Peter’s lips crashed against yours, not with the gentle teasing he usually reserved for your first few dates, but with a desperate, bruising force that left you gasping for air. The air between you crackled with the static of his super-speed energy, making your skin prickle with anticipation. He didn't give you a moment to adjust, his tongue immediately sweeping into your mouth to dominate yours, battling for control with a hunger that bordered on rabid.
His hands were everywhere at once, one fist in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat, and the other kneading your breast roughly through your shirt. The friction against your sensitive nipple was maddening, sending jolts of electricity straight down to your core. You moaned into the kiss, a wet, broken sound that seemed to spur him on. He groaned deep in his chest, the vibration rattling your teeth.
Peter’s mouth was devastatingly skilled, his tongue swirling and probing with an expertise that made your knees weak. He tasted like mint and the lingering sweetness of a soda you’d shared earlier, but underneath that, there was the salt of his skin and the raw, animalistic scent of arousal. He traced the roof of your mouth, then nudged against your tongue before sucking it into his own, drawing it deep into his throat and swirling it around his tongue in a way that made your head spin.
His teeth grazed your lower lip, biting down just hard enough to sting, and then soothing the sting with a long, wet lick. You were arching your back off the bed, grinding yourself against him, but he pinned your hips down with a hand that felt like iron. He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his irises blown wide and dilated with lust, his breathing heavy and ragged.
"God, you taste so good," he growled, his voice dropping an octave, rough and husky. He leaned in again, but this time his lips moved to your jaw, then your neck, kissing and nipping a path down to your collarbone, leaving a trail of fire in his wake. He paused at the hollow of your throat, his lips wrapping around the sensitive skin there, sucking hard enough to leave a dark, claiming mark. You whimpered, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, needing more of him.
He moved back up to your ear, his hot breath ghosting over the shell, sending shivers down your spine. "I want you so bad," he whispered, his voice thick with desire. His hand slid down your side, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans, yanking them down impatiently. The sound of the fabric tearing was audible in the quiet room, and Peter chuckled darkly against your neck.
"Too slow," he murmured, his mouth returning to yours with renewed vigor, the kiss turning sloppy and wet, a clash of tongues and teeth and saliva. It was messy, uninhibited, and exactly what you needed.
Warnings: Half blood reader, mentions of blood, pregnancy, battle, injury, stepson!legolas, marriage
WC: ~3k
Summary: When a half blood who’s helping the Dwarves get to Erebor, enters Mirkwood, her life is drastically changed. She finally finds a place where she belongs and can create a family.
A/N: It’s a bit long but I hope you like it 🫢🤞🏽
The journey through Mirkwood was treacherous, the twisted branches of the ancient trees reaching out like skeletal fingers, blocking what little light managed to pierce the dense canopy. Y/N moved with an unusual grace for one traveling with dwarves, her slightly pointed ears often hidden beneath her hood, her mixed heritage giving her an advantage in navigating the forest paths.
"I still don't understand why you insist on helping them," Balin had asked days earlier, his bushy eyebrows knitted in confusion.
Y/N had smiled sadly. "My mother was human, my father an elf of Rivendell. I've never truly belonged to either world. Perhaps helping others find their home will help me find mine."
Thorin Oakenshield had been suspicious at first, his pride wounded that a woman, especially one with elven blood, would join his quest. But her skills in healing and tracking had proven invaluable time and again, and the dwarves had grown to respect her, if not completely trust her.
The forest grew darker as they ventured deeper, the air thick with an unnatural silence. That's when it happened, arrows suddenly surrounded them, appearing as if by magic in the trees around them.
"You are trespassing in the realm of the Elvenking," a clear voice rang out, and Y/N's heart sank. She recognized that title, she had heard stories of King Thranduil of Mirkwood, of his isolation and his hatred for dwarves.
The dwarves were quickly subdued, their weapons confiscated. Y/N tried to slip away, her elven blood giving her a chance to escape, but she couldn't abandon Thorin and his company. When they were brought before the Elvenking on his throne, Y/N kept her head bowed, her hood pulled low.
Thranduil's eyes swept over the dwarven prisoners with contempt before landing on Y/N. "And what is this?" he asked, his voice dripping with disdain. "A dwarf woman? I did not know your kind allowed females to join such foolhardy quests."
Y/N's head snapped up, her eyes meeting the king's. "I am no dwarf."
Thranduil rose from his throne, descending the steps with predatory grace. He stopped before her, reaching out to pull back her hood. Dark hair tumbled free, and her slightly pointed ears came into view. The king's eyes narrowed.
"Elven ears, but your features... there is something else there," he mused, tilting his head. "What are you?"
"I am half-elven," Y/N said, her voice steady despite the fear coursing through her. "My mother was human."
The Elvenking's expression shifted from contempt to something unreadable. "A half-breed," he whispered, his fingers reaching out to trace the line of her jaw. "Rare in these lands."
"Kill her if you must, Elvenking," Thorin spat from his chains, "but let my people go."
Thranduil ignored the dwarf, his eyes locked on Y/N. "Half-elven," he repeated softly. "You carry the light of the Firstborn, yet the mortality of Men. How fascinating."
He signaled to his guards. "Take the dwarves to the dungeons. As for you," his gaze returned to Y/N, "you will come with me."
Y/N was led not to a cell but to chambers adjoining the royal quarters. For weeks, she was kept there, sometimes in the company of the Elvenking, sometimes alone. Thranduil questioned her endlessly about her lineage, her life, her reasons for joining the dwarves' quest. At first, Y/N remained guarded, but gradually, she found herself opening up to him.
"You have lived between two worlds," Thranduil observed one evening as they shared wine on his balcony overlooking the forest. "Never fully belonging to either."
"It has been... lonely," Y/N admitted, surprising herself with her honesty.
The Elvenking's expression softened. "I understand loneliness better than you might think," he said, his fingers unconsciously touching the scar on his face. "My wife died many years ago. Since then, this forest has felt emptier, despite its thousand trees."
Y/N looked at him with new eyes. Beyond the cold, imperious exterior, she saw a grief-stricken man who had closed his heart to the world.
"What happened to her?" she asked gently.
Thranduil's jaw tightened. "She was taken from me by the darkness that spreads in these woods. I could not save her."
In that moment of vulnerability, something shifted between them. Y/N reached out, her fingers lightly touching his hand. "I am sorry for your loss."
The Elvenking looked at their joined hands, then back at her face. "You have healing hands," he said softly. "Both literally and figuratively."
As the weeks turned to months, Y/N found herself increasingly drawn to the complex elven king. She saw the weight of his loneliness, the burden of his immortality, and beneath it all, a capacity for love that he had long suppressed.
Thranduil, in turn, found himself captivated by the half-elf with her human warmth and elven grace. She was unlike anyone he had ever known, wise beyond her years yet possessing a vulnerability that stirred protective instincts he thought long dead.
Their stolen moments together became the highlight of Y/N's days. They would walk in the gardens, discuss ancient lore, or simply sit in comfortable silence. Yet, there was one shadow that loomed over their growing connection, Legolas.
The prince of Mirkwood watched his father's growing fondness for the half-breed with increasing hostility. His glares were like daggers, and he made no effort to hide his contempt for Y/N.
"She is not of our kind," Legolas argued with his father one day, unaware that Y/N could hear them from behind a tapestry. "Her blood is tainted by mortality. She will wither and die like all humans, leaving you to grieve once more."
"Her blood is also elven," Thranduil replied, his voice firm. "And her spirit is more elven than many I have known. Do not speak of what you do not understand."
Legolas stormed away, passing so close to Y/N's hiding spot that she could feel the anger radiating from him. She knew that winning over the prince would be even harder than winning over his father.
Despite Legolas's hostility, Y/N's relationship with Thranduil deepened. The Elvenking found himself sharing thoughts and feelings he had never revealed to anyone, even his own son. In Y/N's presence, the heavy crown seemed to weigh less heavily on his brow.
One evening, as they watched the stars from his balcony, Thranduil turned to her with an intensity that made her heart race.
"I have lived for thousands of years," he said, his voice low and sincere. "I have seen kingdoms rise and fall, stars burn out and new ones take their place. Yet in all my long life, I have never met anyone quite like you."
Y/N looked up at him, her breath catching in her throat. The starlight illuminated his features, softening the harsh lines that usually marred his expression.
"You have shown me that there is still light in this world, even in the darkest of forests," he continued, taking her hands in his. "You have reminded me what it means to feel again."
He knelt before her, and Y/N's eyes widened in shock. "Y/N, daughter of both worlds, will you do me the honor of becoming my queen? Will you stay here in Mirkwood and rule by my side?"
Tears welled in Y/N's eyes as she nodded, unable to speak past the emotion clogging her throat. Thranduil rose, pulling her into an embrace that felt like coming home after a long journey.
Their wedding was a quiet affair, attended only by the most trusted of the king's guards. Legolas stood at the back of the hall, his face a mask of cold disapproval. When the ceremony concluded and Thranduil kissed his bride, the prince turned and walked away without a word.
"He will come around," Thranduil assured Y/N as they stood together on the balcony after the celebration. "Legolas is... protective. He has seen too much loss."
"I understand," Y/N replied, though her heart ached at the thought of being rejected by her new stepson. "I will try to reach him."
The months that followed were both joyous and challenging. Y/N settled into her role as queen of Mirkwood, her compassion and wisdom earning her the respect of many elves, though some still whispered about her mixed heritage. She and Thranduil grew closer, their bond strengthening with each passing day.
When Y/N discovered she was with child, Thranduil was overjoyed. "A new light in this dark forest," he said, his hand resting on her swelling belly. "Our child will bridge our worlds as you have bridged mine."
Legolas, however, was furious. "You would bring a half-breed into the royal line?" he confronted his father, his voice laced with venom. "You dishonor your first wife's memory and dilute our noble blood with mortality."
Thranduil's eyes grew cold. "You will not speak of your mother with such disrespect. And you will not insult my wife or our child. They are your family now."
The tension in the royal household was palpable, but Y/N refused to give up on her relationship with Legolas. She began leaving small gifts for him, his favorite sweet cakes, a well-crafted arrow she had noticed him admiring, handwritten notes with encouraging words. He never acknowledged them, but she would occasionally find them moved, as if he had considered them before discarding them.
One evening, after finding yet another of her thoughtful gifts left untouched on a table, Y/N found Thranduil on their balcony, staring into the depths of the forest. She approached him quietly, laying a gentle hand on his arm.
"He is your son, Thranduil," she said softly. "Your firstborn. I know his words hurt you, but his pain comes from a place of love and fear. He lost his mother; he's terrified of losing you too."
The Elvenking turned to her, his expression weary. "He is too much like me in his pride, too much like his mother in his passion. It is a dangerous combination."
"Then be the bridge between those parts of him," Y/N urged. "Show him that loving me doesn't mean you loved her any less. Show him that our child doesn't replace him but expands our family."
Thranduil sighed, pulling her into an embrace. "You are wiser than many who have lived three times your years. I will try to be... gentler with him."
Y/N's pregnancy progressed through the turning seasons of the forest. As her belly swelled with new life, so too did her love for the Elvenking and her determination to mend the rift between father and son. She continued her small gestures toward Legolas, never expecting acknowledgment but refusing to give up.
The day her labor began, the entire palace seemed to hold its breath. The elven healers moved with quiet efficiency, and Thranduil paced outside their chambers like a caged animal, his usual composure shattered by worry.
Hours stretched into what felt like an eternity. At one point, Legolas appeared, his face pale but his posture rigid. He stood across the hall from his father, neither speaking, both united in their concern despite their differences.
When the baby's first cry finally pierced the tension, Thranduil rushed into the room, Legolas following hesitantly behind. Y/N lay exhausted but radiant against the pillows, a small bundle in her arms.
"She's beautiful," Y/N whispered, her eyes shining with tears of joy. "We'll call her Laurelin, it means 'song of spring' in the ancient tongue."
Thranduil approached the bed, his fingers trembling slightly as he reached out to touch his daughter's cheek. "Laurelin," he repeated, his voice thick with emotion. "A new song indeed."
Legolas stood at the foot of the bed, his expression unreadable as he looked at the tiny elfling. For a moment, Y/N thought she saw a flicker of something, curiosity, perhaps even tenderness in his eyes before the familiar mask of indifference fell back into place.
"Congratulations, Father," he said formally, giving a slight bow before turning and leaving the room.
Y/N's heart sank, but Thranduil squeezed her hand. "Give him time," he said, though his own disappointment was evident. "He has never been good with change."
The weeks following Laurelin's birth were a blur of sleepless nights and overwhelming joy. Y/n discovered a new depth of love she hadn't known existed, her heart expanding with each coo and smile from her daughter. Thranduil, too, transformed in the presence of his child, his stern features softening whenever Laurelin was near.
What Y/N didn't know, what happened in the quiet moments when no one was watching, was that Legolas had been completely captivated by his baby sister. He would sneak into her nursery late at night, standing over her crib with a look of wonder on his face. Sometimes, when he thought no one was around, he would pick her up, rocking her gently and whispering stories of the stars and the ancient forest.
One afternoon, a palace servant found them together, Legolas sitting by the window with Laurelin in his arms, pointing out birds and describing their songs to his rapt infant sister. When the servant entered, Legolas tensed, his face hardening as he quickly handed the baby back to her nursemaid and strode away without a word.
Yet despite his private affection for Laurelin, Legolas remained cold toward Y/N. He would answer her questions with curt responses, avoid her gaze in the hallways, and leave rooms when she entered. His rejection stung, but Y/N refused to let it dim her happiness or deter her efforts to reach him.
"Perhaps he needs time to see that I'm not trying to replace his mother," Y/N said to Thranduil one evening as they watched Laurelin sleep. "I'm not competing with her memory, I'm creating my own place in his heart."
Thranduil kissed her forehead. "Your heart is too generous, my queen. It's one of the many reasons I love you."
As Laurelin grew, her personality blossomed. She had her father's noble features but Y/N's warm eyes, and a spirit that seemed to light up even the darkest corners of Mirkwood. She took her first steps in the royal gardens, her tiny fingers reaching for her father's hand, her laughter like music in the still air.
Legolas continued to watch from a distance, his affection for his sister growing despite his efforts to remain detached. He would leave small carved animals in her crib, perfect replicas of forest creatures that appeared overnight. When Y/N thanked him, he would simply deny it was his doing, but the faint blush on his cheeks told a different story.
Years passed in this uneasy peace, Y/N and Thranduil's love deepening, Laurelin growing into a bright and joyful child, and Legolas maintaining his careful distance from his stepmother while secretly doting on his half-sister.
Then came the attack.
The orcs struck at dawn, their war cries shattering the morning calm. Mirkwood had faced threats before, but this was different, coordinated, merciless, and overwhelming in its numbers.
"Stay here with Laurelin," Thranduil commanded Y/N as he strapped on his armor. "The palace is secure. Do not leave these chambers."
Y/N nodded, but fear gnawed at her heart. She could hear the sounds of battle growing closer, the clash of steel, the cries of the wounded and dying. As queen of Mirkwood, she couldn't hide while her people fought and died.
Laurelin, now a curious five-year-old, clung to her mother's skirts. "Mama, what's that noise?"
"Just a storm, my love," Y/N soothed, though her hands trembled as she stroked her daughter's hair. "Everything will be alright."
Once Laurelin was safely in the care of her nursemaid, Y/N slipped out of the royal chambers. She donned a simple leather tunic over her dress, grabbed a bow from the armory, and made her way to the battlements where the fighting was fiercest.
The scene that greeted her was chaos. Elves fought with their characteristic grace and precision, but they were vastly outnumbered. Orcs poured through breaches in the defenses, their crude weapons dealing deadly blows.
Y/N found her place among the archers, her mixed heritage giving her an advantage, elven eyesight coupled with human adaptability. She drew her bow, her movements fluid and deadly, each arrow finding its mark with unerring accuracy.
"Y/N! What are you doing here?" Thranduil's voice cut through the din of battle. He fought nearby, his twin blades flashing in the dim light.
"Fighting for my home," she called back, nocking another arrow. "Mirkwood is my kingdom too."
The Elvenking's expression was a mixture of pride and fear. "Stay behind me," he ordered, moving to shield her with his body.
But the battle was too widespread, the enemy too numerous. They fought back to back, their movements perfectly synchronized after years of training together. For a time, they held their ground, a formidable pair against the onslaught.
Then Y/N saw a group of orcs breaking through a weakened section of the wall, heading toward the palace where Laurelin was being kept.
"Thranduil!" she shouted, pointing. "They're heading for the royal chambers!"
The king's eyes widened in horror. He turned to fight this new threat, but in doing so, left his back exposed. An orc saw the opportunity and lunged, its crude sword raised.
Without thinking, Y/N threw herself in front of Thranduil, taking the blade meant for him. Pain seared through her side as the sword bit deep into her flesh. She cried out, stumbling backward.
"Y/N!" Thranduil's roar of anguish and rage echoed across the battlefield. He dispatched the orc with a deadly efficiency born of fury, then turned to catch his falling wife.
Blood soaked through her tunic, her face pale with shock and pain. "Laurelin..." she whispered, her eyes already glazing over.
The Elvenking's face was a mask of terror. "Healers! I need healers here!" he bellowed, but the battle raged around them, his voice lost in the chaos.
From across the battlements, Legolas saw what had happened. He had been fighting with his usual deadly grace, his movements economical and precise. But when he saw his stepmother fall in his father's arms, something shifted inside him.
He fought his way through the press of bodies, his arrows finding their targets with renewed urgency. When he reached them, he found his father cradling Y/N, his face ashen with fear.
"She's losing too much blood," Thranduil said, his voice breaking. "I can't get her to the healers through this."
"Give her to me," Legolas said, his voice firm despite the tremor in his hands. "I'm faster. I'll get her to the palace."
Thranduil looked at his son, saw the desperation and determination in his eyes, and made a split-second decision. He gently transferred Y/N into Legolas's arms.
"Protect her," the Elvenking commanded, his voice thick with emotion. "Bring our queen home."
With a nod of understanding, Legolas adjusted his hold on Y/N, his movements surprisingly gentle despite the urgency of the situation. He took off at a sprint that seemed almost supernatural, his elven speed carrying them swiftly through the chaos of the battlefield.
Y/N drifted in and out of consciousness, the world a blur of pain and motion. She could feel Legolas's arm supporting her, his heartbeat steady against her back. In her delirium, she thought she heard him speaking, his voice urgent and pleading.
"Hold on, Y/N. Don't leave us. You have to stay for Laurelin. She needs her mother. I... we need you."
The words seemed to come from far away, yet they penetrated the fog of pain. Was that truly Legolas speaking? Was he begging her to live?
Meanwhile, Thranduil watched them disappear into the distance before turning back to the battle with a fury that terrified even the orcs. His face, usually cold and composed, was now a mask of rage and grief. He fought like one possessed, his twin blades moving so fast they seemed to blur, cutting down any enemy foolish enough to approach.
"Kill them all!" he roared to his warriors. "For the queen! For Mirkwood!"
The elves, inspired by their king's ferocity and horrified by the injury to their beloved queen, fought with renewed determination. The tide of battle began to turn, but Thranduil paid no mind to strategy or tactics. He was a whirlwind of death and destruction, his only thought to finish this quickly and return to his wife.
Legolas reached the palace, his lungs burning but his steps sure. He burst through the doors, shouting for the healers. "The queen has been injured! She needs help now!"
The royal healers rushed forward, their expressions grave as they took in Y/N's condition. They led Legolas to the healing chambers, where he gently laid her on a prepared bed.
The lead healer, an ancient elf named Elara, immediately began assessing the wound. "The blade was poisoned," she said, her voice calm but urgent. "We must work quickly."
Legolas stood by, helpless, as the healers swarmed around Y/N. He watched them work, their hands moving with practiced efficiency as they cleaned the wound, applied healing herbs, and murmured incantations in the ancient tongue.
"I should have been there," he muttered, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "I should have protected her better."
"Prince Legolas," Elara said without looking up from her work, "no one could have foreseen this attack. And from what I understand, the queen saved the king's life. She is a hero."
Legolas sank into a chair beside the bed, his eyes fixed on Y/N's pale face. "She never gave up on me," he whispered, more to himself than to the healer. "Even when I was cruel, even when I pushed her away, she never stopped trying to reach me."
Tears he hadn't realized were forming began to slide down his cheeks. "All this time, I thought she was trying to replace my mother. I thought she was taking my father from me. But she was just... loving us. Both of us."
He reached out, taking Y/N's limp hand in his. "You can't die," he pleaded, his voice cracking. "Laurelin needs you. My father needs you. I..." he took a shaky breath, "I need you."
The hours that followed were agonizing. The healers worked tirelessly, their expressions growing more concerned as time passed. Y/N's breathing grew shallow, her skin clammy to the touch. Legolas refused to leave her side, his vigil unbroken as he watched her fight for her life.
It was late that night when Thranduil finally returned to the palace. The battle had been won, but the cost had been high. The Elvenking looked like death itself as he strode down the corridor toward the healing chambers, his face paler than usual, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion and fear.
When he entered the room and saw Legolas sitting by Y/N's bedside, his expression softened slightly. "Any change?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
Legolas shook his head, his eyes red-rimmed. "She's stable, but... Elara says it's too soon to know if the poison has been completely neutralized."
Thranduil approached the bed, his hand trembling as he reached out to stroke Y/N's hair. "I cannot lose another wife," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I cannot bear it."
The two elves stood together in silence, their earlier animosity forgotten in the face of their shared fear. Father and son, united in their love for the woman who had somehow managed to heal both their hearts.
For three days, Y/N hovered between life and death. The entire kingdom held its breath, prayers and hopes rising like incense to the stars. Laurelin, confused and frightened by the tension in the palace, stayed close to Legolas, sensing his distress and offering what comfort a five-year-old could.
On the fourth morning, as the first rays of dawn pierced the gloom of the forest, Y/N's eyelids fluttered open. The world came into focus slowly. First the ornate ceiling of the healing chambers, then the concerned faces leaning over her.
"Thranduil?" she whispered, her voice weak but clear.
The Elvenking's face transformed, relief washing over him like a tidal wave. "Y/N," he breathed, his fingers tightening around hers. "You're awake."
Legolas stepped forward, his expression a mixture of disbelief and joy. "Welcome back," he said softly.
Y/N looked from one to the other, a faint smile gracing her lips. "Did we win?"
Thranduil let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "Yes, my queen. We won."
In that moment of joy, something extraordinary happened. Thranduil, who had not cried since the death of his first wife, broke down completely. Tears streamed down his face as he buried his head in Y/N's shoulder, his body shaking with sobs of relief and gratitude.
"I thought I had lost you," he choked out. "I cannot imagine this world without you."
Y/N held him close, her own tears mingling with his. "I'm here," she murmured. "I'm not going anywhere."
As father and stepmother embraced, Legolas watched, his heart swelling with emotions he had long suppressed. He had never seen his father show such vulnerability, never witnessed such raw, unguarded emotion.
When Thranduil finally composed himself, it was Legolas's turn. The prince approached the bed hesitantly, his usual confidence replaced by uncertainty.
"Y/N," he began, his voice thick with emotion, "I... I owe you an apology. For everything. For my cruelty, my coldness, my inability to see past my own grief and pride."
Y/N reached out, taking his hand. "You don't need to apologize. Loss changes people. I understood, even when I didn't like it."
Legolas shook his head. "No, that's not good enough. You tried so hard to reach me, to make me part of this family, and I pushed you away at every turn. You saved my father's life, you gave him happiness again, you brought Laurelin into this world, and I repaid you with nothing but hostility."
He took a deep breath, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that took her breath away. "I was wrong about you. You're not trying to replace my mother, you're creating your own place in our hearts. A place that's been waiting for you all along."
With those words, Legolas did something he had never done before, he leaned forward and wrapped his arms around Y/N in a genuine, heartfelt hug. It was awkward at first, as if he was unaccustomed to such displays of affection, but it quickly became natural, as if years of barriers were finally crumbling away.
"I love you," he whispered, the words feeling both foreign and right. "You're my mother, in every way that matters."
Y/N held him close, tears of joy streaming down her face. "And you are my son," she replied. "Always."
When Laurelin was brought in to see her mother, the little girl's face lit up with delight. "Mama!" she squealed, scrambling onto the bed and snuggling close to Y/N's side.
Y/N wrapped her arms around her daughter, breathing in her sweet scent. "Oh, my little song of spring," she murmured, kissing the top of her head. "Mama missed you so much."
Thranduil and Legolas stood together, watching the touching reunion. The Elvenking draped an arm around his son's shoulders, a gesture of affection and reconciliation.
"She's going to be alright," Thranduil said, his voice filled with wonder.
Legolas nodded, his eyes fixed on the two most important women in his life. "Yes. We all are."
The recovery period was slow but steady. Y/N grew stronger with each passing day, her wound healing, her energy returning. The kingdom rejoiced at their queen's recovery, and celebrations were held throughout Mirkwood.
But the true celebration was in the royal chambers, where a new family was being born. Legolas became a constant presence, often bringing Laurelin to visit, staying to talk with Y/N, sharing stories of the forest and the latest news from the kingdom.
One evening, as they all sat together on the balcony, watching the stars emerge in the darkening sky, Y/N looked at her small family with a heart overflowing with love. Thranduil sat beside her, his hand resting possessively on hers, while Legolas lounged nearby, absently braiding a strand of Laurelin's hair as she chattered about her day.
"I never imagined this," Y/N said softly, breaking the comfortable silence. "When I first came to Mirkwood, I was just a half-blood trying to help some dwarves reclaim their home."
Thranduil squeezed her hand. "And you ended up reclaiming mine," he replied, his voice low and intimate.
Legolas looked up from his task, a rare, genuine smile gracing his lips. "You reclaimed more than that," he said. "You brought light back to this forest, and to this family."
Laurelin, sensing the emotional moment, climbed into Y/N's lap, wrapping her small arms around her mother's neck. "I love you, Mama," she whispered, her voice like the gentle rustle of leaves.
Y/N hugged her daughter tightly, kissing her forehead. "And I love you, my little song of spring."
The months that followed were a time of healing and rebuilding, both for the kingdom and for the royal family. The scars of the battle faded, though the memory of that day remained, serving as a constant reminder of how precious their bond was.
Y/N and Thranduil's love deepened with each passing day, their relationship strengthened by the ordeal they had endured. They found joy in simple things, walks through the rejuvenated forest, quiet evenings by the fire, the laughter of their daughter echoing through the halls of the palace.
Legolas, too, had changed. The coldness that had once defined him had melted away, replaced by a warmth and openness that had previously been hidden beneath layers of grief and resentment. He spent more time with his father, sharing responsibilities and discussing matters of state with a newfound maturity.
His relationship with Y/N had transformed completely. Where once there had been tension and hostility, now there was affection and mutual respect. He sought her advice on matters of diplomacy, valued her insights on the concerns of their people, and often joined her and Laurelin for walks in the gardens.
One afternoon, as they strolled through the royal gardens, Legolas turned to Y/N with a thoughtful expression. "You know," he began, "when you first came to Mirkwood, I saw you as a threat, as someone trying to take my mother's place."
Y/N listened quietly, her hand resting on his arm.
"But I was wrong," he continued. "You didn't replace her, you healed the wounds her death left behind. You gave my father a reason to smile again, you brought Laurelin into our lives, and you showed me what it means to be part of a family."
He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. "Thank you, Y/N. For everything."
Y/N's eyes filled with tears of joy. "You don't need to thank me, Legolas. Loving you and being your mother is one of the greatest privileges of my life."
As the years passed, their family continued to grow and thrive. Laurelin blossomed into a bright and beautiful young elf, with her father's wisdom, her mother's compassion, and her brother's adventurous spirit. She had the unique ability to bridge the gap between elven tradition and the new perspectives Y/N brought to the kingdom, making her a natural diplomat and peacemaker.
Thranduil ruled with renewed wisdom and compassion, his heart lightened by the love that surrounded him. He and Y/N worked together to heal the scars of battle, rebuilding what had been destroyed and strengthening the bonds between their people and the neighboring realms.
Legolas, now a respected warrior and leader in his own right, often traveled on diplomatic missions, representing Mirkwood with grace and integrity. Yet no matter how far he roamed, he always returned home with stories and gifts for his family, his heart forever tied to the forest kingdom and the family that had claimed him as their own.
One evening, many years after the battle that had almost torn their family apart, they all gathered on the balcony where Thranduil had first proposed to Y/N. The stars shone brightly overhead, their light reflected in the eyes of the royal family.
"I remember when we first stood here," Y/N said, leaning against Thranduil. "I was so nervous, so uncertain about my place in this world."
Thranduil wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her close. "And now you are the heart of this kingdom, the light of my life, the mother of our children."
Legolas, standing nearby with Laurelin beside him, smiled at the memory. "I remember watching from the shadows, filled with resentment and suspicion." He shook his head, as if amazed at how much had changed. "I never could have imagined that day would lead to this, to us being a family."
Laurelin, now a young woman with the wisdom of her years beyond her apparent age, looked at each of them in turn. "Our story is like the forest itself," she said softly. "We have weathered storms and darkness, but we have always reached for the light. And in doing so, we have helped others find their way too."
Y/N looked at her family, at the husband who had seen past her mixed heritage to the woman beneath, at the stepson who had become her true son, at the daughter who embodied the best of them all. Her heart overflowed with gratitude and love.
"Whatever challenges we may face," she said, her voice filled with emotion, "we will face them together. As a family."
Thranduil kissed her forehead, his touch tender and reverent. "Always and forever," he murmured.
Legolas stepped forward, wrapping his arms around both of them in a rare display of affection. "Always," he echoed.
As they stood together under the starlit sky, a family bound not by blood alone but by love, forgiveness, and the courage to heal, they knew that whatever the future held, they would face it as one, a testament to the power of love to overcome even the deepest wounds and the darkest of forests.
And so they lived, not just happily ever after, but fully, deeply, and completely, together as a family, their hearts beating as one in the heart of Mirkwood, where a half-blood queen had brought healing and hope to a kingdom that had once known only sorrow and isolation.
Their story became a legend in the realm, told by firesides and in grand halls, a tale of how love could bridge the gap between worlds, heal the deepest wounds, and transform even the coldest of hearts into something warm and true.
For in the end, it was not their royal blood or their immortal heritage that defined them, but the love they shared, a love that had grown from suspicion and resentment into something beautiful and enduring, like the ancient forest they called home.
And in that love, they had found not just happiness, but purpose, not just family, but home.
Warnings: mentions of blood, injury, battle, friends to lovers
WC: ~1.4k
A/N: I got a big ass crush on Aragorn and Faramir rn (ofc Thranduil is still my husband)
The rain had not stopped since the battle ended.
It fell in steady sheets across the ruined field, washing away blood, mud, and the last echoes of war, as though Middle-earth itself wished to forget what had happened there. Broken shields lay half-buried in the earth. Torn banners clung to the ground. The air smelled of iron and wet soil, sharp and heavy.
And somewhere among the living, barely, was you.
Aragorn had seen many battlefields. He had stood in places where hope had died and risen again, where men had fallen and legends were born in the same breath. But nothing, nothing, had prepared him for the moment he saw you collapse.
One second you had been fighting beside him, blade flashing, breath fierce in your lungs. The next, you were gone, struck down beneath the weight of the chaos.
He had not even remembered moving.
Only later would he recall the sound of his own voice, raw and hoarse as he fought his way to you. The world had narrowed then, no armies, no strategy, no war. Only you, lying far too still among the fallen.
“Stay with me,” he had demanded, dropping to his knees in the mud beside you. His hands, usually so steady, trembled as they searched for the wound, pressing, holding, refusing to let you slip away.
You had tried to smile at him. Even then.
“I’m… not going anywhere,” you whispered, though your voice barely carried over the storm.
A lie. He had heard enough dying words to know one.
“Do not speak,” he said sharply, though the fear in his chest betrayed him. “Save your strength.”
Your hand had found his wrist, weak but stubborn. “You always… tell me what to do.”
“And you never listen,” he replied, but the words broke on the edge of something deeper.
You did not answer after that. Your grip loosened, your eyes slipping shut as the rain continued to fall.
And for one terrible moment, Aragorn thought—
No….
He refused to finish the thought.
He would not lose you.
Not you…
By the time the wounded were gathered and carried from the field, the storm had only worsened.
Night fell quickly beneath the heavy clouds, turning the world into a blur of shadow and silver rain. The remnants of your company took shelter in the crumbling remains of an old stone outpost, barely more than four standing walls and a partial roof, but enough to shield against the worst of the storm.
Torches were lit. Cloaks were wrung out. The wounded were laid carefully along the driest patches of ground.
You were among them.
Aragorn had not left your side.
Even now, as others moved about, binding wounds, whispering prayers, and tending fires he remained beside you, one knee pressed into the cold stone, his focus fixed entirely on the rise and fall of your chest.
Too slow.
Too shallow.
His hands, still stained from battle despite the rain, worked with quiet precision as he redressed the wound at your side. He had done what he could on the field, stopped the bleeding, kept you breathing, but you had lost too much blood.
Too much.
“You must rest,” someone said behind him, one of the healers, voice cautious. “You’ve been tending her since we arrived.”
He did not look up. “And I will continue.”
“You cannot save everyone—”
“I am not trying to save everyone.”
The words were sharper than intended. Final.
The healer fell silent.
Aragorn exhaled slowly, forcing himself to steady. His gaze softened as it returned to your face.
You looked… wrong.
Too pale beneath the flickering torchlight. Too still.
You had never been still. Not in all the years he had known you.
You had always been movement, quick laughter, quicker wit, the kind of presence that filled a room without trying. You had stood beside him through countless battles, argued with him over decisions, challenged him when no one else would.
You had been his constant.
His friend.
His……
He stopped the thought before it could fully form.
Now was not the time.
Now was about keeping you here.
“Come back to me,” he murmured, more to himself than to you.
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky.
You woke to the sound of rain.
At first, it was distant, soft, almost soothing. But as your senses returned, so did the rest of the world. The ache in your body. The heaviness in your limbs. The sharp, pulsing pain at your side.
You inhaled sharply.
Mistake.
Pain flared, stealing the breath from your lungs.
“Easy.”
The voice was immediate. Familiar.
Aragorn.
Your eyes fluttered open, vision blurring before slowly sharpening into the dim, firelit shelter. And there he was, kneeling beside you, soaked to the bone, hair clinging to his forehead, eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made your chest tighten for an entirely different reason.
“You’re awake,” he said, relief threading through the words.
You tried to smile, though it felt weak. “You sound surprised.”
“I am not often granted such fortune.”
You huffed softly, though even that small movement hurt. “You’re terrible at hiding worry, you know that?”
“Am I?” he asked quietly.
You studied him then, really studied him. The exhaustion etched into his features. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hands hovered, as though afraid to touch you too firmly and yet unwilling to pull away.
Something shifted in your chest.
“You stayed,” you said.
“Of course I stayed.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yes,” he replied, voice low but unwavering, “I did.”
The weight of those words settled between you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The storm filled the silence, rain hammering against stone, wind howling through the broken edges of the shelter.
“I thought…” You hesitated, swallowing past the dryness in your throat. “I thought I was done for.”
Aragorn’s jaw tightened.
“So did I.”
The honesty in his voice startled you.
You had seen him face death countless times, his own and others’ with a kind of quiet acceptance. But this… this was different.
This was fear.
“For a moment,” he continued, softer now, “I believed I had lost you.”
Your heart stuttered.
“I’m still here,” you said gently.
“Yes,” he murmured, his gaze searching yours as if to confirm it. “You are.”
Another silence fell, but this one felt heavier. Charged.
The kind that lingered too long.
You became suddenly aware of everything, the closeness between you, the way his hand had finally settled against your cheek without you noticing, the warmth of it despite the cold that clung to the rest of him.
“You’re freezing,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.
“So are you.”
“Not as much as you.”
A faint, tired smile tugged at his lips. “You are in no position to argue.”
“I always am.”
“That is true.”
The familiar rhythm of your banter should have eased the tension.
It didn’t.
If anything, it made it worse.
Because beneath it, beneath the jokes and the ease was something neither of you had ever truly acknowledged.
Until now.
A crack of thunder split the sky.
You flinched instinctively, the movement sending a sharp jolt of pain through your side.
Aragorn reacted immediately. “Careful—”
“I’m fine,” you insisted, though your breath hitched.
“You are not fine.”
“I’m alive,” you countered. “That’s enough.”
His expression shifted at that. Something deeper, more vulnerable flickering beneath the surface.
“For me,” he said quietly, “it is more than enough.”
Your breath caught.
The air between you felt suddenly thinner.
He hadn’t moved his hand.
If anything, his thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, tracing the path of rainwater, or perhaps tears, you couldn’t tell.
“Do you know,” he said, his voice barely audible over the storm, “how many times I have nearly told you—”
He stopped himself.
Your heart was pounding now, despite the exhaustion pulling at you.
“Told me what?” you asked softly.
His gaze dropped to your lips.
And for the first time, truly, undeniably, you saw it.
Not just the affection. Not just the loyalty of years of friendship.
But something deeper.
Something that had been there all along, waiting.
“I cannot lose you,” he said instead.
The words were not what you expected.
But they were everything.
“You won’t,” you replied, your voice steadier than you felt.
“I almost did.”
“But you didn’t.”
“Not yet.”
The weight of that, of everything unspoken hung between you.
The rain grew louder, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
And then….
You reached for him.
It was a small movement, weakened by injury and fatigue, but it was enough. Your hand found his wrist, fingers curling around it just as they had on the battlefield.
Only this time, you did not let go.
“I’m here,” you said.
His eyes snapped back to yours.
Something broke.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
But quietly like a dam giving way under too much pressure.
Rain clung to both of you like a second skin as he leaned closer, drawn by something neither of you could deny any longer. You were both still damp from the storm, breath mingling in the cold air, the space between you shrinking with every heartbeat.
His hands came up, one already at your cheek, the other joining it, cradling your face with a gentleness that felt almost reverent.
Water slid down your skin, tracing the lines of your face, catching on his fingers.
“You should rest,” he murmured, though he made no move to pull away.
“So should you.”
“Later.”
“Later,” you echoed.
But neither of you moved.
There was no hesitation left.
Only the ache of everything that had almost been lost.
And the undeniable pull of what had always been there.
When his lips met yours, it was not tentative.
It was not careful.
It was warm despite the cold, rain-soaked and real and filled with a kind of urgency that came from knowing how close you had come to losing this chance entirely.
Your breath caught against his, your fingers tightening around his wrist as if anchoring yourself to him.
He kissed you like he had been holding it back for years.
Like he had.
There was no rush, and yet no patience either, only feeling. Raw and unguarded and overwhelming in its honesty.
You leaned into him as much as your body allowed, ignoring the pain, the exhaustion, everything except the way he held you, as though you were something precious. Something irreplaceable.
Something his.
When he finally pulled back, it was only barely. His forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing harder than the moment should have required.
“I should have done that long ago,” he whispered.
You smiled faintly, your eyes still closed. “You’re late.”
A soft, breathless laugh escaped him.
“I have been told I have poor timing.”
“You have no idea.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you again, his expression softer now, but no less intense.
“Then allow me to correct it,” he said.
Your heart skipped.
“Stay,” you replied.
“I was not planning to leave.”
“Good.”
The storm still raged outside. The world was still uncertain, still dangerous, still filled with battles yet to come.
But here, within these broken walls, beneath the steady rhythm of rain, you had found something steady.
Something real.
And as Aragorn settled beside you, his hand still gently holding yours, neither of you felt quite so close to losing everything anymore.
Warnings: S M U T, Threesome, cheating, p in v, DP, MDNI, NSFW
WC: ~2k
A/N: Watched POTC today and omg 🫦
The Caribbean moon cast a silver path across the calm waters of Tortuga as I stood on the deck of the Black Pearl, watching Captain Jack Sparrow and Will Turner argue over a map. The salty air tousled my hair, and I couldn't help but smile at their familiar bickering.
"The compass points to what you desire most, William," Jack slurred, gesturing dramatically with his bottle of rum. "Not what your precious Elizabeth desires."
Will's jaw tightened. "And what do you desire most, Jack? More rum? Another treasure you'll lose before sunrise?"
I cleared my throat, and both men turned to look at me. Jack's dark eyes glittered with mischief while Will's held that earnest intensity that always made my heart flutter.
"What I desire," I said slowly, stepping between them, "is for the two of you to stop arguing and help me with this rigging."
Jack's lips curved into a smirk. "Ah, Y/N. Always the practical one." He set his rum bottle down and moved to help me, his fingers brushing against mine as he took the rope. Will joined us on the other side, and for a moment, our hands all touched in a tangle of rope and skin.
That night, after the ship grew quiet with most of the crew asleep in their hammocks, I found myself unable to rest. The moonlight filtered through the porthole of Jack's cabin where I'd been invited to stay while we sailed toward our next adventure. I tossed and turned on the cot, the memory of those hands touching earlier refusing to leave my thoughts.
A soft knock on the door made me sit up. "Come in," I called softly.
Will entered, shirtless, his hair slightly damp from washing at the basin. He closed the door behind him, his expression uncertain. "Couldn't sleep either?"
I shook my head, patting the edge of the cot. "Too many thoughts."
He sat down, and I could feel the warmth radiating from his skin. "About what?"
"About tomorrow," I lied, not wanting to admit the real reason for my restless state.
Will nodded, accepting this explanation. His fingers found mine in the darkness, and I marveled at how different his touch was from Jack's, gentle, steady, sure. "We'll find the treasure," he said softly. "I promise."
Before I could respond, the cabin door opened again and Jack stumbled in, more rum having clearly been consumed since I'd last seen him. He stopped short when he saw us, a slow grin spreading across his face.
"Well now," he drawled. "What have we here? A private meeting without your captain?"
Will stiffened but didn't move away. "We were just talking."
"Talking," Jack repeated, stepping closer. He smelled of rum and sea salt and something uniquely Jack. "Is that what the young people are calling it these days?" His gaze flickered between us, and I felt a thrill run through me at the predatory interest in his eyes.
"Jack," I began, but he silenced me with a finger against my lips.
"Shh, love," he murmured, his other hand coming to rest on my shoulder. "The captain is just... observing."
The air in the small cabin grew thick with tension. Will's hand tightened on mine, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he watched Jack with a mixture of wariness and something else… curiosity, perhaps? Or something deeper?
Jack's fingers traced my jawline before tilting my face toward his. "You know," he said softly, "I've always believed in sharing the treasure." His eyes flickered to Will. "What do you say, Mr. Turner? Shall we show Y/N what true pirate hospitality looks like?"
My breath caught in my throat as Will's gaze met mine in the moonlight. There was hunger there, yes, but also affection, and perhaps a bit of the recklessness that Jack was always trying to coax out of him.
"Elizabeth—" Will began, but Jack cut him off.
"Is not here," Jack pointed out reasonably. "But Y/N is." He leaned closer, his lips almost touching mine. "And so are we."
The decision was made in the space between heartbeats. I turned my face slightly, just enough to press my lips against Jack's. He tasted of rum and adventure, his kiss confident and demanding. When I pulled away, gasping for breath, Will was there to claim my mouth next, his kiss gentler but no less passionate.
Jack's hands moved to the hem of my shirt, lifting it slowly as Will's fingers worked at the ties of my breeches. I felt like a treasure being unwrapped, appreciated by two very different pirates who both wanted to claim me as their own.
"You're beautiful," Will whispered against my neck as my clothes fell away, his calloused hands tracing patterns on my skin.
"Exquisite," Jack agreed, his dark eyes drinking me in. He stepped back to admire me fully before reaching for Will's shoulder. "And you, Mr. Turner," he murmured, "have been hiding quite a lot under those respectable blacksmith clothes."
Will flushed but allowed Jack to push his own breeches down, revealing a body hardened by smithing work and sword fighting. I watched, fascinated, as Jack's hands explored Will's chest, thumbs brushing over nipples that hardened at the touch.
"You're enjoying this," Jack observed, his voice low and amused as he glanced at me. "Watching us. Watching him."
I couldn't deny it. The sight of these two men together, one so chaotic and free, the other so principled and restrained, was intoxicating.
"Touch him," Jack commanded softly, and I didn't hesitate to reach out and run my hands over Will's arms, feeling the muscles there tense and relax under my touch.
Will's eyes closed as both Jack and I explored his body, our hands learning the landscape of his skin. When Jack's fingers brushed lower, Will gasped but didn't pull away. Instead, he arched into the touch, his body betraying the desire he'd been trying to hide.
"That's it," Jack murmured approvingly. "Let go, William. Just for tonight."
The cabin grew warmer as our bodies pressed together, hands exploring, mouths tasting, breaths mingling. I lost track of who was touching whom, who was kissing whom, it became a blur of sensation and pleasure, Jack's experienced guidance steering us toward heights I'd never imagined.
When Jack finally positioned us, Will behind me and Jack in front, I thought my heart might burst from anticipation. Will's hands gripped my hips as Jack guided himself to my entrance, his eyes locking with mine.
"Ready for the adventure of a lifetime, love?" he asked, and I could only nod, too breathless to speak.
He entered slowly, giving me time to adjust to his size, and Will's lips found my neck, his whispered words of encouragement sending shivers down my spine. When Jack began to move, setting a rhythm that was both gentle and demanding, I felt complete in a way I never had before.
Will's arousal pressed against my backside, and I reached behind me to stroke him, feeling him twitch at my touch. Jack noticed and grinned, his movements becoming more deliberate as he watched us.
"Patience, Mr. Turner," Jack said teasingly. "All good things to those who wait."
But Will was clearly done waiting. He positioned himself carefully, and I tensed slightly at the new sensation. Jack stilled, allowing Will to enter me slowly from behind. The feeling of being filled by both of them was overwhelming, a stretch and pressure that bordered on pain but quickly transformed into something else entirely, pleasure so intense it was almost painful.
"Move," I gasped, and they obeyed, finding a rhythm that had me crying out with each thrust. The small cabin filled with the sounds of our pleasure, skin against skin, breathless moans, Jack's occasional murmured instructions and Will's soft curses.
Time seemed to stretch and warp, minutes feeling like hours as we moved together in the moonlight. I was aware of everything and nothing, the rough texture of the cot beneath me, the calloused hands on my skin, the feeling of being possessed by these two men who represented such different parts of myself.
Jack's fingers found my clit, circling it with practiced ease as Will's hands roamed my body, touching and teasing. The dual stimulation sent me spiraling toward release faster than I would have thought possible.
"Let go," Jack urged, his voice strained with his own impending release. "Let us feel you."
And I did, crying out as waves of pleasure washed over me, so intense that my vision blurred and my ears rang. Will followed moments later with a hoarse shout, and then Jack, his movements becoming erratic before he finally stilled, his face buried in my neck.
We lay tangled together in the aftermath, sweaty and sated, the moonlight now casting long shadows across the cabin. I could feel both of their hearts beating against me, a rhythm that was somehow in sync despite their differences.
"Well," Jack said after a long silence, his voice muffled against my skin. "That was certainly more interesting than treasure hunting."
Will chuckled softly, his arms tightening around me. "Don't let Elizabeth hear you say that."
I smiled, content in the knowledge that this night, this adventure, was ours and ours alone. The treasure we'd found wasn't gold or jewels, but something far more precious, a connection between three people who, for one night at least, had found exactly what they were looking for.
As dawn's golden light crept through the porthole, I became acutely aware of the warmth surrounding me. Will's chest was firm against my back, his arm draped possessively over my waist, while Jack was curled in front of me, his dark hair fanned across the pillow. For a moment, I allowed myself to simply breathe in the scent of them, rum and sea salt from Jack, clean sweat and something uniquely Will Turner from the other side.
Jack's eyes fluttered open, and he blinked slowly, as if surprised to find us still there. A lazy grin spread across his face. "Well now," he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep. "The compass wasn't lying after all."
Will shifted behind me, his arm tightening instinctively. "What compass?" he asked, his voice muffled against my hair.
"The one that points to what you desire most," Jack replied, propping himself up on an elbow. His dark eyes danced with mischief as he looked between us. "Seems it's been pointing to this particular treasure all along."
I felt a blush creeping up my neck, but Will only chuckled, his breath warm against my ear. "And here I thought it just pointed north."
Jack's grin widened as he leaned in to capture my lips in a slow, languid kiss that tasted of morning and rum. When he pulled away, his gaze flickered to Will over my shoulder. "Care to join the morning festivities, Mr. Turner? Or are you too respectable for such activities?"
Instead of answering, Will pressed his lips to the sensitive spot behind my ear, his hand sliding down to rest on my hip. I arched into the touch, a soft sigh escaping me as Jack's fingers began tracing patterns on my stomach.
"That's a yes then," Jack observed with satisfaction. He shifted closer, his knee pressing between my thighs as his mouth traveled down my neck. "The captain is always happy to accommodate his crew."
The cabin filled with the sounds of renewed passion as hands began to explore once more. Will's fingers tangled in my hair as he tilted my head for better access to my neck, while Jack's mouth moved lower, his tongue teasing my nipples until they pebbled into tight points. I reached back blindly, finding Will's arousal already hard and ready, and wrapped my fingers around him, smiling at his sharp intake of breath.
"Always so eager," Jack murmured against my skin, his own hand moving lower to part my folds. His fingers slid through my wetness, circling my clit with practiced ease that had me writhing between them.
Will's hips rocked in time with my strokes, his breath coming faster against my neck. "Y/N," he groaned, his voice strained with desire. "Don't stop."
Jack chuckled, the vibration sending shivers through me. "Patience, William. Good things come to those who wait." But he didn't stop his own movements, his fingers delving deeper, curling inside me in a way that made my toes curl.
The morning light grew brighter as we moved together, a tangle of limbs and growing need. When Jack positioned himself above me, his eyes dark with desire, I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. He entered me with a slow, deliberate thrust that stole my breath, while Will's hands continued their exploration of my body.
Will shifted to kneel beside us, his eyes fixed on where Jack and I were joined. His hand moved to his own arousal, stroking in time with Jack's movements. The sight of him watching us, pleasuring himself as he watched Jack take me, sent a fresh wave of desire through me.
"Come closer," I breathed, reaching for him. "Let me taste you."
Will's eyes widened slightly, but he obeyed, moving to kneel above my head. I tilted my head back, taking him into my mouth as Jack continued his steady rhythm. The dual sensations were overwhelming, Jack filling me from below, Will filling my mouth from above, both men moving in perfect sync as if they'd done this a hundred times before.
Jack's pace quickened, his thrusts becoming deeper, more demanding. His fingers found my clit again, rubbing in tight circles that sent me spiraling toward release. Will's hands tangled in my hair, his movements becoming more erratic as he approached his own climax.
"That's it," Jack grunted, his voice strained with effort. "Take all of him, love. Show him how pirates do things."
The words sent me over the edge, and I cried out around Will as waves of pleasure washed over me. Will followed with a hoarse shout, his warmth filling my mouth as Jack thrust once more, his own release triggering another wave of pleasure through me.
We collapsed in a sweaty heap, the morning sun now fully illuminating the cabin. I could hear the ship beginning to stir outside, shouts from the deck, the creak of ropes being adjusted, the distant call of a seabird.
"We should get up," I said reluctantly, though I made no move to do so.
Jack nuzzled against my neck, his beard tickling my skin. "The crew can manage without their captain for a bit longer," he mumbled. "Especially if their captain is... occupied."
Will chuckled, his chest vibrating against my back. "Elizabeth would have my hide if she knew I was spending my mornings like this instead of preparing for the wedding."
The mention of Elizabeth brought a sudden tension to the room. Jack's eyes narrowed, and he propped himself up again. "Speaking of which," he said, his voice suddenly serious. "What happens when we reach Port Royal? Does this adventure end at the dock?"
I felt Will stiffen behind me, his arm tightening around my waist almost protectively. "It has to," he said quietly. "I made a promise."
"Promises," Jack scoffed, though there was an undercurrent of something else in his voice – disappointment, perhaps? "Pirate's promises are worth less than a parrot's droppings in a storm."
Will sat up, his expression troubled. "This is different. I love Elizabeth."
"And we love what we had last night," Jack countered, sitting up as well. "Don't we?" His gaze flickered between us, challenging us to deny it.
I sat up too, pulling the blanket around myself as I looked between them. "What happened last night was... amazing," I admitted softly. "But it was also just one night. An adventure."
"An adventure that could continue," Jack suggested, his voice lowering again. "The three of us. Imagine the possibilities, love. The treasures we could find."
Will stood up, reaching for his breeches. "I can't," he said firmly. "Elizabeth is my future. Last night was... a mistake. A wonderful, terrible mistake."
Jack's expression hardened, though he tried to hide it with a smirk. "A mistake? That's not what you were calling it when you were begging for more."
"Jack," I warned, but he continued, his voice edged with something I couldn't quite identify, hurt, perhaps?
"Tell me, William," Jack said, standing as well and closing the distance between them. "When you're lying in your marital bed with your proper English bride, will you be thinking of her? Or will you be remembering this night? Remembering how it felt to be with someone who truly understands the darkness inside you?"
Will's jaw tightened, but he didn't back down. "I love Elizabeth," he repeated, though his voice lacked some of its earlier conviction.
Jack's eyes flickered to me. "And what about you, Y/N? Are you content to let this be just another story to tell? Another adventure to file away?"
I looked between them, at the pirate who lived for freedom and the blacksmith who craved stability. Both had touched something deep inside me, awakened desires I hadn't known I possessed.
"This doesn't have to end," I said slowly, my heart pounding with the audacity of what I was suggesting. "Not completely."
Will turned to look at me, his expression a mixture of shock and something else, hope? "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that adventures don't always have to end when the ship docks," I replied, finding courage I didn't know I possessed. "Sometimes they just... change form."
Jack's grin returned, slower this time, more genuine. "The compass is still pointing," he murmured, his gaze intense. "And I, for one, am inclined to follow it."
Will looked from Jack to me and back again, the conflict clear in his eyes. "Elizabeth—" he began, but I cut him off.
"Will still be there when you return," I said softly. "But this... this might not be. Some treasures are worth risking everything for."
The ship outside grew louder as the crew fully woke to the new day, but inside the cabin, three people stood at a crossroads, the future uncertain but full of possibility. Will's expression softened, and he reached out to brush a strand of hair from my face.
"Just one more adventure?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jack's hand found mine, his fingers intertwining with mine. "The best ones are never just one."
As the sun rose higher over the Caribbean, I knew that whatever happened next, this night, and this morning, had changed all of us in ways we couldn't yet understand. The treasure we'd found wasn't gold or jewels, but something far more precious, a connection that transcended the boundaries of convention and expectation.
And as Jack leaned in to kiss me again, with Will's arms wrapping around us both, I knew that this particular pirate adventure was far from over.
Warnings: S M U T, p in v, exhibitionism-ish, roommates, multiple rounds, MDNI
WC: 3k+
A/N: I lowk had sm fun writing this 🤭
The eviction notice felt like a death sentence. Scrawled on a flimsy piece of paper taped to my apartment door, the words "ILLEGAL EVICTION" in bold, angry letters were a surreal punch to the gut. My landlord, a sleazy man named Mr. Heckles who lived downstairs, had decided he wanted my apartment for himself and had changed the locks while I was at work. All my belongings, my clothes, my books, the pathetic collection of kitchenware I’d painstakingly acquired, were trapped inside, hostages in a war I hadn’t even known I was fighting.
Panic, cold and sharp, clawed at my throat. I had nowhere to go. My parents lived across the country, Ross and Rachel were crammed into their tiny place, and Monica’s apartment was already at maximum capacity. That left one option. One person.
Joey Tribbiani.
I found him at Central Perk, nursing a coffee and attempting to flirt with the new barista. He was failing spectacularly, but his easy grin and unshakeable confidence were a familiar, comforting sight. My stomach twisted with a mixture of desperation and mortification.
"Joey," I said, my voice trembling slightly.
He turned, his face lighting up. "Y/N! Hey! Just, uh, giving Maria here some acting tips. You know, for when she has to make a latte... dramatically."
The barista rolled her eyes and walked away. I didn't even have the energy to smile. "Joey, I need your help."
His playful expression vanished, replaced by genuine concern. "What's wrong? You look like you just saw a naked guy... who wasn't me."
"Mr. Heckles changed my locks. He evicted me. It's illegal, but my stuff is inside and I have nowhere to go."
Joey's jaw tightened. "That son of a bitch. Okay. Don't you worry. You'll stay with me."
Relief washed over me so intensely I almost collapsed. "Joey, are you sure? I don't want to impose..."
"Hey," he said, standing up and putting a firm hand on my shoulder. "We're friends. You're not imposing. My place is your place. Besides," he added with a wink, "it'll be like a sleepover. Every night."
Living with Joey was an education. I had always known him as the lovable, somewhat dim-witted womanizer, the guy who loved sandwiches more than life itself. But sharing a space with him peeled back the layers, revealing a man I hadn't fully appreciated.
His apartment was a testament to his personality, a chaotic mix of mismatched furniture, sports memorabilia, and a surprisingly comfortable recliner that became my sanctuary. It wasn't sterile or minimalist like Monica's place, it was lived-in, warm, and unapologetically Joey.
The first few days were a logistical nightmare. I slept on his spare bedroom, my clothes folded in neat piles on the floor. We tripped over each other in the tiny kitchen in the morning. The bathroom schedule became a topic of intense negotiation. But through it all, Joey was a saint. He gave me the remote, let me have the first shower, and never once complained about the disruption to his life.
It was during those quiet, in-between moments that I started to see him differently. I saw the way his eyes would light up when he talked about a role he was reading for, the passion he had for his craft that was so much more than just a desire for fame. I saw his unwavering loyalty when Chandler came over, complaining about work, and Joey listened with an intensity that belied his usual carefree demeanor.
One evening, I was curled up on the couch, attempting to fill out legal aid paperwork while Joey watched a documentary about penguins. He wasn't just watching, he was completely engrossed, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"They mate for life, you know," he said, not taking his eyes off the screen. "The male sits on the egg for months in the freezing cold, without eating, just to keep it safe. That's... that's dedication."
I looked at him, at the genuine emotion on his face, and my heart did a strange little flip. This was the Joey I was getting to know, a man with a deep well of compassion hidden beneath a layer of goofy charm and pizza-fueled enthusiasm.
He was also, I discovered, surprisingly thoughtful. I came home one day, exhausted and defeated after another fruitless meeting with a legal advisor, to find my favorite ice cream in his freezer and a new, softer blanket draped over the couch.
"I figured you could use this," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically shy. "The old one's got some... mystery stains."
I laughed, but I was touched. It was a small gesture, but it meant the world. It was in that moment, sitting on his couch, wrapped in a blanket he’d bought for me, that I realized my feelings were shifting. The casual affection I had for my friend was deepening, morphing into something more profound, more dangerous. I was falling for Joey Tribbiani.
The realization was both thrilling and terrifying. Joey was my friend, my safe harbor in a storm. I couldn't risk losing that by admitting that I'd started to fantasize about what it would be like to have his arms around me for reasons other than platonic comfort.
So I kept my feelings to myself, burying them beneath a veneer of casual friendship. But the tension began to build, a subtle undercurrent of unspoken desire that hummed between us. It was in the way our hands would brush when we reached for the same bowl of popcorn, the way his eyes would linger on me a moment too long, the way the air in the small apartment seemed to crackle with electricity whenever we were alone.
The day it all boiled over started like any other. I had a rare day off from the legal battle and the temp job that was barely paying my bills. Joey had an audition in the morning, and the apartment was quiet. I decided to do some laundry, a mundane task that felt like a small victory in the chaos of my life.
I was in the bedroom, sorting through a pile of Joey's clothes that had been left on his chair, when the bathroom door opened.
A cloud of steam billowed out, followed by Joey. He was freshly showered, his skin damp and glistening, his dark hair slicked back from his face. And he was wearing nothing but a small white towel slung low on his hips.
My breath caught in my throat. I had seen Joey without his shirt countless times, but this was different. This was the full, unobscured view. The broad, muscular expanse of his chest and shoulders, the defined lines of his abdomen, the powerful thighs dusted with dark hair. He was a study in masculine perfection, a living, breathing Greek statue.
But it was what was barely concealed by the towel that truly captured my attention. The fabric was strained, hinting at a considerable endowment, a prominent bulge that made my mouth go dry and sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated lust straight to my core. All the weeks of pent-up desire, all the secret fantasies I’d been trying to suppress, came rushing to the surface in a dizzying, overwhelming wave.
He hadn't seen me yet. He ran a hand through his wet hair, a completely unconscious, utterly captivating gesture. My heart hammered against my ribs, and I felt a familiar heat pool between my legs.
"Y/N?" he said, finally noticing me standing there, a pile of his clean shirts clutched in my trembling hands. "Oh, hey. Didn't know you were in here."
His voice was casual, but his eyes told a different story. They swept over me, dark and intense, and I saw a flicker of something that looked suspiciously like hunger. The air grew thick, heavy with unspoken need.
"I was just... doing laundry," I managed to say, my voice barely a whisper.
He took a step into the room, and another. He was so close now I could smell the clean, soapy scent of his skin, feel the heat radiating from his body. The tension that had been simmering for weeks was now at a boiling point, a palpable force that pulled us together like magnets.
"Y/N," he said again, his voice low and rough. "About this... thing between us."
"What thing?" I breathed, though I knew exactly what he meant.
"This," he said, closing the final inch of space between us. His hand came up to cup my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. "This has been building for weeks. Don't tell me you haven't felt it."
I couldn't lie. Not when he was looking at me like that, not when his body was so close to mine, not when every nerve ending was screaming for his touch. "I've felt it," I admitted, my voice trembling. "God, Joey, I've felt it so much."
His gaze dropped to my lips. "Good."
And then he was kissing me.
It wasn't a gentle, tentative kiss. It was a desperate, demanding kiss, a culmination of weeks of repressed desire. His lips crashed against mine, his tongue thrusting into my mouth with a possessive urgency that made my knees weak. I met him with equal fervor, my hands tangling in his damp hair, pulling him closer. This was what I had been craving, what I had been dreaming of. It was rough, and it was messy, and it was perfect.
His hands roamed over my body, mapping my curves through the thin fabric of my t-shirt. His touch was hungry, insistent, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. He gripped my hips, pulling me flush against him, and I could feel him, hard and thick, pressing against my stomach through the towel. The sheer size of him sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through me.
"Joey," I gasped against his mouth, my hands fisting in his hair.
"God, Y/N," he growled in response, his lips moving to my jaw, my neck. He nipped at the sensitive skin there, not hard enough to hurt, but just enough to send a sharp, delicious jolt straight to my clit. "I've wanted to do this since the day you moved in."
He didn't give me a chance to respond. With a low groan, he hooked his arms around my waist and lifted me effortlessly. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my core pressing against the hard ridge of his cock. The friction, even through the layers of our clothes, was exquisite.
He carried me out of the bedroom and into the living room, his mouth never leaving mine. He sat down on the couch, positioning me so I was straddling his lap. The new angle was intoxicating, and I began to rock against him, a slow, deliberate grind that had us both moaning.
"Fuck, you're killing me," he breathed, his hands sliding down to cup my ass, squeezing the flesh and pulling me even closer. "You feel so good."
His words were like fuel on a fire. I wanted more. I wanted all of him. I reached down, my fingers finding the hem of my shirt and pulling it over my head, tossing it carelessly to the floor. His eyes darkened with lust as he took in the simple black lace bra I was wearing.
"Much better," he murmured, his head dipping to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of my breast above the lace. His hands moved around my back to deftly unhook my bra. It joined my shirt on the floor, and his eyes feasted on my naked breasts.
"God, you're beautiful," he breathed, his thumbs brushing over my tight, aching nipples. "So fucking beautiful."
He captured one nipple in his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. I cried out, my head falling back, my fingers tightening in his hair as waves of pleasure washed over me. He gave the same attention to my other breast, his movements sure and confident, as if he'd been dreaming of this moment just as long as I had.
I could feel the towel between us, a flimsy, infuriating barrier. I wanted it gone. I wanted to feel all of him, skin to skin. My hands found the knot at his waist, and with a single, decisive tug, I untied it.
The towel fell away.
And I gasped.
He was even more impressive than I had imagined. Thick, long, and proudly erect, his cock jutted up from a thatch of dark curls, the tip already glistening with pre-come. The sheer sight of him made my mouth water and my inner muscles clench in anticipation.
"Like what you see?" he asked, a smug, masculine satisfaction glinting in his eyes.
I didn't answer with words. I slid off his lap, sinking to my knees on the floor in front of him. His eyes widened, his breath hitching as he realized what I was about to do.
"Y/N... you don't have to..."
"I want to," I said, my voice husky with desire. I reached out, my fingers wrapping around the thick base of his shaft. He was hot and hard in my hand, the velvety skin soft against my palm. I leaned in, my tongue darting out to taste the bead of moisture at the tip.
He groaned, his head falling back against the couch cushions. "Fuck..."
I took him into my mouth then, slowly, inch by inch, relishing the low, guttural sounds he was making. I swirled my tongue around the head, flicking the sensitive underside before taking him deeper. I established a rhythm, bobbing my head, my hand working in tandem with my mouth, stroking what I couldn't take.
"God, Y/N, your mouth," he breathed, his hands coming to rest on my head, his fingers tangling in my hair. "So good... don't stop..."
I had no intention of stopping. I loved the power I held in this moment, the way I could reduce this confident, charming man to a writhing, moaning mess with just my mouth. I increased my pace, taking him deeper, until the head of his cock hit the back of my throat.
"Fuck, I'm gonna come," he warned, his hips beginning to thrust up to meet my mouth. "Y/N, you need to..."
I didn't pull away. Instead, I hummed around him, the vibrations sending him over the edge. With a hoarse shout, he came, his hot, salty release flooding my mouth. I swallowed it all, milking him with my hand and my mouth until he was spent.
I sat back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. He was slumped against the couch, his chest heaving, his eyes closed as he struggled to catch his breath. He looked utterly debauched, and it was the sexiest thing I had ever seen.
After a moment, he opened his eyes, a slow, sated smile spreading across his face. "Come here," he said, his voice still rough.
I stood up, and he reached for me, pulling me back onto his lap. His mouth found mine in a deep, possessive kiss, a silent thank you for what I had just done.
"My turn," he murmured against my lips. In one swift, fluid motion, he stood up, lifting me with him as if I weighed nothing. He carried me back into the bedroom, his mouth never leaving mine, and laid me down on his bed.
He didn't waste any time. He knelt on the bed between my legs, his hands hooking into the waistband of my jeans. He tugged them down, along with my panties, tossing them aside. His eyes roamed over my naked body, a hungry, appreciative gaze that made me feel like the most desirable woman on earth.
"Perfect," he breathed, his head dipping. "Absolutely perfect."
And then his mouth was on me.
I cried out, my back arching off the bed as his tongue delved into my folds. He was relentless, exploring every inch of me with a hunger that matched my own. He licked and sucked, his movements sure and confident, as if he'd been dreaming of this moment just as long as I had.
When his tongue found my clit, I saw stars. He circled the sensitive bundle of nerves, first slowly, then with increasing pressure and speed. My hips began to move of their own accord, grinding against his face as I chased the pleasure he was offering.
"That's it," he murmured against me, the vibration sending another shockwave through my system. "Let go, baby. Come for me."
His words were my undoing. With a strangled cry, I tumbled over the edge, my orgasm crashing over me with the force of a tidal wave. My thighs trembled, and my inner muscles clenched rhythmically as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over me.
He didn't stop, his tongue continuing its merciless assault, drawing out my pleasure until I was a whimpering, boneless mess.
"Joey," I begged, my fingers tightening in his hair. "Please. No more. I can't..."
He finally lifted his head, his face glistening with my arousal. A smug, masculine satisfaction glinted in his dark eyes. "You taste incredible," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Better than I ever imagined."
He crawled up my body, his already hard again cock dragging against my sensitive, oversatiated flesh, making me shudder. He captured my mouth in a deep, possessive kiss, and I could taste myself on his lips and tongue. It was dirty, it was primal, and it was the most erotic thing I had ever experienced.
"I need to be inside you," he growled against my skin. "Now."
I didn't need to be asked twice. I spread my legs wide in invitation, my body humming with anticipation. He positioned himself at my entrance, the thick head of his cock nudging against my wet, swollen folds. He paused, his eyes locking with mine.
"Last chance," he said, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "If you don't want this, tell me now."
"I want this," I said, my voice firm and sure. "I want you, Joey. All of you."
With a guttural groan, he pushed forward, sinking into me in one long, smooth stroke.
The sensation was overwhelming. A sharp, exquisite stretch as my body adjusted to his size, a feeling of being filled so completely, so perfectly, it brought tears to my eyes. It was more than just physical, it was a sense of coming home, of two jagged pieces finally clicking together to form a whole.
He stilled for a moment, buried deep inside me, his forehead resting against mine. We were both breathing heavily, the sound mingling in the quiet apartment. I could feel his heart hammering against my chest, matching the frantic rhythm of my own.
"God, Y/N," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "You feel... you feel like you were made for me."
I couldn't speak. I could only tighten my legs around him, pulling him even deeper, silently agreeing with everything he'd said.
He began to move then, slowly at first, with long, deep strokes that touched a place deep inside me I never knew existed. Each retreat left me feeling empty, each return filled me with a pleasure so intense it was almost painful. His rhythm was hypnotic, a steady, driving cadence that built the tension in my core higher and higher. This wasn't frantic or clumsy; it was sure, powerful, and shockingly intimate. His eyes never left mine, and in their dark depths, I saw a reflection of my own desire, a shared understanding that this was more than just a physical release.
"You feel so good," he groaned, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and into mine. "So tight, so wet... all for me."
"All for you," I breathed, my hands roaming over the broad expanse of his back, feeling the muscles bunch and flex with each thrust. I dug my nails into his shoulders, urging him on, silently begging for more.
He responded by increasing his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a raw, primal rhythm that was the soundtrack to our passion. The headboard of his bed began to bang against the wall in a steady, percussive beat, a testament to the force of our lovemaking.
His hand slid between us, his thumb finding my clit. He began to rub tight, firm circles against the sensitive bundle of nerves, and I cried out, arching off the bed. The dual stimulation was too much, a perfect storm of sensation that sent me hurtling toward the edge once more.
"Come with me, Y/N," he urged, his voice strained with his own impending release. "Let go. I've got you."
His words were my undoing. With a cry that was half his name, half a sob of pure release, I shattered. My orgasm ripped through me, more powerful than the first, a blinding, all-consuming force that left me shaking and breathless. My inner muscles clamped down on him, milking his cock as pleasure pulsed through me in relentless waves.
Joey thrust into me twice more before finding his own release with a hoarse shout of my name. I felt him pulse inside me, the warmth of his climax filling me as he collapsed against me, his weight a welcome anchor in the storm of sensation.
We lay tangled together for a long moment, a sweaty, panting mess in his bed, the aftershocks of our lovemaking still rippling through us. The silence that followed was peaceful, comfortable, filled with the sound of our slowing breaths and the steady beat of our hearts.
But the respite was short-lived. The passion that had been simmering between us for weeks was a wildfire, and it was far from being extinguished.
After a moment, Joey shifted, propping himself up on an elbow to look at me. A slow, mischievous smile spread across his face. "We're not done," he said, his voice low and husky. "Not even close."
Before I could respond, he was moving, pulling out of me and rolling off the bed. He stood up, his magnificent body on full display, and held out a hand to me. "Come on."
I let him pull me to my feet, my legs still feeling like jelly. He led me out of the bedroom and back into the living room. He stopped in front of the window that looked out over the street, the city lights twinkling in the darkness.
He stood behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. I could feel his semi-hard cock pressing against my lower back, a promise of more to come. He nuzzled my neck, his teeth grazing my earlobe.
"I've wanted to do this since the first night you stayed here," he murmured, his hands sliding up to cup my breasts. "Stand right here, with you naked, in front of the whole city."
A thrill shot through me, a mix of exhibitionism and pure, unadulterated lust. The idea that someone could look up and see us, see me pressed against the window, Joey's hands on my body, was intoxicating.
He began to knead my breasts, his thumbs and forefingers rolling my nipples into tight, aching beads. I leaned my head back against his shoulder, a soft moan escaping my lips.
"You like that, don't you?" he growled, his voice thick with desire. "You like the idea of being watched."
I could only nod, my body arching into his touch.
One of his hands left my breast, trailing down my stomach. His fingers found my clit, already sensitive and swollen from our previous lovemaking, and began to rub slow, deliberate circles.
"Joey," I breathed, my hips beginning to rock against his hand. "Oh, God..."
"Tell me what you want," he commanded, his voice a low growl against my ear. "Tell me you want me to fuck you right here, against this window."
The crude words, coming from him, were the ultimate aphrodisiac. "Yes," I gasped. "Fuck me, Joey. Right here. Right now."
He didn't need to be told twice. He bent me over slightly, my hands pressing against the cool glass of the window for support. He kicked my feet apart with his, opening me up to him. I felt him position himself at my entrance, his cock already hard and ready again.
He entered me in one swift, powerful stroke, and I cried out, my palms flattening against the window. The angle was different, deeper, and he was hitting a spot inside me that made my toes curl.
He set a punishing pace, his hips slapping against my ass with each thrust. His hands gripped my waist, holding me in place as he pounded into me, his movements rough and demanding. This wasn't the slow, tender lovemaking from his bed. This was a raw, primal fucking, a claiming. And I loved every second of it.
"Look at you," he grunted, his hand coming down to spank my ass, the sharp smack echoing in the quiet apartment. "So beautiful, taking my cock like this. All for me."
The sting of his spank only added to my pleasure, sending a fresh jolt of arousal straight to my core. I pushed back against him, meeting him thrust for thrust, our bodies moving in a perfect, powerful rhythm.
He reached around, his fingers finding my clit again, and that was all it took. With a scream that I was sure the entire neighborhood could hear, I came again, my orgasm ripping through me with the force of a hurricane. My legs gave out, and I would have collapsed if not for his strong arms holding me up.
He followed me over the edge moments later with a guttural groan, his hips jerking as he emptied himself inside me.
We stayed like that for a long moment, my body pressed against the cool glass, his draped over my back, both of us struggling to catch our breath. The city lights blurred through my tear-filled eyes.
Finally, he straightened up, pulling out of me and turning me around to face him. He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking my cheeks. His expression was soft, tender, a stark contrast to the rough passion we had just shared.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice gentle.
I nodded, a tired, contented smile spreading across my face. "More than okay."
He leaned in and kissed me, a soft, sweet kiss that was full of unspoken emotion. "Good. Because I'm still not done with you."
He led me over to the small table, pulling out a chair. "Sit," he commanded.
I did as he said, my body humming with anticipation. He knelt in front of me, his hands on my thighs, spreading them wide. He looked up at me, his dark eyes burning with a hunger that was far from sated.
"I've been dreaming about tasting you again," he said, his voice low and husky. "Ever since I had you in my mouth the first time."
And then his head lowered, and his mouth was on me again.
I cried out, my hands flying to his hair as his tongue delved into my folds, lapping up our combined fluids. He was insatiable, a man possessed, his movements sure and confident as he drove me to the brink of madness yet again.
He brought me to the edge again and again, only to pull back at the last second, denying me the release I so desperately craved. It was exquisite torture, a delicious game of control and surrender.
"Joey, please," I begged, my hips lifting off the chair in a desperate search for friction. "Please, let me come."
"Not yet," he murmured against me, the vibration sending another shockwave through my system. "I want to hear you beg."
"I'm begging," I cried, my body trembling with need. "Please, Joey, I need to come. I need you to make me come."
He finally took pity on me, his tongue zeroing in on my clit, sucking hard while he thrust two fingers inside me, curling them to hit that magical spot deep within. That was all it took. With a final, shattered cry, I exploded, my orgasm so intense it bordered on painful. I saw stars, my entire world narrowing to the feel of his mouth and his fingers on me, on me, in me.
When I finally came back to myself, he was standing up, pulling me into his arms. He carried me back to the bedroom, laying me down on the bed with a gentleness that was at odds with the raw, primal energy that still crackled between us.
He lay down beside me, pulling me into his arms. I curled against his side, my head resting on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. We were both exhausted, our bodies spent from the sheer intensity of our lovemaking, but the desire was still there, a low, humming undercurrent that promised more.
I traced idle patterns on his chest, my fingers tangling in the coarse hair there. "I never knew," I said softly, my voice barely a whisper.
"Never knew what?" he asked, his fingers stroking my hair.
"That it could be like this," I admitted, lifting my head to look at him. "That you could be like this."
He smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that made my heart ache. "I've always been like this, Y/N. You just had to look."
I propped myself up on an elbow, looking down at him. His face was relaxed, his eyes soft in the dim light of the room. He looked younger, somehow, stripped of the cocky, womanizing facade he so often presented to the world. This was the real Joey, the man I had been getting to know over the past few weeks, the man I was rapidly falling in love with.
"What are we doing, Joey?" I asked, the question hanging in the air between us, heavy with unspoken implications.
He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful. "I don't know," he said finally, his honesty refreshing. "But I know it's not just... this. It's more. It's been more since the day you showed up at my door with that eviction notice."
My heart swelled with a hope so powerful it was almost painful. "It has for me, too."
He reached up, his hand cupping my cheek, his thumb stroking my skin. "I've been wanting you for so long, Y/N. I just didn't know how to say it. I'm not good with words. I'm better with... actions."
I laughed, a low, husky sound. "You're definitely good with actions."
A mischievous glint returned to his eyes. "You think that was good? I'm just getting started."
He rolled over, pinning me beneath him. His weight was a welcome anchor, his body a perfect fit against mine. He was already hard again, his cock pressing against my thigh, a testament to his insatiable appetite.
"I want to try something," he said, his voice low and husky. "Something I've been thinking about."
"What?" I breathed, my body already responding to his, my hips lifting in a silent invitation.
"Trust me," he said, and then he was moving, his body sliding down mine until he was kneeling between my legs. He grabbed my ankles, placing them on his shoulders. The new position opened me up to him completely, leaving me vulnerable and exposed.
He entered me slowly, his eyes locked on mine, watching my every reaction. The angle was incredible, allowing him to hit even deeper than before. I gasped, my hands gripping the sheets as he filled me completely.
He began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, each one a study in controlled power. He was watching me, his dark eyes intense, as if memorizing my every expression, every gasp of pleasure.
"You like that?" he asked, his voice a low growl.
"I love it," I managed to say, my voice strained with pleasure. "Don't stop."
He increased his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. His hands gripped my hips, holding me in place as he pounded into me, his movements rough and demanding. The sound of our bodies coming together, the scent of our sex, the sight of him above me, his face contorted with pleasure, was the most erotic thing I had ever experienced.
I could feel another orgasm building, a slow, steady wave of pleasure that grew with each of his thrusts. I reached down, my fingers finding my clit, rubbing in tight, firm circles.
"No," he said, his voice firm. "Let me."
He swatted my hand away, replacing it with his own. His thumb found my clit, and he began to rub in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation was electrifying, pushing me closer and closer to the edge.
"Come for me, Y/N," he urged, his voice strained with his own impending release. "Come all over my cock."
His words were my undoing. With a final, shattered cry, I came, my orgasm ripping through me with the force of a tidal wave. My inner muscles clenched around him, milking his cock as pleasure pulsed through me in relentless waves.
Joey followed me over the edge moments later with a guttural groan, his hips jerking as he emptied himself inside me.
He collapsed against me, his weight a welcome anchor in the storm of sensation. We lay tangled together, a sweaty, panting mess in his bed, the aftershocks of our lovemaking still rippling through us.
We were both exhausted, our bodies spent, but the desire was still there, a low, humming undercurrent that promised more. I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my soul, that this wasn't just a one-time thing. This was the beginning of something real, something lasting.
The fight with my landlord, the illegal eviction, the stress of the past few weeks, it all seemed to fade away, insignificant in the face of this overwhelming, all-consuming passion. I had come to Joey's apartment as a refugee, seeking shelter from a storm. I had found so much more. I had found a home.
I looked at the man lying beside me, his chest rising and falling with each breath, a contented smile on his face. He was my friend, my protector, my lover. He was the man I was in love with.
"Joey," I said softly, my voice barely a whisper.
He opened his eyes, a slow, tired smile spreading across his face. "Yeah?"
"Thank you," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "For everything."
He leaned in and kissed me, a soft, sweet kiss that was full of unspoken promises. "Anything for you, Y/N," he murmured against my lips. "Anything."
And as I drifted off to sleep in his arms, my body sore and satisfied, my heart full of a hope I hadn't felt in years, I knew that this was just the beginning. Our story was just getting started, and I couldn't wait to see where it would lead. The eviction notice that had brought me to his door had been the best thing that ever happened to me. It had led me here. It had led me to him.
A/N: I have been watching Friends 24/7 that I had a dream about them last night 😭
The purple walls of Monica’s apartment were usually a source of comfort, but today, they felt like they were leaning in, eavesdropping on Y/N’s heavy heart. The morning sun filtered through the large window, illuminating dust motes dancing over the mismatched chairs. Monica was in the kitchen, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of her chopping vegetables acting as a metronome for Y/N’s anxiety.
Y/N sat at the wooden table, her fingers tracing the rim of a chipped mug. She had been part of this circle for two years now, ever since she’d moved into the building and Phoebe had "read her tea leaves" in the hallway. She loved them all, but her relationship with Joey was… different. It was effortless. They shared a love for bad horror movies, late-night pizza, and the specific brand of silence that comes when two people are perfectly comfortable together.
But lately, that silence had become deafening.
"Y/N, if you sigh one more time, I’m going to have to re-evaluate the oxygen levels in this room," Monica said, not looking up from her precision-cut cucumbers.
"I’m just tired, Mon," Y/N lied, though she knew it wouldn't fly.
"Tired? Or 'I watched Joey bring home a dental hygienist named Kiki last night' tired?" Rachel asked, sliding into the kitchen with a laundry basket balanced on her hip. She set it down and leaned against the counter. "Honey, we’ve seen the look. You’re pining. You are officially in a state of 'The Pine.'"
Y/N groaned, dropping her head onto the table with a dull thud. "Is it that obvious? I thought I was being subtle. I thought I was being the 'cool friend' who doesn't mind when he talks about his dates."
"Subtle?" Phoebe’s voice floated in from the balcony. She stepped inside, clutching a handful of dried lavender. "Yesterday, when Joey mentioned he liked the way that girl smelled, you looked like you were trying to telepathically set her hair on fire. Your aura was a very aggressive shade of burnt orange."
"It’s just... it’s Joey," Y/N whispered into the wood of the table. "He’s my best friend. He’s the person who makes me laugh when I want to scream at my boss. But then I see him with these women, these gorgeous, effortless women who disappear after forty-eight hours, and I realize that’s all he wants. He wants the 'How you doin'?' and the thrill of the chase. He doesn't want... this. He doesn't want the girl who knows he’s afraid of the dark and has a 'Hugsy' penguin."
Monica stopped chopping and walked over, placing a hand on Y/N’s shoulder. "You don't know that. Joey is a lot of things, mostly hungry, but he’s also the most loyal person I know. He just doesn't realize that what he’s looking for is already sitting on his couch eating his grapes."
"You have to tell him," Rachel insisted, her eyes bright with the prospect of a romantic confession. "Think about it! It’s like a movie. The girl next door finally speaks up, the music swells, the rain starts falling, well, maybe not rain, because of the hair, but it’s beautiful!"
"I can't," Y/N argued. "If I tell him and he gives me that 'Oh, honey' look... I’ll lose him. I’d rather have 10% of Joey Tribbiani as a friend than 0% of him because I made things weird."
"But what if it’s 100%?" Phoebe pointed out. "What if he’s just waiting for a sign? Joey needs signs, Y/N. Big ones. Like a billboard. Or a sandwich with your name on it."
The girls spent the next hour breaking down Y/N’s defenses. They reminded her of the time Joey had defended her honor against a rude guy at the bar, and the way he always saved the last slice of pepperoni for her, a gesture that, in Joey’s world, was practically a marriage proposal. By the time the coffee was cold, Y/N had been convinced. She would tell him.
The next two days were a blur of nervous energy. Y/N couldn't eat, she couldn't sleep. She spent an embarrassing amount of time in front of her mirror, practicing her "confession."
“Joey, I have feelings for you.” Too formal.
“Hey, Joe, wanna be more than buds?” Too casual.
“I love you, you beautiful Italian sandwich-obsessed man!” Too desperate.
She decided to go with the "Food Approach." If there was one way to Joey’s heart, it was through his stomach. She spent four hours in her tiny kitchen baking a batch of double-chocolate chip cookies, the soft, gooey kind he loved. She packed them into a red tin, her hands shaking so hard she nearly dropped the lid.
"Today is the day," she whispered to her reflection. She had dressed in her favorite sweater, the soft blue one Joey once said made her eyes "pop like those fancy bubbles in the shipping boxes."
She walked across the building, the short distance feeling like a mile-long trek through a desert. She reached Apartment 19 and took a deep, steadying breath. She could hear the faint sound of the TV inside, the theme song to some game show.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
The door didn't open immediately. Y/N adjusted her grip on the cookie tin, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Finally, she heard the lock click.
The door swung open, but it wasn't Joey who stood there.
It was a woman. She was tall, with sleek blonde hair and a silk robe that definitely didn't belong to her. She looked disheveled in that "just rolled out of bed" way that Y/N could never quite pull off.
"Oh, hello," the woman said, leaning against the doorframe. Her voice was husky and satisfied.
"I... is Joey here?" Y/N managed to choke out, her stomach dropping into her shoes.
"Joey!" the woman called back over her shoulder. "One of your friends is here!"
Joey appeared behind her a second later. He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of grey sweatpants, his hair sticking up in every direction. He looked happy, glowingly, devastatingly happy.
"Hey, Y/N!" he grinned, leaning down to plant a messy, lingering kiss on the blonde woman’s cheek. "This is Candi. Candi with an 'i'. Candi, this is Y/N, the girl I told you about who’s really good at Boggle."
Y/N felt like the floor had been pulled out from under her. The sight of his lips on another woman’s skin, the casual way he held her waist, it was a physical blow. The red tin of cookies felt heavy, like a lead weight.
"I... I just brought these for the group," Y/N lied, her voice trembling. She shoved the tin into Joey’s hands. "But I forgot I have a... a thing. A doctor’s thing. For my... foot."
"Your foot?" Joey’s brow furrowed in genuine concern. "Is it the toe thing again? Do you want me to come with you? I can get dressed in like, two minutes."
"No!" Y/N snapped, backing away toward the stairs. "No, stay. Enjoy your... Candi. I’ll see you later."
She didn't wait for him to respond. She turned and ran. She didn't go back to her apartment, she knew she couldn't be alone with her thoughts. She burst out of the building and into the cold New York air, her vision blurring with hot, stinging tears.
Central Perk was crowded, but Y/N didn't care. She made a beeline for the orange velvet couch, sinking into the corner and pulling a throw pillow to her chest. She didn't order coffee. She just sat there, the weight of the rejection, the unspoken rejection, crushing her.
She felt like a fool. She had listened to the girls, let them fill her head with fairy tales, only to be met with the cold reality of Joey’s lifestyle. To him, women were like guest stars on a sitcom, appearing for an episode or two, providing some entertainment, and then being written out. Why would he ever want a series regular like her?
The tears started then, silent and uncontrollable. She buried her face in the pillow, sobbing quietly as the hum of the coffee house continued around her.
"Y/N?"
The voice was low, familiar, and thick with concern. She didn't look up. She couldn't.
"Hey, talk to me," Joey said. He sat down beside her, the couch dipping under his weight. He didn't try to be funny, he didn't use a line. He just reached out and gently pulled the pillow away from her face. "You’ve been gone for three hours. I went to your place, I went to Monica’s, no one knew where you were. I’ve been looking all over for you."
Y/N wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, looking everywhere but at him. "I’m fine, Joey. Just a bad day."
"Don't give me that," he said, his voice unusually stern. "You were crying. You don't cry because of a 'bad day.' You cry when something’s wrong. Is it work? Did that guy at the office say something to you? Because if he did, I’ll go down there right now. I don’t care if I don’t have a pass, I’ll tell the security guard I’m a doctor. I have the lab coat from the play!"
Y/N gave a small, broken laugh. "No, Joey. It’s not work."
"Then what?" He leaned in closer, his dark eyes searching hers. The smell of his cologne, the one she’d always loved, wrapped around her, making her heart ache even more. "You can tell me anything. You know that."
Y/N took a shaky breath. "I’m in love with someone, Joey."
She saw his expression flicker, a split second of surprise, followed by something she couldn't quite name. He looked away for a moment, then back at her. "Oh. Okay. Well... that’s a good thing, right? Love is... you know, it’s what people do."
"Not when the guy doesn't see you that way," Y/N whispered. "I love this guy, but he’s... he’s not available. Not really. He’s always with someone else. He treats women like they’re disposable, and I’m just his friend. I’m the girl he watches TV with. I’m 'one of the guys.' I went to tell him today, but I saw him with someone else and I realized... I’m never going to be the one he chooses."
Joey went very quiet. He stared at the coffee table, his jaw tight. "He sounds like a real moron," Joey said finally.
"He’s not a moron," Y/N defended. "He’s just... he’s him."
"No, he’s a moron," Joey insisted, turning to her. "If he has a girl like you in his life, someone who’s funny and smart and makes the best cookies in the city, and he’s off chasing some 'Candi' or whatever... then he’s the biggest idiot in New York. You’re Y/N. You’re the person who knows that I can't eat shellfish but I'll risk it for a good clam bar. You’re the person who stayed up with me when I was nervous about the Days of Our Lives audition."
He took her hand, his large palm warm against hers. "What should I do, Joey? Should I tell him? Or should I just give up?"
Joey looked at her hand in his, then up at her face. "You tell him," he said firmly. "You tell him exactly how you feel. Because you never know, Y/N. Maybe he’s just as scared as you are. Maybe he thinks he’s not good enough for you, so he surrounds himself with all these other people to try and forget that he wants something real."
Y/N stared at him. The irony was so thick she could almost taste it. "You think I should confess?"
"Yeah. Do it. Tomorrow. Or whenever you’re ready. Just... don't let a guy like that get away without knowing what he’s missing."
"Okay," Y/N said softly. "I’ll do it. Thank you, Joey."
"Anytime," he said, but for the first time in their friendship, his smile didn't reach his eyes.
Y/N didn't confess the next day. In fact, she didn't see anyone for three days. She stayed in her apartment, her phone unplugged, the curtains drawn. She needed to process the pain of being comforted by the very man who was breaking her heart. She spent the time in a haze of old movies and takeout, trying to imagine a life where she wasn't constantly waiting for Joey to notice her.
In Monica’s apartment the atmosphere was tense. Joey was driving everyone crazy. He was pacing Monica’s kitchen, refusing to eat the mini-quiches she’d made, and snapping at Chandler for no reason.
"Joey, will you sit down?" Chandler finally yelled. "You’re like a caffeinated squirrel! What is wrong with you?"
"I haven't seen Y/N in three days!" Joey shouted back. "She’s not answering her door! She’s not at the coffee house! What if she told that guy and he was mean to her? What if he broke her heart and she’s sitting in there crying?"
Monica, Rachel, and Phoebe exchanged a long, pointed look.
"Joey," Monica said, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "Sit down. We need to talk to you."
"I don't want to talk! I want to check on her!"
"Joey!" Rachel grabbed his arm and forced him into a chair. "Listen to us. Do you remember when Y/N told you she was in love with a guy? A guy who was always with other women? A guy who saw her as 'one of the buds'?"
Joey nodded slowly. "Yeah. The moron."
"Joey," Phoebe said, leaning forward. "You’re the moron."
The room went silent. Joey’s mouth opened, then closed. He looked at Rachel, then Monica, then back to Phoebe. "What?"
"She’s in love with you, Joey," Rachel said, her eyes filling with sympathetic tears. "She’s been in love with you for a long time. She came over the other day to tell you, but she saw you with that girl... Candi. She was heartbroken."
Joey felt like the world had tilted on its axis. The memories of the last few months came rushing back like a tidal wave, the way Y/N always looked at him when she thought he wasn't looking, the cookies, the way she laughed at his jokes even when they weren't funny, the way she had looked at him in Central Perk when she said she was in love with an "unavailable" man.
“If he has a girl like you in his life... then he’s the biggest idiot in New York.”
His own words echoed in his head, mocking him. He WAS the biggest idiot in New York. He had been so busy looking for the next "moment" that he had completely ignored the "forever" that was standing right in front of him.
"Oh my god," Joey whispered, his face turning pale. "I told her to confess to me... and she did, but I was too stupid to hear it."
"She thinks you don't want her, Joey," Monica said. "She thinks she’s just another friend to you."
Joey stood up so fast his chair flipped over. "I love her."
"Oh we know," Phoebe said.
"No, I mean... I really love her," Joey said, his voice gaining strength. "I thought... I thought I wasn't good enough for her. She’s so smart, and she’s got her life together, and I’m just... I’m an actor who lives with his best friend and has a porcelain dog. I thought if I tried to be with her and I messed it up, I’d lose the only person who really gets me."
"Well, you’re losing her right now by standing here talking to us!" Rachel pointed toward the door. "Go!"
Joey sprinted down the stairs, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm. He reached Y/N’s door and pounded on it with both fists.
"Y/N! Open up! I know you’re in there! I can hear the TV! It’s the one with the talking dog, I know you love that one!"
There was no answer.
"Y/N, please! I’m a moron! I’m the biggest moron in the history of morons! I’m the king of the morons! I should be wearing a crown made of stupid!"
Finally, he heard the chain slide back. The door opened a few inches, held by the security latch. Y/N looked out at him, her eyes red and her hair in a messy bun. She looked exhausted, but to Joey, she had never looked more beautiful.
"Joey, go home," she said, her voice flat.
"No. I’m not going anywhere. I talked to the girls. They told me."
Y/N’s face went pale. She tried to shut the door, but Joey jammed his foot in the crack.
"Don't," he pleaded. "Please. Just let me say one thing. I was wrong. What I said at the coffee house... about the guy? I was right that he’s an idiot, but I was wrong about why."
Y/N stopped pushing the door, her hand trembling on the handle.
"I’ve spent my whole life looking for 'The One,'" Joey said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But I was looking for her in bars and on movie sets and in laundry rooms. I never thought that she was right in front of me. I never thought that 'The One' would be the person who knows exactly how I like my sandwiches and doesn't judge me when I cry at the end of Titanic."
He looked through the gap in the door, his eyes swimming with tears. "I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you for a long time, but I was too scared to admit it because you’re too good for me. I’m just... I’m Joey. And you’re everything."
Y/N’s breath hitched. She slowly unlatched the door and pulled it open. She stood there for a long moment, looking at him, searching for the "line,” the joke, but there was none. There was only Joey, raw and honest and vulnerable.
"What about the other women?" she asked, her voice cracking. "What about the 'Candi'?"
Joey stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him. He took her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones. "There are no more other women. I don't want them. I want you. I want the girl who makes me cookies and plays Boggle with me and tells me when I’m being a jerk. I want to be the guy who’s 'available' for you, forever."
Y/N let out a sob, not of sadness, but of relief. She threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his chest. "You really are a moron, Joey Tribbiani."
"I know," he whispered, pulling her tight. "But I’m your moron. If you’ll have me."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, then leaned down and kissed her. It wasn't a "How you doin'?" kiss. It was deep, slow, and full of all the words they hadn't been able to say for two years. It tasted like chocolate chip cookies and home.
When they finally pulled apart, Joey had a goofy, lopsided grin on his face. "So... does this mean we’re exclusive? Because I should probably tell Candi... actually, I don't even have her number. She just kind of appeared."
Y/N laughed, a real, bright sound that filled the room. "Yes, Joey. We’re exclusive."
"Good," he said, picking her up and spinning her around. "Now, I have a very important question."
"What?"
"Are there any of those cookies left? Because honestly, I’ve been thinking about them for three days."
Y/N laughed again, leaning her forehead against his. "I’ll make you a fresh batch, Joe. As many as you want."
"That," Joey said, kissing her again, "is why I love you."
What do yall like more, me writing in first person, second person, or third person??? I think I tried all of them and I’m good with writing them all but idk if I should keep alternating or stick with only one😭
Warnings: S M U T, p in v, size kink (significantly larger Greg), age gap, not movie accurate, MDNI
WC: 2k
A/N: Lowk only watched this movie for Lee😭 I didn’t even pay attention to it after what happens to his character, so some stuff and names might be wrong.
The air in Alice's parents' mansion was thick with humidity and something else, anticipation, maybe, or the storm that was gathering outside. I had been nursing my drink for the last hour, watching the party unfold through increasingly hazy vision. That's when he walked in.
Greg.
He didn't just enter a room, he consumed it. At nearly seven feet tall with a rugged, weathered face that suggested he'd lived more life than anyone here, he stood out like a lighthouse in a sea of Instagram filters. Alice's new beau, she'd mentioned earlier, before dismissing him with a wave of her hand. "He's older, like ancient, but good in bed apparently."
At eighteen, I was the baby of the group, only invited because my parents owned the vacation house next door and because Alice felt vaguely responsible for me since we'd grown up together. The age gap between me and everyone else felt like a canyon tonight.
Greg's eyes scanned the room before landing on me. I was tucked into a corner of the expensive sectional, trying to make myself smaller as usual. But something about his gaze made me feel seen, truly seen, for the first time in years.
He moved toward me with a purpose that had everyone parting like the Red Sea. When he reached the couch, he didn't ask to sit. He just sat, and the cushion dipped dramatically, causing me to slide against his thigh.
"You're Alice's neighbor, right?" His voice was deeper than I expected, vibrating through my entire body.
I nodded, unable to form words as his proximity sent sparks through my system. He smelled like rain and something distinctly masculine.
"I'm Greg." He extended a hand that completely engulfed mine when I took it. His fingers were calloused, rough against my smooth skin.
"Y/N," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Y/N." He tested my name on his tongue, and I felt a flush creep up my neck. "How old are you, Y/N?"
"Eighteen." The word hung between us, heavy with implication.
Greg's eyes darkened. "Legal, then."
Before I could respond, Alice appeared, practically draping herself over Greg. "There you are! Stop corrupting the underage." She winked at me, but there was an edge to it.
Greg's hand moved from the couch to my thigh, possessively. "Just getting acquainted." His thumb stroked the sensitive skin just below the hem of my shorts, and I bit back a gasp.
The night progressed with the usual drama of this friend group, passive-aggressive comments, drug-fueled confessions, and the storm growing louder outside. I watched as Greg remained mostly detached, his attention occasionally returning to me with an intensity that made my pulse race.
It was during the game of Bodies, Bodies, Bodies that things shifted. The lights went out, someone screamed, and chaos erupted. In the confusion, I felt a hand close around mine, pulling me through the darkness toward the back of the house.
"It's just me," Greg's voice rumbled in my ear. "Let's get somewhere quieter."
He led me through the sprawling mansion to what appeared to be a guest suite, locking the door behind us. The room was lit only by flashes of lightning through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating Greg's imposing frame.
"Are you scared?" he asked, and I realized I was trembling, from the storm, from the game, from him.
I shook my head, lying through my teeth.
Greg closed the distance between us, his hands coming to rest on my waist. "You're tiny," he murmured, lifting me easily until my feet left the ground. I wrapped my legs around his waist instinctively, my arms around his neck.
"Everyone treats me like a child," I whispered against his neck.
Greg's laugh was low, husky. "Oh, I can guarantee I won't be treating you like a child."
His mouth found mine in the next flash of lightning, and the world exploded. This was no gentle exploration, Greg kissed like he was starving, like I was oxygen and he'd been drowning. His tongue swept into my mouth, claiming me thoroughly. I responded with equal desperation, my fingers tangling in his hair as I tried to get closer.
He carried me to the bed without breaking the kiss, laying me down against the luxurious duvet. For a moment, he just looked at me, his eyes intense in the dim light.
"You're sure about this?" he asked, and I appreciated that he checked, even as I wanted him to stop talking and start touching.
Instead of answering, I reached for the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head. His breath hitched as I lay there in just my bra and shorts.
"Fuck," he breathed, lowering himself over me. "You're perfect."
His mouth returned to mine as his hands roamed my body, learning every curve and dip. When he cupped my breasts through the thin lace of my bra, I arched into his touch, wanting more. He unfastened the clasp with practiced ease, his palms covering my bare skin, thumbs brushing against my nipples until they pebbled into tight points.
"So responsive," he murmured against my throat, where he was now pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses. "I wonder how responsive you'll be when I'm inside you."
I gasped as his teeth grazed my pulse point, my hips lifting instinctively. Greg chuckled, the sound vibrating against my skin. He shifted lower, his mouth finding my nipples, alternating between gentle licks and sharp sucks that had me writhing beneath him.
"Greg," I panted, my fingers digging into his broad shoulders. "Please."
"Please what, little one?" He looked up at me, his eyes dark with desire. "Use your words."
"Touch me," I begged. "Everywhere."
His grin was predatory as he moved lower still, pressing kisses down my stomach. He hooked his fingers into my shorts and panties, pulling them off in one smooth motion. I lay bare before him, completely exposed yet feeling more powerful than ever before.
"Beautiful," he breathed, parting my thighs with his shoulders. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."
The first touch of his tongue against my core had me crying out, my back bowing off the bed. Greg held me down with his hands on my hips, eating me out with a focus and intensity that left me breathless. He explored every fold, every sensitive spot, learning what made me gasp and what made me moan.
When he slid two fingers inside me, curling them just right, I saw stars. "Right there," I panted, grinding against his hand. "Don't stop."
Greg added a third finger, stretching me deliciously as his tongue worked my clit. The dual stimulation was overwhelming in the best way, building something deep inside me that threatened to break apart.
"That's it," he encouraged. "Come for me, Y/N. Let me feel you."
His words were the final push I needed. The orgasm crashed over me like a wave, intense and all-consuming. I cried out his name as my body convulsed, pleasure pulsing through every nerve ending.
Greg didn't stop, working me through it until I collapsed against the bed, boneless and sated. Only then did he pull away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before crawling up my body.
"How was that?" he asked, though the smug look on his face told me he already knew.
"Incredible," I breathed, reaching for his shirt. "But you're still dressed."
I fumbled with the buttons, my hands shaking with residual pleasure. Greg helped me, his larger hands covering mine as we stripped away his clothes. When he was finally naked above me, I swallowed hard. His body was magnificent, sculpted with muscle, dusted with hair that trailed down to his impressive erection.
I wrapped my hand around him, barely able to close my fingers around his girth. Greg groaned, his hips thrusting forward instinctively.
"Careful," he warned. "It's been a while, and you're making me lose control."
"Good," I replied, stroking him from base to tip. "I want you to lose control."
His eyes darkened as he reached into his discarded jeans, pulling a condom from his wallet. He rolled it on with practiced efficiency before positioning himself between my thighs.
"Last chance to back out," he offered, though I could see in his eyes that he hoped I wouldn't.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Fuck me, Greg."
He needed no further encouragement. With one smooth thrust, he buried himself inside me, and we both moaned at the sensation. He was big, bigger than I'd expected, and the stretch burned in the most delicious way.
"God, you're tight," he groaned, his forehead pressed against mine. "So fucking tight around me."
"Move," I demanded. "Please, move."
Greg began to thrust, setting a pace that was both punishing and pleasurable. Each stroke pushed me deeper into the mattress, his hips snapping against mine with a force that should have scared me but only made me want more.
"Harder," I begged, my nails raking down his back. "Give me everything."
He responded by lifting my legs onto his shoulders, changing the angle and allowing him to penetrate even deeper. The new position had me seeing stars, each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside me.
"You like that?" he growled, his voice rough with passion. "You like me fucking you like this?"
"Yes," I gasped. "Don't stop. Please don't stop."
Greg's rhythm grew erratic as he approached his own release. "I'm close," he warned. "Where do you want it?"
"Inside me," I pleaded. "Please, Greg, come inside me."
His eyes darkened with raw desire as he increased his pace, driving into me with renewed urgency. The sound of our bodies slapping together filled the room, mingling with our desperate moans and the thunder crashing outside.
"Look at me," he commanded, and I forced my eyes open to meet his intense gaze. "I want to see you when you come apart for me."
That was all it took. The combination of his deep voice, his commanding presence, and the relentless stimulation sent me over the edge again. My orgasm hit me like a freight train, intense and overwhelming. I cried out his name as my body convulsed, my inner walls clamping down around him like a vise.
Greg groaned as he followed me over the edge, his hips jerking as he found his own release. I could feel him pulsing inside me, his body tense and trembling above mine. For a moment, we just breathed together, our chests rising and falling in sync as the storm raged outside.
"Fuck," he breathed, rolling onto his side but keeping me tucked against him. "That was..."
"Incredible," I finished, feeling a delicious soreness already setting in. My body felt used in the best possible way, every nerve ending humming with satisfaction.
Greg chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest and into my back. "Incredible doesn't begin to cover it." He brushed a strand of hair from my sweaty forehead. "How are you feeling?"
I stretched languidly, my muscles protesting in the most pleasant way. "Sore. Satisfied. A little overwhelmed."
"Overwhelmed?" He propped himself up on an elbow, his expression concerned.
"In a good way," I clarified, turning to face him. "I've never... that was..." I struggled for words, feeling heat creep up my neck. "No one's ever made me feel like that."
Greg's expression softened. "They didn't know what they were doing, then." He leaned in to kiss me gently, a stark contrast to the passionate kisses from earlier. "You're responsive, Y/N. Your body tells me exactly what you want, even when you're too shy to say it."
I shivered at his words, both from the compliment and the light trace of his fingers down my spine. "Is that why everyone's so intimidated by you?"
"Intimidated?" He raised an eyebrow. "Or just aware that I know what I want and how to get it?"
"Both," I admitted. "Alice said you were 'ancient but good in bed.' She wasn't wrong about the second part."
Greg laughed, a genuine, rumbling sound that made me smile. "Alice wouldn't know. We've never slept together." He saw my skeptical look and shook his head. "I'm here because her father and I do business together. She's been trying to get in my pants since I arrived, but I have rules about sleeping with business associates' daughters."
My eyes widened. "But you just... with me..."
"You're not his daughter," he said simply. "And you're not trying to use me for anything. You looked lost in that sea of superficiality, like you didn't belong." He traced my jawline with his thumb. "Like me."
The vulnerability in his admission caught me off guard. This man who exuded confidence and control felt like an outsider too?
"We're quite the pair," I murmured, pressing closer to him. "The old man and the teenager."
Greg's hand tightened on my hip. "Don't call me old." His tone was teasing, but there was an edge to it. "I've got plenty of stamina left to prove you wrong."
As if to demonstrate, he rolled me onto my back again, his body covering mine. I could feel him already hardening against my thigh.
"Again?" I asked, though I wasn't protesting. My body was already responding to his proximity, a familiar ache building between my legs.
"The night's still young," he replied, his mouth finding mine in a deep, possessive kiss. "And I've barely started with you."
This time was slower, more deliberate. Greg explored every inch of my body with his hands and mouth, learning my responses and committing them to memory. He paid special attention to my breasts, sucking and biting my nipples until I was writhing beneath him, begging for more.
"Patience, little one," he murmured against my skin. "I want to savor you."
"Greg, please," I panted, arching into his touch. "I need you."
He chuckled, shifting to kneel between my thighs. "What do you need, Y/N? Use your words."
"You," I breathed. "I need you inside me."
"Like this?" He positioned himself at my entrance, teasing me with just the tip.
I whimpered in frustration, trying to impale myself on him. "All of you. Please, Greg, fuck me."
With a satisfied grin, he thrust into me in one smooth motion. We both groaned at the sensation, him at my tight heat, me at his fullness. This time, he set a slower pace, almost torturous in its deliberation.
"Look at us," he said, his voice husky with desire. "Look how well you take me."
I followed his gaze to where our bodies joined, his thick shaft disappearing into my small frame. The visual was intoxicating, and I felt myself clench around him instinctively.
"Fuck, Y/N," he groaned. "Don't do that unless you want me to come immediately."
"Maybe I do," I challenged, meeting his thrusts with my own. "Maybe I want to feel you lose control again."
Greg's eyes darkened. "Careful what you wish for." He increased his pace, driving into me with renewed intensity. The bed creaked in protest, but I barely noticed over the sound of our bodies coming together and my increasingly loud moans.
His fingers found my clit, rubbing in tight circles that had me seeing stars. The dual stimulation was almost too much, building quickly toward another release.
"I want you to come with me this time," he demanded, his voice strained with effort. "Can you do that for me, Y/N? Come when I tell you to?"
I could only nod, my body trembling with need. Each thrust pushed me closer to the edge, his fingers working magic on my clit.
"Now," he commanded. "Come for me now, Y/N."
The orgasm that crashed over me was unlike anything I'd experienced before. It started deep inside me, spreading like wildfire through every nerve ending. I cried out his name as wave after wave of pleasure washed over me, my body convulsing around him.
Greg followed immediately, his hips jerking as he found his own release. We rode out our pleasure together, our bodies moving in sync until we collapsed against each other, spent and satisfied.
For a long time, we just lay there, listening to the storm that had finally begun to subside. Greg's heartbeat was strong and steady against my ear, a comforting rhythm in the aftermath of our passion.
"Stay with me tonight," he said softly, breaking the comfortable silence. "Let me hold you."
I nodded, too content to speak. He shifted to pull the duvet over us, tucking me against his side with a possessiveness that felt both comforting and thrilling.
"We should probably check on the others," I murmured, though I had no desire to move.
"Let them sort out their own drama," Greg replied, his hand stroking my hair. "They're probably still arguing about who killed who in that ridiculous game."
I smiled against his chest. "Probably. David's likely making it all about himself, Bee's trying to mediate, and Jordan's recording everything for their podcast."
Greg chuckled. "And Alice?”
"Probably flirting with someone new now that you've disappeared."
"Good," he said, surprising me. "Let her." He tilted my chin up to look at me. "I'm not interested in Alice, Y/N. I'm interested in you."
My heart fluttered at his words, though a part of me remained cautious. "For how long?"
His expression turned serious. "However long you'll have me." He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I don't do casual, Y/N. Not anymore. If this is just a one-night thing for you, that's fine, but I need to know now."
I considered his question, my heart racing. The idea of something more with this man was both terrifying and exhilarating. "I don't do casual either," I admitted quietly. "But I'm leaving for college in the fall."
"Where?" he asked, his thumb stroking my cheek.
"Berkeley," I replied. "Across the country."
Greg nodded slowly. "That's three months away." A small smile played on his lips. "A lot can happen in three months."
"Is that your way of saying you want to try this?" I asked, hardly daring to hope.
"It's my way of saying I don't want this to be the only night I have you," he clarified. "But I'll respect whatever you decide."
I leaned in to kiss him, soft and sweet. "Three months, then. We'll see what happens."
Greg's response was immediate and passionate, his mouth claiming mine with an intensity that took my breath away. When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing heavily.
"Round three?" he asked with a wicked grin.
I laughed, feeling more alive than ever before. "Give me ten minutes to recover."
"Take your time," he replied, rolling onto his back and pulling me with him. "I've got all the time in the world.”
Warnings: S M U T, p in v, virgin reader, oral (fem receiving), MDNI
WC: 2050
A/N: I’ve been rewatching ‘Friends’ and I realized how much I like Joey 😭
The music was thumping through Monica and Rachel's apartment, bass vibrating through the floor as I clutched my red plastic cup. It was one of Chandler's infamous "I got a promotion" parties, though none of us were quite sure what he actually did for a living. As the quiet friend of Rachel's from work, I was feeling a bit out of place surrounded by their tight-knit group.
That's when I saw him leaning against the kitchen doorway, Joey Tribbiani, all dark hair, chiseled jaw, and that effortless charm that made women across New York swoon. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt that highlighted every muscular curve of his chest and arms.
"Hey," he said, pushing himself off the doorway and sauntering over. "I don't think I've seen you around before."
"I'm Y/N," I managed, my voice coming out shakier than intended. "I work with Rachel at Bloomingdale's."
"Y/N," he repeated, and the way my name rolled off his tongue made my stomach flip. "That's beautiful."
We talked for what felt like hours, about my small town upbringing, his acting career, my favorite movies (he was thrilled we shared a love for Die Hard), and his latest audition (a role as a firefighter, which he was perfect for in my opinion). With every story, every laugh, I felt myself falling deeper under his spell.
"You know," he said suddenly, his voice dropping to that low, seductive tone that was clearly reserved for moments like this, "I have a really comfortable couch back at my place. And a much better selection of movies than Chandler does."
My heart pounded against my ribs. I'd never been invited back to a man's apartment like this before. At twenty-four, I was embarrassingly inexperienced, a fact I'd managed to hide so far, but now felt like a flashing neon sign over my head.
"I'd like that," I heard myself say, surprising myself with my own boldness.
When we arrived he opened the door with a flourish. "Welcome to Casa de Tribbiani," he announced with a grin. His apartment was exactly what I'd expected, comfortable, slightly messy, and distinctly male. A large leather couch dominated the living room, facing a decent-sized TV. Posters from his various acting roles adorned the walls.
"Can I get you something to drink?" he asked, already moving toward the kitchen.
"Just water, please."
When he returned, he sat beside me on the couch, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. We sat in silence for a moment before he turned to me, his expression serious.
"You're really beautiful, Y/N," he said softly.
My breath hitched. "Thank you."
His fingers gently brushed a strand of hair from my face, lingering against my cheek. "Can I kiss you?"
I nodded, unable to form words.
His lips met mine tentatively at first, then with more confidence as I responded. It was like nothing I'd experienced before, soft yet demanding, his tongue gently probing my mouth until I opened for him. One of his hands moved to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as the other rested on my waist, pulling me closer.
When we broke apart, both breathing heavily, I looked into his dark eyes and saw genuine desire there. But I also saw something else, kindness, concern.
"You okay?" he asked.
I nodded again. "Better than okay."
He smiled, that genuine, warm smile that made my heart melt. "Good."
His kisses grew more passionate, more urgent. His hand slid from my waist to my breast, cupping it through the thin material of my dress. I gasped at the contact, arching into his touch. His thumb circled my nipple, which hardened instantly beneath the fabric.
"You like that?" he murmured against my lips.
"God, yes," I breathed.
His hand moved to the hem of my dress, fingers teasing the skin of my thigh. "Is this okay?"
"More than okay," I assured him, though my heart was pounding with a mixture of excitement and nerves.
His hand traveled higher, finding the edge of my panties. I tensed slightly, and he must have felt it because he pulled back to look at me.
"Hey," he said softly. "We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with."
I took a deep breath. "Joey, there's something I should tell you."
He waited patiently, his hand still resting on my thigh.
"I've never..." I took another breath, feeling my cheeks flush. "I've never done this before."
To my surprise, he didn't look disappointed or surprised. He just nodded thoughtfully. "Okay."
"Okay? That's all you have to say?"
"Well, what did you expect me to say?" he asked with a small smile. "That I'm going to run away screaming because you haven't had sex before? Honestly, Y/N, it doesn't matter to me. We can do whatever you're comfortable with."
Tears welled in my eyes at his understanding. "I want to," I said firmly. "I want to with you."
"Then we'll go at your pace," he said, leaning in to kiss me gently. "And I'll be here to guide you through everything."
His hand returned to its exploration, moving higher until his fingers brushed against the damp fabric of my panties. I moaned softly as he applied gentle pressure to my most sensitive spot.
"Does that feel good?" he asked.
"Yes," I breathed. "Very good."
His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding me already wet and ready for him. I gasped as he explored my folds, his touch both gentle and purposeful. When his fingers found my clit, I nearly jumped off the couch.
"Right there?" he asked with a small smile.
I could only nod, words failing me as he began to circle the sensitive bundle of nerves. Waves of pleasure washed over me, building to something I'd only ever read about in books.
"That's it," he murmured as I began to move against his hand. "Just let go."
His other hand moved to unbutton his shirt, revealing the muscular chest I'd been admiring all night. I reached out to touch him, my fingers tracing the defined muscles of his abdomen.
"You can touch me wherever you want," he said, his voice husky with desire.
My hands explored his chest, his shoulders, his arms as his fingers continued their magic between my legs. The pressure was building, an unfamiliar tension coiling in my stomach.
"Joey," I gasped. "I think..."
"Let it happen," he encouraged. "Don't fight it."
With a cry that was half surprise, half pleasure, I tumbled over the edge, waves of ecstasy washing over me. I collapsed against him, breathing heavily as aftershocks pulsed through my body.
"Wow," I finally managed to say.
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "That was just the beginning, beautiful."
His fingers slowed their movements, allowing me to come down gently. When I'd recovered somewhat, he spoke again.
"Are you ready for more?" he asked softly.
I nodded, though a flicker of apprehension ran through me. "I'm a little nervous," I admitted.
"That's completely normal," he assured me. "We'll take it slow. If anything hurts or you're uncomfortable at any point, just tell me and we'll stop. Okay?"
"Okay."
He stood up, extending a hand to help me to my feet. "My bedroom is more comfortable than this couch," he said with a wink.
I followed him down the short hallway to his bedroom. The bed was large and inviting, covered in a simple navy blue comforter. He turned to face me, his hands moving to the zipper of my dress.
"May I?" he asked.
I nodded, lifting my arms as he slowly pulled the dress over my head. I stood before him in just my panties and bra, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable.
"You're stunning," he breathed, his eyes roaming over my body appreciatively.
His fingers moved to the clasp of my bra, unfastening it with practiced ease. The straps fell down my arms, and I let the garment drop to the floor. I fought the instinct to cover myself as his gaze swept over my bare breasts.
"Perfect," he murmured, leaning down to take one nipple into his mouth.
I gasped at the sensation, warm, wet, and utterly intoxicating. His tongue swirled around the hardened peak while his hand gently massaged my other breast. I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer.
After giving equal attention to my other breast, he straightened up, his hands moving to the waistband of my panties. He looked at me questioningly, and I nodded, lifting my hips as he slid them down my legs.
Now completely naked before him, I felt a renewed wave of nervousness. But as Joey's eyes met mine, filled with desire and something deeper, tenderness, my anxiety began to fade.
He quickly shed his remaining clothes, revealing a body even more impressive than I'd imagined. Broad shoulders, defined pecs, a chiseled abdomen, and strong thighs. And then there was his erection, thick and long, standing proud against his stomach.
I must have been staring because he chuckled softly. "Don't worry," he said. "We'll make sure it fits."
He guided me to the bed, laying me down gently before stretching out beside me. His hands resumed their exploration, tracing every curve and dip of my body as if memorizing me
His fingers danced along my collarbone, then down the valley between my breasts. My skin erupted in goosebumps despite the warmth of the room. Joey's touch was both electric and soothing, a contradiction that made my head spin.
"You're so responsive," he murmured, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below my ear. "I love that."
His mouth continued its exploration, trailing kisses down my neck, across my shoulder, until he reached my breasts again. This time, his attention was more leisurely, more deliberate. He took his time with each nipple, alternating between gentle licks and soft sucks that had me arching off the bed.
"Joey," I breathed, my hands tangling in the sheets. "That feels... incredible."
He lifted his head, a wicked glint in his eyes. "We're just getting started."
His hand slid down my stomach, fingers tracing the edge of my curls before delving lower. I was already wet from his earlier ministrations, but my body responded with renewed enthusiasm as his fingers found my clit again.
This time, he didn't hold back. His fingers moved with practiced expertise, knowing just how much pressure to apply, just how fast to circle. My hips began to move of their own accord, seeking more of the pleasure he was offering.
"Please," I gasped, not even sure what I was begging for.
"Please what?" he asked, his voice low and husky. "Tell me what you want, Y/N."
"More," I managed. "I want more."
He chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through my body. "Don't worry, beautiful. You'll get more."
His fingers dipped lower, collecting my wetness before returning to my clit. The added lubrication intensified the sensations, and I felt that familiar tension coiling in my stomach again.
As he continued his attention to my clit, his other hand moved to my entrance, one finger gently probing. I tensed momentarily, and he immediately stilled.
"Relax," he murmured against my breast. "I've got you. Just breathe."
I took a deep breath, consciously releasing the tension in my muscles. As I did, his finger slid inside me, just to the first knuckle. The sensation was strange but not unpleasant, a fullness I'd never experienced before.
"Okay?" he asked, looking up at me.
I nodded. "Okay."
He slowly pushed his finger deeper until it was fully inside me. I could feel my muscles clenching around him, trying to accommodate this new invasion.
"God, you're tight," he breathed. "We're going to need to get you ready."
With that, he began to move his finger in and out, slowly at first, then with increasing confidence as my body adjusted. His mouth returned to my breasts, and the dual sensations nearly overwhelmed me.
When he added a second finger, I gasped at the stretch. It was a slight burn, but not painful, just intensely new. He scissored his fingers inside me, gently stretching my walls, preparing me for what was to come.
His thumb found my clit again, and the combination of internal and external stimulation was almost too much. I could feel another orgasm building, stronger than the first.
"Joey," I gasped. "I think... I'm going to..."
"Let go, Y/N," he encouraged. "I've got you."
His words were my undoing. With a cry, I tumbled over the edge, my inner muscles clamping down on his fingers as wave after wave of pleasure washed over me.
As I came down from my high, he gently withdrew his fingers, positioning himself between my legs. I looked down to see him rolling a condom onto his impressive erection, and a fresh wave of nerves hit me.
He must have sensed my anxiety because he leaned down to kiss me softly. "Hey," he said, his voice gentle. "We can stop right here if you want. No pressure."
"No," I said firmly. "I want this. With you."
He smiled, that warm, genuine smile that had first drawn me to him. "Okay then."
He positioned himself at my entrance, the head of his cock nudging against my wet folds. I tensed again, and he stilled.
"Look at me, Y/N," he said softly. When my eyes met his, he continued. "We're going to go slow. If it hurts, tell me. If you need me to stop, tell me. We're in this together."
I nodded, my heart pounding with anticipation and a healthy dose of fear.
He pushed forward slightly, just enough for the head to enter me. There was a sharp pinch, and I couldn't help but wince.
"Okay?" he asked, immediately stilling.
"Just... unexpected," I managed. "Keep going."
He pushed forward slowly, inch by agonizing inch. There was discomfort, a stretching sensation that bordered on pain, but beneath it was something else, a building pleasure, a sense of rightness, of completeness.
When he was finally fully inside me, he paused, allowing me to adjust to his size. I could feel him everywhere, filling me completely. It was overwhelming and intimate and utterly perfect.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
"Better than okay," I breathed, wrapping my legs around his waist. "Move, Joey. Please move."
He needed no further encouragement. He began to thrust, slowly at first, then with increasing confidence as my body responded to his. The initial discomfort faded, replaced by a deep, building pleasure that radiated from my core.
"God, Y/N," he groaned, his head dropping to my shoulder. "You feel incredible."
I couldn't form words, only sounds of pleasure as he continued to move inside me. His hand found my clit again, rubbing in time with his thrusts, and I felt another orgasm building.
"Joey," I gasped. "I'm... I'm..."
"Come for me, beautiful," he urged. "Let me feel you."
His words sent me over the edge. I cried out as my muscles clenched around him, milking his cock as wave after wave of pleasure washed over me. He thrust into me a few more times before finding his own release with a groan of my name.
We lay tangled together, both breathing heavily as we came down from our highs. Joey rolled to the side, pulling me with him so I was draped across his chest. I could feel his heart hammering against my ear, matching the rhythm of my own.
"Wow," I finally managed to say.
He chuckled, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Yeah. Wow."
We lay in comfortable silence for a while, his fingers gently stroking my back. I felt content, sated, and strangely emotional.
"How are you feeling?" he asked softly.
"Good," I said, and then corrected myself. "Amazing. That was... I didn't know it could be like that."
He propped himself up on an elbow to look at me. "Like what?"
"So... connected," I struggled to explain. "I always thought it would be just physical, but this felt... different. Special."
He smiled, and it was the most genuine, unguarded expression I'd seen from him all night. "It was special, Y/N. You're special."
Tears welled in my eyes again, and I cursed myself for being so emotional. "Sorry," I said, wiping at my eyes. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Hey," he said gently, tilting my chin up to look at him. "There's nothing wrong with you. It's completely normal to feel emotional after your first time. Especially good first time."
"It was more than good," I insisted. "It was perfect."
He leaned in to kiss me, a soft, tender kiss that conveyed more than words ever could. When we broke apart, he rested his forehead against mine.
"I'm glad it was with me," he said quietly.
"Me too," I whispered.
We lay in silence for a while longer, and I could feel myself drifting toward sleep. Just as I was about to drop off, Joey spoke again.
"Stay the night?" he asked. "I'll make you breakfast in the morning."
I smiled against his chest. "I'd like that."
As I drifted off to sleep, wrapped in Joey's arms, I couldn't help but think how different this night had been from what I'd expected. I'd come to the party hoping to make a good impression, maybe make some new friends. I never imagined I'd end up here, in Joey Tribbiani's bed, having just experienced the most intimate moment of my life.
But as I felt his steady breathing beneath me, I knew this wasn't just a one-night stand. This was the beginning of something real, something special. And I couldn't wait to see where it would lead.
The morning light filtering through Joey's bedroom window woke me gradually. For a moment, I was disoriented, unsure of where I was or how I'd gotten there. Then the events of the previous night came rushing back, the party and Joey's gentle guidance as we explored each other's bodies.
I turned my head to find him watching me, a soft smile on his face. "Morning, beautiful," he said, his voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning," I replied, feeling a blush creeping up my cheeks. How was it possible that I could be so intimate with this man last night, yet feel shy now?
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his fingers gently stroking my hair.
"Good," I said honestly. "A little sore, but good."
He leaned in to kiss me, a soft, gentle kiss that quickly deep
The kiss deepened, his tongue sliding against mine in a familiar dance that sent warmth pooling in my belly. Morning breath be damned, there was something incredibly intimate about this, about waking up in his arms and starting the day with a kiss.
When we finally broke apart, he grinned at me. "I believe I promised you breakfast."
"You did," I said, stretching luxuriously. "I'm holding you to that, Tribbiani."
"Anything for my lady," he said with an exaggerated bow before climbing out of bed. I watched as he pulled on a pair of sweatpants that hung low on his hips, giving me a tantalizing view of his muscular backside.
"See something you like?" he asked over his shoulder, catching me staring.
I blushed but didn't look away. "Maybe."
He laughed, a rich, warm sound that filled the room. "Stay put. I'll bring breakfast to you."
True to his word, he returned a few minutes later carrying a tray laden with scrambled eggs, toast, and two mugs of coffee. It was simple but perfect.
"Wow," I said as he set the tray on the nightstand. "This is impressive."
"I have many hidden talents," he said with a wink, climbing back into bed beside me.
We ate in comfortable silence, occasionally feeding each other bites of toast between kisses. It felt domestic, comfortable, like we'd been doing this for years instead of just one night.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, setting his empty mug aside.
"Just... how different this is from what I expected," I admitted. "My first time, I mean. I always imagined it would be awkward, maybe painful, with someone who didn't really care about my feelings."
Joey's expression softened. "Is that what you thought of me? That I wouldn't care?"
"No," I said quickly. "Not after we started talking. But at first, when Rachel told me about you... well, she might have mentioned you're quite the ladies' man."
He had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "I've had my share of dates, yeah. But that doesn't mean I don't care about the people I'm with. Especially you, Y/N."
My heart did that little flip-flop thing it seemed to do whenever he looked at me with those dark, sincere eyes. "Why especially me?"
"Because you're different," he said simply. "You're genuine, you're kind, and you don't play games. And honestly? The fact that I was your first... that's something special to me. Something I'll always remember."
Tears pricked at my eyes again, and I mentally cursed my emotional response. "Sorry," I said, wiping at my eyes. "I'm not usually this crier."
"Hey," he said gently, pulling me into his arms. "There's nothing to apologize for. Last night was a big deal, and it's okay to feel things."
I buried my face in his chest, inhaling his scent, a mix of soap, cologne, and something uniquely Joey. "Thank you," I mumbled against his skin. "For making it perfect."
"Trust me," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "The pleasure was all mine."
We lay tangled together for a while longer, neither of us speaking. I could feel his heartbeat beneath my ear, steady and reassuring. It was in that quiet moment that I realized something important, this wasn't just about losing my virginity anymore. It was about Joey, about the connection we'd formed, about the potential for something real and lasting.
"What happens now?" I asked softly, lifting my head to look at him.
"What do you want to happen?" he countered, his expression serious.
"I want to see you again," I said. "Not just for... you know. But for dates. For getting to know each other. For seeing where this could go."
A slow smile spread across his face. "I was hoping you'd say that. Because I want the same thing."
He leaned in to kiss me again, and this time it was different, not just passionate, but filled with promise, with the potential of what could be.
"How about dinner tonight?" he asked when we broke apart. "A proper date. My treat."
"I'd like that," I said with a smile. "But I'm paying next time."
"Deal," he agreed, though I could tell he was already planning to protest when the time came.
As I finally dragged myself out of his bed and began gathering my clothes from the floor, I felt a sense of peace I hadn't expected. My first time hadn't been the awkward, disappointing experience I'd feared. It had been gentle, passionate, and surprisingly emotional, all because of the man watching me with those warm, dark eyes.
When I was dressed, he walked me to the door, pulling me into one last embrace. "I had an amazing time with you, Y/N," he said, his lips brushing against my ear. "And I can't wait to do it again."
"Me too," I replied, tilting my head up for a final kiss.
As I stepped out into the hallway, I turned back to find him leaning against the doorframe, watching me with a smile. "See you tonight," he said.
"See you tonight," I agreed, and somehow I knew that this was just the beginning of something wonderful.
Warnings: S M U T, p in v, secret relationship, no plot really
WC: ~3k
A/N: enjoyyyy🫢
The stone corridors of the Elvenking's halls are silent, lit by the soft, ethereal glow of lanterns that seem to breathe with a life of their own. You move through them like a shadow, your heart a frantic drum against your ribs, a rhythm of fear and anticipation. Every footfall is muffled by the thick carpets, but you feel as loud as a war drum. You are a human, a creature of fleeting years and clumsy limbs, in a place of timeless grace and predatory beauty. And you are walking into the lion's den.
You reach the great doors of his throne room, carved from the very wood of the forest and inlaid with silver and gold. They stand ajar, a silent, mocking invitation. With a trembling hand, you push them wider and slip inside.
The room is vast and cavernous, a testament to power and age. At its far end, upon a throne carved from the living root of a great oak, sits Thranduil. He is not looking at you. His gaze is fixed on some distant point, his profile sharp and regal, a study in arrogant perfection. His silver-gold hair cascades over his shoulders like a frozen waterfall, and his robes, the color of deep winter twilight, pool around his feet. He is magnificent, terrifying, and entirely yours in these stolen moments.
"You are late."
His voice cuts through the silence, not loud, but impossibly clear. It's a low purr that vibrates through the marble floor and up your legs, settling as a deep, throbbing ache in your core. You flinch, stopping in your tracks.
"My lord," you begin, your voice barely a whisper. "I had to ensure the way was clear. The guards—"
"The guards are of no consequence," he interrupts, finally turning his head. His eyes, the piercing blue of a winter sky, lock onto yours. There is no warmth in them, only a cold, assessing fire. "You are late because you enjoy the thrill of disobedience. You enjoy the thought of my displeasure."
It's an accusation, but it's also the truth. A slow, dangerous smile curves his lips. "Come here."
You obey, your feet moving of their own accord, carrying you across the vast expanse of the floor until you stand at the foot of the dais, looking up at him. He leans forward, his elbows resting on the arms of his throne, his chin propped on his steepled fingers.
"Remove your dress."
The command is simple, direct, and leaves no room for argument. Your fingers shake as you fumble with the laces at the back of your simple, serviceable gown. The fabric pools at your feet, leaving you naked and vulnerable in the cold, grand chamber. You feel his gaze like a physical touch, a caress of ice that burns. He takes in every detail: the swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips, the dark triangle of hair at the juncture of your thighs.
"Turn around," he orders.
You do, slowly, presenting your back to him. You hear the rustle of silk as he rises from his throne. His footsteps are silent as he approaches. You feel his presence behind you, a towering force of contained energy. Then, his hand is on your shoulder, tracing the line of your spine with a single, cool finger. The touch sends a shiver through you, raising goosebumps on your skin.
"So fragile," he murmurs, his lips close to your ear. "So warm. So mortal."
His hands grip your arms, turning you to face him. He is so close you can feel the chill radiating from his body, can see the faint, ancient scars that mar the perfection of his face. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.
"I have thought of this all day," he confesses, his voice a low growl. "Of your taste, your scent. Of the sounds you make when you are lost to pleasure."
He crashes his mouth down on yours. It is not a kiss of romance or affection. It is a claiming, a brutal act of possession. His teeth nip at your lower lip, drawing a small bead of blood, which he laps away with his tongue. His tongue invades your mouth, a relentless, demanding force. You kiss him back with equal desperation, your hands tangling in the silk of his robes, pulling him closer.
He breaks the kiss as suddenly as it began, his chest heaving slightly. His eyes are dark with a primal hunger that makes your breath catch. He takes a step back, his gaze sweeping over you once more before he makes a sharp, dismissive gesture.
"On the floor," he commands, his voice cold and hard as steel.
The words hit you like a physical blow. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, and his eyes narrow. "Must I repeat myself?"
You sink to your knees, the cold, unforgiving marble a shock against your skin. He watches you, his expression unreadable, as you lower yourself onto your hands and knees before him. It is a position of utter submission, and the humiliation of it mingles with a dark, thrilling excitement.
He circles you slowly, like a predator surveying its prey. He stops behind you, and you feel the heavy weight of his boot as he places it between your shoulder blades, applying a gentle but firm pressure. You gasp, your arms trembling as you struggle to hold yourself up.
"You are a sight," he says, his voice thick with satisfaction. "A human, on her knees for her Elvenking. Does it excite you? This degradation?"
You can only whimper in response, your face burning with shame and desire.
He removes his foot, and you hear the soft whisper of silk as he sheds his robes. Then, he is kneeling behind you, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you back against him. You feel the hard, thick length of him pressing against your slick folds through the thin fabric of his leggings. He is huge, a fact that has both terrified and thrilled you in your previous encounters.
He grinds against you, a slow, torturous rhythm that has you moaning and pushing back against him, desperate for more. "Tell me what you want," he demands, his voice a harsh whisper.
"You," you gasp. "Please, Thranduil, I want you."
A dark chuckle rumbles in his chest. "As you wish."
He fumbles with the fastenings of his pants, and you hear the rustle of fabric. And then, you feel it, the hot, velvety skin of his cock against your entrance. He teases you for a moment, rubbing the head of his shaft against your clit, coating himself in your wetness. You are squirming, panting, desperate for him to fill you.
He doesn't wait. He doesn't prepare you. With a single, brutal thrust, he buries himself to the hilt inside you.
A sharp, searing pain tears through you as his immense size stretches you beyond your limits. It's a white-hot agony that steals your breath and makes you cry out, a raw sound of shock and pain. Your arms give out, and you collapse onto the cold stone, your cheek pressed against the marble as tears spring to your eyes.
He stills for a moment, his body a heavy weight over yours, his chest heaving against your back. You can feel his heart beating, a slow, steady rhythm against your frantic pulse.
"Be still," he murmurs, his voice surprisingly gentle against your ear. "Breathe. The pain will pass. I did not intend to hurt you."
His words are a balm, but the pain is still a raw, throbbing fire. You try to obey, taking ragged breaths as your body struggles to adjust to his impossible size. He is still inside you, a hot, hard presence that fills you completely. The pain begins to subside, slowly, replaced by a deep, aching fullness that is not entirely unpleasant.
He starts to move then, slowly at first, his hips rocking in a deliberate, careful rhythm. Each movement sends a jolt through you, a mix of lingering pain and an undeniable pleasure that begins to bloom in your belly. He is being gentle, a stark contrast to his earlier brutality.
"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice laced with a rare hint of concern.
You nod, your face still pressed against the floor. "Yes," you whisper, your voice hoarse. "Don't stop."
His response is a low growl of approval. He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, deeper. The sounds of your coupling fill the vast throne room, the slap of skin against skin, his ragged grunts, your desperate cries. He is relentless, his grip on your hips tightening as he pistons into you, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
"You are mine," he growls, his voice thick with possession. "Every inch of you belongs to me. This body, this pleasure… it is all mine to give and to take as I please."
His words are your undoing. You shatter around him, your inner walls clenching tightly as waves of pleasure crash over you. It's a powerful, all-consuming orgasm that leaves you trembling and breathless. He follows you over the edge with a loud groan, his body tensing as he spills himself deep inside you, his hot release a soothing balm to your abused flesh.
You collapse onto the floor, your body trembling and spent. He stays inside you for a moment longer before withdrawing, his essence leaking out of you and onto the stone beneath. You feel empty, aching, but strangely sated.
He rises to his feet, adjusting his clothing before looking down at you, his expression once again cold and unreadable. "We're not finished," he says, his voice a low command that sends a fresh wave of anticipation through your exhausted body.
He reaches down, his hand closing around your upper arm. His grip is firm, almost bruising, as he hauls you to your feet. Your legs are unsteady, trembling from the intensity of your release and the lingering ache from his rough entry. He doesn't give you a moment to find your balance, instead half-dragging, half-leading you across the vast expanse of the throne room towards the dais.
You stumble up the steps, your bare feet slapping against the cold stone. He stops before his great throne, a monstrosity of carved wood and ancient power, and pushes you down onto it. You land with a soft gasp, the hard, unyielding wood a shock against your bare skin. The carved arms dig into your back, but the discomfort is a distant sensation, overshadowed by the look in his eyes.
He stands before you, a towering figure of silver and shadow. His gaze sweeps over you, taking in your disheveled hair, your flushed skin, the marks he has left on your neck and breasts. He looks at you as if you are a prize he has just won, a treasure to be admired and then consumed.
"Spread your legs," he orders, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
It's a humiliating command, given here, in the seat of his power. But you obey without hesitation, your body responding to his authority even when your mind reels. Your legs fall open, exposing your glistening, swollen sex, still slick with your arousal and his release. The cool air of the room feels like a caress against your heated flesh.
A slow, predatory smile spreads across his face. He kneels before you, his movements fluid and graceful, a predator descending upon its prey. His eyes are fixed on the most intimate part of you, his gaze so intense it feels like a physical touch. You can feel your heart pounding in your chest, a frantic, desperate rhythm.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a low, husky rumble. "So wanton, so beautifully debauched. My human queen, sitting on my throne, her body open and waiting for me."
He leans forward, and you feel his hot breath against your sensitive flesh. You gasp, your hands flying to the carved arms of the throne, your knuckles turning white as you grip them tightly. Then, his tongue is on you, a hot, wet flame against your clit.
He devours you with a hunger that borders on feral. His tongue is a masterful instrument, swirling and flicking, lapping at your folds, tasting the mixture of your arousal and his own release. He is not gentle. He is rough, demanding, his mouth working you with a single-minded purpose that leaves you breathless and begging.
Your hands find their way into his hair, your fingers tangling in the silky strands as you grind your hips against his face. He growls against you, the vibrations sending shivers of pleasure through your entire body. He brings you to the brink again and again, his tongue and teeth driving you wild, only to pull back at the last moment, leaving you dangling on the precipice of release, desperate and begging for more.
"Please, Thranduil," you whimper, your hips bucking wildly, your body aching for release.
He chuckles against your skin, a dark, satisfied sound. "Please what?" he teases, his tongue flicking against your clit in a feather-light touch that is almost painful.
"Please… let me come," you beg, your voice a hoarse cry of desperation.
"Again," he demands, his voice a low growl of command. "Beg me properly."
"Please, my lord," you cry out, your body writhing in ecstasy and agony. "Please, I need to come. I'll do anything, just please… let me come."
This time, he grants your wish. He sucks your clit into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it as he slides two long, elegant fingers inside you. He curls them, hitting that magical spot deep within you that makes you see stars. You scream his name as your orgasm rips through you, more intense than the last, a tidal wave of pleasure that threatens to drown you. Your body convulses, your back arching off the hard wood of the throne as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you.
He continues to lick and suck at you, drawing out your pleasure until you are a whimpering, trembling mess. Only when you are completely spent does he rise, his face glistening with your juices, a triumphant, possessive glint in his eyes.
He unfastens his trousers once more, his cock already hard and ready, standing proud and erect. It's a magnificent sight, a testament to his Elven vitality, and a fresh wave of desire courses through you despite your exhaustion.
"Turn around," he commands.
You scramble to obey, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated. You turn to face the back of the throne, your hands gripping the carved wood for support. He positions himself behind you, his hands gripping your hips, pulling you back against him. He enters you in a single, smooth thrust, this time with more care, but no less intensity. He is still impossibly big, and you feel a familiar ache as he stretches you, but it's a good ache, a pleasurable ache that speaks of his possession.
He sets a punishing pace, his hips slapping against your ass with each powerful thrust. His hands grip your shoulders, pulling you back to meet his powerful strokes, driving himself deeper and deeper inside you. The sounds of your coupling fill the vast throne room, a symphony of flesh and desire, of gasps and groans and the creaking of the ancient throne.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire, his lips against your ear. "Taking me on my throne. So wanton, so shameless. You are a disgrace to your race, and yet you are the most exquisite creature I have ever laid eyes on."
His words, combined with the feel of him inside you, push you to the edge once more. You can feel another orgasm building, a slow, creeping heat that starts in your toes and spreads through your entire body. He reaches around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts.
"Come for me," he growls, his voice a harsh command. "Come for your king."
You shatter around him, your body shaking with the force of your release. It's a powerful, all-consuming orgasm that leaves you weak and trembling. He follows you over the edge with a loud groan, his body tensing as he spills himself deep inside you for the second time, his hot release a comforting warmth against your inner walls.
He stays inside you for a moment longer, his forehead resting against your back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then he withdraws, helping you to your feet. Your legs are like jelly, and you stumble, but he catches you, pulling you into his arms.
For a moment, his embrace is surprisingly tender. He holds you close, his hand stroking your hair, his touch gentle and caring. You lean into him, your body sated and content, your head resting against his chest. You can feel the steady beat of his heart, a slow, calming rhythm against your ear.
But the moment is fleeting. He pulls away, his expression once again cold and distant. He straightens his robes, his movements precise and economical, as if the passionate, primal creature of moments ago had never existed.
"You should go," he says, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "Before you are missed."
You nod, your heart aching at the sudden change in him. You reach for your discarded dress, your movements slow and clumsy. As you pull it over your head, you turn to look at him one last time. He is already back on his throne, his gaze fixed on some distant point, as if you are no longer in the room.
You slip out of the throne room and into the shadows of the corridor, your body aching and your heart heavy. You are his, body and soul, and you wouldn't have it any other way. But as you make your way back to your humble chambers, you can't help but wonder if you will ever be more to him than just a fleeting pleasure, a temporary distraction in his long, immortal life.
The thought is a bitter pill to swallow, but you push it aside. For now, you have his attention, his touch, his possession. And for you, that is enough.
Pairing: Garrett x OC Citlali Gale & Bella Swan x OC Gabriel Silverwood
Warnings: none really
WC: ~2k
A/N: So basically this takes place during new moon and Garrett was passing by and he meets ofc and falls in love. And Gabriel is the newest addition to Forks PD, and because Bella is super depressed over Edward he tries to set Gabriel and Bella up. 
The forest outside Forks was quiet, but it wasn’t empty. Rain had softened to a mist, settling on the needles of the evergreens, on the damp leaves along the trail. Garrett moved like a shadow between the trees, silent, deliberate. He had no real reason to linger in this small town, no ties, no obligations. Yet something about Forks, with its sleepy streets and muted skies, had drawn him in.
He had been passing through, the road behind him long and winding, the nights lonely and hollow. A place like this, small and quiet, was perfect for hunting—or so he had thought. He hadn’t expected to see her.
Citlali Gale was moving along the trail, boots careful over wet rocks, dark hair catching droplets of mist. She looked like someone out of a painting, impossible to miss even from a distance. Her movements were deliberate, graceful, with a strength that belied her slender frame.
Garrett’s initial instinct, the one honed over centuries of hunger, rose in him immediately. She smelled of blood, of life, of fire barely contained beneath skin. He could have had her, and it would have been easy. One step, one leap, and she would have been his to feed from.
But then he saw her eyes.
She looked at a map in her hands, her brows furrowed in concentration, unaware of the eyes that watched her. And suddenly, Garrett realized that he wasn’t looking at prey anymore.
He was looking at love.
The hunger receded, replaced by something sharper, more thrilling: fascination. And then obsession.
He stepped from the trees, deliberately letting the sound of gravel underfoot announce his presence. She looked up, startled.
“I didn’t expect anyone here,” she said, her voice calm, curious, with just a hint of caution.
“Neither did I,” Garrett said, stepping closer, careful not to provoke fear. He studied her, every detail—the way the rain clung to her hair, the alertness in her eyes, the sharp intelligence in the line of her jaw. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“I’m used to hiking alone,” she replied. Her gaze didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. It was challenging. Intriguing.
Something inside Garrett ached. He had intended to taste her, to take from her without thought. But now, looking at her, he realized he could never harm her. Not when she had already ensnared him completely.
“My name’s Garrett,” he said. “And you are?”
“Citlali Gale,” she answered cautiously, still watching him. “I’m just visiting Forks for a few days.”
He nodded slowly. “I can see why you’d come here. Quiet, small… peaceful.” But peace wasn’t what he found here, not anymore. Peace was impossible as long as she existed.
“I like it here,” she admitted. “It’s… different from college.”
“You’re smart,” he said suddenly, noting the careful way she measured her words, the way she observed him without betraying fear. “I can tell.”
Citlali blinked. “Thank you, I guess.” She glanced at the trail, clearly weighing whether to continue or turn back. Garrett took a step closer, soft, careful, but insistent.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said. “I promise.”
And for the first time in his long, solitary life, he truly meant it.
-
Meanwhile, in Forks proper, the town had been slipping quietly into its usual rhythm, oblivious to the centuries-old predator wandering the woods nearby. Edward was gone. The absence was palpable. Bella had stopped seeing the world in color, had stopped hoping that anything could be right again.
Charlie Swan, aware of his daughter’s fragile state, tried to fill the void in any way he could. That’s why he had been so insistent when Gabriel Silverwood, a young, prodigy rookie cop with a bright future and a strong sense of justice, had been transferred to Forks PD. Charlie had been subtle at first, waiting for the right opportunity.
And now, on one gray afternoon, the opportunity presented itself perfectly.
Bella sat in the diner, staring at the rain sliding down the window, coffee growing cold in front of her. Gabriel slid into the booth opposite her, casual, friendly, carrying the nervous energy of someone who had not entirely expected to be in a small town at all.
“Coffee?” he asked, already ordering one for himself when she didn’t answer.
Bella smiled faintly. “Sure.”
Charlie’s plan had always been obvious, put them together in neutral territory, make conversation easy, and let things develop naturally. Gabriel, unaware of his father-in-law’s—or rather, Charlie’s—agenda, simply wanted to do his job, patrol the small town, and avoid trouble.
But trouble had a way of finding Forks.
-
Back on the hiking trail, Garrett lingered near the edge of a clearing, watching as Citlali paused by a stream. He had observed her long enough to understand that she wasn’t entirely human, not in the conventional sense. He could see the faint trace of her hybrid heritage in the way her body healed quickly from minor scrapes, in the way she carried herself, light and quick. She would be a challenge. And he loved challenges.
He stepped closer again, his movements deliberate and controlled. “You don’t have to walk these trails alone,” he said softly.
She looked at him, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And you?” she asked. “You’re not supposed to be alone either, are you?”
Garrett tilted his head, faint amusement in his eyes. “I’ve learned that solitude can be… comfortable. But this—” He gestured to her, to the way her presence filled the forest like light spilling through trees. “—is not something I can ignore.”
Her lips quirked in a faint smile. “Are you always this dramatic?”
“Only when it matters,” he replied.
The moment stretched, tense and electric, the mist swirling around them. Garrett’s heart, if a vampire could still call it that, pounded in his chest. He had come intending to feed. He left wanting only her.
-
Later that evening, in the diner in town, Gabriel and Bella continued their uneasy but growing camaraderie.
Bella’s phone rang suddenly, a shrill interruption. She frowned at the screen.
“Hello?” she said cautiously.
Heavy breathing. Silence. Then a voice, “If you can guess what I have in my hand, you can have it.”
Bella’s cheeks flushed. “A perv,” she muttered.
Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “Hand me the phone,” he said.
She hesitated, then did as instructed. “Hello?” he said firmly. “If it can fit in one hand, you can freaking keep it.”
Click.
Everyone at the booth laughed, even Bella, a little, despite herself.
-
Garrett watched Citlali from the forest as she returned to town the following day, intrigued, captivated, increasingly obsessed. He shadowed her at a distance, careful not to frighten her, until finally he approached her in the safety of a quiet street.
“I could walk with you,” he offered, voice soft.
Citlali glanced at him warily but sensed the sincerity in his presence. “I suppose that’s… acceptable,” she replied, and for the first time, the two walked together, side by side, the beginnings of trust forming like a fragile bridge between predator and prey.
Weeks passed. Garrett and Citlali grew closer, sharing meals, quiet conversations, and even laughter. He took her on dinners in town, walks along the rainy beaches near La Push, and they discovered small joys that made Forks feel alive again. Every glance, every word, strengthened the bond that had begun the moment he spared her life in the woods.
-
Gabriel, meanwhile, continued to work alongside Charlie, his interest in Bella growing quietly. The lunch incident, combined with the forced proximity, was beginning to create a tension that Charlie observed with quiet satisfaction.
Forks was no longer just a small town. It was a nexus of relationships, secrets, and unspoken desires. The forest whispered of centuries-old hunger and new love. The diner hummed with laughter and conversation, mundane but vital. And Garrett, vampire or not, found himself utterly human in ways he hadn’t allowed himself for decades, because Citlali Gale had seen him, truly seen him, and refused to let him hide behind centuries of solitude.
And so the rain fell, the forest waited, and Garrett, Citlali, Gabriel, and Bella all moved through Forks’ gray streets, chasing shadows, chasing hearts, and discovering that sometimes the most dangerous creatures could also be the ones you loved most.
Warnings: ANGST, Emotional, some spoilers, Return of The King setting
WC: ~2k
A/N: I watched Return of The King for the first time ever……. I am NOT ok
Y/N POV
The Shire was supposed to be gentle.
That was what everyone said when the wars were done, when the banners were taken down, when swords were cleaned and set aside, when songs replaced cries and smoke no longer stained the sky. The Shire was supposed to be a place where wounds closed and memories softened around the edges. A place where heroes could become ordinary again.
But you had learned, very quickly, that some wounds did not care where you lived.
You walked the same roads you had walked before the world broke open. You saw the same hills, the same hedgerows, the same neat round doors tucked into the earth like they had always been there. You laughed with Sam, shared meals with Merry and Pippin, listened to the familiar hum of Hobbiton life settling back into its old rhythm.
And every day, you watched Frodo fade.
He tried to hide it. He always did. Frodo had always been good at that—at carrying things quietly, at smiling when he was in pain, at making his suffering smaller so others would not have to look at it. But you knew him too well. You had known him before Rivendell, before Moria, before Mordor carved its shadow into his bones.
You had walked beside him when his strength failed. You had dragged him up slopes when his legs would no longer obey him. You had held him when the Ring had nearly claimed him for good. And he had done the same for you, more times than either of you ever spoke about.
In the end, you had been each other’s lifeline, two people keeping one another tethered to the world when everything else tried to pull you under.
And somewhere along that long, terrible road, you had fallen in love.
Not the loud kind. Not the kind sung about in taverns or written in pretty poems. It was the quiet kind, the kind that grew in shared glances and steady hands, in the way he always looked for you in a crowd, in the way you always knew when his pain was getting worse before he said a word.
You never said it.
Neither did he.
You both knew.
And that was the cruelest part.
The pain came for him in waves.
Some days he could walk the lanes of the Shire with you and Sam and almost seem like his old self. He would smile, and for a moment you could pretend. Pretend that the weight had lifted, that the darkness had stayed behind in Mordor, that he was only Frodo again and not Frodo-who-had-carried-the-Ring.
Other days, he barely made it out of bed.
You learned the patterns of his suffering like you had once learned the patterns of enemy patrols. You knew which scars hurt when the weather turned. You knew which mornings were the worst, when the memory of the blade at Weathertop and the sting of Shelob’s poison seemed to live again in his nerves.
Those were the days you sat with him in silence.
Sometimes you read to him. Sometimes you just stayed, your shoulder close enough that he could lean against you if he needed to. Sometimes he did. When he did, he always apologized, as if his pain were an inconvenience.
You always told him not to.
Once, on a quiet evening when the Shire was washed in gold and the air smelled like cut grass and summer, he said softly, “You shouldn’t have to stay.”
You looked at him, really looked at him, and felt that familiar ache tighten in your chest. “I want to,” you said. “That’s different.”
He studied your face like he was trying to memorize it. His eyes were tired. Older than they should have been. “You deserve more than this,” he said.
“So do you,” you replied.
And there it was again. That thing you never said. That space between you filled with words that would only make everything hurt more.
You still remembered the mountain.
You remembered the way the ash had burned your lungs, the way the world had felt like it was ending one heartbeat at a time. You remembered Frodo collapsing, the Ring’s weight finally too much even for him.
You remembered grabbing him, screaming his name over the roar of the fire, your hands slipping against his coat as you tried to pull him back from the edge.
You remembered him, weak and shaking, reaching for you even as the Ring called to him louder than anything else.
And you remembered the way he had looked at you when you both thought you were going to die there.
Not with fear.
With regret.
Not for the quest.
For you.
Later, much later, after eagles and white shores and too many tears, you had realized something terrible and tender all at once.
You had both known.
Even then.
Sam married. Merry and Pippin found their places in the world. Life went on, as life always does.
You stayed.
You told yourself it was because Frodo needed you.
That was true.
You just didn’t admit the rest.
You didn’t admit that the idea of leaving him felt like another kind of death. That the Shire without him in it, even fading, even hurting, felt wrong in a way you couldn’t explain.
You helped him write his book. You walked with him when he could manage it. You sat with him when he couldn’t. Some nights, when the pain was bad and sleep wouldn’t come, you stayed by his door, just in case he needed you.
Sometimes he did.
Sometimes he would wake from dreams of fire and darkness and call your name like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
You always came.
And every time, you stayed just a little longer than you should have.
He told you about the ships on a cool morning when the sky was pale and the air felt like it was holding its breath.
“I’m leaving,” he said quietly.
You felt like the ground had tilted under your feet. “Leaving… the Shire?”
“Yes.”
You already knew. You had seen it in his eyes for weeks. That distant look. That quiet acceptance.
But knowing didn’t make it hurt less.
“When?” you asked.
“Soon.”
You nodded, because if you tried to speak, you were afraid your voice would break.
He watched you carefully. “You don’t have to pretend you’re all right.”
You almost laughed at that. Almost. “Neither do you.”
He looked away. “I don’t belong here anymore.”
Your chest tightened. “You belong wherever you want to be.”
He turned back to you then, and for a moment the mask slipped. The pain. The longing. The unspoken things.
“If I stay,” he said softly, “I’ll only keep hurting. And I don’t want you to watch that.”
There it was.
Not I don’t want to hurt.
I don’t want you to see me hurt.
You swallowed. “What if I don’t mind?”
He smiled, and it broke your heart, because it was the kind of smile you gave someone when you were saying goodbye.
“You always did carry more than you should,” he said.
The days after that felt like they were made of glass.
Every moment with him felt fragile. Every laugh, every shared meal, every quiet walk felt like something you would have to carry alone soon.
You started noticing things you had always noticed, but now they felt sharper. The way he pushed himself to walk just a little farther than he should. The way he hid his winces. The way his hand sometimes brushed yours, just barely, like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself at the last second.
You wanted to tell him.
You wanted to tell him everything.
But what would it change?
He was going to leave. You were going to stay. Love didn’t fix that. Love didn’t heal wounds like his. Love didn’t erase what the Ring had done.
Love, you were starting to realize, was just another thing you carried.
The night before he left, you couldn’t sleep.
You found him sitting outside, looking up at the stars like he was trying to remember them.
“You’ll see different ones,” you said quietly, sitting beside him.
“Maybe,” he said. “But I think I’ll miss these.”
You sat in silence for a while.
Then he said, very softly, “Do you ever wish… things had been different?”
Your heart hammered. “Different how?”
He didn’t look at you. “That we had more time. That I was… better.”
You stared at your hands. “I don’t think you needed to be better.”
He finally looked at you then. “I think I did.”
The space between you felt unbearably small.
“You saved me,” he said. “More times than I can count.”
You shook your head. “You saved me too.”
He smiled faintly. “We were good at that. Weren’t we?”
“Yes,” you said, and your voice was not steady. “We were.”
For a moment, you thought he might reach for you. You thought you might finally say it.
Instead, he said, “I’m glad you were with me.”
It wasn’t I love you.
But it was close enough to hurt just as much.
You walked with him to the edge of the Shire.
Sam was there. So were Merry and Pippin. There were hugs, and tears, and brave smiles that didn’t quite work.
When it was your turn, you didn’t know what to do.
So you did what you had always done.
You held him.
He hesitated, just for a second, then held you back. His forehead rested against yours, and for one terrible, beautiful moment, it felt like the world narrowed down to just the two of you again, like it had on the mountain, like it had in all those dark places where you had only had each other.
“I’ll carry you with me,” he whispered.
Your throat burned. “You always do.”
He pulled back, and you saw it then, everything he wasn’t saying, everything you weren’t either.
He turned away before either of you could break.
You watched him go until you couldn’t see him anymore.
The Shire felt too big without him.
And too empty.
You kept walking the same roads. You kept sitting in the same places. You kept expecting to see him just ahead of you, turning back with that small, tired smile.
Sometimes, you dreamed of him.
Sometimes, you woke up with the ache of missing him sitting heavy in your chest.
You told yourself that he was healing. That he was at peace. That this was the right ending for him.
You just didn’t tell yourself how much it hurt that you weren’t part of it.
Years later, on a quiet evening, you sat under the same stars he had once looked at and thought about all the times you had saved each other.
You thought about the way love didn’t always get a happy ending.
Sometimes, it just got remembered.
And somehow, that had to be enough.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Frodo’s POV
They tell you that when the war is over, you are supposed to feel light again.
They tell you the world becomes simple. That you wake up and breathe and the air does not taste like ash, that your hands stop shaking, that your heart forgets the sound of screaming and fire and falling.
They tell you the Shire is gentle.
I believe them.
I just don’t belong to that gentleness anymore.
Some mornings, I wake up and for one quiet, beautiful second, I almost feel normal. The sunlight comes through the window in soft gold bands. I hear birds. I smell bread. For a heartbeat, I am just Frodo Baggins again.
Then the pain remembers me.
It always starts in my chest, like something cold pressing in from the inside. Sometimes it’s the old wound at Weathertop, sometimes it’s Shelob’s poison singing in my veins, sometimes it’s nothing I can name at all, just the weight of memory, heavy as stone.
On those mornings, I lie very still and try not to breathe too deeply.
And I listen for you.
You never make much noise when you come to check on me. You always think I’m asleep. You always hover in the doorway for a moment, like you’re deciding whether to come in or leave me to it.
You always come in.
You sit. Sometimes you read. Sometimes you just stay. Sometimes I lean against you and pretend I don’t need to, and you pretend not to notice how much I do.
You have always been like that. Quiet. Steady. Strong in ways that don’t ask to be seen.
You saved me more times than I can count.
And somehow, that hurts more than the wounds.
I fell in love with you somewhere between fear and fire.
It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t dramatic. It was the slow realization that when everything else was stripped away, comfort, safety, hope, you were still there. That when I could not stand, you carried me. That when I could not choose, you reminded me who I was.
I noticed it in small things.
The way you always walked half a step behind me, watching my back. The way your hand found my sleeve in the dark, like you were afraid I might disappear. The way you said my name, not like a hero’s name, not like a burden’s, but like it was just… me.
I loved you before I ever let myself say the word.
I think you did too.
We never spoke it. We didn’t have to. It lived in the space between us, in the way your eyes searched my face when I was fading, in the way my heart clenched every time you were hurt because of me.
Because it was always because of me.
That is the part no one sings about.
Even in the Shire, even when everything is supposed to be finished, I still feel like I am carrying something that cannot be put down.
Some days are better. I walk with Sam. I laugh with Merry and Pippin. I even write a little.
And then there are days when the world feels too sharp, and every step reminds me of ash and stone and falling.
Those are the days you stay closest.
You never ask me to explain. You never look at me like I am broken. You just… sit with me. Like you always did, in caves and ruins and half-lit camps at the edge of the world.
I try not to lean on you.
I always fail.
When my hand trembles, you steady it. When my breath goes shallow, you remind me to breathe. When the memories come too fast and too loud, you ground me in the present with your quiet voice and your warmer presence.
I see the cost of that in your eyes.
And it terrifies me.
Because I love you.
And loving me has never been safe.
I remember the mountain.
I remember the heat, and the noise, and the way the world felt like it was ending in pieces beneath our feet. I remember falling. I remember your hands on my coat, your voice cutting through the roar like it was the only real thing left.
I remember looking at you and thinking, not for the first time, and not for the last, that if I lost you, I would not survive it.
Not the Ring. Not the fire. Not myself.
You were the last thread holding me to who I was.
Even then, even at the edge of everything, I knew.
If we lived, I would never be able to give you the life you deserved.
That knowledge sits with me in the Shire like a second shadow.
I watch you laugh with Sam. I watch you walk the green roads that once felt like home to me too. I watch you pretend not to notice how often I wince, how quickly I tire, how sometimes I stare at nothing because something terrible is playing behind my eyes.
You deserve a life that is not shaped around my pain.
You deserve mornings that do not start with checking if I am still standing.
And I know, because I know you, that you would choose me anyway.
That is what breaks my heart.
When I decide to leave, I don’t tell anyone at first.
I sit with the thought for weeks, turning it over like a shard of glass in my hand. It hurts. But it hurts less than staying.
Staying means letting you keep sacrificing yourself to my shadows.
Leaving means I only hurt once.
When I finally tell you, your face does exactly what I feared it would do.
You try to be brave.
You try to understand.
You try to hide how much it costs you.
And I almost take it back.
Almost.
“You don’t have to pretend you’re all right,” I tell you.
Because I can see it. Because I always could.
You tell me neither do I, and for a moment, I want to say everything. I want to tell you I love you. I want to tell you I have loved you for longer than I can remember a world without fear. I want to tell you that if I were whole, if I were better, if I were not made of scars and ghosts, I would choose you in every lifetime.
Instead, I tell you I don’t belong here anymore.
It is the truest lie I have ever spoken.
The days before I leave feel unreal.
Every moment with you feels like it is already a memory.
I notice everything. The sound of your footsteps. The way you glance at me when you think I’m not looking. The way your hand almost reaches for mine and then doesn’t.
I want to memorize you.
I want to carry you with me in a way that doesn’t hurt you.
At night, I lie awake and wonder what would happen if I stayed. If I told you. If I let myself be selfish just this once.
The answer is always the same.
You would stay with me.
And you would slowly disappear into my shadow.
I love you too much to let that happen.
The last night, I sit under the stars because I don’t trust myself to sleep.
You find me anyway.
You always do.
We talk about nothing. About everything. About how things might have been different.
When you say you don’t think I needed to be better, something in me almost breaks.
Because you have always seen me more kindly than I deserve.
“I think I did,” I tell you.
What I mean is, I wish I could have been someone who could stay.
I wish I could have been someone who could love you without hurting you.
When I tell you I’m glad you were with me, I am saying everything I am not brave enough to say out loud.
Thank you for saving me.
Thank you for loving me.
I’m sorry I can’t stay.
At the edge of the Shire, everyone is there.
Sam. Merry. Pippin.
And you.
I can handle the others. I can smile. I can hug them. I can promise I will remember.
When it’s you, my resolve almost fails.
You hold me like you always did, like I am something precious, not something broken.
For one terrible, beautiful second, I think: I could stay. I could choose this. I could choose you.
“I’ll carry you with me,” I whisper.
Because it’s true.
Because I already do.
You tell me I always have, and I have to turn away before I lose the courage to leave.
The sea is waiting.
Healing is waiting.
And still, sometimes, when the pain eases and the air is quiet, I think of the Shire.
I think of you.
And I wonder if in another life, one where I did not carry darkness in my bones, I might have stayed.
Warnings: S M U T, MDNI, pregnancy, wrap it before you tap it!!!
WC: 2.7k
A/N: Pretend he’s fainting lol ⬆️
Ned had grown accustomed to the quiet rhythm of his life. Six months after he and Chuck had mutually agreed that their romantic entanglement was too complicated, too fraught with the rules of his strange gift, they had settled into an easy friendship. The Pie Hole was still his sanctuary, a place where his hands could create beauty without the risk of accidental resurrection.
That sanctuary was breached on a Tuesday afternoon when the bell chimed and she walked in. She was all sharp angles and vibrant energy, with a cascade of dark curls that defied gravity and a smile that seemed to light up the bakery's cozy corners.
"The strawberry rhubarb pie smells like heaven," she said, approaching the counter. "Is it as good as it smells?"
Ned blinked, momentarily speechless. People rarely addressed him with such direct warmth. "It's better," he replied, surprised by his own confidence.
"I'm MJ," she said, extending a hand. "Margaret Jackson, but nobody calls me that except my mother when she's mad."
"Ned," he replied, his cheeks flushing as he deliberately reached out and shook her hand. No sparks, no sudden deaths, just the warm, firm grip of a living person. "And the pie is excellent today, if I do say so myself."
MJ ordered a slice, and as she ate, she asked questions about his baking process with genuine interest. Her eyes, the color of rich coffee, didn't leave his as she listened intently. Something about her presence, unapologetic, vibrant, completely unguarded, made Ned's dormant heart flutter.
"You have a gift," she said when she'd finished the last crumb. "Not just for baking, though that's obviously extraordinary. There's something... magical about you, Ned the Pie Maker."
Ned nearly dropped the plate he was wiping. "I... I just make pies," he managed, though his voice cracked slightly.
"I'll be back tomorrow," MJ promised, sliding off the stool. "And I'm going to try the triple berry."
True to her word, she returned the next day, and the day after that. A week later, Ned found himself asking if she'd like to see how he prepared the special of the day.
"I'd love that," she replied, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
That evening, after he'd closed the shop, MJ watched as Ned demonstrated his technique, his fingers moving deftly through flour and butter. The close proximity sent electricity through his veins. When she accidentally brushed his hand reaching for the rolling pin, neither of them pulled away.
"I should probably let you get home," Ned said reluctantly, though he made no move to clean up.
"Or," MJ suggested, her voice dropping slightly, "you could drive me home and we could continue this conversation elsewhere."
The car ride was filled with conversation that flowed as naturally as water. When Ned pulled up outside her apartment building, he turned off the engine, suddenly nervous.
"Would you like to... do this again sometime?"
"I'd like that very much," MJ replied, leaning across the console. "But I was thinking... maybe tonight doesn't have to end just yet."
Her lips met his, and Ned's world tilted off its axis. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent with each passing second. His hands found her waist, pulling her closer as her fingers tangled in his hair.
"Your place or mine?" she whispered against his mouth.
"Mine's... complicated," Ned admitted, thinking of Chuck's apartment above the Pie Hole. "But we could..."
MJ's eyes darted to the back seat. "It's been a while since I've done anything adventurous."
Clothes became an inconvenient obstacle in the confined space. Ned's hands fumbled with the buttons of her blouse, his fingers surprisingly deft for someone who hadn't touched anyone romantically in years. Her skin was warm beneath his palms, and he marveled at the simple sensation of contact.
The car's cramped quarters created an unexpected intimacy. Ned adjusted his seat back, creating room as MJ straddled him. The dome light cast a soft glow, illuminating her face as she looked down at him.
"Are you sure about this?" Ned asked, his breath catching as her hips moved against his.
MJ responded by capturing his mouth again, her tongue exploring his as her hands worked at his belt buckle. The metal clink echoed in the quiet car.
Ned's head fell back against the seat as she freed him, her fingers wrapping around his length with practiced confidence. He watched her through half-lidded eyes, her expression a mixture of desire and something deeper, understanding.
"Do you have...?" she started, then seemed to reconsider. "Actually, never mind. I'm on the pill, and I trust you."
The trust implicit in her statement sent a wave of emotion through Ned that nearly overwhelmed him. He nodded, unable to form words as she positioned herself above him.
Then she was sinking down onto him, and Ned's world narrowed to this sensation, the tight heat of her enveloping him, the way her breath hitched, the soft sounds she made as she began to move. His hands found her hips, guiding her, establishing a rhythm that quickly became frantic.
The car windows began to steam up, obscuring the street lights outside. In this cocoon they'd created, there was only the sound of breathing, skin against skin, the increasingly urgent meeting of bodies.
Ned felt himself approaching the edge much faster than he'd have liked. "I'm—" he started, but MJ seemed to understand, moving faster, her own release building as she rode him with abandon.
When she cried out, shuddering around him, Ned let go, his orgasm crashing through him with surprising intensity. For a moment, they stayed joined, foreheads pressed together as their breathing gradually returned to normal.
"I haven't done that in a car since I was twenty," Ned said with a breathless laugh.
MJ smiled against his skin. "I hope it was worth the backache."
Ned tilted her chin up, kissing her deeply. "More than."
As they rearranged their clothing in the cramped space, Ned felt something he hadn't expected, hope. Maybe this time, it could be simple. Maybe this time, it could last.
"Next time," he said, starting the engine, "we'll use a bed."
MJ squeezed his hand. "I'd like that."
Driving through the quiet streets, Ned realized something profound, for the first time in years, he was looking forward to tomorrow. With MJ beside him, the future seemed less like a series of complications to be avoided and more like an unwritten recipe waiting to be discovered.
When he pulled up to her building again, she turned to him with that same mischievous smile. "Same time tomorrow?"
"Every day," Ned found himself saying. "Every day for the rest of my life."
The words surprised him, but as MJ's face lit up with joy, he knew they were true. Maybe, just maybe, he'd finally found someone whose magic could match his own.
A few weeks passed, the first sign that something was different came in the form of a pie that made MJ gag.
It was a perfectly good lemon meringue, light, fluffy, exactly the kind of thing Ned usually took pride in. He set the plate down in front of her at their usual booth in the Pie Hole, smiling like he always did when he watched someone take the first bite of something he’d made.
MJ stared at it for a long second.
Then she covered her mouth, stood up so fast her chair scraped loudly against the floor, and bolted for the restroom.
Ned froze, dish towel in hand, his brain flipping through a dozen terrible possibilities. Food poisoning? A bad egg? Had he messed up the dairy delivery?
Olive, who had been watching this whole thing with narrowed, curious eyes, leaned over the counter. “You know,” she said lightly, “sometimes that’s not about the pie.”
Ned blinked at her. “What else would it be about?”
Olive raised her eyebrows in a way that suggested she knew exactly what else it might be about.
MJ came back a few minutes later, a little pale but smiling like she was trying to pretend nothing had happened. “Okay,” she said, sliding back into her seat. “So. Funny story. I think I need to go to the pharmacy.”
Ned’s heart started doing a strange, uneven rhythm. “Are you… sick?”
“I’m not sure.” She hesitated, then took his hand across the table. “Ned, when was the last time you and I had a really, really important conversation about timing?”
He stared at her. “We talk about timing all the time. Pies take very precise—”
“Not pie timing,” she said, trying not to laugh. “Life timing.”
That afternoon, after the Pie Hole closed and Olive had been shooed out with a suspiciously knowing look, MJ came back from the drugstore with a small paper bag and a face that was equal parts nervous and glowing.
They stood in Ned’s apartment in silence while she disappeared into the bathroom.
Ned paced.
He paced so much that by the time she came back out, he’d worn an invisible groove into the floor.
She didn’t say anything at first. She just held up the little plastic stick.
Two lines.
Ned stared at it.
Then he sat down very suddenly.
Then he fell over.
MJ shrieked, “NED!” and dropped the test to rush to his side. “Oh my God, don’t you dare die, I am not explaining this to anyone!”
He wasn’t dead. Just unconscious. Briefly.
When he came to, the first thing he saw was MJ’s face hovering over him, eyes wide with worry.
“Did we… did I—?” he started.
“You fainted,” she said. “Very dramatically.”
“Oh.” He blinked, then his eyes flicked to the test lying on the coffee table. “Is that…?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “I’m pregnant.”
The words hung in the air like a bell that had just been rung.
Ned opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m… happy,” he said, sounding like he was testing the words out for size. Then, more firmly, “I’m really happy. I just, my brain needed a second.”
MJ laughed, and there were tears in her eyes. “Good. Because I’m happy too. Terrified. But happy.”
He sat up and pulled her into a careful, reverent hug, like she might shatter. “We made… a person,” he said in awe.
“We did,” she said. “In a very memorable location, I might add.”
His ears turned pink. “The car.”
“The car,” she confirmed.
They told Olive the next morning.
Olive stared at them from behind the counter, mouth slowly falling open. “You’re… you’re… there’s going to be a tiny you?”
“Yes,” MJ said, smiling.
“And you fainted?” Olive asked Ned.
“Yes,” he admitted.
Olive crossed her arms, looked between them, and then, surprisingly, smiled. “Well,” she said, “that’s… actually kind of wonderful. And also completely insane. But mostly wonderful.”
She immediately began making lists. Crib ideas. Baby names. Pie flavors for baby showers. Ned suspected she’d been waiting her whole life for an excuse to do this.
For a few weeks, everything felt unreal in the best possible way. MJ started getting tired earlier. Ned started hovering like an anxious mother hen. The Pie Hole became a little brighter, a little louder, full of whispered plans and half-formed dreams.
And then one morning, Ned walked outside and his parking spot was empty.
He blinked.
He looked left. Looked right.
Blinking again did not make the car reappear.
“No,” he said quietly. Then, louder, “No no no no no.”
MJ came out behind him, coffee in hand. “What’s wrong?”
He turned to her slowly. “The car is gone.”
Her smile faded. “Gone like… moved gone?”
“Gone like… stolen gone.”
They stood there in stunned silence.
Olive poked her head out the door. “Why do you both look like someone just told you they’re out of flour forever?”
“Our car was stolen,” MJ said flatly.
Olive gasped. “Oh no! That’s terrible!
Ned’s face did something complicated, grief, anger, disbelief all tangled together. “That’s where we—” He stopped, glanced at Olive, then cleared his throat. “That’s where… something very important happened.”
MJ finished it for him, her voice sharp with indignation. “That’s where our baby was conceived.”
Olive’s eyes went wide. “They stole the Baby Car?!”
As it turned out, the thief was not some random criminal mastermind.
It was Chuck’s father.
No note. No explanation. Just gone.
Ned was furious in a very quiet, tightly wound way. MJ was furious in a much louder, more expressive way. Olive was furious on their behalf and baked three “anger pies” that day, which mostly involved smashing dough harder than necessary.
“He stole a car,” MJ said, pacing the apartment. “He stole our car. He stole the car with sentimental value.”
Ned nodded. “It had… history.”
“It had our history,” she said. “Who does that?!”
“Someone who doesn’t come back,” Olive said darkly, from the doorway, holding a box of fresh pastries like a peace offering.
They waited. The car never turned up.
Eventually, the anger softened into something more complicated, loss mixed with disbelief and, oddly, a strange kind of humor.
“Well,” MJ said one night, resting her head on Ned’s shoulder, “I guess our kid has a pretty wild origin story.”
Ned smiled a little. “We’ll tell them it was a very… memorable vehicle.”
Olive, of course, told everyone.
Not the details. Just the headlines, Ned’s going to be a dad. MJ’s pregnant. There was a stolen car. It was all very dramatic.
She threw them a small, slightly chaotic celebration at the Pie Hole with a banner that read CONGRATULATIONS, YOU MADE A HUMAN.
Ned turned red. MJ laughed until she had to sit down.
And somewhere in the middle of the flour, the plans, the missing car, and the unexpected future, Ned realized something else too.
His life, once defined by rules and fear and careful distance, was now loud, messy, and full of stolen cars, nosy friends, and a tiny heartbeat he hadn’t even heard yet.
It was terrifying.
It was perfect.
And for the first time, he wasn’t just looking forward to tomorrow.
Warnings: Fluff, S M U T, OFC, p in v, o r a l, MDNI no protection (wrap it before you tap it)
WC: 2.2k
A/N: I don’t like pie but I want one rn🦧
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Several months after Chuck Charles did the bravest and most terrible thing she had ever done, leaving, the Pie Hole went on baking.
It baked on Mondays when the light through the windows was thin and gray and Ned pretended not to notice the empty booth near the door. It baked on Fridays when Olive pretended not to notice Ned noticing that same booth. It baked on Sundays when Emerson Cod came in, sat down, and announced he would die if he had to eat one more pear pie without some decent conversation.
Time moved forward, which was rude of it, but also necessary.
Ned, the pie maker, had learned how to live in the quiet space Chuck left behind. Not well. Not gracefully. But he lived in it. He polished counters that were already clean. He re-aligned sugar jars that were already straight. He baked pies that were, as always, perfect, flaky crusts, glossy fillings, precise latticework that looked like it had been measured with a ruler and a prayer.
And yet, the Pie Hole felt… unfinished. Like a sentence that ended with a comma instead of a period.
Then, one Tuesday morning, something new appeared two doors down.
It was an art shop.
It arrived overnight the way all important things do in this city, quietly and without permission. The windows were tall and bright, painted white around the frames, and inside there were canvases stacked like leaning towers, jars of brushes, trays of charcoal, and a hand-painted sign that read:
BYRNE & BLOT — FINE ART, ILLUSTRATION, AND COMMISSIONS
Olive noticed it first, of course.
“Ooh,” she said, pressing her face to the Pie Hole window like a cat who had spotted a very interesting bird. “We have a new neighbor. And it’s artsy. That means interesting people. Possibly tragic people. Definitely people who wear scarves when it’s not cold.”
Ned glanced over, followed her gaze, and nodded. “As long as they don’t track paint into the shop.”
Emerson snorted into his coffee. “Kid, if they track paint in here, you charge them extra. Call it ambiance.”
The door to the art shop opened.
And then she stepped out.
Her hair was dark, long, and glossy, like ink poured over silk. It fell down her back in soft waves, catching the sunlight like it was personally acquainted with it. Her eyes, when she turned her head just slightly, were the kind of blue that made the sky look underqualified for the job. Not the sharp, icy kind. The deep, impossible kind, like someone had taken the ocean and taught it how to be gentle.
She wore paint-splattered jeans, a loose white blouse with rolled-up sleeves, and she was carrying a cardboard box full of brushes like it was something fragile and important.
Ned froze.
Which was impressive, considering he was in the middle of pulling a pie out of the oven.
Olive followed his line of sight. Her eyebrows went up. Then higher.
“Oh,” she said slowly. “Oh no.”
“What?” Ned asked, still staring.
“That,” Olive said, “is the look. The one you get. The one where you forget how your hands work.”
Ned blinked. Looked down. Realized he was still holding the oven mitts three inches above the counter, unmoving.
He set them down. Carefully.
The woman turned toward the Pie Hole, as if the universe had tugged gently on her sleeve and said, Go there. She hesitated for half a second, then smiled to herself and crossed the street.
The bell above the Pie Hole door chimed.
Ned looked up.
She looked back.
And for one very strange, very quiet moment, the world felt like it had just taken a careful breath.
“Hi,” she said.
Her voice was warm. Not loud. Not shy. Just… warm, like the first sip of coffee on a cold morning.
“Hi,” Ned said back, and immediately wished he’d said something better. Or at least longer.
Olive leaned on the counter, grinning. “Welcome to the Pie Hole! What can we get you, mysterious beautiful stranger who has just knocked the pie maker’s soul directly out of his body?”
Ned shot her a look.
The woman laughed. It was easy and surprised, like she hadn’t planned to but was glad she did.
“I’m Katarina,” she said. “Katarina Byrne. I just opened the art shop next door. And I smelled pie. Which felt like a sign from… something.”
“Fate,” Emerson muttered from his booth. “Or cholesterol.”
Katarina smiled at him too, like she collected smiles and gave them out generously.
“Well,” Ned said, clearing his throat, “we have… a lot of pie.”
“Good,” she said. “Then I’m in the right place.”
She ordered a slice of peach and a cup of coffee. When Ned set the plate in front of her, their fingers didn’t touch, but they came close enough that he felt it anyway. Like a spark that didn’t burn, just… lit something up.
She took a bite. Closed her eyes.
“Oh,” she said again, this time like it meant something completely different. “This is… wow.”
Ned’s ears went pink. Olive noticed. Olive always noticed.
They talked. About the shop. About how she’d studied art and illustration, about moving to the city because she needed somewhere that felt bigger than her doubts. About how she liked painting people’s hands because hands told the truth even when faces lied.
Ned listened like every word mattered. Because, suddenly, it did.
When she left, she waved. “I’ll be back,” she said. “For more pie. And maybe… a sketch of this place, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” Ned said.
He minded a lot, actually. In a good way.
She came back the next day. And the day after that.
Sometimes she brought her sketchbook and sat in the corner booth, drawing Olive in dramatic poses or Emerson in exaggerated scowls. Sometimes she just came in for coffee and a slice of whatever Ned had baked that morning.
They started talking more. Really talking.
Katarina told him about growing up in a house where her parents had wanted her to be practical, and she had wanted to be honest. About how art was the only thing that ever made her feel like she wasn’t pretending. Ned told her about baking. About his father. About how some things, once touched, couldn’t be touched again.
He didn’t tell her why.
Not yet.
They started walking together after closing time. Just around the block at first. Then farther. They shared fries. They argued gently about whether museums were better quiet or alive with noise. She teased him about how precise he was. He admired how messy her hands always were, smudged with charcoal or paint like proof she’d been making something real.
One evening, as the sun was turning the sky into a watercolor of oranges and purples, she stopped in front of her shop and looked at him.
“Can I draw you?” she asked.
Ned blinked. “I… don’t think I’m very… drawable.”
She smiled. “Everyone is.”
So he sat on a stool in her shop while she worked, light spilling through the windows, the room smelling faintly of turpentine and coffee. She watched him like she was learning a new language. He tried not to move. He failed. She laughed and kept going anyway.
When she showed him the sketch, he barely recognized himself.
He looked… softer. Kinder. Like someone worth noticing.
“That’s not—” he started.
“That is,” she said gently. “That’s how you look when you’re not trying to disappear.”
Something in his chest shifted.
They started dating without ever really announcing it.
There were dinners that weren’t dates but felt like they were. There were hands brushing. There were moments where they stood too close and didn’t step away. Then, one night, outside the Pie Hole, under a flickering streetlight, she kissed him.
It was careful. And sweet. And it felt like saying yes to something he’d been afraid to want.
Weeks passed. They grew into each other’s lives.
And then came the night Ned decided she needed to know.
It was Olive who started it, really.
They were in the Pie Hole after hours. Emerson was there because Emerson was always there. Katarina was perched on a stool, sketching the pie display because she said the cherry pies looked “dramatic.”
“So,” Olive said casually, wiping down the counter. “Katarina, how do you feel about secrets?”
Katarina looked up. “Depends. Are they fun secrets or murder secrets?”
Emerson choked on his coffee.
Ned winced. “It’s… complicated.”
They told her.
About the touching. About the waking the dead. About the cases. About the rules.
Katarina listened. She didn’t interrupt. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t leave.
When they finished, she sat very still for a moment.
Then she said, “Okay.”
“Okay?” Olive repeated.
“Okay,” Katarina said. “That explains… a lot, actually. And also raises several follow-up questions. But… okay.”
“You’re not… freaked out?” Ned asked quietly.
She stood, walked over, and took his hands, paint-stained, warm.
“I paint things that aren’t there yet,” she said. “I think I can handle things that don’t make sense.”
So, naturally, she came along on the next case.
It involved a dead magician, a missing will, and a suspiciously clean alleyway. Katarina took notes. She sketched the crime scene. She noticed details the rest of them missed, like the way the chalk outline didn’t quite match the body, and how one of the posters nearby had been torn recently.
Emerson called her “Art Girl” and pretended not to be impressed.
They solved it.
On the walk back, Katarina slipped her hand into Ned’s.
“Your life is weird,” she said fondly.
“I know,” he said.
“I like it,” she added.
Later, back at his place, things were soft and quiet and close and thick with the scent of flour and sugar that always clung to Ned, a familiar aroma that was now being challenged by the sharp, clean scent of Katarina's rain-kissed coat. The door clicked shut, sealing them away from the damp chill of the night and the lingering horror of the case.
Katarina shed her coat, letting it puddle on the floor. She moved with a fluid grace that Ned, in his current state of rigid tension, could only admire.
"Come here," she whispered, her voice a low balm.
He went, his body moving on autopilot until he was standing before her. She reached up, her fingers cool against his heated skin as she traced the line of his jaw. Her thumbs brushed over his lips, and he let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he was holding. She leaned in and replaced her thumbs with her mouth, her kiss soft at first, a gentle questioning. It was an invitation. He answered by parting his lips, deepening the kiss, his hands finally unclenching to grip her hips, pulling her flush against him. The soft wool of her sweater was a rough texture against his shirt, and the friction sent a jolt straight through him.
He could feel the soft curve of her breasts pressing against his chest, the heat of her pelvis aligned with his rapidly growing erection. The kiss became hungry, desperate. It wasn't about comfort anymore, it was about obliteration. He wanted to erase the day, the smell of yeast and death, with the taste of her. His tongue swept into her mouth, claiming, exploring, and she met him stroke for stroke, her own desire rising to match his. Her hands slid from his jaw, down his chest, her fingers deftly unbuttoning his shirt. He shivered as her nails scraped lightly over his nipples, pebbling them into tight buds.
She pushed the shirt off his shoulders, and it joined her coat on the floor. Her gaze roamed over his chest, appreciating the lean muscle, the smattering of dark hair that narrowed down to the waistband of his jeans. Her eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide with lust. She leaned in, her tongue darting out to taste the salt of his skin, swirling around one nipple before she gently bit down. A guttural groan escaped Ned's throat, his hands fisting in the material of her sweater. He needed more. He needed her.
With a surge of impatience, he grabbed the hem of her sweater and yanked it over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra, and the sight of her, her full breasts rosy and tipped with hard, dusky nipples, made his mouth water. He cupped one, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, reveling in the way she arched into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips. He lowered his head, taking the other nipple into his mouth, suckling hard, his tongue flicking against the taut nub. Her fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to her as he lavished attention on her breasts, alternating between them until she was panting, her hips rocking against his in a silent, desperate plea.
"Bed," she gasped out, the word barely coherent.
He didn't need to be told twice. He scooped her up, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carried her towards the bedroom. He fumbled with the doorknob, his hands trembling with a combination of lingering adrenaline and raw need. He managed to get the door open and stumbled inside, lowering her onto his bed. She landed with a soft bounce, her hair a dark halo against the pale blue sheets. He stood there for a moment, just looking at her, his chest tight with a wave of emotion so powerful it almost brought him to his knees. She was his anchor in the storm, his safe harbor.
She propped herself up on her elbows, her eyes never leaving his as she hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her leggings. "Aren't you a little overdressed, pie maker?" she asked, a slow, sultry smile spreading across her face.
He shed his jeans and boxers in one fluid motion, his cock springing free, thick and hard and already leaking a bead of precum. Her gaze dropped to his erection, and her smile widened. She slowly peeled off her leggings and the scrap of lace that served as her underwear, revealing herself to him. She was a vision, her skin flushed, her thighs parted slightly, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of the glistening pink folds of her sex.
He crawled onto the bed, his body covering hers, his weight a welcome pressure. He kissed her again, a deep, drugging kiss that stole the air from her lungs. His hands roamed her body, mapping every curve, every dip, every valley. He caressed her thighs, his thumbs stroking the soft skin on the inside, inching higher and higher until he was brushing against the damp heat of her core.
He broke the kiss, his lips trailing a path down her neck, her collarbone, her sternum. He paused at her navel, his tongue dipping into the shallow indent, tasting her. She writhed beneath him, her hands gripping his shoulders, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He continued his downward journey, his lips and tongue leaving a trail of fire in their wake. He settled between her thighs, his shoulders nudging her legs wider apart.
He looked up at her, his eyes meeting hers, a silent question passing between them. She answered by lacing her fingers through his hair and gently urging him down. He didn't hesitate. He lowered his head, his tongue darting out to taste her. She was wet and slick, her juices sweet and tangy on his tongue. He licked her from her entrance to her clit, a long, slow swipe that made her cry out. He did it again, and again, his movements deliberate, teasing. He wanted to drive her wild, to make her forget everything but the pleasure he was giving her.
He focused on her clit, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bundle of nerves, his lips closing around it to suck gently. He alternated between light, feathery licks and firm, hard suction, gauging her reactions, learning what she liked best. Her hips were moving now, rocking against his face, her breath coming in ragged pants. He slid a finger inside her, then another, curling them upwards to find that rough, patch of skin on her front wall.
He found it, and she bucked against him, a loud, unrestrained cry tearing from her throat. He began to pump his fingers in and out of her, his tongue working her clit in a relentless, rhythmic assault. He could feel her inner walls beginning to flutter, a sure sign she was close. He increased the pressure, his movements becoming faster, harder. He wanted to push her over the edge, to feel her come apart on his tongue.
With a final, strangled cry, she shattered. Her body convulsed, her back arching off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her. He rode it out with her, his tongue and fingers slowing their movements as she came down from her high. When she was finally still, he pulled back, his face glistening with her juices. He crawled back up her body, his eyes dark with satisfaction.
She was still breathing heavily, her skin flushed and damp with sweat. She looked at him, her eyes hazy with sated pleasure. "Your turn," she murmured, a mischievous glint in her eye.
Before he could react, she rolled them over, straddling his hips. She leaned down, her breasts brushing against his chest as she kissed him, her tongue tangling with his, tasting herself on his lips. She reached between them, her hand wrapping around his cock, her fingers stroking him from base to tip. He groaned, his hips bucking up into her touch.
She positioned herself over him, the head of his cock nudging against her slick entrance. She held his gaze as she slowly lowered herself onto him, taking him in inch by delicious inch. He watched himself disappear inside her, the sight almost enough to undo him right then and there. She was so tight, so wet, so hot. It was pure, unadulterated bliss.
When he was fully seated inside her, she paused, her inner walls clamping down around him. He could feel her pulse, a rapid, frantic beat that matched his own. Then she began to move, her hips rising and falling in a slow, sensual rhythm. She placed her hands on his chest for leverage, her nails digging into his skin as she rode him.
He watched her, mesmerized by the sight of her, her head thrown back, her breasts bouncing with every movement, her face a mask of pure ecstasy. He reached up, his hands cupping her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. She leaned into his touch, her movements becoming more fluid, more confident. She ground her hips against his, the friction sending jolts of pleasure through both of them.
He could feel his own orgasm building, a tight coil of heat low in his belly. He wanted to make her come again, to feel her fall apart around him. He slid a hand between her legs, his thumb finding her clit. He began to rub it in tight, firm circles, matching the rhythm of her hips. The dual sensation of his cock filling her and his thumb on her clit was enough to send her hurtling towards the edge again. Her movements became erratic, her breath hitching in her throat. She was close, so close.
"Come with me, Ned," she gasped, her voice a ragged plea.
That was all it took. The sound of his name on her lips, the raw need in her voice, was his undoing. He bucked his hips up to meet her downward stroke, driving himself deeper inside her, his thumb pressing down hard on her clit. With a loud, shuddering cry, she came, her inner walls clamping down around him like a vise, her body convulsing with the force of her orgasm.
The feel of her pulsing around him was the last straw. With a guttural groan that was torn from the depths of his soul, Ned let go. He exploded inside her, his release a powerful, searing wave that ripped through him, leaving him breathless and spent. He pumped into her, his body jerking with the force of his climax, filling her with his hot, thick seed.
For a long moment, they were frozen, their bodies locked together, the only sound in the room their ragged gasps for air. Then, slowly, Katarina collapsed onto his chest, her body boneless and sated. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close, his face buried in the sweet-scented mass of her hair.
They lay there in the aftermath, their bodies still humming with the echoes of their lovemaking. The silence wasn't empty, it was full, a comfortable, contented blanket woven from shared breath and the steady, reassuring beat of their hearts. The horror of the day, the scent of yeast and death, was gone, completely and utterly banished by the scent of their sex, the taste of their sweat, the feel of their skin.
Ned stroked her back, his hand tracing lazy circles on her damp skin. He could feel the tension that had been coiling in his gut all day finally unwind, leaving him feeling loose and limp and utterly content. He was home. This was his sanctuary, not the four walls of his apartment, but the woman in his arms.
He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head, his lips lingering against her hair. "I love you," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. It wasn't just a declaration, it was a fact, as real and as true as the flour in his pantry, as the sugar in his pies.
She tilted her head back, her eyes soft and hazy in the dim light. A slow, contented smile spread across her face. "I love you too, Ned." She snuggled closer, her cheek resting against his chest. "Now," she whispered, her voice a playful purr, "how about a pie? I'm thinking... raspberry and cream cheese. With a lattice top."
A real, genuine laugh rumbled in Ned's chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy. He tightened his arms around her, pulling her even closer. "Raspberry and cream cheese it is," he agreed, his heart full. "But first, we sleep."
And as he drifted off to sleep, his body sated and his soul at peace, he knew that no matter what nightmares the world threw at him, he would always have this. He would always have her. And for now, that was more than enough.
Ned came in early the next morning, as he always did, keys in hand and plans already forming in his head. He stopped short when he saw the counter.
In the very center sat a pie he definitely hadn’t made.
The crust was a work of art, literally. Delicate, interwoven designs curled across the top like vines, tiny leaves shaped from dough pressed carefully into the edges, and fine cutouts that let hints of deep berry filling show through like stained glass. The glaze caught the light from the window and made the whole thing look almost too beautiful to eat.
Almost.
“Katarina?” he called.
She appeared from the back, hands dusted with flour, hair a little messy, eyes bright with barely-contained excitement. “Before you say anything, yes, I was here early, and no, I didn’t break anything. I just… had an idea.”
He stared at the pie. Then at her. Then back at the pie.
“You did this?” he asked, like he needed to hear it out loud.
She nodded, suddenly a little shy. “I thought… what if the pies could look the way they feel? Special. Like they’re telling a story before anyone even cuts into them.”
He walked closer, examining the careful lines, the tiny details, the patience baked into every inch of it.
“It’s perfect,” he said quietly.
Her smile spread, slow and warm. “So… you don’t hate it?”
“I love it,” he said, and he meant more than just the pie.
And so, the Pie Hole changed again.
Not in its bones. But in its details.
Suddenly there were pies that looked like sunsets. Pies with delicate leaves and braided constellations. Pies with swirling patterns that made people stop and stare before they ever picked up a fork. Customers came in for dessert and left talking about art.
Ned watched Katarina work, hands steady, eyes focused, turning crust and filling into something beautiful where there had already been something good.
And for the first time in a long time, the Pie Hole didn’t feel like it was missing anything at all.
Summary: The facts are these: after Chuck left, Ned feels empty and very depressed. All of that changes when a certain someone shows up unexpectedly.
A/N: I had sm fun writing this, idk if it’s good but it’s wtv I guess.
The morning Chuck left, the sun still came up.
Ned noticed that right away. He stood in the kitchen of his little apartment, holding a mug of coffee he had already forgotten to drink, and watched the light move across the wall like it always did. The world, it seemed, did not care very much about heartbreak. It kept going. The clock kept ticking. The birds kept making too much noise.
Chuck’s side of the closet was empty.
Not a little empty. Not “she took a few things and will come back later” empty. It was the kind of empty that looked final. Clean hangers. Bare shelves. No yellow dresses. No shoes lined up like careful soldiers. No bright scarves that always seemed to fall down no matter how neatly she folded them.
Ned stood there longer than he should have. He told himself he was just taking inventory. That was a normal thing. He liked order. He liked knowing where things were.
But really, he was just trying to understand how a person could take up so much space in your life, and then suddenly… not.
They hadn’t fought. Not really. That almost made it worse.
Chuck had sat at the tiny table the night before, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea she didn’t drink, and said, “Ned, I love you. But I don’t think I can keep living like this.”
Living like this meant, no touching, no accidents, no falling asleep in each other’s arms, no simple, easy closeness. Living like this meant loving someone through glass.
“I’m tired,” she had said softly. “And I don’t want to be tired anymore.”
Ned had nodded, because he always nodded when things were too big to argue with. He had said, “I understand,” even though his chest felt like someone had reached inside and folded his heart the wrong way.
She kissed him on the cheek, careful, always careful, and left.
Now she was gone.
So Ned did what he always did when things were broken and he didn’t know how to fix them.
He went to work.
The Pie Hole smelled like sugar and butter and warm fruit, which was good, because it always did. Some things, at least, stayed the same.
Ned tied on his apron with the same neat knot. He lined up his tools. He checked the ovens. He moved through the space like a person following lines only he could see.
Olive was already there, wiping down the counter and humming to herself in a way that meant she was pretending not to notice things. She was very good at pretending not to notice things.
She looked up and smiled too fast. “Morning, Ned! You’re… early. Or on time. Or maybe I’m just early. Hard to say, really. Time is sort of… bendy.”
Ned gave her a small smile. “Good morning, Olive.”
She studied his face for half a second longer than usual. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” he said, which was not true, but it was easy, and easy was better than honest sometimes.
Olive nodded, then immediately started talking again, because silence made her nervous. “So, um, there’s a new office opening across the street. Something with… soil? Or bugs? Or soil bugs? Anyway, they put up balloons yesterday and one of them got stuck in a tree and I thought about getting it down but then I remembered I don’t climb trees because of that one time—”
“Olive,” Ned said gently.
“Right. Sorry. I’ll go make coffee.” She turned too fast and nearly ran into the coffee machine.
Ned watched her for a moment, then turned back to his pies.
Work was good. Work made sense. Apples went here. Dough went there. Timers were set. Things either baked or they didn’t. There were rules.
People were harder.
By mid-morning, the Pie Hole had its usual slow, steady flow of customers. A couple at the corner table. A man reading the paper. Someone who always ordered cherry and never finished it.
Ned was frosting a lemon meringue when he heard a sound outside that did not belong to the Pie Hole.
It was loud. Low. Like a growl made of metal.
He frowned and looked up.
Through the front window, he saw a motorcycle roll past, slow down, and then stop right in front of the shop.
The rider didn’t get off right away.
Olive noticed too. She leaned over the counter, squinting. “Is that… is that a motorcycle? We don’t usually get those. Do we get those? I feel like we don’t get those.”
The rider swung one leg off the bike and stood up.
He was tall. Very tall. Even from inside, that was obvious.
He wore a black motorcycle jacket, dark jeans, gloves, and a helmet with a tinted visor. For a second, he just stood there, looking up at the sign like he was making sure this was the right place.
Then he reached up and took off the helmet.
Olive froze.
Actually, she did not freeze. Freezing would have been quiet.
She gasped.
Not a small gasp. A full, dramatic, “oh no, I was not prepared for this” kind of gasp.
The coffee pot in her hand tilted.
Coffee went everywhere.
“Ned,” she said, a little breathless, a little panicked, “there is a very, very handsome man outside.”
Ned glanced up automatically, then wished he hadn’t, because his brain did something strange, like it tripped over its own feet.
The man outside had blonde lucious hair that looked like it never quite listened to a comb. His face was sharp in a soft way, if that made sense. Strong jaw, kind blue eyes, a mouth that looked like it knew how to smile even when the rest of him didn’t feel like it.
He was also, as Olive had correctly noticed, very tall.
“Olive,” Ned said, “you’re spilling coffee.”
She looked down. “Oh. Right. Sorry. But, Ned, look at him. He’s like… a tall drink of water. Or… a tall slice of cake. Is that a thing? Can people be cake?”
“Please clean the counter,” Ned said.
She did, but she kept peeking.
Outside, the man put the helmet on the seat of the bike and stretched like he’d been riding for a long time. Then he turned and started walking toward the door.
At the exact same time, Ned stepped outside with a box of old menus he meant to throw away.
They collided.
Not gently.
The box went one way. The helmet rolled the other. Ned stumbled back and nearly tripped over the step.
“Oh—! I’m so sorry,” Ned said at the same time the other man said, “Whoa, sorry—!”
They both stopped.
They both looked at each other.
Up close, the man’s eyes were a clear, calm gray. He blinked once, like he was making sure Ned was real.
“You okay?” the man asked.
“Yes. Are you?” Ned said.
“Yeah. I mean. I think so. Nothing broken. Except maybe my dignity.”
Ned almost smiled. Almost.
“I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Ned said. “That was my fault.”
The man shook his head. “Nah. I kind of just… walked right into you. First day in town. Good start.”
“First day?” Ned repeated.
“Yeah. Just moved here. From Texas.” He stuck out a hand. “Gabriel. Gabriel Silverwood.”
Ned took his hand without thinking. Gabriel’s grip was warm and solid. “Ned. Ned the Pie Maker.”
Gabriel’s mouth twitched. “That’s… a very honest name.”
“It saves time,” Ned said.
Behind them, the door flew open.
Olive leaned out, eyes wide. “Ned, are you alive? Because I just heard a noise that sounded like you not being alive and I was very concerned and also—oh.”
She saw Gabriel.
Her brain visibly stopped working.
“Hi,” Gabriel said, friendly and a little unsure.
Olive straightened up, smoothed her hair, and said, “Hello. Welcome to the Pie Hole. I’m Olive. I work here. And I make coffee. Usually in cups. Not on counters.”
Gabriel smiled. It was an easy smile. “Nice to meet you, Olive.”
She swallowed. “You too.”
Ned cleared his throat. “Do you… want to come in? I mean. Since you’re already here. And since I almost… assaulted you with a box.”
“You did not,” Gabriel said. “But yeah. I’d like that.”
Inside, Olive hovered like a nervous bird.
“So,” she said, way too fast, “what brings you to our little corner of the world, Gabriel-from-Texas?”
Gabriel sat at the counter and set his helmet at his feet. “Work, mostly. I restore old signs. Neon signs, painted signs, stuff like that. There’s this company a few blocks over that buys broken ones and fixes them up. They needed someone who could do both metal and paint. I needed a change.”
“A change from Texas?” Olive asked.
He nodded. “Too hot. Too loud. Too many memories.”
Ned felt something in his chest tighten at that, though he wasn’t sure why.
Olive slid him a menu. “Well, you came to the right place for pie. And… emotional recovery, probably. We have a lot of feelings here. Mostly mine. But also… pie.”
Gabriel laughed. “I’ll take whatever you recommend.”
Olive looked at Ned like she was waiting for him to say something poetic.
“Apple,” Ned said. “It’s… reliable.”
“Apple it is,” Gabriel said.
As Ned went to cut the pie, he felt something strange and uncomfortable and not entirely bad sitting just behind his ribs.
It wasn’t happiness.
It wasn’t sadness.
It was more like… attention. Like the world had shifted one inch to the left, and he had to notice it.
He told himself it was nothing.
Chuck had only left yesterday.
Gabriel came back the next day.
And the day after that.
Sometimes on the bike. Sometimes on foot. Always around the same time. Always polite. Always smiling at Olive, and always, somehow, talking more to Ned.
He asked about the pies. About the town. About the weird, wonderful habits of the people who came in every day.
Ned answered. Because answering was easier than thinking.
They started talking about small things. Music. Movies. The best kind of bread. The worst kind of weather.
Gabriel was not a morning person. That became clear very fast.
One morning, he came in with messy hair, dark circles under his eyes, and said, “If anyone tries to talk to me before this pie hits my system, I might cry.”
“Thank you,” Gabriel said, like it meant more than just coffee.
They didn’t touch. Ned didn’t touch anyone. But sometimes Gabriel stood close, and that strange feeling in Ned’s chest came back.
He told himself it was just loneliness.
He told himself a lot of things.
By the end of the first week, Gabriel Silverwood had a regular seat at the counter.
Not officially. There was no sign. No nameplate. But everyone at the Pie Hole knew that around late morning, the tall guy from Texas would show up, order pie, and talk to Ned like they had known each other longer than they actually had.
Olive noticed this. Olive noticed everything.
She stood behind the counter one day, arms crossed, watching the way Gabriel leaned slightly forward when Ned talked. The way he listened, really listened, like Ned was saying something important even when he was just explaining why peach pie was tricky in winter.
Olive cleared her throat. Loudly.
“So,” she said, sliding a plate in front of Gabriel, “do you, uh, always sit here? Or is this, like, your… emotional support counter?”
Gabriel smiled. “It’s got good pie and good company. Seems like a solid deal.”
Olive’s smile twitched. “Right. Company.”
She glanced at Ned. Ned did not notice. Ned was carefully adjusting the edge of a crust like it was a very serious problem that needed his full attention.
Olive sighed in a way that meant she was building a story in her head and did not like how it was going.
Gabriel’s job turned out to be just as interesting as he’d said. Sometimes he came in with paint on his hands or smelling faintly like metal and dust.
“One of the old motel signs on Grant Street,” he told Ned one day, “the big one with the arrow? It’s been dead for years. We’re trying to bring it back. Or at least make it look less like it died in a sad way.”
“That seems… nice,” Ned said. “Making broken things work again.”
Gabriel looked at him for a second longer than usual. “Yeah. It does.”
That look stayed with Ned all day.
At night, in his apartment, Ned found himself thinking about it while he washed dishes that didn’t really need washing.
He also thought about Chuck.
That part hurt more.
Sometimes the thoughts mixed together in ways that made him feel guilty, even though he hadn’t done anything wrong.
He told himself, Gabriel is just a friend. You are allowed to have friends. You are allowed to talk to people.
But his chest didn’t seem fully convinced.
Olive, on the other hand, had come to a different conclusion.
It happened on a Thursday.
Gabriel came in, tired and quiet, and Ned noticed right away.
“Long day?” Ned asked.
Gabriel nodded and rubbed his eyes. “Yeah. I am… not built for mornings. Or long meetings. Or meetings in the morning. Honestly, I’m not sure what I am built for before noon.”
Ned smiled. Actually smiled. “I can make you something stronger than coffee.”
“You are a hero,” Gabriel said seriously.
Olive watched this exchange like someone watching a movie she did not like the ending of.
Later, when Gabriel went to the bathroom, she leaned across the counter.
“So,” she said, “just checking, he’s your friend, right?”
“Yes,” Ned said. “Of course.”
“Not… a thing?”
“There is no thing,” Ned said quickly. Too quickly.
Olive raised an eyebrow. “Because if it was a thing, I would like to know. For… emotional safety reasons.”
“It’s not a thing,” Ned said.
Olive studied his face. Then she sighed.
“Okay,” she said. “Cool. Great. Fantastic. Because he is very handsome, and I did have a brief moment where I thought maybe the universe was finally being nice to me, but then I watched the way he looks at you when you talk about pie crust and… yeah. That’s not a ‘wants Olive’ look.”
Ned blinked. “He doesn’t, what?”
Olive pointed at him. “He looks at you. Like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you’re… interesting. And you are interesting, Ned, but usually people only notice that after at least three slices of pie.”
Ned did not know what to say to that.
So he said nothing.
And Olive, for once, let it go.
A few days later, Gabriel came in with news.
“I bought a bike,” he said, sitting down like this was a normal thing to announce.
“You already have a bike,” Olive said.
“Another one,” Gabriel said. “The old one was… borrowed. Long story. This one is mine.”
Ned looked up. “A motorcycle?”
“Yeah.”
Ned’s mouth did something uncomfortable. “I don’t… really like motorcycles.”
Gabriel tilted his head. “Why?”
“They’re loud,” Ned said. “And fast. And… you’re very exposed. It seems… unsafe.”
Gabriel smiled a little. “That’s kind of the point.”
Ned did not like that answer.
The motorcycle showed up two days later.
It was dark and shiny and looked like it belonged in a movie where people made bad choices and then learned lessons.
Olive stood in the window and watched Gabriel park it.
“Well,” she said, “if he dies, I call his helmet.”
“Olive,” Ned said.
“I’m kidding. Mostly.”
Gabriel came in, helmet under his arm, looking a little proud and a little tired.
“So?” he asked. “What do you think?”
“It’s… very… motorcycle,” Ned said.
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They sat. They talked. They ate pie.
And somewhere between the second cup of coffee and the last bite of crust, Gabriel said, “You should come for a ride sometime.”
Ned laughed. A short, surprised sound. “No.”
“Why not?”
“I told you. I don’t like them.”
“You don’t like them because you’ve never tried,” Gabriel said.
“That is not true. I don’t like skydiving either, and I’ve never tried that.”
Gabriel grinned. “Not the same.”
“Feels the same,” Ned said.
Gabriel didn’t push. Not then.
But he did bring it up again.
And again.
Meanwhile, Ned’s feelings were getting harder to ignore.
He noticed things now.
The way Gabriel always held the door for people. The way he listened. The way he sometimes looked tired but still showed up anyway.
And he noticed, too, how he felt when Gabriel wasn’t there.
The Pie Hole felt… quieter. Bigger. Like a room after someone moves the furniture.
One evening, as he was closing up, he caught himself thinking, I should tell Gabriel about this new cherry filling.
That thought felt strange.
And important.
And a little scary.
The next week, it rained.
Not a gentle rain. A loud, messy, soak-you-through rain.
Ned expected Gabriel not to come.
But he did.
He came in dripping, hair plastered to his forehead, jacket dark with water.
Olive handed him a towel like she had been waiting for this moment her whole life.
“You’re going to catch something,” she said.
“Already caught it,” Gabriel said. “It’s called bad planning.”
Ned brought him coffee. “You didn’t have to come in.”
“Yeah,” Gabriel said. “I did.”
Something about the way he said it made Ned’s chest feel tight again.
Later, when the rain slowed, Gabriel looked at him and said, “Come on. Just once. Let me take you for a short ride. Around the block. If you hate it, I will never ask again.”
Ned hesitated.
He thought about Chuck. About how small his world had gotten. About how careful he had been for so long.
“Okay,” he said finally. “But just around the block.”
Gabriel’s smile was slow and bright. “Deal.”
They stood outside in the cool, wet air.
Gabriel handed him a helmet. “You’ll be safe. I promise.”
Ned put it on like it might explode.
He climbed on behind Gabriel, stiff and unsure, and held on like that was the only way to stay in the world.
The engine started.
They moved.
At first, Ned was sure this was a terrible idea.
Then, slowly, something changed.
The street blurred. The air rushed past. The world felt… bigger. Open.
And for the first time in a long time, Ned wasn’t thinking about what he’d lost.
He was thinking about where he was.
And who he was with.
When they stopped, his hands were shaking.
But he was smiling.
He realized that a second too late.
Gabriel turned and saw it.
“So?” he asked.
“I… didn’t hate it,” Ned said.
Gabriel laughed. “High praise.”
Ned took off the helmet, heart still racing, and looked at Gabriel in a way he hadn’t before.
And something inside him finally, quietly, made sense.
After the motorcycle ride, Ned could not stop thinking.
This was not new. Ned had always been a thinker. He thought about recipes, about timing, about details most people ignored. But this kind of thinking was different. This was the kind that followed him home, that sat with him while he brushed his teeth, that showed up when he lay in bed staring at the ceiling.
He kept seeing the street rushing past. The way the air had felt. The way Gabriel’s back had been solid and warm in front of him.
And the way his own chest had felt… light.
That scared him.
Because light was not how things were supposed to feel after Chuck.
Chuck was still a quiet ache in him. Some days were easier than others, but the space she left behind was still there. He still caught himself thinking, I should tell Chuck this, or Chuck would like that.
And now, somehow, Gabriel was there too.
Not replacing her.
Just… there.
At the Pie Hole the next morning, Ned was even earlier than usual.
He lined up his tools. He checked the ovens twice. He re-arranged the fruit even though it didn’t need it.
Olive watched him for a while before saying, “You’re doing that thing where you pretend to be very busy so you don’t have to think.”
“I’m always busy,” Ned said.
“Yeah,” Olive said. “But today you’re busy-busy.”
Ned did not answer.
Gabriel didn’t come in until almost noon.
When he did, he looked tired, hair a mess, eyes half-open.
“I hate mornings,” he said, sitting down. “I hate them with my whole heart.”
Ned smiled before he could stop himself. “You say that every time.”
“And I mean it every time.”
Olive slid him coffee and said, “You rode in the rain yesterday, you’re allergic to mornings, and you still show up here all the time. You’re a very strange man, Gabriel Silverwood.”
Gabriel shrugged. “I like it here.”
Ned felt that sentence like a small, careful tap on his chest.
They talked like usual. About nothing important. About everything important.
But there was a quiet between Ned and Gabriel now. Not awkward. Just… full.
Like both of them were aware that something had changed, and neither of them was quite ready to name it.
A few days later, Gabriel stayed late.
The Pie Hole was empty. Olive had gone home, waving and saying something about “not wanting to be around if emotions happen,” which was Olive’s way of pretending she wasn’t absolutely hoping emotions would happen.
Ned was wiping down the counter when Gabriel said, “Can I tell you something kind of… personal?”
Ned looked up. “Yes.”
Gabriel stared at his hands for a second. “The reason I left Texas… it wasn’t just work. My dad died last year. Heart attack. No warning. One day he was there, the next day he wasn’t.”
Ned felt his chest tighten. “I’m sorry.”
“Thanks,” Gabriel said quietly. “We weren’t… bad. But we weren’t close either. And after he was gone, everything in that place just felt… loud. Like the walls were full of stuff I didn’t know what to do with. So I left.”
“That makes sense,” Ned said. “Sometimes places keep too many memories.”
Gabriel looked at him. “Yeah. That’s exactly it.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Gabriel said, “What about you?”
Ned’s hands stilled.
He knew what Gabriel meant.
“There was someone,” Ned said. “Her name is Chuck. We loved each other. We still do, I think. But… being together was complicated. And she left because she didn’t want to live like that anymore.”
“That sounds really hard,” Gabriel said.
“It is,” Ned said. “I’m… not over it.”
Gabriel nodded. “I wouldn’t expect you to be.”
Something in his voice, kind, patient, not pushing, made Ned’s throat feel tight.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Ned said. “I don’t want to… use anyone to feel better.”
Gabriel looked at him for a long moment. “I don’t think you would.”
Their eyes met.
And for the first time, Ned didn’t look away.
Things didn’t change all at once.
They stayed friends.
They kept talking. Kept sharing pie. Kept sitting at the same counter.
But now there were little moments.
A look that lasted a second longer. A smile that meant more than it used to. A quiet comfort in just being near each other.
Ned started to notice when Gabriel wasn’t there.
Gabriel started to notice when Ned looked tired.
One morning, Ned came in early as usual, and Gabriel came in late as usual.
“You’re early,” Gabriel said.
“You’re late,” Ned said.
They both smiled.
Olive watched them and said, “I feel like I’m watching something grow very slowly, like a plant, and I am deeply impatient about it.”
“Olive,” Ned said.
“I’m just saying,” she said. “If either of you break the other’s heart, I will be very upset. Possibly violent. Emotionally. Or with a spoon.”
Gabriel laughed. “Noted.”
The second motorcycle ride happened on a quiet afternoon.
Ned didn’t even pretend to resist this time.
They rode a little farther. Out of the busy streets. Past places Ned had never really looked at before.
When they stopped, they sat on a low wall and watched the sky start to change color.
“This is nice,” Ned said.
“Yeah,” Gabriel said. “It is.”
They sat in comfortable silence.
Then Ned said, very carefully, “I think… I’m starting to feel something. And that scares me.”
Gabriel didn’t look surprised. “Me too.”
Ned turned to him. “I don’t know what to do with it yet.”
“That’s okay,” Gabriel said. “We don’t have to rush it.”
Ned studied his face. The calm. The honesty. The quiet hope there.
“I like you,” Ned said. The words felt small. And very big.
Gabriel’s smile was soft. “I like you too.”
They didn’t touch.
But they didn’t need to.
Not yet.
Weeks passed.
Chuck became a memory that still hurt, but not in a way that stopped Ned from breathing.
Gabriel became a part of his days in a way that felt… right.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just steady.
One evening, after closing, they stood outside the Pie Hole. The sign buzzed softly above them.
Gabriel said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes,” Ned said.
“Can I take you on a real date?”
Ned’s heart did that strange, fast thing again.
“I’m not very good at… moving on,” he said honestly.
“You don’t have to move on,” Gabriel said. “Just… move forward. With me. If you want.”
Ned thought about Chuck. About loss. About fear.
Then he thought about motorcycles. About laughter. About the way Gabriel always showed up.
“I want,” Ned said.
Gabriel smiled, bright and a little nervous. “Good.”
They stood there, unsure for a second.
Then, very carefully, Gabriel asked, “Can I… hold your hand?”
Ned nodded.
Their fingers fit together like they had been waiting for it.
No sparks. No fireworks.
Just warmth.
And that was more than enough.
Inside, Olive watched from the window and wiped at her eyes.
“I knew it,” she said to no one. “I absolutely knew it.”
The Pie Hole stayed the same.
The pies stayed good.
The world kept going.
But for Ned, something new had started.
Not a replacement.
Not an erasing.
Just a new chapter.
And for the first time in a long time, it felt like a good one.
Thank You @aireraume1 for giving me ideas for this 🫶🏽
Warnings: S M U T, p in v, oral, not too detailed, MDNI
WC: ~700
A/N: ngl I wrote this while waiting for the doctor to come in 😭
The facts are these: The mission was supposed to be simple. Infiltrate the rival bakery, retrieve the stolen "Mama's Secret Recipe" book, and get out before the security guard finished his third donut. Simple. Except it wasn't.
You're pressed flat against the cold, metal siding of a large flour silo, the scent of yeast and sugar thick in the air. Ned is beside you, his usually calm demeanor replaced by a tight-lipped focus. Across the way, you see the guard, a burly man named Gus, pausing to sniff a pastry suspiciously.
"He's onto us," Ned whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "The plan is compromised."
"We can make it," you whisper back, heart hammering against your ribs. "We just need a distraction."
Before Ned can protest, you've already acted. You pick up a small metal scoop, take aim, and hurl it at a precariously stacked tower of empty cardboard boxes. It connects perfectly, and the tower collapses with a crash that echoes through the vast warehouse.
Gus the guard yelps and rushes toward the sound, his flashlight beam cutting a wild path through the darkness. "Now!" you hiss, grabbing Ned's hand.
You sprint across the open floor, your footsteps muffled by the soft flour dusting the concrete. You reach the office door, find it locked, and Ned deftly picks the simple lock with a hairpin he keeps for just such emergencies. Inside, you locate the recipe book tucked away in a drawer, but as you turn to leave, Gus's voice booms from right outside the door.
"Who's in there? I'm coming in, and I've got a rolling pin with your name on it!"
Panic flashes in your eyes. There's no way out except the window, which is a good ten feet off the ground. Without a word, Ned cups your face in his hands, his touch sending a familiar electric jolt through you. "Trust me," he murmurs, and then he's pressing his lips to yours.
It's a kiss born of adrenaline and fear, deeper and more urgent than usual. As he kisses you, you feel the strange, tingling sensation you always do when his skin touches yours, but this time it's different. It's like a current running through you, making your hair stand on end. When he pulls away, Gus is bursting through the door, but he stops short, blinking in confusion.
"Did you see that?" the guard asks, looking around wildly. "Looked like a flash of light."
While Gus is distracted, Ned helps you out the window, his hands firm on your waist as he lowers you to the ground. He follows swiftly, and you're both running again, leaving a bewildered Gus behind you.
The Pie Hole is quiet when you stumble back in, the mission a success but leaving you both shaken. Olive looks up from wiping down a table, her usual cheerful expression replaced with concern.
"Thank goodness you're back," she says, rushing over to you. "I was worried sick when you were gone so long. Did everything go okay?"
"Ned saved my life," you say, still breathless, leaning into his side.
Olive's eyes soften as she looks at the two of you. "Of course he did," she says with a knowing smile. "Now, why don't you two go upstairs and get some rest? I'll lock up down here."
Ned nods gratefully, taking your hand and leading you up the stairs to his apartment above the restaurant. The moment the door closes behind you, the adrenaline from your near-disaster begins to transform into something else entirely.
Ned turns to you, his eyes dark with emotion. "I was so scared," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "When I thought you might get hurt..."
"But I didn't," you reassure him, closing the distance between you. "Because of you."
He captures your lips in another kiss, this one slow and deliberate, full of unspoken feelings. His hands roam over your back, pulling you closer until there's no space left between you. The familiar electricity of his touch is more potent than ever, sending shivers down your spine.
"I need you," he murmurs against your mouth, and you respond with a soft moan, tangling your fingers in his hair.
Clothes become an obstacle you're both eager to overcome, shed piece by piece in the dim light of his apartment. His skin against yours is a revelation, the strange tingling sensation of his touch now a source of intense pleasure rather than mere curiosity.
He lowers you to his bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he kisses a path down your body. When his mouth finds your most sensitive spot, you gasp, your back arching off the bed. Ned is skilled and attentive, his touch both gentle and demanding as he explores you with his tongue, learning every response, every sensitive spot that makes you cry out.
Your hands grip his shoulders, your body writhing beneath his expert ministrations. The pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, and when you finally shatter around him, his name is a breathless cry on your lips.
He doesn't stop, drawing out your pleasure until you're limp and sated beneath him. Then he moves up your body, capturing your mouth in a deep, passionate kiss that lets you taste your own arousal on his lips.
"I love you," he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion.
"I love you too," you reply, pulling him down for another kiss.
As he enters you, the familiar electric current of his touch combines with the intense physical pleasure, creating an experience that's uniquely yours. Every thrust sends waves of sensation through your body, building to another climax that leaves you both breathless and exhausted.
Afterward, you lie tangled in his sheets, your head on his chest as his fingers trace patterns on your skin. The adrenaline has faded, replaced by a warm, contented glow.
"That was..." you begin, but can't find the words.
"Amazing," Ned finishes for you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Terrifying mission aside, I wouldn't trade tonight for anything."
You drift off to sleep in his arms, feeling safer and more loved than ever before, knowing that no matter what dangers your unusual missions might bring, you'll always have Ned to come home to.
A/N: I saw Lewis at the Emmys and my obsession may have come back a little🌚
The Los Angeles sun was unforgiving, beating down on the meticulously landscaped backyard of your friend Emma's Spanish-style villa. You clutched your cold beer like a lifeline, the condensation dripping onto your fingers as you tried to pretend you were having a good time. In reality, you were counting down the minutes until you could make a polite escape. Your ex, Chad, was holding court by the pool with his new girlfriend, a woman whose laugh sounded like glass breaking, and every time you caught a glimpse of them, a knot tightened in your stomach.
"Y/N, stop brooding. You're scaring away the hydrangeas."
Emma appeared at your side, her own cocktail glass sweating in the heat. She nudged you playfully, her dark eyes filled with concern.
"I'm not brooding," you lied. "I'm... contemplating the ephemeral nature of human connection."
She snorted. "Right. And I'm the Queen of England. Come on, I want you to meet someone."
You allowed yourself to be dragged away from your shady sanctuary, across the lush green lawn towards a small group huddled near a sizzling grill. That's when you saw him.
He was tall, taller than you expected, with a lanky frame that seemed slightly too big for his body. His hair was a messy halo of sandy brown curls, and from a distance, you could see the sharp line of his jaw. But it was his posture that caught your attention,he stood with a slight stoop, his shoulders curved inward as if he were trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable.
"Lewis!" Emma called out, and the man turned.
His eyes, when they met yours, were the most startling shade of blue you'd ever seen. They were the color of a deep mountain lake, or the sky just before a storm. But the look in them was fleeting. As soon as he registered your gaze, his eyes darted away, focusing on a point somewhere near your feet.
"Lewis, this is my friend Y/N I told you about," Emma said, oblivious to his sudden interest in the grass. "Y/N, this is Lewis Pullman."
You extended a hand, forcing a smile. "It's nice to meet you, Lewis."
He took your hand, his grip hesitant and his palm slightly damp. His fingers were long and elegant, the hands of an artist or a musician.
"Hi," he mumbled, the word barely audible above the chatter and music. A faint blush crept up his neck, coloring his pale skin with a delicate pink.
Emma, sensing the awkward tension, pressed on. "Lewis just got back from Vancouver. He was filming something up there, weren't you?"
Lewis shrugged, still refusing to meet your eyes. "Just a small part. Nothing major."
You tried again. "Vancouver's beautiful. I've always wanted to visit."
"It's nice," he said, his voice still low. "Rains a lot."
The conversation stalled, a thick silence descending between the three of you. Emma shot you an apologetic look, but you found his shyness intriguing rather than off-putting. There was something vulnerable about him, something that made you want to break through that protective shell he seemed to have built around himself.
"Well, I'll leave you two to get acquainted," Emma said, already turning to greet another arriving guest. "Don't be strangers!"
And then you were alone with the shy man who wouldn't look at you.
"So," you began, searching for a topic. "How do you know Emma?"
"We grew up together," he said, finally looking up, though his gaze barely brushed yours before skittering away again. "Our parents are friends."
That explained the familiarity, but not the shyness. You'd known Emma for years and had never met him before.
"Do you live in LA?"
He nodded. "In the Valley."
"Me too," you said, trying to find common ground. "Near Griffith Park."
A flicker of interest in his eyes. "I like it up there. Good for hiking."
"Do you hike?"
"Sometimes," he admitted. "When I need to... think."
The way he said it, with a slight pause before the last word, made you curious. What did he need to think about so badly that he'd brave the LA heat to do it?
Before you could ask, someone called his name and he excused himself with visible relief, disappearing into the crowd. You watched him go, intrigued despite yourself. There was more to Lewis Pullman than met the eye, and you found yourself wanting to discover what it was.
Over the next few weeks, you ran into Lewis at various gatherings. Each time, he was a little more comfortable, but still painfully shy. At a game night at Emma's, you ended up on the same team for a trivia game. When your team won, mostly thanks to your encyclopedic knowledge of 80s movies, he actually smiled, a genuine, unguarded expression that transformed his face and made your heart skip a beat.
"You really know your stuff," he said, his voice still quiet but clearer now.
"I'm a fountain of useless information," you replied. "It's my superpower."
"I think it's pretty cool," he said, and the blush that crept up his neck was becoming a familiar, endearing sight.
At a birthday party for another mutual friend, you found yourselves sitting next to each other on a patio swing, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and pink.
"Emma says you're an actor," you said, trying to sound casual.
Lewis tensed slightly, his hands tightening on the swing's chains. "She talks too much."
"It's nothing to be ashamed of," you said gently. "It's a cool job."
"I'm not very good at it," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "Not like my dad."
"Your dad?"
He nodded, still looking at the sky. "Bill Pullman."
Your eyes widened. You'd seen some of his father's movies, “Sleepless Seattle”, “While You Were Sleeping”. Bill Pullman was charismatic, confident, the complete opposite of his son.
"That's... a lot to live up to," you said carefully.
Lewis shrugged. "I don't try to. We're different."
"You certainly are," you agreed, and to your surprise, he laughed, a quiet, breathy sound that made you want to hear it again.
Slowly, gradually, you began to peel back his layers. You started meeting for coffee, then dinner. You were patient, never pushing too hard, always letting him set the pace. You learned that he loved vintage cars, played guitar, and had a soft spot for rescue dogs. You discovered that his shyness wasn't a lack of confidence so much as a protective mechanism, a shield he'd developed growing up in the shadow of a famous father.
One rainy Tuesday, he invited you over to his place for the first time. His apartment was in a quiet complex in Studio City, surprisingly neat, filled with books, records, and vintage movie posters. As he gave you a tour, you noticed his hands barely brushed yours, as if he was afraid of accidental contact.
"Would you like to see my guitar collection?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
You nodded, following him into his study. The room was cozy, with warm lighting and walls lined with instruments, acoustics, electrics, even a banjo.
"I started playing when I was a kid," he said, running his fingers over a beautiful acoustic guitar. "It helps me... process things."
"That's wonderful," you replied, moving closer. "Would you play something for me?"
Lewis blushed again, but this time he nodded. He sat on the edge of his bed, positioning the guitar in his lap. As he began to play, something shifted in the room. His fingers moved confidently across the strings, producing a melody that was both haunting and beautiful. His eyes closed, and for the first time, you saw a glimpse of the passion he kept so carefully hidden.
When he finished, the room was silent except for the rain against the windows.
"Lewis, that was incredible," you said softly.
He opened his eyes, and the intensity in them took your breath away. "Thank you for listening."
You sat beside him, close enough that your knees touched. This time, he didn't pull away.
"I've been wanting to do this for a while," he admitted, his voice still quiet but steadier than before.
Before you could respond, he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was tentative at first, exploratory, but as you responded, it deepened. His hand found its way to your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a gentleness that made your heart ache.
When you finally parted, you were both breathless.
"I've been wanting to do that since the barbecue," he confessed, a small smile playing on his lips.
"Well, you should have done it sooner," you teased, earning a genuine laugh from him.
The next few weeks were a whirlwind of discovery. You learned that Lewis's shyness in public was starkly contrasted by his passion in private. Behind closed doors, he was attentive, generous, and surprisingly assertive.
The first time you slept together, you were expecting more of his trademark gentleness. You weren't wrong he was considerate and attentive, but there was an intensity to him that caught you off guard. His usual quietness was replaced by whispered commands and gasped praises that made your body hum with electricity.
Tonight was no different. You were at his place, curled up on his couch watching a movie, when his hand began to trace patterns on your thigh.
"You're distracting me," you murmured, not taking your eyes off the screen.
"Good," he replied, his voice low and husky, a vibration you felt more than heard. "I want your attention."
You turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch. The shy, awkward man from the barbecue was gone, replaced by someone confident and assured. His blue eyes, usually so quick to dart away, were locked on yours, dark with a desire that made your stomach clench.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he said, leaning in to kiss you.
This kiss was different from the others, more demanding, more purposeful. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. His lips claimed yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a confidence that still thrilled you every time you experienced it. His hand slid higher up your thigh, his fingers pressing into your skin with a possessiveness that sent shivers down your spine. The movie played on, forgotten, the flickering light casting shadows across his sharp features.
"Lewis," you breathed against his mouth, your hands tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
"Shh," he whispered, pulling you fully onto his lap. The hard muscle of his thighs was beneath you, and you could feel his arousal pressing against you through the thin material of your shorts. "Let me take care of you."
His hands were everywhere, on your back, your hips, tangling in your hair. Each touch was calculated, deliberate, designed to elicit the maximum response. He knew your body now, knew the spots that made you gasp and the touches that made you moan. His thumb brushed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you arched against him, a soft sigh escaping your lips.
"Look at me," he commanded softly, and you forced your eyes open to meet his. The intensity you saw there was almost overwhelming. This was the Lewis that only you got to see, the one who took control in the bedroom, the one who knew exactly what he wanted and wasn't afraid to ask for it.
"I want to see you," he continued, his voice rough with desire. "I want to watch you fall apart for me."
With a swift movement, he lifted you, standing up from the couch as if you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, as he carried you towards his bedroom. The hallway was dark, but he navigated it with an easy familiarity, kicking the bedroom door closed behind you with a soft click.
He laid you down on his bed, the sheets cool against your heated skin. He didn't immediately join you, instead standing at the foot of the bed, his eyes roving over you as if he were committing every inch of you to memory. The shy boy was gone, and in his place was a man who exuded a raw, primal confidence.
"Take off your shirt," he said, his voice low and steady. It wasn't a request.
You sat up, your fingers fumbling slightly with the hem of your t-shirt before you pulled it over your head. The air in the room was cool against your bare skin, and you felt your nipples tighten in response. Lewis's eyes tracked the movement, a dark hunger in their depths.
"Beautiful," he murmured, finally moving to join you on the bed. He didn't touch you, not yet, instead propping himself up on his elbow beside you. His gaze was intense, almost palpable as it swept over your body.
"Your turn," you said, reaching for the hem of his shirt.
He caught your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. "Not yet," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. "I'm not finished looking."
He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?" he whispered, his tongue tracing the delicate shell of your ear. "Do you know how many times today I thought about this? About you?"
You shivered, your body responding to his words, his touch. "Tell me," you breathed, your hands clutching at the sheets beneath you.
"I thought about your mouth," he said, his lips moving down your neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses against your skin. "I thought about the way it feels when you kiss me, when you..."
He didn't finish the sentence, instead nipping gently at the sensitive skin where your neck met your shoulder. You gasped, your back arching off the bed.
"I thought about your hands," he continued, his own hand tracing a path down your side, his fingers skimming the curve of your hip. "I thought about the way they feel on my skin, the way they grip me when you're close."
His hand moved lower, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. You held your breath, your heart pounding in your chest.
"And I thought about this," he murmured, his lips finding yours again in a searing kiss. His fingers found your clit, already swollen and sensitive, and he began to circle it slowly, deliberately. "I thought about how wet you get for me, how you taste when I..." He broke off, his kiss becoming more urgent, more demanding.
Your hips bucked against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure. He obliged, his movements becoming more confident, more assured as he brought you closer and closer to the edge.
"Lewis," you gasped, his name a plea on your lips.
"Come for me," he commanded, his voice low and rough. "I want to feel you come apart."
And you did, your body arching against his as waves of pleasure washed over you. It was intense, overwhelming, and you cried out his name as the world dissolved into a haze of sensation.
He didn't stop, his fingers continuing their assault until you were trembling, oversensitive, begging him to stop. Only then did he pull away, bringing his glistening fingers to his lips.
"Delicious," he murmured, his eyes never leaving yours.
You watched, mesmerized, as he finally stripped off his shirt, revealing the lean, muscular chest you'd come to know so well. He wasn't bulky, but he was strong, his muscles defined and toned. You reached for him, your hands tracing the lines of his chest, his stomach, the trail of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his jeans.
"Your turn," you said again, your voice husky with desire.
This time, he didn't stop you. You made quick work of his jeans, pushing them down his hips along with his boxers. He sprang free, hard and ready, and you wrapped your hand around him, stroking him slowly, teasingly.
He groaned, his head falling back, his eyes closing. "Y/N," he breathed, his hips thrusting into your hand. "Don't tease."
"Who's teasing?" you asked, your thumb brushing over the sensitive tip.
He opened his eyes, and the look in them made your breath catch. It was raw, primal, hungry.
"Condom," he ground out, and you reluctantly let go of him long enough for him to fumble in the bedside drawer. He rolled it on with practiced ease, then settled himself between your thighs.
He didn't enter you right away, instead propping himself up on his elbows, his body hovering over yours. His hair fell into his eyes, and you reached up to brush it away, your fingers lingering on his cheek.
"What are you waiting for?" you whispered.
"Just looking," he replied, echoing his words from earlier. But this time, there was something different in his eyes, a softness, a vulnerability that reminded you of the shy man you'd first met.
"I love you," he said, the words quiet but clear.
Your heart swelled, a lump forming in your throat. "I love you too, Lewis."
And then he was moving, sliding into you with a slow, deliberate thrust that stole your breath. He filled you completely, stretching you in a way that was both intensely pleasurable and deeply intimate.
For a moment, he just stayed there, buried deep inside you, his eyes locked on yours. Then he began to move, his hips finding a rhythm that was both steady and relentless. Each thrust was measured, controlled, designed to bring you both to the edge.
You met him thrust for thrust, your bodies moving together in a dance as old as time. The room was filled with the sounds of your lovemaking, the slap of skin against skin, the soft gasps and moans, the whispered words of encouragement and endearment.
"Faster," you gasped, your nails digging into his back.
He obliged, his movements becoming more urgent, more erratic. You could feel him getting closer, his control beginning to slip.
"Come with me," he pleaded, his voice ragged. "Please, Y/N, come with me."
And you did, your body clenching around him as another orgasm washed over you, more intense than the first. He followed you over the edge with a hoarse cry, his body shuddering against yours as he found his release.
For a long moment, you just lay there, tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat. Then he rolled off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you into his arms.
You rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. His fingers traced patterns on your back, his touch once again gentle and tentative.
"Was that okay?" he asked quietly, and you could hear the uncertainty creeping back into his voice.
You lifted your head, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "More than okay," you assured him. "But I'm curious about something."
He looked at you, his blue eyes wide with vulnerability. "What?"
"What happened to the shy boy from the barbecue?" you asked, your tone gentle
Lewis blushed, the familiar pink creeping up his neck, but this time he didn't look away. He held your gaze, a small, almost sad smile playing on his lips.
"He's still here," he admitted softly, his thumb stroking your cheek. "He just... trusts you enough to let me out sometimes."
You shifted, propping yourself up on an elbow to look down at him properly. His hair was a mess against the pillow, his blue eyes soft and open in the dim light of the room. The confident, commanding lover from moments before had receded, leaving the gentle, thoughtful man you'd come to know just as well.
"So there are two of you?" you asked, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertip.
"More like different sides of the same person," he corrected, his voice barely a whisper. "The shy part is... protective. It's always been there. Growing up the way I did... it was easier to be quiet, to not draw attention. It became a shield, I guess. A way to keep people at a distance until I was sure they were... safe."
Your heart ached a little for the little boy who had to build walls around himself to feel safe.
"But with you..." He took a deep breath, his eyes searching yours. "With you, that shield didn't have to be so thick. You were patient. You didn't push or laugh when I couldn't look you in the eye. You just... waited."
"So the other Lewis," you said softly. "The one who knows exactly what he's doing in here..."
A genuine, unguarded smile lit up his face. "He's always been there," he confessed. "He just likes you a lot. You make him feel... brave."
You leaned down and kissed him, a soft, lingering kiss that had nothing to do with passion and everything to do with affection. "Well, for what it's worth," you murmured against his lips, "I like both versions of you. A lot."
Lewis's arms tightened around you, pulling you down until you were flush against him, your head nestled in the crook of his neck. "Good," he whispered into your hair. "Because they both really, really like you."
You lay there in comfortable silence for a long time, the rhythm of his heartbeat a steady, reassuring drum against your ear. The rain had stopped, and the city outside was quiet, the world feeling as if it had been made just for the two of you, tucked away in this room.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked, his fingers resuming their gentle tracing on your back.
You smiled into his skin. "I'm thinking about the first time I met you. At Emma's barbecue. You were standing by the grill, looking like you wanted the ground to swallow you whole."
He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. "I remember. I was terrified. Emma had been talking about you for weeks. 'Y/N's so funny,' 'Y/N's so smart,' 'You two would get along so well.' The pressure was immense. I think I rehearsed five different ways to say hello and still ended up just mumbling 'hi' like an idiot."
"You weren't an idiot," you said, lifting your head to look at him again. "You were sweet. And your eyes... I couldn't get over your eyes. Even when you wouldn't look at me."
"I wanted to," he admitted, his blush deepening. "God, I wanted to. But it felt like if I looked at you for too long, you'd see... well, everything. And that was terrifying."
"And now?" you prompted gently.
"And now," he said, his voice growing stronger, more confident as he looked directly into your eyes. "Now I want you to see everything."
He rolled over, hovering above you again, his expression serious and full of an emotion that made your breath catch. The shy boy was there, in the slight vulnerability of his gaze, but the confident man was there too, in the steady way he held himself.
"I love you, Y/N," he said, his voice clear and unwavering. "Not just the part of me that's good at this," he gestured vaguely between you, "or the part that can talk to you for hours about old movies. All of me. The shy part, the confident part, the part that still gets nervous before auditions, the part that thinks your laugh is the best sound in the world. All of it."
Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you blinked them back, reaching up to cup his face in your hands. "I love all of you too, Lewis Pullman," you whispered. "Every single piece."
He lowered his head, and this kiss was different from all the others. It wasn't tentative and shy, and it wasn't demanding and passionate. It was steady and sure, a kiss of equals, a promise. It was the kiss of two people who had seen each other's vulnerabilities and chosen to stay, chosen to love not in spite of them, but because of them.
When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.
"Stay with me tonight?" he asked, though it was less of a question and more of a plea, a return to the gentle vulnerability you adored.
You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. "I'm not going anywhere."
As you drifted off to sleep in his arms, your body sated and your heart full, you marveled at the journey that had brought you here. From that awkward first meeting across a crowded lawn to this intimate quiet, you had peeled back the layers of a complex, wonderful man. The shy boy who blushed at compliments and the confident lover who knew exactly how to make your body sing were not two different people, but parts of a beautiful whole. And you were falling, deeper and deeper in love with every single piece.
Warnings: NSFW, SMUT, Oral, P in V, B U T T S T U F F, DP, Threesome, reader is Human, Minors DNI. No plot just pure filth
A/N: Sorry I was bored and I’m obsessed with Thranduil and Legolas…..
The air in Thranduil’s private chambers was a living entity, thick with the scent of aged Mirkwood wine, the sweet, resinous perfume of ancient wood, and the faint, clean scent of the forest after a cleansing rain. It was a scent that spoke of deep time and unyielding stillness, a stark contrast to the frantic rhythm of your own mortal heart. You stood on a sprawling rug of deep emerald green, the pile so thick it swallowed your bare feet, a human island caught in an ocean of Elven majesty. Before you, the great carved doors were shut, sealing you within this opulent prison of desire with the two most breathtaking beings you had ever seen.
Thranduil, the Elvenking, was a study in controlled power. He moved with a predator's grace, his silver hair a cascade of liquid moonlight that fell over the pristine white of his tunic, a slash of ethereal color against the dark, polished wood of the walls. His eyes, the color of a winter sky just before a storm, held a wisdom and a sorrow that was ancient, but tonight, it was eclipsed by something far more dangerous: a deep, simmering hunger. He stood by the grand stone fireplace, one hand resting on the mantel, the other holding a goblet of deep red wine, his gaze fixed on you with an unnerving intensity.
His son, Legolas, was his opposite in every way. Where Thranduil was the cold, majestic night, Legolas was the vibrant, untamed day. He was closer, his golden hair a halo of spun sunlight, his sapphire eyes burning with a fire that was both youthful and ageless. He wore simple leathers that did nothing to hide the lean, corded muscle beneath, a warrior’s body built for speed and grace. He watched you not with the predatory stillness of his father, but with an open, almost reverent awe, as if you were a rare and precious flower he was afraid to crush.
"You tremble," Legolas said, his voice a soft melody that soothed even as it thrilled. He took a step closer, the sound of his soft boots on the rug barely audible. He reached out, his fingers hesitating for a moment before they gently brushed your cheek. The touch was electric, a spark of warmth that spread through your entire body. "Do not be afraid."
"I am not afraid," you whispered, the words barely audible. It was a half-truth. You were not afraid of them, but of what they made you feel, the way your own body seemed to awaken under their gaze, a foreign and terrifying power stirring within you.
A low, resonant chuckle came from the fireplace. Thranduil set his goblet down with a soft click, the sound echoing in the silent room. "She should be afraid, ion nîn (my son)," he said, his voice a low purr that vibrated through the very air. "Fear is the spice that makes the feast sweeter." He moved towards you, his steps silent and fluid, and you found yourself holding your breath. He stopped behind you, so close you could feel the coolness of his aura, the faint scent of frost and pine that clung to him.
His hands settled on your shoulders, and you gasped at the contact. His touch was cool, impossibly so, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of your own skin. His long fingers were strong, pressing into your muscles with a possessive weight that was both comforting and intimidating. "A mortal," he murmured, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel the movement of them against your hair. "So fragile. So warm. So temporary." He leaned in, his nose tracing the line of your neck, and you shuddered, a wave of goosebumps rising on your skin. "We will handle you with the utmost care. And then we will break you."
Legolas shot his father a look, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes, before his gaze softened as it returned to you. "He speaks in riddles," he said, his hand moving from your cheek to the back of your neck, his touch warm and firm, a direct counterpoint to his father's cool possessiveness. "We will not harm you. We will show you pleasure you have only dreamed of. We will worship you."
As if to prove his point, he lowered his head, his golden hair falling like a curtain around your face, shielding you from the room and focusing your entire world on him. His lips met yours, and it was like a dam breaking. The kiss was not gentle; it was a desperate, hungry exploration. It tasted of honey, of sunlight, of a wild, untamed joy. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming, tasting, dueling with yours in a dance as old as time. Your hands, which had been limp at your sides, rose to grip his arms, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his biceps as you tried to anchor yourself in the storm of sensation.
At the same time, Thranduil's hands began to move. They slid down your arms, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your inner elbows, making you moan softly into Legolas's mouth. He found the laces of your simple gown, his fingers nimble and sure as they began to work the knots. You could feel the fabric whispering as it loosened, the cool air of the room beginning to seep through the gaps. He was slow, deliberate, drawing out the moment, making you wait for the inevitable.
The gown finally gave way, pooling at your feet in a whisper of silk and shadow. You stood naked between them, the firelight painting your skin in hues of gold and crimson. You felt a surge of vulnerability, an instinct to cover yourself, but it was quickly extinguished by the heat in their eyes. They looked at you not as an object of lust, but as a masterpiece to be admired, a canvas upon which they would paint their desires.
Legolas broke the kiss, his chest heaving, his lips swollen and glistening. His eyes, dark with a primal fire, roamed over your body, taking in every curve, every hollow. "You are more beautiful than I imagined," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. He dipped his head again, this time his lips finding the sensitive skin of your throat. He pressed a series of open-mouthed kisses down the column of your neck, his tongue leaving a wet, warm trail that made you arch your back in pleasure.
Thranduil's hands resumed their journey, his cool palms flat against the heated skin of your back. They swept upwards, tracing the delicate line of your spine, making you shiver. His fingers brushed the sides of your breasts, a teasing, ghost-like touch that had you whimpering with need. "Patience, ion nîn," he chided softly, though there was a smile in his voice. "One must savor the appetizer before the main course."
His words sent a fresh wave of heat through you. He was toying with you, both of them were, and you were a willing participant in their game. His hands finally moved around to your front, cupping the weight of your breasts in his cool palms. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, which were already hard and pebbled from the cool air and Legolas's heated kisses. The contrast was exquisite, a jolt of pure pleasure that shot straight to your core. He rolled the sensitive peaks between his fingers, pinching them just hard enough to make you gasp, a sharp, delicious pain that mingled with the pleasure.
Legolas, meanwhile, had dropped to his knees. He looked up at you, his sapphire eyes burning with adoration, before he leaned forward and pressed his lips to your stomach. His kisses were soft, reverent, as if he were paying homage to a sacred altar. His tongue dipped into your navel, a brief, teasing flick that made you squirm. His hands were on your hips, holding you steady, his grip firm but gentle.
You were lost in a sea of sensation, the cool, possessive touch of the king at your back, and the warm, worshipful ministrations of his son at your front. It was a perfect, intoxicating balance. Thranduil's hands continued their torment of your breasts, while Legolas began to kiss his way lower, his golden hair tickling your thighs.
And then, his mouth was on you.
You cried out, your head falling back against Thranduil's shoulder as Legolas's tongue found your clit. He was skilled, impossibly so, his movements a perfect blend of pressure and speed. He licked and sucked, his tongue delving into your wet folds, tasting you, drinking you in. Your knees buckled, but you were held upright, caught between them. Thranduil's arm snaked around your waist, pulling you back against his hard chest, his other hand never ceasing its manipulation of your breasts.
"That's it, little mortal," Thranduil purred in your ear, his voice a low, wicked rumble. "Let go. Let my son taste your pleasure. Let him feel you come undone on his tongue."
His words, coupled with Legolas's expert mouth, were your undoing. The coil of pleasure in your belly tightened, a spring winding tighter and tighter until it snapped. Your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave, a blinding, all-consuming force that ripped a scream from your throat. Your body convulsed, your inner walls clamping down on nothing as waves of ecstasy washed over you, leaving you trembling and breathless in their arms.
Legolas held you through it, his mouth never leaving you, his tongue lapping at your juices as you rode out the storm. Thranduil held you, his grip like iron, a steady anchor in the tempest of your release. When the final shudder subsided, leaving you limp and pliant, Legolas finally pulled away, his face glistening with your essence. He looked up at you, a triumphant, feral grin on his lips, before rising to his feet.
He captured your mouth in a searing kiss, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, a musky, intimate flavor that was both shocking and deeply arousing. "You are delicious, melamin (my love)," he murmured against your lips, his voice husky with satisfaction.
Thranduil chuckled, a low, wicked sound that vibrated through your back. "She is indeed," he agreed, his hands finally releasing your breasts. They slid down your body, his cool touch a soothing balm on your fevered skin. He took your hand, his long fingers entwining with yours. "Come. The bed awaits."
He led you towards the center of the chamber, where a massive bed rested on a raised dais. It was carved from the same dark wood as the walls, the posts intricately carved with scenes of forest and hunt. It was covered not with linens, but with a mountain of furs in various shades of grey, white, and black, a soft, inviting nest that promised both comfort and decadence.
Legolas followed, his hands already working at the laces of his leather tunic. He shed his clothes with an easy grace, his body revealed in the firelight. He was all lean muscle and sun-kissed skin, a warrior in his prime, his cock already hard and jutting proudly from a nest of golden curls. He was beautiful, a perfect specimen of Elven masculinity, and your breath caught in your throat at the sight of him.
Thranduil released your hand and began to disrobe as well. His movements were slower, more deliberate, a slow, sensual striptease that held you captive. He removed his white tunic, revealing a chest that was pale and sculpted, his muscles defined but not bulky, the body of a king who commanded with his presence as much as his strength. A faint, silvery scar ran across one shoulder, a testament to battles long fought. His trousers followed, and you saw that he was as magnificent as his son, his cock long and thick, rising from a thatch of silver hair, its impressive size a promise of the pleasure to come.
They stood before you, naked and unashamed, two perfect beings of light and shadow, and you felt a surge of desire so potent it was almost painful. You wanted them, both of them, with a desperation that bordered on madness.
Legolas was the first to move, climbing onto the bed and settling among the furs. He held out a hand to you, his eyes soft with invitation. "Come to me, Y/N."
You went to him, your movements hesitant, and he pulled you down onto the soft furs, rolling you onto your back and settling over you. His weight was a welcome pressure, his body warm and solid against yours. He propped himself up on his elbows, his golden hair falling around your face, creating a private world for just the two of you. "Are you ready for more?" he asked, his voice a low murmur.
You could only nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak.
He smiled, a slow, sensual curve of his lips, and then he was kissing you again, a deep, drugging kiss that stole the very air from your lungs. His hands roamed over your body, relearning every curve, every dip. He cupped your breasts, his thumbs stroking your nipples, bringing them back to aching peaks. He kissed his way down your body, his lips and tongue paying homage to your skin, until he was settled between your thighs once more.
He looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust, and then he entered you in one smooth, powerful thrust. You cried out, the sudden, exquisite fullness a shock to your system. He was thick and hard, stretching you, filling you completely. He paused for a moment, giving you time to adjust, his gaze locked with yours, a silent question in his eyes.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, a silent invitation to continue.
He began to move, his hips rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm that was both tender and possessive. Each thrust was a deliberate act of worship, a claiming of your body, your soul. He watched you as he moved, his eyes drinking in your every expression, every gasp, every moan. It was an intimate, intense connection, a dance as old as time, and you were lost in the sensation, the world narrowing to the feel of him inside you, the weight of him on top of you, the scent of him in your nostrils.
You were so lost in the pleasure Legolas was giving you that you almost forgot about Thranduil. But he was there, a silent, watchful presence at the edge of the bed. He watched you, his winter-sky eyes burning with a hunger that was almost frightening in its intensity. He stroked his own cock, his long fingers moving slowly up and down the hard shaft, his gaze never leaving the sight of his son moving inside you.
The thought of him watching, of him pleasuring himself to the sight of you being fucked by his son, was a potent aphrodisiac, and you felt a fresh surge of wetness between your thighs.
Legolas felt it too, and he groaned, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. "You like being watched, don't you?" he growled, his voice strained with his own rising pleasure. "You like knowing my father is watching me take you."
You could only moan in response, your hips rising to meet his, your body demanding more.
"Then you shall have what you desire," Thranduil's voice cut through the haze of your passion. He moved onto the bed, his movements fluid and silent, and settled behind Legolas. You watched, your breath held, as he ran a hand down his son's back, a gesture that was both paternal and undeniably sexual.
Legolas froze, his body tensing. "Ada (Father)..." he breathed, his voice a mix of surprise and something else, something darker, more forbidden.
"Hush, ion nîn," Thranduil murmured, his hand stroking Legolas's flank. "I am not here to interrupt. I am here to join." He looked over Legolas's shoulder, his eyes meeting yours. "Are you ready for true pleasure, little mortal? Are you ready to be claimed by us both?"
The question hung in the air, a forbidden, tantalizing promise. You knew what he was asking, and the thought of it, of being filled by both of them, was both terrifying and exhilarating. You took a deep, shuddering breath, and then you nodded, a silent, breathless consent.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Thranduil's face. He reached for a small vial of oil that sat on a table beside the bed, pouring a generous amount onto his fingers. He then moved behind you, his cool hands parting the cheeks of your ass. You tensed, a flicker of apprehension shooting through you.
"Relax, melamin," Legolas murmured, his lips brushing your forehead. "He will be gentle. We will take care of you."
He kissed you, a slow, soothing kiss, and as he distracted you with his mouth, you felt Thranduil's cool, slick finger press against your tight hole. He circled the puckered opening, his touch gentle, teasing, before slowly, carefully, he pushed a finger inside. The sensation was strange, a burning stretch that was not entirely unpleasant. He moved his finger, stretching you, preparing you, and then he added a second, the stretch increasing, a delicious ache that had you squirming beneath Legolas.
"Please," you whimpered, your body begging for more.
Thranduil chuckled, a low, wicked sound. "As you wish."
He removed his fingers, and you felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance. He pushed forward slowly, inexorably, and you cried out as the thick head breached the tight ring of muscle. The pain was sharp, a burning, intense stretch that was almost overwhelming. He paused, giving you time to adjust, his hands stroking your back in a soothing rhythm.
"Breathe, Y/N," Legolas whispered, his voice a lifeline in the storm of sensation. "Just breathe. It will get better. I promise."
You took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing your body to relax, to accept the intrusion. As you did, the pain began to fade, replaced by a deep, aching pleasure that was unlike anything you had ever felt. Thranduil took your acceptance as an invitation and pushed forward, sinking deeper and deeper until he was fully seated inside you, his hips flush against your ass.
You were so full, stretched to your limits, stuffed with Elven cock. The feeling was incredible, a pressure so intense it was almost painful, but it was a pain you craved, a pleasure you never wanted to end.
And then they began to move.
It was a symphony of motion, a perfect, intricate dance of flesh and desire. As Legolas thrust up, Thranduil would pull back, creating a delicious friction that had you moaning and writhing between them. They filled you completely, stretched you to your limits, and the pleasure was so intense it was almost agonizing.
Legolas's hands roamed over your body, his mouth finding yours in a desperate, hungry kiss, while Thranduil's hands gripped your hips, his touch a brand of cool fire against your skin. His lips left a trail of icy kisses down your spine, each one a counterpoint to the feverish heat building within you. They were a study in contrasts, the sun and the moon, and you were the earth caught in their glorious, devastating orbit.
The rhythm they established was hypnotic, a seamless ebb and flow that pushed you to the very brink of sanity. When Legolas withdrew, Thranduil pressed deeper, and when Thranduil retreated, Legolas filled the void. There was no moment of emptiness, no second to catch your breath. You were a vessel, perfectly and completely filled, stretched to your limits by their combined size and strength. The sensation was overwhelming, a dense tapestry of pleasure woven from threads of burning stretch, aching fullness, and a deep, primal satisfaction that resonated in the very marrow of your bones.
Legolas's kiss became more frantic, his tongue plunging into your mouth in time with his thrusts, as if he were trying to consume you, to merge your very essence with his. His golden hair, damp with sweat, clung to his temples, and his sapphire eyes, usually so clear and bright, were now dark and unfocused with lust. "You feel... incredible," he panted against your lips. "So tight... so perfect. Taking us both."
His praise was a potent drug, sending a fresh wave of arousal coursing through you. You clenched around him, a deliberate, involuntary squeeze that made him groan, his hips bucking against yours.
Thranduil felt it too. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest, a predator's purr of approval. "She learns her place quickly," he growled, his voice a dark, velvety command in your ear. He increased his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding, each one driving you forward onto Legolas's cock. One of his hands left your hip, snaking around your body to find the sensitive nub of your clit. He began to circle it with his thumb, the cool pad of his finger a shocking, exquisite sensation against your heated flesh.
The added stimulation was your undoing. The coil of pleasure in your belly, which had been tightening steadily, snapped with the force of a thunderclap. Your orgasm crashed over you, not as a wave, but as a cataclysm. A scream was torn from your throat, raw and primal, as your body convulsed between them. Your inner walls clamped down like a vise, spasming around their cocks as wave after wave of blinding ecstasy washed over you. Your vision went white, your mind blissfully blank, and for a moment, you were nothing but pure, unadulterated sensation.
Your release triggered theirs. With a final, powerful thrust, Legolas buried himself deep inside you, his body arching as he found his own release. He roared your name, a sound of triumph and possession, as he poured himself into you, his hot seed flooding your core in a series of pulsing jets.
A moment later, Thranduil followed. He drove into you one last time, his grip on your hip tightening almost to the point of pain as he stiffened, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat as he emptied himself into you, his cool essence a stark, thrilling contrast to Legolas's heat.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your combined ragged breathing, the three of you locked together in a tangle of limbs and sweat-slicked skin. They collapsed against you, their weight a welcome, grounding pressure, and you lay sandwiched between them, your body humming with the aftershocks of your pleasure, your mind a peaceful, blissful void.
Slowly, gently, Thranduil withdrew, followed by Legolas. The sudden emptiness was a shock, but it was quickly replaced by a bone-deep satisfaction. Legolas rolled to the side, pulling you with him until you were nestled against his chest, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist. Thranduil settled behind you, his body a cool, solid presence, his arm draping over both of you, completing the circle. A fur was pulled over your exhausted bodies, a soft, warm weight that sealed you in your intimate nest.
You lay in the comfortable silence, listening to the steady beat of Legolas's heart beneath your ear and the soft, even sound of Thranduil's breathing behind you. The firelight had died down to a soft glow, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls, and the room was filled with a profound sense of peace.
Legolas pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his lips gentle and reverent. "Are you alright?" he murmured, his voice soft with a tenderness that brought tears to your eyes.
You could only nod, your throat too tight with emotion to speak. You were more than alright. You were whole.
Thranduil's hand, which had been resting on your hip, began to move, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your skin. "She is more than alright, ion nîn," he said, his voice a low, possessive purr. "She is ours."o
He shifted, moving closer, and you felt his lips press against the back of your neck, a soft, cool kiss that was a promise, a brand, a seal of ownership. "Ours," he repeated, the word a whisper in the dark.
Legolas tightened his arm around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. "Always," he agreed, his voice a soft echo of his father's claim.
And as you lay there, safe and sated between the Elvenking and his son, a mortal held in the embrace of immortals, you knew, with a certainty that settled deep in your soul, that you were exactly where you were meant to be. You were no longer just a visitor in their world, a fleeting moment in their endless lives. You were a part of them, and they were a part of you, a bond forged in fire and ice, in pleasure and pain, a love that would transcend time itself. And in the quiet darkness of the Elvenking's chambers, you finally felt like you had come home.
