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concubuck · 2 years

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((Hey y'all have another ficlet from Alastor's early days as a succubus. Why? Just because. Set in between Alastor's first attempt at having sex and the first time he has sex successfully. Warnings for mentions of alcoholism & noncon; and also mild aphobia in the sense of "these two dopes don't know what asexuality is so they're trying to compare it to medical disorders."))

✨ Alastor Visits The Doctor ✨

Alastor had detoxed from alcohol in the 1980s. Before Rosie had helped him cut himself off, he'd been living with a bottle constantly at his side and blacking out on a near-daily basis—never mind how often he was drinking himself to temporary brain death on purpose. That week of withdrawal—the week of non-stop shaking, of sleepless exhaustion, of heaving sickness, of creeping crawling hallucinations—was the worst physical agony he had ever known to that point, worse than his near-fatal bout of Spanish flu, worse even than dying.

By now, after thirty-odd years and apodiabolosis, withdrawal was a far, fuzzy memory, one Alastor recalled more as a series of vague facts than he did as something that felt like it had happened to him. But the misery, that delirious misery—he imagined it must have felt something like this endless, interminable arousal.

But unlike withdrawal, there was no promise of coming out the other end of this arousal. No light at the end of the tunnel. Just the tunnel. Dark, muffled, ever-narrowing, claustrophobic, and weighing ever heavier on his soul.

Alastor was still trying to figure out how he could verbally explain the oppressive weight of this need, when the door opened and the imp doctor walked into the examination room.

Alastor automatically hunched forward, arms crossed over his lap, trying to conceal his boner in spite of the flimsy medical gown that felt as thin as tissue paper.

The imp took one glance at Alastor, rolled his eyes, and muttered, "You couldn't have taken care of that before you got you came in?"

The mutter scattered Alastor's mental attempts to corral his suffering into a narrative. His brittle patience developed another couple of cracks. "No, doctor," he said testily, "I couldn't take care of it before I came in. That's why I'm here."

"Hm." Clearly not satisfied with Alastor's answer, the imp tossed Alastor's medical file on the small desk in the examination room, but didn't take the chair yet. "You do realize I'm a real doctor, right? I graduated from medical school?"

Alastor blinked at him. "Yes. I do realize that," he said, speaking slowly and pointedly.

With the same slow and pointed tone, the doctor replied, "That means I'm here to offer medical care to real patients. Not to indulge... whatever the hell medical kink you've got."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't know what kind of doctors you've had before—if they're grateful for the break or what—but I'm getting paid to practice medicine, not to do whatever—"

Alastor laughed in disbelief, loudly, harshly, angrily. "You expect me to believe that's really a problem you deal with?! Or do you just—assume that when a succubus walks in?!" His patience snapped sharply in half. "My dear doctor, believe you me, if I could have come here without a stiff, I would have! But if I had chopped it off and left it at home I am quite afraid you'd have elected to treat my blood loss instead of the ailment I came here for! And chopping it off is the only way I could have shown up without a stiff, because it hasn't been flaccid in nearly six months! Which! Is! Why! I'm! Here! Now are you going to keep making—disgusting insinuations, or are you going to..."

Alastor didn't realize he'd gotten to his feet and advanced threateningly on the doctor during his tirade, until he had him backed against a wall and was looming over him. The doctor stared up in terror at Alastor's face... and then, slowly, his gaze rolled down to the thinly-concealed erection inches from poking him between the eyes.

Alastor spun away from the the doctor, face heating—it felt less like a blush and more like a raging fever—realized that the gap in the back of the patient gown (which he'd been unable to fit right over his wings) probably exposed his ass crack—and he ended up awkwardly shuffling sideways away from the doctor to sit on the exam table again. Look at him. What a pathetic, undignified sight he was. Half a year ago, the Radio Demon was the most feared sinner in Hell—what was he now?

"I'm sorry," Alastor muttered, hunching forward again, elbows on his knees and arms crossing in an X to shield his shame. "You understand, I'm—under a significant amount of—distress. I, uh—I don't mean to be a difficult patient." Now he was even groveling.

But what was he going to do if his outburst caused the doctor to refuse to treat him? This was the only affordable hellborn doctor within walking distance of Alastor's rental; he didn't know what he'd do if he was kicked out.

For a moment, the imp was silent; then he said awkwardly, "Yes, in fact. That really is a problem I deal with. I mean, succubi trying to..."

Alastor nodded stiffly. "I see." He wondered whether the imp had truly been solicited by kinky succubi masquerading as patients, or if Alastor was just the first one to get outraged enough to break through the doctor's assumptions. He grudgingly decided to give the imp the benefit of the doubt. He didn't have any other option. "Rest assured that regardless of what my anatomy might think, there is nothing I want less than to have sex."

"But—you can't get rid of your erection."

"Not without physically removing it," Alastor confirmed. "Such as by chopping it off. Or reconfiguring the whole thing into a vagina—but the arousal persists, that's the real problem."

The doctor ventured, "Skilled with magic?"

"Off the charts."

"Still. You shouldn't be castrating yourself without a doctor's supervision."

It was such a mild chastisement. Hellborn doctors were less easily scandalized than human ones. "Believe me when I say—" he kept his voice calm and even, "—I would not have resorted to such extreme measures if the alternative had not become psychologically unendurable."

The doctor paused, then tentatively took a seat, flipped open Alastor's medical file, and made a note.

Alastor let out a quiet sigh of relief.

"Can you orgasm?"

"Yes. It makes no difference. My arousal remains the same."

"Hm. For six months, you said?"

"Nearly," Alastor said tiredly. "Short a couple of weeks, I believe."

The imp opened his mouth, and Alastor was sure he was about to ask what had taken him so long to seek medical help. But instead, the doctor paused, and then asked: "Did you experience anything medically unusual within the month before your symptoms started? Illnesses, head injuries, unfamiliar narcotics, orgies...?"

"I." Alastor shrugged. "I became a succubus?"

The imp stared at him, then quickly flipped to consult another page of Alastor's medical file. "Oh."

That didn't sound promising. "'Oh'?"

"Sorry," the imp said, "sorry. You're, uh—you're just the first humanborn patient I've—first ex-human humanborn, I mean. Obviously I've seen humanborn sinners, but—but not..." He gestured vaguely.

Alastor's heart sank. "So, you can't—?"

"It's fine," the doctor insisted. "It's covered in medical school! You can be treated like any other succubus. Biological differences are—superficial. Aside from a few cosmetic differences..." His gaze slid up. "Are... Those are ears, then?"

"Yes." Did he think Alastor's hair looked like that on purpose? "Is that relevant to...?"

"No! Just—just wondered." The doctor cleared his throat. "Ah. So."

"So." Alastor could feel his hopes falling by the moment.

"This isn't a change so much as it is, uh... the norm for your tenure as a succubus," the doctor clarified. "Correct?"

Alastor nodded.

"I'm sure you were told that succubi's libidos are much higher than other demons? And you're basically going through a succubus's puberty on fast forward?"

Fast forward. He turned the phrase over in his head. He would have said it some other way—like an LP set to 78 rpm, maybe—but he caught the meaning; and he felt old. He nodded, "I'm aware. I was prepared for that. Which is why I didn't come in five months ago. But the adjustment period is supposed to only last two to three months, and I'm arguably worse off now than I was then. Everyone I've spoken to says this is—abnormal for a humanborn succubus. Abnormal for any succubus." His voice trembled with the effort of keeping it even, calm, collected. Clinical and detached. Like he wasn't scared out of his wits—and horny on top of that. "You have to understand, I haven't had a minute's peace in half a year. I can't sleep, I can't cook, I can't dance—I've been losing weight because I can't focus long enough to stand up and walk to the kitchen or call for delivery. I didn't venture farther than my own porch for months. I've tried everything to satiate my needs. Nothing's worked.

"What have you tried?"

Alastor hesitated, running through the list in his head, trying to figure out how to answer the question without being uncouth.

The doctor muttered, "Right. Human," and set his pen down. "Listen. I understand humans have different taboos, but I treat succubi. Hellborn ones, I mean. You could tell me, I don't know—that you've been getting off by smothering baby puppies in your asshole—and I've probably heard worse. So."

"Right," Alastor murmured. He had trouble shaking the instinct to couch his language in terms appropriate for a hypothetical listening audience, some family sitting around their living room radio receivers and ready to write station management if he said anything too uncouth. His only audience was a doctor.

A doctor who had taken one look at Alastor and assumed he'd gone through all the time, effort, and expense of dragging himself to the only hellborn doctor in this side of the city because he wanted to fuck him. So to hell with what the doctor thought of him. "I started with masturbation, obviously," he said. "Hands, inanimate objects, toys—as many shapes and materials as I could find, both manual and electric, the full spectrum of realism..."

"I'm sure you know that toys aren't usually enough for succubi?"

"Hope springs eternal." One corner of his smile quirked up sardonically. "I know, I know—I saw the 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here' sign on the way into this lousy joint."

The doctor gave him a quizzical look. "Sorry?"

"Never mind. Maybe that's only funny to sinners." Alastor suppressed a sigh. "And then I tried tentacles—I've got an extraplanar friend—"

"Sapient?"

"Yes—distant relative of the Von Eldritches, I believe."

The doctor looked duly impressed, and it was the first thing about this entire meeting that had felt right to Alastor. He was supposed to impress people. "Those, uh... entities are supposed to be fairly effective at dispensing sexual gratification. But...?"

Alastor shook his head. "Damn thing went through one end and out the other. I had tentacles in holes I didn't even know I had. In the end it gave up in boredom and frustration." That was maybe anthropomorphizing its motives a bit too much; but Alastor couldn't think of any other explanation. It had never before given up on any of Alastor's requests.

The doctor pursed his lips as he made another note. Alastor had the sneaking suspicion that it was this that finally convinced him of the severity of Alastor's issue.

"And after that, I tried people. First prostitutes—humans, then succubi—and then..." Alastor trailed off.

"Anyone other than prostitutes?"

Alastor hesitated. "Yes."

"Old sex partners?"

"N... no. I've..." His throat went dry; he swallowed hard and attempted to sound normal, "Found people and—forced them." He'd rather have admitted to murder.

The doctor only said, "Most succubi get better satisfaction from established lovers than from hiring prostitutes or rape."

The last word felt like a slap; the nonchalant way the doctor said it made it feel like a gentle caress of a slap, which was even worse. Alastor forced himself to keep his voice even. He didn't want to be the one of the two of them who was more disgusted by his own actions. "I'm aware. I don't have any established lovers I could have called."

"Tried any exes?"

"I have never had lovers," Alastor clarified. "I did not have sex as a human."

The imp gave him a dubious look. "You've been celibate for..." he glanced at Alastor's file, "a hundred and twenty years?"

He huffed out a sigh. "In the eighties, I received a tentative diagnosis of..." He shut his eyes for a second, trying to remember the term. "Hypoactive... sexual desire disorder?" (The imp gave a tiny nod of recognition.) "Tentative because I never bothered to pursue a full diagnosis or treatment, because I had no interest in developing an interest in sex. So, no. Before becoming a succubus, I never had sex before. I never lusted before. Not in any way I couldn't take care of with my hand in two minutes. What?"

The imp was staring at him. He quickly shook his head. "Sorry, you've—never had an interest in sex? Not even any... desires you didn't have the opportunity to fulfill? Fantasies? Paraphilic interests—unusual objects or acts that bring sexual gratification?"

Alastor shook his head impatiently. "Never. Nothing. Not anything." Were they going to get stuck on this? If this doctor got hung up on the idea of treating Alastor's alleged HSDD... Hell, if it might lead to him getting him some relief, he'd consider it. But they weren't going to get anywhere if the doctor thought Alastor was lying about his disinterest. "Are you familiar with Kinsey's studies of human sexuality? I was sorted into Category X in the fifties."

"Uh, pff—I'm not intimately familiar with Kinsey's..."

"'Equally disinterested in sexual contact with both sexes; no attraction, no desire to experience—'"

"Right. Okay, that—checks out." The imp nodded. And then went still, chewing the corner of his mouth, brow furrowed in thought.

Alastor stood the silence as long as he could (which was about ten seconds); and then he asked, "What?"

Slowly, the doctor said, "I've seen patients without naturally occurring lust before—it's pretty common in some rings, but..." He trailed off again, tapping a claw on Alastor's paperwork. "For most persistent arousal conditions in succubi, the treatment is based on figuring out what it is they crave that they're not getting, and finding a way to supply it. I'm—I don't know what the treatment is for a succubus that doesn't crave anything. If the challenge here is to satisfy a craving that doesn't exist..."

If only the sex he desired could satiate a succubus's appetite, and Alastor didn't have any desires—then was this hunger, by definition, insatiable? Alastor's blood ran cold. He had to fight to speak around the knot in his throat. "Then, is—there no treatment—?"

He would have liked if the doctor had hastened to reassure him. Instead, the doctor was silent for a long moment, like he was wondering that himself. Finally, he pulled out a fresh paper and started writing, muttering, "We'll do some blood tests—rule out the possibility that it's a hormonal issue. And I can refer you to a specialist to get a brain scan, in case there's anything up there."

"How far away is the specialist?"

"Not too far; maybe thirty minutes by bus."

Quietly, Alastor said, "I can't ride the bus like this."

The doctor stopped writing. "... I'll see if there's a closer clinic."

Alastor nodded, staring hard at the tile floor. He was afraid that if he looked up, he'd see pity in the doctor's eyes.

###

Alastor got a full physical exam. He came twice. The first time he coped with the humiliation by biting his lip and unflinchingly staring down the word Tuesday on a bland wall calendar and pretending it hadn't happened. The second time he claimed he had to make an emergency restroom run and bolted from the room, and hid there until his hitching breathing was under control and he'd stopped shaking. The imp said nothing either time. At least he'd been convinced this wasn't Alastor's kink.

And he got a full patient interview. He described his magical capabilities and how he'd been using them on his body; he described how often he switched his sexes or outright amputated his genitalia completely—it was important to know, the doctor insisted, since what bits he had affected his hormone levels. The doctor tried to criticize Alastor's drinking habits, his irregular sleep, his poor takeout-based diet, his dearth of exercise and fresh air. Each time, Alastor had to remind the doctor that in his state he couldn't sleep right, couldn't cook, couldn't go outside—and he knew, because he'd attempted all of them as distractions—and the only distraction that did help even a tiny bit was drinking. He was well aware of the consequences, he'd spent a decade at the bottom of a bottle and almost two decades sober, and he'd damn well change his drinking habits when it stopped being preferable to the alternative, thank you.

And he got his blood test. The doctor cautioned that, as much as Alastor manipulated his anatomy, it might be difficult to find anything conclusive in his hormonal results. They scheduled a follow-up blood test in a couple weeks, with strict instructions for Alastor to keep his God-given banana and coconuts exactly where they were until then, and that might give them more useful blood results.

"And you've got your referral for a brain scan," the doctor said, gesturing at the papers sitting on the examination table beside Alastor. "And for a physical therapist." (During the physical exam, he'd noted the poor control Alastor had over the wings caught awkwardly in his medical gown. The wings were the least of Alastor's concerns.) "And in case it's a psychological issue, if I can find any therapists who have treated humanborn succubi, I'll get you their information. Otherwise, I've got a list of succubi therapists you can contact."

Alastor nodded along to each statement, jaw clenched and arms crossed tightly, sitting on the examination table. He felt like he'd been stripped bare in a hailstorm: cold and exposed and raw-nerved.

"And before you come in for your next blood test, I'll look into... less common causes of persistent arousal in succubi. I've never heard of a succubus with hypoactive sexual desire—or without desires altogether—but—well, I'm sure it would present very differently in a succubus than in other demons. If it even naturally occurs in succubi at all."

As opposed to unnaturally occurring, as it had in Alastor. "You think it might be because I'm ex-human."

The imp shrugged helplessly. "Right now, we can't rule it out."

"Then there would be precedent, wouldn't there? In other ex-human succubi? Has—has that been studied anywhere, post-apodiabolosis medical conditions?"

The imp shrugged again. "Maybe. But—frankly, there probably aren't a lot of humans who don't love sex that choose to become succubi."

Alastor wanted to disagree—he'd done it for power, he imagined most other ex-humans did it for the same reason—but less than a dozen sinners a year were chosen for promotion. The infamous Radio Demon might truly have been the only human in history powerful enough for his lack of a libido to not disqualify him.

The thought that Alastor might be the first ever succubus stuck with an insatiable libido should be chilling; but over the course of his appointment and examination he'd gone numb to the mounting dread. He just nodded again.

"It's just—" Staring up at Alastor in bewilderment, the doctor said, "I don't get it. Why the hell did you decide to become a succubus if you didn't want to have sex?"

If Alastor had a nickel for every time he'd been asked that in the past few weeks. He cracked a pained smile. (Had he stopped smiling?) "It's funny, really. I thought the fact that I'd never needed sex as a human would spare as a succubus. I thought it would give me an advantage." His laugh sounded like a broadcast from somewhere far away. In his ears, it sounded like a sob.

If he didn't need the doctor's help, he would have clawed the pity out of his eyes.

The doctor dragged his gaze from Alastor and back down to his notes, like he was searching for something else he could offer. Finally, he said, "Vitamins. I'm going to prescribe you some nutritional drinks. I can't make you cook, but supplement the takeout with the nutritional drinks." He made another note and looked up again. "And... I'll see you in a couple of weeks."

Nutritional drinks. Nutritional drinks and a whole list of other doctors he had to talk to, none of whom would know what to do about his unique, one-of-a-kind insatiable libido. And that was it. Alastor couldn't remember ever needing so badly cry. He wanted to double up and wail until he hyperventilated.

He sat upright. He smiled. He said, "Let me know if you find anything new."

#((since these fics take a lot of time & effort to write I'd REALLY appreciate a like or comment if you took the time to read it))#((or a reblog! we appreciate reblogs around here))#((so that i don't feel like i'm shouting several thousand words into the void))#art #ooc

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mooishbeam · 7 months

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『♡』 In the Ring

♡ featuring: boxer!wriothesley x manager!reader

♡ summary: its hard managing a boxer full time. maybe it's time you relieve that stress. wc: 6.8k+ (???>":>?)

♡ cw/tw: mentions of trauma, mentions of violence, rough sex, overstim, face-sitting, size kink, unintentional edging, hair pulling, mentions of choking, argument, confessed feelings, slow burn, kinda toxic?

notes: can u tell how down bad i am for wriothesley. also do yall like the smaller text cause I do. jing yuan fluff next :)) art by sxnalien on twitter! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

For a second, the crowd stills. Bright intense lamps illuminate the sweltering squared circle, buoyant under the nimble movement of the boxers. They trade blows, bobbing and throwing each devastating hook with an even deadlier counter. No one took a hit for the past minutes, and the audience scoots to the edge of their seats at the sheer stamina of the two. Both dripping sweat, barely holding on between the merciless clock and their steadfast opponent. You can almost hear the breeze of swift jabs cutting wind against their jaws. The one with blue gloves can barely manage to guard himself, with a swollen face and wobbly legs, while the crimson gloves deal relentless punches. The crowd shouts. Unintelligible echoes, some that pray for the win, others grieving the money they’re about to lose. He’s caught on the ropes, and attempts a wild swing to save himself, to save his career. Red gloves weaves effortlessly and delivers a brutal crush to his bloodied nose and possibly busted mouthpiece. The crack is resounding, it makes the commentators cringe. His skull flies back, and he comes crashing down from his dizzying tower. The head-first fall vibrates beneath the feet of investors in proximity.

DING DING DING

Mass uproar ensues. They jump out of their seats, flailing their arms, joy and pain in equilibrium.

“And he is out! It’s all over!” the commentator yells. Confetti floats golden dust from the ceiling. The victor stalks the ropes before hopping on them, his gloves raised in the air. Glistening, high off elation, but somehow composed in his attitude, akin to a wolf.

“A savage knockout from the untouchable world champion, the king of the ring, Wriooothesley!”

“Wrio, Wrio, Wrio!” they chant. You’re standing near the ropes, already identifying which joints you’ll need to observe after his victory lap. It’s hectic, and you’re jotting down the state of his figure. Past experiences sew through each deep scar carving his rugged biceps and abs, the bruises display early signs of discoloration. He’s tall on the unseen throne, it feels like you’re there with him. A million eyes in that vast stadium, and yet, those midwinter eyes ebbed in silver only look at you.

Your beginnings as a manager were tumultuous. You could barely comprehend how out of your league you were working for a renowned agency fresh out of college. Though you found quick success in your ability to grab the attention of investors through public relations, you weren’t equipped just yet with the hindsight in preparing for scandals. The other athletes you worked with served no problem, and so you never had to worry about their appeal. Higher ups praised your extensive portfolio, and at such a young age, it was even more commendable. You earned it, fame and respect, interviews and gossip—a delicate dance. You were always busy, assisting your clients throughout the day and maintaining their presence while they slept. It was hard work, but you loved doing it.

That was until you worked with amateur boxer, Childe.

A snappy, overconfident lightweight fighter with no regard for anything or anyone. He had an unmistakable void in his eyes, but you fought for him ceaselessly, to prove that he wasn’t the cold person he portrayed himself as. You bore with his flirtatious compliments and innuendos, the need to focus him whenever you documented his afflictions, and he’d not-so-subtly flex his biceps. Childe was unnecessarily violent with underhanded tactics. The media knew this and did everything to amplify that bellicose story. You’d combat it, negate it, but he only fed the flames with threats of retaliation. Taking his phone wasn’t enough, and you couldn’t get through to him. It was only a matter of time before he went off the deep end.

The day you slept, you discovered a restlessness you’d endure indefinitely. The flickering glow of your device woke you at midnight as hundreds of notifications congested your screen. 128 missed calls from your agency, 50 from news sources, and none from Childe. When you processed the damage from his deplorable stunt, you nearly hurled your phone out the window. He posted revenge porn, and evidently turned off his phone. Surely, there’d be a way to fix this. The chances seemed to dissolve with each text turning green. You started pacing, battling with morality and loyalty and anger. What he did was disgusting, but it’s your job to save him, right? Is he worth saving? You spoke with 4 managers at once, switching through motives and bickering until morning. As you flipped through the television, another emotion struck you.

There he was, on a tasteless gossip channel. An interview you didn’t arrange, with a man you’ve never seen before. And he was...crying? The sob story emitting from his deceitful lips was almost impressive. Childe went on about how “demanding and horrible” you were backstage. The crocodile tears dried up through dodgy anecdotes, but it was enough to have people hooked. You were allegedly physically and emotionally abusive. He was too scared to speak up due to your position and he just couldn’t bear it any longer. Then he dropped the bomb; he blamed you for his post. You forced him to do it, jealous of his previous partners, emphasizing how enamored you were of him. The questionable tears began to fall again, but this time he covered his mouth, withholding the duping smile crawling on his face.

You were filled with blinding rage, unable to control the fury at which your remote connected with the screen. It was everywhere now, social media websites booming with live opinions. He had no reason to slander you, and you couldn’t pinpoint why he chose to hurt you like this. You cried for him, shared stories of childhood and family. The knife you used to protect him was firm in your back, twisting and digging with each disgusting message in your inbox. You had no game plan to conduct, and no tears left to cry.

Within a week, you finally understood how cruel this industry could be. Within a week, you were no longer on top. You lost clients fast. It spread like wildfire and not a single outlet spared an ear for your side. People you called friends, coworkers, hadn’t replied to your messages. When you got back to work, the rooms were silent as you passed. You could feel their judgement, whispers rattled with rumors and accusations. They waited for the tiniest slip-up and pounced like hyenas—you were eaten alive by their pitiful stares. You attempted to tell your truth multiple times throughout the week, but it was consistently rejected. The headlines were eye-catching:

“Manager From Hell: Childe Tells All!”

“He Cries: A Story of Love and Jealousy”

Your stomach churned to the magazines being shown. Despite the great amount of loss you suffered, you were thankful for the one person that believed you, your boss.

“Childe is a lying little snake. The media knows that, too.”

“Then why is this happening?”

“Money. That story is making bank right now. But I know for a fact you wouldn’t do this” he reassured.

“Thank you, sir. But...I lost everything; I just don’t know what to do.” The weariness was heavy in your voice.

“I have someone you can manage. It won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, it’s you.” You were unsure of yourself now, and he continued.

“You’re one of my best. If you want to climb out of this, now’s your chance.” Yes, you were unsure, drowning in doubt. But if the only way to get above water was to keep swimming, you wouldn’t give up so easily.

Wriothesley wasn’t exactly known for his kindness. Crude, cocky, maybe even spoiled were descriptions that circulated in the tabloids. He had a knack for pissing reporters off by not answering questions or humming over their voice with a shit-eating grin on his face. Women loved him, however, throwing bras and phone numbers written on scrap as the condemned “bad boy” departed post-game. They screamed his name at once, and he’d done nothing to deserve it. He relished infamy—that way, it was much harder to pry into his private life.

It had to be a coincidence that it was someone you fangirled over. In college, your eyes were glued to the screen every Sunday, waiting for Wriothesely’s post-conference and behind the scenes interviews. He didn’t speak often, but just the sight of those inky strands streaked with ash made your heart flutter featherlight in your chest.

When you first approached him, he was just as arrogant as you’d expect.

“Good evening!” you beamed. You caught him outside the gym, and he still had his headphones in. Full volume and blankly staring as you went on about the opportunity, silent under the blaring music. He took one earbud out when you finished.

“Hm? Who’re you?”

You were slightly annoyed. “Let me reintroduce myself, I’m (Y/N). Your new manager.”

“No. Bye.” He began to walk past you without an ounce of care. You couldn’t lose it like this.

“Ah, wait!” He turned half-heartedly.

“Listen, I get it. You don’t want to be bossed around. But honestly, your reputation is shit. That can’t be good for business.” you persuaded. He towered over you, the figure of a Greek giant peeked through the compression top as he lazily watched you.

“So? Why do you care?” he remarked.

“I’ll help you. Sponsors, advertisements, whatever you want. You’re good, but you can be so much better. Let’s make money together.” You held your hand out, awaiting a handshake of approval. He merely glanced at your limp wrist.

“Help? You’re obviously not doing this for free.”

“Of course not. Give a little, take a little. I don’t do charity cases” you shrugged.

He groaned, raking his fingers through his thick mane. At the very least, he hadn’t walked away yet. “I'd prefer for my life to be private.”

“Then I’ll guarantee your privacy.”

“Really?” he scoffed. “What can you give me besides empty promises?”

“Anything you desire. Work with me, and I’ll make it happen.” That offer enticed him. No one had been this persistent with him yet, he scared off any manager that dared succor him. It was slightly entertaining, the way you burned ambition in your eyes, you were so easy to read. Most people wouldn’t look directly at him, and here you were, ready to follow him home if that’s what it took. He chuckled, and his massive hand reached for yours.

You shook hands, and your fates were sealed.

That was a year ago, and ever since then he’s been a thorn in your side. Nonstop drama and rectifying consumed your life. You didn’t think a man who spoke so little in public could talk so much around you. Whenever you argue—which is a frequent occurrence—his smirk grew wider at your frustration. You weren’t sure why you ever liked him in the first place. He only puts in effort when it comes to sparring, but you’re determined to ameliorate his standing, and in turn, yours.

The minute you open the doors to the hall, the sound of pummeled sandbags, clanking metal, and sneakers skidding across the floor roars in your ears. Some men are dialed in on abusing the inanimate objects, the rest tense through repetitions of dumbbell curls with a hiss. You're in quick strides, the phone arm's length away from you as the sponsor on the other end screams. Another petty drama surrounding Wriothesley grabs the attention of the internet. Luckily, you have thorough experience remedying this.

“What are you going to do? You’re fucking with my money!” you hear the faint voice. You bring the phone back to your ear.

“Don’t I always deal with it? He fights, I make up for the other half. Give me a few hours.”

“I’m not going to wa-” You hang up at the response.

You propel the double doors free into a large room with a boxing ring in the center. A group of trainers swarm the perimeter, you can barely see through.

“Don’t be scared!” one of them taunt towards the sparring partner, who has an unthinkable panic creeping in goosebumps dotting his skin. Each sloppy dodge tilts him more and more off balance against the strikes. Wriothesley has a powerful stature, with his back curving in a way that accentuates the rough muscle shaping his spine. You drone an annoyed sigh at the commotion and push yourself through them.

“Move it, move!” you yell, before jostling your way to the front of the ring.

“Wriothesley! Times up.” He turns his head to the side, unintentionally sparing his partner and glares at you.

“Two minutes.”

“No. Now.” you command. He looks up at nothing, as if considering his options if he cusses you out. Then he begrudgingly drops the gloves and pulls himself under the ropes. The group disperses from the lack of action and he’s mere inches from you now. Sometimes you forget how to breathe in his half-naked presence.

“What the fuck is your problem?” He mumbles while drying his head with a towel. His colossal forearms are raised over his head, highlighting the happy trail thick down his abdomen and tufts of hair on his armpits.

“You. How many times do I have to tell you not to train during recovery?” you seethe.

“Damn. Must’ve slipped my mind.” He doesn’t sound convincing in the slightest.

“Well then, I’ll be sure to remind you hourly.”

“Nah, I’m good. Hearing you once a day is enough.” He tosses the towel to you like his dutiful servant and grabs his water bottle. The liquid drips down his chin and on his shorts, hanging below his v-line.

Your eyebrow twitches from withheld vexation. “If you don’t want to hear me twice, I suggest you do what I tell you. We need to talk.” A heavy sigh leaves him as he stretches, and he passes you the water bottle. If you had the strength to collapse the bottle with one hand, you would. “Lead the way” he goads.

Wriothesley follows you through the backdoor of the gym to a secluded alleyway. When you get there, he immediately pulls out a cigarette you didn’t know he had. You were aware he smokes occasionally, but seeing it physically coaxed a strange worry in your gut. You twist your phone to him, to display evidence of him instigating an argument with Childe on social media. He reads in silence, briefly laughing at the recollection of his own comebacks, then lights the cigarette.

“What’s this? Didn’t I say keep a low profile?” you reprimand.

He drags in a deep breath of nicotine, and you eye the foul scent with distaste. He blows it above your unhappy face. “Calm down. Once a month thing. That fucker's testing me.”

“This can’t happen again, Wriothesley.” He ignores you to continue his mumbling. “I should break his neck like a twig. He’s lucky he didn’t say that shit to my face, fucking punk.” he grouses. You're struggling to gather your thoughts, the cigarette compacted between his thick fingers irritates you.

“We all appreciate your restraint, however-” you get closer, and yank the stick out his hand.

“No-!” Before he can finish, you promptly smudge it underneath your shoe. You aren’t sure how he’d react, but you didn’t expect him to sulk like a puppy.

“You aren’t doing this shit while I’m here.”

“Oh my god” he pouts, throwing his hands into his face and pulling them down.

“You’re lucky I don’t report it to the doctor. None of this, ever again.”

“Fuck, alright just...” he lets out a defeated sigh. “What do you want me to do about it? Apologize publicly?” You need him to do nothing; neither agency wants controversy, and it’d most likely be swept under the rug in just a couple days. You point his water bottle to him.

“Nope, I’ll handle it. Just sit there and be pretty.” you reassure. He leans down to your height with a sweet smile and even sweeter gaze.

“I do that well, don’t I?” he quips.

“You manage.” He latches onto the water bottle, and drinks from it in your hand while looking at you. A soft heat envelops you beyond words that never reach your lips.

“Listen to what I’m saying. Low. Profile.” Wriothesley comes up from thirst, dragging his tongue along the straw to the top, and licks his blushed lips. He delights in your flustered reaction.

“Low. Profile.” he repeats in a sarcastic drawl.

Later in the week, you receive a call in your office. It was fairly busy today, with coworkers constantly “checking in”, more so to see Wriothesley sitting across from you. He had no reason to be here, and you were surprised at his arrival. Be it boredom or a certain longing, a dull swell pulsed in his chest once he saw your overworked smile.

“Hello, this is (Y/N) of Boxe Association. May I know who I’m speaking with?” Wriothesley’s ears perk up at your sudden professionalism, and he mimics your cadence.

“Good afternoon, it’s Isadora.” Isadora was an event coordinator you previously worked with before your controversy. You understood that she stopped communicating to protect her business, but the pain lingered. You twirl the phone cord around your fingers, and meet eyes with Wriothesley, who’s laid back in the chair, his arms behind his head.

“Oh. Hey, it’s been a while.” you say. You turn your swivel chair away from him to continue the conversation. His eyebrow twitches slightly with an unconscious scowl, and he walks towards your chair.

“It has. I’m calling because I have a proposition that might interest you. I believe a meet and greet would be appropriate for your client. A large chunk of his fanbase are young adult women, however, he’s also popular with children.” He spins the chair around with a firm hand and presses his cheek against the phone.

“That’s true.” You side eye him, and without skipping a beat, mush his nosey face away. His hot breath on your digits makes your skin tingle.

“Who is that” he mumbles. You'd never seen Wriothesley interact with children, and you have every reason to be hesitant.

“Hmm...any positive activity with children is good publicity. I’ll consider it. I’ll let you know by tonight.” The second you hang up, you release his face.

“Why are you being annoying-”

“Who were you talking to” he chides.

“Isadora. She’s an event coordinator.” His clenched jaw unwinds. “She wants to do a meet and greet with you and a few kids. If we go through with this, I’ll have a camera crew and some reporters there. It’ll be good for your image.”

“Okay.” he agrees. That was quick.

“...Are you sure? Kids are loud and obnoxious a lot of the time.”

“So? Fine by me. I can teach them how to fight.” Your skin crawls at the thought of Wriothesley launching a child through a wall. “That won’t be necessary.”

“It’ll be fun.” The more he assures you, the more uneasy you feel.

“Wriothesley, I’m serious. Don’t screw this up” you plead. He holds his pinky out. “I won't.” His loose interpretation of promises was dubious at best, but you had no other options, and this might be your only opening. You curl to his word.

After parleying the finer details, you broadcast a raffle for young fans to meet Wriothesley. The traffic to the website was overwhelming, and you quickly began sorting out tickets for the favored winners.

Fortunately, the next couple of weeks were par for the course.

It’s the night before the event, and you’re getting ready for bed. You sit at your desk in a big T-shirt and do your daily review of personal data. As you're scrolling through and identifying what needs improvement, you get a notification on your phone.

“Breaking News: Boxer Bar Fight!” Curious, you open the tab to a video. It makes your breath stall, sweating frantically. You can’t think clearly, and your shaky hands can barely increase the volume. Unidentifiable noises and wobbly camerawork made it impossible to catch anything besides those familiar inky black strands, throwing punches in a drunken stupor at a defenseless man. Your previous conundrum flashes through your memory in a horrific stop-motion; the duping smile on his face.

No. It’s happening all over again. Why is he at a bar? You messaged him before he went to bed. He never goes to bars. Why now, the night before the event? It’s late, he doesn’t go anywhere without telling you.

He promised.

None of it made sense as you threw on any sweatpants in your drawer and ran out the door. You can’t wait until morning. Disaster punctures and tears any rational decision you contemplate. Shouting silently within your mind, a crashing rage—or sadness—boils in your nervous stomach. You’re tunnel vision in a taxi on the way to his address.

When you get there, you bang on the door with a fury that vibrates throughout the archway. His home is extravagant, with two cars and an expansive driveway. You bang again.

“Wriothesley!” He finally opens the door. He’s still half asleep, pajama pants low on his waist, groggily leaning against the arch.

“(Y/N)? Uh, what’s up?” He slurs in a deep slumbering voice through heavy eyelids. You barge in without saying anything. “Make yourself at home, I guess.”

The interior is just as opulent as the exterior, it almost looks untouched. Every corner has a case or shelf stacked with ornate trophies and medals of excellence. It was the home of someone who achieved peak perfection and reveled in it. He follows you to his living room, bewildered at your furious expression. You play the video in front of him, and he watches with that same puzzled attitude that makes you angrier. You try taking deep breaths to compose yourself, but they halt shallowly.

“What the fuck is this?” you accuse.

“What? I don’t know.” “Like hell you don’t know, this shit is on every homepage. Are you serious?”

The cranky boxer pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. You show up at his house, and it’s to badger him about a rumor. Your temperament only heats the smoldering ember fueled by incessant claims. He covers his mouth, physically stopping the involuntary response.

“Okay” he says, and blurts a facetious chuckle. Your heart thumps in your chest and ears.

“Oh, It’s a fucking joke? I bust my ass to save your career and you’re laughing?” you snap, voice increasing in volume until it reaches a broken peak. He returns with the same energy.

“When did I ask you to fix anything? Did you ever think that maybe I don’t fucking need you-”

“You can barely control your smoking habits you pompous ass-”

“I would if you didn’t nag me all the time. Whining and complaining, it’s fucking annoying!” he yells. Neither of you meant the words spilling out the bubbling surface, but your tongues were solely seasoned with the next spiteful jab.

“Yes, whining! Because all you need to do is be on the straight and narrow, but you take nothing seriously, Wriothesley, and that’s exactly why-”

“Exactly why what? Why your career went to shit so you’re piggybacking off mine?”

Your battle stops. You can’t find the words to rebuttal. All the opinions of your colleagues, the media, Wriothesley, and yourself coagulate into a lump that fills the tightening throat. Pride comforts tears brimming your eyes.

He pauses, as though he came to reality. An apology attempts to form on his lips, but it never manifests. “(Y/N), I didn’t-”

“See you in the morning” you choked. You walk to the door, and he reaches out to the infinite space thick between you two.

You didn’t sleep the entire night. It’s morning, and you’re exhausted. You consistently replayed the quarrel in your head through the taxi ride home, and when you strived for rest, it plagued your mind. Your coffee is untouched during your morning routine, a movement comparable to zombies. You don’t bother to confirm if Wriothesely is at the building—either way you owe it to the event holders to be there.

You arrive just before the children file into the training room. Thankfully, Wriothesley is there in the center. Live cameras from reporters and parents border the walls; if something were to occur, it would be irreversible. Your head suddenly hurts.

Perhaps playing it up for his reputation, the smile stretched across his face is a sunny warmth you’ve never seen from him. He waves to them, and they erupt with screams. To your astonishment, he gets on his knees to be eye level with them. They all jump into his arms at once, and he topples over onto the mat.

And he’s laughing. This grumpy asshole fighter is laughing. A hearty, genuine laugh as he wraps his sturdy arms around all of them and picks them up at once. He whirls them around and they orchestrate high-pitched giggles. “Ready to have some fun?” he chortles. They say yes to varying degrees of excitement, and the meet and greet proceeds.

You can’t help but smile when he frolics with the kids. They chase him with boxing gloves, he pretends to fall dramatically. Dogpiling him, he lets out a shrill scream of defeat. He manages to work in proper defense techniques while they jump him like a test dummy. He tosses each kid in the air whenever they ask, and never tells them no. You receive another call from Isadora amid your admiration, and you step outside.

“Hey! Good news, these views are off the charts and the internet is really in his favor right now” she congratulates.

“That’s great...what about the video from last night? Did you see it?” you ask.

“Video...oh, that! Don’t worry, it’s confirmed fake.” What? Oh no. Immediate regret stirs in your blood, and you force the phone away to catch your breath. You feel utterly stupid.

“Hello?” You quickly bring the phone back to your ear. “Yea, sorry. I have to go; I’ll call you later.” you insist. You can’t facepalm any harder. You make your way back to the training room, where the kids decorate his gloves with iridescent stickers. Wriothesley occasionally looks at you, but you can’t bear to show your guilty face.

When the event is over, you both make sure to hug every child on the way out and thank the parent for coming. You’re sorting through mountains of requests people made to see Wriothesley again, and you mute your phone over the influx of emails. Peeking at the broadcast, under the footage in bold letters:

“(Y/N) Back from the Dead?”

It wasn’t the most flattering title, but it proved that public perception was salvageable. You emit a sigh of relief, for you and Wriothesley. As you’re packing your things to exit, he blocks the door with his body.

“Can we talk?�� You were dreading this discussion, but agreed, nonetheless. The ride to his home is silent, you grapple with a proper apology.

You lean against the kitchen bar, while he’s laxing on the couch. Sleep deprivation torments you, causes you to wander as you fill in papers from sponsors. You can’t see the way Wriothesley steals glances at your slack figure curving to the marble. He eventually spoke.

“So, um.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you. You did a good job today Wriothesley, you should be proud.” You flash a meek smile. He fumbles with his thumbs uncomfortably.

“I am. Aren’t I the best?” he boasts.

“You are” you say. The lack of sleep beckons you to a spur of honesty as you scribble. “You have stunning form, perfect accuracy, and immeasurable talent. Not just anyone can do that.” you return. He gazes at you, that dull swell pumping in his veins again. The cozy radiance of lights brightens your tired eyes.

“You’re a big fan, huh?” he chuckles.

“Of course, I used to watch you in college. I had a major crush on you” you snort. “Everything you are is amazing, but you know this. So cut it out.” He sits on the armrest, swallowing your confessions. The room is entirely too hot, he needs alleviation—he needs you.

“Sorry. For what I said.”

“Forget it. It's my fault, I was careless. I apologize.” you admit.

“You know I didn’t do it, right?”

“I know.”

“I didn’t.”

“I know.” you reassure.

“What if some other bullshit controversy comes out. Then what?” You stop writing to give him your full attention.

“Then, I’ll trust you. We’ve gotten this far. Even if no one else does, even if for some reason I lose my job and I’m not your manager anymore, I’ll trust you, Wriothesley.” you reveal. He doesn’t move. Wriothesley knew he wasn’t deserving of trust, and he’d made a plethora of mistakes throughout your arrangement. You had every right to leave him long ago. Nobody gave him the time of day or cared for his wellbeing like you did, but he couldn’t reciprocate. Even so, here he kneels, at the feet of an angel that shows him undying mercy.

Wriothesley stalks at you, but you remain. He looms over you, pinning you to the counter with both arms, inches from your face. It isn’t a threatening force, but one that begs for confirmation. That slated storm searches for a specific craving, you feel his chest rising and falling laden with yours.

“You’re too close” you quiver. The bitter musk and vanilla enveloping your senses makes you foggy, it lingers through the whole house.

“Tell me to leave.” His mouth slants to you, and he waits expectingly. You ogle his features, the scratches of a warrior celebrated across his hardy torso. His hair brushes against your forehead, imperfect and uniquely beautiful. Why were you mad, again?

“Tell me to back off, (Y/N)” he pleads. The pads of your fingers lightly caress his ear, then his jaw.

“Please” he whispers. Your thumb grazes his bottom lip, and he succumbs to the urge.

You collide fervently, lips coated in definitive desire. Dancing with rough, bruising kisses that don’t make space for air. It smears on your face, dips down your neck and swiftly returns to your lonely mouth. The pressure of the counter bar burns across your lower back from his weight, but those mind-numbing kisses soften any injury. You bite his lip when he pulls away, and he groans. Suddenly, he lifts you effortlessly with his hands on your ass, and you clash teeth and tongue in a passionate challenge. He demands entry, and you moan into the wet mass intertwining through sloppy kisses. It explores your mouth, sending throbs to your nerves and subdues any control you have left. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, but you yearn for deeper contact. He licks up the organ, and spots moist, hungry kisses on your jaw. You both take a fleeting breath before converging again. You find passage in his hair and suck staining rose-colored marks on his neck while he carries you to the bedroom.

“You’ve been waiting for this, hm? Slutty groupie” Wriothesley moans. You drag kisses along the shell of his ear. He tosses you onto the fluffy bedding and haphazardly strips to his underwear. The wide mirror opposite his bed gives you a glimpse of his thighs and shapely bottom hugging the briefs. You’re supposed to be undressing, but that thronging bulge made for a titan makes you nervous for what’s to come. He palms the erection to soothe the ache and climbs over you. He’s somewhat gentle, careful with the bulk of his body as he cradles your face for more kisses. The way he looks at you, a covet softness or misted lust tantalizing the wetness pooling in your panties. He moves to your neck, French kissing down your throat and on your collarbone. You feel like a virgin again, heart racing from every graze of his fingers and lips. His calloused digits grope the plush fat of your thighs, and gradually reach the hem of your skirt. You snake your hands over his pecs and abs and read the muscles. Moaning into each other's mouths, indulging every part of your bodies as you’ve wanted to do for months. He pulls your skirt off and you hold your button-down over your exposed panties. Heat spreads in your body, and he amuses at your sudden bashfulness.

“Oh…you’re shy?” he teases, before popping the buttons off with a brutal rip. “Wrio!” you yelp. That’s the first time you called Wriothesley a nickname; he must’ve died and went to heaven. The lace gift wrapped around your breasts taunts him, and he buries his face immediately. He nips the sensitive skin and snaps the clasp off. “Cute. Need to feel you” he husks. He twirls the bud in his mouth, while manipulating the other between his girthy fingers. Alternating among loving hickies and harsh tugs of his teeth on your nipple. You whine, and his laugh tickles your raw skin. He flips over on his back and steadies you on top of him. Discards the rest of your top, and let’s out a shaky groan.

“You’ve never been this speechless” he says. You smile and kiss his puffy lips, your hands kneading his chest. “You’re so pretty” you coo. He huffs while rubbing circles on your waist, eyeing your inner thighs covered in juices.

“Then come fuck my pretty face.” He slips under the waistband and tweaks the fabric, but you grip his wrists. “Wait! Let me shower first- “

“You said you'd give me anything I desire, remember that? Keep your promise." He yanks the thin material down your legs in your weak clutches, trailing a string of drool that sticks to your labia. “C’mere” he grunts and lifts you towards his face. Your thighs are soft on either side of him, and you still in his grasp. He lolls his tongue out, but you’re reluctant to fully sit. “I’m heavy” you murmur.

“Shut up.” He embraces your body, and you have no choice but to settle in his warmth. He keeps you flush with his flat tongue, swiping up and down the squishy flesh molding to his mouth. You writhe in his grasp, but he continues to lap at your clit with a starving lust. Wriothesely soaks in your velvet skin and perfumed essence dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t come up for air, and your brain is mush over him, his lips slurping your quivering cunt. A buzzing intensity courses through your twitching stomach. You rut your hips against his mouth, and he maintains his position while you use him. You’re grinding on his tongue, absent-mindedly biting your lips and mewling endlessly as you bring yourself closer to climax. He hums while sucking the nub and the vibrations make you cry out.

“Wrio, ‘m coming” you whine. You hump his mouth until you come undone in a pulsating finish. His hands restrain you, greedily devouring the newly found honey as it pours out. You ride it through while he curls the tip of his tongue at your opening. Without warning, you feel the pink muscle push in your recovering vulva. “S-Shit, Wrio” you whimper, trembling on him as he drives inside. He seizes the back of your thighs and begins to bounce you up and down the mushy appendage slowly stretching you. The sensation is overwhelming, his nose skims your oversensitive clit each time you drop, and you sob. Wriothesley moves faster, your hands entangle in his hair. You babble please’s repeatedly, gazing sensually at each other as the coil winds in your gut. More, more. Then it snaps, an abrupt shock, clenching on his tongue as you cream. He raises your lower half; the wetness collecting in your convulsing heat makes his cock strain more than it already suffered.

“Such a cute slut” Wriothesley husks. Your numb legs can’t navigate on their own, so he places you on your stomach. “We’re not done.” He springs his throbbing length free. The veins are consistent, prominent up his shaft to the angry red crown—9 inches begging to be inside you. Fresh precome trickles down his tip and he sighs at the bloated pain in his hefty balls. You arch your back, presenting yourself to his awaiting size. When he doesn’t enter you turn to him impatiently and he smirks.

“Put it in” you whine. Wriothesley spreads your backside, and watches you clench around the ghost of him. He glazes himself with your slick, and moans from the feeling of your puffy lips cuddling his cock. “It’s not every day a fan gets to sleep with me. Be grateful.” he teases. He pumps through your squashed thighs, the head prodding your nub while he forces your chest flush with the bed. After he thoroughly coats himself, he nudges the bulbous tip to your entrance.

Wriothesley sinks into your sex. You’re gripping him like a vice despite the searing soreness of your body accommodating the scale. The fevered sleeve nearly makes him crash to the hilt, but he stutters gradually to relieve your discomfort. He hits the base and shudders. You feel unbelievably stuffed, as if it’s squirming in your cervix. Then he starts at a savage pace. He’s using you like a flesh-light, balls smacking your overwhelmed tender nub with a carnal impulse. His moans spill uncontrollably as he watches your rippling ass and viscous webs blend together, clinging to his cock and forming a cloudy froth at the base. Your knuckles turn white on the sheets; you can’t think or feel anything that isn’t him, core surging with intense want.

“Fuck, you’re so tight, gonna snap my dick off. Ah- gonna make sure you can’t walk t-tomorrow. Then- hah- then you won’t be able to find anyone who fucks you like this, who makes you come like this.” He’s rambling and stuttering, completely incoherent the closer he gets. He glances at the mirror, then at you. You feel your hair jerked back by his massive hand, and lock eyes with Wriothesley in his drunken haze. “Stop, it’s embarrassing!” you slur. You’re both sheened with sweat, disheveled bodies satiating the hunger in any way you can.

“Shh, you hear that?” The squelching slam of passion echoes in the room, sopping down your leg through his pummeling thrusts. Your back bends unnaturally as though it were folded in half. “You’re so fucking hot, so needy for me.” His veins adorn your walls, you start to tear up from the mixture of pleasure and pain. He notices your tears and holds you up so that your back is flush with his chest.

“It hurts?” he questions, stalling his movement. You feel him twitch. “No, feels s’good Wrio. More” you mewl. He chuckles, and gently wraps his hand around your throat before pumping again.

“Too good? Am I the best you’ve ever had? Say it.” He moves faster, free hand rubbing your clit. Your knees buckle and eyes roll back to your skull, he takes in the scene of your convulsing figure in the mirror. “S’best I’ve ever had, please ‘m so close!” you rasp, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. He chases his high, panting animalistically in your ear.

“Shit- look how desperate you are. Want me to come inside? Y-yea, I bet you fucking do”

“‘M coming!” you babble.

“Good. Make a mess.” he commands. Fire trails up your limbs, and you tighten before falling apart. Fluttering around him, taking him deeper while you come on his sack. Wriothesley pursues his sputtering hips, spurting thick globs that paint you white. He whimpers as you milk his spasming length dry and presses tired kisses along your shoulder blade. When he comes down from his apex, he turns you over on your back. It’s hard for him to not be proud of your boneless existence sprawled on his bed. You’re both breathing hard in silence, and he leaves for a couple minutes. You’re stunned when he returns with a damp rag to clean you up, and some dark substance in a mug.

You find the strength to sit up while he wipes your lower areas. “Where are my clothes?”

“...For what?” he mumbles.

“To leave?” It seemed like common sense to you—boxers usually don’t go for long-term relationships, and so you assumed it to be a one-night stand. You dip over the edge of the bed and locate your skirt, but Wriothesely hops up and snatches it before you can. “I’ll put it in the wash. Relax.”

“I didn’t know you were so hospitable. Do you do this for every girl?” you tease. He gets visibly upset, and shoves the cup from the dresser in your hands. “Don’t piss me off. Now, drink. I’ll order food.”

Multicolored sunset flaking through the sheer curtains frames his stature while he’s on the phone. You sip the tea, it’s a vile grainy taste. For a moment you imagine what life could be like with him by your side—poor quality tea and an awful temper. In your pleasant aftermath, it doesn’t seem bad at all.

#genshin smut #genshin au #wriothesley smut #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley genshin #wriothesley headcanons #wriothesley #fontaine #genshin x reader #genshin impact

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costelloschoice · 3 months

Text

Jealously, Jealously

-Mizu x fem! reader

-angsty, fluff at the end

-reblogs and comments are appreciated :]

She couldn’t stand the sound of his laughter with yours.

Was he really that funny? It doesn’t seem like it to her...What was he doing that was so funny anyways? Pathetic jokes? Purposefully bad techniques? He sees the way you looked at Mizu with such adoration and love, maybe he was trying to feel that to fill the void of missing Akemi.

Mizu kept you close, but Taigen closer. She didn't trust him one bit. Of course, she loved to see you happy. Mizu doesn't mind you joking around with Ringo. Maybe it was the past issues with the other samurai that was making her feel this way.

Mizu sighed, viewing the next city they have to travel to from a hill top distance. The winter air was harsh, yet she didn't mind. She knew she was being distant from you, but she couldn't help it. The blue eyed girl shut herself out time to time, making it hard to communicate with you. She was snapped out of her thoughts when she heard snow crunching behind her. It was you.

"Mizu, are you okay? You've been distant lately..." You asked. She only nodded, "Yeah, I'm fine..." This only made you frown.

"You're lying...I can tell.." you huffed. This only made her more agitated with you. Mizu loves you, yes...but this all-knowing attitude is one she can't stand. The samurai rolled her eyes, snapping at you, "I said I'm fucking fine...Why don't you go flirt with Taigen some more, hm?" she snapped, making you go wide eyed before she stormed away.

As she stormed into the nearby forest, she instantly regretted what she said to you. She cursed herself for even raising her voice at you, something she swore to never do. God, Mizu felt pathetic, how could she just you leave you like this? You were her love, her pearl...And all of this animosity over Taigen? God, how could she be so stupid? Eiji would be so disappointed from how childish she was acting.

But stuck her on pride, she didn't apologize right away. She wanted to cool down before speaking to you.

It was dark by the time she decided to come find you. Ringo sat by the fire, trying to wash the dishes from dinner. "Hey Ringo...Do you know where-" she started but soon cut off.

"You were very rude...She doesn't wish to speak with you," he said firmly, a frown on his face. Mizu sighed, if Ringo was mad at her...She knows she was wrong. "Please...I want to apologize. I was out of line for what I said. Please understand..."

He sighed, shaking his head. Mizu was his master after all and should help her mend things with you. "She's in her tent..." Ringo said before continuing to wash the dishes. Mizu thanked him and went to your tent.

Mizu heard sniffling as she saw you laying on the floor of the tent, "Ringo, I told you I don't need anything" you sighed, sitting up. Once you do, your faced with your girlfriend.

"My pearl...Please, I'm so sorry for what I said and how I acted," Mizu started off, coming into the tent. You scoffed and folded your arms across your chest, almost like you were in defense mode. "I know I said hurtful things. I regret saying them to you. I-I was so upset from the attention you're getting from Taigen-"

"He's my friend! Why is that so bad?!"

"I get that but Taigen is not trustworthy! He constantly tries to flirt with you and threatens to kill me in a duel!"

"No he isn't, we're just friends!...Are you jealous?"

"Yes! Yes I am!" Mizu shouted, feeling angry at the outcome of this talk. You look at her with a confused look on your face. She was jealous?

"Mizu...Talk to me...Why don't you like Taigen. The real reason.." You said softly, taking her hands into yours. She sighed, breathe shaky. Mizu hated one thing and that was opening up and letting someone in, letting someone see the real her. Mizu looked into your eyes before starting.

"When I was a child, you know I was bullied by the neighborhood kids? Yeah, Taigen was their ringleader. He made sure to make my life hell when I was living on the streets. Like a dog that ate scraps in the alleyway...A part of me is thankful he isn't rude to you at all, but I can't help but still let that hurt child in me make my adult decisions..." Mizu admitted, looking at you with sad puppy dog eyes.

You sighed, "Mizu..I didn't know. I wish you would tell me. I need to know these things to understand," you said softly, a hand caressing Mizu's cheek. "I know...but it's hard," she mumbled feeling terrible.

"I know, but I'm your girlfriend now...You have to open up and tell me these things," You chuckled, moving to hug her. Mizu immediately accepted the hug, wanting to feel secure in your arms. "My love, I'll talk to talk Taigen... I don't want to continue hurting your feelings. Thank you for opening up.."

"Thank you for listening to me...I'm sorry I swore and raised my voice at you," Mizu mumbled, curling up in your lap. "Oh I'm still upset you swore at me...but some kisses will help," You giggled, making Mizu attack you with kisses all over your face.

#bes #bes mizu #mizu x reader #mizu blue eye samurai #mizu #mizu x you #blue eye samurai #blue eye samurai x reader #blue eye samurai x you #wlw

248 notes · View notes

jeonqkooks · 1 year

Note

hello, my angel! congrats on your anniversary for starters hehehehe, i love you!

for the drabbles requests, could you do:

21 and 41 - smut

8 and 9 - fluff

thank you 🥰

velvet cherry | jjk (m.)

pairing: jungkook x reader

prompts: "call me that again." + "lay down and stay still."

rating: 18+ (minors dni)

genre: exes to lovers (??), agent/spy au (idk it's pretty vague but all you need to know is that their profession is smth like this!), some fluff, some angst, definitely smut

warnings: mentions of injuries, mentions of violence (gunshots, blood), mentions of death, cursing, shower sex, unprotected sex (this is fictional. don't do it irl, be smart dudes), fingering, a lil dirty talk, UNEDITED bc i'm a menace :p

word count: 5.9k

note: pauli bby!! thank you for the request hehehe. the initial idea i had for this request was different but i was watching bad and crazy (kdrama) and every time lee dong wook has an action scene i'm just sitting there in front of my laptop, full on thirsting bc 🤤🥵 and i just had to channel it into this piece!!

— as always, i’d appreciate any thoughts or comments you may have, and please drop a like and/or reblog if you enjoy reading ♡

Everyone is yelling, screaming. Even the force trying to shake you into consciousness practically shouting in your face. Your head feels like it’s been split into two even without all of the loud noises threatening to deafen you. Your body hurts. You’ve definitely bruised your ribs, if they aren’t already broken. Even your face, which remains unmoving, aches from the simple act of breathing.

Inhale. One, two, three…

Exhale. One, two, three…

Stay alive.

It would kind of really suck if you died right now.

Embarrassing, even.

“C’mon, c’mon, wake up! Y/N!”

Huh? You know that voice.

It feels like your eyes have been glued shut, but that voice is so familiar that your lids wrestle with weariness to get a look. It can’t be him, can it? How would he even know that you were here?

Does that mean this is heaven? Or the void, or wherever the fuck it is that people often preach about? You have never believed in an afterlife because any and all life ends after death. Your soul doesn’t enter another spiritual plane of existence; you just simply cease to exist. This has always been your stance on the matter, but now, as you listen to that voice desperately cursing out your name, you waver.

Because that’s the only way you can explain why he’s here.

Oh, so you did die?

“Y/N!”

Heaven, or the void, or wherever the fuck this is, sure is loud.

You force your eyes open despite the debilitating exhaustion eating away at you. It takes a moment for your vision to adjust to your poorly lit surroundings. From the corner of your eye, you see small fireworks erupting before their booming echoes reverberate throughout the room. The lead projectiles whiz above your head, right behind the silhouette of him hovering over you, calling for you, shielding you.

Once his face becomes your focal point, everything around you staticizes. You can’t find it in yourself to care about the screams, nor the gunshots, or even the gash in your side where a knife grazed you earlier.

Not when he’s looking at you like that. Like if you were to die, there’s not a single part of him that would hesitate to follow.

“I thought I recognized th–that voice.” You cough, feeling the cut on your lips open wider. You hadn’t noticed the metallic taste on your tongue until now. “Funny seeing you here, Jeon.”

The feeling in the pit of your stomach thickens. It could be relief, or it could be dread. The lights go out before you get a chance to decipher which one it is.

The next time you wake, you jolt upright with a gasp.

“Ah, shit,” you instantly groan; it feels like something sharp is jabbing into your abdomen. You brush your hand over the spot to find smears of crimson on your clothes, but the wound underneath doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore.

Where the fuck is it now?

Your frantic eyes scan the room, expecting to find yourself still in that warehouse, hopelessly holding on for life while your teammates get killed one by one.

But you aren’t there anymore. There aren’t bodies scattered all around you nor bloodstains splattered carelessly on peeling walls.

No, where you are smells like jasmine and fresh cotton. It’s warm and bright, and it’s filled with framed photos of a familiar dog that you once loved even more than his owner. The couch beneath you feels like a cloud carrying you through the pearly gates.

Arguably, this seems more like heaven. Or is it a twisted version hell? It feels like a stretch that someone like you could get into heaven, if there even is one.

“Welcome back, sleeping beauty.” His voice from behind startles you into action. You spring from the couch, or more like, you clumsily jump up only to be met with white hot pain that courses through your entire left side, and fall down onto the sofa again.

“Fuck!” you hiss through gritted teeth.

He rushes over, almost dropping the mug he was holding in his hand. “Shit, I’m sorry.”

Apologetic hands help you into a proper sitting position. You don’t know why or how, but it really is him.

Jeon Jungkook, what a sight for sore eyes.

The discomfort you feel in your body takes a backseat momentarily as you stare at him and his beautiful doe eyes, shimmering with concern though it’s now much more diluted than before. He examines the stitches on your forehead and your side, it’s been a while since he’s done this.

“Y/N, are you okay?”

You snap back into reality at the sound of this.

Fuck! How could it have possibly slipped your mind?

Your words come out in an uneasy rush. “Where’s Namjoon and the others?”

Jungkook stares at you, tongue in cheek, blinking in mild disbelief. Of course the first question you ask is about your team. You haven’t changed, he sees. “They’re at the hospital. They’re fine,” he says.

You close your eyes and heave a heavy sigh, visibly relaxing at his confirmation. When you turn to him again, you ask, “Where are we?”

“My apartment.”

“Why? Why am I not at the hospital with them?”

“You don’t remember?”

The confused look on your face tells him as much.

“You woke up while they were stitching you up. Nearly made a scene and everything. You kept saying you wanted to go home, but your place was trashed so I… brought you here.”

You wonder if you had actually demanded to be brought to his place specifically, after seeing him when you were so delirious before. You wonder if he’s just sparing you the embarrassment. “Oh,” you say simply, glancing around the room. You haven’t been here in a long time, but most of the things here are still the same.

“You haven’t answered my question. How are you feeling? Are you okay?”

You shrug, ignoring the throbbing pain that has dulled into a perpetual pinch in your side. “Of course I’m okay. Still alive and kicking.”

Jungkook’s brows furrow just the slightest. “You almost died tonight.”

“But I didn’t die, did I?”

“Why are you acting like it’s no big deal?”

Nostalgia washes over you in waves. You’ve had the same conversation a million times before.

“Because it isn’t that big a deal,” you say, feeling the urge to coat your words in a thick layer of bravery. “It’s not my first rodeo.”

“And that’s supposed to make it better? You could’ve died!”

“What is up your ass?” you ask jokingly, but it doesn’t sound right even to your ears. “You keep pushing it like you wanted me to die.”

Jungkook stares at you blankly, but you can tell that he’s agitated by your flippant attitude. You regret the words the very second you said them.

“That’s not funny,” he says, his voice strained.

Slightly ashamed, you look down at your hands and fiddle with your grimy fingers. “Y–yeah, I’m sorry. That was… too far.”

There’s a bitter taste in your mouth as you watch him grit his teeth and attempt to exhale a steady breath. It comes out a little shaky, a sign of his frustration. He takes a few minutes to calm his nerves while you sit there in silence, not usually tongue tied around him but even you know that what you just told him was pretty fucked up.

Finally, Jungkook says, “Get some rest. You had a long day.” He goes to help you up without you asking, still so considerate even when he’s trying to not be angry at you, but that’s not what you need right now.

“Can I take a shower first?” you ask.

“You just got your stitches a couple hours ago. You can shower in the morning.”

“I know. It’s… I’m covered in blood and dirt. I’d really like to wash it off.”

He looks at you as he considers it. This isn’t Jungkook’s first rodeo either. He had to deal with you countless times like this, when you’re freshly wounded but you don’t seem to give a damn about doing things that might hurt you even more.

“Suit yourself. You know where the bathroom is.”

You mutter a thanks as you let him pull you up from the cloud that he calls a couch. You could feel his eyes on you as you wobble to your desired destination, but even the short distance between his living room and bathroom proves to be a whole trek in your current condition. You’re surprised that you even made it to the hall when your legs finally gave out on you. You brace yourself against the wall, but one of Jungkook’s strong arms is already wrapped around your waist, steadying you before you could collapse.

“You should get some sleep. You can barely walk,” he urges gently.

“I feel like shit, Jeon,” you tell him. “I won’t be able to get any rest like this.”

“Y/N–”

“We both know you’re not talking me out of it. You can choose if you’re gonna help me or not, though.”

“You want me to help you… shower?”

“Will you?”

He won’t, you’re sure of this. Jungkook isn’t teasing or frivolous as you are. He doesn’t go around testing people’s patience like you do. The relationship didn’t end on bad terms, and you think he has deliberately kept it that way because you have to see each other at work so often, even though you’re assigned to different teams. You want to keep things light, to joke around with him, to essentially still be you and him minus the romance but Jungkook keeps you at arm’s length. And if you’re honest, you can’t blame him for that. That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t suck sometimes; you used to love him after all.

He looks pensive for a moment, and you don’t know why he’s even pretending to consider it when he’ll just say no anyway. You’re prepared for him to reject you and leave you to your own devices, but then–

“Fine,” Jungkook says, voice flat, eyes blank. “C’mon, I’ll help you.” It surprises you into complete stillness, wondering if the doctors and nurses fucked up when they were stitching up your head. The man in front of you raises an eyebrow when you don’t respond to him, as if he’s challenging you, which staggers you even more because he usually doesn’t entertain your outrageous ideas like this. Especially not after you parted ways.

You blink a couple of times and find your voice from where it’s stuck to the back of your throat. “Okay then. Lead the way.”

Jungkook guides you down the hall and into the bathroom. You think he’s just baiting you, challenging you back to see if you would actually be okay with hopping into the shower with your ex because even though it isn’t that scandalous of an idea to you, it is to Jungkook. You expect him to back out any second now, but once you’re standing under the warm white light of his bathroom, he asks if he could take off your clothes.

Have you underestimated him?

You nod your head, eyeing him with a smug smile tugging at the corner of your lips and a barely-there layer of underlying nervousness. His face gives nothing away. So you two are really going to do this, huh?

Jungkook peels off your bloodied shirt, careful not to let his fingers brush against your skin though they will have to in just a few minutes. He averts his gaze as he helps you step out of your clothes until you’re completely bare.

You mistake his reluctant eye contact for shyness. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before,” you joke.

True.

But no, that’s not the reason why he refuses to look at you.

He hated seeing you in pain, covered in bruises and cuts. It’s why the two of you broke up. You were too stubborn to quit, and he couldn’t stand watching you treat yourself like mere collateral damage, as long as you get the job done.

It wasn’t that you couldn’t take care of yourself. In a lot of ways, you’re far more capable and skilled than he is. But sometimes you can be reckless, a little too hot headed for your own good, a little too heedless of your own safety than he can handle.

He loved that you were remarkable at what you do; it’s what drew him to you in the first place. When you used to spar together, at the beginning of your relationship, he loved that you could kick his ass so easily. Sometimes, even on his best days, he was still no match for you.

But what’s the point in dwelling? None of that matters anymore.

Jungkook takes off his own clothes then, and you resist the urge to focus on his body too much. He’s gotten even more muscular than the last time you got to see him naked. Hard pecs that are practically popping in your face, solid abs that demand to be touched… Well, this is going to be… interesting.

He tests the water first before he lets you go in. When you finally do, you sigh as the warm water rains down on your skin, enveloping you in a liquified blanket of comfort. You’re trying not to let your eyes wander, you really are.

You hum happily when he smooths the shampoo over your hair. As his fingers massage your scalp gently, a soft moan escapes your throat. The sound travels straight to his groin, making him stiffen just a little bit and poke into your thigh. You bite your bottom lip to suppress a giggle but Jungkook just clears his throat awkwardly. Getting a boner feels inappropriate in a moment like this, when you’re his ex and you had nearly died earlier tonight.

But he isn’t responsible for the way his body chooses to react, not really. You’re showering together, for fuck’s sake. Though to be fair, he has no one to blame but himself for this irrational decision.

When he lathers you up with his body wash, you decide to do it again, just to tease him. As his hands start kneading one of your breasts, you let out a slightly exaggerated moan.

He knows you’re doing it on purpose, but his dick is stupid and it hardens regardless. “Quit it,” Jungkook says.

“Quit what?” you ask, batting your eyelashes at him coquettishly. You put a hand on his chest, then trails it lower to graze his defined abs. “You look like you’re enjoying it, no?”

He doesn’t answer you, choosing to focus on his task of washing you instead, as if ignoring you will make you stop whatever it is you’re doing.

You trace your fingers along his V-line until you wrap your hand around him, making him hiss as you touch him. You give him a few lazy pumps until his member is standing tall and proud, just for you.

“Y/N…” Jungkook grits his teeth and swallows thickly. The steam is suffocating him. You are suffocating him.

“You can tell me if you don’t want it.” You tilt your head up, letting your face inch closer to his until your breath fans his lips. You feel him grip your waist – an act of restraint – then quickly loosen his hands around your body as if he suddenly remembered that you’re still battered up. You brush your lips against his, just testing him. You both know a kiss would be so much more intimate than what you’re doing to him down there.

He parts his lips slightly, the temptation is getting too strong to resist. You cloud his judgment the same way the hot water encloses the room in a mystifying haze. He presses forward to capture your lips, only to feel himself completely melt against you in an instant.

You taste like longing, like regret. Something like a needle pierces right through his heart when you give him a needy sigh, muffled by his own lips.

He knows he shouldn’t do this, but is it a mistake? Even if it is a mistake, he can’t find it in himself to stop, now that it has already started. You’re still as alluring and captivating as ever, and he’s still the same Jungkook who always fell to his knees for you.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

“Y–you’re hurt,” Jungkook rasps. Is that the only reason? There’s no conviction behind his words and he knows you know it. If he was really against this, then he would’ve stopped you already.

“Please.” Your voice is different, desperate, when you say this. He can’t tell if you’re crying or not because of the water still glistening on your face, but it doesn’t matter. When your hand guides one of his between your legs, he squeezes his eyes shut, searching inward for that last bit of self-control that’s nowhere to be found right now. You’re so fucking slick, and as his middle finger slides through your sodden folds to find your entrance, your head falls upon his shoulder.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, barely audible to you over the sound of running water. You’re hurt. He knows he should stop, but he can’t. His thumb finds your clit in no time, and nudges it the way he remembers you liked. You choke on an exhale, now grinding against his hand and gripping his biceps to keep yourself upright. He rubs you leisurely as the water cascades down your bodies. A part of him thinks he’s twisted for enjoying the quiet whimpers you let out.

“Are you sure?” he asks, both hoping for and dreading the answer you might give him.

“Yes,” you confirm. You press his hand harder against your core, as if you’re begging him to pleasure you. “Make me feel better.”

Jungkook slides two digits into you before he slants his mouth over yours, swallowing the moan that you instantly keen out. You’re wet enough that his fingers can drive in and out of you without much mercy from the get-go. He buries them in you until he’s knuckles deep, scissoring you open how he always did to prepare you for his cock.

“Fuck, Jeon,” you purr, rolling your hips to meet the thrusts of his hand. “That’s good.”

“Yeah?” He smirks, finding that spot inside of you that never fails to make your legs shake. His strong arm holds you flush against his body as he relentlessly fingers you, absolutely loving the way your juices run down the back of his hand. There’s a sense of arrogance in the way he fucks you, even though he was hesitant about it just moments ago. The quivering moans that you grace him with are fucking addicting. At least for now, he has you. Standing in his shower, begging him for release, whispering in his ear things that he hasn’t realized how much he’s missed hearing until this very second.

His fingers ram into you until your inner walls are pulsing around him and your voice hitches beautifully. “Fuck!” you cry, holding onto him as the high crashes down on you, sending shockwaves throughout your entire body. You grind down on his hand, wanting so desperately to prolong the pleasure like you’re afraid he’ll take it away from you. Jungkook would never dream of giving you anything less than what you deserve, so he maintains the momentum of his thrusts, fucking you through your orgasm even when you clench so tightly around his digits that it becomes more difficult to move. He helps you through it until your breath no longer comes out in heavy pants, until the only stars you see are the ones in his eyes.

As he withdraws his fingers, you give him a chaste kiss as if to say thank you. He doesn’t expect anything more; it’s enough that he could give you a helping hand in your time of need, make you forget about everything even if it was only for a little while.

But then you’re deepening the kiss, one hand tugging on his hair as the other finds his hard cock again. He groans against your mouth, torn between asking you to keep going and letting you stop. “You don’t have to…” he mutters, placing a hand over yours.

“I want more,” you say breathily, but somehow it sounds almost demanding. “I want you.”

He stares at you with uncertainty in his eyes. “Are you sure you can handle it?”

Your answer comes in the form of a squeeze around his length, making his eyes flutter briefly as he rests his forehead against yours. “I can always take you.”

You watch Jungkook clench his jaw before he crashes his lips onto yours, promptly slipping his tongue into your mouth to draw the neediest of moans from you just by his kiss alone. He lifts you up by the back of your thighs and cages you between the wall and his chest. Your legs wrap around his waist as he presses his body against yours, slowly grinding his cock against your throbbing heat. You whimper when his tip nudges your sensitive clit.

“I need you,” you cry out, rutting against him desperately. He hears it then – the vulnerability in your voice that you try to mask with desire – and that’s when he thinks he gets it. You’re shaken.

You were scared tonight. That’s not something that happens very often.

He was scared too. He nearly lost his mind when he heard the news that your team was ambushed. You should’ve seen his frantic state when he raced to the scene, heart speeding a thousand miles an hour at the mere thought of something happening to you. He prayed to every god he didn’t believe in that you’d be okay, that the phone call he received minutes prior was just a sick prank someone was playing on him.

“I’ve got you,” Jungkook says, diving in to kiss you again. There’s a lot more to those words than either one of you would like to admit.

You both sigh when he pushes in, and although it’s been a long while since your bodies knew one another like this, there’s barely any resistance. He fits perfectly like you were made for each other. He’s bigger than you remember, already feeling so good inside of you that you think you could come with just a few thrusts. Instead of moving, he stays there like he wants to memorize the feeling of you, so warm around him and so inviting.

He was always the sentimental one.

“Move,” you whine, still bossy in a moment like this. He chuckles against your mouth before trailing his lips tantalizingly slowly across your jawline and down your neck to your breasts, where he sucks on your skin harshly, marking you. His hips pull back, making you moan from the delicious glide of him along your slickened walls, before they snap forward and set a pace that has your eyes rolling backward.

“Shit, nghhh…”

It’s like no time has passed at all. Jungkook still remembers everything you like, still knows your body like the back of his hand. You feel like you’re practically transcending the limits of space and time with every thrust of his hips and every motion of his mouth. The rough way that his fingers dig into your thighs to hold you up makes it so much more heightened as his lips wrap around one of your breasts, sucking it harshly into his mouth, his tongue laving at your hardened nipple. Now that you’re finally experiencing this again, you don’t know how you could go two whole years without it.

Every part of you misses him.

No one knows how to please you like he does.

“So fucking good…” Jungkook grunts, flicking your nipple with the wet muscle of his mouth. You arch your tits further into him as moans of unfiltered pleasure fall from you. Even as he fucks you into oblivion, he’s still mindful of your injuries. Strong hands kneading your skin roughly but softening when they brush over your bruised spots.

He tries not to pay much attention to your battle scars, but how could he not? He feels them under his fingertips everywhere they go. Some are from before you met him, some from after. Some he doesn’t recognize because you must have acquired them during your time apart. He always hated them. You used to tell him that you wore your scars proudly, that they are proof that you survived every horrible thing you’ve had to face.

That’s certainly one way of looking at it, but Jungkook hated them then and he hates them now. Not because he thought they made you ugly – no, nothing could make him see you as anything less than the most beautiful person he has ever laid his eyes upon – but because they remind him of all the times that you have had to suffer. They made him feel unworthy of you, for not being there to keep you safe.

But not like you would have let him anyway.

“Ah, fuck, Koo…”

His hips stutter in surprise. He’s not sure if you did it on purpose, or if it just slipped out in the heat of the moment.

“Call me that again,” Jungkook tells you. It doesn’t matter that the simple nickname brings up feelings he’s been trying so hard to suppress. It doesn’t matter that those feelings are damn close to spilling over the confines of his wretched little heart, that it will fucking hurt later when you leave He just needs to hear you say it again.

“Koo, fuck! Right there, keep doing that…”

He tears his mouth away from your chest to come up and chase your lips. His tongue slips inside to dance with yours, so much more intimate than it is dirty that it makes you dizzy beyond nostalgia. In a split second of weakness, it makes your heart want to be his once more. His thrusts are now even faster than before, harder and more calculated.

He pulls back enough to look at you and takes in the blissed look on your face, how your lips part when he hits your g-spot just right. “Y/N, I…”

“I know,” you whimper, your nails digging into his back and leaving angry red trails in their wake as they drag downward. “I’m close too.”

That’s not what he was going to say. Maybe it’s a good thing that you’re too fucked out to notice it.

“C’mon, I’ve got you,” Jungkook resorts to saying. He keeps up the rhythm of his hips, determined to give you what you want the most. He’s pounding into you so impossibly deep that you can feel him in your guts, each thrust making the base of his cock grind against your aching clit. It feels so fucking good, you can’t even see straight anymore. His hand is unknowingly digging into a bruise on your leg but the pleasure is too overwhelming that you’ve stopped caring about the discomfort. This is exactly how you wanted him to fuck you – hard enough to make you forget the pain.

It hits you even harder than before. You cum with a cry of his name as your toes curl and your body shakes in his hold, stars exploding behind your eyelids when the orgasm wracks through you like an earthquake. Jungkook’s hips never cease their movements, fucking into you until you find enough strength to squeeze your walls around him and pulls him in for a sloppy kiss. He unravels then, filling you up endlessly with his warmth that you’re sure you’ll feel for days.

You stay like that for a while, just holding each other, until he softens inside of you and you feel your releases drip down your thighs and onto the floor. The water promptly washes away the remnants of your heated session. When he slips out and helps you to your feet, you want to chase it instantly – the feeling of him, with you, where he’s supposed to be.

You aren’t fully present for everything that happens afterward. As Jungkook dries you off and dresses you, he feels something tug on his heart at the sight of you in his clothes. Your tired face and the way you lean into him, trusting him to keep you steady as he prepares you for bed. Trusting him to keep you safe, to protect you.

He can’t help it.

He tilts your head up by your chin and kisses you softly. Slow. His lips are gentle, but he’s sure of himself. This isn’t the first kiss you’ve shared tonight, but in many ways, it is.

When Jungkook pulls away, he doesn’t say anything. No excuses or explanations on why he chose to do it when the lust has waned and the moment is no longer heated enough to muddle his mind. You don’t ask for anything either; you just let him lead you into his bedroom. That doesn’t mean that you don’t want him to just tell you anyway.

He tucks you into his bed as if you’re a child. When he’s sure that you’re comfortable enough, he turns to leave.

You protest immediately. “Where are you going?”

“To the couch,” he says, like it’s obvious.

You sit up in order to push yourself from the bed, erasing his previous effort of tucking you in. “I’m not making you sleep on the couch in your own home.”

“Lay down and stay still,” Jungkook sighs before pushing you back onto the mattress again. “If I stay here with you, will you please sleep in the bed?”

You purse your lips, considering this for a moment before you compromise. “Yes.”

He turns off all the lights and makes his way to the other side of the bed, getting under the covers with you. You’re disappointed when he puts a little distance between your bodies. It’s not that you expected anything to come from your brief reunion, but your heart sinks regardless. Surely, sleeping in the same bed as your ex can’t be worse than having sex with him? You’ve already done the latter, but somehow this feels so much more intimidating.

You do what you do best when you don’t want to deal with your more difficult feelings – crack lame jokes and hope they’re enough to diffuse the tension. “Why are you so stiff? Scared that I’ll fuck you? Already did that, Jeon.”

Jungkook throws you a humorless chuckle. “Was that your plan all along? To seduce me?”

“It just happened,” you say. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure if you even wanted it before y’know… you popped a boner.”

If the silence in the room was a little bit louder, then you could probably hear the way he pauses halfway through a breath. He doesn’t entertain you for much longer, even though it feels like he’s got something on his mind.

He doesn’t ask what this means for the two of you, if it even meant anything. What’s the point in trying if the outcome is the same? His stance on the matter hasn’t changed at all. After what happened to you tonight, it just fueled him even more. He won’t deny that his feelings for you are still there, because he’d be the first to admit that they never went away to begin with. Jungkook would try, he would try for you a million times over, but in the end, where would that lead to if you wouldn’t even try for yourself? You’ll just keep breaking his heart day in and day out, over and over again if this recklessness of yours persists.

“Go to sleep, Y/N,” he says tiredly.

You bite your lip, disheartened that he’s shutting you out again, even though he has every right to. “Okay,” you mumble.

Despite the exhaustion submerging you like a tidal wave, you can’t find rest. You were conscious for barely half a minute when Jungkook found you in that abandoned warehouse, but you could hear the panic in his voice as he tried to shake you awake. He never had to find you like that before. When you were still together, every time you got hurt, you never let anyone call him until after your wounds had already been stitched up, until you were sure that you were good enough to crack a joke once he’d rushed to the hospital.

Tonight was the first time he saw you on death’s door. You didn’t know if he even cared anymore. You were scared to think that he didn’t.

But then you heard that voice of his, and you opened your eyes just long enough to see the tears fill his eyes. You were so out of it that you thought maybe, just maybe, there was a piece of his heart that still felt something for you. Something beyond just concern for an ex lover.

You don’t know how much time has passed, with you lying there staring into darkness. “Jeon, are you asleep?” you ask quietly, only to be met with silence from his side. Nothing but his steady breathing. You want him to be awake to hear you say it, though you’re not sure how you want him to react to it. The past 2 years have been hard. Your own guilt chews you up and spits you out every single day. The breakup was your fault, wasn’t it? It wasn’t just Jungkook who repeatedly expressed concerns for your safety. Your parents never wanted you to go into this line of work in the first place.

You were too selfish to really consider anyone but yourself. You and Jungkook both do the same thing – you go out and risk your lives every day. But back then, you didn’t understand why you should be the one to stop. Why not him? Why just you?

The difference between the two of you is clear as day. Jungkook knows when to stop, and you don’t. He wanted to be able to make it back home to you more than he wanted to catch a bad guy. He put you first. He put the people who loved him first.

“I think I’m going to quit.”

Your chest feels so much lighter as soon as the words leave your mouth. Something evaporates from within you, a burden that’s finally been lifted, and that’s how you know it’s the right decision. You aren’t doing it just for everyone who loves you but is terrified for your life all the time. You aren’t doing it just for Jungkook. You’re doing it for yourself too.

Peace finally finds you then, as though it’s been waiting for you this entire time.

You don’t mind that Jungkook is already asleep. You said it, and admitting to yourself that maybe it’s time to stop, is good enough. Having that conversation with him in the morning won’t be late. You’re already halfway to dreamland when you feel him right behind you, enveloping you in a warmth that’s so distinctly Jungkook. He carefully wraps an arm around you and pulls you close to his chest, close enough that it feels like his heart is beating right into yours. He sighs, like he’s wholly relieved too.

You can’t discern what he says next, but you can feel the kiss he presses against your hair.

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missmaywemeetagain · 1 year

Text

Pink Scarf - Epilogue (Elvis/Austin!Elvis x Reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Requested: kinda

(Read more here--Pink Scarf Series Masterlist!)

Prompt: You are part of Elvis Presley's coveted inner circle, and the currently-disgruntled wife of one of the members of Elvis' famous entourage, the Memphis Mafia. After Elvis' dynamite first performance in Vegas, you find yourself in deep water when his magnetism finally gets to you after all these years. [ Fem!Reader ]

TW: SEX. FLUFF (!!). Cussing. Historical inaccuracies in the Vegas timeline.

Rating: Explicit/Mature (NSFW, 18+, so minors Do NOT Interact) || Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Oh, lord, here we are. THE END. It seems highly fitting that it all comes to a close on our man's birthday. (HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ELVIS DARLIN') 💗 So here's some tooth-rotting, sexy fluff for you because I love them and I love y'all.

I have heard your requests for a paperback/ebook loud and clear (ahhh, thank you!) and can tell you I am writing bonus material as we speak and working on the process of self-publishing through Amazon. I will warn you that the physical book is gonna be HUGE (my estimate is close to 600 pages with the bonus material added 😂), but that does mean the cost of the physical book will be a little spendy (not outrageous or anything) because of the cost of printing. Just wanted to let you know in advance!

Also, I know in the past that people were interested in me dropping in for a Q & A type thing on Discord or Twitter Spaces to talk about Pink Scarf...is this something y'all are interested in still? (If not, totally okay!) Let me know in the comments if that sounds like something you'd want!

I sincerely hope y'all will stick around for my next projects as I try to get my writing career off the ground. I'm hoping to soon have a website and an Amazon page up and running soonish so you can follow my other works. I'll keep you posted! Y'all are the OG's and the best fans a girl could ask for! 💗

If you so desire, you should now have the ability to tip my blog or different chapters in the story! Of course, no one is obligated to do so! If you do choose to tip, thank you so much! I've never had anyone want to pay for my work before, so this is a big step towards my romance novelist dreams. 💜

Finally, and I can't say this enough, I am so FREAKIN' GRATEFUL for every single one of you babies, honeys, and lil' mamas supporting me out there, YOU ARE EXTRAORDINARY! I didn't in a million years expect this kind of support and response for Pink Scarf, and your reactions, reblogs, messages, asks, and comments you've given me have been a blessing beyond expression. You all are the best community a writer could ask for! Thank you so much for your support and generosity. I am loving getting to know y'all better! I love every single reaction and comment and ask, and I'm sorry if I don't get back to them all as soon as I'd like but know that I love you all and am so excited to be making new friends! And a big "Hey, Y'all!" to our friends from Elvis Twitter, Elvis Discord, and Elvis Instagram--I see and appreciate you coming over to join us! 👀💋

I also want to give a special shout out to my flower, Daisy, @powerofelvis for keeping me sane (relatively lol) and on track throughout this whole process. Thank you for all your encouragement and love (and for listening to me scream into the void), baby! 💜

If you feel so moved, please let me know what you think or how you're feeling (or send me asks)! I know I'm terribly slow at getting to them but I love every single one!

I imagined this with Elvis in mind, but Austin!Elvis works here, too, whatever floats your boat!

Apologies in advance if there are any grammatical errors or TW that I didn't catch.

(I did start cross-posting Pink Scarf to my AO3 account, as well as my NEW Wattpad account. so if you are so inclined, you can check it out/support me over there with kudos and votes and whatnot!)

Graceland, New Year’s Eve, 1969

The mansion you now call home still sparkles with Christmas decorations as you make your way through the throng of friends and visitors, smiling and laughing, sipping on a delicious champagne that you are positive is ridiculously expensive for the way it melts on your tongue. Everyone is rested and in great spirits, as 1969 was a monumentally successful year for Elvis Presley Enterprises and all those involved.

For you, it’s been a monumental year in many ways. You would never have imagined six months ago that by the end of the year you’d be in the midst of divorcing Jack, preparing for your new career as a backup singer, and moving into Graceland with Elvis, who you are wildly, madly in love with.

A whirlwind, to say the least.

Speak of the devil, you feel that telltale rise of goosebumps on your skin, that magical sixth sense you are now so aware of when you know that Elvis is watching you. You turn from your conversation with Joe and his wife Joanie to find Elvis gazing at you from across the living room with a dangerously coy smile playing on his lips and that unmistakable glint in his eyes. The heat of the look sets your body aflame, a flush rising quickly to your cheeks.

Lord in heaven, this man, you think, giving him a furrow of your brow and a disbelieving look back, only this man would be so bold as to want to take me in the middle of a party at his own damn house.

But damn it if he doesn’t even waver, completely uncaring that any of the guests might see the blatantly sexual, heated intensity of his stare. He calls it “that lean and hungry look,” and you cannot help the shiver that cascades down your spine because you know he’s about to eat you alive, party be damned.

And sure enough, he strides across the room as if no one else is here, and saying nothing at all, grabs your hand and yanks you away from your conversation. You briefly catch the look of surprise from Joanie and Joe’s smirk before being whisked away.

“Elvis!” you whisper loudly enough for him to hear you, “We have guests!” You manage to set your champagne flute on a nearby table before doubling your steps to try and keep up with his long strides.

He gives no indication of hearing you, though you know he has. But he is singularly focused, which sends warmth into your core and wetness already pooling in your panties because you know what’s coming.

He surprises you by not even making it up the stairs to the bedroom, instead pulling you into the half bathroom on the lower level. You yelp at the change in direction and then he’s slamming you up against the door while locking it at the same time.

Your yelp quickly turns into a quiet moan because his large hands and luscious mouth are suddenly everywhere, all at once. His lips crush into yours, then burn down your neck, sending fire into your belly, and you can’t help but respond. Your hands fly to his head, raking through his scalp. His hand grips the outside of your bare thigh, hitching it up to his waist, his hand slipping under the hem of your dress.

He rolls his pelvis slowly and deliberately into yours. He’s already rock hard, and the sensation of his bulge pressing into your core through his pants has you groaning a little too loud, considering you have a house full of people. Elvis doesn’t say a word though, he just smirks and places a ring-clad hand over your mouth.

That action alone has you melting into a puddle because you know, you just know how he’s going to take you: quick and dirty.

“You better be quiet, lil’ mama, or ev’ryone’s gonna know I’m fuckin’ ya senseless,” he whispers, his hot breath tickling the shell of your ear. You can smell the musk of arousal on him, the pheromones so strong they are nearly dizzying. He nibbles the lobe of your ear possessively. This action coupled with his words sends sparks showering through you.

You think you might come apart already, and he’s barely touched you.

His brilliant blues are blown black when he draws away. Free hand snaking up your thigh, his fingers first dance over your soaked panties, then dip them underneath the delicate fabric to graze up through your folds and straight to your clit.

Your eyes roll back, his hand muffling the moans that escape your throat involuntarily. He’s so worked up already, he doesn’t tease you long. Two long fingers plunge knuckle deep into your wet heat, the cold edges of his rings making you squirm a little at the intrusion. You begin panting into his hand as he so expertly thrusts and curves them to give you the maximum amount of pleasure as he stretches you out.

This doesn’t last long, though. He’s too far gone and much too needy for foreplay. A deeply primal instinct has taken over the man you love—you can see it written all over his handsome face. And you welcome it, even as you whimper at the loss of his digits when he unceremoniously pulls them out of you. You welcome it as he spins you around, pushing you up against the door. You welcome it gladly as he hikes your dress up to your waist and rips your lacy panties right off your body.

You gasp, hearing the tearing of fabric as your flushed cheek is pressed into the wood of the door, shivering both from the exposure of the air on your bare ass and for what you know is next. Soon after, you hear the clink of his heavy belt and the woosh of his pants as they thump to the floor and then he’s filling you so completely that you are clawing at the door for purchase.

He can’t stop the growl that comes from within when he sinks deep inside you to the hilt, bottoming out quickly. He’s impatient and does not linger, however, instead pulling back and thrusting into you hard, gripping your hips like his life depends on it.

You manage to keep your gasps quiet as he sets a relentless pace. Your entire body tingles, the obscene sounds from your joining sending you hurtling towards the edge of your own release. He knows your body so well, rubbing desperate circles on your clit that, along with the way he’s filling you, already has your legs shaking and abdomen tensing with pleasure.

Neither of you are going to last long. It’s evident as your breathing speeds up and the coil in your belly snaps, causing you to hit your climax hard with a strangled cry. The wave crests fast,and your walls tense and flutter around him. You love how he still can make you see stars, even in these circumstances. His hips stutter, the rhythm faltering, and he follows soon after you with a relieved and gracious groan, pulsing and coating your walls with his arousal.

Heavy breathing is the only sound in the tiny space. Elvis envelops you from behind, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into your hair as he pulls you close. You live for these moments when he’s stripped vulnerable, his love so evident and overflowing, making even a bathroom quickie more like making love than you’d had in over a decade of marriage.

You sigh into him, and he kisses the back of your head. “Sorry about your panties, baby,” he whispers almost bashfully into your ear.

You can’t help but laugh, “At the rate you go through ruining them, you might as well just buy me the whole store, love.”

Elvis pulls out and turns you around, grasping your chin before pulling you into a deep kiss. It has you melting into his arms, but you know you can’t stay there long, not with a house full of people.

The swell of love you feel for this wonderful, talented, charismatic man is incredible. So many years of shared history has made it easy to slip into a comfortable life with him, so much so that you almost forget what your life was like before. It’s not without its challenges, certainly. He is still mercurial, and you still get locked up in your own head sometimes. The both of you are stubborn as hell, especially now that you’ve taken more agency for yourself in this relationship, more than you ever had with Jack.

As you pull apart and clean up, you feel incredibly lucky that things have worked out the way they have, despite so many years of struggles to make your way to each other.

Once put back together (though sure some of your guests will know exactly what was going on in the bathroom), you reach for the door. Elvis stops you.

“I was gonna wait ‘til midnight and make it a big thing, but I just can’t,” he drawls behind you.

“Wait for what?” you ask quizzically, turning around.

You gasp and your heart begins to gallop in your chest as you watch him sink to one knee as best he can in the tiny space. He pulls a little black box from his pocket. You’re afraid your heart might flutter right out of your body at the sight of it.

“You make me a better man, baby. I love you so much it hurts sometimes, and I thank God every day that He put you in my life. I can’t imagine tryin’ to go another day without you by my side. Now, I know it feels real soon, but if we’re honest, it’s been a long time comin’, and I-I-I know you’re still in the middle of the divorce and all, but y/n, would you do me the honor of bein’ my wife?” Elvis asks, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Your heart drops into your stomach. It’s both exhilaration and trepidation all at once, flooding every part of you. Part of you screams with excitement: Of course! Of course! Of course, I’ll be your wife!

But another part is filled with latent fear—fear of being consumed by another marriage so soon, still afraid that this man before you will love you and leave you like the rest. Elvis had said many times over the years that he wasn’t really interested in marriage, and you can’t help but think of that in this moment, as much as you don’t want to.

“Elvis,” you manage to breathe, “I thought…I thought you said you weren’t the ‘marrying kind’? That you didn’t want to be tied down? Are you…are you sure?”

You watch something flash in his eyes for a moment before he looks up at you again. He stands and takes your hands in his. “I-I said that cuz I didn’t think I could ever have you. I knew I couldn’t marry anyone else, wouldn’t be right. You’re the only one I ever truly wanted. I-I-I…you’re my soulmate, y/n. It’s only ever been you, honey,” he says quietly, laying it all out for you, as he pushes an errant strand of your hair behind your ear.

A happy tear trickles down your face. You know he loves you—he tells you every day. But this is so much more than that. You didn’t realize he’d put his entire life on hold for you like this. His soulmate.

As much as it scares you, you know it’s true. He’s right. This inexplicable pull that’s been between the two of you for all this time, the pull you tried so desperately to ignore and forget for so many years, is stronger than anything you’ve ever felt for anyone in your life. Every cell in your body yearns for him, and he feels like home. You fit together perfectly. Now that you’re finally in sync, everything just works.

You cannot ignore the truth that finding your way to each other after all these years feels utterly meant to be. He is there when you need him. He brings out a side of you that you never knew existed—in the bedroom, with your music, your unyielding love for him, even in the hardest moments.

The way he gazes at you now, full of hope and love, makes your knees weak. But part of you is still scared that it’s too soon, that you’ll lose yourself all over again.

Elvis reads your mind, sensing your doubts in that intuitive way of his. “The wedding part doesn’t hafta be right away…I know we gotta wait for the divorce to be final anyway. But whenever you’re ready, whenever you’re comfortable, I’ll be here,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours.

This sends a sense of relief through you, a release of pressure. Finally, you find your voice. “Let me be your everything?” you whisper, taking his face in your hands, your eyes searching his deep and worldly ones.

Elvis knows what you are asking of him, and he doesn’t think twice. His lips curl up into that beautiful grin of his as he nods. “Yes, everything,” he says back.

“Then yes, yes, I will be your wife,” you laugh, through more happy tears.

“Yes?” he asks joyfully, just to be sure.

“Yes!” you squeal as he scoops you up in his arms, pressing his pliant and soft lips to yours.

His hands shake adorably when he slides the tasteful yet extravagantly sized diamond on your ring finger.

And it sits perfectly, as though his ring was always meant to be there. You both stare at it for a moment, your hand resting on top of his.

Squeezing your hand, Elvis looks at you with a boyish kind of awe. “Are you happy, baby?” he asks quietly, his long lashes fanning out as he runs his eyes over your face.

A moment of déjà vu hits you. He’s asked you this before, many different times, and those moments flash through your head, reminding you of your deep history together. The history you now remember and share.

All he’s ever really wanted to do is make me happy, you realize. The thought sends warmth blooming through you.

You look up at him, into that handsome face that you want to spend eternity with. “Oh, I’m more than happy, my love,” you respond. And you are. So much so, you almost don’t believe it. Then you pull him down for a sweet, soft kiss. He drinks you in as if you are oxygen, bringing you closer.

“Are you happy?” you ask as you nuzzle his nose.

“Darlin’, I’m so happy I wanna sing from the rooftop,” he drawls, grabbing your ass. “I’ll marry ya right here in this damn bathroom, if I gotta. Gonna make you Mrs. Y/n Presley. Then I wanna parade you around and let everyone know you’re mine.” He almost growls the last part and presses his long body into yours.

You laugh. “Well, I don’t think we have to resort to getting married in the bathroom, but Mrs. Y/n Presley has quite the nice ring to it,” you say, smiling, putting your hands in his back pockets.

“I love you,” Elvis says unabashedly, suddenly serious.

“I love you, too,” you whisper, kissing him again. “Now let’s go tell everyone how I’m gonna make an honest man out of you.”

He laughs at that, a big and boisterous sound that makes your own heart sing.

And it will do so for the rest of your days.

*THE END*

Please let me know in the comments/DMs/asks if you are interested in me doing a Pink Scarf Q & A type thing on Discord/Spaces! 💗🧣💗

Taglist:

@atombombbibunny @yesimwriting @uselessbutinteresting @mirandastuckinthe80s @dark-as-love

@domaniquessidehoe @im-lame-irl @allybrooke05 @hangmanswhore

@jazmin2211 @kvcssghbjbcd @coldonexx @dudinhahoff @whatstruthgottodowithit @tiredbuthappy @amiets2 @saintmagx

@kvcssghbjbcd @butlersluvbot @babydollie43 @vainbimbo @meladollsims @wstelandbaby @dre6ming @normatural @ash-omalley @xcallmetaniax @galvz-42 @thejezebel @fullmetal-falcon @robinismywife @dre6ming @seaweedbrain00 @amiets2 @mslizziesblog @heisatroubleinapinksuit @calusussss @dont-feel-so-good-peter @rainydayz101 @pizzaisrelationshipgoals

@liaaacantwrite @kittenlittle24 @kaitaesupremacy @butler-trouble @eliseinmemphis @russian-soft-bitch @tattywood

@sassanoe @re3kin @thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle @carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23 @ab4eva

@fic-over-cannon @lacyluver @littlebitofgreen @paigevis @godlypresley @bugg06 @xhannahbananax03

Reblogs, likes, comments + feedback are extremely appreciated! Please help support your content creators!

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someone-elsa · 4 months

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Simblr Gratitude Day

Okay it was "officially" yesterday I think but I'm an Internet Explorer and tbf, everyday should be a Simblr Gratitude Day!

I want to give a shout-out to

@merrymomo @tipsy-clouds @cherisim @helloavocadooo @xlkdx @peacemaker-ic @bowl-of-plumbobs @armoricaroyalty @bakersimmer @void-imp @ladybugsimblr @eslanes @madeofcc @storiesbyjes2g @glammoose @basma-sama @katrisims @javitrulovesims @budgie2budgie @storiesbyjes2g

+ EVERYONE ELSE who has commented/liked/reblogged my posts, tagged me, sent me asks, answered my asks, downloaded my cc, made lookbooks with my cc, given me inspiration, been inspired by my work, given me tips, made great CC, and/or made Simblr a better place in some other way. You rock!

Let's show our appreciation to each other even more in 2024! ♥

#simblr gratitude day #simblr

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springdandelixn · 2 years

Text

Green Knitted Sweater

Loki x Reader

Summary: You’re angry because of Tony’s stupidity and Loki has a way to calm you down.

Warnings: fluff, some violence, Loki the Protecto, early stages of relationship (is that even a warning)

Some fluffy Loki to ease the drama from Behind Closed Doors. Comments and thoughts are very much welcome. Reblogs and likes are appreciated! Although this is only a drabble, I still hope you enjoy, Babies! 💚 Also credits to the owner of the photo uwu

It’s almost noon when Loki walks out of his room, his hands running down the Midgardian outfit he’s conjured for himself; a green knitted sweater, keeping his Asgardian colors to heart, dark jeans, and a pair of leather shoes. He still finds the outfit too plain, void of the regality he’s used to back home but after you told him last week that he would look good in a sweater, the god of mischief made such a decision to put on the outfit, not to fit into the earthly customs but to hopefully impress you of his new appearance.

Your relationship with Loki wasn’t all chocolates and flowers at the beginning. Loki struggled to adjust to his new role or rather punishment from the chaos he’s ensued in New York last year that he be part of his brother’s Midgardian crusaders.

With you being the Avengers appointed secretary, or how you like to point out, babysitter, it became your job to help the god adapt, not only to earth’s culture and way of living but to also see the beauty in helping mankind, even when you openly expressed that sometimes people needed to be hit once or twice. It was a tedious task to shoulder for it wasn’t only Loki you were aiding, but Vision as well, though you had Wanda’s help for that.

But slowly and surely, Loki has been doing well, and eventually, you both found a lot in common, especially with your fondness for reading that he would sometimes invite you to read in the library or in the common room, eventually ending up with him inviting you to his room with the book dropping to the ground and soon after, both your clothes.

He walks through the halls, nervousness, and excitement washing over him as he makes his way to your office, hoping to catch you by surprise, the image of you stunned in your seat and speechless when you see him in such clothing filling his mind and making him smile. But he halts mid-step and leans against the wall when the ground suddenly shakes, a roar echoing throughout the compound then a loud alarm following soon after, putting him on high alert and quickly changing back to his Asgardian leathers, cape flowing down his back and his daggers sliding down his grasps.

“Loki?” He snaps his head to the side when he sees his brother also clad in his armor, Mjolnir tight in his hold. “What happened?” Thor asks.

“I don’t know,” Loki responds and runs after Thor down the halls of the compound when a roar sounds once more, a series of shouting coming after.

They end up in the lab and duck just in time when a computer gets thrown at them, Loki looking up with wide eyes when he sees the Hulk stomping down on the floor, eyes trained at Tony who only has his arm covered by the Iron Man suit.

“What the fuck did you do, Tony?!” Loki’s heart surges in panic when he hears your voice, his eyes scanning the area for any signs of your presence and his body going rigid when he sees you crouched under a table, your eyes locked on the engineer with anger.

“I didn’t do anything!” Tony shouts back then fires his blaster at the incoming chair the Hulk throws in his direction.

Several footsteps then echo behind him and Loki immediately holds his arm out to prevent the other Avengers from intervening, knowing full well from your teaching that when the Hulk comes out, the only one who can calm him down is Natasha.

A gasp then leaves Wanda’s lips, making him look back at the Hulk only for him to feel fear run up his spine, his hands gripping on the hilt of his daggers tightly when he sees you walking slowly towards Banner, your arm stretched out while softly calling to him.

Loki tries to call your attention but they fall on deaf ears when you continue to inch closer to the Hulk, feeling himself get agitated with the stupidity you’re trying to attempt.

“Where’s Romanoff?!” Loki hisses.

“We’ll look for her.” Vision volunteers, Wanda taking hold of the synthezoid’s hand before both of them phase up the ceiling.

“Hey there, Big guy.” Loki hears you say, watching you stand still as the Hulk walks closer to you. “The sun’s getting real low.” The room goes silent, but Loki can feel the tension that looms over all of them that he can even hear Steve’s feet getting restless and Thor’s anxious breathing.

The lullaby seems to be working as the Hulk stretches out his arm to you, his head tilting to the side as if examining you. But the Hulk stops, a grunt escaping from his nose then a roar, your screams filling the destruction when he makes a fist and swings it in your direction.

Loki swiftly jumps in and wraps his arms around you, pushing you away before the Hulk’s fist meets its mark. He grunts when his back hits the wall but recovers instantly, his eyes wide and full of worry when he hears you whimper, holding you back and seeing your eyes closed, the tears streaming down your face as you clutch on him tightly.

Another growl emerges and Loki looks up, seeing the Hulk’s eyes trained at the both of you, the veins on his neck straining from the anger that continues to encase him.

“Brother!” Loki shouts and Thor growls as he launches himself at their teammate, Steve following soon after, the Hulk’s attention moving towards the men, giving Loki a chance to conjure you away from the chaos.

You keep your hands clutching the chest of whoever saved you, the fear of almost getting killed by the Hulk filling your being, making you shiver and cry uncontrollably.

What you did was stupid. You knew only Natasha could successfully pull off the lullaby but you hoped that Bruce would see you through the Hulk’s eyes and allow you to calm him down yourself. But goodness were you wrong, very wrong.

You feel strong arms wrap around you, a hand running up your back, the action helping you calm down.

“Shhh, Darling, it’s okay. You’re safe now.” You blink your eyes open and see Loki’s face in front of you, his emerald eyes full of concern, and the way his forehead creases makes his worry known. Relief and fear and worry mix all within you that makes you cry harder, your arms circling around his neck as you pull yourself tighter in his embrace.

“You’re okay now. You’re with me.” He assures you, his voice low and his lips against your hair as he continues to rub soothing circles on your back. “I’m here. You’re with me. You’re safe.”

“I’m sorry, Loki,” You hiccup the words against his neck, your fingers gripping tighter on him. “Thank you for saving me.”

You hear footsteps echo through the room and you know that the rest of the Avengers are present, seeing you in such a vulnerable state. Another hand then rests on your shoulder and you slowly look up to see Thor looking down at you with the same expression as his brother.

“Are you okay, Lady?” He asks.

But it’s Loki who answers for you. “She’s fine. Just really shaken up.”

The fear within you suddenly subsides, anger and rage taking its place when you hear Tony call your name, his steps hurried as he makes his way to the common room. Your fists clench and you immediately pull away from Loki’s hold, running towards the engineer and shoving him hard when you get closer to him, making the man stagger and step back from you.

“What the fuck did you do, Tony?! Why did the Hulk come out?!” You shout and you feel the men behind you get a little closer, making you hold your hand out to stop them.

“I didn’t do anything!” Tony argues, raising his hands up in defense. “I was just showing Bruce some of the Halloween decorations I found in your office and I may have…accidentally scared him.” He admits and you fume with rage, taking a step closer to him that makes him move back again. “I didn’t know he was afraid of ghost face.”

“How many times do I have to tell you that Bruce needs a calm space?!” You shout. “What kind of idiot would scare someone who physically changes into a superhuman being when they feel a sudden jolt of emotions?!” The anger rolls through your tongue and to your veins, your hands clenching into fists as Tony continues to explain.

“I didn’t know okay? It was harmless f—”

“Harmless?!” You throw your hands up in disbelief at his words. “There’s probably millions worth of damage in that room right now! What the fuck am I going to tell Fury?!” The growl that leaves you is feral and how you wish you could turn into a rabid animal and tear the man before you into shreds.

“She almost got hurt, Stark.” Steve interjects.

“Hurt? She almost got killed!” Loki snarls at Tony, making you look back at the god who’s now only a couple of feet away from you.

“But she’s not hurt or dead.” Tony snorts and gestures to you. “She’s fi—”

You don’t hold back, anger completely taking over you and you throw your fist at him, hitting him square in the jaw, making Tony groan in pain when he staggers back and hits his back against a wall. You sense the tension in the room but you don’t care. You’re angry and it’s because of the man who claims himself to be a genius yet continues to do stupid things.

You don’t wait for Tony to recover and hit him again, this time to his stomach and he groans, clutching on his abdomen from your assault. The fire in you is burning brightly and you’re seeing red, that all that’s in your mind right now is to hurt the man in front of you. You angle your fist for another blow but you miss your mark when you’re suddenly lifted from the ground, your eyes widening in shock when Loki hauls you over his shoulder and carries you out of the common room, seeing the look of surprise on the Avengers' faces and a smirk on Thor’s.

“Put me down, Loki!” You shout and hit his back, your legs flailing in the air as you try to escape his hold but he wraps his other arm around both, restraining your movements as he walks to the hall holding the private quarters. “I mean it, Loki! Put me down!” You growl and then wince when he pinches your calf hard.

He enters his room and carefully puts you down on his bed but you waste no time getting up and make your way to the door. But Loki is fast, his body blocking the only exit, grunts, and groans leaving your lips when he won’t budge as you try to push him away. Curse his otherworldly abilities.

“Let me go, Loki! I’m not done with Tony!”

“Darling, please. Calm down.” He coaxes you, placing both hands on your shoulders. “I know you're angry but hurting him will not solve anything.” He reasons.

“But Tony! Arrgh!” You scream internally, clenching your fists tight before sighing in defeat and dropping your head against his chest. “He’s done so much shit already and I’ll be getting the brunt of it from SHIELD.” You whine. “And all he’ll get is a slap on the wrist.”

“You can simply tell Fury that he put your life at risk,” Loki suggests, his hands framing your hips as he slowly pulls you against him, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin atop your head. “I know the other would back you up on that.”

“I suppose.” You sigh, closing your eyes, and moving to rest your cheek against his chest. “But I’m still angry.”

Loki begins rubbing circles against your back again, his hand soothing you along with the soft material that presses against your cheek, which you suddenly find unusual, making you open your eyes and move your head back, seeing Loki’s armor gone, replaced by a green knitted sweater.

You blink and reach up to press your hand against his chest, a smile slowly forming on your lips as the soft fabric tickles your skin.

“Are you calm now?” Loki asks and you look up to see a smile on his face.

You nod your response.

“I was supposed to show you this outfit before all the commotion.” He explains, his hand reaching up to cup your face, his thumb rubbing gently against the apple of your cheek. “Do you like it, Darling?” He asks.

You nod once more. “I knew you’d look good in a sweater.” You say softly before a smirk plays on your lips. “But as much as it looks good on you, I really want to peel it off of you.”

Loki laughs and you smile widely at such beautiful sound, your smile going soft when he leans down and presses his forehead against yours, his nose lightly grazing on your own.

“By all means, My Love. Do as you wish.” He says softly and you move to stand on the tips of your toes, meeting him halfway for a kiss.

I’m not sure if you guys want to be tagged in my other Loki fics so I’m sorry if you were added OTL Please feel free to tell me if you wish to be removed.

Taglist: @mochie85 @stolenlucifer @michelleleewise @rmoonstoner @muddyorbs @javagirl328 @lucylaufeyson3 @huntress-artemiss @ariacraigggg

#loki #loki odinson #loki x reader #loki x reader fluff #loki x female reader #loki x you #loki fanfic #loki fanfction #mcu #coconut bun stories #loki drabble

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wwinterwitch · 2 years

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hii, could i request a luke skywalker and reader fic where theyre friends and shes a jedi too and helps him "rescue" grogu, someone insults luke, and she gets angry and lukes like omg you defended me??? im in love with you😍 and later she goes on a rant on the audacity of that person who insulted luke and he calms her down and a confession too?? Thanks!!!!

Loved writing this!! tysm for your request <3 shout out to miss taylor swift for inspiring the title and a little of the story too

SPARKS FLY - LUKE SKYWALKER

**gif is not mine, credits to tatooineknights here on tumblr

summary: a seemingly small gesture makes luke fall even more in love with you

pairing: luke skywalker x jedi!fem!reader

word count: 1.5K

warnings: awkward and shy luke, unshared feelings, friends to lovers, badass female and golden retriever male type of couple.

a reblog is always appreciated!

my masterlist

"Do you feel anything?" you asked as soon as you were inside the cantina.

"Not sure," Luke replied, scanning the place.

This was the third place you had visited that day. You and Luke were exhaustingly looking for this force-sensitive individual the two of you started to feel not so long ago. You thought after losing Obi-Wan it will be just you, Luke and Leia left to keep a legacy of the Force that is nothing like the one the followers of the Dark Side have.

This Force was a light at the end of a once seemingly empty void of darkness ahead. It was a chance to meet more like you that were on the right side of the Force. Both of you were excited to meet this individual. The energy on them is pure and young, definitely a baby. It was pure, and playful, and so incredibly filled with love. It has to be one of the most captivating and addictive energies of all. The happiness and innocence it provides...makes it almost imposible not to smile, allowing that force to surround you. Peaceful.

You need to meet who have such energy.

When you walked inside the cantina, you two were nothing but another pair of customers just like the other people currently inside. You and Luke took separate ways so locating this Force-sensitive being could be easier. When you reunited, it was obvious neither of you have found them.

As you approached Luke, you noticed he was talking with a group of men sitting by the counter. None of them looked very friendly or eager to talk.

"Get lost, kid!" one of them shouted.

"I'm just trying to–"

"Hey, I told you to leave, scum! That's your last warning."

At soon as you heard those words, you took your lightsaber out and aimed dangerously close to the creature's neck. The group around you gasped as the music stopped, nothing but silence around you. Obviously, the one in front of you was visibly shaking with fear and standing as still as they possibly could.

Luke was quiet, almost letting out a gasp himself when he saw your quick movement. He just stared wide-eyed at you.

People around were scared, but also intrigued. Like they just saw a ghost– a myth. No one has seen or heard from a Jedi in a very long time. They were supposed to be extinct, yet here stands one of them, lightsaber in hand, like it's just nothing. Like putting that kind of weapon out wouldn't cause chaos.

"Don't you dare insult him again," you warned slowly, earning a frantic nod from the creature. "Now, apologize to my friend."

Luke quickly stepped forward, his entire face burning red. "Oh, no...it's not– it's not necessary"

"Do as I say," you insisted, motioning at the creature to do what you were ordering.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" they cried desperately.

You smiled at the creature, putting away your lightsaber and hooking it back to your belt. "Wasn't so hard, was it?" you commented sarcastically, starting to walk towards the exit doors.

All eyes were on you as you walked away, everyone amazed by what just happened. When you left, all eyes turned to Luke. His face couldn't possibly be more red as he practically ran to the door in embarrassment, hating to have all the attention to himself.

Outside you were waiting for him, resting by the wall of the cantina as you scanned the street in front of you. As soon as Luke saw you, he felt like his legs would stop working and he'll be face down on the floor. His heart was beating rapidly after what just happen. Half of him thought it was because of the adrenaline, the other half just knew it was all about you.

Because he'll be lying to himself if what just happened didn't make him fall even harder for you. The way you'd be willing to put up a scene just to protect him. How you didn't even hesitate to defend him.

He liked knowing you were willing to do that just for him. Yes, it was violent and maybe a little too much, but the gesture shows you care. And likes that you care.

Everything you do always amazes him. How you always know what to say or do to get out of trouble, your skills with the lightsaber, how wise you are and how great of a Jedi you have become. But that wasn't all. There was so much more to you that just being a Jedi.

He likes how much you care about other people. How you saw that little boy crying back on Tatooine and you didn't leave his side until you were able to find his parents and bring him back to them. Or the way your eyes light up in admiration when you approach a new planet because you seem to find beauty in everything surrounding you.

He even likes how stubborn you can be at times or how grumpy you get every time you're unable to get a good sleep. And how you always love to be right about everything.

He just likes you. All of you.

So for him to witness the girl he adores so much willing to put up a scene to defend him, there's really no words that could explain what that means to him. He has fallen so hard, that every little detail seem to impress him. Sparks fly all around him because of you. An endless galaxy of emotions exploding inside of him, making him impossibly happier.

"Sorry about that," he heard you say, snapping out of his thoughts. You smiled apologetically, knowing he'd probably lecture you how impulsive that was. He's always been the most subtle and responsible one.

"It's fine," he assured you. "Thanks for...that."

"Yeah, no worries," was your response. "Hope that gave those guys a lesson. Maybe next time they'll be nicer to strangers."

Luke chuckles, feeling his cheeks burning red. The fact that he knew he was blushing in front of you only made him blush harder. "Yeah, I bet."

"Such nasty people!" you continued your rant, genuinely angry at what just happened. "I mean, they could try to put up a fight with me anytime, I'm probably as bad as they are when it comes to manners, but you? Who in their right mind would treat someone like you so bad?"

"What do you mean someone like me?"

"Oh, I mean it in a good way," you quickly elaborated, afraid he might've thought you were insulting him. "You're a sweetheart, Luke. Truly the nicest person that has ever lived in the entire galaxy."

"You give me too much credit," he mutters shyly, avoiding to look at you in embarrassment.

"No, I mean it!" you insisted. The fact that his entire face was burning red only encouraged you to tease him even further.

It was so easy to make Luke Skywalker, the young man who quite literally took down the Empire, look so flustered. It seems to be an ability only you have. Any small thing you say or do can make him fall right at your feet. Everyone around you two could see it. How he would trail behind you like a lost puppy and the way he looked at you with so much admiration in his eyes. The boy is hopelessly in love with you, it's crazy you still aren't together yet.

As the two of you walked back to your ship, you lightly pushed him to gain his attention. He briefly looked at you, still very shy. "You are the nicest person out there, Luke. I don't mean that as an exaggeration."

"I know," he says, his smile never fading. "But you are nice, too."

You chuckled. "I'm not nearly half of what you are."

"That's...that's not true! You have many great qualities."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?"

Once again, he didn't know what to say. You smiled after realizing you did it again. Have him all flustered because he doesn't really know how to openly show his admiration for you. He doesn't know how to do that, maybe because you're the first girl he's ever liked.

"Well, you're super funny. And your smart, hardworking, selfless, caring."

"That's it?" you teased.

"Those were examples."

You couldn't keep your laughter. "You are adorable, Luke Skywalker."

"Stop doing that!"

"I'm not doing anything!"

"Yes, you are," he insisted. "You say things...and you know I won't...I won't know what to say."

"It's called flirting, Luke."

With that said, you winked at him before walking the last remaining steps towards the ship, leaving him standing in complete shock by that revelation. You would always tease him and say all these silly little things to get a reaction out of him, but never went further than that. You never openly admitted you were flirting.

Everything was, in Luke's mind, just you being friendly. Since when was this flirting? Is he really that oblivious? Or maybe you weren't being obvious enough? No. That's not it. It's definitely him. He's been the problem all along.

Encouraged by that revelation, he hurried towards the ship so the two of you could continue the search for this Force-sensitive being, promising to himself that next time you start complimenting him more than usual and teasing him to make him nervous, he'll definitely do something about it.

He would know what to say next time.

#luke skywalker #luke skywalker fic #luke skywalker x reader #luke skywalker imagine #star wars x reader #star wars #star wars fic

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