You relapse onto an old, bad habit. Fred - whilst still mourning the loss of his brother - is far less understanding than he used to be. Based on this request.
Trigger warnings for mildly toxic dynamics, mentions of grief, and explicit depictions of disordered eating.
Word count: 1.9k
Masterlist
The thin indentation of your two front teeth had left slightly crescent shaped marks just below your knuckles on your right hand. Those teeth had reflexively pressed down onto your fingers as you'd reached into your throat; helping to quieten the sounds of retching whilst also continuing the uncomfortable action. Each wave of food exiting your stomach made the slightly curved marks appear more prominently into your skin, whilst soothing the uncomfortable sensation of fullness that you couldn't bare inside.
No one ever noticed these little marks - not even yourself - no one except for your fiancé that was. The tall, handsome redhead; Fred Weasley - your school lover turned ultimate protector. The man that you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. There were just a few tiny things about him that got under your skin- and this attentiveness to the silliest details was sometimes one of them; especially when it came to details regarding yourself.
Fred had almost forgotten about his once vigilant noticing of these little marks, along with your other silent indicators of a decline. The war seemed to have brought that all to a stop. That was until, after a trip to the bathroom, you'd sat back down beside him at the dinner table of his mother's house and re-placed your right hand around your glass - rejoining the conversation with an easy sip and a natural smile. He could smell the aroma of your freshly brushed teeth and knew that the mint would taste foul mixed with the bubbly wine that Fleur - his sister in law - had brought to the gathering, but you showed no sign of that bitter combination at all. A master disguiser of unpleasant sensations to anyone who didn't know you as well as Fred did.
The shift in his demeanour after that was slight but noticeable to you; characterised by the withdrawal of his touch and direct words. Part of you already knew what he was going to say upon apparating into your own home - he always seemed to know what was happening in your world. The pictures of your fallen friends and family greeted you across your living room walls, and sometimes you wondered if the paintings and photos somehow told him all of your secrets, or if maybe he was a secret legillimence - although both of these ideas seemed very unlikely. In truth, he was just observant.
"So, you've started making yourself be sick again. I thought you were a bit grown up for that nonsense now." Fred said with an apathetic scoff.
"It's not that big of a deal. I don't know why you get so stressed. I'm fine." You didn't bother trying to deny his accusation, hoping to stoke out the flames of his frustration before they could rise too quickly. "I just ate too much, felt too full. You know I don't like that feeling-"
"We had to scrape together whatever food we could get for years. People died so that we could be here now. Do you have any idea how stupid you sound?" He cut you off with sudden volume, and you knew that there would be no cooling his anger tonight.
"Do you have any idea how ignorant you sound? My issues with food, or whatever you want to call it, have nothing to do with the war - or anyone that died." You retorted. "I'm really not in the mood to hear all of this right now, Fred, you're not the only one who lost-"
"Well you decided to throw up the food that my mum made for you. So you're hearing it." He cut you off again, his face lined with serious certainty.
You felt a twinge of guilt before he carried on.
The visit to his family home had obviously brought back memories that Fred still couldn't handle. As he spoke more, the certainty in his expression dwindled into pain and chaos.
"And it isn't just anyone who died. It was my brother! He died to keep us alive and you're repaying him with this stupid, selfish self destruction!"
"He died for love, Fred! They all died for love, and for tolerance and for peace! Not for anger! Not for this- this misdirected bullshit." You argued with exasperation, your own chest too still hurting from loss.
Concentrating on the discomfort within your own body had been an efficient distraction from the grief. When your mind raced with images of the fallen, you’d replace that vicious narrative with one that was much more petty and easier to cope with - the obsession you'd had with weight since you were a young teen. It almost felt nostalgic.
"Bullshit?" Fred's voice raised further, hissing in offence. "What's bullshit about not wanting my fiancé to turn to skin and bones? Maybe I just don't want to attend another funeral. You ever think that? Sometimes you practically beg for a bed at St Mungos. You know that right? Just so I don't have to stay up pacing - worrying about another person!"
He logically knew that he'd taken it too far but he refused to back down, his emotions heightened and unregulated by his loss. Even as your eyes started to twinkle with wet vulnerability and your nose became pink, Fred felt unable to stand down. He'd always been stubborn when it came to your bad habits, but never as heartless as this.
You stormed up the stairs, saving your tears for the privacy of the bathroom, and he didn't move.
Instead of his usual experience of being unable to shake guilty visions of your self harm from his mind, Fred felt an uncontrollable anger for the unfairness of it all. The unfairness that the trauma of the war hadn't somehow displaced or swept away your previous trauma, like it seemed to have with a lot of people - it certainly had with him. The unfairness that he'd lost his brother, and many of his friends, as had so many other innocent people. But not just that; the unfairness that you still hated yourself enough to rid your body of food; as if you hadn't been through enough already. As if you hadn't seen the horrors of the war, battled through it, looked after the Weasley family in the aftermath, and now earned your peace. Wasn't there a limit to the suffering one person would endure?
Fred's hands were shaking and his chest still felt tight with anger despite these thoughts. Immense pity for you but also frustration. He decided to sit down and take a breather before facing you again - knowing that an apology was due but still feeling too wound up to properly deliver one. It was only a couple minutes after his weight had sunk into the soft, maroon sofa, when a suggestion popped into his head that he knew he couldn't ignore.
"She's so stubborn. She's probably doing it right now just to prove some kind of point, if not to me then to herself... For fucks sake... I should've followed her straight up there."
So Fred was not surprised to find the bathroom door locked, and the wood to be barely muffling the sound of your retching.
In a quick dart of movement, he withdrew his wand from his pocket, murmured "Alohomora" towards the door handle, and stepped inside of the bathroom.
He started pleading his case before you'd even fully lifted your head from the porcelain bowl; his eyes wide and pained whilst yours were thinned and dripping.
"Y/N, please stop! I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so harsh. I didn't meant to make you upset. I just wish you would look after yourself."
Within the time of Fred's downstairs contemplation to his rush into the bathroom, you had mostly only managed some heavy heaving with a lot of spit. This was unsatisfying. You wiped your fingers and mouth on a piece of tissue and then turned to face him.
"That was so mean though. And I get that you're upset and grieving right now but why do I have to be the brunt of that. At least what I do doesn't hurt anyone else." You hissed, although it hardly came out as aggressive from the way that your voice was struggling not to shake.
Fred sighed with exasperation. He squatted down a foot from you so that your eyes were level and spoke in low tone.
"What does it achieve though - other than hurting you? We've spoken about this so many times, darling, you don't deserve to be hurt. Even you've admitted that. And I thought you'd stopped this anyway... For so long, I swear it had stopped..."
You could see the self doubt emerging in his tired eyes and answered his query before he could distress himself any further.
"I didn't have time to even think about it, let alone find somewhere.. suitable. We were always on the move... always together... And I actually needed food for energy then.. now that the war's over I can just let myself rot again and not feel bad about it."
And although your intention had been to placate Fred with this, all that he could do was bitterly think about how ironic it was that it had taken a war for you to stop trying to die, and now that that war was over...
"So we're just back to this shit again, then?"
You didn't reply. He already sounded so tired; what could you say to make it better? Lie? Before you could've even thought of one, Fred continued with increasing volume.
"You expect me to just let you decay your own body? All for what? Some delusion about the size of it. How the fuck is that fair?"
You knew that you'd taken your words too far from the grit in his voice, the shaky grasp that he had on being commanding and his balled up fists. Visions of his brother were no doubt playing on his mind - probably similar visions to yours. Hidden in his coffin, rotting and decaying - unable to choose. A shiver ran up your spine along with a nauseating shot of guilt, one that made you desperately want to lodge your fingers back into your throat, although you knew that that would only make things worse.
"Life isn't fair." You whispered.
"This isn't fair." Fred pointed at you with a shaking hand. "I can't be on edge worrying about you all the time like I used to. It's all too- too much already. I can't lose you too. I'm not letting you do this."
As he spoke he became more agitated; his words punctuated by heavier breaths and harsher hisses. His face was reddening, and for a moment he looked as if he was about to cry - but you knew that he had no more tears left. Not for now.
You stood up and hugged him without any thought - guided only by feeling. He hesitated for a moment before returning the hug, transforming it more into a tight desperate hold between you both - like two people terrified to let go.
No words were spoken, only the vibration of overworked heartbeats and tight chested breaths left your bodies. There was nothing to say. Nothing that either of you could do to make the other’s pain stop. All that you could hope to do was numb it slightly with the loving warmth of your flesh - so that’s what you both did.
Hiiii it’s been a little while since I’ve posted I’ve been so busy and also horrifically depressed but we move lol I hope y’all are doing good and enjoy this short request the song I attached is one of my faves ever stay safe love u all xxxx don’t forget to like, comment and repost to support a small writer! <3
hiii!!! I saw your request were opened and got really excited lol
can I request a Legolas x reader having an angry love confession with a happy ending? U can add as much angst or fluff wanted !
I hope your day goes well <3
Until Dawn
Legolas X half-elf!half-human!Reader
The clatter of hooves and voices cut through the stillness of the late afternoon. You glanced up from behind the bar, pausing mid-wipe of a glass, your fingers tightening around its rim. Travelers were common in this stretch of the woods, but not ones with such purposeful strides or cloaks woven with the threads of old legends.
The door creaked open, and a gust of wind swept in with the first of them. A tall figure stepped through—and your breath caught.
Silver-blond hair. Eyes like starlight through a winter sky. Legolas.
You didn’t realize you’d frozen until he looked at you, recognition flickering across his face like sunlight on rippling water.
“You,” he said softly, a smile ghosting over his lips. “I had wondered if the stories were true.”
“What stories?” you asked, setting down the glass carefully.
“That the half-elf who once sang Dwarvish drinking songs and shot arrows through the dark of Mirkwood now runs an inn... and claims to be done with the road.”
You huffed a laugh, masking the sudden twist in your chest. “I made a promise to myself. No more goblins, no more dragons, no more running for my life. Just quiet, warm beds and decent ale.”
The rest of the Fellowship trickled in—Aragorn with his wary grace, Gimli grumbling about the cold, and a pair of curious Hobbits looking like they’d never seen such a place before.
“I never thought I’d see you again,” you admitted, voice softer now, carrying only to him. “I thought you stayed in the Woodland Realm.”
“I left,” he said. “There are greater shadows moving now. The kind that threaten all lands, even quiet glades like this one.”
You met his gaze, the old bond between you sparking back to life as though no years had passed.
“I’m not the same as I was,” you said quietly.
“No,” he agreed. “You’re stronger now. But the world still needs you.”
You turned your back, pretending to straighten a bottle on the shelf. "The road nearly broke me, Legolas. I don't know if I have it in me again."
A pause. Then his voice, low and sure: “You don’t have to decide tonight. Just share a meal with us. Rest. Then listen to what the world is asking.”
You closed your eyes for a moment, then turned back to face him. “One night,” you said. “No promises.”
He smiled. “That’s all I ask.”
And somewhere, in the quiet beneath your ribs, something old and restless stirred.
As the last of the Fellowship settled into the great hall, shedding cloaks and weariness like autumn leaves, you quietly made your way to the front door. The bell above gave a faint chime as you opened it and stepped into the dusky twilight
You looked out at the fading sun, your jaw tightening as you reached up and flipped the wooden sign to closed. The familiar scrape of it swinging into place felt heavier tonight. You didn’t want your usuals wandering in, recognizing faces from stories they'd only half-believed, or—worse—asking questions you’d buried under hearth and routine.
When you returned inside, your two staff members were waiting by the counter, mid-laugh over something. You didn’t smile.
“Here,” you said, pressing coin into their palms, “Head home early. Lock the back on your way out.”
They exchanged glances. One opened her mouth to protest—you never sent them off this abruptly—but you shook your head with a tone that brooked no argument. “Not tonight.”
A beat of silence passed. Then, with hesitant nods, they slipped away. As their footsteps faded, the inn fell into a deeper quiet. It was just you and the Fellowship now.
You lit the hearth anew and began preparing a meal: roasted root vegetables, venison stew, fresh loaves warmed over coals. The motions were old, soothing—until a familiar footfall approached behind you.
“I remember when you could barely cook a rabbit over a fire,” Legolas said lightly.
You didn’t turn. “And I remember when you were insufferable.”
“That cannot be true,” he said with a faint laugh.
Your hands stilled over the chopping board. You breathed in through your nose.
“I was not the one who kept dwarves as company.”
You exhaled slowly. The knife in your hand trembled.
“Don’t.”
His grin faded instantly.
“Don’t bring them into this,” you said, voice hoarse. “I live with their ghosts every day.”
Legolas was silent for a long moment. You resumed chopping, though your cuts were no longer even. Each thunk of the blade echoed too loudly in the warm space between you.
“I thought you might want to remember them,” he said softly.
“I do remember them. Every night. Every time I close my eyes. Kili, grinning as he handed me his last dried pear. Thorin, bloody and dying in the mud, telling me—” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your fist to your mouth. “You don’t get to walk in here and open that door, Legolas. Not like this.”
A long silence stretched. You kept your back to him.
Finally, he said, “I am sorry. Truly. I didn’t come to wound you.”
You swallowed, forcing the knot in your throat down, back into the place where you kept it buried.
“I know,” you said at last.
He didn’t leave. But he didn’t press. You felt him step closer, and for a moment his presence was a comfort—but still a dangerous one. A reminder of who you were. Of what the road takes.
And still… it stirred something in you. Something old. Something that had once burned with purpose.
You set the knife down and stared into the hearth.
The inn was warm now, the fire casting golden light over old wood and tired faces. The Fellowship ate in relative quiet, grateful for the food and for the brief peace. You worked behind the bar, polishing mugs and pretending not to watch them.
But you felt it. The way some of them looked at you with curiosity, as if trying to place you—not just as an innkeeper, but as someone... else.
Frodo was the one who finally broke the silence.
“You were in Bilbo’s journal,” he said gently.
You looked up, a mug still in your hand. “Was I?”
He nodded, setting down his spoon. “There was a drawing—almost like a sketch from memory. A half-elf woman with a braid down her back, and a scar across her temple.” His eyes flicked to the faint mark just beneath your hairline, still visible in the flicker of firelight. “He said you moved like moonlight with a blade. That you fought like someone trying to outrun the end of the world.”
You didn’t speak at first. You returned to your task, cloth circling the rim of the mug, slower now.
“Aye,” you murmured at last, “That was a long time ago.”
Aragorn watched you then, thoughtful, but said nothing. The room held a breath.
Frodo’s voice was quiet. “He wrote about how you fought in the Battle of the Five Armies. Said you moved with the grace of the Eldar—but when you struck, there was something in it... a fury, raw and burning. Like the world had wronged you.”
You paused again. Set the mug down.
“He wasn’t wrong,” you said, your voice steady, though your eyes flicked to the fire. “I lost my brothers that day. Kili... and Thorin. Perhaps not by blood, but in every way that matters.”
“I’m sorry,” Frodo said, with the quiet sincerity only someone still young in the world can offer.
You nodded once. “We all carry ghosts. Mine just sit closer to the skin.”
Legolas, across the room, didn’t look at you, but his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade—as though remembering the same battle. The same blood.
“I remember that journal,” he said quietly. “Bilbo called you Eluneth—Moon-blessed. Said you were the only one who could outdrink Bofur and outrun a Warg in the same night.”
That pulled the faintest smile from you. “He embellished.”
“No,” Gimli grunted, lifting his mug, “He didn’t. Bofur still complains about it.”
A small ripple of laughter lightened the air, but your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Your fingers curled around the bar’s edge.
Frodo tilted his head, studying you. “If you were part of Thorin’s Company… why did you stop?”
You looked at him, really looked. At the way his shoulders tensed with questions and quiet burden.
“Because I gave enough to the road,” you said simply. “It took my youth, my friends, and my peace. I thought if I built something steady, something safe… maybe the world would leave me be.”
“And has it?” Aragorn asked, his voice low.
You met his gaze. “You tell me. You’re sitting in my hall with war on your heels.”
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
You picked up the next mug and began to polish again. “Eat while the food’s warm. Sleep while the roof holds. Tomorrow, the world finds you again.”
And as you turned away, your voice softened to a whisper meant only for yourself.
“It always does.”
The inn had gone still. The fire burned low, its glow casting soft shadows across the stone hearth. The mugs were cleaned, the food cleared away. The Fellowship had long since retreated to their rooms or bedrolls, lulled by warmth and weariness.
But you sat alone in a worn chair near the fire, half-empty bottle of mead at your side, boots kicked off, legs curled beneath you. One hand rested on your knee, the other held a cup you hadn’t taken a sip from in a while. You stared into the flames, jaw slack, thoughts thick with the weight of old wounds.
The softest creak of floorboards stirred your awareness, but you didn’t look up. You knew who it would be.
Legolas appeared like a memory made flesh, moving without sound until he stood just beyond the firelight, arms loose at his sides, hair unbound from travel.
“You always drank honey-mead when you were thinking too much,” he said, a half-smile on his lips.
You raised the cup, but still didn’t drink. “And you always appear when I least want company.”
He tilted his head, undeterred. “Then I’m exactly where I need to be.”
You sighed, glancing sideways as he stepped closer and took the seat opposite you. For a moment, he just watched the fire with you, like you were back in some forgotten camp beneath the stars.
“I was thinking,” he began, tone light, “about the first time I saw you. You were being dragged into Thranduil’s halls, soaked to the skin, shouting at Glóin for getting you caught.”
You snorted softly. “He did get us caught. He sneezed. Loudly.”
“I remember.” He smiled wider now. “And you, snapping at the guards in three different languages before turning that fury on me.”
“I didn’t know who you were.”
“You called me a pompous tree-weasel.”
You choked on a laugh and finally sipped your drink. “Sounds like me.”
He leaned back slightly, eyes gleaming with some old, private amusement. “But I watched you. Even then. I couldn’t place what you were—elf and human both, but more than either. You didn’t carry yourself like someone trapped. You watched the halls like a soldier would. Like you were already planning how to get out.”
You didn’t answer. The fire cracked softly between you.
“When you escaped with the dwarves,” he continued, voice lowering, “I told my father I saw you leap into a barrel like it was a warhorse. And later, in the woods—when you fired into the trees to cover their retreat—your arrows flew like mine. No hesitation. No fear.”
Your jaw clenched. “You don’t have to say these things.”
“I’m not saying them to flatter you.” He leaned forward slightly, hands resting on his knees. “I’ve met warriors across all the ages. Elves, men, even the proudest Dwarves. But I never forgot the look on your face that day. You weren’t fighting to win. You were fighting not to lose anyone else.”
A beat passed. You looked into the fire, and for the first time that night, your voice wavered.
“I loved them. Not all of them—but enough to bleed for. To die for.”
“I know.”
“I would have taken Thorin’s place in that final charge,” you said quietly. “I would have stood before Azog myself if I thought it would’ve bought him another breath.”
Silence wrapped the room again.
“I think that’s why I watched you,” he said. “Because I knew—if I blinked, I’d miss you burning.”
You met his gaze now. And there it was: the truth of it, sitting between you like a long-unspoken vow.
“I’m tired, Legolas,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what I have left to give.”
He reached out, not touching, just resting his hand close to yours on the armrest. “Then don’t give anything. Not tonight. Just sit with me. Let the ghosts rest for a while.”
You looked down at his hand, then at the fire. And though you didn’t say it, you didn’t pull away either.
In the silence that followed, there was no war, no crown, no past. Just you, and the elf who never stopped watching.
The fire had burned low, now little more than glowing embers nestled in ash. The bottle beside you was empty, your cup untouched for hours. Legolas had fallen asleep in the chair across from you, arms folded, head tilted slightly to the side, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it in battle or daylight.
You watched him for a while, feeling a strange pull of comfort and sorrow. He always looked younger in sleep. Less of a prince, more of the curious elf who had once tried to understand why you, a half-blood stranger, would ever choose to walk with dwarves into death.
But sleep didn’t come for you—not anymore.
The silence wrapped itself around you like a too-tight cloak, and slowly, the weight of memory began to stir.
There’s a flicker in the fire and suddenly you were laughing again. The clamor of a camp at the edge of Mirkwood, Bofur’s wild song about mountain goats and bad ale ringing in your ears. Kili throwing a twig at you because you said he couldn’t grow a real beard yet. You’d thrown it back, striking him square in the forehead.
“Tell me I’m not the prettiest one in this company,” he had said once, arms spread dramatically. “Go on, say it. You can’t, can you?”
You had smirked, braid half-undone, fingers calloused from the bowstring. “You’re lucky you’re not my type.”
He’d clutched his heart as if you’d shot him, then winked and walked off into the trees.
The warmth twisted.
Another flicker—and you were in Erebor.
Blood in your mouth. Thorin’s hand in yours, his grip weak, eyes clouded with too much pain.
“I was wrong,” he said, voice rasping like wind through broken stone. “I see it now. I see you.”
You had begged him to hold on. Promised him that the sun would rise, and that he would see the mountain whole again. But his breath had rattled in his chest—and stilled.
You had sat there for a long time, knuckles white around the hilt of your blade. Kili lay not far. Fili, already taken.
Only silence answered you.
You pressed your fingers to your eyes, willing the sting away, but it clung, thick as smoke.
The ghosts didn’t answer. They never did. But the ache of their absence filled the room all the same.
And yet...
There were other memories too. Softer ones. Bifur teaching you Dwarvish insults you were far too proud of. Balin telling stories until sleep took him mid-sentence. Bombur slipping you extra rations when you looked pale. Thorin, once, catching you singing in Elvish to calm your nerves and saying nothing—just sitting beside you, silent, as though listening to a memory he couldn’t name.
And Legolas. Always watching from the edge. Distant at first. Then fascinated. Then something else.
The present curled around your shoulders again, and you looked over at him, still fast asleep in the chair, the rise and fall of his chest steady.
You reached for the blanket draped over the nearby bench, quietly laying it across him. He stirred but didn’t wake.
As you sat back down, hands loose in your lap, you whispered into the dim room:
“I don't know if I can face another war. But maybe… I don't want to be the last of us, either.”
You didn’t sleep that night. But for the first time in years, you didn’t feel completely alone in the dark.
Dawn crept in slowly, brushing the sky in pale blue and soft gold. Birds sang tentative notes outside your shuttered windows, but the inn remained hushed.
The hearth was cold now. The chairs had been returned to their places. Tables were wiped clean, mugs polished and shelved, the rooms above emptied of guest linens. The scent of firewood and rosemary lingered, but your inn—the life you had built to keep the world out—was closed.
Literally.
The sign on the door now read “Gone traveling. Indefinitely."
When the Fellowship awoke, one by one, they descended the stairs expecting breakfast and soft beds to still be theirs. Instead, they found you standing near the door, your pack slung over one shoulder, traveling leathers worn like a second skin, bow strapped to your back, and a dagger resting easily at your hip.
Sam blinked in confusion. “Are you… going somewhere, miss?”
You gave a nod, small but sure. “Aye. With you.”
Frodo froze mid-step. “You’re—what?”
“I packed light,” you said, adjusting the strap on your shoulder. “Can’t say I’m thrilled about sleeping under stars again, but…” You trailed off, eyes briefly scanning the group before settling on Legolas.
He was already watching you.
There was no surprise in his face. No shock like the others. Only a quiet calm. Like a note held long and true finally finding its resolution.
“I knew it,” he said, lips tugging into a faint smile.
Aragorn stepped forward, brows knit. “What changed your mind?”
You met his gaze evenly. “Nothing. Everything. I remembered that the world doesn’t stop turning just because I pretend it has. And if it falls while I sit behind a bar, what did I survive for?”
Even Gimli seemed speechless for a moment. “Hmph. Well. If you’re coming along, I hope you still remember how to march.”
“Better than you remember how to bathe,” you quipped.
That drew a snort from Boromir and a laugh from Merry and Pippin, breaking the stunned silence.
As they gathered their things, still murmuring about your choice, Legolas stepped closer, his voice low for only you.
“You were never going to stay behind,” he said, almost gently.
You looked up at him, your voice steady. “No. But I had to believe I would, until I didn’t.”
He nodded once. “Then let us walk forward. Together this time.”
You studied him a long moment, then gave a small, wry smile.
“Try to keep up, princeling.”
You pushed open the door, letting in the crisp morning air. The road waited, as it always had.
But this time, you didn’t face it alone.
The quiet had ended.
The road to Moria had been long and steep, but nothing compared to the cold weight that settled on your chest the moment you passed through the threshold of the once-great dwarven realm.
Darkness clung to the air like dust, and even your elven blood couldn’t soothe the dread coiling in your gut. These were not halls of glory now, not the shining marvel Gimli had spoken of with such pride.
They were tombs.
Your steps echoed too loudly as you walked. The Fellowship moved in a hush, each bootfall and breath drawing the stone’s attention like an unwanted guest.
Gimli had fallen silent long ago.
You watched him, the way he held his axe tight to his chest like a lifeline, eyes wide as he passed shattered archways and collapsed pillars. His gaze darted toward dark corners, as if hoping—aching—for a familiar face to emerge.
But none came.
And then you reached the Chamber of Records.
The skeletons lay still where they had fallen. Weapons rusted. Dust thick on old shields. It was not war that filled the space now, but mourning.
Gimli moved to the tomb at the center like a man in a dream. You followed without meaning to.
He brushed aside what little remained of a helm and whispered a name: “Balin.”
You froze.
Balin.
Old, kind, sharp-eyed Balin—who once told you riddles on long rides and always made you take the last bit of stew. Balin, who had held your hand when Thorin died, his voice cracking as he promised to carry the king’s memory home.
Your throat closed.
“He was the best of us,” you murmured.
Gimli’s shoulders shook. “He was our hope. Our history. And now—he is dust.”
You stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his arm.
“He believed in this place,” you said. “And if he had known it would take him, I think he would have come anyway. That was the kind of dwarf he was.”
Gimli didn’t speak, but he nodded once, tightly.
“I thought the ghosts I carried were mine alone,” you continued, voice softer. “But grief… it finds us all. And when it does, it binds us.”
He turned to you, eyes wet and fierce. “Do they ever stop speaking to you? The ones you lost?”
You hesitated, your gaze falling to Balin’s tomb.
“No,” you said. “But sometimes, they stop screaming.”
A long moment passed between you—two remnants of the Company, survivors of a story carved in blood and stone. Then Gimli nodded again, slower this time, and placed a rough hand over yours.
“Thank you,” he said.
You squeezed back. “We’ll carry them forward. As we always have.”
Behind you, the Fellowship waited in silence. Even Legolas, usually still and watchful, looked at you now not with curiosity, but understanding.
The grief had found you both. And for this moment, you bore it together.
They came like shadows with blades—goblins pouring from the walls, the ceilings, the dark. The tomb of Balin was barely behind you when the Fellowship was forced into motion, swords drawn, feet pounding over cold stone.
You loosed arrows until your fingers ached, each one flying true—some finding skulls, others throats—but they kept coming.
“RUN!” Gandalf’s voice cracked through the chaos, ancient and fierce.
The Fellowship fled, boots striking the echoing halls of Moria. Behind you, the goblins shrieked, relentless, swarming like ants through the cracks in the stone.
The drums of war pounded.
Dum. Dum. DUM.
You passed dark pits and crumbling bridges, pillars shattered by time. You didn’t dare slow. You barely breathed.
And then came the heat.
A low rumble.
A deeper shadow.
The Balrog.
It wasn’t just fire. It was rage made flesh, born from the ancient pits of a forgotten world. You stopped when you saw it—just for a heartbeat—but Gandalf didn’t.
He turned on the Bridge of Khazad-dûm, staff in hand, sword gleaming like starlight in the dark.
“This foe is beyond any of you. Run!”
You didn’t want to leave. Every part of you screamed to stay.
But Aragorn pulled Frodo. Boromir shielded the hobbits. Legolas grabbed your arm as you hesitated, your eyes locked on the wizard’s back.
“Go,” he said. “Now.”
You stumbled forward, breath ragged, until you stood with the others at the far end of the bridge. Just in time to see the Balrog crash forward—flames licking the stone as it advanced.
And Gandalf—brave, maddening, kind Gandalf—stood alone.
“You shall not pass!”
The blast of light from his staff shattered the dark for one blinding moment. The Balrog faltered—then fell, crashing into the abyss.
Relief struck—until the whip lashed back, curling around Gandalf’s ankles.
You saw his eyes then. Not fear, not regret.
Resolve.
“Fly, you fools—!”
And then he was gone.
Silence fell.
And it screamed.
You didn’t remember how you escaped the mountain. Only that your feet moved and the world blurred and somehow, sunlight burned your eyes when you emerged from the tunnel.
The Fellowship collapsed to the grass and stone. Frodo sobbed quietly. Sam sat staring at the dirt. Gimli hung his head in shaking silence.
You stood apart from them.
Legolas approached, hesitant. “We must move on—”
“Don’t,” you snapped, voice sharp.
He paused, his expression faltering.
You turned to him, and for the first time in years, your grief burned through the surface like wildfire through dry wood.
“I have already lost Balin in this cursed mountain. And now I’ve lost Gandalf too.” Your voice cracked. “And it’s only just begun.”
Legolas reached for you—slowly, gently—but you stepped back.
“I don’t know how much grief I have left to carry,” you whispered. “And I don’t know what’s left of me when it runs out.”
He didn’t speak.
You looked down at your hands—scarred, steady, stained by years of blood—and saw the ghosts rise behind your eyes.
Balin, laughing over a campfire.
“You’ll never beat a dwarf at riddles, lass, but I’ll enjoy watching you try.”
His eyes always twinkled like he saw more than he said.
Gandalf, placing a steadying hand on your shoulder as you trembled in Erebor’s aftermath.
“Even the fiercest fire cools, child. But your spirit—it will forge something new from these ashes.”
You had believed him then.
But now… now the fire only took.
You sat down hard in the grass, legs finally giving out, and stared at the distant sky. The others were quiet. No one had words left.
Even the sun, warm as it was, couldn’t thaw what had been lost.
The Golden Wood greeted you in silence.
The moment you crossed into Lothlórien, it was as if the weight of the world loosened, only slightly, from your shoulders. The air shimmered faintly with magic—ageless, slow, and watching. Sunlight pierced the canopy in golden beams, illuminating the green and gold leaves like fire frozen mid-dance.
The others seemed to feel it too. Their steps grew quieter, breath deeper. The grief from Moria still clung, but here… it was dimmed.
Muted.
You stayed near the back of the Fellowship, your presence quiet and inward. Even Legolas, who normally hovered close, let you be—watching you with unreadable eyes.
Then came the soft sound of approaching boots across leaf-laden ground.
You turned at once, bow half-lifted—then lowered it instantly.
“Haldir,” you breathed.
The elf smiled, and it was like watching a tree in spring—still, serene, but warm beneath the surface.
“I thought the wind smelled of old fire and bowstring,” he said. “I dared not believe it.”
You stepped forward without thought, and for the first time in what felt like days—maybe longer—your posture softened. Haldir’s hand found your shoulder, and yours settled on his forearm, a brief clasp of warriors, friends, kin.
“I did not think I’d see you again,” you murmured.
“I often think the same,” he replied. “And yet, here we are.”
There was laughter in his voice—gentle, low. It stirred something in you that had been buried under stone and blood: memory. Of laughing beneath moonlight. Of shared patrols. Of long talks in old trees about the stars and the silence between them.
With Haldir, there was no past to bleed from. Only stillness. Understanding.
Legolas watched from a few paces away.
He did not speak. But his jaw tightened slightly as your laugh, soft and fleeting, reached his ears—something he hadn’t heard in days. Not since Moria. Not since Gandalf’s fall.
You barely noticed him at first. Only when Haldir led the Fellowship toward the inner woods did you catch the way Legolas lingered back, gaze not on the trees—but on you.
Later, as you stood beneath the trees, hands brushing bark that had seen centuries pass, Legolas finally approached. You didn’t turn.
“I didn’t know you were close with Haldir,” he said.
“He was my first real friend,” you replied, voice distant. “Before the Company. Before Erebor. When I didn’t know which world I belonged to.”
Legolas was quiet for a beat. Then: “You laugh more easily with him.”
You turned to him slowly. “Because he doesn’t ask me how I feel. He knows.”
There was a sharpness in your tone—not cruel, but edged by truth. Legolas flinched, just barely.
“I have tried to be patient,” he said. “To understand.”
“I know,” you said. “And I… I don’t fault you for it.”
You looked away, gaze lost in the gold-lit forest.
“But everything hurts, Legolas. I can’t breathe for the weight of it. Balin, Thorin, Kíli, Fíli—Gandalf.” You shook your head. “I don’t know how to laugh with you. Not yet.”
He said nothing, only studied you with eyes full of sea and silence.
You stepped away. “Give me time. I still want to be near the light. I just don’t know how to stand in it.”
And you left him there, beneath a barren tree—where even the sun seemed reluctant to intrude.
•••
The sky over Helm’s Deep was heavy, dark with the promise of death. Rain lashed the stone walls and wind howled through the crevices like a warning too late to heed.
The keep bustled with urgency—armor strapped on, arrows sorted, blades handed out with shaking hands. You moved among the chaos with steady steps, your cloak already damp, your bow newly strung. You had prepared in silence, your choice already made long before the gates had shut.
Legolas found you as you stepped out from the inner keep, near the passage leading to the women and children. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the sword at your hip, the set of your jaw, the steel in your eyes.
“You’re not going,” he said, water running down his cheeks like tears he would never let fall.
“No,” you replied simply.
“You’re meant to be with the others—”
“With the helpless?” you cut in sharply. “You forget who I am, Legolas.”
“I forget nothing,” he hissed, stepping forward. “But you were supposed to survive this. Do you not understand what’s coming?”
“I do,” you said. “And I’ll face it.”
He looked at you, truly looked at you, as if seeing the shadow of every battle you’d ever survived and fearing this one would be your last.
“I’ve already watched you fall once,” he said, voice low, taut. “When you lost them. Kíli, Thorin, Gandalf. You say you don’t know how much grief you have left—but do you know how much I have? How much more I can bear if you fall too?”
You looked away, breath catching.
“I’m not a memory to protect, Legolas. I’m not something fragile to lock away.”
“No,” he said. “You’re not fragile. But you are—” he stopped, jaw clenched, the words fighting their way out. “You are important. To me.”
That gave you pause.
The rain softened. For a moment, the world blurred around you, only his face in focus—his pain, his fear, his heart laid bare in the spaces between sentences.
“I’m still going,” you said, more gently this time.
He nodded, slowly. “Then I stay with you. On the wall. Not a step behind.”
You gave a quiet breath of what might have been a laugh, or a sigh. “Then try to keep up, princeling.”
He almost smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.
As the horns of war blew in the distance and the thunder of Uruk-hai boots echoed closer, you stood together on the ramparts. He watched the enemy. But sometimes, you felt his gaze shift to you—sharp, quick, as though checking you were still there.
Still standing.
Still his.
The night deepened. The sky wept.
Beneath the thunder and screams of wind, the walls of Helm’s Deep trembled. The Uruk-hai approached like a black sea, endless, armored, merciless.
You stood on the battlement beside Legolas, scanning the dark, arrow ready. His expression was unreadable, though his hand never strayed far from his quiver. Every so often, his eyes flicked to you—not in doubt, but in worry worn raw.
Then came the horns.
Not the harsh blares of the enemy—but something ancient. High. Clear.
Hope.
The gates creaked open and light spilled in—silver cloaks, golden armor, moonlit helms gleaming beneath the rain.
Elves.
And at their head—Haldir.
You froze, a breath caught in your throat, disbelieving.
He moved like moonlight through mist, every step purposeful, calm amidst the storm. And when he saw you on the wall, his smile broke through the rain like dawn.
You descended the stone steps as he approached. The moment you reached him, you embraced—not as warriors, but as those who had feared they'd never meet again.
“I hoped,” you whispered. “But I didn’t dare believe it.”
“Lothlórien does not forget its own,” he said. “We came as soon as Galadriel sent word.”
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “You always arrive when I need you most.”
A flicker of amusement touched his features. “Isn’t that what friends are for?”
Nearby, Legolas stood still as stone. His gaze hadn’t left you.
He watched the ease in your voice, the soft warmth you rarely showed. The way Haldir touched your arm when he spoke, the familiarity in your closeness. A part of him hated it—hated that Haldir saw a version of you he feared he no longer could reach.
Later, as the elves took positions and soldiers prepared for the siege, you and Haldir stood beneath the battlements, heads bowed close in quiet conversation.
He looked at you, studying your face. “There is pain in you.”
You nodded. “There always is.”
“But there is strength too,” he said. “Even when you forget it.”
You offered him a tired smile. “That’s why I keep you around. To remind me.”
Haldir placed a hand over yours. “And I always will.”
Above, Legolas stood watching, eyes narrowing just slightly.
He had never been jealous of Haldir’s grace, his skill, his rank. But this—the effortless way Haldir stood beside you, anchored you—this unsettled something in his chest.
Not because Haldir had it.
Because he used to.
The horns sounded again—closer now. The enemy was nearly upon you.
And still, you stood beside Haldir. And Legolas waited, bow in hand, fire in his heart.
The night would be long. Blood would fall like rain.
But not before Legolas promised himself: Whatever the morning held—he would be the one standing beside you when it came.
The sun rose, but it did not warm you.
The battlefield stretched beneath it like a scar—black blood soaked into the mud, bodies sprawled across the ruined stone and grass. The air reeked of smoke, steel, and silence.
You stood where Haldir had fallen.
His body had already been taken, wrapped in elven cloth and carried with reverence by the survivors of Lothlórien. But you had stayed behind, rooted, staring at the bloodstained spot where he had died defending the wall at your side.
He had smiled at you, even as the blade struck true.
And you had screamed—only once—but it had broken something in your throat.
You hadn’t spoken since.
You didn’t hear Legolas approaching until his hand wrapped gently around your arm.
“You should rest.”
You didn’t move.
He stepped in front of you, his face pale beneath the dirt and ash, his eyes rimmed red—not with tears, but restraint. “You fought with honor. He did too.”
Your voice was a rasp. “You pulled me back.”
A beat of silence.
“Yes,” he said. “You would have died.”
“I was ready to,” you snapped, stepping back from him. “We were overrun. I was going to cover the retreat and you—” your voice broke, rage surging into the hollow place grief had carved—“You should have let me go!”
Legolas flinched as if struck.
“I could have died beside him. I should have—” your voice cracked, your fists clenched, “—instead you dragged me back, again, and I’ve lost another piece of myself—”
“Because I can’t lose you too!” he shouted, voice sharp and cutting through the morning like an arrow loosed in fury.
You froze.
He stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving, all the composure of an elven prince burned away by the fire of emotion long held back.
“I watched you grieve them all,” he said, voice quieter now but trembling. “Thorin. Kíli. Fíli. Balin. Gandalf. Haldir—gods, even Haldir. And every time, I saw something break in you.”
He stepped forward, unflinching. “And I stayed quiet. I stayed patient. I gave you space because I thought it’s what you needed—but I—” he faltered, then whispered, “I love you.”
The words hung between you like a war cry stilled in the air.
“I have loved you from the moment you argued with me in the Woodland Realm, stubborn and wild and brave. I watched you fight beside Kíli and Thorin. I watched you mourn them, one by one. And still, I loved you.”
Tears had slipped down your cheeks before you realized they’d come.
“I couldn’t let you go,” he said. “Not when I’ve already watched you die in pieces.”
You stared at him, all the fury ebbing into pain.
“I don’t know how to be what I was,” you whispered.
“You don’t have to be,” he said, stepping closer. “Just be with me. Whatever pieces you have left—I’ll carry them too.”
You let out a shuddering breath.
And finally, your forehead dropped to his chest, the storm within you breaking. His arms wrapped around you, steady and warm.
There were no promises. No healing words.
But in that moment, grief found company. And that was enough.
The final battle was chaos.
Fire lit the sky in sickening hues—red, orange, and gold twisting like dragons of ruin above the field. Screams tore through the clamor of clashing steel. The very earth trembled beneath the weight of death.
You had lost sight of Legolas.
Not for long—barely minutes—but it felt like a lifetime in the heart of war.
You fought like instinct made flesh, your blade slick with blood, arrows gone. The battlefield blurred around you, faces unrecognizable, only movement and threat. But when you spotted the flash of silver-blond hair through the smoke, something within you slammed into place.
Legolas.
He was on the rise of a broken wall, drawing his bow, loose and precise—until the enemy swarmed behind him. You screamed his name—he didn’t hear it—and your legs moved before your mind did.
A troll's iron mace came down, fast and merciless.
You hit him hard in the side, sending you both tumbling behind a shattered wall of stone as the blow cracked the earth where he’d stood. You rolled, breathless, until you landed hard, half atop him, body shielding his.
There was silence.
Then—
“I’m fine,” he rasped, blinking at you, winded.
“Don’t say that,” you breathed.
Your hands were braced on his chest, blood—thankfully—was not his. But the fear was.
You were shaking.
“You could’ve died,” you whispered. “You should have—”
“But I didn’t.”
You stared down at him, and for one unguarded moment, you let the horror in your chest bloom. “I can’t—I can’t lose you too.”
His breath caught. His hands came up to gently hold your wrists. “You won’t.”
Tears stung your eyes—hot, unwelcome. You pressed your forehead to his, trying to steady your breathing as the sounds of war surged around you once more.
“Still here,” he whispered. “I’m still here.”
You closed your eyes.
You hadn’t made him any promises. You still weren’t sure if you could. But you could hold him close for now. You could fight for his life like he had fought for yours.
For once, it was not about loss.
It was about not letting go.
The White City gleamed beneath the morning sun, banners fluttering high above the citadel. Flowers carpeted the stone, thrown by joyful hands, the scent of hope and new beginnings thick in the air.
Aragorn stood crowned and robed in light, the roar of the crowd still echoing down the mountainside.
You watched from the edge of the crowd, quiet.
For the first time in an age, there was no battle ahead. No blood under your fingernails. No grief hiding behind your teeth.
Just stillness.
And you didn’t quite know what to do with it.
You lingered until the sun began to lower, until the crowd thinned, until the laughter dimmed to celebration-song in distant halls.
And then he found you.
Legolas.
He approached without armor, dressed in white and silver that caught the dying light, golden hair gleaming. He looked like he’d stepped out of a song—ageless, beautiful, unreal. But when he smiled at you, tired and small, he looked only like himself.
“I didn’t think you’d stay this long,” he said gently.
“I didn’t think I would either,” you admitted.
You stood side by side in the garden, the flowers beneath your boots crushed underfoot, the sounds of merriment muffled by trees and stone.
“It’s over,” he said. “And we’re still standing.”
You let out a soft breath. “Somehow.”
You looked at him then—really looked. And for the first time, there was no fog of war, no heavy grief veiling your gaze. You were just… you. Bruised. Whole. Tired. Alive.
“I thought if we made it here, I’d know what to say,” you murmured.
Legolas turned to face you, head tilted. “And do you?”
“No,” you said honestly. “But I know what I feel.”
His eyes searched yours, and you saw it there—hope, held back so long it looked like sorrow.
“You pulled me from the edge,” you whispered. “Again and again. Even when I didn’t want you to.”
“Because I love you,” he said, quiet and sure, no hesitation now.
You reached up, fingers brushing his jaw. “Then you should know... I’m not whole. I may never be.”
“I don’t need you whole,” he said, leaning in so your foreheads touched. “I only need you with m.”
You closed your eyes, the warmth of his skin grounding you. Your hand found his, fingers threading between his own, and this time—you didn’t pull away.
❦ Summary:
Yoongi agrees to a casual relationship purely as a way to relax and escape his exhausting routine. What he doesn’t expect is to realize that he is far more simple and traditional than he ever imagined. Between desire, control, and vulnerability, Yoongi discovers that it’s not just about dominating or being dominated — it’s about allowing himself to feel. In the end, he comes to understand that the cliché of eternal love is still exactly what he wants for his life.
❦ Notes:
Hi! This is my first Yoongi fanfiction ❦✧･ﾟ:❥♡
English is not my first language, so please be kind.
I was inspired to write about a sexually and emotionally reserved Yoongi, influenced by another fanfic I read, while fully keeping my own idea and interpretation of the character.
I truly hope you enjoy this story ❦✧･ﾟ:❥♡
The beat of the music echoed through the studio, filling the small production space. You tapped the edge of the equipment-covered table with the lid of your mug, listening closely to the chords and deep bass of the melody. Your ergonomic chair shifted slightly as your feet moved slowly across the floor, right to left, simply absorbing the sound until the track finally came to an end.
At the other end of the table sat Agust D — though here, he was just Yoongi — rolling his sore neck as he waited for the song to finish and for your reaction. He wasn’t in a good mood. He’d spent the entire morning producing, and the tension in his shoulders betrayed the weight of the past few weeks. Insomnia hadn’t spared him any mercy either.
As soon as the track ended, he lifted his eyes to you, waiting.
“So?” he asked.
You tilted your head slightly, considering your words.
“It’s good, but—”
“But?!” He scoffed. “Shit…”
“Relax,” you said, smiling faintly. “You’re exhausted. I can hear it in the decisions you made in the mix.”
He blinked slowly, as if your words had landed exactly where he’d been avoiding all day.
“I am,” he admitted quietly. “I just didn’t want it to get in the way.”
You spun your chair until you were facing him fully.
“It does get in the way because you’re human, Yoongi. Come on… how long has it been since you took even a single week off?”
“I don’t have time,” he replied automatically, defensive.
You scoffed, leaning back and shaking your head.
“A fucking millionaire saying he doesn’t have time… pff.” You rolled your eyes. “You’re not running a music marathon, and from what I saw…”
You pulled your laptop closer, fingers clicking quickly through a few tabs.
“There are thirty-two registered tracks here,” you said, turning the screen toward him. “Thirty-two. You could easily take two weeks for yourself.”
He stared at the screen, then at you. The exhaustion in his eyes seemed heavier — but for the first time that morning, something loosened.
Suddenly, you stood up and grabbed him by the sleeves of his hoodie, catching him off guard.
“Well, since you’re stubborn enough,” you announced, “I’m officially ordering you to leave right now and only come back in fifteen days.”
“Hey, you’re not my boss,” he said, eyes wide, though he barely resisted.
“I’m not,” you replied firmly. “But I have common sense. And I’m your friend.”
You shoved his beanie onto his head, pressed his bag against his chest, and nudged him toward the door.
“Go sleep. Go eat properly. Call someone for casual sex, I don’t know. Just don’t step foot in this studio.”
Yoongi froze.
A blush crept up his cheeks as he looked away.
“What?” you teased, crossing your arms. “Don’t tell me you haven’t even been having sex.”
He stayed silent. His ears were practically burning.
“You’re blushing over that?” you laughed softly. “Don’t be dramatic. You write about sex all the time. You’re a man — you masturbate. Even if you’re not seeing anyone, I seriously doubt you don’t.”
You pointed at him, eyebrows raised.
“How do you talk about that so naturally…” he muttered, pulling the beanie down over his eyes as he headed for the door.
“My God!” you exclaimed, stopping him by the arm. “You don’t masturbate. That’s why you’re so stressed!”
You looked at him seriously.
“You need to have sex. And sleep.”
Silence stretched between you.
Yoongi lifted his gaze, torn between irritation and something far less controlled.
“You say that like it’s simple.”
You stepped closer, closing the distance until it became dangerous.
“For you, it is,” you said softly. “The problem isn’t lack of options. It’s you pretending you don’t need it.”
He swallowed hard.
“You’re crossing a line.”
“Am I?” you asked calmly. “Because your body says otherwise.”
His eyes dropped — just for a second. You noticed.
“You get like this,” you continued casually. “Tense. Irritable. Controlling. Completely predictable.”
“Stop,” he said, but he didn’t move.
You reached up, lifting the edge of his beanie so he had no choice but to look at you.
“Relaxing isn’t weakness, Yoongi,” you whispered. “And wanting someone won’t take your talent away.”
He closed his eyes briefly, gathering himself.
“You’re impossible.”
“I know,” you smiled. “And yet… you’re leaving.”
He sighed.
“Fifteen days.”
“Fifteen,” you confirmed, opening the door. “And if I find out you came back early…”
You leaned close to his ear.
“…we’ll have another conversation.”
Yoongi left without looking back — though the blush creeping up his neck said everything.
Yoongi woke up feeling slightly disoriented that morning. It was his first day off in a long time, and that alone made him restless, as if rest were something unfamiliar to a body that had grown used to exhaustion.
He sat on the bed, still half-asleep, before heading to the bathroom. A shower seemed like the only way to organize his scattered thoughts. Warm water ran over his tense shoulders, washing away part of the accumulated weight — but not enough.
After the shower and a breakfast eaten on autopilot, Yoongi found himself standing in the middle of the living room, unsure of what to do next. Out of habit, he opened his laptop, his fingers already prepared to work… until he realized what he was doing. With a frustrated sigh, he closed it and set it aside before dropping onto the couch.
What can I do to relax? he wondered, letting his head fall back against the cushions.
The answer came without asking permission.
The conversation with S/N surfaced in his mind with unsettling clarity. Her tone of voice. The teasing look in her eyes. The calculated closeness. His body reacted before he could stop it — a shiver ran down his spine, heat pooling low in his stomach. His eyes closed instinctively.
“Fuck…” he muttered, irritated with himself.
He tried to push the image away, but it was useless. Fragmented memories followed: her scent, her lips, her fingers tangled in her hair. That was all it took for his hand to slide inside his shorts, the movements slow at first, almost hesitant, as if he could still stop himself.
He exhaled at the sensation of his own touch. A low, needy sound slipped from his lips, and Yoongi bit down hard, trying to suppress the moan that threatened to escape. His free hand moved up beneath his shirt, pulling the fabric aside as he lowered his shorts, exposing a body that was reacting after being ignored for far too long.
His mind drifted to everything he had been repressing: desire, longing, need. And inevitably, it circled back to her. S/N above him. Or beneath him. Her voice breaking into soft, breathless sounds. The forbidden closeness.
His movements grew faster, firmer. His chest rose and fell unevenly as he gave in to the pleasure, his body finally yielding. The sensitivity was almost overwhelming, a clear sign of how much he had been neglecting himself.
It only took a few more moments before he came undone, his body tensing as rough, uncontrolled sounds escaped him. His lips parted, his breathing uneven, as warmth spread over his hand and stomach, slowly trailing downward.
Yoongi stayed there for a few seconds, breathless, eyes still closed, trying to steady himself — until awareness fully returned.
He opened his eyes.
“Shit…” he cursed softly.
He ran a hand over his face, discomfort now tangled with guilt as the realization finally settled in.
He had just masturbated… thinking about his own friend.
Thank you for making it this far ❦✧･ﾟ:❥♡
This story was written with a lot of care and curiosity about a more reserved, human, and vulnerable Yoongi.
It’s my first fanfiction featuring him, written with respect and affection, so knowing you read until the end truly means a lot to me.
If this chapter touched you in any way, please leave a comment.
I’d love to know how you felt while reading.
Night has fallen some time ago. You aren’t quite sure what kind of bond you share with your colleague. Is it due to the nature of your connection? Is it the fact that you are human and he is an android? Regardless, here you both are again in the warmth of the sheets, heated by your bare bodies after yet another night of passion and intimacy.
You lie there in his arms. Though your relationship isn't officially defined, you cherish Connor’s gentleness and the way he cares for you after sex. You’ve grown used to it and you wouldn't trade this for anything. It isn’t just your bodies that are in harmony, but your minds as well.
However, a question burns on your lips. Since Connor recognized his deviancy and officially became a sentient being, it’s a subject you haven't yet had the chance to broach. What future do you have? Is he ready to commit? Are you both ready to take a step forward? These thoughts weigh heavy on your chest.
Connor senses it. His hand, previously still, begins to delicately stroke your shoulder, as if he perceives your worries, your doubts and your internal monologues. He says nothing. He is not in the habit of rushing you, letting you bring up the subjects you wish to discuss. Finally, you break the silence in a soft, calm voice.
— Connor…
— Hm?
— Do androids dream of electric sheep?
In the darkness of the room, Connor’s LED flickers yellow. A quick search through his system is necessary to properly process your question, which catches him slightly off guard. You occasionally have intellectual conversations and animated debates, but you had never really discussed what defines humanity in a machine. After all, Connor is still adapting to his new status.
— Are you referring to the work of Philip K. Dick?
— You know very well what I’m referring to.
A silence hangs in the room, heavy. You continue.
— I need to understand where all of this is leading us. You may be deviant but you’re still an android.
You sit up slightly, pulling the duvet over you to keep the warmth. Now turned toward Connor, you notice his neutral expression falter, momentarily tinged with a slight fear.
— It never seemed to be a problem for you. Why is that the case today?
— The problem isn't what I think. You know I have feelings for you, you’ve always known. I never hid it from you, but I won’t be able to handle another disappointment.
Indeed, your love life has never been easy. Between betrayals and manipulations, you had stayed alone for a long time before meeting Connor. He is the only one who managed to change things, he is the one who gave you hope in love again.
His features now give way to affection. You can easily read in his eyes that he only wants what's best for you and how precious you are to him. This sight lightens the weight on your heart. Slowly, his hand comes to rest on your cheek, tenderly caressing it with his thumb.
— I will never be completely human but I am no longer a machine. I know what I feel, and I am no longer afraid to feel.
You stare at him with melancholic eyes. Your hand find his, surrendering completely to this reassuring contact. Your words come out faster than your thoughts.
— Don’t leave me, you whisper.
— I have no intention of doing so.
A tender smile forms on his lips. It is contagious, so reassuring are his words.
— I love you, he adds.
At this precise moment, you don't care whether electric sheep exist. All that matters are the butterflies taking flight from the pit of your stomach to your heart, carrying your doubts away with them.
i'd love a jj blurb where reader is on her period, and her cramps are soooo bad (she feels like throwing up bc of how bad the pain is)
and reader and jj are best friends (they have secret feelings for each other tho) and maybe they're hanging out in her room, or the chateau just the two of them (maybe jj even knows she's on her period ? bc like their relationship - really, her relationship with all the pogues - is just casual like that: there's barely any awkwardness when it comes to stuff like that
please, and thank you :) (btw i'm cramping so bad rn lollll)
Quiet Anchors
Pairing: JJ Maybank x Female!Reader
Word Count: ~500 words
Vibe: Soft hurt/comfort, heavy pining, domestic Pogue life.
Author's Note: Thank you for requesting! I hope you like it.
Want to see more from polaroidpankow? Check out my masterlist.
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The humidity in the Chateau was stifling, but you were currently shivering under a leaden duvet, curled into a ball so tight your muscles ached. Your lower back felt like it was being put through a wood chipper, and every time the fan oscillated back toward you, the slight breeze made the nausea roll over you in waves.
"Hey, Pogue? You still breathing under there?"
JJ's voice was low, devoid of its usual frantic energy. He didn't wait for an answer–he never did–and pushed the door open. He was shirtless, his skin still damp from a midday surf, carrying a lukewarm Gatorade and a sleeve of saltines.
"Go away," you groaned, the sound muffled by your pillow. "I'm dying. Tell Pope he can have my surfboard."
JJ chuckled, but it was soft, lacking any bite. He dropped onto the edge of the bed, the mattress divot pulling you toward him. He knew the drill. It wasn't awkward; it never had been. Between living on the marsh and spending every waking hour together, the Pogues knew your cycle almost better than you did.
"You're not dying, you're just... shedding," JJ said, reaching out to peel the comforter back just enough to see your pale face. His expression shifted instantly, the playfulness dying when he saw the beads of sweat on your forehead. "Whoa, okay. You look like you're gonna hurl, kid. Bad this time?"
"The worst," you whispered, squeezing your eyes shut as another cramp flared. "I feel like I'm being turned inside out."
Without a word, JJ disappeared. You heard the sink run, the clinking of a glass, and the rustling of a medicine cabinet. When he returned, he didn't just hand you the pills; he slid behind you, his chest a warm, solid wall against your back.
"Sit up, just for a second. Drink this."
He guided the glass to your lips, his hand steady. Once you swallowed the ibuprofen, he tucked you back into his side. His large, calloused hand slid under your shirt, resting directly over your lower abdomen. His skin was hot--always hot--and the heat of his palm felt like a miracle against the localized storm in your gut.
"JJ," you breathed, your heart fluttering for a reason that had nothing to do with pain.
"Shut up and rest," he murmured into your hair. His thumb began to move in slow, rhythmic circles, applying just the right amount of pressure. "I got you. Just breathe."
You let your head fall back against his shoulder, the scent of salt and cheap sunscreen wrapping around you like a cocoon. You knew you should probably tell him that "best friends" didn't usually cuddle like this for hours. You should mention that the way he was looking at you–like you were something fragile and precious–was making your pulse race.
But as the pain finally began to dull into a hazy ache, anchored by the weight of his hand, you decided that the secret could stay safe for one more afternoon.
"Better?" he whispered.
"Better," you sighed, finally drifting off to the sound of his steady heartbeat.
summary: It happened suddenly, you and Joe had broken up and you never understood exactly how it happened. All you know is that his ex-girlfriend was brought up and an argument started leaving to you being heartbroken. Your friends swore to you that they would stop at nothing until you got over your ex-boyfriend, but what if that's harder than you think?
Pairing: Joe Burrow (Bengals/NFL) x Fem! Reader (Joe Burrow x You)
Requested: Yes | No
Warning(s): mentions of heartbreak and breaking up, mentions of Joe x Olivia, mentions of alcohol.
Little note from me: This is the first time I have ever written for Joe Burrow. I usually write for Tee Higgins and Josh Allen. I wanted to give Joe a try because he is starting to grow on me a little bit. I may end up making a part 2 to this if I feel like it. Also I started writing this in Y/N format and then I switched to "You" after like the second paragraph lol. *gif not mine*
Word Count (lyrics not included): 4.5k
*Not Edited*
I also hate how I ended this. I need to work on the ending of my stories but I will work on getting better. May be a part 2 later... I haven't decided yet!
I've stopped looking for your truck, every time I go somewhere
I don't scroll through the past anymore 'cause I don't care
I'm finally putting on the shirt I like, tight jeans, big hoops with my hair up high.
The least you could've done was give me the bar tonight.
Y/N browsed her outfits that she had brought over to her friends house. Her and her girls were having a girls night and going to the bar to let loose and have fun. It happened to be her best friends idea, mainly because she had been struggling to get over a recent breakup. Y/BFF/N had insisted that he wasn’t worth it and that she was going to get you over him one way or another.
“Let me do your hair, Y/N!” One of the girls in your group spoke up. She was the hairstylist and makeup guru of the group, so she was the designated hair and makeup artist for the friend groups and any events that they attended. “I’ll fix your makeup too.”
Y/N knew arguing would be pointless, so she sat down in the vanity chair and let her hair artist friend have at it. “I need help picking an outfit.” She spoke up looking towards her best friend while the other friend continued doing her hair. “I’m torn between the three on the bed.” She added pointing to the three outfits.
In less than 20 minutes, her hair was done and makeup was touched up. Her best friend had left her choice on the bed before finishing getting ready and making everyone a pregame shot before heading to the bar. She was finishing pulling up her jeans when her friends came in with two trays of shots.
“I’m not sure about this outfit.” Y/N spoke up. She usually wasn’t one to feel insecure, but looking at herself dressed in a pair of tight skinny jeans and a blouse, both of them not belonging to her, made her self conscious. “Why didn’t you pick one of my outfits?” She asked her best friend turning around.
“Girl, you look hot!” She replied not answering your question at first. “You’re freshly single, so we’re gonna act like it today.” She added picking up a shot and handing it to you.
You hesitantly grabbed the alcohol before glancing around the group of girls you loved so much. They were your best friends and you would do anything for them and they would do anything for you. “To Y/N, for finally taking a large step in getting over the dick.”
“Cheers to that.” The other girls replied before downing the shot.
“Don’t call him that.” You spoke up softly hating the way her comment made you feel. The night you two broke up was still a blur and was anything but easy for you. More than likely you had blacked it out due to heartbreak, but still it lingered in your mind.
“Honey, he had his hooks sunk deep in you. So deep that you literally wouldn’t even walk into a shop, restaurant, or anything if you noticed a vehicle that looked like his.” Y/BFF/N reminded you as you threw back your shot in hopes of forgetting about Joe tonight. Your ultimate goal was to finally and fully move on, to get over Joe tonight.
After a couple more shots, the girls were heading to their favorite bar. Which just so happened to be the bar that Y/N and Joe always went to together.
Why'd you have to come back in right then
right when I was just getting good and gone?
'Cause I was in the wrong place at the wrong time
You must've heard I was moving on,
Then right out of the blue
a quarter past two, I'm all about you.
When I was just about, just about over you.
The girls had gotten to the bar around 11:45 or midnight. It was officially 1:42 and Y/N was letting loose. She felt the best she had in forever and to her, it had nothing to do with the guy that she was practically grinding against. The alcohol in her system made her feel a bit more easy-going and less paranoid of running into “he-who-should-not-be-named” at their bar.
The loud pounding music came to a halt and was replaced with a slower song causing you to turn around and face to mystery bar guy. You weren’t one to just go and have hook-ups with anyone or randomly show pda to guys you didn’t know. In a plan to get over someone… it felt almost right to do it that way.
“You want to get out of here?” The mystery guy asked seductively trying to keep you enticed with him.
You gave him a look before your eyes caught a group of men walking in together. Your blood ran cold, face turning pale as you seen the familiar dirty blonde locks and perfect smile of your ex-boyfriend. You took a chance to catch your breath when you moved your eyes over and caught Jamarr and Tee already noticing you. You had been close with a few of Joe’s teammates seeing as you were together for a bit.
Jamarr gave you a quick nod of greeting before avoiding your gaze and Tee flashed you his smile before heading to an area with the boys. “I have to go.” You told the mystery man before leaving towards your group of girls. You were hoping that you could convince your girls to leave and do this another night. Maybe you could fake sick and go home by uber, you weren’t sure what your whole plan was, but you knew something would have to go down to leave.
Once you reached your group of girls, who were either occupied with boys/girls or chatting with each other while drinking, you put on your best sick face. “Hey, I’m not feeling the best… I think it’s best if I uber home.”
Your hairdresser best friend gave you a saddened look believing the story that was being told. “Bullshit.” Y/BFF/N spoke up crossing her arms. “I noticed him walk in with his groupies.” She responded raising an eyebrow in your direction.
You shrugged not really caring if she noticed him, “I’m not in the mood to deal with this tonight.”
“Y/N, you are not leaving. I promised you that I would help you get over him and with that promise it means not letting you leave all because he came into this bar.” Your best friend stated. With her tone of voice, you knew it was pointless to even argue with her.
“Isn’t it weird that he showed up after you were fixing to go home with some guy?” Another one of the girls in your group spoke up.
“I was not going home with that guy.” You objected crossing your arms over yourself feeling a bit uncomfortable. “That’s not who I am.”
“Maybe that’s what you need for one night.” Another spoke up causing you to roll your eyes.
You shook your head in disbelief at your friends, “I’m getting another drink.” You mumbled before turning and making your way to the bar. Last call would be announced within the next fifteen minutes, and you were not waiting until then.
You could've stayed with the guys, acting like you didn't see me
It would've hurt a little less if you'd bought some girl a drink
but you had to walk up, messing me up
I'm drunk, wondering why it's gotta be like this
I thought I was moving on, but now I'm starting back over again.
After another drink and a shot, you had simply ordered a glass of red wine. You were already feeling the effects of the alcohol and you were worried that you would do something stupid if you ordered anything other than wine. Part of your friend group had gone home with whoever they had met here, no doubt going to have a fun night. Your best friend and one other girl were the only ones that were left of your group besides you.
“Can I get another round for our table back there?” His voice spoke up causing a chill to run down your back. You hadn’t heard that voice since the night that it ended. Without paying him any attention, you picked up your glass and took a drink of the crimson liquid. It was easier to pretend that he wasn’t there instead of trying to make everything weird. Joe seemed to have different plans, “Hey, I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.” He mumbled as he sat down on the seat next to you.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t see you.” He would never admit it, but your reply felt like a knife. He knew that the whole breakup should had been dealt with sooner and talked about. If not to fix it, then to at least to make it less messy.
Joe chose to ignore your blunt reply as he waited on their final tray of drinks, “How have you been?” he asked carefully knowing that it hadn’t been easy for him. He would never admit that to you unless you asked him yourself.
“Why are you doing this?” You asked. Finally, you turned to face him noticing the stubble that adorned his face compared to his usual clean-shaven self. There was no point in answering his question because you had not felt your best since your last night with him. “You could have avoided me and let me heal.” You added taking another sip of win after.
Joe looked exhausted; anyone could tell. You had heard that they were currently not playing their best even if you refused to watch the games. You were his problem, not that he blamed you. He blew up for no reason, mainly due to stress and you felt as if it was a personal attack. “I didn’t mean what I said that night.” He told you. Even if you wanted him to leave you alone, he just knew he had to tell you what he felt after that night. “When you brought up my past… it never compared to us. She never meant as much to me as you did, I get that I was with her longer, but it wasn’t the same.”
You shrugged trying your best to act like you didn’t care. “I am not talking about this.” You shook your head before finishing off your glass of wine. “If we’re being honest, I shouldn’t have brought up Olivia, but that’s all I’m going to say.” You added before standing up from your seat. You needed to get back to your best friend before your body decided to fully give in to the handsome quarterback right next to you.
“Y/N don’t do this. Let me in and let’s talk about this.” Joe practically begged as he stood up quickly noticing that you were trying to make your escape. The look on your face was unreadable, why was Joe begging you to talk about it? What would it help and why was it such a big deal to him?
“Joe, you ended it. I don’t owe you anything.” You whispered as you pushed back tears not wanting them to surface. You were beginning to feel defeated because your heart and your body yearned for the man in front of you.
“Y/N… please.” He pleaded one last time in a whisper, in the same way that you had answered him. Before you could say anything, the bartender placed the tray of drinks down giving you the chance to get away from Joe before he could continue begging you and you gave in.
maybe you caught me on a bad night
maybe tomorrow I'll be just fine
maybe it's the red wine
that put you back in my mind
Final call had happened at 2:30, but the bar was still alive with drunk couples, singles, and others. Your best friend had told you that she was going home with the guy that she had been with all night, only she was staying with you until you wanted to leave. Truth be told, she was probably just trying to ensure that you would stay away from Joe the rest of the night.
“I’m going to the restroom and then I’ll head home.” You promised your best friend before pulling her into a hug.
Once you two pulled away she gave you a small smile, “want me to wait for you?” she offered.
You didn’t miss the eye roll from the guy that she was going home with. You internally scoffed and rolled your eyes at the guy who wanted inside your best friends pants before returning the smile, “No, I’ll be fine. Just be careful on your way home.”
Your bestie nodded before giving you a knowing look, “There’s plenty of people still here. I think you should reconsider what I told you earlier.” She added before locking arms with the guy beside her. You rolled your eyes and shook your head, “If you change your mind you have to let me know.” She teased before blowing a kiss and turned to head out with the man that she had met tonight.
You turned around and grabbed your wristlet before making your way towards the bathroom. In all seriousness you were more than ready to go home, you had been since your conversation with Joe. However, it still made Joe stay in your mind. Flashbacks from the relationship played over and over again. Whether you wanted to admit it or not, Joe Burrow was a huge green flag when you’re in a relationship with him. He may act cocky or arrogant sometimes, but most of the time it’s to hide how he is truly feeling.
Even if he was a green flag, you still argued some but it wasn’t often. The night you broke up was the only big fight that you had experienced in that relationship. Why did the relationship break after one fight? You just guessed that your relationship was not strong enough to last.
After you finished in the bathroom you exited (after washing your hands of course) and got on your phone so you could order an Uber for the ride home. You knew it was a bad idea for you girl’s to ride together, but no one disagreed and you weren’t going to be the first one to object.
“Really? 25 minutes.” You huffed as you leaned against the hallway leading to the bathroom. You wanted to be away from the crowds and try to catch a ride back to your place. “Why did I agree to do this tonight?” you mumbled placing your phone back in your pocket after seeing the wait time.
“Are you okay?” a familiar voice spoke up. You looked towards the dimly lit hallway and noticed the guy that you had been dancing with before Joe came in. You had been hoping that he had already went home because you didn’t want to see him again either. “I heard you huffing.” He mentioned with a half smile forming on his face.
You nodded assuring him that you were fine, “Yeah. Just waiting for my ride.” You lied knowing good and well that you didn’t order that Uber that was going to take almost half an hour.
He nodded, “I could take you home if you’re getting inpatient.” He offered hoping that you would accept his invite.
Your body was overcome with a feeling of dread when you looked into his eyes. You weren’t sure why, mainly because he had been a nice guy earlier. Thinking back, maybe you missed this feeling because of the alcohol and then the fact that you noticed your ex before you could process the guy in front of you.
You shook your head forcing a fake smile, “No it’s fine. My ride will be here very soon and I don’t want to leave them hanging.” You lied again in hopes that it was believable.
“Come on.” He urged walking closer and leaning against the wall next to you.
You opened your mouth to object before a voice beat you to it, “Babe, what’s taking so long?” Joe’s voice rang out down the hallway as footsteps were heard getting closer to you. The mental relief you felt hearing his voice was unreal. No matter how much you didn’t want to be around him, you always knew that you were safe with him.
“I was just talking to a friend.” You lied knowing that Joe could hear the hesitation in your voice and he definitely noticed your body language. Your body relaxed once you felt his familiar embrace around you.
“Babe?” The mystery guy from early asked glancing between the two. It was obvious that many people in Cincinatti knew who Joe was, the guy in front of you especially. “You should be aware that your girlfriend lead me on earlier.” He told Joe causing you to tense.
Joe’s grip around you tightened, probably not liking the chance of you going home with you before he got there. “Well, I’m sure whatever she was doing earlier was just for fun. No strings attached just innocent fun.” Joe muttered making sure to get his point across.
“Whatever.” The guy mumbled before eyeing you one more time before stepping around the two of you and leaving the hallway.
You let out a sigh of relief once he was officially out of hearing range, “Thank you.” you mumbled pulling yourself out of his arms. It didn’t take long for you to miss the feeling of him around you, it felt like home. It felt safe.
Joe shook his head, “Don’t thank me.” He replied noticing how you were calming down now that you were alone. “Was that the guy you were with when I got here?”
Even though Joe asked, you felt as if he already knew the answer. You just weren’t sure if it was from his comment or if he actually caught you. “How did you… Jamarr and Tee.” You sighed knowing that they told Joe about seeing you with him.
Joe shook his head, “I actually noticed you first.” He denied your allegations. “I made a comment about the guy you were with which is what made the guys notice you.” He shrugged acting like his comment meant nothing.
If you were honest, you felt giddy knowing that Joe was looking at you first before you even noticed him.
why'd you have to come back in right then
right when I was just getting good and gone?
guess I was in the wrong place at the wrong time
you must've heard I was moving on
then right out of the blue
a quarter past two, I'm all about you
when I was just about, just about over you.
I was just about over you.
You knew that you were going to regret this. It was the biggest mistake and was what your best friend was trying to get you over. The only thing was that you could not argue with how right it felt to be sitting in the passenger seat of Joe’s vehicle. You had accepted a ride home instead of ordering an Uber late, and it didn’t help that the mystery guy from the bar was lounging around almost like he was waiting to see if you were with Joe for real. After feeling uneasy noticing the guy looking at you while you went and visited with your old friends for a moment, Joe secretly proposed for you to stay with him for the night. Just to ensure that you were safe until daylight. Being unsure of the bar and going home alone, you agreed.
How did you get yourself in this situation though? You promised yourself that this would be the night that you got over Joe, however you felt as if all your progress was thrown out the window. You truly loved Joe and a part of you always would. He was the first person that you truly loved, which is why you knew apart of you would always belong to Joe. You were moving on the best you could, and you were sure that you could have gotten over him. Maybe there was a reason why it wasn’t tonight? Maybe it was protection from someone or something, but all you knew was that sitting in his car made it real that you would in no way be over him.
“Do you need anything?” He asked more than likely referring to medicine or water due to the alcohol consumption tonight. You shook your head feeling more sober than ever. The house was so familiar, and a warm feeling came over you being back in his home. “I’ll get you a change of clothes before we head to bed.” He mentioned shooting you a small smile before walking towards his room. The room you used to basically live in when you were together.
Without waiting for him to call you, you carefully made your way into his bedroom seeing him lay out the clothes on the bed. “Can I shower before we head to bed?” You asked softly hoping you wouldn’t scare him.
Joe nodded, “You don’t have to ask.” He mumbled picking up the clothes he sat on the bed and handed them to you.
You silently thanked him before heading to his private bathroom and locking the door behind you. You knew where he kept his towels and everything so there was no need to make him get everything ready for you. You let the water run for a moment to get warm before stripping your clothes and getting into the shower. You sighed feeling the heat soothing your tense muscles due to the stress you were under tonight. You were trying to rack your brain over every event that happened tonight before noticing the array of products in Joe’s shower caddy.
Everything you used sat untouched in the corner. Your shampoo, conditioner, exfoliating scrub, shaving items, body wash, and skincare. Everything that you had left here was sitting there looking untouched due to how little you had used them. You had just restocked before you two broke up, meaning that you never wanted to face him to get those items back. You just went out and bought new ones because it was easier… emotionally.
Instead of crying due to your relationship being over, you pushed it out of your mind and finished showering. You knew how Joe was, and he wouldn’t go to bed until you got out of the shower. Once doing your skincare and haircare, you got out and dried off and got dressed. You gave yourself a once over in the mirror, noticing that Joe gave you his favorite shirt of his and a pair of bengals shorts that he had gotten you. You remember him saying, “If you’re going to be my girl, we might as well give you some gear.” You smiled at the memory before cleaning up the bathroom and heading out to Joe’s room.
You’d be lying if you said that seeing him lying on his bed in only shorts was a turn off. He was definitely the best-looking guy you have ever seen in your life, there was no doubt about it. The sound of your footsteps caused Joe to lock his phone and turn his attention towards you.
“Do you need anything before I head to the guest room?” He asked softly getting out of his bed. He waited to see if you needed anything because he knew that you usually had to rack your brain over your nighttime routine.
“You don’t have to go to your guest bed. I’m not taking your bed.” You refused even if you secretly wanted his bed. What could you say? It was so comfortable to the point to where you wanted it in your apartment. “I can sleep in the guest room.” You knew he would deny but it was worth a shot.
Joe refused, “You know I never let you sleep in the guest room.” He reminded even though she knew. She had practically moved in with him so when they argued, Joe would start the nights in the guest bed and weasel his way back into his bed with you. That’s just how the two of them were in their relationship.
Instead of playing the back-and-forth game you sat down on the bed and gestured for him to join you. “Can I ask what the real reason is that you are doing this?” You asked softly as you felt the bed dip with his weight, only he was sitting in front of you. “You don’t owe me anything, Joe.” You assured so he didn’t feel as though he owed a debt to you.
“I know.” He replied, “actually I do owe you an apology. I’m sorry about that night, I was stressed about the game, and I took it out on you.” He apologized.
You gave him a small smile in return, “I think we both said some things that we regret that night.” You whispered worried that everything would come crashing down.
“I love you, Y/N.” Joe admitted softly his hand coming up to your neck. “I’ll never stop no matter what happens.” He added in a whisper to not spook you too much.
You bet your lip trying to keep from tearing up at his words. For the last three months you had been wanting to hear those words come out of his mouth, yet it was surreal to actually hear them.
“I was trying so hard to get over you.” You whispered out, a crack in your voice that did not go unnoticed by Joe. “I still love you so much and it kills me every day.” You added full of emotion due to staring into the blue eyes that you loved so much.
Staring into Joe’s eyes, you felt the walls that you had built the last three months come falling down. You promised yourself that you would get over him and never fall back into his arms, yet you weren’t going to stop. You knew that even if you two never got back together officially that you would always be safe and have a home around Joe. Your heart would always be his no matter what.
Instead of overthinking and thinking of the worse possible outcomes, you decided to finally do what your heart and body have been craving. In one quick motion, you had your hands on the back of his neck and pushed your lips on his. It didn’t take him but a second to start kissing you back because it was clear that he had missed you all the same.
You sighed in content at the kiss, causing Joe to apply a bit of pressure to where his hand was resting on your neck. You could feel the want for him building up, wanting the two of you to make up for lost time. You were unsure of how far you would go but being in his arms, at least for one more night was something that you were okay with.
It was safe to say that you two did in fact make up for the lost time that was three months. You had texted your best friend telling her that you took her advice about going home with a “nice” guy from the club and that he was full of “green flags”. She was beyond excited wanting to know the details, which you would give her without letting her know that it was indeed your ex.
Joe woke up the next morning thinking everything would go back to normal. You two had talked a bit, had makeup sex, and even cuddled to sleep. He woke up to an opposing reality, which made him question if you were ever really there. You had left early, not knowing what it meant for you two. Not wanting to have another intimate conversation, you ran saving it for another day.
Joe’s clothes laying on the end of the bed told him that it wasn’t a dream. You were in fact with him last night and he wasn’t just lost in a drunken dream. Joe knew after last night; he would not be letting you go as easy as he did before. No matter how upset and angry he was, he was going to find you and make you his again. He was sure of it.
I have a request for either Dean or Garrett please! Reader is their friend, has been for a while, and has slowly fallen in love with him. Then she has to watch him fall in love and it’s not her. Angst ensues because other members of the team see it and understand when she pulls away. Hurt/comfort if you want, happy ending optional. Thank you!!
Hi love!!!
I'm so so sorry for completing your request so late! It's been chaotic on my end :(
