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angelplummie · 6 months ago

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getting baby trapped by 30s art……… i m unwell. after a messy divorce with tashi he found you, his kinder, softer, altogether more human younger girlfriend, and he can’t get enough. part of him craves tashis authority, but the other part of him relishes in being more than someone, older and stronger and wiser. he loves the way you make him feel, loves the way you dote on him and listen to him and take him in his entirety. loves the way you don’t play fucking tennis, you talk about other things, care about other things, fuck about other things. loves the way you lay down on your back for him and do as he says, even when he commands you in his soft, kind way. loves the way your eyes bead with tears as he pounds your tight young cunt and stares into your blistering face. he loves to stretch you open on his long cock and use you, use you for his pleasure until you cream and whimper, eat his seed from your sore, spasming cunt. he could fuck you however he wanted, and you adored him for it. in all his years he had never had so much sexual freedom, never been as totally and utterly fufilled. he loves how you thank him, for everything. with the newest dior hanging from your arm, you thank him. with his cum still on your tongue and bleary eyes, you thank him. he loves so much about you he’s starting to think he loves you. he loves you. you’re everything he needs after all that transpired with tashi, he needs someone loving and open. he wants you forever. but you’re so young. you could change, it could all go away so quickly. he needs a way to keep you, to make sure you always look at him with stars in your eyes, make sure you need him as much as he needs you. so slowly, he begins hiding your birth control. not very well, if you really wanted to find it you would have. but you didn’t. and you won’t.

“art,” you sigh as your wonderful boyfriend kisses your neck. you lay on his white sofa together, legs interlocked, pressing into every part of each other.

“art,” you sigh again, his hands palming your breast over your thin cami,”art, i forgot to take my pill. i couldn’t find my pill.”

“hmm,” he moans into your neck, grinding his hips into your thigh.

“art we can’t.”

“i want you.”

you giggle, and let him push away your top, and take your soft nipple into his mouth until it hardened, and deep in your core you felt a furling, peeling pleasure.

“i’m ovulating,” you breathe,”im gonna get pregnant.”

he groans, rock hard dick straining against his shorts, against your supple thigh. his hands roam over your torso and with kitten licks he flicks your nipple. you expel a soft breath, fingers carding through the blonde, tousled hair you suggested he grew out. you were making him young again.

“i want you. i’ll get a condom in a second.”

he’s lying. hes a liar and a bad bad man and he knows it. but he can’t care. you mewl once more about ovulating, but your fingers comb through his hair, and your chest heaves and your eyes flutter shut as he sucks and licks and paws at your tits, humping your thigh with his achingly hard cock.

“i’m… art… pregnant…” you whine half heartedly, but it only makes him sigh deeper, and he imagines the day that you’ll tell him that in complete sentences. would you be teary eyed? would you need convincing? or would you give yourself to him like he felt you would? only time would tell.

“shhhh.”

you twitched, spine arching and pushing yourself further into his mouth.

“i’m gonna grab a condom any second,” he murmured, “i want you now.”

“you have me now.”

he moves up your body and presses his lips to yours, large hand ghosting your jaw. you close your lips against each others, and open again to touch lip to tongue and tongue to tooth, to taste and to breathe each other. he tastes like sweet nothing, like air and cleanliness and summer. you taste like honey to him. your fingers tuck his hair behind his peach fuzzed ear delicately, and you breathe against each others upper lip. his nose mushes against yours and he flicks his tongue at your gums and lips. it deepens, and he toes the line between lavishing you in affection and trying to eat you lips first. it’s hungry and wet, and you forget where his mouth begins and yours ends, all becoming blurred in the spit and the heat of it.

he pulls away, with a spit string connecting your two puffy lips. his eyes twinkle in the dim light that can reach them in your tight embrace.

“why don’t you take off your panties?”

and he leant away, the warmth of his body leaving you burning in its absence. he sat, perched, watching you from above. he looked down his nose at you with a smile, so genuine and yet so condescending. so soft and nurturing, like you needed to be guided and taken care of. that him seeing you naked and feeling your insides and making you stupid and small was what you needed, was how he had to take care of you. it was times like this that you thought about the age difference, when he made you so aware that he could make you want to do anything, anything if it was just to please him. a special ability only he had over you, and if he has his way you would feel it forever. you scramble to be more upright, to rest on your elbows and lift your hips far enough that your reaching fingers could pull down your cotton panties. you writhed beneath him to reveal yourself, nipples peaking from your cami as he watched you fully clothed, in his white shirt and loose pyjama shorts. his hair was ruffled, this way and that, and he looked more collected than he ever had.

shed of your tiny covering, the orange glow of the living room light reflecting off the wetness that was smeared to your inner thigh. from under your lashes u stare up at him, the way his shirt clings involuntarily to the tightness of his core and to his broad shoulders, the way his blonde eyelashes flutter at the sight of your thighs, your hips, your tits, all the parts of you that spill over with softness. your lips part slightly, and in silence you forget what he wants you to forget and beg him to have his way with you.

he was pulled to you once more like a magnet, and you instinctively bent your knees up and spread your legs to receive his torso and hips. he took the bends of your knees in each hand and folded you up so that your ankles hung by his shoulders, bouncing in the air as the sofa gave way for his weight. he knelt above you for just a moment, just a tortuous moment before bending down, sliding his body back so his face could remain above your hot pussy.

with an untroubled drop of the wrist, your legs fell to his shoulders, sprawled on his back. the innermost part of your thighs pressed lightly to his ear, and your heels rested lightly on his back.

with his head situated mere inches from your hot throbbing hole, he took the opportunity to take his time. while he had you in the palm of his hand he made you suffer for it, kissing the tender flesh that shined with the mess he had made for you.

every touch was torture, and he knew what he was doing. his eyes never left your face, the ghost of a smile across his lips whenever they were not eclipsed by the fat of your thighs. your eyes never left his face either, and you watched him breathlessly. he licks a stripe of skin against the grain of your leg hair, and you make a sound like you’re crying.

“oh,” you whisper, “please.”

he hums, laughing. the air from his nose hits your folds and you twitch.

“ok,” he’s soft, controlled, serene.

lips parted, he leans forward into your core, not for one second breaking eye contact with you as he takes your clit into his wet mouth. his pink tongue lathes it, up and down and up and down.

his fingers make sharp indents in your thigh to stop your wriggling, and he forces your ass into his chest. he cranes his neck to eat you deeper, and you cry out, tears beading in your eyes. sucking brutally, he moans into your hole.

“fuck,” you fist the cushion beside you, gathering the fabric and ungathering it,”fuck.”

he eats your pussy like it’s your mouth, makes out with it, makes love to it. he seems to take you in your entirety into his mouth, making you all wet with him, covered and soaked. he reaches up slowly, taking your hand in his, and squeezes it softly. your fingers are tight, paralysed in his hold. the pressure his hand provides gets rid of your compulsive need to squeeze, pacifies you, makes you dumb and limp. you lie back, no longer watching his eyes trained on you, your mouth hanging open and your eyes fluttering closed. you moan involuntarily, unaware at all that you’re alive, that you haven’t died and gone to heaven.

his thumb rubs soft circles on the back of your hand in time with his mouthing, the swirl of his tongue and the rhythmic closing of his mouth. you taste like honey here too, like nectar and sugar and love. your ankles lock together and unlock on his back, and the mere feeling of that sends chills down his whole body.

suddenly he stops. he lays a final fat kiss on your clit, watching as you mewl and your tight, ready hole gushes. he pulls away with your puppy fat legs still hugging side burns and jaw. gently he rises and slips out of your leggy grasp, fingers still interlocked with yours. he wants to kiss you. you are so pathetic when he has his way with you, so passive and pliable. he wants to hurt you because you would let him, but infinitely more and for the exact same reason he wants only to look after you. to make you happy and full and rewarded for your eternal beauty, inside and out.

he wanted to kiss you, and so he did. he leaned over, still completely dressed, and draped his slender, finely chiselled body over yours. it even made him light headed to think about being close to you, to your body, not hardened by the dedication that destroyed him, left soft and unscarred, left without taint. his underbelly of tenderness was your everywhere. you were the rounding to his shoulders, the layer of fat that kept him in warm in winter.

you collided without friction, his wet lips gliding over yours in a dance of want. your legs were still under his control, and as such you were spread beneath him. your knees dangled by his sides, leaving your pussy wide open to leave sloppy kisses on his shorts. you kissed back with the same ferocity. despite your implicit submission, you wanted to consume him as much as he wanted to consume you, if not more. you gave him what he wanted because you wanted to give it to him. wanted to give him everything he would receive.

you gave him your tongue, which he accepted with a grin.

you gave him coiling fingers that grasped the fabric on his back desperately, which he took for momentum. he rolled forward on top of you, deepening the hold his mouth had on yours.

you gave him moans, whimpers from a wavering throat which he took for courage.

“im so hard for you,” you felt the reverberation of his voice in your very core, and you died a sweet death,”i’m gonna put it in.”

“uh huh.”

success. you had forgotten. he laughed, mischievously, and a smile settled into the curves of his face.

all you heard was the snap of elastic, the rustle of fabric and the dulled slap of arts heavy cock against his t-shirt.

all you saw was his pupils grow until his eyes appeared black, like an animal’s, looking at you so directly you felt he saw you deeper than skin, deeper than meat or bone. you felt utterly seen, and utterly loved. you met his gaze pleadingly, eyebrows quirking up in the centre and lips pouting. please, it told him, please my love.

“you want it?” he breathed. pre cum smeared the fat tip, his balls hung low out of his shorts that gathered at his middle thigh. it was so big. long and fat and filling. so big and so pretty, so big and pretty it was all you could do not to cry.

“i want it art,” you replied, voice clipped and cheeks burning,”i want you.”

“yeah?”

he touched your face, from your jaw to the temple. he didn’t even try to kiss you. he just held your face. he was gentle, gentle, gentle as ever. his every action was kind. you love him. you’re in love with him.

“i want you art. i love you.”

and that was that. he was getting you pregnant tonight. someone would have to pry him off of you, because so help him god he would drain himself dry in your hot wet cunt if it was the last thing he ever did.

you squealed as he pushed the entirety of his cock in, bulbous head stretching your cunt wider than any cock had stretched it before. but it slipped in so easily with the outpour of your sticky love. it made a thick squelch, and he groaned so loud, squeezed his eyes shut so hard, you might’ve thought he was being tortured.

“fuck!”

the force of his thrust had caused the thick juices of you arousal to spread around his thick cock where he stretched you out, the pain minimal, familiar and intoxicating.

you throbbed in unison, blood coursing through where you connected. you were so tight and hot, so fucking wet. art struggled, arms bracing either side of your shoulders, to force the rest of himself into you. he also struggled to think, to be a human and not a ploughing, panting, thoughtless dog.

a moan rose through your throat, broke from you involuntarily, came out like the sound of murder. your taut pussy suckled his fat dick with every pulse and quiver. you felt him so deep inside you, and he fought to push deeper. fingers still locked, his crushed your knuckles and your palm.

“oh my fucking god.”

it could’ve been either one of you, because you both meant to say it. this moment of stillness and feeling waited one more second, before art became beast, and drew back his hips so that only his pink tip stayed gripped inside. you felt so soul crushingly empty, until he drove himself back in, and you were brought back to life.

“god,” he pounded any thoughts away, any and all of them, until all you could do was breath and blaspheme, “fucking- christ.”

the buttery, fevered roll of his hips was one he was in no control of. he felt as though he was being moved by some godly force to cram your tight cunt full of him. his jaw hung open, and the hand that didn’t hold yours instead held your shoulder, dwarfing in it in his wide palm. holding onto you for sanity, his eyes opened to take in what he had done to you.

“you’re so tight. perfect. perfect. perfect.”

“i love you.”

“i love you. i love you. please god.”

what was he asking for? was he asking you or god? you would do it for him, regardless. you would do it.

your hand reached into his hair, and tugged hard. a whorish moan left his lips, the rolling of his lower half stuttering as his neck arched up. his knees were spread wide, digging deeply into his sofa. his pelvis moved on its own, smoothly, as if he had reverted to his baser instincts and let years of evolution take its course, nature guiding him to your inevitable impregnation.

you were as he liked you, completely dumb. he was too gone to enjoy it, but on another planet of pleasure entirely. he couldn’t relish in the feeling of control, but he could in the feeling of you, of having you, being loved by and loving you. the suckling heat of you was more than a man could take, and the picture beneath him was no more comprehensible.

your angel lips spread to a glistening tongue, your eyes glassy and dilated, your brow creased, hair mussed. he had to have that too, and so he kissed you once more. the hand on his hair tightened, and he moaned into your mouth.

he pumped your pussy so deep, pre cum was dashed from his oozing tip inside you, heavy balls slapping at your skin. you were so wet you didn’t notice, only felt the heat and the mind numbing ecstasy. the feeling of being pounded like a piece of meat till your tight girl pussy remembered every vein his grown man dick, but kissed like a lover and held like a princess pushed you that much closer, sent you that little bit more over the edge. you needed it. you needed him to cum. to please your daddy.

“i’m gonna cum, i’m gonna cum inside you.”

“fucking do it.”

“yeah?”

“yeah. get me fucking pregnant art.”

that was all he needed. he breathed into your lips and cried out, long steady body shuddering like a leaf. he held you close, pressing his weight on top of your till he could feel the fat of your breasts move around his chest. cum, thick and milky white, shot deep into your cunt, which even now gripped him tighter than ever. so much of it too. his meaty balls tweaked as their contents leaked into where they were always supposed to go.

your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks, parting your lips in a silent scream.

his cock had not moved an inch from where it rested fully buried in your pussy. it was wet. it would spill out once he removed himself. it needed to stay inside.

he pressed his forehead to yours, your eyes fluttering closed from exhaustion and contentedness. you didn’t even think about what art had just done. you didn’t even realise he had done anything. he was just doing what you needed him to do.

you needed him. forever.

#art donaldson #art donaldson smut #challengers #challengers x reader #art donaldson x reader #challengers smut #30s art donaldson #30s art donaldson smut #art donaldson x reader smut #challengers x reader smut #lily rambles

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swordgrace · 1 month ago

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❝ 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅’𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. ❞

KINKTOBER — WEEK ONE: BATH SEX.

⤿ pairings: cregan stark x jace’s sister!reader.

⤿ word count: 4.1K.

⤿ warnings: smut (mdni), loss of virginity, bath sex, fingering (fem!rec), biting, multiple positions (cowgirl, from behind), heavy kissing, scratching, sexual ending implied, heavy breeding kink, creampie, mutual orgasm, rough(er) sex, both cregan & reader are horny

⤿ note: first kinktober request under my belt! Loved writing this one and it was a nice return to Cregan (love him with my whole being)

Even a smoldering fire wilted in the midst of the Northern chill, a biting ice that consumed all traces of warmth, swallowing it whole.

Winds from beyond The Wall whistled down from desolate lands, bringing with it its bitterness and sting, seeking to envelop all within it.

Glacial are the wreaths of snow-furled gales that blanket Winterfell in their pale harshness — it even seeps into your bones, bones forged of fire and blood.

It was difficult to take comfort in such foreign surroundings, from the dusting of ice forming on window panes to the bristling chill that rakes across your spine. The North was not Dragonstone — it was not home.

Unconventional was the singular word that plagued your mind when it came to your sudden marriage to Cregan Stark, a union made in a frenzied haste to gain allies in a brewing war.

It was as if you were merely a pawn to be moved across a board by your kin — your Mother, in particular. She was the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet you couldn’t help but feel hopelessly abandoned here in the North, under the supposed guise of safety.

Jacaerys had departed shortly after your wedding in the Godswood, bidding his strenuous farewell before leaving you in the company of your stoic husband.

Your brother was not thrilled with the prospect, cautioning against it, but duty demanded it of you, and you dared not defy your mother. Admittedly, it could’ve been worse, this unusual match.

Cregan Stark was not a foul man — he was rough, like the uneven surface of leather or the cracks of a cliffside, a mountain so stalwart that you wondered if he ever smiled. A sliver of you pondered if his dour visage was because of you.

Stoicism seemed interwoven into his demeanor, tempestuous hues glistening with a stern wisdom that stretched far beyond his years. Cregan was only two namedays your senior, yet he behaved as if he were a grizzled veteran.

He did not consummate the night of your wedding, much to your bewilderment. You could only muster up a series of kisses and an untied gown before nervousness tore you asunder, anxiousness gnawing away at your belly.

Cregan did not press you any further, citing that he wished to give you a berth, a space to yourself as you processed your new environment. It was a sentiment that you vastly appreciated, yet you felt so completely alone.

The autumnal canopy of the Wolfswood had become your constant companion in the weeks that had passed since your union to Cregan. At dusk, you would converse with your Northern husband, who’s exterior seemed to melt slightly with each passing day.

Duty did not always permit the two of you to spend time together — oftentimes, it kept you separated, tethered to two differing realities.

After supper, you retired to your marital chambers, prepared to end your evening with a hot bath and a bit of light reading to preoccupy your time. Cregan did not appear, which was commonplace, strategizing alongside his advisors.

Chambermaids prepared your steaming bath, hot enough to singe those without dragon’s blood coursing through their veins. Wisps of heated vapor drifted toward the ceiling of the cozy washroom, a humid warmth permeating stone.

Deliberately, you untied each strand of lace, deftly unraveling yourself from your evening gown. Fingertips graced the thick fur that lined the trim as you draped it over a chair, flicking strands of your hair aside.

Footsteps resonated outside of the mahogany door, their shadow falling across you. You hadn’t expected Cregan to return so soon, prompting you to step into the water before sinking beneath, reclining against one edge.

Gentle sloshing of water caught his attention once he abandoned Ice and his cloak, retracing his steps to the door of the washroom. “My Lady.” He greeted you, lingering just outside in hopes to converse, even if it were fleeting.

A strange lump formed within your throat as you gingerly scrubbed at your arm with floral-laden soap, throat becoming thick. “Ah — my Lord,” You did not sound confident. “I wasn’t expecting your return so swiftly.”

Cregan found it increasingly difficult to act gallant around you, resolve hanging by a thread, honor crumbling away. Instinct and desire festered within his heart, lust where he knew it shouldn’t be — but he was a man who wanted his wife.

If this weren’t so rushed in an attempt to forge allegiances, he would have courted you properly, taken the time to learn your heart before devolving to carnality.

He learned some, but he knew that you were nervous, and he could not blame you for it. Tossed to the wolves, a lone dragon — Cregan did not want to frighten you any further.

“One can only play tactician for so long before it becomes an uphill battle,” Cregan uttered, chestnut brows furrowing together. “Are you well?” He inquired, tone one of a gentler resonance, laced with sympathy.

“Well enough,” Biting at your cheek, you considered your next words carefully, gaze boring a hole through the door. “Did you … Were you wanting to join me?” As much as it turned your stomach with butterflies, you did not want to continue being so shy.

In the sight of the Old Gods, he was your husband — Cregan had treated you with the greatest care and decency, and continuing to hide from him would only worsen things. You knew that it needn’t be so disconcerting.

Cregan’s jaw tensed, a sly heat blooming throughout his chest as he considered your stiff proposal. It sounded uncertain, and he did not dare act on uncertainty alone. Yet, the thought was tantalizing — he thought of you often.

Some part of him felt reduced to a boy, a coil of sudden nerves that he promptly abandoned, steeling himself for you. “I would only join you if you wanted it, my lady. Do not force yourself to be uncomfortable.” He rumbled.

The more you sat, alone in the herb-speckled waters, the more you yearned. There was nothing to fear from Cregan Stark, an honorable man whose patience was as unyielding as the mountains.

To grow was to rid yourself of girlish fright, and you did just that, steadying your erratic breathing as you sat up a little straighter. You reminded yourself that he was your husband, that he would not touch you unless you asked it of him.

“I want you to,” Your saccharine voice fluttered between the iron-etched wood, now a thin degree of separation between yourself and your husband. “Please, come in.”

Silently, Cregan prayed to the Gods to let him behave, to curb his animalistic appetite and to allow himself a gentler touch. Having already shed most of his leathers, he turned to knob, stepping inside to a homely nook of humid air and warmth.

Storm-colored hues fixed themselves to you, demure and sitting so soundly in the bathtub, yet you were the very image of perfection. His hand clenched in a desperate attempt to relieve some of his own tension.

You nearly shrank beneath the penetrating stare of your husband, whose coiled posture reminded you of a wolf preparing to strike. It made your heart hammer beneath your breast, hand gripping the edge of the tub just a little tighter.

His gaze screamed of affection, of desire, of ardor — Cregan was not as intimidating as you thought him to be, visage softening at the sight of you.

Tension clouded the washroom, thick enough to be sundered into two with a broadsword. Cregan wordlessly tugged his rugged tunic aside, exposing a thick wall of corded muscle, an impenetrable force that made your breath hitch.

To you, he seemed sculpted from a cliffside — rustic and hardened, the form of a warrior made, not chiseled, his own incarnation of godlike. Your stare shamelessly traversed the bulky plane of his musculature.

You were quick to glance away when he removed his trousers, causing you to shift beneath the water, skin glistening with a damp sheen. Again, you staved off your nerves as he lowered himself into the bath, taking up plenty of space.

In his solace, he drank you in again as if you were the finest stout, the very essence of beauty. Cregan felt the tension, the way it curled around the both of you, hesitation brewing in place of action.

It was you who shattered the silence, first with a tender smile, second with your words. “I must confess, I am glad that you are here,” A warm stirring began to unfurl across your chest. “I’ve been quite lonely.”

Cregan admonished himself for your feelings in silence, visage etched with a calm empathy. “Forgive me, then,” He murmured. “I did not know that my absence had become so cumbersome. I thought it best to let you adjust — alone.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” You assured, countenance as warm as the first sigh of springtime, melting away at his icy exterior. “You have been so understanding and kind, and I do not know how to thank you for it.”

“I would gladly make time for you, wife,” His utterance of the word wife made you shiver in delight. “I know now that this is something we will brave together, and not apart.” Cregan nodded, hoping that conversation would distract him.

He was unbearably hard, cock throbbing with such an incessant ache that he nearly abandoned the bath altogether. It was then that you reached for his hand, digits tracing along his forearm.

Cregan gripped the tub like a vice with his hand, so tense that his muscle threatened to tear apart. Your embrace was like silk, a shroud that he wished to wrap himself within. His gaze intensified, stuck to you with a fervor.

“I did not invite you inside just to converse,” Your whisper was hoarse, shrewd — you were finding your voice, and Cregan thoroughly enjoyed it. “I wish to try.”

“You cannot try from that distance.” Cregan’s tone was akin to the trembling of thunder from the skies, dripping with a thinly-veiled desire. There was affection present, yet lust seemed to win out as he coaxed you closer.

Once you waded into arm’s reach, your husband brusquely tugged you into his lap, causing you to gasp as he caressed your hip. His kiss was akin to a tide of fire, washing over you with an unyielding burn, heat crawling across your flesh.

You reciprocated without hesitation, palms finding their purchase atop his chest, nails digging into muscle when you felt his cock prod into your stomach. Gods, he was intimidating — you feared your physical state on the morrow.

It was unmistakable, his passion — the desire he’d built for you came crashing down, entangled with your budding desire.

A thick, calloused palm cupped your hip, kneading into the curves there, the other finding the soft flesh of your breast. He gingerly groped your chest, fingers gracing across your nipple, evoking an excitable whine from you.

“Gods, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes upon,” Cregan’s husked tone was akin to a growl, reverberating against your mouth. “My wife.” He uttered, reveling in your flustered expression.

Lips clamored as if it would be their last dance, and he found himself kissing your jaw, your neck — wherever he could reach. It was a near-frenzy, acted upon with passion and a wolfish appetite, a desire that scorched his bones.

“Cregan,” A labored moan ripped through your throat, crackling with excitement as you tilted your head backward. He thoroughly reveled at the sound of you singing his name, a rumble reverberating throughout his chest. “Please, I need you.”

Slotted firmly within his lap, Cregan let the hand upon your hip drift elsewhere, dipping beneath the water as he sought the heat between your legs. His kisses were relentless, etched against your neck like a hot brand.

He needed you just as terribly, a want so powerful that it nearly obliterated him, scorching his heart with your own desire. His thick digits found your flower, thumb circling the pearl of your cunt.

A sharp gasp escaped you, lips agape as another wine emerged from your mouth. You hadn’t been touched like this before, not from a man so learned as Cregan, who studied your body with his hawkish gaze.

Your hips possessed a mind of their own, desperately chasing after any shred of friction from his hand, nails clamping into his broad shoulders. A soft chuckle shook his body, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine.

“Easy, princess,” Cregan murmured, teeth gently scraping over your jugular before he pressed a kiss there. “Do not tire yourself so quickly.” He cautioned, toying with your clit in slow, deliberate motions.

His cock prodded against your cunt, filling you with a sudden wave of anticipation. His stature seemed to confirm what you already knew, prompting you to swallow the lump within your throat.

Cregan would never tire of you, and he knew that this would not be enough to satiate his hunger for you, an appetite as ravenous as that of a starving wolf. He wanted to taste you, occupy the space between heart and ribcage, never part from you — duty be damned.

Pressing another string of greedy kisses against the column of your throat, Cregan continued to slowly circle your clit, savoring the twitches and reactions that flickered across your face. You made your pleasure known, vocalizing your delight to the heavens.

Part of you knew what to expect with the act of consummation — pain, and then pleasure, if you were fortunate enough. You trusted Cregan to handle you with care, rocking your hips atop him.

A low grunt elicited from him, one that clearly seemed pent-up. The sensation of your nethers pressing against his length drove him to madness, palm gripping hard at the small of your back. “I fear you may be the death of me.” He growled.

A shudder iced your spine, one tinged with anticipation as you sought his mouth, kissing him in your own flurry of bliss. He enjoyed your initiative, large hand tracing up and down along your back, goosebumps trailing in the wake of his caress.

“I — I want you inside of me,” Stammering over your words, your hands found the nape of his neck, clinging to his damp, chestnut tresses. “Will you be gentle?” You feared being split in half if his pace became hastened.

Cregan grit his teeth together, knowing that taking your maidenhead in such a rough way was not fair to you, nor was it kind. “Of course,” He assured, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “I wouldn’t dream of harming you.”

Restraint would likely test his resolve, but Cregan was up for the challenge, hand snaking away from between your thighs. Even within his grasp, you still seemed a touch uneasy, likely due to the bundle of nerves coiled within your stomach.

“On your own time, wife,” Cregan rumbled, content to caress along your supple frame, handling your curves as if you were molded from obsidian. You possessed the strength of a dragon — perhaps you didn’t realize it yet. “I am enjoying myself.”

With a nod, you exhaled, looking to him for instruction as he reached between the both of you, guiding his cock to your entrance. The thick head pressed along your cunt, causing you to shift again.

A kiss made its residence along your jaw. “I have you,” Cregan murmured, letting you sink down onto his length. Your countenance bristled with the sting of agony, and you nearly hurried it along until his hand seized your hip. “Easy.”

Seven Hells, he filled you completely, stretching you in a way that molded you to him. It was discomforting, a pain you seldom experienced, but Cregan was soothing.

It was the sweetest torment for Cregan, cock sluggishly feeding into you, inch by inch, your cunt tight around his length. A sonorous groan bubbled within his throat as he continued to guide you, ensuring that you were not suffering.

“Cregan!” A hiss escaped you, one intermingled with pleasure and pain, brow creased in concentration. It was nearly too much for you, but you persisted, enduring the newfound stretch and foreign sensations.

The tip of his length very nearly kissed your cervix, and that was his sign to cease. He let you sit, labored breathing bearing inklings of ecstasy, lips slack as you began to roll your hips.

He was strong enough to maneuver you along his cock as he saw fit, but he let you gather your bearings, find your own pace. Your soft, sweet lips sought his own, mouths clashing in a spirited kiss, one charged with a growing adoration.

Chest-to-chest, the intimacy grew tenfold, hearts beating in-tandem, making way for the wave of ardor that consumed you both. Water gently sloshed around the both of you, flesh damp, yet you had never been warmer.

Firm, steady hands kept their grasp upon the swell of your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles into your silken flesh. Cregan appraised you with starving eyes, hues as gray as swirling clouds before a winter’s storm.

“Move me,” A wanton sigh floated from your lips, evoking a sense of primal desire that he knew to shackle down. Your husband obliged, setting the pace at a slower speed for your sake. “Gods, just like that.” You huffed.

Cregan fought against baser instincts, against tearing you asunder like that of a snarling beast. He guided you up and down upon his length, mouth seeking the dip between your neck and shoulder.

Teeth found their rooting there, gingerly scraping your flesh as he marked you, eliciting a throaty moan from your mouth. It was a sting that you did not expect to enjoy — but you wanted it again and again.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled the washroom with your lewd activities.

He took your maidenhead with such tenderness, never once resorting to a harsher pace unless you were the one to initiate. “You are perfect.” Cregan uttered, letting you rock up and down along his length.

The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your flesh. He gripped you hard enough to leave bruises, peppering kisses against your neck.

Finding your rhythm, it became easier to impale yourself upon him, gasping when his cock sheathed itself deep within you. Your cunt clenched pathetically around him, nails raking crimson trails across his shoulders.

Molten heat churned within the pit of your stomach, arousal honey-thick between your thighs. The more you succumbed to desire, the more carnal his pace became, losing all inhibitions of restraint.

Soap-laden water steamed around the both of you, sloshing with the movement of two bodies, locked within the throes of passion. A soft cry escaped you as he brought you down again, invigorated by the spirited rolls of your hips.

It only became messier — two souls clawing for affection, for entanglement, for a release. As you grasped his biceps for support, you changed the rhythm, letting yourself drown within desire.

A breathy, snarled curse tore past his mouth, brows furrowing together in concentration as he maneuvered you toward the tub’s thick rim. His chest was hot, slick as he pressed himself to your back.

Smoothing a calloused palm along your thigh, his thrusts became a touch erratic, cock hitting into you like the jab of a spear. “Cregan!” You moaned, savoring the sensation of his mouth against your shoulder, crooked nose ghosting along your throat.

The newfound position was somewhat awkward given his stature, contorted in the smaller space of the tub, but he cared little for it. Passion drove him, the desire to breed, make you round and lovely with his children.

His hands did not leave you, caressing wherever he could, an anchor to keep you safe even in the midst of such crass acts. “Gods help me,” Cregan growled, hot breath fanning across your shoulder. “I need you.” He hissed.

It was unexpected, his confession that rattled you so, sending tremors along your spine. You did not expect him to feel that way for you, yet it only furthered your arousal.

Lewd entanglements of flesh resonated throughout the washroom, accompanied by a myriad of moans and animalistic growls. Cregan became more beast than man when placed under pleasure, not that you minded.

Even if he lacked the stamina to continue, carnality willed him to devour. Your husband kissed you, touched you wherever he could, thick digits snaking between your thighs as he sought the aching pearl of your cunt.

“Do not stop,” A breathy mewl erupted from your throat as you pleaded with Cregan to continue. Once deft digits began to toy with your clit, your knees buckled, hand grasping at his forearm. “Please, please do not stop!”

Between the feverish kisses he placed along the nape of your neck and the hand circling your clit, you felt the ecstasy mounting. The coil within your stomach began to unfurl, visage screwed up in a look of bliss.

Cregan’s grunts sent shivers throughout your body, warming your insides with their fervor. His cock continued to pound in and out at a steady pace, body snug against yours.

He dared not harm you, executing caution even still, indomitable musculature hunched in over you, enveloping you on every front. As his calloused fingers flicked across your pearl, you shuddered, thighs twitching in response.

You experienced a euphoria like never before, the sensation foreign yet overwhelming, setting every fiber of your being ablaze. Water splashed over the rim of the bathtub, falling onto the stone below.

Each snap of his hips sent you reeling, cock filling you to the brim, stretching you in ways that you never thought possible. You moaned, nails digging into his arm; Cregan’s pace did not deviate.

Tantalizing fantasies of putting a babe in you drove him mad, his hand drawing away from your cunt as he placed his palm over your stomach. Gods, you could feel everything — it made you buckle, release swift and white-hot.

Stars floated across your vision in the wake of your release, a choked sob of ecstasy rippling through your chest. Cregan’s name rolled from your tongue like an incantation that you had committed to memory.

It was then that your husband spilled himself inside of you, aided by the wet clenching of your cunt around him. Ropes of hot, virile seed painted your womb, and you felt him press his forehead against the back of your shoulder.

Tangled, labored breaths filled the space between you both, thin as ever. Cregan did not want to stop — the night was agonizingly young, and his cock stirred within you. “Are you well, wife?” He murmured, stroking along your hip.

“I am perfect,” He could taste your smile, a bright and palpable thing. You felt him move away, momentarily sinking back beneath the water. “I — I was not expecting it to feel so pleasurable.”

“There is plenty more beyond that,” Cregan assured, drawing you back into the wide expanse of his lap, cock nestled against the plane of your stomach. He cupped your jaw, the pad of his thumb tracing your cheek. “Do you require rest?”

A coy expression flickered across your countenance as you let your fingertips playfully ghost across the tip of his length. The sudden blaze within Cregan’s storm-cloud hues had made your heart leap into your throat, excitement replacing exhaustion.

A growl stirred within his chest at your wordless insinuation, and he did not seem to waste a moment of time, hooking an arm around your hips. “Clearly not.” He grunted.

“Do you object?” You murmured, dragging one finger over the plane of his visage, so youthful and unblemished, a contrast to his rugged demeanor. Provoking your husband was a bold choice, one that Cregan respected.

“I do not,” Cregan’s tone was little more than a grumbling of thunder, brows furrowing together as he steeled himself for what would become a lengthy evening. He adjusted your position, the head of his cock kissing your entrance once more. “You will wish for rest when we are finished.”

#house of the dragon #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x y/n #hotd x reader #cregan x reader #cregan stark #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #hotd fanfiction #house of the dragon smut #kinktober

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shotmrmiller · 1 month ago

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since Simon isn't one to celebrate much, whether it's a holiday or his own birth, it comes as a complete surprise that one day, he's lugging in a stuffed teddy bear the same height as him through the front door.

did you forget your anniversary? no, that was last month. you dog-ear the page of your book, paper folding neatly beneath your fingers before setting it down on the foot table. oh no. what did he do?

"nothin'," he scoffs, "can't bring my girl nothin' nice every once in a while?"

no, actually, he can't. this looks like a 6-foot apology. you ought to keep an eye on the news tonight, in case that young man from the cafe down the street coincidentally ends up missing after asking for your number in the presence of simon last weekend.

"well it isn't. i can take it back if ya like." the rich, chocolate brown fur feels incredibly soft as you thread your fingers through it.

"no, no. thank you for the oversized bear, i'll be sure to throw out the mattress so we can make it fit in the bedroom." you're no big fan of plushies, but you're no ingrate and if he thought of you when he saw this beast well, then you'll just have to accept it.

it sits in a corner of the room after that, beady eyes pointed your way even when you're on all fours with your sweat-slick face pushed into the bedsheets as Simon pistons into you from behind, or when he stuffs his fingers into your sleepy cunt before he goes to work in the morning.

(maybe it's his exhibitionist kink raging full force. who knows.)

until he decides to bring it into play when your mind is fuzzy from the glasses of wine you had for dinner that night. Simon, with your express permission, ties you up with a sturdy, coarse rope, the kind that feels like you've got tiny little claws digging into your calves and wrists when you try to move. he ties face down, legs and arms to the bear's, cheek flat on its chest, the bow on its neck sitting prettily at the crown of your head.

a doll, he says, roughened palms smoothing over the expanse of your bare skin, raising gooseflesh when he glides a hand along your folds, tip of his finger catching on your clit. lookin' pretty as a peach.

he takes you as if he's trying to fuck you right through the bear, the bed, the fucking floor and you're left to muffle your own cries on the stuffed animal itself, occasionally coming up for air when Simon claims a fistful of hair, breath warming the side of your throat.

you come the first time when he pushes a thumb against the furl of your arse, tight ring of muscle burning with the threat of him sinking into it.

(you stopped counting after the third climax, quietly cursing yourself for bagging a military man who's been so deprived of pussy he keeps fucking you even after his own orgasm.)

when you move it to clean up one day and leave it facing whichever way, by night it's facing the bed again.

definitely an exhibitionist kink.

you'll just ask him nicely to face him another way, the eerie red glow you sometimes catch in its eyes are starting to creep you out.

#not me stalling because im this close to deleting the gunplay fic #anyway tf one for all yknow?#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #aimon ghost riley x f! reader #simon ghost riley smut #cod smut

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ceilidho · 2 months ago

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (chapter 16 + 17) tw: violence, injuries, and misogynistic language

first chapter >> last chapter

Sinking into fear is the body’s natural response. You let it envelope you without putting up a struggle. It wouldn’t be one that you’d win anyway. Resistance already leaks out of you like tar, pooling around your quivering legs.

It makes you feel lighter than air, almost buoyant; and conversely, heavier than lead.

You can’t feel the cold metal of the gun through the layers of fabric separating it from the skin of your back, but you can feel its weight. And you can imagine it burning into you, burning a ring into the flesh, the muzzle leaving faint depressions behind, circular indents.

“Don’t feel so clever now, huh?”

Fear chokes as well as it binds. When the man you remember as Graves (appropriately named, you think, the gravity of the situation sinking into you as well) drawls the words into your ear, any moisture in your mouth dries.

“Well?” he prompts, shoving the gun harder into your back, almost sending you toppling into the shelf still in front of you obscuring you from sight. “Got anythin’ to say?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out.

“You a mute, girl? I know you ain’t deaf since you heard I’d been sniffin’ around lookin’ for ya. ‘Least I’m guessin’ you did, since you managed to give me the slip for the whole time I was in town.” He sniffs. “Took me a while to find out you were shacked up with the sheriff. Hiding in plain sight. Couldn’t believe I missed ya when Sheriff Price was damn near the first person I met in this two-bit town.”

You finally muster up the nerve to speak. “Y-you’re making a mistake.”

The furled upper lip is audible in his voice. “I’d try not to piss me off too much, sugar. Lyin’ just rubs me the wrong way is all.”

“No, you—you really don’t—”

He shoves the gun harder into your back, making you wince. “Now, I know you’re a slippery little bitch, so I’ll level with you, alright?” Graves murmurs, pitching his voice low to ensure that only you hear. “You make so much as a peep—so much as a fuckin’ whisper—and I’ll shoot. Wink and I’ll shoot. I am dyin’ for you to give me a reason to go with the better half of the dead or alive question.”

There’s no point in lying. It might’ve worked had it been anyone but the man holding you hostage; not a man as stubborn and mulish as him. You nod when he asks if you understand.

“Now get to steppin’.”

He doesn’t tarry long, leading you out of the shop with a hand on your shoulder and . You stare at Miles with mounting horror, wordlessly begging him to look up from the ledger open in front of him on the counter. Your prayers go unanswered though; he doesn’t so much as glance towards the door before it’s swinging shut behind you.

“Remember,” Graves says in a low voice as the two of you step out onto the porch, “not a word. I will shoot anyone that tries to interfere.”

That kills the impulse to shout for help.

The thought of letting Graves take you away without voicing so much as a single plea fills you with horror, but you can’t see any other way out. He walks you through the streets like an old friend, the pistol still wedged into your back obscured by his coat. No one seems to notice the wild look in your eyes or the strained edge of your smile.

Your behavior infuriates you. Demural and soft and wretched. You’ve only allowed one man to put you under their thumb; only one has ever earned the right.

The thought of your husband is an ache in your chest that doesn’t abate. It thumps with the terrified flutter of your heart. You half wonder if he’ll suddenly appear from around a bend and wrench you into his arms, gun already drawn and aimed at the man attempting to take you away from him.

“My husband—” you start, tripping over your words. Almost tripping over a rock as well since your spine is too stiff to let you look down at the ground while you walk. “—He can—he can pay you.”

He laughs, a nasty, mocking sound. “I’m sure he’d like to, sugar. Jus' ain’t sure he’s got the cash to pay your price.”

“At least let me ask—”

At that, he jams the gun violently into the small of your back, making you wince agaun. Petrified. Sweat sluices off your brow and drips down your face. “What part of shut the fuck up don’t you get?”

That silences you. Hard to muster up the nerve to retaliate with a gun lodged against the base of your spine. Still there’s so much that bears asking. Why did he come back? Why here—why now?

The town takes on a dull, listless quality as he steers you away from the more crowded areas. It’s almost like looking through muslin; a veil between you and the world.

Your eyes dart from person to person as they pass by in the opposite direction, but even those that bother to meet your gaze only smile politely, a couple passing gentlemen chirping, “Morning, Mrs. Price” before sweeping by in a hurry.

None question the wild, frantic glint in your eye, the look of a horse about to bolt. If they paid you more than a moment’s notice, they might, but even the lady who frowns curiously at Graves, his hand still resting gently on your arm as if he were an old, dear friend, abandons her momentary curiosity when her companion says something of interest, pulling her back into their conversation. The flicker of hope in your belly dies a soundless death.

There’s something almost phantasmagorical about the entire ordeal. Almost like it isn’t quite happening, like you can’t quite make yourself believe that this is, in fact, real. Like you’re watching from outside of yourself. Though you can see the wooden facades of the nearby buildings and smell the scent of hay and manure from the livery stable, it doesn’t resonate within you as real.

He meanders through town with you stationed in front of him. A meat shield. Collateral damage. Simply by the way he maneuvers you through the crowd, he reduces you to a body, stripping you of any semblance of personhood. You’re less than meat to him, less than human even—no more than a meal ticket.

When you muster up the courage to open your mouth the next time someone passes you by, Graves’ hand slides up to your shoulder and he digs his fingers into the bone. A warning.

“If you think I was kiddin’ before, just try me,” he sneers into your ear, thumb pressing into your shoulder blade until you wince.

Again, his voice dispels any thought of getting someone’s attention.

He doesn’t lead you towards the train station like you expect. Instead, he heads to an awning beneath the saloon on the periphery of town where a couple horses are leashed to a post, waiting for their riders to come untie them. The roof of the awning is strung with a dense cluster of overlapping cobwebs. A spider scuttles across the web and into the dark inner recesses of the canopy.

This far from the center of town, there’s hardly anyone. When you give your surroundings a quick glance, you can’t find a single other soul within earshot, only a single man pushing open the batwing doors on his way into the saloon. Then you’re alone again.

A tawny gelding chuffs when Graves approaches. When he suddenly unhands you, it doesn’t click until he’s several paces away from you, running his hand down his horse’s neck and rifling through the saddlebags, emptying the contents of his coat pockets into them. You have to glance down at your shoulder just to be sure. He sheathes his gun as well, tucking it into the holster fixed to his belt.

“Bought the horse off a drunk three towns back,” Graves explains while loading up the horse.

You don’t respond, still unsettled. It’s the first time since he led you out of the general store that his gun hasn’t been aimed at you. It wouldn’t be practical for him to dress and load the horse one handed. The sun beats down on you, burning the top of your head. This could be your moment—a moment to scream or run away.

But you don’t. You don’t scream and you don’t run because you are, above all else, a coward. Through and through. You’ve been running from your problems for months now, leaving someone else to take care of the mess you left behind.

Fear paralyzes you; it makes you think too much or not at all. Even now, with Graves giving you the perfect opportunity to turn and run, you can’t stop thinking about the potential consequences. What if he were to shoot you? What if he were to haul you back into town and expose your sins to everyone who gathered around? What if the people in town that have come to see you as one of their own were to gather around your crumpled form and stare at you with vitriol and disgust?

“How did you—” you start, then pause to breathe, the nausea building again. “I thought you’d left town.”

“You’d’ve liked that, huh?”

You don’t answer that. You know better than to antagonize a man with a gun.

He sighs when you don’t rise to the bait, almost pettish. “Wedding announcement. I saw it in the paper—by then, I’d moved on to Lexington, so it took me awhile to backtrack, but I just knew somethin’ about that bit in the paper about the sheriff’s wife hailing from the east coast didn’t sound right. Too big of a coincidence. Had to at least be sure—retrace my footsteps. Lotta money on the line, you know.”

You stare straight ahead at that. You ought to have known.

(“In the paper. The county sheriff got hitched—of course it’d be a story.”)

“To be honest, that kinda cracked me up. Murderess marrying the county sheriff.” He snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. “Sorta thing you’d read about in a dime novel.”

A new emotion wells up within you. It simmers in your belly, hot and cold at once. Righteous fury. All this time, you’ve been betraying yourself with your silence, allowing men to read your fear as guilt. Complicit in your own ruin.

“I’m not a murderer.”

The look he gives you is withering. “Sugar, I hate to break it to you, but you did kill a man.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Nothing ever does, it seems. But the more you hold it in, the uglier the thought seems, until it erupts from your chest like Vesuvius, lava and tephra shooting out.

“He deserved it,” you finally spit out, the words coming from deep in your chest.

Graves doesn’t even pause in his ministrations, back to tightening the saddle straps.

“He deserved it,” you repeat, spittle flying out of your mouth and landing in the dirt between the two of you.

“That’s not somethin’ I usually concern myself with,” he finally says, looking distinctly unimpressed when he meets your stare. Bored blue eyes.

You’re struck by the sense that your life means so little to him that the circumstances surrounding your bounty hardly merit more than a passing thought. If he could spare less, he would.

It’s the vilest thing in the world to be regarded with such bored contempt.

“He would’ve—he would’ve raped me otherwise. I didn’t have a choice.”

At that, Graves pauses. When he looks towards you, his eyes are curiously blank.

“Better that than what’ll happen now,” he says, the words so perfunctory that it takes a moment for them to sink in. When they do, you have to swallow back bile.

His glibness shatters whatever hope you’d had left.

In that moment, you finally acknowledge that appealing to his sense of decency won’t lead you anywhere because it simply doesn’t exist within him. You’ve known men like him before—those more concerned with lining their own pockets than taking care of the vulnerable people around them. The archetype is not uncommon. You should’ve expected it even, especially from a bounty hunter.

There won’t be any bribing him or talking your way out of the situation you’ve found yourself in. Whatever facinorous end awaits you back east, he’s happy to shepherd you there so long as it earns him his thirty coins.

How many times do you have to ask yourself if you’re brave enough to do something before you answer?

When Graves turns to face you again and takes a step towards you, likely to urge you up onto the saddle, you recoil, stumbling away from him. His eyes sharpen at your movement, fulvous wolf eyes narrowing on you.

“And here I thought you’d stopped pissin’ me off,” he says lightly, a hard edge underlying his words. His hand lifts to rest against the handle of the revolver tucked back in its sheath, thumb flexing over it.

“What’s the point?” you retort, nostrils flaring. “You either kill me here or I die there.”

You sound braver than you feel, fear making you shake so hard that your knees almost knock together.

Graves’ smile is all lip, no crinkling around the eyes. “Oh, I won’t kill you, sugar. I’m a better shot than that.”

Your heart pounds against your ribcage, stomach turning over at the thought of him putting a bullet through your shoulder or leg.

“I’m surprised you won’t just come quietly. You think the sheriff wouldn’t hand you over to me himself if he found out what kinda woman he married?”

That’s been your fear from the very beginning. The one thing that’s kept you awake at night, the nightmare shaking you out of a dead sleep. You’d convinced yourself that him calling the authorities or even escorting you back east himself was an inevitability. That John Price, paragon of virtue, wouldn’t bend the rules for anyone, much less you.

But the more you think about it, the less sense it seems to make. Every tender word and touch rises to the forefront of your memory. If John has shown you anything, it’s love. He’s proven his devotion a thousand times over, shown you time and again that were you to leave, he’d come running.

Suddenly, the thought that your husband would let someone take you away from him seems preposterous. It doesn’t align at all with the man you know. He’d go to hell and back for you, would rip out a man’s tongue for speaking to you the way Graves speaks to you now. Hindsight makes that clear.

You meet his eyes, intention set. “I’d rather just ask him.”

Blue eyes turn to flint, flat. Droll candor shed for ruthlessness. Silence before a storm.

He’s on you before you even have a chance to whirl around and make a run for it, arm cutting into your windpipe when he wraps it around your neck. He drags you back into the shadows of the awning, out of sight from anyone on the street; your heels score lines in the dirt. You choke, wheezing on your next breath, but his arm tightens, trapping the scream in your throat.

“Shoulda done this before,” Graves grunts, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out the pair of cuffs he had tucked away.

When he unhooks his arm from around your neck, you gasp for breath, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. Panic swirls and rises in your chest.

“Get your hands off—” you hiss, beating his arm with your fist to no avail. He yanks your arms in front of you until your wrists are pressed close together. Your blood curdles at the feeling of cold iron against your skin and the gut-wrenching sound of handcuffs being fixed around your wrists, tightened to the point of pain. You can hardly flex your hands with how tight they’re bound. “Let me go, let ME GO—”

He pulls you in close again. “Don’t think I won’t tape your fuckin’ mouth shut too,” Graves snarls in your ear. Nausea swells in your belly.

“Please— please don’t do this—” you beg, a sob breaking from your chest now.

He sighs, long suffering. “Lord knows I tried to warn you.”

Despite the threat, Graves doesn’t tape your mouth shut. Instead, he fastens a rough piece of rope around your head, fitting it between your teeth like a bit. You don’t have it in you to be thankful for small mercies this time. The hemp cord scratches the corners of your mouth when you try to move your lips around it.

“There,” he says, giving you a rough shake, satisfied. “That’s better. Can finally hear myself think.”

The tears leak out of the corners of your eyes in big, fat droplets, clouding your vision. When he wipes your cheeks with a calloused hand, the nail of his thumb catches on the delicate skin under your eye, leaving a thin cut. The pain makes you flinch, staring daggers at the man in front of you, but he doesn’t apologize for his rough handling.

Graves heaves himself up onto the saddle first, swinging a leg over with practiced ease. You yelp when he hauls you up after, setting you on the saddle in front of him. Heat crawls up your neck when your skirt billows around your waist, horrified.

“Save your tears, sugar,” he tells you, gathering the reins in one hand. “You’ll need ‘em for later.”

The horse whinnies when Graves pulls upward and guides him towards the road leading out of town, hooves clopping against the dirt. Your heart shoots up into your throat.

Galloping out of town, you chance a glance back, head spinning as the world blurs around you. A man stands under the awning you just left, his head cocked as if stupefied. He’s too far away for you to get a proper look at his face though, no way to tell if he’s someone that might recognize you and alert John. You try to scream or wave your hands—anything to get his attention, to let the stranger know that something is wrong.

You watch until the figure melds into the surrounding town.

You keep waiting for someone to appear from behind you. A tall figure to darken the horizon, blot it like the moon passing over the sun.

The last bastion of your hope collapses into rubble the farther away you ride, no man nor horse following you in pursuit. And then a hand grabs a fistful of your hair and wrenches your head back around, cutting off your view.

The plan is to leave the horse in the next town you reach and take a train back east. Graves would’ve done that back in the town you just left, he tells you, but he wanted to put as much distance between you and the sheriff.

“You never know with men who’ve gotten a taste of married life,” he says when he finally deigns to stop miles from town, sitting on a rock and having a drink while he leaves you tied to the horse by your wrists. You shift from foot to foot, a cramp winding up your legs. “They get themselves a little pussy and lose all sense of dignity or morality. Can’t be trusted to do the right thing.”

Steam practically billows out of your ears. You have the good sense to keep your mouth shut though, cognizant of the fact that you’re alone out in the middle of nowhere with a man who’d be happy to bring you back dead or alive. Though he hasn’t been quite so explicit, it’s apparent in the way he doesn’t offer to untie you or let you rest as well. The skin under the cuffs on your wrists are rubbed raw from your attempts to free yourself, and from the journey itself, with all the jostling and the persistent cramp in your right shoulder.

The animal awareness dawns on you during that first rest. He’d taken the rope out when you were far enough outside of town that it didn’t matter if you screamed or not. That’s what stays your tongue now—the creeping notion that you are far from anyone that would be remotely sympathetic to your plight.

“How much was the bounty?” you ask, more out of morbid curiosity than anything. You balance on one foot to shake the cramp out of the other.

“Now, I hate to be rude, sugar, but what does it matter to you? It ain’t you collecting the reward.”

Your lips flatten into a taut line, already regretting prying. It’s not like knowing would change anything.

The break ends sooner than you’d hoped, Graves urging you back onto the horse before taking a seat behind you. It troubles you because you’re not far enough away from town that you couldn’t still be rescued. There’d be more of a chance of John or someone else—one of his deputies, perhaps—coming across you out here. But you don’t have much of a choice.

Out here, the land stretches on without end. Only the faint blue of a mountain ridge paralleling your route breaks the horizon. The land is flat, sparse apart from the dense shrubbery and trees twisted and bent by the wind. Cottonwood and boxelder. Chokecherry. Dogwood and hawthorn. Lush blooming saltbrush.

The clear blue sky overhead is almost mocking, the rain from earlier long since abated. There’s hardly a cloud in the sky now. It’d be scenic if you could abstract it from the circumstances. A perfect day for gardening or a brisk walk after being kept indoors because of the rain. You’re still damp from riding through the rain earlier.

A few bison congregate in a small dip in the terrain, grazing on the wild grass. You stare at them wide-eyed as you gallop along the upper ridge, startled by the sight of so many in one place.

Despite the sublime beauty of the land, you remain on edge, unable to take anything in or truly enjoy it. Panic and revulsion leave you as gnarled and knotted as the krummholz trees out in the middle of the open plains. Riding with Graves feels nothing like the few times you and John shared a horse. It’s impersonal; transactional. Entirely against your will.

The sun has only just begun to descend under the horizon when you and Graves approach a ramshackle house situated by itself in the middle of the open plains. Barely more than a barn, and long since abandoned by the looks of it. Age has done the place no favors; wooden slats sag and separate from the exterior of the house, the gaps in between the boards letting in all manner of insects and rot.

Graves dismounts his horse about a stone’s throw from the hovel. His brow furrows with dissatisfaction as he surveys the abandoned property.

“Shit,” he remarks, sucking his teeth. “A local back in town swore a family still lived here. Don’t look like anyone’s lived here since Abraham.”

Part of you wishes the former tenants still resided here, on the off possibility that one might take pity on you, but a much larger part of you is grateful for the dwelling’s vacancy. You’ve heard stories before, of families living out in the middle of nowhere. Rumors. Not all bad, of course; it’s common enough for families migrating west sometimes to stop along the way for a generation or two, building more permanent dwellings than the caravans they began their journey in. Many such families were also known for putting up travelers passing through in exchange for goods or help with chores.

But you’ve also heard other stories. Like the Riley family out near Cherryvale and their homestead just off the Great Osage Trail. They lived out there for more than two decades before the number of lone travelers vanishing off the trail within walking distance of their property pointed the finger of suspicion at them. When the authorities finally got around to procuring a warrant for their property, they found the house deserted apart from the furniture that couldn’t be loaded into the wagon and an infant boy, dehydrated and petrified.

You shake the story from your head. “…Are we spending the night here?” you ask tentatively.

He looks at you from the corner of his eye, nostrils flared. “Don’t go gettin’ any ideas in that head of yours. Jus’ because a man’s gotta rest his eyes, don’t mean I gotta give you a peaceful night’s rest. No, I’m leavin’ those hands of yours tied.”

Your hopes deflate at that.

He helps you dismount before hobbling his horse with a pair of leather straps around its front legs to keep it from darting off in the middle of the night. You wince sympathetically; you have more in common with a horse now than any man.

The inside of the cabin is just as derelict as the exterior. At the very least, he feeds you. A couple scoops of pemmican straight from the tin. The fact that he insists on feeding you instead of letting you feed yourself puts you on edge. Your spine is stiff as a board through it all, your mouth barely opening up to receive the spoonful of pemmican, the metal clanking against your teeth. You wince, the sound itself tasting of rust.

At all times, you are aware of the precarity of your situation. You can’t imagine there were any stipulations in the bounty to bring you back unscathed. Though he hasn’t tried anything untoward so far—not so much as made a licentious remark—you don’t know how long your luck will last. You flinch every time he so much as twitches in your direction, sure at any moment his mood will flip and he’ll drag you across the floor and haul himself over you.

It’s enough to make your stomach hurt, turning over itself. He doesn’t try anything though, and for that you exhale shakily, the tension running off you in rivulets.

One hour drags into the next. Night blackens the sky, seeping in through the crumbling walls of the cabin.

“Well,” Graves says, wiping his hands together to dust off any lingering crumbs. “I’m gonna hit the hay.”

“Do…do I get to sleep as well?”

He cocks a brow. “Not much I can do to stop you.”

“It’s just that…” You lift your hands as you trail off, silently pointing out the handcuffs still secured around your wrists, the implicit assertion being that you won’t be able to sleep with the metal digging into the bones of your wrists.

Graves scoffs. “You can’t think I’ll just uncuff you ‘cause we ain’t in town no more. I got a little more sense than that, sugar.”

“You could use rope instead?” you suggest.

The seconds he spends considering it are long. You hold your breath as you watch him weigh the pros and cons.

Finally, he shrugs. “Alright.”

The relief that washes over you is almost palpable.

He pulls a blanket out of one of the saddlebags to function as a makeshift pillow, setting it up on the floor in the center of the room. True to his word, Graves uncuffs you and loops a double knotted rope around your wrists instead, fastening the rope tying your hands together around his own wrist. Your stomach sinks as he pulls the knot taut.

He levels a heavy stare on you after giving the rope one last tug. “I don’t usually repeat myself, sugar, but I will this one time. Don’t go tryin’ anythin’ stupid. I’m gettin’ a good night’s rest and so help me if you wake me up—” his eyes flash, gray going steely “—you won’t like the consequences.”

You nod. Swallow back the phlegm clogging your throat.

True night plunges the old house into darkness, cricket songs slipping in through the cracks in the walls. The temperature also plunges with the setting sun. It gets cold at night, even in the summer months; the draft makes you shiver, the rotting exterior letting in the elements.

You keep to the wall with the least amount of rotting boards, as far as the rope tethering you to Graves will allow you to go. It would probably be in your best interest to try and get some sleep, but you’re far too restless to calm down. The atmosphere in the house is far too eerie to settle your nerves either; you can’t help but wonder about the family that must have left this place to rot and fade away into memory.

It’s all you can do to blink back the tears that spring to your eyes when you think about the memory of you that John will have to carry into the future now that you’re gone. It isn’t fair. After everything you’ve had to endure in this lifetime, you thought maybe that this might have been your reward. That John was your reward.

Your hands drop from your chin to your knees, hopelessness plaguing you again. The thin, sharp whistle of defeat. High and reedy as a death rattle.

Then your eyes drop to your wrists.

The cord is fastened in a bowline knot around your wrists, difficult to undo without considerable effort, but the material is softer than the cuffs Graves had you in before, and it gives when you pull one hand down while pushing the other up. Your skin bunches around the cord, but it doesn’t cut into you the way the metal did.

Graves is still fast asleep when you glance over at him. He doesn’t snore, but the rise and fall of his chest under the blanket is steady. Stable.

The fatigue dissipates from your body the second you put it together. That there’s a sliver of a possibility of slipping your hands out of the rope tying you to Graves. The exhilaration is almost overwhelming. You have to sit with it a beat before acting, wary of letting your guard down too fast.

Time passes slowly as you fiddle with the knot, reaching your fingers as far as they’ll go and gritting your teeth through the ensuing cramp in your wrist. You nearly groan in frustration when your hand twitches and you accidentally retighten the knot. A near crushing blow.

Please, you mouth more than whisper, frustrated tears clumped in your lashes. Teeth sinking into the flesh of your bottom lip, pinching off the wail rising up your throat.

Your heart skips a beat when the rope loosens around one of your wrists, enough for you to wiggle a pinkie underneath and slowly shimmy it up the length of your hand. A cramp makes your pinkie spasm, almost causing you to lose your grip. Sweat pools in the cup of your palm.

When your wrists are finally free, the rope clutched in trembling hands and the basal joint of your thumb scrapped raw from the fibrous rope, you can only sit there, heart beating wildly in your chest. You have to force yourself to remain calm, wary of waking Graves up after all that effort. His eyelids quiver only with his dreams though.

You glance towards the door on the other side of the cabin. It seems either farther away now that you know it’s within reach. You know better than to just run straight for it though. Weeks of being on the run before finding John have taught you to pace yourself, to push down the fluttering evocation in your chest to make a mad dash for the closest way out.

Instead, you take a deep breath out, closing your eyes until you’ve calmed down. Then you rise slowly to your feet.

Your eyes, having long since adjusted to the darkness, scan the room for any loose floorboards. Aside from one obvious corner of the house which has begun to rot away and collapse, it’s hard for you to discern at a glance which boards will groan under the weight of your feet. You have no choice but to guess.

Each step has you on edge, heart in your throat. Your focus shifts quicksilver between the floor and Graves. Waiting for any sudden movement.

Halfway to the door, you take another cautious step forward and the floorboard creaks under your foot. Your heart stops, eyes flitting instantly over to Graves’ sleeping form. He doesn’t so much as shift. It’s another beat before you’re able to move again, confidence shaken by the noise. You keep imagining him suddenly shooting up from the floor, pistol in hand, the hammer striking the primer, the hiss of gas escaping the barrel.

The door gives a faint creak when you push it open, so you open it only enough for your body to slip through, wincing when you twitch and accidentally push it open another inch, dragging out the creak. Still, he doesn't wake. You slip past the door, shutting it quietly behind you.

The moon glows cornsilk gold in the sky. A vast, uncharted land stretches out around you, untouched by human hands, or so changed over the years that any human presence has long since been buried beneath the loam. But when you stare out into the distance, you realize that you have no idea where you came from. Everything looks the same in each direction, no landmark familiar enough for you to orient yourself. You’re out in the middle of nowhere and nothing looks right.

If you had less strength, you’d fall to your knees. The despair is so immense that you hardly have the strength to hold it all at once.

The silence lulls you into a false sense of security. You linger for too long, stuck contemplating your options. Coyotes yip in distant packs, their barks carrying across the plains. You shiver at the sound. It reminds you again that you’re on your own now. No husband to come chasing after you if things get sticky.

Your first few steps away from the cabin are tentative, gliding your legs through the grass and staring up at the cornsilk moon. A combination of indulgence and bewilderment. If you knew the right way home, you wouldn’t waver, but these days, you have no faith in your instincts. They’ve only ever led you off course.

The gelding that Graves rode in on sits in the grass with its hind legs folded underneath it. With its legs still hobbled, you know removing the leather will take more time than you'd like, but you figure it'll be easier to make your way across the plains on horseback, with the added bonus of leaving Graves stranded. If God were just, he’d starve out here and leave his corpse for the coyotes to feast on.

You approach the horse cautiously, conscious not to make any sudden movements. Its ears angle towards you as you draw near. Attentive to your presence.

“Hey there, honey,” you whisper, reaching out a hand and trying to show that you aren’t a threat. Its nose twitches.

Another step forward. Easy does it. One leg in front of the other.

“I won’t hurt you. I promise.” You try to mirror your memory of John in your voice, honeysuckle soft words.

You aren’t John though. Not even close. You take another step towards it.

It brays when you get too close, skittish. The sound pierces through the night, louder than the coyotes in the distance. Louder even than the creaking door.

The hair on the back of your neck raises, lips numb. Then the prickling awareness of movement in the house, like an itch on a phantom limb.

Behind you, the door to the cabin bursts open with a bang, slamming off the wall and ricocheting back. You whip your head around to look only to find Graves’ towering form under the shadow of the doorway, his hair mused and clothes askew. And he looks enraged.

“Hey!” Graves bellows from the doorway, breaking into a run towards you. “Get back here!”

There’s no time to sit with the regret, no time to bemoan the fact that you didn’t exercise enough caution, that for some reason without a gun leveled at your head, you allowed yourself to forget the very real danger this man posed to you.

All you can do is run.

The grass whistles around you. You run so hard that your lungs burn, your arms pumping furiously beside you, dress swishing between your legs. You don’t have to look behind you to know that Graves is gaining on you. His body is built for pursuit. Still, you push yourself past your breaking point, not stopping even when you taste blood in your mouth. Mindless; directionless. No idea where you’re going—just away from him. You’d jump off a cliff if you came across one.

He’s close enough for you to hear now, heavy breathing right behind you. But by then it’s too late. A heavy body rams into you, sending you careening towards the earth, the ground rushing up to meet you halfway. The dirt hardly cushions the blow.

You hit the ground hard. Head knocked loose of thought, agony ripping across your face. The double blow of a body heavier than yours forcing you into the dirt, so solid that it crushes the breath from your lungs.

Blood leaks from your lip, most likely split. When you breathe in to fill your lungs, you taste dirt and rust and earth.

“Insufferable bitch,” Graves snarls, putrid breath wafting under your nose and making your eyes water. He grabs a handful of your hair and wrenches your head up before slamming it back down. Something crunches. Distantly, you wonder if your nose is broken.

Your ears ring, the rest of his words drowned out by the blood rushing to your face.

“Please—” you beg, blood dripping from your split lip.

“Knew I shouldn’ta trusted you—conniving little cunt—c’mere now, get up—”

He rises to his feet over your body, big hand curling around your wrist. You hear your shoulder pop when he yanks your arm behind your back. A rush of cold. A sweat breaks on the nape of your neck. Shock sets in the moment after, adrenaline flooding your body.

Then a sharp, focused surge of pain. It radiates from your shoulder outward, so intense that you can’t believe it at first. Your whole world reduces down to it. Feathering out down your back; irradiating waves of it. Thoughts scattering and then coming back together around the pain. If you scream, it comes out unbidden.

“Ah, hell, I didn’t mean to do that,” he grumbles from behind you, likely staring at the unnatural jut of your shoulder. “Alright, sugar, one second—I’ll pop that back in.”

“Nononono—” you gasp, panic lancing through you, but he pays no attention to your words.

The pain of popping your shoulder back in is excruciating. Relief follows shortly after, but the time between dislocating and relocating your shoulder is so short that it hardly comes as a balm to the pain.

“You…bastard…” you gasp.

“Wouldn’ta had to do that if you hadn’t run,” he sighs, the sight of your pain subduing his rage.

It doesn’t stop him from grabbing you roughly by the arm he just dislocated when he finally gets you on your feet though, steering you back towards the house. The pain that radiates up your arm is almost blinding.

He drags you back to the cabin with a punishing grip. There’s no sympathy when you stumble. Moonlight illuminates the path back to the cabin and shows you the trenches in the wild grass made by your feet. Hardly more than a couple rods.

The defeat that courses through you upon being dragged through the ramshackle front door is ten times that of earlier. When he lets go of your arm, you collapse in a heap on the floor, aching and sweating. A bag of bones and blood. You’d rattle if someone shook you.

“I hate you,” you mumble from your spot on the floor, shaking through the pain. “Rot in hell.”

Graves doesn’t respond, but you can almost hear the way he grins.

No rest for the wicked or the good this time. Graves wakes intermittently throughout the night to check up on you, wary now that you’ve tried to run. Your regret is palpable. You should’ve waited. Bided your time. There won't be another chance now, not after you played your hand so soon.

The ache in your shoulder keeps you from finding sleep. Every time you get close to it, the pain radiates down your arm and it slips from your grasp, your hand closing around the empty space it leaves behind. Teeth grit, breathing through the pain. Loosening your jaw and panting because the pain overwhelms you when you so much as shift onto your side, the hard floor digging into your elbow.

Right on the edge of sleep, just as you're about to latch on, a boot catches you in the ribs, jostling you back into the realm of pain. You wheeze, breaking into a coughing fit.

“Get up,” a hoarse voice grunts above you, empty of sympathy. “We got places to be.”

He has the two of you back on the horse as soon as dawn breaks. Your escape attempt the night before must have spooked him, and you regret it now in the light of day because you know he won’t let you out of his sight again. The metal handcuffs digging into your wrists assures you of that.

There’s no time for breakfast or time to wash up. Graves makes it a point to be back on the road as fast as possible, repacking his bedroll and stuffing it back in the saddlebag before dragging you up with him.

The pain is a dull throb after sleeping most of the agony away. It comes back when you move too quickly though, which is hard to avoid on horseback when each gallop echoes through your sore bones and joints.

The arching sun immixes with the heavens above, rising higher as the hours pass. You ache for a hat; something to keep the heat of the sun off your head. On the horizon, the mountain ridge sits like a spine bursting out from the earth. It’s all wastelands and portents. Evil omens.

Your heart feels swollen and bruised, like something trampled under elk hooves.

“Cheer up,” Graves says, tipping your chin up when the sun reaches its peak around midday, the gesture making you so uncomfortable that you almost shudder out of your skin. Your face still throbs with pain. “You should be glad I didn’t jus’ shoot you.”

Your lips pull back, baring your teeth to nothing.

A shot rips through the air at that, his words commanding it into being. Your head instinctively ducks and even the horse under you staggers, spooked by the sound. Graves curses, tensing up behind you.

"What in the hell—"

You whip your head around to stare behind you, looking for the source of the gunfire. When you find it, your eyes widen.

#this is a long one because it's 2 chapters that i didn't feel like posting separately #but they're separated on ao3 if you wanna go read there #ceil writing #cod x reader #price x reader #john price/reader #john price x reader #price x you #john price x you

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rodolfoparras · 3 months ago

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Four in the morning ( when you creep back into bed )

Pairing: Wolverine x Top Male Reader

Cw: 18+, fingering, anal sex, sub!wolverine, dom!male reader, fwb,

Thinking about Wolverine who’s always so impatient to wind down after a long day, calls you over to his place with someone else’s blood and guts still caked onto him.

He hasn’t even finished up the call when he’s stripping the clothes off of him, before pushing strong thighs up to his chest, spit slicked fingers working on loosening the tight ring of muscles, all while counting down how long it takes for you to get there, silently wondering if he should have someone else finish up the job instead.

By the time you arrive, he’s already driving three fingers up inside his tight wet hole, the muscles in his wrist flexing with how hard he’s going, angry red cock uselessly slapping against his stomach as he fucks himself down onto his fingers , all while frustrated noises roll off of his tongue because of course this isn’t enough to make him finish

The frustration only grows when he sees you standing motionless at the door, and he’s quick to tell you to hurry over and fuck him already, even huffing and puffing as he proceeds to turn over and present his ass for you because fuck does he have to do everything around here?

“come on come on come on” he rushes out, hand parting his cheeks to show you his hungry cunt, momentarily wondering if he should just tie you up and use you however he wants.

But just as the thought strikes his head he feels your cock brushing up against the furls of muscles, and a sigh of relief escaping his lips as you finally slide inside him.

Despite the amount of prep there’s a slight burn that comes with the stretch, muscles reflexively resistant as you sink further into him, but he happily welcomes it; toes curling, clawed nails threatening to poke hole in the sheets, as the pleasurable flames slowly but surely engulf him “mfp - ah fuck that’s it yes yes yes, took you ah took you long enough,”

He steadily takes you inch by inch till you’re buried to the hilt; ass flushed with your hips, pressed so close he can practically feel your heartbeat against his skin, even feels himself going lax in as if you’ve finally quenched the fire that’s burning inside of him.

“Couldn’t exactly teleport here now could I?”

Just as he’s about to retort with something sarcastic, you give an experimental roll of your hips cock head brushing up against the wall of nerves that knocks the wind out of him , desperately gasping for air when he demands “Fuck!, oh -oh need more come on, please!!”

“Easy there , going ah- to hurt yourself,” you splurt out , fingers digging into his hips as if to prevent yourself from ramming into the man.

Logan however couldn’t care less, uses his hips to push himself back down onto your length, body shuddering and groans escaping his lips as he starts fucking himself on your dick. “I’ll - ah - I’ll heal,”

That’s when he feels your fingers yank at his hair, pulling him back til his head is resting on your shoulder before driving up into him at a relentless pace, all while keeping a sturdy hand on his hip, turning and twisting his body as you please- as if he weighed nothing .

“This what you wanted huh?” You breathe into his ear while continuously slamming into his hungry cunt.

For a moment he’s unable to muster up a response, lost in the way you’re slamming your hips into him so hard it almost hurts, stretching his body in ways that makes him feel like he’s being split in half on your cock.

But the constant jabs to his prostate eventually coaxes the words right out of him “Yes! Yes! Yes! don’t stop fuck!” He gasps out feels himself already inching closer to his orgasm, and maybe he’d be embarrassed about it if he hadn’t been worked up for such a long time. All he can do now is keep a vice like grip on your cock fearing you’d be cruel enough to pull out when he’s so close to cumming

Fortunately for him you don’t do any of that, instead you continue ramming straight into him til the tension in his balls grow unbearable tight and he’s withering in your arms.

“Cum-cumming-“ is all he manages to blurt out, body tensing for a moment before spurting ropes of cum all over the mattress. “Mph fuck!” He cries out, , world blurring, ears ringing as he continues rides out his high in your arms.

Eventually he stops shaking in your embrace and upon catching his breath he’s hit with the smell of a coppery scent, one heavy eyelid prying open just to be met with the sight of his claws digging into your now bloody hands. A wave of panic rushes through him, and he’s quick to retract his claws before he goes to say something. But just as he’s about to speak you interrupt him “it’s okay”

He doesn’t say a word as he brings your hands to his lips, tongue slipping out and lapping up the bloody mess on your skin.

“Jesus Christ Logan,” you wince out, head dropping into the nook of his neck as he cleans you up, swears he can feel your cock twitching inside as he continues on with his task , his lips all bloody and smiling ear to ear when he says the words “Another round?”

#top male reader #dom male reader #sub male character #bottom male character #deadpool and wolverine #Wolverine #logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #Logan howlett x male reader #Deadpool 3 #Deadpool movie #the Wolverine #x men wolverine #james howlett #james logan howlett #also I tried to write more from wolverines pov very new for me dndndj

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rin-may-1103 · 5 months ago

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Badger Day Au (part two)

Previous | Master Post | Next

"Fourteen?" Aquaman repeats, turning his chair to face Danny. "Fourteen what? Days, weeks, months?"

Flash hissed like he was in pain, "Please don't say it's been fourteen months!"

Danny trailed his eyes away from the ceiling, away from the bothersome crack, and toward the single window in the room. He could just barely make out the Cassiopeia constellation. Its distinct W shape winked and flickered, drawing up a memory from a few loops into this whole mess. Tucker had wanted to comfort him, seeing as Danny had just broken down crying over how frustrated he was with everything.

The Ghost of Cassiopeia. Also known as IC 63, about 550 light years away.

A giant cloud of dust and gas. A nebula. Its ethereal glow reminded people of spirits they would see in haunted houses or fields. So they called it the ghost of Cassiopeia.

But it wasn't a ghost, it's simply hydrogen that's been bombarded with ultraviolet radiation from the nearby star. A blue giant called Gamma Cassiopeiae. It's also known as the center of the constellation. The light from the blue giant makes the majority of the nebula glow a vivid red. The blue around the edges is just light reflected off the dust within.

Tucker had joked that Danny should try and see how far he could get before the loop restarted. See if he could even get past Jupiter. Danny had just snorted and brushed his suggestion off. What was the point when he should be spending his time trying to fix the loop?

About six years in, Danny had given up and tried.

Eight months he had spent flying. He got further and further out into the void, surrounded by darkness and the beautiful stars in the distance to guide him. He never managed to make it past Pluto before he was brought back.

"Years," Danny confessed, his eyes still trained on the faraway stars.

"YEARS!?!" Superman cried, standing up so fast his chair was sent flying into the wall. Danny glanced back up at the crack, watching as it grew just a little larger, plaster dust sprinkling down like freshly fallen snow.

Sighing, Danny sat up and stared at the group. How many times has he had this conversation? How many times was he going to explain what was happening? How many times was he going to wake up in his bed just to restart all over again?

"Years," Danny repeated, "Fourteen years. Like I said, I've tried everything."

They sat in silence for a moment, just digesting his situation. Batman was standing still, his fists clenched tightly. Superman looked faint like he would pass out. Flash looked devastated.

Wonder Woman leaned forward, her brows furled in confusion, "Were you cursed, young one?"

"No, I checked. You checked. Heck, even Zatanna and Constantine have checked. I'm not cursed." Danny grumbled, slumping down to rest his head on the table.

He wanted to go home. He wanted to just curl up and sleep for the next however long. Wanted to hug Jazz and cry about how unfair it all was. Wanted to curl into his mother's side and cling until she made it all better. Hide behind his father until he knew it was safe.

but he couldn't.

Something always happened when he tried. If he stayed home from the very beginning of the day, the league would call him over and over again, convinced he was needed for the case Batman had. They even sent Flash over a few times just to search the city to drag him to the meeting.

(He was happy they hadn't figured out his civilian identity yet, but man was it hard to watch as Flash stuck his face into every nook and cranny around town yelling his name. Danny's lost count of how many times the man got overshadowed.)

If he managed to convince them that he was in a loop, then they found it would be safer for him to stay up on the watchtower. where they could keep an eye on him while searching for a way to break it.

Or, if he managed to convince them he was sick or something and they left him alone, Vlad would start acting up. Jack would call him on the phone to cancel Maddie's meeting with him because Danny was 'sick'. If he convinces Maddie to go and stay home with his dad, then Jack somehow opens the portal long enough for one of his rogues to slip through.

It just never ends. Everything he's tried ends with him having to go ghost and fight. The calmest day he's managed to have ended with Box ghost blasting the portal doors open so he could give him a homemade lunch from his wife, which then led the ghost to find Jack's new weapon box and go ballistic because of his obsession.

after that, he gave up spending time with his parents and focused more on his friends and Jazz. This was equally disastrous.

so, his safest option was to go to the meeting and stay with the league.

Glancing up, Danny watched as the time slowly changed on the clock; six twenty-nine, tick, tick, tick, six thirty.

Sighing, Danny sat up and held his hand out, making eye contact with Batman. He might as well get the day going, no use in wallowing in self-pity. He's done that plenty already.

"I already figured out what the cult wanted to do, we just need to figure out where their next meeting is. I'll fill you guys in on the rest." Danny added, wiggling his fingers in the hope it would make Batman move faster.

Batman sighed and handed him the folder. Once Danny had the folder, Batman sat down to listen to his report intently.

Flipping the file open, Danny grabbed the first page and showed it to the group, ignoring how a copy showed up on the big screen behind Batman. (again, why use paper if he was just going to project it?)

"This is the result of the cult's last meeting, two weeks ago. as you can see, the ground has been scorched and the ritual circle permanently carved into the cement." Tossing the paper and ignoring it as Flash scrambled to catch it, Danny grabbed the next couple of pages.

Holding up the seventy missing person reports, Danny placed them on the table and separated them into four different piles. "After some digging, Batman was able to figure out the pattern between the missing people. This group," Danny pointed to the one on the left, "consists of organ donors who were anemic."

pointing to the pile on the right, Danny continued, "This group is made up of meta-humans who have powers related to the elements. they also all happen to have more than one piercing, though Batman didn't really figure out if that had an impact on whether they were chosen or not..."

Pointing to the northern pile, Danny separated the top seven pages. "while everyone in this pile has some relation to an ancient and powerful witch from the 1500s, these seven are the only ones who still share her 'family' name. I'm not sure exactly how this affects the cult's motives, Batman hadn't shared that with me in all the loops so far."

Danny glared at Batman in annoyance, he didn't care if there was a good reason or not. Without fail, in each loop that Danny's made it through where Batman makes the connection; he would refuse to tell Danny about it.

Rolling his eyes at Batman's unwavering apathy, Danny continued, "The last pile consists of people who have been dead at some point in their lives. whether it be just a few seconds or a few weeks."

passing the reports around, Danny pulled the next page from the file. "Flash and Constantine were able to connect the past locations of the cult gatherings. Constantine figured out there was a specific magic signature that he could follow, so he had Flash drag him around the world to map the locations."

tapping the table, Danny selected the world map. Glancing at the paper he had pulled out, Danny marked the places with a red dot. Then he marked the places Constantine found in blue. Looking up, Danny found the league staring at him.

"What?" Danny huffed, shoving the hologram away from him. Batman grabbed it and started to examine it.

"So, do we need Constantine for this?" Green Lantern asks, scratching his head.

Shrugging, Danny tossed the folder over to Wonder Woman. "You can call him if you want, but he won't get here until noon. He's in the house of mystery dealing with a pixie infestation."

"pixie infestation?" Superman asks, turning to look over to Zatanna. Zatanna reached into her jacket and handed him a pamphlet, not turning away from watching Danny with curious eyes.

"Anyway, like I was saying. the cult's been going around taking all these people and using them in their rituals."

"you said you knew what they were trying to do, what was it?" Batman asked with a noticeable frown.

Sighing, Danny pinched his nose. "they've been trying to summon Pariah Dark."

"The ghost king!?!?" Zatanna squawked, slamming her hands onto the table.

"yeah, that bastard," Danny grumbled, rubbing his face. The cult hadn't been successful for all fourteen years now, so Danny wasn't too worried about it. But still... If something, anything really, changed just the slightest; would they succeed? Would they drag Prariah out of his sarcophagus and let him lose on the living?

Danny's already had to face him once, he didn't know if he could do it again. The Fenton ecto-skeleton suit had been ruined last time, to the point dad hadn't even tried to fix it.

"Bastard?" Aquaman repeated, eyes narrowed, "You speak as if you've met him before."

"I have," Danny admitted, "and I will again if we don't do something about the cult." What if this is the loop the cult succeeded? what if it's the next one, or the one after that? could Danny even do anything to prevent it?

Zatara sat down with a heavy thump, her eyes widening in shock. Danny lifted his brow, wondering what was wrong with her. She hadn't acted like this any other time? what was different? had he said something he hadn't last time? hmm, something to think about later.

"back to the case," Danny shrugged, turning to gesture at the hologram of the world. "we were able to narrow down the cult's next location to about seven hundred places. I was able to check off about six hundred and thirty these last few loops. That leaves about seventy places they could be."

Danny used a yellow dot to select the seventy places he still needed to check.

"um," Flash started, nervously glancing between Danny and the globe. "you just highlighted the whole grand cannon and all of Alaska... and the Himalayas.... and the-"

"Yep," Danny cut in, "Like I said, I checked off all the others. These are the last seventy I still need to check. I haven't before because it's a lot of ground to cover. I was hoping I'd catch a break and find the cult before I had to check all those places, but nope. The fruitloops just had to make it difficult.

"oh," Flash winced, "do, do you want me to check them out?"

sighing, Danny leaned back in his chair, "I would love to have you check them out, but you need a magic user who knows what they're looking for to go with you. it's why we haven't found them yet, it's taking forever."

"Oh," was the only response he got.

"you know what we are looking for?" Zatara asks, finally getting over whatever had surprised her.

"yeah, it's hard to explain. I'll have to bring you or the others to a previous place and show you."

"hmm, alright. after the meeting, why don't you bring me so that at least one more person can help start looking, until, john is freed up at noon?" she suggests, tilting her head to the side.

"sounds good with me," Danny shrugged. it's not like it'll hurt to have her looking around, heck, they might even get lucky and she'll find them.

#dc x dp #dp x dc #dcxdp #dpxdc #danny phantom #danny fenton #justice league #dp x dc crossover #Danny is stuck in a Groundhog Day kinda situation #and he would like to be let out now please #Batman Is very worried #so is everyone else #Badger Day Au #The Badger Day Au #part two

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yandere-wishes · 2 months ago

Text

˖ ࣪⊹𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞/𝐂𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐜𝐞 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⸸ Yandere! Capitano x reader

༒︎ Summary: He's the ice bearer, the monster sent to snuff out the flames of your homeland. But isn't that just love? To kill with such passion. Wouldn't anything else just be a lie?

🗡Warnings: Yandere behavior, blood, and gore, reader has a pyro vision and wields a claymore

𓌜 author's note: I made some Girlypop Capitano edits to sorta fit the vibe: One & Two

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪⭑ ๋࣭

Do you love me? Or do you love how I make you feel?

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪⭑ ๋࣭

Kachina is lost

She does not emerge from the scared flame

Nor does her ancient name echo across the skies.

Life stills, death looms.

light wanes, darkness reaches.

The glow of the sacred flame burns your eyes.

It's ambers whispering grime truths.

"I volunteer to go, too. You'll need all the help you can get."

Mavuika's flame mane rasps across her shoulders as she shakes her head. Lips taut in thought, sepia brows furled in eccentric fret. You've yet to see this shade of worry painted across your archon's face.

"I can't afford to excuse you, especially now that I fear my powers are dwindling. I need someone to have my back. Besides I'm sure the champians can handle it."

Duty first, that's the oath of the Princesses of Flame. Guard the archon with your life, protect her through any means necessary.

You force your head into a sharp nod.

The chill in the stadium air sends a nervous tang rippling through your spine. You've heard the Wayob speak of this sort of frost before. This all encompassing thing.

His boots grace the stadium floor with all the grace of falling stars. Ethereal armor glows in the soft roar of dancing flames. Icicles in dawn's first light.

The tall figure tilts his armor-clad head up at the archon's perch, with impertinence. You almost swear you hear a chuckle of mockery chime from the inside of his helmet.

"Pyro Archon" he speaks, voice distant and distorted, ice on ice through hail storms. The chill glides across your body again, how can one man be so cold? Shouldn't the cold be a sweet thing? Relief from harsh suns and harsher fires?

"Since the oath made five centuries ago remains unfulfilled, what use is the gnosis in your hands?"

He is all ice. But not the sugar-laced ice cubes that float leisurely in spiced cacao milk. No. He is the harsh verglas only spoken of in hushed tones around grisly campfires. The ice that leaves plains frozen and destroyed. It kills all things warm, all things that breathe.

There is a chill in the air.

It penetrates the skin and nests between the bones.

subconsciously you run your fingers across your neck.

"I challenge you for the gnosis, for the right over Natlan's rules" He shrugs off the heavy cape, the multilayered garment with too much wool and heat.

Strange, strange thing.

It amazes you how he hasn't melted from wearing such stout apparel in such smoldering climate. He tosses it to the side careful to never ripe the precious fabric.

"Fight, or summon your champion"

Your hand rests heavily on Mavuika's shoulder. Eyes transfixed in a silent plea.

The people need their Archon.

Natlan needs its Archon.

Besides this is your duty.

Mavuika nods.

Red eyes never once straying from the intruder.

Vicious sparks flicker across your palm. Like sparking a match across dried bark. You feel the inforno's kiss licking past your skin, weaving into the bone, as your weapon materializes. Your fingers ring across the worn, burnt handle of your loyal armament.

"I shall fight you fatui, for the honor and glory of Natlan and the Pyro Archon."

He watches you through the mask, through the ebony darkness that shields his mysterious visage. He reminds you of how Saurians watch their prey. Weighing each tiny breath, tasting each heartbeat through the air. He looks nothing less than regally monstrous.

Like death, doom, and despair.

You've tasted this before, engraved the bitterness upon your tongue, and honed your body to fight it. He will not take Natlan, he will not condemn your home to his cold.

The weight of your claymore pulls you down. Plunging into hard rock. You watch as he bats the dust with his hand. Gloved and armoured. What is he hiding? You wonder. What man truly needs so many layers? Armor, ice, frost, steel, wool. You long to peel them away, desperate to find something human underneath. Something squishy and worm. You want to feel his heartbeath between your teeth. Drink from his warm blood and relish in the sweet aftertaste. A testament to how you conquered the cold.

You've never seen someone so eager to be hidden in layers up layers.

Snow on ice.

Ice on iron.

"You're awfully young to take on such a big responsibility little girl"

his voice makes you shiver, you can almost taste his ice on your tongue.

Bitter, like barbwire and salt.

"Don't mock me Fatui" You warn, molding your body into a battle stance, knees folded almost kissing the stadium floor, weapon clasped with both hands. Eyes on the target.

Just like Mavuika taught you.

Just like you taught Kachina.

You can feel the heat from your vision coursing through your body, cracking your bones and mingling with marrow. You wait, just one more breath. You use the pyro blessing to project yourself through the air, like an arrow aimed straight for the man made of ice and lies. Swinging your claymore, ready to dent his helmet - and hopefully his head inside- but he blocks it with his glacier sword. Just a thin dainty thing, capable of quelling your inferno-laced colossus.

Capitano advances, with a flick of his sword he pushes you back. Your heart hammers wildly, someone so skilled so strong, it's almost a shame he can never compete in the pilgrimage. That he can never be on your side.

You use the momentum of his push to frontflip through the foggy air. You land squarely on his wide shoulders, digging your foot into his trapezius muscle, while your knee scrapes his other shoulder for balance. You swing your claymore once more, trying to strike his head off. But to your shock, he parries it with the back of his rime gauntlets.

You keep pushing trying to slice through ice, armor, flesh, anything. Yet everything about this man seems to be made of inviolable steel adorned with everlasting cyro. For a second the metal of his helmet kisses the inside of your thighs. There is no shame in battle, no flirting with the opponent. There are only two bodies entwined until death and defeat. Until one rises and one falls. Still, there's something about the way his black face, regards yours that has a shy blush creeping on the hollows of your cheeks. The man, no this formidable monster is far too close, it's almost as if he's longing for a kiss. You leap back, whispering patronymic blessing to the Archon when your feet meet solid rock once more.

"You fight well little girl, but your attacks are careless, loose. You can not defeat opponents if you can not penetrate their defenses."

He dashes, so quickly you almost think he's flickering between the ground and air. You feel his familiar cold before, you feel the hilt of his sword nestle into your abdomen. He leans forward, helmet sending frostbite through the side of your head "You smell so sweet, like the roses of Snezhnaya". Capitan thrusts his sword with raw force sending you soaring into the stadium walls, the rocks crumple around you, as you struggle to lift yourself up once more.

Your eyes try to carve sight through dust and debris. The air is thick, hot and cold. You blink twice desperate for your eyes to focus. There are silhouettes dancing towards you twirling through the air like Yumkasaurus.

Capitano's ice projectiles glide through the air, they're almost beautiful if you could doubt their lethality. He commands them with flickers of his wrist, and it's only when their frost kisses your body that you fully remember this is a battle, not a dance. They lounge themselves between your ribs, underneath your heart, in the plump of your thigh, the bullseye of your shoulder. Pretty icicles cut open your flesh burying themselves deeply inside you, you'd almost dub it romantic, with how the icicles intonate to your erratic heartbeat.

The frost begins to infiltrate your vascular flow, cauterizing you from the inside. Spreading through the outside, you hiccup out a low moan. Capitano laughs, in a tone that feigns mockery. "I see my ice is to your liking". You bite your lip holding back another moan, it's so wholly painful yet so satisfying. You were right the cold does offer such a delicious relief from the blazing inferno all around.

Your opponent stalks closer, kneeling by your freezing body. You doubt Muarvirka can see through the grey air permutating the stadium. Maybe that's why, away from all prying eyes. The captain lifts his helmet revealing smirking lips. He grazes the side of your mouth with a faux kiss. savoring your warmth before, parting your lips, and deepening the kiss. Even his lips are utterly frozen, he sucks you flames from your mouth extinguishing your fires, with blood-deep frost. He runs a cold iron-clad claw across her cheek, scrapping up the skin, creating a rivulet of red. Before licking it lovingly with his icy tongue. "Why are you so cold?" you shutter, "Why so frostbitten? Has no one ever taught you the joys of the flame?"

He laughs, really really laughs this time. And while you still can't see his eyes, you swear they soften. "I've been burnt too many times, trust me the cold has its merits. But one must be willing to surrender to them."

Capitano plucks your body from the ground. He cradles you roughly in his arms.

He has no warmth to offer.

No heat.

He is only ice.

The fog yields, as you look up. Mavuika screams, her anger palpable. "I'll accept her as my prize for now archon" Capitano spits. "But next time I shall challenge you and know that I will take the gnosis too."

The flames in the stadium roar, trying to melt away the frost plaguing your body. Trying to replenish your spark. You begin to flail and kick, desperate to be liberated from Capitano's iron and frost-clad grasp.

You need to break free, to return to your archon's side, to be there when the others return with Kachina. You can not let this monster pilfer you away from your home, your people, your archone.

"Let me go!" you scream, your last attempt at a battle cry.

"Shhh, war trophies have no right to refuse."

⋆⋆⋆༺𓆩⸸𓆪༻⋆⋆⋆

Super tempted to draw the reader's outfit!!

🪐 @definitely-asexual-volcano @eth3realc0rps3 @numberonefanfury @madara3437 @crystalkat6747 @m00nlight-mexican @dilucragnvindr-my-beloved @orcasandtea @tecchoukisserr

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