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your-highnessmarvel · 5 months

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cotton candy | s.riley

CHAPTER TEN

Pairing: Simon Riley aka Ghost x Original female character

Warnings: language, blood, guns, and gun violence

Chapter Summary: Laura gets caught in an ambush, throwing her right at the mercy of her enemies. In the dark, alone, covered in blood, there might be no way she survives this one.

A/N: AYEEE! Okay not much smut or anything in here, but just some more story building. Next chapter is gonna be some HEAVY smut but I had to build to that so if you're one of those who don't care about the story, just skip to next chapter LOL

Masterlist

Taglist: Open

Find it on AO3 HERE.

I got back into the bar, finding it in me to ignore what had just happened. Every inch of my skin buzzed, my lips swollen and pained from his mouth, from the kisses he lay down my neck. I was desperately grasping at the memories that were vanishing like smoke - I wanted to remember that feeling. There was no way that my treacherous mind would rip those memories of Ghost - Simon - from me.

Soap and Ale were still inside, and when Soap's eyes found mine across the dark, foggy room, I was brutally reminded of the words Simon had spoken against my neck.

"I want you to cum, Laura."

"Soap would do a fine job, I'm sure."

And from across the room, Soap smiled, waved at me.

The sergeant living in my head chuckled, touching me and kissing me and whispering filthy nothings against my warm skin. I had to shake my head to get the image of Soap fucking me out of my mind.

This place was driving me to the brink of insanity.

"Ghost left?" Soap asked, meandering through the crowd like a bullet through glass to get to me. He stood a few inches away, like I was a fire hazard.

I rose my brows, puckered my lips. God, could I make it anymore obvious? "Uh, yeah, he was tired."

Soap stared at me, expressionless. He knew. "Yeah, right, okay, let's get absolutely hammered, yeah?"

The first two drinks went down like water, which helped because I sucked at pool and Soap was a horrible teacher and Ale kept laughing at me.

By the time Gaz walked in, fresh from a shower that I could smell a mile away (he came to impress), I was halfway through my sixth beer, and my skin buzzed.

He caught up to me in no time, flashing a dazzling smile, arm across my shoulder, screaming and swaying to the music playing so loud my chest hurt. With Soap beside me, yelling in whatever language, his skin grazing mine whenever he swayed against me. His knuckles against my biceps, his arm replacing Gaz's, his laugh in my ear. A haunting, a terrible, terrible haunting figure of him stayed imprinted like a scalding brand against my mind.

Because the rest of the night was just a blur.

And the second I woke up, I knew trouble was on the horizon.

I tumbled out of my bunk, still clad in the sweaty, dirty clothes of last night, watching Gaz and Soap run across the RV, splotches of harsh sunlight catching on their skin.

"What's happening?" I mumbled, headache pounding in my skull, still half drunk.

Gaz looked up as he was peeling an old pair of boxers from the floor. "Alvarez is moving cargo today," he said, throwing the dirty thing into the bathroom.

"Cargo?"

"Guns, explosives, ammo."

Soap latched a bulletproof vest onto his shoulders. "And drugs."

I sighed. "Cool, so what then?"

Gaz shrugged. "We catch a couple guys, waterboard them until they give us some kind of valuable information, eh, Soap?"

Soap winked, slapping on the flaps of his vest. "Yes, sir."

I raked my hands in my hair, through the tangled mess of black knots.

"Price will stay with you," Gaz said, slipping on his boots.

I frowned and crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. "Who?"

"Captain Price," Gaz answered. "He'll meet us here in twenty and bring you to comms. You'll be able to quickly identify Alvarez if he's there and also, we can make sure you're not wandering around here willy-nilly."

I opened my mouth, insulted. "Willy-nilly?"

"You do tend to do that a lot, princess," Soap interjected, slipping on gloves that just made his entire outfit look... sexy.

I rolled my eyes, locking myself in the bathroom. I listened to them finish up; lacing their shoes, throwing the worst jokes ever between them. While I brushed my hair and got ready for a shower, I heard them leave, and it gave me peace to know I was alone. Even if it was only for 20 minutes.

I showered and dressed in a green t-shirt that I got from the girls on base, so it was tight enough for me. I got back into my black trousers and laced on some kicks.

I was halfway into a Fruitloops bowl when the door to the RV swung open. Like on instinct, my body tensed, a wash of burning heat flashing down my spine.

But it wasn't Ghost. It was this Price fellow, shadowed in the doorframe with the morning sun burning at his back.

He was tall, his shoulders stretching out the long sleeve tee he was wearing, the color of charcoal. A thick moustache that connected to his beard, under cold and small blue eyes. His hat, a sort of fisherman's dream, made him look almost homely.

"Laura?"

I squinted. "No."

He squinted back, tilting his head to the side like a father scolding a child. "You're not stupid and neither am I," he said. Oh he definitely had kids. He gestured at me with one gloved hand. "Let's get going."

I huffed, dropping my bowl of cereal into the sink and walking out of the RV with Price. He was really tall, I realized, as I climbed down the two wiggling steps of the motorhome. Not as tall as Ghost, but close enough.

Price was galant, holding the door for me, offering his hand. I chose to ignore it, feeling fussy and jittery.

"They said you were somethin' else," he mumbled as he closed the door, letting it swing shut.

I looked back, watching him as the morning sun bathed him in light. "Who said what about me?" I asked, following him with quick steps, trying to keep up with his giant leaps.

The sun blinded me as we made our way through the maze of tents, but I still saw the corner of his lips move into a smirk.

"Is it Johnny?" I asked again. "Or Ale?"

He shook his head. "I bet you'd like to know."

We rounded the corner of the gym building, lounging the wall, the sun so hot and bright here.

"Of course," I answered. "I want to know which one's talking smack about me."

"No one's talking smack about you, Laura."

"It's gotta be Soap."

He turned to me, pining me under his beady blue eyes. But he was sort of smiling. "I like you," he said, and I couldn't help but make a silly grimace. "But stop acting like a baby."

I followed him in silence after that. We walked between the Emergency Room and the Women's Barracks, saved by the shade and the coolness made me sigh in relief.

"Why does everyone wear gloves around here?" I asked. He groaned. "I mean, it's like you guys are organizing some type of mass murder but you're being very careful about fingerprints."

"Shut up."

He opened a door for me that lead into a very somber hallway. The building was the biggest manmade structure on base, and the call of the AC had me scuttling inside to reach the fresh air.

Closing the door, Price let out a groan of relief as well. "Welcome to comms," he said, gesturing with his hand down the somber hall.

"This place is eerie."

The hall echoed our steps as we meandered down, opening a door to the sound of metal hinges and static. Price guided me into a room full of small monitors, like TVs in the 70s, glued to every inch of the four walls.

The room was rather small, which made the boy sitting at the desk seem so out of place.

"Laura," Price said, closing the door behind us. "Meet Private Michaels, our communications technician."

The boy, Michaels, turned in the wheely chair, a horrifying screech coming from the wheels. He had a mass of curly brown hair flopped over his head--so not army appropriate--and he had so many freckles on his face. It made him look no older than eighteen, with round cheeks and hope in his big doe eyes.

"Nice to meet you," I said, following the physical instruction Price was giving me to sit at the desk opposite Michaels.

Price sat in the chair next to me, holding a pair of headphones in his hand. "Put these on," he said.

I did as I was told.

"Here," he instructed, pointing to the monitors in front of me. The white and grey glow of the screens reflected off his face, casting awkward shadows on him, like black, moving smudges.

I turned to the screen, watching as Soap sat down. "Soap," I said, almost hopefully, a smile bursting on my face.

"He can't hear you," Price muttered absentmindedly, taking his hat off to put on his headphones. His hair was short and cropped, a soft brown. "These are bodycams," he explained. "You're viewing Ghost's now. And with these buttons here, you can switch between them."

I looked at his fingers as he played with the keyboard's function button. I did the same on mine, and the view changed, showing Gaz chewing on gum, settled in next to someone's broad shoulder.

"All strapped in boys?" he said, and hearing him through the headphones made me laugh. I felt like I was spying on them. I heard mumbles across the comms, and then I heard an engine starting.

"Michaels," Price said. "Convoy is on the move."

"Convoy 783 Alpha Romeo Alpha Echo is moving towards primary target," Michael repeated, and when I turned, he was holding a mic to his mouth. He quickly panned back to the screen, and I could see an aerial view of the truck in question.

"You can see the drone footage like this," Price said, getting my attention back to my own screens.

He pressed a few buttons on my keyboard, and the screen to my left switched to the drone view.

I followed the little green truck with my eyes, trying to imagine what the guys looked like in there, huddled up. I tried to imagine what they were thinking, if they thought this entire mission was so stupid; since they had to babysit some girl who got caught in the crossfire and chase after a drug lord that should've been easy to catch.

I felt so dumb, so worthless and stupid as I watched the bodycams; seeing Gaz check his weapons, Ghost and his skull mask leaning against the wall of the truck with an empty look in his eyes. Soap with his rifle barrel down, hand on the butt end of it. Ale smoking a cigarette.

These men who had better things to do had become sort of... my friends.

I felt my heart beat a little faster, and the closer they got to the target location, the more I felt blood rush in my ears.

"Convoy has arrived at drop off," Michaels narrated.

"If you see anyone familiar, Laura," Price told me, leaning close to me so I was forced to pay attention. "Tell me."

I nodded, feeling my palms start to sweat. "Yes."

"Squad is 900 yards from target location."

"Switch to Soap or Ghost," Price instructed, and I flipped my view to Ghost, watching the sway of his gun, one of his gloved hands gripping the barrel. "Put Soap on your second monitor."

I did, seeing the ground move beneath his rapid steps, watching them approach a building with a splotch of shade beside it like dark ink.

"500 yards."

I felt a lump rise in my throat.

"Target location acquired. Lieutenant, move your squad into position."

From Ghost's camera, I saw them crowd the building; Soap moving in front of Ghost, towards the entrance. On the other side of the door, Gaz and Ale, nodding to each other in a language unknown to me.

"Moving int-"

And then the entire world went dark.

The monitors closed with a doomed dying sound, a cloak of darkness snapping into the room. No lights. No sounds. Just the echo of my heartbeat and nothing else.

Until Price. "Michaels, what happened."

No response.

"Michaels!"

"Sir, I'm not entirely sure!" the boy answered frantically. I heard the wheels of his chair screech in response.

"Get us back on!"

"Nothing's working sir!"

I heard Price get out of his chair, and he moved, but I couldn't see. Even my hand a few inches from my nose. I was blind.

"Where's the -"

"Sir, I'm trying the breaker box, everything is fried."

"Fried?"

I felt something like a stone drop in my belly, a looming doom rising in my chest like a monster.

Something was terribly wrong.

"Yes, sir, fried."

"How?" Price asked, and his voice, quiet and small, made it seem like he knew the answer to his own question. And then, "How?" and that was an entirely other question.

"I don't know how they got the technology, but I'm assuming-"

"Do you have a weapon?" Price interrupted.

"My side arm, sir."

I felt hands at my shoulders. How could he see in the dark?

"Stay with Laura." He instructed. "Laura, stay here. I'm going to go find a weapon."

"What..." but I trailed off when i heard the door, and my eyes had adjusted just enough to see a darker shadow pass in front of me and leave.

The sound of the shutting door was like an omen.

"Michaels," I whispered.

"It's okay, miss."

My hands turned into fists. "What's happening."

There was a long, strange silence, where I could practically feel the wheels turning in his head, as if he wasn't sure if he should tell me or not.

"There's been..." he trailed off, his voice strained. Then, "There's been an EMP."

I frowned, turning in my chair even though only i was only met with darkness. "A what?"

Again, a short silence. "It's an electromagnetic pulse," he clarified. "It fried our system and I don't know why we can't get it back on. They must be running interference."

I raised my brows. "They can do that?" I fired back. "They can do that to the US Navy?" I was more impressed than anything else.

"I guess."

"But why?" I asked.

Another silence. "For you, I'm thinking."

"Me?"

"You don't seem to realize that you're the only person outside of Alvarez's crew that has seen his face."

"I'm beginning to wonder if that's even true," I said. "He said he was Alvarez. He had the tattoo and all. What if it was a decoy?"

"No one else is allowed to have that tattoo," Michaels explained, seemingly an expert on this. "He kills anyone who even thinks of doing it. He's a kingpin. So yeah, maybe you're right, but I think they wouldn't spend that much money and energy on a whole EMP if you hadn't seen the real Alvarez's face."

In the distance, I heard a door opening and closing. I swallowed my fear, hoping Price was coming with good news.

"You're right," I told Michaels. "But still, I keep hoping this is all a hoax."

Michaels laughed, but it soon died on his lips when the door swung open and a flash, a bang of white hot, orange light burst into the room, illuminating the space in a flash, a moment.

It hung there before me like a tableau. On one side, Michaels on his feet, aiming his gun, a flash erupting from the barrel. On the other, someone else, definitely not Price, wearing black gear and a full face helmet.

I felt hung above this tiny room, watching this scene from a distance, hearing the sounds of gunshots, hearing bodies hitting the floor like marbles in water.

"Michaels!"

I stumbled in the dark, landing on my knees, something wet and so warm seeping through my trousers. On the other side, the sound of choking.

"Michaels!"

I felt around with my hands, wetting them in something thick like yogurt but warm like tea. I found his body with my hands, shaking it.

"Take... this," he stuttered, his voice wet and wretched, scratched and weak. He pressed something into my wet hands, something cold and metallic. The gun.

"No," I mumbled, and i felt the tears tracing down my face, the fear rising up in me when I finally realized what had just happened.

My ears buzzed.

I felt a cold fist reach into my chest and squeeze the air out of my lungs.

I was alone, in the dark, and someone had come in to try to kill me.

Was he dead?

I stood in the dark, with Michaels' gun in my trembling hands. My knees were weak, making it hard to cross the room, stepping on this stranger's dead body.

Disgust built in my throat, lumping in my mouth. I squeezed my eyes, allowing tears to slide off my lashes.

I pressed my hand against the door and pulled it open, moving this man's body with my feet.

I whimpered, disgusted with myself, with the fact that I had blood everywhere on me.

The door was open, but it was still so impossibly dark.

I had to get outside, where I had light, where I could see the sun.

Where was Price?

I pressed one bloody hand on the wall, the other holding the gun before me, shaking, trembling from head to toe. I kept a steady pace, trying to calm my breathing, my racing heart, my tears building along my lash line.

I heard a crash, a shot, footsteps on the other side of the building. I fell into a crouch, holding onto the gun with wet, rigid fingers. I blindly swung it around, finger so close to pulling the trigger.

I had to find light.

I almost screamed when I heard footsteps around the building outside, shouts in a language I couldn't understand.

I stood on shaking knees, the tremble moving into my legs as I took tiny steps towards the door--or what I thought was the door. But as I crept along the wall, my ears fine-tuned to any noise around me, it was clear that the building was surrounded.

It felt like hours went by. It felt like days in there, in the dark. There were shots echoing outside, ricocheting off the building. I could hear the cement tumbling to the ground.

I sat there, back to the wall, in utter silence and darkness, praying no one would come looking for either of the dead bodies in the other room.

But I wouldn't stay in here much longer. I had to get out. Find light. Find Price or Laswell or anybody else.

I stood and made it quietly to the front door, hand on the push bar, heaving in breath after breath. I pushed, holding the gun before my face. A sliver of light appeared, blinding me for a second as I came out.

I heard feet shuffling in the dirt, but the sun was so bright, my eyes hadn't yet adjusted. So I turned, saw a blurry, dark figure.

As soon as my eyes registered a gun pointed right at my head, my brain went into survival mode and I pulled the trigger.

The force of the gun made me tumble back, arm raised to shield from the sun, the potential bullet coming my way. But I just heard a shout of pain.

I raised my head, eyes still squinted. I'd shot the man, dressed in blacks, helmet over his face, bulletproof vest over his chest. I'd shot him right in the forearm, causing his gun to fall to the dirt ground.

"Oh, shit," I mumbled.

He looked up, pressing one hand against the bloody hole in his arm. He said something to me, but I didn't understand. And suddenly, he was charging at me, a few long leaps and he crashed into me, sending us both tumbling to the ground in a cloud of sandy smoke.

My head hit the ground with a sickening thud and I lost the gun, my hands coming up to shield my face. He kept screaming at me, his heavy body pressed flat against mine.

I screamed, pushing at his shoulders, but he meandered his hands around my neck and cut the air from my lungs. My eyes flew wide, watching my reflection in his mask; a wild girl with messy black hair and eyes filled with nothing but terror.

He was straddling me and there was no way I was strong enough to buck him off. But I tried anyway, planting my feet against the ground but with no air in my lungs, my face burning, lips swelling, my feet just resorted to scrambling against the dirt.

My vision was closing.

I tried to scream, but my mouth stayed open and I watched my reflection quietly go dark.

This was finally the end for me.

My eyes went dark and my hearing turned to a sharp ringing. He fell over me, relieved almost, so heavy like deadweight. I thought he was spitting on me, something wet slapping on my face, warm and gooey.

But then his fingers relaxed around my neck and I took a strong, loud gasp of air. I stared at the clear blue skies, watching my assailant's form like a huddled black mass laid right over me.

Did I die?

And then Ghost's mask came into view, over me, pulling the man from my body. With his weight lifted off, I coughed, gulping in air like a parched man with water.

I put my hands over my face, feeling the wet, dried crust of... blood?

It hadn't registered in my brain that the man had died. But why else was Ghost here? And when my fingers came back blood red, caked in Michaels' and two other man's blood, the fear that built in me came out like a shriek.

I felt hands at my shoulders, hoisting me up, and I turned, ready to punch, claw, kick, and scream my way out. But I only saw Soap's face, splattered with blood and torn with fear. He grabbed my face with two hands, bringing his eyes up to mine.

"Tell me you're okay," he breathed.

I was heaving, nodding frantically, grabbing onto his forearms like an anchor.

He sighed, relieved, pulling me against him. He kept one hand in my hair, the other stroking my chin.

"Soap, what's happening?" I asked, gripping onto his bulletproof vest.

I turned in his embrace, watching Ghost kick the body to the side and rip the helmet off. Someone, Ghost or Soap, had shot him clear through the neck. A gaping, bloody hole tore through his trachea.

"I would've kept him alive just to hurt him even more," Ghost said through clenched teeth. He was in his full army-issued uniform, complete with his tactical vest, his helmet, gloves.

When he turned to me, I saw the heavy look he gave me through the holes in his skull mask. The bone-white was sprinkled with dots of red.

He was angry.

"I'm so sorry I got out," I mumbled.

Soap hushed me, a finger on my lower lip, wiping the blood off, comforting me. Ghost stood, walking slowly up to us. He pushed the strap of his rifle over his shoulder, letting the weapon hang at his side, and reached out to brush a strand of hair out of my face.

"Not your fault," he mumbled. I looked up slowly, meeting his gaze. He was so close to us. With Soap holding onto my waist, Ghost's hands skimming down my neck, I finally felt safe.

It was so strange, having a dead body inches from my feet, and two grown men with the warmth of the sun cajoling me with comforting caresses down my spine, along my shoulders.

"We need to get her out of here," Soap mumbled. He'd buried his face in my hair, kissing along my hairline. The intimate gesture made me shiver.

I closed my eyes when I felt Ghost's hands along my waist.

Soap wrapped one arm around my shoulders steering me along. I watched as Ghost took back his weapon, walking in front of us as we rounded the corner of the comms building.

"They killed Michaels," I mumbled.

Soap pressed me closer to him.

"I had to take his gun," I continued. I shivered at the thought of his blood on my fingers. Of him dying alone in there, in the dark, with some strange body next to his.

We jogged to the barracks building, one I recognized from my time getting clothes from the women on base. We entered silently, the place quiet and dark.

"We should wait until they've got comms back on," Ghost said, closing the door behind us and hurrying us into the hall.

"Are we sure all shadows have been eliminated?" Soap asked.

"Dunno," Ghost mumbled, ripping open a door and ushering us inside. It was cold but the curtains were open and light swooped in, illuminating the few bunks in the room.

"We should wait out here until then," Ghost instructed, heading over to the curtains and pulling them shut, squeezing all light out of the room.

#cod #ghost #ghost cod #simon riley #ghost simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley smut #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x female reader #simon riley x you #simon riley smut #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader

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your-highnessmarvel · 5 months

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It’s Your Captain Tonight NSFW

Requested by Anon: Hi I follow you on twitter and I saw you retweeted that post about chris having an captain america suit in his closet for “special occaisons” so I am asking if you can do a chris evans smut when he surprises his girlfriend you with the suit? You can do whatever you want though thank you! xx

A/N: Wow, i am so proud of this smut LMAOOO but it’s just so NASTY OMG!! I can’t believe i wrote this!!! the gif is EXACTLY the chris that’s in this fic.

Warnings: smut, Dom!Chris, Rough!Chris, Sub!reader

*gif not mine

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MASTERLIST

You sit on the bed, the covers around you, flipping through a magazine. Your pajamas are simple: shorts and a tank top because the weather is too hot to sleep in anything more. The TV in the corner is on, blaring the news. The lights are dimmed.

Chris is in the bathroom. It’s always like this; your routine. You go in first, taking your time with skincare and showering, while Chris whines that he has to pee. Then, while you fluff up the pillows and prepare the bed for sleeping, Chris just pees and washes his teeth and he’s ready for bed.

“What about moisturizer?” you’d once asked, way back when you’d first started sleeping over. But your boyfriend had shrugged and waved it off because he’s just like that. Pretty like that.

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your-highnessmarvel · 5 months

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Last Updated: 2023-11-26

Disclaimer: I am not the author of these stories, just sharing my favourite Tom Hiddleston stories. Find the authors' links below. If you want your work removed, message me privately.

❧ Against the Odds by holdmytesseract & ladycamillewrites▪︎18+▪︎〔F᜶C〕▪︎

Summary: "After a toxic relationship with [you, dive] into the world of acting. No other than Tom Hiddleston, an old crush, turns out to be [your] charming, British co-star. Soon, love blooms and [you start] to heal from [your] past trauma. [However,] life is far from a fairytale and old demons [threaten] to shatter [your happiness]."

❧ One Look and They'll Know by muddyorbsblr▪︎18+▪︎〔E᜶F᜶〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

Summary: "You go to work on the set of Thor Ragnarok one day and you're greeted with the sight of one Tom Hiddleston on his knees and your coworkers whispering about how he perfected his posture."

❧ Anesthesia￨Prt. II by just-the-hiddles▪︎〔F〕▪︎￨▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎𑁍▪︎

Summary: "You are a nurse in the ER Department in [L.A.]. At the start of one of your shifts, you are called in to deal with a stunt gone wrong, the patient, Tom Hiddleston. Tom requires surgery and the anesthesia has some weird side effects on the poor man."

❧ Best of Friends by just-the-hiddles▪︎〔F᜶M〕▪︎

Summary: "Since meeting on the set of Avengers, Tom and you have been inseparable. So much so that all your friends and costars think you are secretly dating. A photo by Mark brings the situation to a head."

❧ Breaking Down Walls by just-the-hiddles▪︎18+▪︎〔E᜶F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

Summary: "The reader has a writing deadline looming but she has hit a roadblock. Tom returns home and helps with a bit of hands on inspiration."

❧ Breathless Desire by bsara100▪︎18+▪︎〔E〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

Summary: "A moment where Tom can't contain the need to feel his lover wrapped in his arms any longer."

❧ But He Loved You by your-highnessmarvel▪︎〔A〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

Summary: "It started slowly. Conspiracy theories. Photoshopped, grotesque, and obviously faked pictures... "

❧ Cabin Get-a-Way by idontgiveaflyinggrayson69▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

Summary: "Tom takes [you] on a cabin get-a-way with plans to propose."

❧ Can We Have One? by screw-real-life-i-pick-fandoms▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎𑁍▪︎

Summary: "You and Tom have been married for three years now, and things are going great... One day [your best friend] and his wife ask you to babysit there two kids... After the day goes on Tom becomes very attached to the two kids."

❧ Cat is Out of the Bag by holdmytesseract▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎𑁍▪︎

Summary: "Baby Hiddles is on the way —and the plan was to keep it a secret for as long as somehow possible. But from one day to the next, the news are suddenly spread all over the internet, tabloids and social networks. The question? Who let the cat out of the bag..."

❧ Caught by sunshinexsin▪︎18+▪︎〔E〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

Summary: {…}

❧ Dark Delights by just-the-hiddles▪︎18+▪︎〔E᜶F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

Summary: "Tom has been having late night shooting the new Loki series. When he comes home late at night, he makes a startling discovery about what you dream about at night."

❧ Don't Make a Sound by muddyorbsblr▪︎14+▪︎〔F᜶C〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

Summary: "During a press junket interview, Tom uses one of the questions addressed to him to his advantage and distracts you from your peculiar mood."

❧ Don't Want to Miss a Thing by lykaonimagines▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

Summary: "Tom arrives home late one night after months gone filming; and realizes how much he really missed his fiancé."

❧ Every Step of The Way by lady-rose-moon▪︎18+▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

Summary: "After a long day... Tom comes home to his beloved being all romantic."

❧ Hide & Seek by holdmytesseract▪︎16+▪︎〔E᜶F᜶A〕▪︎

Summary: "Tom asks you to accompany him to Ben's birthday party. On the way there, you get stuck in traffic. A misunderstanding reveals long harboured feelings and things come how they had to come..."

❧ It's Always the Little Ones by bellesque▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎𑁍▪︎

Summary: "You wake up in the middle of the night to find [Tom] staring adoringly at your cute newborn."

❧ I Have Never by muddyorbsblr▪︎〔F᜶C〕▪︎

Summary: "[After confessing] that you've never had a positive experience kissing anyone, let alone a good experience doing more than kissing, Tom visits you in your hotel room to rectify that situation."

❧ Liquid Courage by just-the-hiddles▪︎18+▪︎〔E〕▪︎

Summary: "When the hotel loses you reservation, you are forced to turn to the last person you would ask for help, Tom. [However,] you are not facing him without a liquid courage, in the form of whiskey."

❧ Make It Hard for Me by just-the-hiddles▪︎18+▪︎〔E᜶F〕▪︎

Summary: "The hotel lost... [Tom's], hotel reservation. So now you are sharing a room. A room with one king sized bed. Add in that you are hopelessly in love with your best friend. This is a recipe for disaster. Tom has a very arousing dream the first night in the room which only further complicates matters."

❧ Oh Crap by lykaonimagines▪︎〔F᜶M〕▪︎

Summary: "[You've] been best friends with Tom forever and hidden [your] crush on him for nearly as long. The problem with... secrets is they're hard to keep in when you're not in exactly the soundest of mindsets."

❧ One Kiss by bellesque▪︎〔F〕▪︎

Summary: "Whenever one of you is upset, you and your best friend Tom head to your favorite ice cream parlor to vent and eat your feelings. Usually you feel better afterwards. For some reason, this time, a cone of your favorite flavor and a rant doesn't quite do the trick."

❧ Party's Just Getting Started by angelkurenai▪︎

Summary: {…}

❧ Slow Hands by just-the-hiddles▪︎18+▪︎〔F〕▪︎

Summary: "Tom and you are old friends, but how you wish [you were] more. Tom decides to [have] a quiet birthday with you. [Turns out] a birthday wish and a few beers can change your life."

❧ Stage Kiss by your-highnessmarvel▪︎〔F〕▪︎

Summary: {…}

❧ Starving by lykaonimagines▪︎〔F᜶A〕▪︎

Summary: "[You deal] with [your] newfound crush on [your] co-star, Tom [Hiddleston]."

❧ Unexpected Delivery￨Prt. II by just-the-hiddles▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎𑁍▪︎

Summary: "At 9 months pregnant, [you're hesitant to spend] the holidays in a secluded [mountain chalet]. Tom assures [you] everything will be fine, but when your water breaks and the snow is hip deep, Tom is forced to help deliver your firstborn."

❧ A Little Too Short by your-highnessmarvel▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

❧ After Party, the by lokispet-blog1▪︎

❧ Almost Too Late! by lokidokieokie▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎𑁍▪︎

❧ Daddy! by your-highnessmarvel▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎𑁍▪︎

❧ French Toast by just-the-hiddles▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎𑁍▪︎

❧ Freshly Mowed Lawn￨Prt. II by jpat82▪︎16+▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

❧ Glasses by your-highnessmarvel▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

❧ Heroes and Villains by the--blackdahlia▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎𑁍▪︎

❧ Hiddlesbum by tilltheendwilliwrite▪︎16+▪︎〔F᜶E〕▪︎

❧ Hiddlestons Plural by idontgiveaflyinggrayson69▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎𑁍▪︎

❧ I am Arriving by just-the-hiddles▪︎18+▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

❧ I've Got You by lokidokieokie▪︎〔C〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

❧ I Wish You Could See by idontgiveaflyinggrayson69▪︎〔C〕▪︎

❧ Lucky by the--blackdahlia▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

❧ Magic Hands by caramell0w▪︎18+

❧ Now and Always by just-the-hiddles▪︎𑁍▪︎♥︎▪︎

❧ On Set by your-highnessmarvel▪︎〔F〕▪︎

❧ Only Mine by multific▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

❧ Shakespearean Disguise by high-functioning-lokipath▪︎〔F〕▪︎

❧ That Voice by fanficshiddles▪︎18+▪︎〔E᜶F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

❧ Tipsy, Giggly, and in Love by avenging-fandoms▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

❧ Why Are You on the Floor? by just-the-hiddles▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

❧ Why is Daddy Dressed Like Loki? by the--blackdahlia▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎𑁍▪︎

❧ Dating Tom Hiddleston… by hiddlywiddly81▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

❧ Waking Up w/ Tom Would Include... by tomhiddleston-is-mischief▪︎〔F〕▪︎♥︎▪︎

See Also: Navigation | Tom Hiddleston Master Index

Authors: @angelkurenai || @avenging-fandoms || @bellesque @caramell0w || @fanficshiddles || @hiddlywiddly81 || @high-functioning-lokipath || @holdmytesseract || @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69 || @jpat82 || @just-the-hiddles || @ladycamillewrites || @lady-rose-moon || @lokidokieokie || @lokispet-blog1 || @lykaonimagines || @muddyorbsblr || @multific || @screw-real-life-i-pick-fandoms || @sunshinexsin @the--blackdahlia || @tilltheendwilliwrite || @tomhiddleston-is-mischief || @your-highnessmarvel ||

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your-highnessmarvel · 5 months

Text

this was so good!!!!

run until you feel your lungs bleeding (ghost x reader)

summary: You're on the run after finally escaping from your abusive husband's clutches, hitchhiking south along California highways. A strange man in a black mask picks you up, and it doesn't take you long to realize that not every hand offered should be taken.

word count: 6.5k

cw: dark fic!, noncon somnophilia, referenced abuse from a past partner, ghost does not care about reader's feelings, mentioned drinking while driving but no intoxication

read on ao3 - see the pinterest board

One of your blisters is about to burst. You’d worn through your only pair of clean socks yesterday, leaving the back of your heel vulnerable to your old tennis shoes and their vendetta against your feet. You can feel your skin rubbing thinner and thinner with each step, know it’s only a matter of time before you’ve got blood flowing freely into your shoe.

You keep your left arm stretched out, thumb held up in the hope that someone will take pity on your limping form and give you a ride.

It’s not likely, you’ve been hitchhiking for days now and not a single person has slowed down. You’ve got no real destination, just a goal of putting as much space between you and your piece of shit ex-husband as possible. Your end goal is Arizona - you’ve got an aunt somewhere in Scottsdale, if you can get to her you can only hope she’ll help you get back on your feet.

A few people honk as they drive by. In the two days you’ve been walking, none have stopped. You take short power naps at night off the side of the road, pray to every god you can think of that you don’t get run over or eaten by something.

You haven’t yet. But you know if you don’t get a good night's sleep soon, don’t start putting actual distance between him and you, then you might not survive your escape.

The sun is at its apex when the semi-truck pulls up beside you. It’s black, the trailer attached is plain white with no logo painted on. You can hardly believe your luck, gape up at the massive thing as it slows. The door pops open a moment after the truck rolls to a stop, but it’s so high up that you can’t see who’s driving past their hand - gloved - before they pull it back.

You don’t have the luxury of asking questions. You just stumble over, flinching back with a little hiss when you place your palm on the metal of the truck and burn your hand. It takes a minute to finagle your way into the truck, but you manage it eventually, huffing and puffing all the way up.

The first thing you notice about the man in the driver’s seat is his size - he’s big. Bigger than any man you’ve seen before. You just reach his shoulders even with both of you sitting down, his legs are spread so wide his knees nearly rest on his door and the gearshift, his head is close to brushing the roof. He’s just… big.

He’s wearing a black neck gaiter pulled up to cover his mouth and nose, which strikes you as odd considering he’s driving on his own, but you brush the thought off. His hair is blond, greasy and limp on his scalp, you doubt he did more than run his fingers through it getting out of bed. His eyes are blue, a light shade that surprises you for some reason. You don’t know a thing about this man, certainly not enough to be surprised by anything about him, but the blond hair and the blue eyes… it doesn’t quite fit with the black gloves and the mask.

He’s reclined back in his seat, one hand resting on the wheel and the other on his thigh, eyes scanning you like a king his subject. His eyes linger on your tiny shorts (sleep shorts, what you’d been wearing the night of your escape), skip right past the sluggishly bleeding scrapes on your knees and scan your ratty backpack.

You hope he won’t ask you to empty it. You’d like to keep your gun for as long as possible, can’t imagine this trucker would be ok with the hitchhiker he just picked up having a loaded weapon.

He doesn’t speak when he finally makes eye contact with you. You can’t hold it for long at all, only manage a few seconds before you’re glancing around his truck.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

His car reeks of smoke. There’s a beer bottle in his cup holder, open and helf empty. There are more bottles - empty - by your feet. He doesn’t have the radio playing.

When you look back at him, his eyes are already trained on yours. You can’t help but flinch - the intensity of his gaze feels suffocating, even after only a few seconds of being held under it.

You work up the nerve to speak, take a few deep breaths and a few more long looks around the truck, the space this man spends most of his days in.

There are cigarette stubs on the dashboard, which has clearly been used as a makeshift ashtray. The seats are old, the leather peeling and tempting you to pick, and the dash itself is sunbleached.

“I’m trying to go to Arizona,” you finally say, flickering your eyes quickly to his and away again. His jeans are worn - but naturally worn, like he’s had them for months and washed them so many times they’ve lost their color. “Are… are you heading that direction?”

You look at him long enough to see him incline his head a bit. You don’t think he’s blinked since you got in the car.

“Goin’ south,” he affirms. His voice is a low grumble, British accented. Not necessarily unsurprising to hear in California, but a shock from a truck driver. “I’ll drop you somewhere along the way.”

He pulls away from the shoulder with that and turns away from you, apparently finished with the interaction.

Being dropped somewhere along the way isn’t necessarily your ideal situation, but your feet scream in relief at the lack of pressure, so you’re certainly not going to complain.

You shift a little further back in your seat, tuck the backpack between you and the passenger door. He could reach it if he wanted, but keeping yourself between this stranger and your prized possessions feels like the right choice. You think about propping your feet up on the dashboard, but decide you don’t want to seem too rude to your apparent savior.

You look out the window. You’ve never been in a car this high, and even the flat California highways look more interesting at a new vantage point. It’s easier to focus on the far-off mountains than the giant beside you.

“So,” you cough lightly, awkward in the relative silence of the truck. The engine is loud, but the driver’s radio is dead silent. “What’s your name?”

He grunts, gives no other response. You glance over to him, a little unsure of yourself. Had you made that bad of a first impression somehow?

He doesn’t turn to you, and he doesn’t answer your question.

Alright, you tell yourself. Maybe he does this all the time, maybe he’s tired of making small talk with homeless and desperate hitchhikers. That’s probably it.

You don’t give him your name. Instead, you tuck your feet up to the seat beneath your thighs, turn your body fully to the passenger window, fold your arms on the windowsill and lay your chin on your elbows.

The drive is smooth enough for you to relax, even though you know that logically you shouldn’t. You’re a young woman who’s just gotten into a car with a strange and intimidating man who could very clearly physically overpower you. Nobody knows where you are. You should have a hand on your gun already, ready for anything the driver might try.

But you’ve been walking for days, and hadn't been sleeping well before that either. You haven’t had a good night’s sleep since your wedding night. The low rumble of the engine, the heat of the sun beaming through the glass, the surprisingly gentle motions of the truck…

You don’t quite let yourself fall asleep, but it’s a near thing.

———————————————————————

The two of you stay like that for hours. Your benevolent driver seemingly comfortable in his silence with you drowsy and relaxing in his passenger seat. You don’t stay in the same position for more than an hour or two at once, shifting your legs and always keeping any pressure off your feet.

You’d like to pull your shoes off, to ask if the man has any band-aids. Maybe any food, any water. But you can’t risk pissing him off, not when your other options are nonexistent. So you settle for slow movements, trying to keep your blisters from being irritated.

He finishes his beer before the first hour has passed with you in his vehicle. Waits another two to have a second. You don’t comment on it, but the scent makes your lip curl, and you bury your face in your arms to hide the reaction. You hope he’s not a lightweight. And despite the heavy stench of cigarette smoke sunken into the interior, he hasn’t had one yet.

He’s the one who speaks next.

It’s a quarter until 6, and the sun has started her slow journey to sleep. You’ve been watching the sight for a while, entranced by the slow process with nothing else to amuse you.

“Pullin’ off,” he grunts.

You can’t help but jerk up straight at the sound, caught off guard. You’d nearly forgotten about his accent, about how deep his voice really is.

“For gas?” You ask, turning in your seat to glance at him for the first time in at least an hour. He only grunts again, a noise you’re just going to assume means yes.

“Alright,” you nod, letting your feet drop to the floor from where you’d crossed them beneath yourself. “Are you… do you want me to find someone else to ride with?” You cross your fingers where you tuck them beneath your thighs, pray to every god you know of that he doesn’t make that yes grunt again.

He looks over to you this time, and the two of you make eye contact for the first time since you’d gotten into the car nearly six hours ago. His eyes are brighter than you remember, and the impact of them sends a jolt up your spine.

You’re not sure how long he looks at you. You feel stuck under his gaze, a little wide-eyed prey animal spotted by a predator who can only lay still and hope they move on. You’ve never felt quite so pinned before, quite so unable to break eye contact. You don’t think you like it.

He looks away first, shifts in his seat and drops one hand from the steering wheel to lay on his thigh. You swallow at how tight his jeans are, how his thighs seem to nearly bulge from them.

“No,” he finally answers. It takes a moment for you to remember your own question, but your sigh of relief is loud once you do.

If you’re lucky, he’ll try and drive through the night. Dangerous, since it’ll make for nearly twenty-four hours on the road, but you’d rather take your chances with him than falling asleep at the wheel then spend another night staring into a dark forest and wondering if there are wolves in this part of the country.

He turns off the highway three exits later, pulls his truck into the first reststop. It’s the only structure in the nearby area, a McDonald’s-Subway-Shell mix with ten pumps, less than half with someone using them. It’s the kind of rest stop you’ve seen on countless roadtrips, one that you know exists off half the exits in the States. The familiarity of it makes your lips twitch up in the corners.

There are several other semi-trucks pulled up getting gas, none quite the size of your driver’s. He parks quickly and easily, in one try, and turns the truck completely off. You shift a little in your seat, unsure what he’ll want from you, but he’s hauled himself up and out of the truck before you can open your mouth to ask.

You settle a bit. He’d said he wouldn’t make you leave but you still can’t fully relax for some reason, can’t bring back the looseness to your shoulders you’ve had since he picked you up. You entertain yourself by watching a middle aged couple try and wrangle six kids that look like they’re all under ten, since I’m sympathy when the littlest one’s face goes red and he starts to wail.

The door next to you opens without warning. You manage to catch your bag before it can go tumbling out of the car, can’t hold back the little yelp of surprise. Your eyes are wide, fingers holding tight to the bag, when you look up through your hair.

The driver’s face looks the same as it has for the last six hours - expressionless. Even with the mask, surely his eyebrows should move at least a bit? He looks almost like a corpse above you - pale face and flat features. It unnerves you.

“Gettin’ food. You got money?”

You hesitate for a moment - you do have money, small bills you’d snuck from your husband’s wallet that you’d planned to use for a bus ticket. You’re not starving yet, the few granola bars you’d taken in your escape will tide you over for a little while longer.

You shake your head.

He nods, like he’d expected that, and glances over your form from head to toe again. “Alright. You want somethin’ to eat, now’s your chance. We’ll be back on the road for another few hours before I stop for the night.”

With that he turns away, jumps down to the parking lot and stalks off toward the McDonald’s. It takes you a minute to follow him, still a little shocked that you’d gotten multiple sentences from him at once.

The thought of free food is far too tempting to let you linger for too long, though, and you’re throwing your bag over your shoulders and scampering after him only a moment later. You have to trot a little awkwardly to keep up with his long strides. He doesn’t hold the door open for you, but you catch him glancing over his shoulder to see if you’re there.

The teenager working the register looks like it’s their first day, and you assume a middle-aged man leaning against the counter beside her is meant to be showing her the ropes. He’s far more occupied with whatever’s on his phone screen, leaving the cashier to stare up at your driver with wide eyes.

You get it. Standing next to him now, you decide he’s not big - he’s huge. Has to be at least six and a half feet tall, and at least a foot taller than you. Combined with his muscular form - another odd thing for a truck driver - and his all black attire, he seems almost like some sort of monster or omen come to warn about the future.

You step up to the counter beside him, give the cashier your best reassuring smile when she glances at you. It gives her enough courage to stumble over, “Welcome to McDonald’s, what can I get you today?” after only a few stuttering starts. You’re quite proud of her.

“Five Big Macs and fries. No drink.” The man rumbles, his mask umoving. He glances down at you, finally cocks an eyebrow (an expression!) for you to order.

“Uh, just… just ten nuggets for me,” you smile at the cashier, glance up at the driver to make sure you haven’t somehow ordered too much. “And, uh, a Coke?”

“Will that be all for you today?”

“Make it a twenty nugget meal,” your partner corrects, then pulls a worn leather from his back pocket and pays with a shiny card. You can’t help but eye the many bills folded neatly in the wallet.

“Thanks for the upgrade,” you say as the two of you slide onto a pair of stools to wait for your food. “I really appreciate it. I, uh, I can’t pay you back, though.”

He glances at you again, holds you pinned under his gaze and kicks your heartbeat up a few notches. It becomes a conscious effort to keep your breathing steady when he spreads his thighs enough to brush against yours.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Your meal is largely silent. He all but inhales three of his five burgers, leaves the other two wrapped up presumably for later on the drive. You try and eat all of your nuggets and fries, but your granola bar diet of the last few days means your stomach feels stretched to his limit only a few bites into the meal.

After your fifth nugget, you tuck the little box closed. Shift towards your driver and glance up from the window you’d been staring out to see him already looking down at you.

You clear your throat, take a little sip of your Coke. “I’m done.”

He shakes his head once, reaches forward to pop the little box back open. “No, you’re not. We’re not getting back on the road ‘til you eat at least half.”

You can’t help but blink in surprise at him, not moving to take any more food. He won’t tell you his name, won’t make any small talk whatsoever, but he will worry about how much you’re eating?

He grunts when you don’t make a move to listen to him, pushes the little brown box closer to you. “C’mon. Eat.”

You get through another five under his eye. He doesn’t look away from you, and now you know about the stare. It feels heavier now, like every little twitch from you is catalouged by him. It makes every bite difficult to swallow.

He nods when you tuck the little box closed again, glance a bit wearily at him to make sure he’s content now. He picks up your tray, tucks his two sandwiches in one hand, and leaves. You scramble to keep up.

His strides are a little shorter in the parking lot this time, and the slower pace keeps your blisters from further irritation. You’re not sure it’s intentional, but you’re thankful nonetheless.

The truck is still difficult to get into, but the worn leather seats are a familiar comfort now. This time, your driver flicks on the radio as he pulls out of the rest stop.

For some reason, you feel like maybe he likes you. There’s something in the line of his body that feels a little softer now, the tension in the truck feels a little drained. It could be the music, but you prefer to think that he’s taken a bit of a liking to you. It means he’s less likely to end up hurting you, means you're less likely to have to rely on your non-existent shooting skills.

With the sun nearly fully set and the soft music from the radio, it’s much harder to keep yourself awake. You curl up in the seat, lay your head down on folded arms, and try your best to keep your eyes open.

———————————————————————

You don’t know how long it’s been when you wake up.

The truck is silent now, no engine and no radio, and the world outside is pitch black. You jerk up at the realization, quickly lay a hand on your bag and turn to your driver.

He’s staring at you. You nearly yelp in surprise, bite your tongue so harshly to keep the noise back that you taste the tang of iron.

He looks nearly inhuman in just the low light of the truck. Pale skin, blonde hair, blue eyes, a dark black mask obscuring half of his face. His body is turned towards you, black shirt and dark pants making him look almost like the top half of his face is just… floating.

“I need to sleep,” he rumbles, keeping you held captive in what almost feels like a staring contest - like if you look away now, you’ll lose something. “You can take the bed in the back.”

That gets your heartbeat quickening, the thud of your pulse loud in your own ears. “Oh… I thought…” you swallow, finally tear your eyes from his to look around. You seem to be at another rest stop, this one a small dark building with two bathrooms and a few vending machines. There aren’t any other trucks parked around you. “I thought I might try and find a motel or something.”

“With what money?”

He’s got you there. You work your tongue against the roof of your mouth, clear away the blood and try to make your mouth not so bone-dry. “Yeah,” you nearly whisper, eyes darting back to his before away again. He hasn’t moved. You clear your throat before speaking again. “But, uh, I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I can sleep up here.”

“You’ll take the bed,” he reaffirms, with no room for argument in his tone. You can’t help but feel like there’s something more here, like you’re missing something. You don’t feel safe anymore, not like you had after the McDonald’s. Why did you let yourself fall asleep? You could have pressured him to pull off somewhere with a motel, tried to finagle or scam yourself into a room with a lock on the door.

Now you’re stuck in this dark truck, no one else but the driver around for miles.

You swallow again, force down a cough.

You don’t want to sleep in his bed. But a glance over at him tells you that’s what’s going to happen. Your driver doesn’t seem the kind of man to take kindly to disobedience.

“What’s your name?” You ask again, voice weak and quiet. For some reason, this feels important. Like a name will make him more human, easier to swallow.

He only tilts his head a little, face still stoic. “Get in bed. We’ll drive again when the sun rises.”

“Please,” you try, a hint of desperation creeping into your voice. You can’t explain it, but you need his name. Need some evidence that he’s more man than he looks. This moment feels pivotal, and there’s a little voice screaming at the back of your head that things are going in the wrong direction.

“Sleep, doll,” is all he says. His voice isn’t softer, but it’s quieter, like maybe he understands the fear coursing through you.

You squeeze your eyes shut a moment before pushing yourself up, both hands holding onto your bag - your literal only possible defense againt this man - like a lifeline. You know they’d shake if your grips was any looser.

It’s too dark to make out much in the back of his cabin. The bed is a decent size for you, but you wonder if he’s able to stretch out fully on it. You think you can see the outline of a minifridge and a few books resting on the floor.

He’s still watching you as you sit on the bed, his body unmoved but his head turned towards you. You try to keep your breathing steady as you toe your shoes off, tuck your feet up to the bed with you and curl up on your side.

The bag doesn’t leave your arms. His eyes don’t leave your form. He makes no move to stretch out and sleep like he’d said he would.

You force your eyes closed, no matter how wrong it feels. You try and will yourself to sleep, tell yourself everything will be fine. If he tries anything, you’ll shoot him.

You can still feel his gaze on you when you finally slip into unconsciousness.

———————————————————————

You wake slowly to movement behind you.

You blink heavy eyelids open, let them fall shut again when there’s no difference in what you can see. You feel cloaked by sleep still, like your brain has been held underwater and everything moves a little slowly, a little muffled.

The bed dips behind you, and there’s a warmth behind you. A hand at your waist. The top of a foot against the sole of yours. A chest against your back.

Your eyes stay closed, but your brows furrow a bit. Your husband has always hated the idea of cuddling, slept like a corpse on his back and berated you if you dared to touch him in your sleep. You nearly roll over, but figure that might set him off. Your arms still ache from the last argument you’d had.

The hand slips beneath your shirt, rough palm against your waist, thumb smoothing in little circles.

That catches your attention, too - your husband’s hands are soft. He’s never done a day of work in his life, the only job he’s had is some fake title made up by his father at his company. The hand on your skin isn’t soft at all, it’s rough with big, thick fingers that rest heavily on you.

The realization comes to you in pieces.

Your master bedroom was never this dark, the large windows always left wide open to allow moonlight into the room. Your ex-husband’s hands are smooth, boney and nearing on frail. The foot brushing against yours triggers a burning sensation in your blisters.

You keep your breathing even - an effort that feels impossible.

It’s not your husband at your back, it’s the truck driver.

He’s silent as he tucks himself fully to you. His breath is damp against your neck and you fight down a shudder at the sensation.

Your bag isn’t in your arms, which means you don’t have your gun. Whatever happens, whatever he does to you, you have no way of defending yourself.

The only reason you don’t cry at the thought is because you don’t want him to know you’re awake. It’s pure self-preservation that keeps your breathing even, your limbs loose, and your breathing slow.

He brings his head closer, his breathing loud in your ear. Every part of him is pressed against you, and you can’t help squeezing your eyes shut more tightly at the hardness poking into your back.

He’s silent as he sets his chin over your shoulder. His groin is tucked right beneath your ass, his knees behind yours and his feet benath yours. He’s just… spooning you.

It feels like an eternity passes just like that. Your heartbeat pounding in every bone, the heat of the driver’s body against yours. His breath is the only noise you hear, ghosting over your ear, heavier than your own.

Eventually, he starts to move. You almost whimper when you realize what he’s doing.

He’s humping you.

His movements are slow at first, just a little rock of his hips against you. But as the minutes pass he becomes more incensed, his thrusts harder against you, his breathing heavier. He grunts at one point, and it takes everything in you not to flinch away.

You want to scream. You want to open your mouth and shout, to roll over and make him stop.

But you don’t have your gun. And he dwarfs you, every inch of your back covered by him and then some. You can’t stop him.

So you let it happen. You keep your eyes screwed shut, try desperately to go anywhere else in your head and pretend you don’t feel how quickly his hips begin to rock.

His hand moves from your hip to your stomach, his pinky resting on the waistband of your sleep shorts. You don’t think you could stay quiet any longer if his fingers slipped beneath the hem, and you let out a near silent breath of relief when his palm continues up instead of down.

He almost rolls you onto your stomach, angles you so your front is closer to the mattress and he can grind more on you than beside you. His hand slips further up your shirt, and you bite your tongue at the feeling of his rough palm against your nipples.

That gets another huff from him, another low sound that could almost be a moan. You feel him shift again, his hips working a little more roughly. You’re not sure how he possibly thinks you’re still asleep, but you pray he doesn’t take it any further as long as he does.

He doesn’t pinch, just softly strokes over one breast. His hand engulfs it fully, fingers wrapping all the way around the little mound of flesh. The calluses on his palm send little sparks down your spine, and you curse your body for the buzzing sensation between your thighs.

His breath gets heavier in your ear, he’s nearly panting over you. If you weren’t wearing shorts and he wasn’t wearing jeans, he’d be fucking you. His thrusting almost feels like he is. The… thing grinding against you is clearly large, even through all the layers of clothing, and you say another prayer that he doesn’t do more than this.

“Fuck,” he grunts, his chin pushing hard into your shoulder. You almost jerk at the sound of his voice, the evidence that this is real and not some horrible nightmare.

You wish you could fall back asleep.

You don’t know how long the whole thing lasts. The pitch dark, the driver’s oppressive weight against you, it makes time feel liminal. You’re not sure if he lasts for five minutes or five hours.

But eventually his hips slow, give a few harder thrusts before he goes completely still and lets out a loud groan. Again, you wonder how he expects you to have slept through the noise.

He shifts back a little in the aftermath, rolling you back to your side with a heavy hand on your stomach. You try to keep yourself as limp as possible, try to make your face go slack.

He lays with you for a while, breathing even and slow. You wish he would leave, wish he would let you start pretending this never happened. His hand stays on your stomach, and you can feel the other crossed over his midsection at your back. His feet hold your ankles to the bed. You hope he can’t feel that you’re squeezing your hands into tight fists where they rest against your thighs.

He doesn’t leave. Instead, he shifts his own thick thigh between your own, the rough denim of his jeans irritating the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He tucks his leg up, settles it right against your core.

You can’t help the way your breath hitches at the sudden pressure. You hold it immediately after, then try to breathe normally again when you realize how obvious the sudden change sounds. He doesn’t react, though, so you think you’re safe.

The pressure increases a bit more before stopping. You’re almost propped up on his thigh, your pussy pressed against him through your shorts. It’s hard not to open your eyes, to look down and see what’s happening.

His hand slips down from your stomach to the waistband of your shorts. You can’t keep yourself from moving this time, already knowing what he’s going to do. You shift your hips a little, make a tiny noise in your throat that you hope comes off as a normal still-asleep sound. The movement only presses you closer to him.

He hums lowly in your ear, fingers stroking across the waistband of your shorts before dipping inside, then past your little gray panties. You can’t help the little squeak you make, the way your hands twitch before you force them still.

The sound he makes is almost a laugh, too low and quiet to really be one though. He hushes you softly, pushes on the meat of your most vulnerable part to still you.

You don’t know if he thinks you’re awake. You think he must, there’s no way you could have slept through what he’d just done, and you’ve moved twice now. But he doesn’t speak to you, doesn’t become more aggressive.

You debate putting up a fight when his fingers sink lower, his palm resting heavily over your cunt. But the thought of him becoming rough, of him restraining you… it makes bile churn in your stomach.

You resign yourself to waiting until it’s over, go limp against the bed again.

Another hum, and his free hand moves beneath your body to grasp your hip. He moves you slowly, little grinding motions over his thigh. The hand over your heat uses two fingers to spread the lips of your cunt, tucks the gusset of your underwear and the fabric of your shorts to the side so your clit makes direct contact with his jeans.

You keen quietly at the sensation, a little animal noise of fear, of pain. You wish you had your gun, wish you could make this man stop.

But you can’t. So you bear it.

He doesn’t touch your clit with his fingers, doesn’t touch any part of your pussy but to spread you wide. His thigh moves along yours, his hand grinding you against it. You hate the slickness gathering at your hole, hate the way your nipples tighten, the way your breaths become heavier.

You bite your tongue to hold back any other sounds, that tang of blood returning after only a few seconds.

“C’mon,” he says into your neck, his voice a low whisper. “Come f’r me, doll... be good.”

You don’t want to be good, can’t suppress the little whine you make at even the thought. He rumbles low in his chest in response, pushes against you a little harder.

You can’t stay quiet through your orgasm. It’s a slow thing, rolling and deep. You feel it in your toes, in your scalp, and in every vein between. Had you been willing, been with a partner of your choice, you may have thrown your head back and cried out. But here in the truck, with this man you can’t believe you were stupid enough to trust, you squeeze your eyes so tightly shut that tears eek out the corners and bite your cheek until there’s a sore. And still, a moan vibrates in your chest.

He stops grinding you against him when your orgasm is finished. His finges slip from you slowly, tuck your panties back over your mound and give you two little pats before he fully pulls his hand away.

Both of his hands slip back up your stomach, grab a handful of your chest and massage you there for several moments. Your breathing gradually slows as your body comes down, your limbs going limp again despite the fact that his hands are still on you.

He rolls you to your back when he’s finished. You feel his lips press against each of your eyelids, squeezed shut no matter how hard you try to force your face to relax. Another tear slips down the side of your nose, and he kisses it away before it can reach your lips. You feel his tongue stroke beneath each eye, know that he’s cleaning away your tears. He gives you a final, chaste kiss on your lips before pulling away.

He’s gone a moment later, and you’re left cold and alone in his bed.

———————————————————————

He smokes a cigarette while he watches you sleep. Your nose twitches at the first hint of smoke, and he almost smirks at the expression.

He can’t believe he found you. A perfect little doll of a girl, limping all filthy and sad along the side of a highway, just waiting for someone to scoop you up. God truly does have a sick sense of humor, gifting a bastard like Ghost a gift like you.

He hadn’t planned to keep you at first. He figured he’d ride with you for a while, fuck you a few times to have a warm place to dump his cum before dropping you off at a rest stop for another driver to scoop up. But no, that won’t do now that he’s felt your cunt against his hand, watched you try desperately to hold back every expression because you thought it might keep you safe.

He’ll have to find out where the finger-shaped bruises on your arms are from. After this trip, he’ll find whoever left them and take care of them. He’ll be the only one hurting his little doll, no one else. Might even win him a few brownie points with you, if he’s lucky.

Your feet probably need bandaging, too. He’d seen the redness at the back of your ankles when you tucked your feet up on his seats, felt the blisters against his own feet when he laid with you. He’ll make sure you stay off your feet for a bit, give them time to heal.

That gets another smirk. You won’t be leaving the truck for a long time, there’ll be no need to worry about your blisters after tonight. He’ll keep you off your feet. Maybe have you thank him for taking such good care of you.

He’ll try your mouth next. He bites back a moan imagining your face pressed against his crotch, knows already that the difference in size between the two of you will be absolutely pornographic at that angle. Can’t wait to teach you to deepthroat him, salivating at the image of you holding him in your mouth on the road.

He’d already wasted one load, it’s only right you take the next. You’re his now, which means he shouldn’t have to come in his fucking pants like a teenager ever again.

But he’d gone easy on you, hadn’t made you take him in any of your holes this first night. Even let you pretend to sleep through the whole thing, though your shifting hips and little scrunched up face gave you away as soon as he pressed himself against you.

It was endearing, really, the way you tried so hard to pretend it wasn’t happening. He can still taste your tears on his tongue, mixing with the acrid taste of nicotine. He can’t wait to learn what your pussy tastes like.

He takes a long pull from the cigarette and considers your little shaking form.

You won’t need much now that you’re with him. Only a few outfits in case he needs to bring you in somewhere, but you’ll be kept naked when in his truck. He’ll have to find a motel sometime soon, get all the grime washed off your skin and the grease out of your hair. He’d like to see it brushed out, see how you might style it for him.

He’ll take good care of you. Feed you when you’re hungry, maybe get some little toys or books if you’re good, fuck you whenever you - or he - needs it.

It’ll take a while for you to settle, he knows. You’ll spend a bit looking for that girly little gun you’d been keeping tucked away in your bag. But that’s okay. He already knows he’ll enjoy training you, showing you just how to be the perfect little doll for him.

He stubs the cigarette out in an ashtray, climbs back into bed with you and tucks you tight to his chest. Your little sniffling breaths draw another little twitch of the lips from him, and he buries his nose in your hair before shutting his eyes.

Yeah, you're going to be perfect for him.

#cod #simon riley #simon ghost riley #ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you

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your-highnessmarvel · 5 months

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Toxic!stalker! Ghost

Summary: you're petty and decide to teach Simon (Ghost) a lesson. Too bad he’s a stubborn cunt. He tracks you down in the club, with another guy, after kicking him out he decides to show you who’s really in control

TW: very rough, TOXIC, explicit, jealousy, harm, degradation, praise (kinda) there’s more but IDK soooo…. Oh well. Plz read at own risk this is very toxic stalkerish

You got a message from him just, short and blunt.

-Don’t go out tonight.

you huff out annoyed at how he’s so controlling.

- Fuck you don’t own, just watch me xx.

You type back furiously then turn to your best friend, “imma need something stronger,” you say to her as you rummage through her room looking for the vodka.

“He still at it? You know you really need to fix your obsession with those types babe,” she shakes her head smiling as she zips up her dress then goes to help you with yours.

“Get back to me when you follow your own advice,” you joke laughing. She gives you a playful slap and continues with her makeup.

At the club you feel your head swimming already. You just want to get lost to the flow of the music, and push Ghost to the back of your head. The bouncer gives you both a sleazy up down, that prompts you to go deeper into the club. “Y/N!” you hear a familiar voice, wide eyed you make direct contact with Simon’s hazel eyes. “Look at you! You bonnie lasses,” Soap’s accent is heavier as he gives you a drunken hug and one to Eve.

You smile trying your best not to give in to the urge to look at Ghost again. “I thought you weren’t going out,” you shout over the music. Soap goes on to explain that Simon wanted to go out one last time before the next deployment.

“Keep this between us he’s been acting moody all day,” Gaz chips in laughing drunkenly hooping an arm around Eve for support. He says it loud enough for him to hear, Simon takes a stiff drink ignoring the light jabs. “Been a Krabby patty today haven’t ya,” Gaz pinches Simon's cheeks before they’re swatted away.

“Oh my god i love this song!” Eve shouts and drags Gaz away to dance. Not wanting to stay closer to Simon’s cold glare. You go to walk past him, but his large hand grips your elbow pulling you in closely, he dips his head so that you can hear him, “you look stunning. Watch your back,” with that he lets go of you. Blushing you walk away to join Gaz and Eve’s little dance circle.

All night you can feel his eyes burning in the back of you. You’re annoyed at how he was never meant to be there, and now is deliberately ruining your night. You’ve had enough. I’ll show him, you think pettily. A guy behind you starts to guide your hips in sync with his movements. Bingo. You let yourself go with him, dancing and feeling your bodies pressed closely. Arms snaking around your bodies, gripping holding. He breathes the stinks of alcohol as his mouth comes close to yours. Over his shoulders you see Simon glaring at you, you pull the guy's head closer to you, “do you want to get out of here?” You say lightly biting his ear, you can feel him shiver under your hands. He pulls back looking like a college frat boy about to get his first girl, ever. “Yeah, I know some people,” his fingers dig into your ass. You almost want to barf at how he’s touching you. But you know it’ll peeve Simon off, he wouldn’t let anyone touch you anyways. Eve gives you a wide eyed worried look “HE’S UGLY DON'T DO IT” shaking of the head. You mouth “it’s fine,” and she shrugs, gives up and goes back to Gaz.

“Take us somewhere they can’t hear us,” you say looking up sultrily. Without warning his lip engulfed yours, sloppily tonguing your mouth open. It’d nasty you’re not going to lie but, you pull away. He takes your hand and leads you away to the VIP rooms. Looking over your shoulder you make sure to catch Simon’s eyes, but he’s already looking at you. His eyes are dangerously calm tracking your movements through the crowd. Soap is dancing awkwardly around him, almost spilling as he tries to drink. He leads you away up a level to a quiet room, inside there is a view of the dance floor below and plush couches, looking around you spot it. The CCTV. You walk yourself over to the central couch and look up at him, the camera in front you. He walks up to you, eagerly going to pull down his pants. Instantly you reach out your hand and stop him. “Come here and kiss me,” you pull him down to you. Again with that sloppy kiss.

He’s on the couch and you straddle him.

Simon had watched you get led away from him by a sleazy, college boy that didn’t know how to handle an ass like yours. He was furious at you, he wants nothing more than to teach you your place. Soap spots him, “who’s pissed your porridge big guy,” Soap follows his eyes and chuckles. “Cheeky one that lass is,” he pats Simon on his back.

“I’ll be back, don’t get lost,” Simon says and walks off, behind him Soap laughs, “can’t promise anything!”

Simon finds himself heading straight for the security room. The small weazily boy sputtered as he saw Ghost's large figure enter. “I think it’s your time to leave,” he says. The boy tries to protest but as Ghost comes closer he scrambles out of his seat and runs out of the room. Simon looks for you on the large sets of screens. He clicks on your room, his blood rushes instantly to his cock. There you were beautiful, but held by the greedy boy’s hands. He watches you, knowing that you know that he knows he’s watching you. The way you ground your ass into his lap, he wishes that it was him. He sits there for a little longer, getting harder as he feels himself at you pleasuring himself on top of another man, knowing that you too wish it was Simon instead. You toss your head back, making eye contact with the camera, smirking. Simon groans at how devilish your acting. He catches the boy’s hand shoveling themselves under your clothes and he loses it. He storms out of the room and heads straight for the private room. He didn’t even knock as he slammed the door open. The boy beneath you pushes you off scared shitless. You smile at his entrance. “Always knows how to make an entrance,” you laugh out sitting standing up to confront him. He has a crazed look as you stand there makeup smudged, the strap of your dress half off your shoulder.

“Wh- who are you? Do you know who I am!” The college boy stands up looking pathetic with his pants unbuttoned and a wrinkled shirt. Simon takes two strides and takes him by the shirt.

Baring his teeth, “I don’t fucking care, you could be the god damn prime minister and you still wouldn’t be allowed to touch her,” he grounds out through gritted teeth. The boys looked frightened half to death.

“Let go of me!” he says, voice cracking as he tries to sound bravado. “She didn’t want you, she picked me. Leave so we were busy.”

“Trust me she didn’t, you leave before you lose that nosey little pecker,” Simon threatens. You watch him, biting your lips and clenching your thighs as you imagine how far he’d be willing to go for you. He shoves the boy to the ground, causing him to stumble and fall then crawls to his feet running out whilst shouting, “my father will hear about this!”

Simon doesn’t give him a second thought, turning to you. He comes to you towering over you, chest rising and falling in anger.

God he’s gorgeous when he’s angry at you, you think desperately. You smile prettily at him making him growl in frustration. “What am I going to do wihh a little brat like you, hm? Tell me love,” his rough hand touches your bare thigh, riding up.

He takes a step forward, you can feel his muscles tensing as you lay a hand innocently on his chest. “I don’t know, whatever you want Simon,” you practically purr as his thumb makes circles on the inside of your thigh.

“After that show, I have no choice but to punish you,” his voice is husky, gently grabbing your throat. Your breaths mingle. His size and the ever looming threat suspends in the air around you, replacing the vital oxygen with pure lust. You clench your thighs again in anticipation.

He looks done and your misshapen outfit, slowly his fingers travel from your throat to your shoulders he slips off one strap then the other. You stand there as the dress falls helplessly to the floor. In the red and blue lights he can see your curves, light up angelically. He doesn’t know if he should worship you like a goddess or show you how much of a devil he can be.

You nipples are hard from the wanting. Your panties are already soaked through. You look down to his tightening pants and bite your bottom lip, at having him fuck you. “Such a pretty thing,” he says absentmindedly.

He takes the back of your neck and crashes his lips into yours. This kiss wasn't at all like the one before. This kiss made your head swim, and your stomach to flutter. Your hands instantly take hold of him, pulling and clawing at anything so that your bodies are closer together. He steals all the air in your lungs as if he was taking your soul, locking it up so that you can never reach it. You absorb him groans as he gives in to you. This isn’t sexy like what you’ve seen in the movies, it’s messy, desperate, intoxicating. He pinches and teases one of your nipples causing you to moan.

Breaking apart, lips swollen, he pushes you down to the couch. Above you his eyes dart across your body lusciously remembering every inch for when he’s out in deployment. “Open your legs, shouldn’t be that hard for you, love” he stands there. You look up at him unsure at what he’s going to do. You never knew what that psycho was planning. Obediently you open your legs. Between then he could see the wet patch, and stifles the urge to rip them off and eat you out so much that you won’t even be able to scream his name.

“Good. Show me what you do when I’m not here,” he says, not taking his eyes off of you. You move your fingers down to your soaking cunt. Underneath the panties you start to work yourself, trying to break eye contact. The blood rushes to his cock more. The pain of him wanting to fuck you blurs his thoughts. Seeing you fuck youself was adorable, how you wriggled and struggled to meet his eyes. His pants become unbearably tight and he has to adjust slightly. “Simon,” you whine, bucking your hips as you start to finger yourself.

“That’s it my sweet,” he rumbles. “Imagine that my cock filling you up,” his words fuel your imagination. You whine and moan as you come around your fingers. Splayed out you look like a meal ready to be devoured. Simone drops to his knees and rips your panties off, removing your finger with his tongue. He laps up and down, licking you, circling your swollen clit. Hands pushing your hips to the couch firmly as he tongue fucks your pussy. You hold tightly to his hair trying to grind against his face so that you can come easily. “You don’t come until I say so. Understand?” he says against you. You look down at him and weakly nod your head. He doesn't stop this tormenting, not until you were saying incoherent words begging him to let you come. “Not fucking yet.”

He has to fuck you. He’s already dripping precum as he takes his member out of his boxers. You lick your lips at the sight. “You want it?” You eagerly say yes, eyes glowing as he takes the tip and puts it to your mouth. “Tounge out for me,” you stick out your tongue. He takes the tip and taps it on your tongue, lubricating it with your spit. You can taste the slight slatiness as lick the precum off.

On top of you he crushes your body, the pressure reassuring you that this is reality. He teases his tip into you, feeling you clench around him he grunts at your tightness. You feel heavenly to him as you take him in inch by inch like the good slut you are. “That’s it every single inch,” he whispers to your ear. The couch creaks lightly as he starts to pump in and out of you. You feel your climax build up again as the friction rubs off against you. He groans and swears under his breath as he unfurls from sanity. It hurts so fucking bad. “Fuck Simon- please harder-” you’re cut off as he starts to absolutely rail into you. “You like that?” he bites your neck and kisses it, leaving a mark. One hand holding both of yours above your head, the other clamping down on you thigh. “Shit Simon I need to come,” you scream in the crook of his neck.

“Who’s fucking pussy is this?” He goes harder. You try to get the words out but have lost all ability to think, “you shouldn’t have teased me with that frat boy. You really thought he knew how to fuck you?” you shake your head, eyes tearing up at his force. “This pussy is mine, repeat that. This beautiful pussy is mine.”

“This- this-”

“-beautiful pussy.” he urges. His fucking get faster, you milk him as he goes on.

“This beautiful pussy is- is yours,” you manage to get out. His lips are on yours eating you up, tongue dominating yours. The wet sounds of your soaking cunt being fucked by him fill the room. The sound of flesh against flesh. “Good, come on me,” he puts his hand between you and then circles your clit. You can’t hold it any longer, a slurry of words escape and you are finally able to come. As you clench around he’s unable to hold back, you can feel his cum seeping out of you, as your juices mix and drip down his cock. What a night.

I can’t think of an ending, it took me waaay too long to write this and tomorrow I’ve got a full day so my bad if it’s not edited

#cod x reader #simon ghost riley #call of duty #fem!reader #smut #cod smut #x reader #simon riley x you #ghost mw2

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your-highnessmarvel · 5 months

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long overdue for a scream in the woods

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your-highnessmarvel · 5 months

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Bye

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your-highnessmarvel · 5 months

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and analysis of my work? Love you. Followed. 💚💚🫶🏼🫶🏼

Tattoos

Requested by Anonymous: Hello, could you write Bucky Barnes x fem reader? I have multiple tattoos (upper leg, rib and back) that can be easily hidden with my clothes. Could you write Bucky dating with reader but she forgets to disclose the tattoos and somehow he discover them? How could he react? If you are comfortable with smut go ahed, if not, is fine just fluff and angst. KUDOS!!

AN: SPRUCING UP MY BUCKY LIST YASSS

Warnings: SMUT, blowjob, language

*gif not mine

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MASTERLIST

Dating Bucky Barnes in the twenty-first century was like trying to tame an outdoor cat. One day, he could be extremely cuddly and responsive to your touches. Another day, for some reason unknown to everyone but him, he could be as closed off as a vault door - impenetrable, inconsolable.

But you'd gotten to know what made him feel more comfortable, and like taming an outdoor cat, Bucky came to prefer your presence and your home more than the dark, unpredictable outside world.

But there was still one step you hadn't taken with him yet - intimacy.

Due to a past drenched in horror and brainwashing, Bucky wasn't fond of... "losing control". He liked to do things he knew would keep his emotions in check. But sex? He hadn't a clue how he'd control himself and his strength, so he preferred to keep that on the list. For now.

But you, a woman with feelings and desires of her own, had to battle against your instincts every time you made out with your boyfriend and he'd place a hand on your shoulder and pull back. Shake his head. Or when you straddled him and felt him hard against your thigh, you had to resist a whimper when he pulled back from your kiss and kept both hands at his sides.

You'd never want to push any of his limits.

But maybe, all it took for him to open up was to take things very, very slowly.

Bucky had never seen you naked. So when he got back from his evening run, a run that kept him from going insane as he waited for you to get back to your apartment from work, he was surprised to see you standing by the kitchen table.

"Doll?" he asked, panting as he closed the door.

You smiled. "You're all sweaty," you said, taking a few steps towards him. You'd kept your work attire on but chucked your shoes by the door.

Bucky locked the door and sighed, hands on his hips. He was in a soaked grey t-shirt and jogging shorts. "I did a ten kilometre just now."

"Wow," you answered, impressed. You walked into the bathroom door, hand lingering on the frame, and you looked back at him over your shoulder. "We should get you cleaned up?" you asked, suggestively.

His mouth clamped shut and you could see the war raging behind his eyes; the desire, like any man, to follow their girlfriend into the shower and this stubborn fear of hurting you.

"Y/N," he said calmly, swallowing hard.

"It's just a shower, Bucky," you reassured. "We've never... seen each other naked. I promise we won't do more than what you're comfortable with."

It took a second for him to digest the information, to calculate the risk, and then he nodded, teeth clenched so hard that you could see a muscle in his jaw tick.

And then he was following you into the bathroom, with tentative footsteps and as he took his shoes off at the threshold, you slowly bent over to open the shower.

You heard the gasp he took a second before the sound of the gushing water silenced it.

"What should I take off first?" you asked.

He bit the inside of his lip and looked you over. "Take your pants off," he said, and somewhere along the lines of nervousness, you could hear that command.

You kept steady eye contact with his dark blue eyes as you took your jeans off, chucking your socks into the bin.

Bucky frowned when he spotted your upper right leg, an intricate design etched in black ink covering the skin there. Then he took a step forward, cocking his head to get a better look.

You smirked. "I have another if you want to see?" you asked.

He nodded.

You took your long-sleeve shirt off slowly, watching as his eyes raked down your almost-naked form, drinking in the sight of yet another inked tattoo on your ribcage.

His eyes widened briefly, brows skirting up his forehead. "They're so... pretty," he mumbled. His metal fingers flexed and caught the light of the bathroom bulb. He wanted to touch.

You turned to the side slowly, not to frighten him. He got a better look at the rest of the rib and thigh tattoos, where he slowly, oh so very slowly, reached out with his metal hand to caress the soft flesh of your ribs.

You flinched as his cold metal fingers skimmed the sensitive skin. His eyes immediately found yours, brows pulled in sadness almost. "I'm fine," you reassured. "Just cold."

He examined the ink there, marveling at the goosebumps pebbling your flesh, the dark swirls of ink following every movement of your skin.

His metal fingers flattened on your ribcage and he got closer, closer until you could smell him, and he reached down slowly to give you a chaste kiss.

You smiled when he pulled back.

"What else should I take off?" you asked, looking up into his eyes.

He gulped. "I can do the rest," he murmured, caressing both hands down your arms, until his metal thumb was hooked into the hem of your underwear. He looked down briefly, examining the skin available to him there, as he pulled them down your thighs.

He got to his knees to help your ankles through your knickers, and he placed a soft, gentle kiss on your thigh tattoo. "So soft," he whispered. "So beautiful."

You could tell by the trembling in his voice that he was giving in to the temptation.

"What else, Bucky?" you whispered, seeing steam rise from the shower in the mirror, and when Bucky came back into your line of vision, his cheeks were a slight tinge of pink.

He looked down at your breasts, covered by a black lace bra. "You only have this left," he answered.

You turned slowly, dragging your hair to the side so he could untie your bra - and see the tattoo at the very top of your spine. He hummed when he saw it, pressing flesh fingers to your ink. "You never stop surprising me," he said, and he kissed your tattoo there too, kissed down to your shoulder, up to your neck and when he pressed up against you, you could feel him hard at your back, poking your bum.

His kisses turned wet and hot, open-mouthed pecks down the other side of your neck.

"Get me naked, Bucky," you asked, and a second later, your bra hit the marble floor.

He turned you around this time, grasping you by the shoulders, eyes eager to see the prize he'd won. He softly and gently knead your tits, pulling at your nipples until a whimper, a half moan left your lips and his eyes darted to yours.

"Your turn," you said.

You pressed your warmed fingers under his sweat-soaked shirt and slowly pulled it over his head. His brown hair got ruffled as you threw the shirt into the corner, and it made you smile at just how achingly beautiful this man was.

He watched you with eager, hungry eyes, a look you'd rarely seen, as you got to your knees before him. You looked up and he moaned so lowly, eyes glazing.

You gently pulled down his shorts, his boxers, chucking them to the same corner his dirty shirt waited.

He was so painfully hard, tip red and leaking, length engorged with blood. He was big, as you'd assumed by the few times you'd felt him against your thigh. And he was beautiful.

"Fuck," he breathed, putting his flesh fingers through your hair. "You're so beautiful."

"Funny," you said lowly. "I was thinking the same thing." You looked up at him through your lashes and gave his tip a soft kiss, licking up the precum languidly.

His head fell back, eyes closing. "Shit, y/n, I won't - "

"You won't hurt me," you whispered, licking along his length. He breathed out so loudly, muscled abs straining against their skin cage.

You wrapped your hand around his length and took him passed your lips, engulfing his tip in warmth, wetting him with your tongue.

"Oh, God," he whispered, flesh hand gripping your hair at the roots, pulling you further onto him.

You took him beyond that, sliding him against your tongue, hollowing in your cheeks, until tears pricked your eyes and he touched the back of your throat. A small, silent gag was engulfed by the sound of the shower.

"So good, doll," he whispered.

You wanted to smile. You slid him back out and took a breath, watching him wet and hard.

You took him into your mouth again, without hands, and let the rhythm of his stuttering hips, his hand against your hair, guide you. He started slow, fucking your mouth in long, slow thrusts, until his pleasure filled him like acid and he started going faster.

Shallow thrusts, pushing his tip against your wet tongue, both hands in your hair.

You were starting to gag and dribble every time he hit the back of your throat, eyes red with tears, but you were loving the sight above you. Bucky, with his head thrown back, eyes closed, cheeks red, and chest heaving.

"Taking me so good, doll," he purred, metal fingers pushing you further onto his cock, impaling himself in your mouth as if he forgot he wasn't in your cunt.

Every gag you made was like fire washing through his veins. "Such a good girl," he praised.

And every time, each thrust, he'd go faster, harsher, fucking your mouth until his own lips opened at the sight of your teary eyes, your wet, red lips wrapped around him so snuggly, your tongue sliding along his shaft - that it took a second before he buried his dick in your mouth, shooting hot cum onto your tongue.

He stayed there for a second, groaning, emptying himself in your mouth, until he pulled out and quickly got to his knees. It surprised you, the way he gripped your jaw, holding your eyes with his. "Swallow every drop," he whispered, ordered, eyes so dark blue.

You gulped down his seed and smiled, showing your teeth and all.

"That's my good girl," he whispered, capturing your mouth in a hard, wet kiss.

He kissed you until your head was spinning from lack of air and then he helped you into the shower, letting the hot spray wash away the day. He kept pressing his flesh fingers against your ink, marveling at the design, kissing every swirl of black.

It's like you'd washed away the old you, the old him, and when you got out the shower, it was like stepping into a new phase of your relationship.

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your-highnessmarvel · 5 months

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CAPTAIN AMERICA: CIVIL WAR dir. Joe & Anthony Russo (2016)

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your-highnessmarvel · 5 months

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she was definitely hiding and running from her feelings for him 😂😂😂😂😂

Repairs

Requested by @talesofreading : Would you write something where you're a close friend of Steve and one time as your Bike needs some repair, he tells you to bring it to Bucky as he's good in fixing it. You're hesitant first as you have a bad crush on him but you decide to do it. So when you get there he's wearing a muscle Shirt, is all dirty and Looks pretty hot with his metal arm. So after you watch him fix your bike you can't resist the way he also Looks at you, so it happens that you end up in his shower together with some passionate smut. Later then he asks you for a proper date? 🤭

AN: omg this was sooooo good to write omg

Warnings: SMUT SMUT SMUT, piv, oral (f receiving), fingering, language

*gif not mine

MASTERLIST

"Yep, totally busted," Steve said, looking back up at you from where he knelt next to your smoking bike.

You put a hand to your sweaty forehead. Both of you had been at this for the better part of the afternoon, trying to figure out what was wrong with your motorcycle. Steve was in his white wifebeater, stained black from oil and grim, nails coated in dirt. He'd sweated right through his shirt and even his jeans were full of mud and dirt.

You'd sweated your fair share as well, competing with dirt under your nails and sweat right into your hairline. you didn't look any better, but you didn't care; this was your best friend, after all, and you had no reason to try to impress him.

"You know what?" Steve said, putting his tools back into his box. "You should go see Bucky."

You immediately rolled your eyes.

"He's good with bikes, y/n," he commended, seeing the way you shook your head.

"Is this another ploy to set me up with your grumpy best friend?" you retorted, crossing your arms over your chest.

Steve got to his feet, dirt-stained hands going right into his pockets. "I mean it, y/n," he said, almost scolded. "I'm not as savvy with bikes as he is. He'd do it if you said I sent you."

"Then come with me!" you said. "Every time I'm alone with him, there's this awkward silence and all he does is grunt as a response."

Steve smiled. "I wish I could come, but I've got a date," he answered.

"Yeah, right," you grumbled. You watched him carefully, your best friend and mentor, and something along the edges of his eyes was curious.

He was shy.

"Who is she?" you asked.

He shrugged. "A girl that I saw at the library." He cut that off pretty short, picking up his tools, his towel, and throwing the keys back at you. "Now, get to Bucky's before it's nightfall."

Bucky lived way out of the city, into the utopian suburbs. You found it funny that this was the life that Bucky chose. After everything you'd heard from him, you'd pictured him in a dingy, half-lit, half-crumbling one-bedroom in Manhattan. Not in the outskirts of the city.

Thank God your car could pull a trailer, or else you'd have had to ask Bucky to meet you at your place, and that just wasn't happening. The thousand-year-old soviet asset was known to be a judger of literally everything.

You pulled into Bucky's parking space, the garage to his tiny little house open, like a black mouth ready to swallow you in. By this time, it was nearing four in the afternoon, and the sun was searing, hot and humid, and with just a foot out of your car, you were already sweating.

You closed the door loudly, maybe trying to announce your presence so you didn't have to knock on the door.

"Hey." It was Bucky, coming out of the shadows of his garage. It took you a second to get the hinges in your jaw to work because, damn.

You'd always thought of Bucky as a man who passed as good looking. Well, when you met him, he was still in heavy therapy and on government surveillance. He still had long, matted brown hair and a face dragged down by sorrow.

But now. Now he'd taken to cleanly shave his hair, leaving a few inches of thick, curling locks on top of his hair, not totally covering his ears. And even though he was slimmer than the last time you'd seen him - he hadn't been working out as much - he still looked... better. Real better.

"Hey," you said, awkwardly waving at him. He was carrying a white rag, cleaning his hands from oil or dirt or whatever else he'd been doing. "Steve said I could come to you if I had problems with my bike?"

He pursed his lips. He came closer, out of the shadows and into the mid-afternoon sun, and you got a good glimpse at him. Golden skin, scars matting his hand, his knuckles. He was wearing a muscle shirt, the kind that was maybe a bit too small for him, molding to his muscles, straining across his metal bicep.

You'd never really seen the arm before. Only flickers of his hands or fingers, but never the entire machine.

You licked your lips, something squeezing in your lower belly.

"What's wrong with it?" he asked.

you shrugged. "Dunno."

He glazed his eyes, rolled them. "Alright, take it down and bring it into the garage."

With a tiny sigh of resentment - he wasn't helping you - you unlatched the ties of your bike and rolled it into the garage. it was darker, a little cooler, inside. As you settled your bike in the dead center of the room, Bucky brought two stools, effortlessly carrying them around.

He sat on his and motioned with a wrench for you to sit beside him. Even though you'd sweated all day in your black t-shirt, and God knows whatever he'd down today, there was something terrific about sitting this close to Bucky.

His tanned fingers worked to open up the bike, his metal hand working the wrench.

"Ah," he said, poking around the engine. "I see what's wrong."

"Is it fixable?" you asked.

He chuckled. "Don't worry, darling," he whispered.

You swallowed the heat climbing up your throat, watching him get to work in silence. Unlike Steve, Bucky didn't tell you what he was doing or why; he just did it.

It took longer than expected. And the more he worked, straining against your bike, the sweatier he got, the more figetting you did.

His flesh arm was glistening with a thin layer of sweat. His hand was veined, strained against the metal piece he was holding aside. His fingers were dirty with grime and dust. Even that God damned muscle shirt was stained with dirt and sweat and grime.

By the time he was done, a light sheet of rain was coating the ground outside. It was pitter-pattering against the cement, a slow drone of rain against the tin roof. Almost comforting.

"You can't take your bike out in the rain," he said, putting everything back in its place, stowing his tools and his rags.

You gulped. "Yeah, I'm sure the rain will let off soon." You dragged your sweaty palms onto your jeans nervously. It caught Bucky's eye.

He stood, dragging your eyes up to his figure. He was so tall, so wide at the shoulders, sweating in his shirt, hair a mess.

"I've got beer inside," he said, throwing the rag in the corner of the garage, placing his tools on his self-made wooden desk. Then he turned to you and gestured to the front door. "Come on."

You followed him out into the rain, walking quickly up the steps and into his home, which smelled of him, something woodsy, and air freshener.

You were humid, rain dotting your skin as you took off your sneakers and followed him into the kitchen. The air conditioning was making you cold.

his home was cozy but so boyish. No decorations but a huge TV. A grey couch with not pillows or blankets. Empty liquor bottles as props over the refrigerator, which droned on and on. There was only one magnet on his fridge, and it read "I love NY!" Which was ironic because Bucky didn't love anything.

"Here," he said, offering you an ice cold beer, but it did nothing to warm you up. You leaned back against his kitchen counter, sipping on your beer, watching him poke around the inside of his fridge. The yellow light cast on his face like a glow, and he hummed when he found what he wanted.

By the time he took out the rolled up cheese, he saw you shivering by the sink.

"I'm sorry," you said, settling the beer down. "I'm just a bit cold from the rain."

He hummed, slamming the cheese rolls on the kitchen table.

"We ought to warm you up," he said, diving back into the fridge to get a beer, which he opened and took a five good gulps before he wiped his wet mouth.

"Yeah," you chuckled, pressing your hands against your arms, searching for heat.

The super soldier, immune to any heat or cold or anything really, stood before you with his sticky muscle shirt molding to every nook in his muscles. His arms, his chest, down to his abs. Water had made it almost see-through, and you felt like a perv watching as he breathed, watching his muscles contract beneath the fabric.

"You should take a shower, y/n," he said, tone low.

You startled, eyes dragging from his abs to his face in a split second. Did you smell? Was that why he'd said that?

"You're shivering, poor thing," he said, clucking his tongue, taking another wild swing of his beer. And you noticed that he was eyeing you took, at your jeans sticking to your thighs, your hips. At your wet shirt glueing to the curve of your waist and breasts.

He set his beer down and offered his hand. "Come."

On some instinct you'd never registered before, you took his hand, flesh fingers warm and calloused.

He led you into a small bathroom with no windows. where various male paraphernalia was strewn across the sink. He pulled the shower curtian back and started the shower and you just stood there like a fish out of water; mouth slightly agape, your hand still loosely holding on to his.

"Bucky?"

He hummed.

"I don't get it," you said.

He returned his gaze to yours, satisfied with the steam rising from the shower. He gave you a small, tight smile. "Get undressed," he said, gesturing his chin at you, dropping your hand.

You stood there like a statue, examining him; from the hard jawline, the seriousness in his eyes, the way his skin pulled back when he moved his mouth.

Then, harder this time, "Get undressed or freeze, sweetheart."

The nickname, the pet name, sent a wave of fresh heat right into your face.

He watched, then slowly, he smiled. Like a rpedator trying to win its prey without having to sink teeth into flesh.

He took a tiny step towards you, watching your breath hitch, and he slid metal fingers under your shirt, pulling it up until it came right off your head. Your hair flopped back down over your shoulders, covering your bra.

He bit his lip. You watched, entranced as he moved to unbutton your jeans and slide them down your legs. He was agile because he took your panties off with it.

He came back to his full towering height, and he brushed your hair behidn your shoulders, exposing your chest, your full flesh to him.

He snaked an arm around your waist, and you gulped, the feel of his hands, burning metal fingers, was like a lightning bolt had erupted under your skin.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, close to your ear, his breath in your hair. "So fucking gorgeous." He slid his metal hand up and then your bra was sliding off your arms.

"Let me touch you, y/n," he whispered in your ear. You gulped, nodded. "Use your words, sweetheart," and his voice was rugged, wretched, as both his hands slid careful fingertips up on your ribcage.

"Yes, Bucky," you whispered.

He huffed against you. And then his metal hand engulfed your breast, knead it the way he wanted, and his lips found your neck. You whimpered, taken by surprise by his sudden act of devotion. His tender fingers pulling your nipple, drumming against your ribs, lips leaving a wet trail of kisses up your jugular.

When he kissed you, his mouth was warm and wet, and he molded his lips to yours carefully, like he didn't want to scare you off.

You kissed him back just as carefully, confused and distraught, unaware that for years, Bucky had been yearning for this opportunity. For this moment where he finally had you alone.

Quickly, the kiss became rougher. Your hands pulled at the soft, thick strands of his hair and he pulled you aainst his with his metal arm around your waist. He nipped at you, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, groaning as his flesh finger felt you.

He skimmed along your navel, until he could cup you in his palm. You squeaked, taken by surprise. "Easy there, princess," he whispered against your mouth. "Just wanna make you feel good."

He dove right back for a kiss, delving his tongue behidn your teeth while his fingers started working circles around your clit.

You had realized how riled up he'd gotten you, like a hardwire ready to snap.

You bent like a bow in his arms, moaning against his mouth as his fingers continued to circle your clit in slow, languid circles. And when he prodded farther, where you most ached for him, he moaned against your mouth when he felt just how soaked you were.

"Fuck, y/n," he groaned, pulling his mouth from yours.

You almost whimpered at the lost of contact, but he picked you up so effortlessly, so quickly, that you hadn't registered that you were now sitting on the edge of the sink until you couldn't see him anymore. All you could see was the steam rising from the shower, clogging the bathroom, settling on your skin in dotted water drops.

And Bucky, on his knees, pulling your knees apart. His eyes, hooded and so blue, looked up at you as he kissed the inside of your thigh.

"One leg on my shoulder, baby," he ordered, his metal hand under your thigh, helped you move until you were almost straddling his face. "That's it, good girl," he groaned, biting into the plush of your thighs.

The angle sent you backward, back against the cold mirror, and one hand hanging onto the edge. Ready to plummet or fly, you couldn't tell.

His mouth teetered around your pussy, kissing along your thighs, until he settled over your clit and gave you one long swipe of his tongue.

Your head fell backwards, eyes closing, hips searching for his mouth.

"You taste so sweet," he cooed, pressing another long lick from your hole to your clit.

A strangled moan escaped your clenched teeth when he sucked on your clit, one of your hands digging into his hair and pulling him where you wanted him.

The room was filled with the filthy sound of Bucky getting his fill, lapping you up and sucking in your clit like a man starved. Both hands leaving ink-blue marks in your hips.

He worshipped your clit, flicking and sucking to a rhythm that had your thighs shaking against his face, with you pulling his hair by the roots. He sucked and fucked your hole with his tongue until a knot formed right under your belly button and exploded in white hot lightning.

As your orgasm washed through you in waves, rocking against his face, a moan hitched in your throat.

Bucky held your thighs open, refusing to let them close, and lapped up his fill.

When you were but a trembling, babbling mess, Bucky it into your thigh, kissing up your knee until he was standing between your legs. His eyes were hooded, pupils blown, mouth red and glittering, swollen from the kisses he'd lain on your clit.

"Come 'ere," he groaned, grabbing you by the back of the neck, bringing you upright on the counter. He brought his mouth to yours in a feverish, harsh kiss that left you dizzy and scrambling to keep up with him.

You pushed him away, grappling at his shirt, pulling it over his head. You gorged on the sight, on the tanned skin exposed, the scar where his metal shoulder meshed with his flesh. You touched the tips of your fingers to his metal shoulder, skimming down to his hand.

He took your mouth again, pressing you back into the mirror, hands in your hair, on your breast, skimming down back to your dripping hole.

He entered one flesh finger, pressing against your walls, so slippery and warm. He hummed, feeling your breasts against his chest as you bowed your back at the sensation.

You patted him through his pants, feeling him warm and hard against your touch. He hissed at the sensation, nipping at your mouth.

He continued to move his digit in and out of you, pressing his palm to your clit. You continued palming him, pressing against the impressive length of him until he groaned and took himself out of his pants, dropping them at his ankles and kicking them away.

Your mouth opened in a small 'o' at the sight of him, hard and thick, tip dripping precum.

"Too much for you sweetheart?" he asked, pressing his forehead to yours, thumbs on each side of your jaw.

You shook your head, gulped, saw the faint smile that crossed his face. He watched you with keen eyes as he lined himself with your soaked heat.

He pressed his thumb against your mouth, kissing you, as he slowly inched in. He watched you take it, watched as your mouth opened, brows curving upward.

"Don't give up on me baby," he whispered, nipping at your mouth, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your jaw.

He slid himself to the hilt, grabbing your hip in a bruising grip, metal hand pressed against the foggy mirror over your head.

You gasped, latching onto his shoulders for dear life as he pulled back and thrust back into you, feeling you clench and flitter around him.

You whimpered, body pressing up against the mirror with one harsh thrust from his hips.

"That feel good, huh?" he asked, boring his eyes into yours, keeping a slow, languid pace with his hips. "Tell me, y/n, that feel good when I fuck you?"

You nodded, feeling him slick, sliding into you with ease, stretching your walls and hitting that spot deep in you that made you writhe.

"Yes, Bucky," you answered, breathlessly, scratching at his flesh shoulder.

He groaned, taking your mouth with his, speeding up his thrusts, making your head catch on the mirror. You moaned against his mouth, giving up full control of your body to his, at the mercy of every thrust, every change in rhythm.

"Taking me so well," he grunted, hiding his face in your shoulder, bruising grip on your hip helping him thrust himself deeper into you. Then he pulled himself up, face hovering over yours, searching your gaze wildly. "You like it when I fucked this tight little hole?" he asked, and again, his tone was scratching the surface of something wilder.

You nodded, feeling a knot form in your belly, your thighs closing around his hips. His mouth stretched into a smile, pounding deeper and faster into you. "Yeah, you do," he said, almost mockingly, pressing a sweaty forehead to yours. "I see the way you always look at me," he grunted, kissing your mouth, humming at the moan that left your lips.

"Bucky, please," you whispered, eyes falling shut, your orgasm on the brink of breaking.

"I feel you, y/n, come on," he grunted, keeping a harsh, pounding pace until your legs shook and your orgasm broke through you in waves. "Fuck, that's so tight," he breathed, chasing his own end, pounding into your tightening hole.

A stuttered moan left your lips as you clung to Bucky, rocking into your orgasm with every thrust, feeling the wave of pleasure reach your toes. His metal hand came slamming onto the mirror beside your ear, cracking into the glass as he pounded into you, breathless and wordless until he gave you a few sloppy thrusts and he was spending himself in you.

He stayed there a few moments, breathing with you, kissing you softly until he pulled out of you. You stuttered, a breath hitched in your throat, as you felt him leaking out of you.

He met your gaze, leaning back to examine his work, and then he slowly helped you to your feet. You giggled at your loss of coordination, hearing Bucky chuckle too as he helped you into the shower.

You let the warm spray wash his seed from the inside of your thighs, soak into your hair.

"Warm enough?" he asked, chin on your shoulder.

You chuckled. "I've been warm enough for a little while."

He hummed, placing both hands along your waist. He helped you wash up, lathering your skin and hair, helping you wash out the suds.

"Are you okay?" he asked, pressing tender kisses to your shoulder. "You're quiet."

"Yes," you answered, looking over your shoulder at him. "Are you?"

He smiled, eyes low. He raised his brows. "I am now," he whispered.

When you were done with the shower and you were both drying up, Bucky tied his towel around his waist and watched you put your hair up in a towel.

"What?" you asked.

He snorted. "It isn't like me to do...this," he said, leaning against the sink. His chest was wet, glistening spots lingering down to his abs. It was enough to make you want to do this again.

You smiled but didn't answer, focused on getting your towel around your torso.

"Do you want to go out to dinner sometime?" he asked, and you looked up, met his eyes across the steamy bathroom, and smiled.

"Yeah, of course."

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