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jjkamochoso · 4 months ago

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Catching Fire, Catching Feelings, Catch These Hands

Fluff

Kyojuro Rengoku x f!reader

When Kyojuro finds a man bothering you, he's quick to take action.

Warnings: harassment from a stranger

As a high ranking demon slayer, you rarely had downtime so you decided to make the most of it by attending a market while you stayed in your hometown for a few days. You figured it would be wisest to leave your sword at home since they weren't welcome in open spaces and you'd rather not spend the next month in jail for brandishing a weapon in public. You felt bare without it but knew you'd be safe for the time being--it was daytime and you hadn't heard of any demon sightings in the area. Embracing the fact that you were actually able to wear something other than your uniform for once, you set out to get lost among the hordes of people, food, and material items. As you paid for pancakes from a food stall, you spotted bright orange and yellow hair in the distance. There was no way that was Kyojuro, right? He would've told you he was here!

But if he was here, you definitely shouldn't have left home without your sword.

You raced in between the crowd, eager to catch up to your dear friend. Though you weren't a Hashira, you still caught the group's attention as an accomplished Kinoe and found yourself working on missions with them from time to time. You got along with all of them but you were exceptionally close with Kyojuro. He was passionate, kind, and an absolute joy to be around. He was also extremely handsome, but he didn't need to know you'd been harboring a crush on him for a long time.

"Rengoku? Rengoku!"

Your yelling finally caught his attention as you ran up behind him and he turned around, a satisfied smile resting on his lips. When he saw it was you calling his name, the smile grew even wider.

"Y/n! It's always a pleasure to see a friendly face, especially if it's yours!" replied Kyojuro, bowing his head slightly in greeting.

"Same to you. I wasn't expecting to see you here," you said. "Is something the matter?"

"There's been a large increase in demon attacks in this area!" he shouted, earning a few wary glances from passersby. "I'm here to exterminate them!"

"To think I hadn't heard of that at all," you muttered, confusion apparent in the way you knit your brows. "If you need help later tonight, I'll gladly provide backup!"

"That would be fantastic! Thank you, dear friend!"

"Of course," you answered. "Were you exploring this market for work or for fun?"

"For fun! Care to join me in trying these... whatever these are?"

Kyojuro was pointing at a sign that read "Croquettes." Neither of you knew what they were but you were both foodies so you excitedly waited your turn to buy some. Food in hand, you found a place to sit and eat, happy to catch up with each other over snacks. He handed you a croquette as you passed a pancake his way.

"Tasty! You chose a wonderful dish to try," Kyojuro complimented, his mouth full.

"As did you, Rengoku. These are very yummy."

"Please, we're friends, are we not? Call me Kyojuro."

You stopped your chewing in surprise. "Oh! Well, alright then, Kyojuro."

You loved the way his name so easily rolled off your tongue, like it had always been yours to speak. You two fell into conversation about what you had been up to, what he and the other Hashira were up to, and how both of your families were. When your stomachs were full, you continued your jaunt around the market, Kyojuro being a superb shopping companion. You were currently stopped at a stall that sold ornamental hair clips and your attention was completely absorbed by the glittering jewels and vibrant flowers, so much so that when Kyojuro spoke up, you jumped.

"Excuse me for a moment. There's something at that previous stall I would like to buy for Senjuro," he explained, giving you a courteous nod as he left your side for the first time that morning. You smiled to yourself, resuming your browsing. He was always so sweet and considerate and you loved how he never stopped looking out for his adorable little brother. As your mind pondered all the things you admired about the handsome demon slayer, your eyes fell on the most gorgeous hair clip you'd ever seen and you picked it up, carefully inspecting it.

"That's a nice one, isn't it?"

You jumped for the second time in less than a minute, this time due to a stranger's voice in your ear. There was a man standing next to you, much too close for comfort, wearing a grin that made your skin crawl. You didn't want any trouble so you tried to keep the situation as relaxed as possible.

"Yes, it's very beautiful."

"It's not as beautiful as you."

Um, ew.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. Who did this creep think he was?

"I'm flattered, sir," you said, placing the clip back on the table, ready to make your escape, "but I must be going now."

You turned around, eager to find Kyojuro, but before you could get too far, you were stopped by the rough clutching of your wrist by the stranger.

"Hey, where you going? I'm not finished talking with you. I don't even have a pretty name for the pretty face."

You were enraged and wanted to teach this guy a lesson for having such repulsive manners. You instinctively reached for your hip but your hand felt nothing--your sword was at home, discarded on the floor where you'd left it earlier that morning. You cringed internally at your stupidity. Why, of all days, did you decide to be an upstanding citizen and leave your weapon at home? The next thing that crossed your mind was breaking his hand, which you were about to do before Kyojuro was by your side once more.

"If you continue touching my friend, I will not hesitate to cut off your hand!" Kyojuro exclaimed, his voice never losing its trademark cheeriness as he stared the stranger down.

"Yeah, right," the man sneered, "with what weapon-oh."

He spied the sword sitting neatly on Kyojuro's hip, the Flame Hashira's fingers ghosting the top of the handle to show he wasn't messing around. The unwelcome intruder immediately dropped your wrist and backed away, sputtering apologies before practically running from the scene. Kyojuro was no longer smiling as he assessed the aftermath of the situation.

"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice lower than usual. You nodded, trying to calm the blood that was boiling in your veins.

"I'm glad I already ate or that would've ruined my appetite," you seethed. "I just wanted a hair clip. Had I known that man was going to bother me, I wouldn't have stayed over there."

You sucked in a breath as your anger left you, leaving behind a feeling of unease akin to being prey stalked by a predator. "I would like to go home now. Kyojuro, would you mind escorting me? I know I could easily beat that man in hand to hand combat but I'm afraid I just don't feel as safe without my sword."

Kyojuro looked upon you with sadness contorting his features. "Are you sure you want to leave without the hair clip you were so fond of? We can continue browsing the market, I promise not to leave your side again. I will not hesitate to protect you from all threats, human or otherwise, today and all other days."

He sounded so earnest in his endeavor to keep you safe that the idea of you leaving the market early became unfathomable. Also, hearing those words from the man you were falling for left your heart throbbing in your chest.

"Thank you," you said, looking deep into his red and yellow eyes that were practically glowing in the sunlight, "you're consistently there for me and I never know how to return the favor."

He let out a hearty laugh. "Nonsense! Having someone like you in my life is favor enough! Your unshakable character and kind demeanor are incredible. You're a great listener and you give valuable advice. Every day I am thankful that I know you!"

You felt warmth flood into your cheeks at his praise, feeling bashful from his compliments. He just beamed at you, not at all helping to rid you of the giddiness you were feeling.

"Come," he said, offering his arm for you to hold. "I would like for you to show me the hair decoration that has captured your attention."

You enthusiastically locked your wrist around his elbow and led him over to the stall.

"This is the one," you said, picking it up.

"May I?" Kyojuro asked softly, gesturing to the ornament.

"Of course," you accepted, and he plucked the piece from your hand. He tenderly brushed back the hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear. He then placed the hair clip on the side of your head, his fingers gingerly pushing it into place so it wouldn't budge. When he was finished, he didn't take his eyes off you-- his expression held such soft fondness that it was impossible to look away from his magnetic gaze.

"You look beautiful," he murmured. It wasn't the first time you'd heard that today, but it was the only time it mattered. You were so entranced by him that you didn't notice him paying for the clip until it was too late, the money already taken by the vendor.

"Please, let me pay you back," you pleaded as you walked away from the crowded market, finding solace in a quiet garden not too far from there.

"No way!"

"Kyojuro Rengoku!"

"Never!"

"Why not? You must tell me," you demanded.

"Because I want to show you that I..." He hesitated and you noticed that he was starting to blush, his cheeks almost the same color as the tips of his hair. "I want to show you that I can take care of you. In matters of both finances and safety."

You cocked your head. "Wait, why would you..."

All of a sudden, it dawned on you. Was he trying to court you right now?

He noticed you attempting to put the pieces together so he explained further. "Seeing that man disrespect you... I would have helped any woman in that situation but at that moment I knew that I couldn't bear to see another man lay his hands on you."

The Flame Hashira inched forward to be slightly closer to you, his haori swishing in the breeze. "Y/n, I have fallen for you and I wish to be by your side as not just a friend, but as a lover. A husband. If you'll have me."

"Oh, Kyojuro!" You threw yourself into his arms. He stumbled back at the unexpected movement but quickly grounded himself, hugging you tightly.

"I would be honored to marry you," you said, unable to contain your wide smile and thrilled beyond belief that he felt the same way about you that you did for him all this time.

"Wonderful! I am the luckiest man to be able to call you my wife!" he exclaimed.

"So tonight will be our first mission as a couple, then?"

"That is correct!"

You snickered. "Maybe we can defeat the demons with the power of love."

"Hah! My darling y/n, you sound like Mitsuri!"

That was the best compliment you'd received all day.

#rengoku x reader #rengoku x reader fluff #kyojuro rengoku x reader #kyojuro rengoku #kyojuro x reader #rengoku x y/n #demon slayer #demon slayer x reader #kny x reader #kny x y/n

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eowynstwin · 1 month ago

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Blackbird, Fly - Three

Cowboy Gaz x mail order bride—only, not his. After exchanging letters for half a year with ranching man Hans König, you finally travel out west to marry him. You wonder if this is how lambs feel, when shorn for the first time. content warning for marital rape after the second break previous masterlist ao3 next

“Come,” says Hans, tugging on your arm, “let’s get you ready for the ceremony.”

Your husband-to-be leads you up the porch steps and into the house, long legs carrying him ahead so fast you must practically jog to keep up with him. You stumble when you enter the house—the interior is fantastically well-appointed, with papered walls and carved wood furniture, framed photos hanging beside paintings, pressed flowers, hunting trophies, rifles and knives and old farm equipment. The floor beneath your feet is polished and smooth, spread over in places with thick, fringed rugs. You don’t see much more of it after your initial impression; Hans pulls you along at a clip.

Even such a brief glimpse, though, proves your long-held assumptions about Hans and his livelihood; his family has done well for itself, over the years. The kitchen, dining room, and sitting room are all separate from each other, and the manor’s first floor alone is larger than the small farmhouse you grew up in. Your family always made an effort to present a comfortable, clean home, but it seems downright drab in memory now in comparison to this.

There’s a bit of a bustle going on as Hans tugs you along—you hear movement in the kitchen, punctuated by the clang of dishes moving to and fro. A rough voice grinds out something short, and a couple of cowboys emerge with covered dishes that they set on the dining table before they return back into the fray. In the sitting room, an older woman with short, sandy brown hair sits at a desk, spectacles perched on the end of her nose. She glances up at you, betrays no interest, and then ignores you.

“You’ll meet everyone at the ceremony,” Hans says. He directs you up the stairs. “Right now you need something nice to wear.”

“O-oh,” you say, lifting the hem of your skirt as you climb the steps. The fabric, purchased at a discount after you’d saved pennies and nickels for months, suddenly feels thin and insubstantial between your fingers.

Hans brings you into the main bedroom, equally well-designed with molded wood paneling and brass lanterns on the walls, where he goes to a chest at the foot of the massive bed four-poster bed. Everything you’ve seen so far in this house is much finer than what even the most well-to-do farmers back home could display; you used to imagine that wealth like this could only be within the reach of select few businessmen on the east coast. You never imagined you’d have the chance to marry into it.

“I think this should suit you,” says Hans, turning to you with a stack of clothing in one hand.

You take it from him when he proffers it—a skirt, blouse, and jacket, you find. The fabric is silky in your hands, glossy and cool to the touch and very fine. You shake out the skirt; yards of bustled fabric tumble open to reveal pleated gathers, elegant bows, and velvet trim. The paired jacket is much the same, with pearl buttons down the front, and the accompanying blouse is a weave of tight, delicate lace.

Your earlier fears are soundly confirmed; you are in no way dressed for a wedding to Hans König. Gaz had only been trying to be kind; being here, now, seeing the kind of splendor Hans lived with every day, no one could make the mistake that you could measure up on your own.

“Thank you, Hans,” you say, face warming with embarrassment.

“Think nothing of it,” says Hans, looking you up and down expectantly. “Go on.”

You blink. “Ex—excuse me?”

Hans raises his brows as if it should be obvious. “Why, let’s see you in it, dear girl.”

You blanch. Surely he isn’t suggesting…“But—well, Hans, we aren’t—we haven’t—”

“My dear, I’ve already promised to marry you. Why would I go to such expense on a wedding merely to fool you into showing me your underthings?”

You drop your gaze to the floor, cheeks burning. “It’s not proper.”

“Bah,” says Hans. He takes the clothes back from you, tosses them onto the bed, and brings his hands to the buttons down your front. “It’s not like I won’t see this again in a few hours.”

You are rooted to the spot. He unbuttons your dress with an alacrity that startles you; in a few short moments, he makes an opening wide enough to slip over your shoulders, and unceremoniously he pushes the collar open and lets the dress drop to the floor.

You blink several times. You wonder if this is how lambs feel, when shorn for the first time; do they feel suddenly like they’ve been skinned? Does the air suddenly feel much closer, more real than it had before? You remember shearing season on a neighbor’s farm, the angular planes of shortened fleece cropped close to twitching flesh. The sheep had looked unfinished after the deed was done—like wooden figurines only partly whittled.

When you look to Hans’ face, you find him gazing at the tight space where your chemise tucks into the line of your corset. Then, as if in a dream, he reaches out with one huge hand and cups the mound of one breast.

The air vacates your lungs. It’s the first time a man has ever touched you this way.

When young ladies of a certain age gather to socialize, matters of discussion inevitably tend toward the prurient. Your peers delighted in sharing the wealth of erotic experience they’d accrued; trysts in larders, late graveyard meetings, dizzying accounts of hands and mouths in places that sent shame pumping hot and curious through your veins. You lived vicariously through their adventures; opportunities for your own, with three older brothers and a protective father, were nonexistent.

The embarrassing fact is that in matters of your marital duties, you received no practical education.

The one time your mother, a modest woman, saw fit to tutor you, she’d taken you out to the small enclosure in which the family goats were kept. The animals were useful for milk and occasionally meat, so there was always a breeding pair at hand. This occasion, they served the additional use of instruction; the male was rutting.

Your mother had made you watch as the billy mounted the nanny, and shoved its little goat prick into her hindquarters. The billy seemed mindless with want, ferocious, gyrating its hips uncomfortably, which the nanny took with what seemed like resigned patience, if it was paying attention at all. Once the billy finished, it dismounted, chewed its cud a little bit, and walked off. The nanny seemed unperturbed, rather detached from the whole thing, and similarly continued with whatever it had been doing before.

“It’s about like that,” said your mother, unable to look you in the eye.

So you have little knowledge of the matter.

And you have no idea what to do now, as your husband-to-be fondles you and stares down at you with what seems like only idle interest. Hans’ thumb brushes over the space where your nipple would be, hot even through layers of cotton and whalebone. The fine hairs on your arms raise, standing straight up.

What are you supposed to do now? Touch him back? Your stomach turns over at the thought. Even if you wanted to, you have no idea how. Hans is touching you so casually, as if you’ve been his wife for years, but you are as poor in wifely instinct as you are in everything else.

“Lovely,” he says, eyes locked on the place where your chest is rapidly rising and falling.

You inhale shakily. This is fine. He wouldn’t do this if it wasn’t—of course it’s all right, you’re to be married within the hour. It’s only your breast, and only his hand, and it’s over your clothes. It’s fine.

“May—” your voice comes out dry. You clear your throat. “May I dress now, Hans?”

He smiles. You note that he has a thin-lipped smile, and his eyes do not crinkle at the corners. “Of course.”

When the guests have all arrived, when the world around you is bathed in the orange-gold light of the setting sun, and when the mandolin plays the bridal chorus, you join Hans König under an archway of lupine and Indian paintbrush. Evening gives way to night as the last day of your old life comes to a close, ending as you say the words that until now you’ve only whispered in the night at your bedside.

For better—for worse—as long as you both shall live. Over and over again, until your tongue recognized the shape of them like the Lord’s Prayer. As if practicing them enough would speed the hour to you all the sooner in which their vow became real.

Hans kisses you for the second time, and then together, arm in arm, you turn to face the congregation’s applause.

Stars begin peeking white faces through the dimming sky as the band strikes up a tune, and as the reception commences, you must shake hands with the whole county. The priest John MacTavish insists upon introducing himself first—a younger man, with vivid blue eyes and an unusual haircut, gives his congratulations in a husky Scottish brogue entirely inappropriate for a man of the cloth. He’s followed by the sheriff, Simon Riley, who practically chases him off—another tall man, near to your husband’s height, and twice as broad. Curiously, he wears a bandanna across the lower half of his face. His greeting to you is gruff, short—polite in a way that seems unnatural for him.

Next is a slightly older woman, splendidly dressed in lace-trimmed taffeta. She comes over to kiss your cheeks in the French style. Hans ducks his head as she smiles at you; you can’t help but feel similar trepidation. She is terribly striking, with delicate creases on either side of her mouth and a mysterious twinkle in her eye.

“The hotel in town is my establishment,” she tells you. “The bath house, as well.”

“Oh,” you say, “how lovely.”

Her smile quirks at the corners; she looks at Hans, then back to you, and softly chucks your chin. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you, darling?”

“Yes, Madame, thank you,” your husband says quickly as your face sets to blazing. “I believe others would like to speak to us, as well, if you don’t mind.”

She gives you another enigmatic smile, tightens the light chiffon wrap around her shoulders, and leaves you to the banker and his wife, who both eagerly step up to talk your ear off.

Farmers, other ranchers, ramblers and gamblers and trappers; it seems everyone in the state has come to pay you their respects, and they all want to meet you at the exact same time. The rough voice you heard in the kitchen manifests itself in the form of a burly man with mutton chops, who introduces himself as John Price the saloon owner. A young woman with an unsmiling face named Ms. Boucher tells you your first purchase at her dry goods store will be discounted by five percent, as a welcome gift from her to you. She punctuates the statement with a narrow-eyed look at your husband, but you have no time to wonder at it before the next guests capture your attention.

A whole line of Hans’ cowboys, headed by the woman you saw working at the writing desk when you arrived, form up to tell you their names and pledge you their loyalty, still dressed in their wrangling leathers but bathed and combed and polished for the occasion nonetheless. The woman introduces herself as Kate Laswell, the foreman.

“I took care of the accounting after Anna passed,” Laswell says to you. “Tomorrow I’ll go through the books with you. It’ll be your job from now on.”

“Now, Kate, you shouldn’t discuss business at my wedding,” says Hans, politely, but somewhat terse. “And besides, that would be far too much for my new bride.”

“Hans, I told you,” you say earnestly, referencing a summer letter, “I want to be a part of things.”

He smiles genially at you—but the expression seems tight. “Of course, dear.”

“Tomorrow,” Kate says to you. Curiously, she looks you up and down. Then, “You’ll need to see the tailor, as well, I think.”

Her words are not said unkindly, but they shame you anyway, reminding you just how poorly matched as yet you are to this life. When you’d put the dress on earlier, it had been immediately clear to you that it was not made to your measurements, but you hadn’t thought it would be so obvious to anyone else. Only Hans’ cowboys proceeding to introduce themselves saves you from having to respond.

One is conspicuously absent.

Unexpectedly, it hurts. Even though it shouldn’t. Gaz had only driven you here, after all. You’ve known him less than a day. It shouldn’t disappoint you, as you keep your eyes on the moving line, that he does not come forward, but it does.

In between meeting the county folk, you manage to get a few bites of the wedding feast—prime rib, lamb chowder, baked fish, seasoned potatoes, collard greens, fried tomatoes, sourdough biscuits, and three different fruit cobblers still somehow steaming from the oven. You and Hans cut the bride’s cake, an impressive sheet of angel food and ivory buttercream that he must have procured at outrageous cost; you are not embarrassed to wolf it down in front of Hans’ guests. It’s the sweetest, softest thing you’ve ever eaten, more delicate than you ever could have imagined any food could be.

As the sky darkens overhead, the faint cloud of the milky way coalesces in the light of the waxing moon, and the band takes up a lively jig as the wedding party sallies forth to the clearing to dance arm in arm. Your husband whirls you along with them, arm around your waist, and then you’re dancing, too, and the familiar two-step lifts your flagging spirits as the cool night air runs quick, soft fingers across your burning cheeks.

So what if some cowboy hadn’t made it to your wedding? You’re dancing with your husband, after months of longing for him; everything and everyone else is inconsequential laid up against this triumph.

Faces blur in the lamplight the night falls indigo around you, and as the music changes Hans twirls you into a new set of arms in a jaunt that has everyone exchanging partners. They hold you only briefly before the music changes again, and off you bounce to another, the world spinning around you faster and faster, jubilant and surreal, and then another—

Suddenly you are in Kyle Garrick’s arms.

He catches you like lassoing a runaway horse, taking your momentum into the pillar of his body as he winds you in close. One of his hands spreads warm across your back, fingers spanning what feels like the entire breadth of your waist. His other cradles your own in his palm, long fingers folded around it like an envelope. You fit against him easily, perfectly, like a couple illustrated in a storybook.

“Mr. Garrick,” you gasp.

“Mrs. König,” he says.

Suddenly you realize you’re out of breath. You take deep gulps of air, and Gaz’s scent permeates your lungs. Lavender soap and bay rum, polished leather, sweet hay. The soft, dense curls of his hair are combed and parted a little, and the short stubble he’d greeted you with on the train platform is tonsured down flush to his jaw.

He leans in closer to you, hovers his lips near to one ear. “You changed your dress.”

He doesn’t keep pace with the other dancers, or swing you around in time with the music; he lets the world slow around you both, the music falling away as he brings the pace of your heart down with soft line of his mouth and the steady, still look in his dark eyes. His hand on your back radiates so much warmth that it cuts through the evening chill just beginning to set in, as if his palm is directly against your naked skin.

You smile meekly. “It wasn’t appropriate for a wedding.”

His dark brows pull together; his hands tighten their purchase on you. You watch him avert his eyes from you, take a great breath in through flared nostrils.

“Mr. Garrick,” you say, feeling too honest, “do you disapprove of me?”

He snaps his gaze back to you. “Why would you think that?”

You swallow. “You don’t seem very pleased, whenever we talk, is all.”

Suddenly Gaz smiles—lets out a short, sharp laugh that bares his even teeth, shows the points of his canines. “That’s not your fault. I promise you.”

“Then what is it?”

He gazes at you. Lamplight casts the angles of his face in shadow, deepens the darkness of his eyes. His shoulder is solid beneath where your hand rests, shaped hard by a life on the range; you could lay the entirety of your weight against him, you think, and he wouldn’t even sway with holding you up. There’s something very present about Kyle Garrick. Something real. It draws you in like the earth draws the moon into its orbit.

“Do you really want this?” he asks you.

You blink. “Of course I do.”

“You hardly know him.”

“I’ve known him for half a year, Mr. Garrick,” you say, somewhat unsure how much explanation you owe this cowboy. After all, you’d vowed to earn his trust, as his employer’s new wife. “I know you might have some reservations about me. I understand, really.”

“No,” says Gaz immediately, dark brows low and serious over his eyes. “Not about you.”

“Mrs. König!” an accented voice calls.

Immediately the world speeds up around you again, music crashing back into your ears, wedding guests spinning and leaping around you, and you turn to see your husband standing at the edge of the clearing.

The dancing comes to a halt at the sound of his voice; Hans outstretches one hand toward you.

“I believe it is time for us to retire,” he says.

Gaz’s hands tighten on you again. You feel the eyes of the other dancers on the two of you, tight lines of attention between you and them.

You have felt it all evening, really—the undercurrent lining every conversation, the askance looks tossed at you and your husband when no one thought you’d notice. The pervading sense of some drama playing out just outside of your comprehension.

You turn to look back at Gaz. His mouth is pressed into a hard line. The wells of his eyes are ink-dark, opaque, eclipsed by something of a shape beyond your knowing. He says nothing as he holds your gaze, only watches you with an expectation so stoic, so resigned, that you feel almost guilty for releasing him.

He lets you go as if his grasp wasn’t even tight in the first place. You turn away from him, from the stone-hard expression on his face, and go to slide your fingers into your husband’s waiting hand.

Wolf-whistles populate the night air as he smiles approvingly, nods, and leads you away. Short bursts of knowing applause behind you draw your shoulders tight together.

“Ignore them,” says Hans, tucking your hand into the crook of his arm. “They’re just fools.”

You look back over your shoulder. Gaz still stands amid the dancers, a wide berth around him. His eyes have not left you; they pierce you in the night, sharp even as the distance between you grows.

You have only one other point of reference, aside from your mother’s tutelage, for how the end of this evening might go. A topaz glimmering in the folds of your memory.

Years ago, before the shine had worn off as it usually does with older siblings, you’d worshiped your oldest brother like he was Jesus Christ returned. You’d trailed after him like a newborn pup, dogging his every step, hoping your devotion would earn you even the smallest scraps of his affection. You’d watched his comings and goings like you could divine the mysteries of God from the merest angle of his movements.

One night, far past the time when everyone should be asleep, he’d slipped out of the small three-room house your family shared. You knew, because you slept closest to the door, and by then could recognize him by the rhythm of his footsteps. Like any nosy little sibling, you’d followed him out once you were sure he couldn’t hear you behind him.

He’d made his creeping way toward the barn, his path and yours lit only by a waxing moon. You remember, sneaking along after him, noticing a dim glow emanating from the cracks in the hayloft door, and guessed that your brother had realized he’d forgotten to snuff a lantern before going to bed—and now he was going to put it out, rather than leave a hay fire to chance.

He went inside. You were about to follow (no sibling, however divine, was exempt from a good ribbing, and nearly burning down the barn was excellent blackmail fodder)—when you heard another voice.

A female voice. Soft, and sweet, and welcoming.

Very little preamble separated that revelation from the next, and what you heard in the following moments rooted you there in place; movement. Rustling. For the span of a few heartbeats, nothing except for the crickets in the fields—and then, like the moon rising on a cloudless night—a growing chorus, voices high and low, moaning together in staccato.

You’d stood there, frozen absolutely solid, as it went on. The high voice lifted higher, and higher, carried on frantic, rapid breaths, until it cut off with a shriek that muffled so fast you knew your brother had covered the girl’s mouth.

Then—quiet, shared laughter.

So you know a little more than what the goats taught you.

Hans leads you back inside the house, where the lanterns have been turned to low, orange specks of light. You fix your eyes on the nape of his neck ahead of you as the two of you climb the stairs, making your way back to the master bedroom. The cacophony of the wedding celebration is far away; he opens the door, draws you inside, and shuts it behind him.

You stand in the middle of the room, looking at him. This whole evening has felt like a dream, but as you gaze at your husband, you suddenly feel like you’re waking up. You have not been alone with Hans since you met him, not really, and you realize he hasn’t felt quite real to you because of it. You almost feel as if you can see him, for the first time, see the words that have made him up in your memory coalesce into the flesh-and-blood man standing before you.

This is him. This is Hans. This is the man you love.

Softly, you approach him. Reach up with two hands to take his face in them; press your lips, shyly, unpracticed, to his.

“Hans,” you say, more softly than you have ever said anyone’s name in your life, looking into the pale blue of his eyes.

He gazes down at you. “Let’s get undressed,” he says.

It’s the moment you expected, but it daunts you nonetheless. You nod, step away from your husband, and he sets to the task—he shucks his coat, dropping it on the floor, and unhooks his suspenders. Swiftly you turn away from him when he begins unbuttoning his shirt, face blazing—of course, you’ve seen men undress before, you have three brothers, but this—this—

The reality of what you are about to do douses you all at once, soaking you to the bone. When you bring your hands up to the buttons of your bodice, they are trembling; you can barely get the tiny pearls between your fingers to undo them. You hear more clothes land on the floor behind you as you struggle, and then nothing. Stillness.

His eyes are heavy on your back. He is silent as you finally get the jacket off, and the blouse along with it; he is silent as you push the skirt down over your hips, the garment piling on the floor.

Your whole body is shaking by the time you’re down only to your chemise, shivering like a foal on new legs as you bare your shoulders. You close your eyes. There’s no need to be afraid as you shuffle the garment down your back. It’s only your husband behind you, looking at you as you bare your buttocks, as you step out of the split shorts, as the cool night air caresses your naked belly.

“That’s enough,” Hans says behind you when your hands go to the ties on your stockings.

You go still.

“Get on the bed, now.”

You focus on your breathing. Long breaths, in and out, as you crawl belly-first onto the mattress, which sinks luxuriously under your weight, softer than any bed you’ve lain on in your life. Suddenly, before you have time to adjust, the mattress sinks even more under you, and an envelope of heat and weight looms over you, pressing hard onto you, bare skin and the smell of sweat and the sound of another person’s breathing over you invading your senses.

Then there’s something blunt nudging at the entrance of your sex. A hand on your hip, gripping tight. The blunt thing circles briefly, parting your folds, and then is pressing into you. Pressing in somewhere tight, somewhere that doesn’t want to open to let it in. You hold your breath. It presses harder, fighting the resistance, and then finally gets past it, just a half inch or so—and suddenly it hurts.

“Hans,” you whisper.

He hasn’t seem to have heard you. He pushes harder, just a bit further. There’s another wall of resistance, this one needling and far more solid. You gasp sharply at the dryness of it, the way his member seems to want to push your own folds up into you as it tries to get in, shoving, bludgeoning, and then, mercifully, Hans pulls away.

It’s on the tip of your tongue to suggest that maybe the two of you try this later. Clearly there is something about you that’s not ready for it—but then his hand is between your legs, smearing something slippery around, and just briefly he touches something that pulses with interest. You jolt as little sparks of pleasure dance through you but quickly burn out, and then, the blunt head of his cock is back, pushing in, much faster, much smoother, huge and hard—

Suddenly it is sharp inside you, razor sharp, paralyzing. You shriek in pain, tears welling acidic in your eyes, shocked, betrayed, and he keeps coming, an endless length of him forcing inside, making room where there is none, going somewhere it clearly must not belong—and then he groans, loud and guttural, and begins to pull out.

You don’t have enough time to mistake this for the end of it. He pulls out halfway and then rams back in, slamming against your body, punching what must be the very limit of the space he can make for himself in your body. Pain roars to life around his cock, radiating outward, a ripping and shredding that grows as he forces himself into you again, and then again, and then it’s happening for real, he’s begins thrusting so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs, slapping his hips against your backside as he grunts and groans behind you like a dumb animal. He batters some nexus of agony that sends you screaming, shrieking with every jerk of his hips, tears streaming down your face as you grip the blanket in clawed fingers.

“Please, Hans, stop, please!”you wail. “Stop, stop, stop—”

His hand grips back of your head, turning your face downward—pressing it against the bed, muffling your mouth and nose and eyes into the blanket—

He jerks against you as agony writes itself into your bone marrow. Your hands circle in on themselves so tightly you feel your fingernails bite into your palms. Any memory of laughter you ever had abandons you.

Then, suddenly, mercifully, he’s forcing himself into you as deeply as he can, groaning loud, and something warm blooms in you, squelches out warm and sticky as he pulls in and out a few more times. He stills then from his furious rutting, hanging over you, panting.

Then he pulls out. Your husband lets you go and rolls over, breathing hard on the bed. You lay absolutely dead still, shaking violently, every muscle in your body tensed up painfully tight.

“Hans,” you whimper, “Hans.”

“Mm-hm,” he hums.

“Hans.” Every nerve is vibrating with pain. “Hans, that hurt.”

There is a long silence after. So long, you start to believe that he won’t say anything; that perhaps, even, he’s fallen asleep, and your words have dropped like flies from the air between you before they reached him.

But he hasn’t fallen asleep. Your husband shuffles off the bed, lifts the linen, and shuffles back into it. The lantern light is dim in the bedroom, but light enough that you can see the nonplussed expression on his face.

“Anna got used to it,” he says finally, eyes closing. “You will too.”

And he turns on his side and says no more to you.

You lay there aching. When you drag your fingers through the slick mess between your thighs, streaks of red intermingle with the clear and the white.

Suddenly you want this day to be over. You want to close your eyes and dream that it never happened—or maybe, if you go to sleep, you’ll awaken to find that it was all a dream after all, and you’re still home, your mother cooking just outside the bedroom door. Slowly, you inch off the bed, finding the floor with your stockinged feet, and go to douse the lanterns.

The room is cold and silvery without their light. Darkness gathers in the corners, around the weak glow of moonlight failing to fully penetrate the curtains over the window. You gingerly swipe the cloth from a nearby washbasin between your legs, cleaning up the remnants of your husband’s pleasure, and then, with nowhere else to go, you return to the empty side of the bed and crawl stiffly under the covers.

He does not stir as you settle in beside him. You lay your head on the pillow next to his and fold your hands over your stomach.

Outside and far away, you think you can hear the band still merrily playing. The darkness deepens, and deepens, until you can’t tell where it ends and you begin.

#gaz garrick #gaz x reader #gaz x you #gaz x y/n #kyle gaz garrick #kyle gaz x reader #kyle gaz x you #gaz cod #gaz call of duty #cod x reader #cod x you #cod x y/n #cod fanfic #blackbird fly #mwritesgaz #madi writes #sorry this was gnarly #also if this is like. weird. in my defense i wrote most of it while sick with covid #side note when writing that first scene i suddenly viscerally understood what the dark romance girlies (gn) were all about

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revelboo · 20 days ago

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Ooooooooh... I usually don't have many thoughts about prowl, just never paid much attention to him, but your posts make it so hard to feel normal about him I think you've awaken something in me, help!!!

He’s pretty fun to write as a jerk

Stand Too Close Pt 3

Prowl x Reader

• Like a sparkling sulking, you’re avoiding him and that’s fine. There’s always reports to work up, his task list a living thing that’s always growing. Except he can’t focus, rereading the same paragraph over and over. It’s the silence, he realizes in frustration. Somehow he’s gotten used to the soft sounds of you wandering about on his desk being a nuisance. Touching things just to annoy him. How did you become white noise that he needs to focus? Shoving up from his desk, he vents. How far could you have gotten?

• Only halfway listening as Bumblebee talks about a potential energon mine to two other Autobots, you lean into Bee’s hand to savor how warm he is. And there’s no angry tension here. Unlike the jerk you’d been stuck with, these guys seem to be friends. Joking and laughing. Occasionally remembering you and asking a question so you’re involved in the conversation. Listening to them, your thoughts turn unwillingly to Prowl. There’s never any other Cybertronians coming to visit him. No one joking with him, because apparently it’s not just xenophobia. He’s just a jerk to everyone and they all avoid him. It should be funny, but it doesn’t quite sit right somehow. Always alone. Always angry. Realizing you feel kind of bad for him only annoys you.

• It’s not like he hadn’t known that temperatures optimal for Cybertronians are too cold for humans. He’d heard Wheeljack mention it to Sideswipe once in passing, the young bot pestering for information on humans. Seeming fascinated when Wheeljack mentions that his will curl against him because he’s always warmer than they are, seeking his body heat constantly. You’ve never willingly came to him, though, and he’d not really thought much of it. Maybe the cold hadn’t bothered you. But thinking about it, he has seen you shivering before. Never complaining about it, just glaring at him whenever you notice him watching you. Cold and unwilling to approach him.

• Apparently, you just hate him more than you want to be warm, because there you are. Bumblebee’s laid his arm on the table, palm cupped slightly as he talks to Hound and Trailbreaker. And you’re sitting in the younger scout’s palm, leaning into his servos and his warmth. It shouldn’t bother him, the dislike is mutual and has been since he accidentally clipped you. He didn’t want to be stuck with you and, as you’re so fond of pointing out, he ruined your life. It shouldn’t bother him. Definitely shouldn’t light through him in a furious wash of what can’t possibly be jealousy. Almost absently, Bumblebee curls a servo to stroke down your arm and you relax further in the grip. Expression relaxed, not angry for once. He’s never seen you like that.

• “Bumblebee.” No, not yet. Groaning at that too familiar voice, you look over at the same time Bumblebee does and there’s Prowl, those optics pure ice as he just stares at you in Bee’s palm. “Thank you for watching over the human,” Prowl growls the words, sounding almost like they’re catching in his throat and he’s definitely mad. Fantastic. Fidgeting, Bumblebee looks almost unsure as Prowl holds out a hand in demand. Like he isn’t sure he should hand you over. Sighing, you grab one of his servos to pull yourself up and walk to the edge of the table waiting to be snatched up too roughly, because you made him come look for you. It’s a surprise when he lays his hand down instead, asking you wordlessly to come to him willingly. His expression is still tight with anger when you glance up before relenting. Maybe he just doesn’t want to yell at you here in front of witnesses.

• He flexes his servos as you climb into his palm and sit down so he can lift you. Eyes on his palm, your little shoulders hunch as he begins to walk. “Well?” You ask, sounding tired. Shifting his palm slowly once he’s out of sight of the others, he cups it and your little frame against his chassis the way he’s seen Wheeljack do. You don’t relax against him, though, slapping a palm against him and pushing at him like you think he’s trying to crush you. You really do hate him. It doesn’t bother him. It doesn’t.

#prowl x reader #idw prowl #transformers x reader

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mxstellatayte · 4 months ago

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One with Lewis and action 9?! This man’s jewelry is top tier so any SO of his would have the same!

yes absolutely i can't believe i haven't gotten this one requested yet AAAAH

it's silverstone. it's his home race. of course you're going to put a little bit more effort into your appearance. sure, you always put effort into how you look before you make any sort of public appearance because the one you're making said public appearance with is the one and only sir lewis hamilton. no big deal.

"you think i look presentable enough?" you do a small spin for him, your violet converse squeaking quietly on the tile floor and your hair tossing slightly over your shoulder as you halt. lewis looks up from fiddling with his watch, his eyes skimming you once, up and down your body, and he immediately smiles so much you can see the stars in his eyes. today, he sports a navy blue tommy hilfiger rain jacket and his signature baggy pants.

"oh, darling, you look absolutely stellar. you always do." he approaches you, holding his wrist out to you. "can you clip me?"

"absolutely. you look amazing, too, y'know. as always," you add as you slip the strap of his watch through the metal clasps, smiling up at him and briefly kissing him sweetly. when you pull back, his eyes flick down to your chest (as usual,) and you hook your right pointer finger under his chin. "lew... my eyes are up here."

"your necklace..." he repeats with equal cadence as you just had, "is twisted." his hands reach up towards your chest, gently pinching the pendant between his thumb and pointer finger and moving the chain so that the clasp rests on your spine. the fact that he treats you with the utmost care and kindness makes your heart melt, and you can't help but kiss him once more, a smile on your face. lewis' hands gently rest the chain on your collarbones and ensure that the pendant rests perfectly between your breasts, making sure that everyone knows whose guest you are (despite the entire internet knowing damn well that you've been with lewis for the past year and a half.) "your tits look fantastic, too, though."

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fernandopiastri28 · 3 months ago

Note

Enjoying sometime off with Logan in Miami

sticky sugar taste- logan sargeant

warnings; pure smut, pwp, nastiness, 18+, oral (m&f recieving)

She’s gonna smack Logan when he gets home for leaving her on delivered like this. Trying to fill the void, her hole, she presses two fingers inside of her cunt, groaning at the touch. It feels good, almost good enough to tie her over, but the nagging desire and desperate want for it to be Logan’s fingers instead ruins the satisfactory feeling.

It’s near practical torture, she thinks, Logan’s been out all day without a single word to her. In all fairness to him, it’s a media day, and he’s been running back and forth trying to film as many little clips and challenges talking about just how proud he is to be Amercian and how special the Miami gp is to him.

But honestly, would a single text really hurt?

The worst part isn’t even that she just really misses him- she’d seen him only a few hours earlier when they’d first woken up and just lazily made out for about half an hour until he had to leave. The worst part is how painfully horny she is.

Sure, she has herself to take care of that- she is perfectly capable of doing so, but it’s not the kind of horny where she just wants to cum, she wants Logan to.

The influx of Logan content coming from his own account, the williams pages, and the F1 account has been fantastic. Cute photos of him posing in a Miami Dolphin’s jersey, him doing those little Q&As about his favourite foods, taking photos with random fans that bump into him.

But just seeing his face on her phone screen every two seconds really isn’t helping her case. In all fairness, he’d probably text her if she texted him enough. He’d have enough time to quickly tap on a text notification and punch out a few words for her- she knows he would.

Logan

I miss you ☹️☹️☹️

She knows that his response won’t be immediate, and she’s fully prepared for that. However, she doesn’t just want to send those two messages and his response be something cute and sappy like ‘Aw, I miss you too. See you soon ❤️’ Which is just such a typical Logan response, she wants him rushing home the second he sees her texts just to help her feel good.

So they’re quickly followed with,

Lo i’m really horny

And youre not here ☹️

Need you, all of u

Until he reads them, she’s only got herself, so she shucks her pants off, tossing them in the general direction of the laundry basket, and shuts her eyes, letting her left hand absently drift between her legs.

Logan’s at her favourite bakery. It’s been her favourite since the grand prix last year- the one that sells the glazed donuts and cinnamon rolls that she still hasn’t stopped talking about after nearly a year. The line is miles long, so it must be an agreed upon fact that this place is genuinely good.

Unfortunately, due to how long the line is, he’s had to take even more time away from her to go here, and because he’s trying to eb a good boyfriend and surprise her with this, he hasn’t told her where he is. That means for the past two hours that he’s been easily free to text her- he hasn’t.

He feels pretty shitty for that, but hopefully she won’t be too mad once the sugary scent of the pastries fills their hotel room.

His phone buzzes in his pocket against his thigh four times, two at a time. He doesn’t have to be a genius to know who it is- his lovely girlfriend, the chronic double texter.

He leans over, looking at how many people are infront of him in the cue. There’s maybe 15 at most, so he’ll be out of here within a half hour and home around 10 minutes after that. 40 minutes, that’s all, he only has to ignore her texts for 40 minutes.

Eventually though, Logan’s resolve crumbles and he switches on his phone, checking her messages. The first two are cute, and he feels a bit bad for the fact that he had to leave so early. However, he chokes on his breath when he reads the next two.

The two messages that he has no right reading out in public.

Im out in public please have some decorum

He’s attempting to be funny because if he doesn’t and instead gives into what she’s saying, he might start barking over text.

Well.

Maybe not quite that far, but damn near close enough.

Seriously Lo im in agony without u

Come home i need you so badly

Oh fucking hell. The line atleast is moving quicker than he’d predicted, but that means he has to face the cashier while being so incrediously hard and just order an assortment of baked goods.

Ill be home soon i promise

He makes his order, slamming the money on the counter while muttering out a ‘keep the change’, just to keep the interaction as quick as possible. He’s handed a brown bag with the four items- 2 cinnamon rolls, 2 donuts which was going to make for a perfect afternoon snack/dessert.

At this rate, they’re gonna be eating eachother instead of the pastries.

My underwear is soaked

Touch yourself baby, wait up for me

He switches his phone off, figuring for the drive home it’s safer to not be sexting his girlfriend while on the freeway. He might be a professional at driving, but that certainly doesn’t mean he’s confident enough to drive home while discussing what they’re planning on doing together when he walks through the door.

She wishes Logan would’ve given her an estimate of what ‘soon’ meant, because that could mean anywhere from 5 minutes to an hour. For her sake, she hopes it’s the former. She’s disgustingly sticky, laying on her stomach while she watches fucking tiktok edits of him. She’d started with just looking through photos he’d sent her over the course of their relationship, then evolved to needing a bit more than that.

Currently, any video of him working out was doing it for her.

I’m touching myself to pictures and vids of u

You look so good in all these interviews bae

It’s words like those that she knows makes Logan go genuinely crazy- which is the intention, obviously.

She gets no reply, which honestly, is a bit discouraging, but maybe he’s just on the way home and can’t reply right now.

She prays that’s the reason.

I wanna suck your dick when you get home

Until you cry

Like the most mindblowing head holy fuck

Please?

I fell asleep after you left and i dreamed about riding you

Make my dream come true?

It’s a pretty corny line, so ‘once upon a time’ fairytale-esque, but at this point, she’s confessing just abiutanything in the hopes that Logan is reading the messages and he’s getting increasingly more riled up from them.

It’s a bit difficult to type with one hand, so her texts are going through slower now.

Fuck Lo, i miss your dick so bad

I think im going insane, nothing is helping

Genuinely she would commit crimes at this very moment just to have Logan’s cock in her, but she shouldn’t say that- that’s wrong.

My throat feels so empty

Let me blow you please 🥺

Why am i begging you i know youll want it anyways

The emoji is a good choice, she wants Logan to know just how painfully needy she is for this right now. Her two fingers curl up inside of her, desperately trying to chase an orgasm she knows she won’t reach for as long as Logan isn’t physically right next to her, but you can’t hate a girl for trying.

Time seems to float away from her in her hazy state. She forces herself to diassociate, pretend time isn’t real and that she isn’t real in the hopes that time will pass quicker. Her past 12 messages are all still unread as far as she knows, definitely unanswered at least, so she’s holding out hope that he hasn’t crashed or something and he’s just trying to get home as quick as possible.

She rolls over, opening the drawer of her bedside table. She has a blue ‘toy’ in there, williams blue specifically. It’s been helpful on many occasions when Logan hasn’t been around to help, or when they’ve had to do this sort of thing over the phone.

Her fingers wrap around it, keeping it in her palm as her arm falls heavy to her side. At this point, she’s too exhausted to keep doing anything to herself. Since she doesn’t know how long she’s supposed to wait up for Logan, she just lets herself drift towards sleep- figuring he’ll come quicker if she’s asleep anyways.

Logan grabs his stuff out of his car, the brown bag tucked safely under his armpit so he can use both hands to read the obscenely lewd messages that have been flooding his noifcations. His cock jerks as he scans over each new message, his head ducked down as he makes his way through the hotel. To his luck, he doesn’t have any crazy fans like Lando or Charles do that cue up inside his hotel so he doesn’t have to worry about stopping to sign something for a fan while he is painfully hard and reading texts about his girlfriend begging to suck him off.

A bit of him, no, all of him is desperately hoping she’s still up for that because a good blowjob sounds like the best thing ever right now.

He doesn’t even realise he’s gotten into the elevator until he’s standing infront of the hotel room door, searching his pockets of the key card. It happens to be wedged into his wallet into the smallest section which means it takes a solid minute to try weasel it out.

His patience is seriously being tested today.

Logan kicks his shoes off, closing the door behind him, waiting just long enough to hear the click that indicates that it’s locked before he pounces straight towards the bedroom. He drops off his stuff just next to the kitchen counter, taking care to placethe bag ontop of the table. He opens the bedroom door, a small smile spreading across his face at the sight.

Her clothes are scattered across the otherwise tidy and pleasantly decorated hotel room, the bedsheets pulled over to only one side of the bed, a head of long hair just visible where the blanket ends and the pillow begins.

But the ache that’s straining against his jeans is enough for him to snap out of the lovey feeling and back to the horny one. “Hey pretty,” He tugs back the blanket of the bed, not too much that she’ll have a bad reaction, but enough to wake her up, a proper wakeup in which she’ll be ready for him within minutes.

“Ngh, five minutes,” That’s exactly what Logan was aiming to avoid.

“No, up we get,” He slots his hands under her armpits, sitting her up. “C’mon, you’re gonna make good on your promises, aren’t you?”

There’s a blank expression on her face for a second, then there’s that moment of recognition. “Lo,” Her voice is thick with a mix of lust and sleep, “I’ve missed you,”

He snickers, feeling his whole body grow warmer, “I could tell, I read your texts.” He tugs his shirt off over his head, watching a smirk spread across her hazy features. “Really that desperate? Begging to suck me off?”

Her cheeks are painted a pale pink- she loves this type of teasing, the oen that Logan borderline mocks her for how needy she is. It never gets to the point where it’s classified as mean, and if it ever scrapes that boundary, they both know to back off. “I really wanna,” She looks up at him through her lashes, the whites of her eyes prominent and contrasting against her dark pupils.

“On the floor,” She clambers onto it, a mess of legs and blankets as she falls to the ground about as gracefully as she can. Logan looks like he’s about to fuss over her before she shakes her head, assuring him that she’s fine. Once she’s got a pillow under her knees, she reaches up to undo his belt.

The worst thing about men’s pants- there’s just so many steps to take them off. Undoing the belt, pulling it out, undoing the button, the zip, then finally you reach the boxers. With girls, you often just push their skirt up and you’re ready.

Logan assists her with his belt just to get the process moving along quicker. He lets her take back over when it gets to just undoing his jeans just because he knows she loves the control she gets over this part. She doesn’t play around too much with his jeans, eager to get them down, but once she’s met with an eyeful of his boxers- then she decides to do a bit of teasing of her own.

She kisses him through the soft cotton of his boxers. The front of them are pulled taut over his erection, straining and begging for release. His hand finds it’s place in her hair, gently pushing her face into his crotch. “Mm, playing around like you weren’t begging to be shut up with my cock down your throat?”

Her brain is already beginning to feel foggy. It often does when they do this, she gets that dreamlike pleasure where nothing quite feels real, but it certainly feels really good. Her index fingers hook into the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down.

She’s seen him like this more times than she could probably count, but it’s always the best sight. She opens her mouth, kitten licking his tip. Whines fall from her own mouth, controlled and even breaths from his. It’s not yet drastic, definitely not debauched or overstimulated.

Not that she’d done this with many guys before Logan, actually maybe only one or two a few years back, but she really can’t imagine ever being with someone else like she is with Logan. He knows her- inside and out. He knows what’s too much, what’s too little, what is just perfect. He knows all her little signs and actions, the ones that speak louder than words when she can barely say it out loud.

She wraps a hand around his cock, which he tuts at. “No hands,” They go behind her back, and she’s left looking back up at him with big eyes, waiting for him to do something. He strokes her hair, slowly guiding his cock into her lips, “Suck, baby,” He cooes.

There’s no doubt that Logan’s a bit of a challenge to take, long and thick, but he knew to which point it was too much and how much got her to that perfect mindless place. Her tongue trailed along his slit, precum gathering on it.

Her mouth is that perfect soaking warmth around his tip, swallowing down a few inches, moving back and forth. There’s something in both of them that wants to take it to the furthest point, she wants to try and force herself as far forward as she can, take as much as humanly possibly, and he wants to fuck her face- force her to take it.

But that’s lust talking, and as much as they’re both horny as hell, they also have respect for eachother and themselves, so they treat this as a softer moment. “Is this exactly what you’ve been begging for all day, baby?” He murmurs, his finger drifting between her cheek and temple.

She can hardly respond, so a hmnh! suffices. He pulls out just far enough that her lips are wrapped around his tip, both red and swollen. Logan groans, rolling his hips forward in a painfully slow rhythm. There hasn’t been a second in which their eyecontact has broken, so she just stares up at him, big glossy eyes.

Eventually though, just the very tip of it is hardly enough for either of them, so Logan slowly works her onto his cock, pushing forward slowly until he’s buried deep into her throat, not quite all of him inside her.

Strands of her hair curl around his fingers, making it easier to tug and pull her in any direction he wants to. There’s drool dribbling down her chin and onto her neck, her lashes clumped together with tears.

There’s a familiar clenching in his stomach that indicates that he’s painfully close to cumming, so he tugs her off. She stares up at him in confusion, wide eyes of almost betrayal. “Up on the bed,” He instructs again. She lies against the large stack of pillows, legs bent up to the ceiling. Her knees are red and raw from kneeling for so long, so clearly the cushion didn’t help that much.

She’s only got a pair of lacy white underwear on by this point, soaked to mould to the contours of her cunt from how wet she is. Her nudges her legs apart, lying down inbetween her thighs. “Colour?”

There doesn’t seem to even be a moment of doubt, “Green,” Logan laps her cunt through the thin material of her panties, filling his mouth with the familiar taste of her. He genuinely thinks he’d die a happy man between her legs, but he doesn’t want to, because that means he wouldn’t be able to do it again.

Ideally, he wishes he could just do this for the rest of time.

Breathing whines and moans escape her mouths, chants of his name filling the room as her slender fingers card through his hair, yanking it. Not too hard that it means that he should stop, but hard enough to let out some of her energy.

“I- I missed you so fucking bad today,” She whimpers, her head thrown back against the pillow. Logan can’t help but smile, he loves how bad she needs him because it means the feeling is requited. “Where- were you?”

“I know,” He stops just long enough to answer and press a searing kiss to the inside of her thigh, “I was just- yeah, tying up some last minute errands,” The answer seems to satisfy her enough to calm down and just give into pleasure.

It doesn’t take much longer before her hips stutter and she cums, gushes of wet across his lips. She rides it out and Logan helps her the whole way before her whimpers indicate it’s all too much. He then finds his place back up at her mouth, kissing her. It’s sticky and wet, and they can taste themselves in each other’s mouths, but it feels so good to be kissing againl even if it was only a few hours ago they’d been doing it.

They flop down on the bed for a bit, stroking eachother’s hair until she decides she wants to continue making good on her promise. She scoots inbetween his legs where is still hard cock is resting heavy, and takes the head into her mouth. He lets out a grunt of surprise, which then turns to a heavy exhale.

It comes easier this time around, alternating between licking and sucking, taking him deeper than before. Her hands find their place gliding up his stomach and chest, running over his defined set of abs. She looks up at what she’s doing, which doubles as looking up at him.

Similarly to how she’d been earlier, he has his head thrown back and he’s whining, thrusting up into her. Since he can’t see what she’s doing, she has full creative liberty. She tweaks at his nipples, pink and pointed. He lets out a moan from the very back of his throat, his hips thrusting up into her throat. “Holy fuck,” He groans, pushing her head down further, only applying the slightest pressure.

It’s not long before his noises are becoming more high pitched and flooding out quicker, “Close,” He mutters, and she stays right there, moving at the same pace. He spills into her mouth, thick white strings of cum painting the inside of her warm wetness.

They stay silent like that for what seems like hours, her face smushed up against his stomach, his hand brushing through her hair. “Was that enough?” She shakes her head, ‘hardly’. He’s on the brink of sleep, and he thinks she is too until she suddenly sits up, her face twisted like something’s bothering her.

“Did you get donuts?” Seriously how on earth could she smell them through the door. He nods, smiling tiredly at her. He makes some lame explanation of how that was the reason he was so late as she drags him out of bed snd towards the source of the sweet smell. “I love you, I love you!” She squeals, wrapping her arms around his neck as soon as she sees the brown paper bag.

He grins, burying his face in her neck, “Love you too,”

(sorry this took me so long to write and i hope you like it, i've been lost for inspiration. also, shoutout to sunny who was the biggest motivator for me to write this-i hope you enjoyed the nipples part)

#logan #logan sargeant #logan sargeant smut #formula 1 #f1 rpf #f1 #formula1 #formula one #williams #oscar piastri #miami grand prix #lando norris #carlos sainz #charles leclerc #smut

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gremlingottoosilly · 8 months ago

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Omfg that short!reader post was like neuron activation for me. Imagine if readers legs DO break, or they got into some accident that left them unusable, maybe even for life. König had nothing to do with it, he's saddened by just how much sadder you seem now, listening when you talk about feeling like a bird with it's wings clipped. But secretly? He loves seeing you so dependent on him willingly. Asking him to fetch things for you or letting him carry you to places. He's essentially become your caretaker, without doing anything. Your wings may have been clipped, but he'll be the one to keep you afloat. Your nest, your mother hen, if you will. And he'll do it with pride.

Konig doesn't understand boundaries and is, in fact, an asshole who would be secretly pleased that you're bound to be his forever now. He knows that you're still independent, he gives you the best accommodations there is - still, even if it's just temporary trauma that is going to be resolved in a span of a few months, he still can't help but think of you as this ethereal, fantastic creature who needs his help with...well, everything. That you're a poor little thing, his adorable bird with chipped wings that he has to take care of now. God, he just can't help himself with you...is this really that bad, hm? you are always so shy about asking for help the first few weeks, you're always trying to do everything on your own and only end up hurting yourself...Konig had to sit down with you and discuss the changes he will implement now - how you shouldn't do anything without his help, how you need to rely on his for anything...this is honestly humiliating and you feel like he is going to destroy you while acting like this, but...god, being cared for and protected feels nice. He is nice, even while acting like an ass - he is so apologetic about kidnapping you and then literally making it impossible for you to escape, you're not sure if this is drugs that are making you behave weirdly, or it's just him...but you do like him acting like this. He changed after you were traumatized - he is acting more gentle now, he is trying his best to make you feel good and he stopped being a total fucking dickhead for once...even though he still kinda acts like your owner instead of a boyfriend. He at least learned how to be soft with sex, not wanting to push you too much - still, you feel his love for you whenever he lifts you up to help you go somewhere, whenever he rearranges everything so it would be on your level...and when he spends hours buried between your shaky legs as he fucks you as gently as possible, apologizing for every bruise he left.

#cod #konig x reader #yandere konig #konig #cod x reader #yandere cod

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captainofthetidesbreath · 1 year ago

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I implore you all to listen to or watch Midst, but if you're not going to, you should at least watch, specifically watch, episode 2.06: "Tinderbox". (You should check out the whole series though, at your preferred podcast platform or on YouTube.)

Midst was originally an audio-only podcast, then it was acquired by Critical Role Productions, and the first two seasons have been re-releasing with remastered audio and accompanying videos with animated artwork. All of the art is nice and fun, but I think that the artwork for "Tinderbox" is a genuinely elevating addition to an already fantastic episode that has some of my favorite sound design of the series so far.

I think this episode is a stellar example of what the new artwork can bring to the series as it is being re-conceptualized beyond its original sole form as an audio-only podcast. (Worth noting that one of its narrators, Sara, said: "Midst is an audio drama, but even when we were indie, we were very gung-ho about making it "more than just a podcast" [...] So having the opportunity to visualize our world through the styles of so many different artists has been a dream come true.")

The episode is only about twenty minutes long, but here's a two and a half minute clip of my favorite moment of the episode in terms of sound design and how well suited the visual component is. Honestly, I recommend headphones bc the sound design is designed for that—and it does sincerely make a difference.

#Midst things #Midst #Midst podcast #Midst Cosmos

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vidavalor · 7 months ago

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I finally read all of your fantastic food metaphors meta post (incredible). I wanted to ask you more about one part:

> He begins to try to say that the fish will be "turned into bouillabaisse" but that word is too difficult for him to say while drunk. While attempting to, he gets distracted gazing at Aziraphale and calls him "baby" in a low voice and then we get their hilarious very drunk kissy faces. Crowley manages to translate "bouillabaisse" in his mind enough to "fish stew-- anyway!" and they sober up soon afterwards

I did not catch this (him saying “baby”) at all! Is this something you think you could show in eg a screenshot or something? or is it super subtle, would it only be clear if I went back and watched the whole scene and looked/listened very closely at that moment?

Hi there! 💕 Thanks for reading. I'm glad you liked it. Lemon sugar cookie? *sets you out a plate*

The whole 'drunk in the bookshop' scene is an official promo clip from Prime so I've linked it at the bottom so you don't have to go find the moment in the episode. It's at about :42 in the video below. If it doesn't play in your region or otherwise doesn't work, let me know and we'll work something else out.

So what I'll tell you is that everyone who goes and watches it again hears it clear as day but you are far from the first person to tell me that they didn't notice it before and it took me a watch or two. It is definitely, emphatically "baby", though-- you don't need to listen for a hidden whisper or anything. It's at this point here:

Crowley: That's mah point. Whole sea bubbling... the dolphins and whales... everybody turning into bouilaba... bouile... bouilabay... (camera on Aziraphale, who is miming a drunken kiss at Crowley)... baby. Right, fish stew. Anyway! It's not their fault.

It's actually filmed in a way that I think is meant to be intentionally distracting and a bit of visual sleight-of-hand. The camera is on Aziraphale when Crowley says "baby" and we're distracted by the hilarious drunken kiss that Aziraphale is miming at him. Had we had a scene in which at least Aziraphale was sober and Crowley called him "baby", no one would have stopped talking about it since the episode aired lol because Aziraphale's reaction would have "counted"-- in that, he could have been relied upon to have one in the first place. As it is, if Aziraphale noticed, he did not appear to be unfamiliar with it.

youtube

#ineffable husbands #aziracrow #good omens meta #good omens #crowley #aziraphale

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dickmedowndc · 21 days ago

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The Earth Shakes - Bart Allen x Reader

Word Count: 1,382

Summary: He had tried to keep your relationship low-key. You both had! To keep you out of harm's way. But there is only so long one can go before they’re found out. This is something you learn the hard way when you’re whisked away with no warning, kept in the cold, dark, and silent. And despite the fear you feel or the hunger, you know nothing will stop Bart from finding you.

Notes: Requested by @isme20838 (Tumblr), for Earth 16, Young Justice Animated.

…★…

It was freezing. Goosebumps prickled along your skin in rows, hair stood on end as your breath billowed out in white plumes before you.

It had been almost a week since you had been kidnapped. Whisked away to darkness, waking up to the freezing and the silence of those that stood guard outside of the door.

A part of you wants to ask why they had taken you. To beg or plead and hope that maybe they would let you go. But you bite your tongue. You don’t need to use much imagination to guess why you’ve been grabbed by masked men and are being held captive in some isolated wasteland.

You had just left Bart’s place when they had snuck up on you.

Bart had been called away on an emergency mission, and you had ushered him off, promising to lock the door behind yourself when you finished your food and went to leave for your own home. He had insisted that you at least get to eat the rest of your food. And you had done just that, finished alone and tidied some things up that you had noticed so he would have less to worry about when he stumbled home in the early hours. Locked the door behind you as always with your spare key and set off to your own dwelling. It was a common enough occurrence but that was the life of dating a superhero. Especially when you and Bart had done your hardest to keep your romantic life away from the limelight.

It had only been a few steps into the evening shadows when everything happened.

His team knew you existed, in some ways, though as far as you had known Bart had never talked much about the two of you actually dating. Year after year you had all seen relationships put people in harm's way, in one situation or another, so it had been safer to just stay quiet about one another.

That wasn’t to say that you both enjoyed it. Bart was more than excited to go on and on about you if he ever got so much as a chance, but he kept himself composed instead. And you did not talk people's ears off about how fantastic your boyfriend was every time you saw a news clip of him at work or heard of one of his deeds.

Because of situations like this.

Kidnappings that left you miles from home, in God-knows-where, surrounded by people that only had you alive for thread thin reasons. With only the intention to use you as means to an end and hurt the man you loved.

You at least had food and water dropped in occasionally, keeping the sound of your stomach growling back and the dizziness or nausea that accompanied rampant hunger. Staring down the stone wall and letting your thoughts go by, minute-by-minute as you try to keep your mind together. It was terrifying, in a way that made you want to hunker down and wait out the storm – but you had nowhere to go. Like you were frozen in place. A bird with clipped wings.

Even then, you knew Bart had already figured it out. It had been days – whatever mission he had finished, he would have checked on you if you never sent him his goodnight text. You never had the chance to send it off, and he would have gone looking for you before the morning sun had even risen. He would have called in every teammate that he could, and you knew that Bart would search every last place on Earth until he found you. If he needed to go further? He would.

Bart was so many things – he was sweet, and goofy. He was your sunshine even when he had his own bad days. He took his work seriously, even when he was having fun out in the field. But he had gone through so much, and he had never quite shaken the ghosts of his past. He was so fiercely protective of the people in his life, especially when you did not have the power and skills to protect yourself as well as those he fought beside.

Bart was going to come looking. And he was going to be coming in in an angry frenzy, tearing things apart to find you.

When he came for you, the Earth was going to shake under his feet. And the men that took you were going to regret using you as bait to dangle before him.

There was rustling outside of the door, you only glanced up, thinking it was little more than a rotation change. One more round of people to stand there like a statue. But this time they didn’t stop. Behind the door was the stomp of feet, turning from a trickle to an echoing chorus, people rushing past with chatter between them – positions and orders being barked out one after another.

This got your attention, sitting up despite the chill that creeped in worse as you unwound yourself, stepping closer to the door. Taking a deep breath, you put your ear to it, trying your hardest to listen in to what was going on. There were the distant sounds of a fight – beating closer as the seconds dragged on and you stepped away from the door, already anticipating the wood to splinter down if someone else reached you first.

The fighting grew louder, the sounds of walls falling and weapons clashing or firing. You could even hear the distant thunder of a boom tube before it was followed by more yelling. Halo or Cyborg, you knew that it was them, which meant your savior would be there soon. Because Bart was leading this charge, and there was not a second of a question about it in your mind.

Your breathing picked up, and the cold air seemed to be so easy to ignore suddenly. The growling of your stomach was deaf in your ears, the dizziness was little more than a blip on the radar in your head. Because your speedster was here.

He was here and you were home free, because there was no one that would be fast enough to stop him from getting you back.

By the time you stepped away from the door there was a blur forming in front of you after phasing – those familiar yellows, reds and blacks coming into focus all topped with a head of auburn hair. You could feel the way your muscles relaxed, almost collapsing to the floor in relief before Bart could wrap his arms around you.

Bart was shaking, but it wasn’t from his speed. The sight of you safe was enough to have him ready to cry. He wrapped one arm tight around your waist to keep you upright while you clung on to him, while he kept his other hand against your head, tucked safe under his chin. If he let you go for even a moment it was like he was going to feel you slip away from him once more. “You’re okay, I’m here. I’m here,” he swore, trying his best to keep his voice calm. “Did they hurt you?” He narrowed his eyes as he asked, already prepared to reign hell on this place as is.

You shook your head, finding it hard to use your voice for a moment. “No, no. I’m just hungry, that’s it. And cold. But you’re here. I’m whelmed now. I promise”

“Crash, now let’s get you out of here,” Bart pulled you forward for a moment, already letting the others know through Miss Martian’s psychic link that you had been found unharmed. “We’re going to get you home.”

“Think I can convince you to stay with me for a while when we get back?” you ask, curling in closer to him as you tried to match his step.

“Oh, I was going to. I’m not letting you out of my sight until we have this taken care of.” he swore.

And you believed it. Because Bart had shown that he was willing to move heaven and hell to make sure you came back home to him. You could ask for the details later, when you were safe in bed with your love next to you.

#nicole writes #dc x reader #bart allen x reader #impulse x reader

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buckymorelikefuckme · 2 years ago

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no shelf control

bucky barnes x fem reader

words: 1.3k

a/n: this is very not serious but i think it's p cute hehe. any and all mistakes are mine. feedback is encouraged & welcomed ♡

part 2 ❀

The only reason Bucky is even in the public library is because Steve asked him to pick up a book he reserved. They'd only hold it for so long, and he got caught up at work, so he'd asked Bucky to grab it for him.

He figures he’ll browse while he’s here. Perhaps something will catch his interest.

And, well… Something definitely catches his interest. But it's not a book.

He wandered the stacks for about fifteen minutes before giving up and deciding to go ahead and collect Steve’s book. But then he saw you standing behind the circulation desk, scanning returned books back into the system and setting them on a waiting cart to be put in their respective spaces.

There's a cute pair of tortoise shell frames perched on your button nose, a furrow between your eyebrows as you concentrate on separating the books on the cart. Your cheeks are adorably round and your lips pouty. Your hair is pulled back by a butterfly clip and you're drowning in a large, pastel sweater.

You're the exact opposite of who he is, at least in appearance, exactly his type–all soft curves and sweetness etched into your being. There's no way in hell he’s going to leave this place without asking you out.

Bucky squares his shoulders, gives himself a quick mental pep talk, and marches over to you. He puts on his most charming smile as he rings the little bell on the counter.

You glance at him over the top of your glasses, looking almost bored. “May I help you?”

He clears his throat. Okay, so he’ll have to try a little harder. That's fine.

“My friend asked me to pick up a book that's being held for him,” he explains, placing both hands on the desk as he leans in a little more.

“What's the name?” you ask.

“His or mine?” Bucky replies, winking.

You tilt your head slightly. “Is the book being held for you?”

His smile falters. “Uh. No?”

“Then I’ll need his name.”

He squints. “Steve Rogers,” he finally replies after a beat.

You type the name into the computer and click around for a moment, then you turn around and bend over to rifle through stuff under the counter. It gives Bucky a fantastic view of your ass, and it can't be an accident.

“Ah, here you are,” you say, returning to your full height with a book in your hand. You scan it and slide it over to Bucky with a customer service smile. “All done. Tell your friend he has two weeks until it's due for return.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, biting the inside of his cheek when you immediately go back to work, ignoring his presence.

He can't just give up now, though. His pride is on the line. Quickly, he looks around for an excuse to continue talking to you.

“So, like, there's a lot of books here,” he blurts.

His ears grow hot when you pause, looking at him again with a single eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” you say carefully. “It's a library.”

Bucky forces a laugh. “Right, yeah! I just mean, uh, you might have one I’ve been trying to find for ages,” he lies.

You nod slowly. “That is very likely, yes.”

“What do you like to read?” he questions, suddenly, trying to save himself from further embarrassment.

You open and close your mouth, thrown. “What?”

“Could you recommend something for me?” he asks. He nods toward the cart. “Anything in there worthwhile?”

You look at the cart, then back to him. You're clearly struggling to follow, which he has to admit to himself is understandable, because he's also struggling. He's never had to work this hard and it's messing him up.

“There's a book on the history of Romania?” you suggest like a question.

“That sounds cool. I'll take it,” he grins.

“Really?” you reply, incredulous, before shaking your head with an embarrassed twist to your mouth. “I mean–sorry. I'll get that for you.”

But Bucky panics as you turn and grab it, because, “I don't have a library card,” he rushes to say. He's struck with inspiration, though, and quickly follows up with, “But can you still check me out?”

He tries to conceal his smirk, feeling supremely proud of himself for that pickup line. However, his celebration is short-lived.

You blink at him, frowning. “No, I'm afraid not. You need a library card to check out books, sir.”

His smile drops entirely. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

You frown harder. “Doing… what? My job?”

“No, pretending like I'm not hitting on you,” he huffs.

Your glasses slip down as your eyes widen, jaw slackening in surprise. “What?” you squeak.

It's so cute, but Bucky can't take it anymore.

“Look, I've been trying to ask you out for the last five minutes, but I can't tell if you're blowing me off or not.”

“I… I didn't know,” you confess, averting your gaze, pushing your glasses back up your nose. “I'm not used to someone flirting with me.”

Now it's Bucky's turn to be incredulous. “Seriously?” At your tentative nod, he scoffs. “What the hell is wrong with people? You're so cute, and sexy. How could anyone not wanna ask you out?”

You bring a hand up to your own cheek bashfully, and Bucky’s about to combust. If he was a betting man he'd wager your skin is warm to the touch.

“How about this,” he begins, leaning on the counter once again, even closer than before. He loves the way your doe eyes blink up at him. “Why don't I start over and make it abundantly clear what my intentions are.”

“O-Okay,” you reply.

He grins, and this time he gets a reaction out of you. You bite your lip as you fidget with the too-long sleeves of your sweater.

“Hi, I'm Bucky. I think you're insanely attractive and I'd love to take you on a date.”

A soft giggle from you and he knows it deep down to his very core–he's a goner.

“Hi,” you reply, shyly tucking some loose strands of your hair behind your ear as you offer your name. “A date sounds fun.”

He lifts his hand and gently nudges under your chin, catching you by surprise. “Wonderful. Here,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his phone and handing it over, “put your number in.”

Still adorably flustered, but with an ever present smile that makes your round cheeks bunch up in the sweetest way, you take his phone and input your number. After you give it back, Bucky sends you a text right away.

“Now you have my number, too,” he announces happily. “I expect to hear from you soon, yeah? Let me know when you're free.”

You nod. “Yeah, of course.”

“Bye, darlin’,” he says with a wink, grabbing Steve’s book as he begins walking backwards.

You cover your cheeks with your hands again. “Bye,” you mutter quietly.

Oh yeah. This is perfect. Bucky doesn't turn around, eyes still locked with yours, until he bumps into one of the kiosks. You muffle your giggles into your sleeve as Bucky flushes. His grin doesn't waver, though.

He waves and feels like he floats out of the building, and still feels like he's floating when he makes his way to Steve’s apartment later that evening. When Steve answers the door, Bucky plants a messy, loud kiss on his cheek, ignoring his disgusted and outraged exclamation, saying an emphatic, “Thank you,” before he hands the book over.

Steve stares in bewilderment as his best friend hums the whole way to the elevator. He hasn't got the slightest clue what put that dorky smile on Bucky’s face, but he's sure he’ll find out soon enough. He looks down at the book in his hand as he closes his door and stops in his tracks.

“This isn't my book,” he states dumbly.

The History of Romania sits innocently in his grasp. He sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s gonna kill Bucky.

#avengers fic #marvel fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you

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