’ve already watched you die in pieces.”

You stared at him, all the fury ebbing into pain.

“I don’t know how to be what I was,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to be,” he said, stepping closer. “Just be with me. Whatever pieces you have left—I’ll carry them too.”

You let out a shuddering breath.

And finally, your forehead dropped to his chest, the storm within you breaking. His arms wrapped around you, steady and warm.

There were no promises. No healing words.

But in that moment, grief found company. And that was enough.

The final battle was chaos.

Fire lit the sky in sickening hues—red, orange, and gold twisting like dragons of ruin above the field. Screams tore through the clamor of clashing steel. The very earth trembled beneath the weight of death.

You had lost sight of Legolas.

Not for long—barely minutes—but it felt like a lifetime in the heart of war.

You fought like instinct made flesh, your blade slick with blood, arrows gone. The battlefield blurred around you, faces unrecognizable, only movement and threat. But when you spotted the flash of silver-blond hair through the smoke, something within you slammed into place.

Legolas.

He was on the rise of a broken wall, drawing his bow, loose and precise—until the enemy swarmed behind him. You screamed his name—he didn’t hear it—and your legs moved before your mind did.

A troll's iron mace came down, fast and merciless.

You hit him hard in the side, sending you both tumbling behind a shattered wall of stone as the blow cracked the earth where he’d stood. You rolled, breathless, until you landed hard, half atop him, body shielding his.

There was silence.

Then—

“I’m fine,” he rasped, blinking at you, winded.

“Don’t say that,” you breathed.

Your hands were braced on his chest, blood—thankfully—was not his. But the fear was.

You were shaking.

“You could’ve died,” you whispered. “You should have—”

“But I didn’t.”

You stared down at him, and for one unguarded moment, you let the horror in your chest bloom. “I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”

His breath caught. His hands came up to gently hold your wrists. “You won’t.”

Tears stung your eyes—hot, unwelcome. You pressed your forehead to his, trying to steady your breathing as the sounds of war surged around you once more.

“Still here,” he whispered. “I’m still here.”

You closed your eyes.

You hadn’t made him any promises. You still weren’t sure if you could. But you could hold him close for now. You could fight for his life like he had fought for yours.

For once, it was not about loss.

It was about not letting go.

The White City gleamed beneath the morning sun, banners fluttering high above the citadel. Flowers carpeted the stone, thrown by joyful hands, the scent of hope and new beginnings thick in the air.

Aragorn stood crowned and robed in light, the roar of the crowd still echoing down the mountainside.

You watched from the edge of the crowd, quiet.

For the first time in an age, there was no battle ahead. No blood under your fingernails. No grief hiding behind your teeth.

Just stillness.

And you didn’t quite know what to do with it.

You lingered until the sun began to lower, until the crowd thinned, until the laughter dimmed to celebration-song in distant halls.

And then he found you.

Legolas.

He approached without armor, dressed in white and silver that caught the dying light, golden hair gleaming. He looked like he’d stepped out of a song—ageless, beautiful, unreal. But when he smiled at you, tired and small, he looked only like himself.

“I didn’t think you’d stay this long,” he said gently.

“I didn’t think I would either,” you admitted.

You stood side by side in the garden, the flowers beneath your boots crushed underfoot, the sounds of merriment muffled by trees and stone.

“It’s over,” he said. “And we’re still standing.”

You let out a soft breath. “Somehow.”

You looked at him then—really looked. And for the first time, there was no fog of war, no heavy grief veiling your gaze. You were just… you. Bruised. Whole. Tired. Alive.

“I thought if we made it here, I’d know what to say,” you murmured.

Legolas turned to face you, head tilted. “And do you?”

“No,” you said honestly. “But I know what I feel.”

His eyes searched yours, and you saw it there—hope, held back so long it looked like sorrow.

“You pulled me from the edge,” you whispered. “Again and again. Even when I didn’t want you to.”

“Because I love you,” he said, quiet and sure, no hesitation now.

You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “Then you should know... I’m not whole. I may never be.”

“I don’t need you whole,” he said, leaning in so your foreheads touched. “I only need you with m.”

You closed your eyes, the warmth of his skin grounding you. Your hand found his, fingers threading between his own, and this time—you didn’t pull away.

No promises.

But something stronger.

A beginning.

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