Ok, Here Me Out. So We All Agree Elrond Had A Thing For Durin Right? So Imagine How Awkward It Must've

I AM VIBRATING THIS IS SO GOOD!!!!! I JUST WANT TO TREASURE IT LIKE A RABID DOG WITH ITS CRAPPY LITTLE TOY THAT IS ITS BABY

knight!ghost x reader. hand-waving details. all vibes, as usual. cw: noncon touching, manipulation

After years beneath your mother’s watchful eye—less a daughter than a jewel kept safe under lock and key—you are at last released.

Invited to accompany your elder sister to court following her marriage to the esteemed Lord Garrick. Your first steps beyond the confines of home toward something far grander. The world opens before you like a storybook.

It’s a rare opportunity for a young lady of gentle birth. The kind of chance your mother spent years safeguarding you against, fearing the pitfalls of courtly life. An opportunity your sister now extends like a gift.

You intend to follow in her footsteps. To make the most of it.

As his carriage ferries you across the countryside, Lord Garrick indulges in his role as guide and guardian. He names estates and their residents you pass, calling out their banners and bloodlines, reciting them from memory like a living codex, its margins filled with his own notations and stories from years of soldiering in the King’s service and court.

Most names you know from lessons or gossip: daughters and sons married off, the odd spoiled reputation and scandal, matriarchs and patriarchs pulling strings. But being the sheltered girl that you are, one name catches your thoughts like a burr. 

Lord Garrick slips a miniature into your hand. It is no larger than your palm, with rich watercolors painted on smoothed ivory: a large man, almost comically set in the tiny frame.

His skin is pale, his eyes a warm, untroubled brown. He wears a slight smile, and his armor gleams with the seal of the King.

“An old comrade—Sir Simon Riley.”

You run a thumb over the edge. “Is he as handsome as his portrait?” you ask, shy as a girl should be when entertaining fancies.

Lord Garrick only grins. “He is, dear one.”

“And noble? Chivalrous?”

“The very image,” he assures. His wry expression is lost on you.

You are too steeped in fantasy to notice. Already imagining the weight of his hand around yours, already composing the vows he might whisper when he asks you to dance. Him, tall and solemn. You, breathless and giggling. 

You do not yet understand how generous portrait artists can be, the choices they make to soften a mouth or warm a gaze.

When you arrive, you trail in your sister’s shadow, a daisy behind a rose, trying not to stare too openly at every knight that turns his helm. Try not to appear too eager.

You curtsy. You dine. You take your place among the constellation of other young and unmarried ladies, each one a little star burning with her own hopes.

Time passes. You thrive. You charm. You are granted permission and invitation to winter beside your sister, a small victory. Come spring, you’ll be presented formally.

On the morning of the first frost, Lord Garrick finds you in the solar, where you sit with your companions and needlework, your thoughts pleasantly idle.

“There’s someone I’m due to introduce you to,” he says. “Sir Riley.”

He offers you his arm, and you take it. He guides you through the winding halls, past tapestries older than your bloodline. The keep quiets as you tread through an unfamiliar wing. The room he stops at is narrow and dark, the hearth cold, the shutters drawn.

It rouses an unsettling feeling in your stomach. A wrong note, a song sung off-key. Doubt prickles, fine as thorns. The chamber is too plain, too tucked-away for an introduction. 

But the man you’ve come to love as a brother—steady, kind Lord Garrick—pats your hand, and the doubt recedes, momentarily quieted.

He bids you wait. He’ll fetch Sir Riley himself.

You let him go with a wobbling smile.

When the door creaks open again, it is not Lord Garrick who enters.

It is Sir Riley. You know him at once, though the helm conceals his face. Your heart skips.

“‘eard you been wantin’ to meet me, girl,” his low voice rolls thick like smoke. Heavy, like the blade at his hip.

You do not move. The knight fills the doorway as he did his portrait frame. Your hands knit loosely before you, trembling.

“It’s…an honor, sir,” you manage. Your eyes dart toward the door, hoping Garrick will follow, show his face. “I wasn’t expecting…That is, I thought Lord Garrick would–”

“Thought he’d stay? Look after you?” Sir Riley asks, stepping inside. “Nah. Garrick’s a busy man. ‘Sides, if it’s lookin’ after y’need, no one’ll do better.”

The door shuts with a click, and the bolt sliding shut might as well stick between your ribs.

You offer a smile, trying to summon the composure that’s served you well in the halls. Yet even your propriety has teeth, and it gnaws at the edges of your nerves. This isn’t how introductions are made. You know that. A lady does not meet a man alone, knight or not, not without a chaperone.

And yet here you are. 

He moves further in, slow and certain, untroubled by the circumstances and its consequences. He unfastens one gauntlet, then the other, metal clinking as he sets each piece aside.

You step back, heart kicking against your ribs.

“I only meant…we’ve only just met, and I’m sure your time is better spent elsewhere—”

He says nothing. His fingers move next to the clasps at his shoulders. One pauldron. Then the other. Each piece comes away with unhurried care, as though he has all the time in the world.

The bulk sloughs off like a shell, revealing more and more of his frame until only the breastplate and helmet remain. You realize then that you’ve backed into the wall.

“I should go,” you eke out. “I’ve no doubt you’re very tired from your duties, and this isn’t right—”

Sir Riley laughs, rough like the scrape of flint.

“You’re a nervous one.”

He reaches up and unhooks his helmet, slow as sunrise. When it lifts off, you are not prepared.

He is not unhandsome, no, but he is not the man in the portrait, either.

His nose has clearly been broken more than once and healed crooked. A jagged scar bisects an eyebrow with a fleshy knot on the end, mirrored by another that pulls taut across his lips. His skin is a map of violence—keloids, silvered cuts, and pitted lines all speaking to a life earned inch by brutal inch.

He tilts his head, eyes catching yours. Rich brown, as the painting promised—but the warmth there is tempered with something else. Hunger. The kind you’ve spied in the King’s hunting hounds. Not the gentle yearning or tender longing you had quietly imagined for yourself.

“What’s wrong? Kyle said you found me pretty, pet.”

The word—pet—snaps like a ribbon.

In its reverberation, you feel the whole truth of it: you are very much alone, and Sir Riley is very much not what you were told.

You open your mouth, but no sound comes. You are caught between alarm and something stranger. It burns low in your belly, confusing and unwelcome.

You look at him again, truly look this time.

And realize: perhaps the artist hadn’t lied or embellished. Not entirely. Perhaps the man in the portrait once matched reality, before war carved itself into his skin. Before duty hardened whatever youth he’d once had.

You try not to flinch when he steps closer, but your body betrays you—a stiffening of the spine, a renewed tremor in your limbs.

Sir Riley notices.

He watches you the way a wolf watches a fox kit or rabbit. Clearly delighted by the prey he’s cornered. He lets the silence sit, lets your discomfort curdle before breaking it.

“You’re more beautiful than your picture,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Your mouth dries. There aren’t many portraits of you beyond your family’s walls. Yet months ago, Garrick had insisted on one—a secret commission, a memento for your sister, a gift. All before your invitation to court.

You never questioned what became of it.

“I—I should go.”

You move to slip past him, but he doesn’t allow it. One step, and he cuts off your path with his bulk, the door now out of reach. Trapped between the edge of the room and him, the air tastes different—ash and smoke, hay and wet dog. It wrinkles your nose.

You try again. “Lord Garrick—he didn’t say—he never said you—”

“Yeah?” 

He smiles. Not kindly.

“That I-I,” you whisper, heart beating hard enough that you’re sure he must hear it. “That I’d be alone. This isn’t right—”

“Not alone, pet,” he shakes his head. “I’m here, aren't I? I’ll see you well looked after.”

Without pause or permission, he takes your hand.

You could faint.

Your bare hand disappears, swallowed by his callused palm. His thick knuckles are as battered as his face, broken and reset countless times. His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist and applies a brief and slight pressure, just enough to remind you of his strength.

You jerk instinctively, a soft tug.

He doesn’t let go. Instead, he brings your hand to his mouth.

“No need to shy from me,” he rasps.

Your breath catches. 

(You really could faint, but a deep, sharp fear urges you to stay upright. Awake. That to fall now—the alternative—)

He kisses each of your fingers, one by one, unhurried. His lips are cracked. Chapped. Your skin burns under each press. You can’t move. You should, but your feet fail.

He smiles into your knuckles. Almost fond. “You’re shaking.”

You don’t answer. Can’t.

“You don’t know what to do with yourself now, do you?” he drawls. “Bet you had a whole story in that pretty little head. Knight in shining armor, riding in to sweep you off your feet.”

His grip tightens, and he leans in, breath fanning over your cheek.

“Want me to do that, pet? Sweep you off your feet and take you away?”

Your heart screams no.

But nothing comes.

He watches you in that awful silence—measured and methodical. Like he’s trying to decide what to do with you first. His hand, still curled around yours, begins to move again, with new purpose.

He lifts your fingers and guides them toward his face.

You resist, weak and instinctive, and he overcomes it with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Go on. You’ve been staring.”

Your fingertips brush the ridge of the scar across his lip. It’s rough, raised, healed poorly. You flinch, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts your hand higher, until your touch ghosts over the thick welt at his eyebrow.

“Ugly, isn’t it?” he asks, almost amused.

Your throat tightens. “No—no, I—”

He clicks his tongue. “Don’t lie. Don’t like liars. You scared?”

You are. You’re mortified, shaking with it now—caught between a girlhood fantasy and the brutal reality of the man standing before you. There’s something violent in your own confusion. In the heat crawling down your neck and into your chest, in the tears prickling hot behind your eyes.

He sees it. Of course he does.

And he pounces.

One blink, and then his mouth is on yours without ceremony. It’s a brutal kiss, a claiming thing, harsh and sudden and full of heat. Devoid of the romance you once imagined.

You gasp, startled, but his free hand comes to the back of your head, fingers spanning your skull to hold you in place. He doesn’t let you pull away. He licks into your mouth and steals the air.

It’s too much. He is too much.

When he finally pulls back, your breath is ragged and your tears have finally broken free, hot trails slipping down your cheeks. The horror of what’s just happened crashes over you all at once, like a bucket of cold water sloshed down your spine. Your legs nearly buckle.

He stares, thumb wiping spit from your chin.

“There she is,” he says quietly, near reverent.

You stand there, unmoving. Caught. The pounding of your heart drowns out every thought, each beat frantic, panicked. A bird slamming itself against a windowpane in desperation. You don’t know what to say. You don’t know what you’re allowed to say. The room grows smaller by the second, the walls pressing in.

He studies you, a delicate thing worth examining up close.

“Didn’t think you’d be this sweet,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Garrick said he had a girl for me. Said you were pretty. Polite. Court-bred. Figured I’d ‘ave to steal into your rooms, take some insurance to make you mine, you know. But Garrick said there’d be no need. That you’d behave. A proper good girl. That what you are?”

His eyes flick over your features—warm cheeks, wet-eyed, lips parted in confusion and fright. His thumb grazes beneath your chin.

“Look at you. Shakin’. Precious thing. ‘Course you are.”

He kisses you again. Harder.

No longer exploratory, no longer testing the waters. His moves as if owed. He takes and takes, lips dragging against yours, breath hot and heavy through his nose. Teeth sink into your lips, imprinting themselves on the pith of your mouth, sucking your tongue. You whimper, but his hand is already sliding down the line of your throat, splaying wide to feel your pulse.

Another panicked noise makes him smile.

He sighs. “Didn’t guess you’d be this soft. Bet you’re soft everywhere.”

Then—

The door bursts open.

A gasp of startled voices—servants. They freeze in the doorway, wide-eyed at the sight of the two of you locked together.

Panic explodes inside you. You jerk back from him, gasping, desperate to speak, to explain—this isn’t what it looks like—but you never get the chance.

Sir Riley doesn’t release you. His arm tightens, his grip anchoring you in place. He turns toward the intruders, unbothered and unashamed. Cold.

In a few short, lethal words, he promises consequences. He names each one of them—their roles, their kin. Swears they’ll feel his hand and blade personally should they utter a word of what they’ve seen.

They flee. Mute. Terrified.

When the door shuts again, it’s like the last breath is sucked from the room.

You’re a mess. Shaking, weeping, mouth swollen and burning. You are ruined. You know it. They will talk. People always do.

With the cuff of his sleeve, Sir Riley dabs your cheek, and then your chin. A mocking taste of the tenderness you’d dreamt of. He hums, too soft for the wicked glint in his eye, and tips your face back up with two fingers beneath your jaw.

“What a predicament we find ourselves in, hm?” he murmurs against your damp skin. “How fortunate that Garrick and I already ‘ave an audience with the King.”

He plants a chaste peck on your cheek.

“Dry your tears, pet.”

He smiles. A pleased shape that rekindles the hunger in his eyes.

“By spring, you’ll be Lady Riley. That’s a promise.”

Look at him go

when she says she doesn’t send nudes

I need more please

The sons of Elrond! Elladan, Elrohir and Estel 🙏

gym partner!gaz who invites you to tag along with him to the gym to show you how to lift properly and all that.

maybe he’s your neighbor who’ve you grown a good relationship with — you water his plants while he’s on deployment and he feeds your cat while you’re away.

so when you mention in passing that you want to start lifting after one too many gym girls show up on your TikTok fyp, he jumps at the chance to show you.

“why hire a trainer when you got me right here, love? save your money and allat.” and he’s right! kyle’s military and clearly works out enough to know what he’s doing, so what’s the harm in him showing you how to barbell squat and do a couple of RDLs? your apartment has a gym so it makes it easier for you two to meet up anyway.

except you aren’t exactly prepared for just how good kyle looks bench-pressing 225 lbs.

you’re not blind, you know that kyle is a good-looking guy to put it simply, and enough of your friends have lingered at your door on the way out in hopes of catching a glimpse of him while he’s leaving or coming back in.

but this is just so different — he’s so focused, so disciplined, so in control.

gone is the kyle who jokes about your upstairs neighbor who stomps around at 6 in the morning. he’s been replaced by some tactile man who controls every movement with hairlike precision. fingers wrapped around the metal bar firmly as his arms flex with every up and down movement.

you just hope that when he finishes he doesn’t realize just how turned on you are.

he grunts as he finishes his last few reps, and you subtly squeeze your thighs at the noise, wondering if it would sound the same as he slides into you for the first time.

“are you alright?” kyle questions, looking up at you with concern, and you just manage to nod. kyle drops it before taking a drink from his water, and you watch, a little dazed, how a few droplets of sweat fall down the column of his neck underneath his black compression shirt.

“i know you said you mainly wanted to focus on legs, but i figured it be nice to walk you through every movement before getting started.” kyle’s clearly showing off —the proud look in his eyes gives him away — but it doesn’t really matter because whatever reaction he was angling for, (awe? fluster? horniness?), he got it.

“c’mon, lemme show you how to squat,” he says before walking you over to the squat racks, and suddenly you remember the whole purpose of this gym sesh which wasn’t to ogle how good kyle’s ass looks in his sweatpants.

he gets everything ready for you, hands super touchy when he positions you, and the next thing you know, he’s right behind you, spotting you as you squat the bar. his body heat warms every inch of your skin and you feel yourself unraveling by the minute as he brings a hand to your leg to position you properly.

your thoughts of ‘you’re fine, it’s completely fine, it’s just your neighbor, kyle’ are completely shot when he leans in and murmurs “that’s a good girl” after completing your last rep.

fuck it.

you’re just lucky that you made it back up to your place before you’re both stripping, teeth clashing into one another as you messily make out, whimpering into his mouth as he grinds his hard-on into you.

you were always more of a cardio girl anyway.

Day one Inktober : dream

Leo by TROY

Like oml this shit sends me to the heaven lol

ATTENTION

If you see this you are OBLIGATED to reblog w/ the song currently stuck in your head :)

Non-sexual things that COD people do to drive their SO feral? Thoughts?

- John with his tippy toe hip thrust thing has Nik in a chokehold, also instead of moving a chair in like a normal person John does this little scooting/hip thrust/legs spread manoeuvre that is too good to ignore.

(Evidence of this is seen during the Cutscene of Kate and John meeting to discuss making Taskforce 141)

-Kate has a way of folding her arms and looking down at her that has Sarah turning to utter jelly. Kate also has restless hands, likes to tap, stroke and squeeze, so a simple repeated gesture such as drumming her fingers on her thigh from Kate has Sarah wondering how else to occupy her lovely wife's hands.

-Faralexgaz I think would love for almost domestic self care, watching Farah brush and braid her hair had her boys fidgeting and wanting to touch, watching Gaz rub in his hydration lotions makes the other two wanna lick it off and Alex doing his facial hair maintenance with the oiling and trimming has Gaz on his knees "Helping" while Farah holds the mirror for them.

- Ghoap where Soap goes feral seeing how Ghost's mask moves, he can SEE when ghost's tongue wets his lips under that thing and he wants that tongue in his mouth immediately. He's a Victorian man seeing a scrap of ankle every smoke break when he sees Ghost lift the balaclava for a ciggie (Never mind the fact he knows exactly what's under the balaclava intimately)

-Alerudy with Alejandro being utterly pavloved when Rudy adjusts his leather belt, the sound of it is like ringing a dinner bell for a starved man. Also if Alejandro takes his gloves off with his teeth, it's not exactly Rudy's fault if he wants them in his mouth afterwards.

-Graves getting a little power trip from all the "Yup Yups" from his people, he's very touchy even during basic pre-check for missions so the shadows are all definitely angling themselves to make sure he touches them as he passes.

This was like a cool glass of lemonade on a warm day. Like waking up only to realise that you have three hours before your alarm goes off and you can go back to sleep. Like when you're six drinks in and vodka is now tasteless.

A blessing.

John Price's little hip thrust move is responsible for several casualties, Nikolai included. Sometimes he doesn't even realise he's doing it but the minute Nikolai spots it, his eyes are on John's crotch. John moves his hips far more than he thinks he does and all Nikolai can think of is the times he's stood behind the Englishman and made him buck up into Nik's hand instead of stroking his cock like John had so nicely asked.

When Kate crosses her arms and looks at you, it feels like she's looking down on you. It isn't intentional, she just has that intimidating feel to her and Sarah eats it up. But when they're at a bar and there's a table of men acting rowdy, Kate is irritated and she has one elbow resting on the bar with her other hand trailing her nails up and down Sarah's thigh? Well, Sarah is glad she wore a skirt because Kate'll be needing easy access when Sarah drags them both home. They don't even make it upstairs into their bedroom, Kate fucks her up against their front door and the next morning she comes downstairs to find her own black lace panties by their welcome mat.

Farah's version of unwinding before bed is sitting down in one of Gaz's t-shirts and a stolen pair of Alex's boxers as she braids her hair. It's habit and she doesn't have to think twice about doing it. Alex and Gaz are amazed by it, how quickly and efficiently her hands move when she doesn't even have to look. It's hypnotic. And it has Gaz crawling on his knees over to the end of the bed where she's sitting to massage her shoulders only his hands slip under the shirt and it devolves from there. Watching Alex trim his moustache always turns into sex to the point that if he doesn't want to get interrupted part way through and have to come back to finish trimming it after they're all thoroughly fucked out then he has to hide from both Farah and Gaz.

God, Ghost lifting the balaclava just enough to smoke. Soap is staring at him with dazed eyes like he just watched Ghost hand place the stars. Something about it feels personal to him, being allowed to see that bit of Ghost when he's in the "uniform" despite the fact that he has not only seen Ghost naked but he's also had the other man's cock in his mouth. But that little flash of skin, that has him damn near panting like a fucking dog.

Alejandro upon seeing Rudy's shiny new leather belt realises two things. One, introducing leather into their sex life might've been a bad idea because now he can't see it on the other man without feeling horny. Two, if Rudy doesn't tie him down, gag him with that belt and ride him until Alejandro's crying and begging him to stop then he might explode. The first time Rudy watches Laejandro pull his gloves off with his teeth, Rudy almost walks directly in the path of a moving vehicle. He blames his concussion, it's only partly to blame. Alejandro eventually notices that the action tends to render his sergeant major stupid and acts accordingly. The next time Rudy wears gloves, Alejandro pulls them off by the fingertips with his teeth and he barely has time to drop them from his mouth before he's yanked forward and mey with Rudy biting his lip while he unzips Ale's pants.

I think Graves is big on putting his hand on the back of someone's neck and squeezing because to him it's a friendly, reassuring touch. To his Shadows it's a memory for the wankbank because his hands are warm and his touch is firm. Graves himself, he knows there are eyes on him. He's their leader, he's God in this crowd of followers. They hang on his every word. Their importance is measured by him. There's little a hookup can do for him in comparison to how his Shadows eyes will follow his every move when he asks their attention.

Frodo: Sam hates Gollum, but that is what I shall become once I have lost myself to the ring… he’ll despise me… 

Sam if Frodo did turn into a Gollum: That’s a very nice fish you caught with your bare hands, Mr. Frodo, and its very smart of you to eat it raw, saves us the trouble of starting a fire. I knitted you a sweater in case you get cold running around in that loincloth of yours. Is the sun hurting your eyes? I’ll kill it if it’s bothering you. I’ll kill the sun

wow I’ve been watching all of the cod ask blogs spring up almost overnight in the past week and I am LOVING this

like I’ve seen gaz, soap (x3), ghost, price, keegan, roach, nik, konig, laswell, graves, and a lot of ocs interacting too

I think this is like the fandom equivalent of a spiritual revival