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mooishbeam · 1 year ago

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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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sectumsempraaa · 2 months ago

Text

Our Missing Piece

Pairing: they’re all in love w/ you 🤭 x fem!reader

Word count: 1.3k

TW: none! Fluff galore!

Featuring: Draco, Theo, Mattheo, Pansy

Summary: As Hogwarts’s newest student, you generally keep to yourself, staying out of the spotlight. That is until you beat the famous Harry Potter in a classroom duel and win the hearts of a bunch of down-bad Slytherins, who jump at the chance to take you under their wing.

Please don’t pick me, please don’t pick me.

Professor Snape’s looming eyes scale the shaking students in front of him, deciding who he’ll choose to go next in your Defense Against the Dark Arts mock-wand battles. McGonagall has already made her choice, sending the famous Harry Potter walking proudly to the center, taking a wide stance.

You’ve managed to stay relatively out of the way since starting at Hogwarts, about a month ago. Since you stepped foot off the train, you decided to dedicate yourself to your studies, giving in to your introverted tendencies.

But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t long for friendship each time you spotted girls skipping in the hallway together, or when the Weasley crew bursts into laughter at lunch, or when you spot the Ravenclaws studying in the library.

Suddenly, your head of house’s voice penetrates the air, slicing through the anticipation like a swift dagger.

“Miss Y/L/N,” Snape announces, gesturing a finger to approach him.

Son of a bitch.

You look around, the color draining from your face as you observe every head turning to look at you. You make your way up to the raised platform, passed your professor, when an oddly gentle hand on your shoulder stops you short.

Snape kneels, lowering his voice to a mutter.

“Breathe. Forget his name. He is only a boy.”

You nod, swallowing your fear and taking your first steps toward Harry. You repeat the words in your head, closing your eyes momentarily and wiping the sweat from your palms.

He is only a boy.

“On your marks,” Professor Lupin instructs, the both of you lifting your wands to position. Harry nods to you in greeting, which you return with eyes like headlights. You try your best to ignore your racing pulse and quickened breath.

What the hell am I going to do?

A sly, boyish voice from the Slytherin crowd behind you catches your ear, a voice you can almost put a name to. The phrase ripples in your head, echoing until it becomes a solid thought.

“Careful of that one, Potter. She’s lethal.”

You grin to yourself, the remark helping to relax your shoulders and straighten your posture. And for the first time since arriving here, you feel a confidence that’s been waiting to unleash… you feel like a Slytherin.

She’s lethal.

In a split second, you choose a spell and devise the best handwork to perform it.

Yes, I bloody am.

Lupin conducts a countdown, and at the same time, you each send magic hurdling at each other. But you’re sharp, cunning, and quick. Maybe you’ve only been here a month, but you know enough to identify his weakness on the spot.

His softer, disarming expelliarmus meets your driving, aggressive bombarda, as a fantastic collision of colors explodes in the center of the platform. Students yell in reaction, stepping a few feet back.

The blast sends Harry straight down, rolling over a few times from the forceful impact. You had directed it specifically to hit at just the right moment, as not to cause injury.

After a second, you find yourself still on your feet, the smoke clearing slowly in the air. But the second your house spots Potter on the ground, a roar like hell erupts behind you. A small smile returns to your face, along with a glimmer in your gaze.

You bow, then stroll over to your opponent, respectfully offering to help him back on his feet. Your face contorts in confusion when he stands on his own, shaking you off.

“Good match, Potter! Nice to meet you.” You extend your hand, finding your soft, yet direct voice.

“Not shaking your hand if you belong to those filthy Slytherins,” he replies, a pang of hurt hitting your chest at the rejection. You’re lost on where you went wrong, all you did was follow instructions.

“She sure as hell does!”

Suddenly, a mass of rushed footsteps approaches you from behind, the boyish voices multiplying as they celebrate your victory.

“Told you to be careful, Potter.” Draco mocks, sending a wink his way. A boy you recognize as Mattheo speaks up next.

“The boy who lived- oh, sorry, I meant the boy who got leveled by a fourth year!” He snickers, taking a stance by your side. He looks to you, nudging your shoulder in encouragement with a gleam of pride in his eyes. His next words are just for you.

“Wicked job out there, darling.”

The closeness of his face to yours sends a shiver down your back, his charming smile luring you in. Harry interrupts, his tone annoyed.

“Run from this lot while you can, Y/N.”

“Paws off, Potter. This one’s ours.” Draco sneers, throwing an arm around you and pulling you close to his side. A blush develops on your face, remembering his sentiment from before your duel.

“That’s too bad, a smart girl like you wasting your time with a bunch of snakes.” He spits.

Theodore, the Italian transfer from Rome, pipes in with his two cents. He’s tall, and intimidating. His mere presence ushers other students out of the way.

“I’d tell you to eat shit, Harry, but you already did.” The diss earns an uproarious laugh from the group. Pansy stands behind you, resting her head on your shoulder.

“Someone’s a sore loser,” she says to Harry in her sing-song way. “Not every legend has a prophecy, mate.” She squeezes your arm, giggling to you and herself.

And to that, he storms away, his Gryffindor friends following after. You turn to the group, unable to produce words after their glowing display of support. They each take their turn giving you hugs and chanting your name, Pansy opting to play with your hair.

“I think you’re our missing piece.” Mattheo proclaims. “We sort of need someone who-”

“Can save our arses?” Theo finishes the thought. “She’s way bloody better at magic than we are.”

“I believe he’s referring to the several… ahem, situations, we get ourselves into… at times.” Draco says hesitantly, his gaze drinking in your every feature, admiring his newest recruit.

For the first time, you find yourself surrounded by people who like you. Who admire you, want you for themselves. They’re actually excited, thrilled even, to make you one of their own. You couldn’t have imagined it unfolding like this, but you’re damn glad it did.

“Should’ve known she was the one when Draco was nearly drooling over her in Potions class…” Pansy interjects. Draco’s face goes wildly pink, unable to hide his bashfulness behind his pale complexion.

“What else can you do, new girl?” Theo inquires, his demeanor mysterious and intriguing.

“In che senso?” You respond, using the very little Italian you picked up on your last summer trip. His face lights up, a wave of sheer attraction and awe written all over it.

He clasps your hand, holding it like a damn trophy. “I think I’ll marry you someday.” He confesses.

Mattheo pushes him away from you in order to regain your attention by offering to carry your books to the next class.

“Allow me, love.” Mattheo says as the boys continue to shove and trip over each other to engage with you.

You nod, shooting a puzzled look at Pansy while the boys gather your things and start to lead the group out. She pulls you aside, linking arms with you, the Slytherin champion.

“They’ve all been pining since they first laid eyes on you, you bloody bombshell.” She jokes, revealing the boy’s truth.

“But then you beat Potter, and well… that sealed the deal. I’ve never seen heart-eyes like that from any of them, let alone all of them.”

You catch Draco staring longingly at the two of you, quickly glancing elsewhere to play off his obvious infatuation with you. You smile and wave to him, biting your lip as he nods your way.

Pansy leaves you with one last thought before you all head to Potions, gesturing her head towards Draco.

“They’re all quite competitive. But that one… that one will end the world for you, Y/N.”

Lethal, you think to yourself.

Because he’s lethal, too.

🤍🤍🤍🤍🤍

Taglist: @viperify @chelawrites @mylittleponeypinkrosieposie @redeemingvillains @clar2aa

#slytherin boys #slytherin boys x reader #draco malfoy #theodore nott #theo nott #mattheo riddle #pansy parkinson #draco x reader #mattheo x reader #theo nott x reader #slytherin

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pinksilkribbons · 4 months ago

Text

COLLAGE: yan! classmate

CW/TW: non-consensual candid photos, elijah has a shrine of [name], mentions of praying to and basically viewing another human being as god, small implication of a boner, general yandere stuff ig.

You guys my last post on Elijah got quite a few likes I’m so glad y’all like him!! He’s my least developed OC so i decided to write more on him and develop his character. I’ll post some of my others soon!

Ever since he bought his new polaroid, Elijah has discovered a new side of himself. At the beginning he’d only taken pictures of you and hung them around his closet.

But eventually…he grew tired of it. Not of his darling, no! Of course not! But…it was rather difficult to sneak photos of you without getting caught. Not to mention the majority of them turned out blurry anyway.

Something needed to change.

He didn’t just want pictures of you at school. He wanted pictures of everything. When you’re angry, when you’re sad, when you’re eating. Pictures in normal clothes instead of a school uniform for fucks sake!

In the beginning school was the easiest (and only) way he could gain access to you, but now it’s proving to make his job that much harder. There’s too many risks involved.

With a dramatic sigh he shut his closet door, making sure to click the padlock into place. After hanging so many pictures of you on his closet walls he decided it would be wise to invest in a lock.

He knows it isn’t normal. Taking pictures of people without asking isn’t normal. Being so deeply obsessed with someone isn’t normal.

But not being normal doesn’t make him bad. Just…more passionate!

“Hey mama?”, He asks, trudging down the stairs.

His mother turns away from her phone with a quick glance his way. Her head tilts up as if to silently ask him what he needs.

“You aren’t using these magazines anymore, are you?”

A small stack of magazines with a bunch of ‘trendy fashion’ labels catches his eye. On the front cover a young lady with blonde hair is posed in a field of flowers. The lady, however, isn’t what he’s interested in.

She laughs playfully and watches Elijah pick up the stack. “Well, not exactly. But why do you need them? I’ve never known you to be interested in fashion.”

Elijah feels a rush of red to his cheeks. A part of him feel dirty. Perverted, even. It’s clear his mother is implying something dirty, and while she isn’t even wrong, he’s probably planning something much worse than whatever she’s imagining right now.

It takes a few good seconds for his mind to come up with a plausible excuse. “W-well, I’m not interested in fashion! I just need some material for this project in art class.”

Luckily his mom doesn’t question him further. She definitely rolled her eyes at him though, clearly not believing his story.

As soon as he makes it back to his room Elijah is quick on his feet. He rushes over to his closet so quickly he almost falls over. A pulse of excitement gushes through his body as he begins to unlock his closet door.

The password to which is his darlings birthday, of course!

Upon opening the door, one wouldn’t suspect much of anything. Clothes, shoes, some random boxes, but nothing out of the ordinary. The real magic is in the far right corner, at the very bottom of the wall.

So far his collection is pretty small. The few photos he does have are all taped beside one another, carefully placed to ensure nothing is crooked or overlaps with the other. This small corner is Elijah’s entire life.

He lives and breathes [Name]. In fact, every morning, without fail, he finds himself in this exact position; sitting on his knees, admiring his darling. He bows his head and prays to your existence.

The amount of sheer joy your being grants him should never be taken lightly. Elijah is a good boy. He’s thankful. And He proves it every single morning.

“I feel kinda bad, cutting up her picture like this”, he mumbled to himself. His hands carefully maneuvered the scissors, making sure to save as much of his darlings face as possible.

Believe it or not it came out pretty good! Next he needed to cut the cover from his mom’s fashion magazine, which proved to be the real challenge.

The blonde lady on the cover was dressed in a blue flowy sundress. From the moment he saw it Elijah knew that dress was meant to be his darlings. The chances of him getting a real photo of you in this dress were zero, but he’d like to think he’s quite creative!

To finalize his creation he glued [Name]’s head onto the models face, successfully dressing her in the beautiful gown. Just imagining her in such an outfit had his heart racing and pants tightening.

It made him feel proud knowing he found a way to grow his collection while also reducing the risk of getting caught. Next time he visited the library, Elijah would be sure to pick up a few books on collaging.

You truly did bring out a new side of him. Who knew he was so artistic?

#yandere #yandere oc #yandere male x reader #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x darling #yandere male #stalker yandere #yandere boyfriend #yan oc: elijah #silkwritealot

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weirdmorefics · 8 months ago

Note

benedict with a younger sister who he catches at one of the parties he goes to talking to a man who has less than innocent intentions with her and she’s oblivious and just thought it would be a fun place to drink bcs that’s what she’d heard when was out at the park earlier that day

A/N- Sorry for it taking a while I really am starting to believe in the fanfiction curse. I also made up the seedy guy who had unhonorable intentions in this story just an FYI.

Readers Pronouns- She/Her

TW- Sexism

Word Count- 1,653

Summary- Benedict goes to a local gathering of artists and happens to find his darling younger sister enjoying the company of some of Benedict's unsavory friends.

Unhonorable Intentions

I am a rake. I take no shame in this fact. I am allowed to be a free spirit it is my birthright as the second-born son. No obligations no responsibility. I would loathe to be in Anthony's shoes. Though Y/n seems to have made it her mission for me to walk in his shoes tonight. What is she even doing in a place like this? Last I knew she preferred literature over the arts. Yet she hangs on a man's arm as he explains his next work. in progress that he is sure will be his Magnus opus. I glare at them hopefully sister notices my gaze burning into her side so I can continue my night as if nothing happened. However, when I glare at them I realize who the man she is talking to is and now I know there is no way I can continue my night. Unfortunately said man felt my gaze instead of Y/n and smiled and pulled her forcefully along with him.

"Bridgerton! It's grand to see you! We've missed you at the club!" Alexander shakes my hand roughly and I return it with an insincere smile. "Saw you eyeing my new muse, I regret to inform you I don't share." God, I want to gag as I know what he does with his so-called muses. Y/n smiles at being called his muse she does love it when I draw her but this man does not have honorable intentions. He and I have very different definitions of what a muse is. My idea of a muse is someone who inspires you to create, Alexander's idea of a muse is a woman to sleep with and then abandon.

I straighten back to assert my taller posture over the man, "And I regret to inform you your so-called muse is my darling baby sister." I look down at her with demanding eyes, "I do say it is time we get back to Mother. Isn't Y/n?"

She looks taken aback by my tone, "What do you mean? I just got here."

Alexanders' grin increases tenfold, "A Bridgeton! Benedict I had no idea you were hiding such a beauty to yourself! If I was her brother I'd never let her out of the house either." This man is truly revolting the artist community here is unfortunately very small and I have to find a way to remain civil.

Y/n smiles, "So you know Alexander? That's too bad really I was hoping to learn some different art techniques from him to impart to you! I had no idea you knew such a famous artist!"

I grit my teeth, "Famous now Alexander are we?"

This flusters him for a moment but he recovers quickly, "Aren't all artists famous in a different sort of way?"

I want to laugh at such an absurd response… sadly Y/n is far too naive for her own good.

"I agree wholeheartedly! Benedict is the most famous artist in our family! I'm quite jealous of his talent I must admit! It makes sense he would be at such a regal event filled with so much talent. To be truthful I overheard this soiree would have fabulous drinks on this morning's promenade and couldn't resist," she gushes over my talents and breaks my heart for not being more present in my siblings' lives.

Anthony just seemed to have it all handled, Daphne was married off, Eloise could certainly hold her own ground, Francessa was so busy with her studies, and Mother had Gregory and Hycanith under control. Even though Y/n is Eloise's twin she couldn't be any more different she believes the best in everyone and is too quick to forgive in my opinion and Alexander is taking advantage of that and I will not let that stand.

I smile down at Y/n, "Y/n you downplay your own talents no need to associate with a man whose talents consist of preying on women through false pretenses."

Her eyes widen to the size of quarters, "Benedict you can not make such outrageous claims!"

I pretend to not know exactly what she is talking about, "You mean your talents? Your poetry talent is outrageous and that's not a claim it's just a fact."

She blushes at the compliment but for some asinine reason still wants to defend Alexander. Though it seemed her brain could not keep up with the unusual compliment from me and the unflattering words I spoke about Alexander she just stuttered unintelligible anger, shock, and joy all marking her face. Alexander on the other hand was just fuming red.

"First you insult me Bridgerton then you demean poetry as a genre by encouraging a woman to write it." he snarls.

I have never seen Y/n turn so quickly and before anyone in the room knows what's happening a resounding slap is heard over all the chatter and everyone turns to the noise. Alexander's eye is twitching and a red welt in the shape of my sister's hand is forming on his face. He glares at her with murderous eyes but she holds her head high I have never seen her this determined and it makes me wonder what else I missed while she was growing up and I was galavanting around with men like Alexander.

She points an angry finger at him like Mother would when she would scold us, "Gentleman like yourself actually I wouldn't even call men like you gentleman but that's beside the point. Men like you say women are too emotional to do anything but care for the home. Poetry is all about emotion it's supposed to make you feel something like the art you make, or apparently don't make from what I just learned from Benedict's side comment. I would also like to remind you who is in charge of our country or rather what sex they are?"

All eyes are on us and Alexander looks like he might strangle Y/n with his two hands if the vein bulging out of his forehead is any indicator.

"Oh and by the way when I complimented your line work on your latest piece I was lying it was shit but you know how men can be so emotional I didn't want to hurt your feelings," she fake pouted. This is definitely not the young sister I once knew she may still be naive but she has now learned to use her talent with words as a knife.

Alexander's arm shoots to roughly grab her but I am quick to block, "I'm Alexander but we must be going. It was so nice talking to you as always. I would definitely take my dear sister's words under advisement to spend more time working on your line art." I then pull him very closely into my body and if anyone hadn't seen the previous incident they would have thought it was just two chaps hugging. I whisper, "Less time with lines of ladies and coke you might find yourself able to make straight lines. And if I ever hear you laid a hand on my sister I will kill you myself." I roughly release him and he scrambles backwards ungracefully as all eyes on him.

I link arms with Y/n, "Come on we must really be going now."

Once we make it outside away from prying eyes she quickly bursts into sobs, "Gods what have I done! I was just so angry he'd judge me just based on my sex. God, what if Lady Whistledown writes about me!" She starts pacing with her hands on her forehead and this is the Y/n I am all too familiar with, " Oh God what if Mama reads it! What if I ruin the Bridgerton name? Anthony will never forgive me!"

I clap and quickly gain her attention back, "You certainly won't be the first Bridgerton featured in Lady Whistledown and I am certain you will not be the last."

"Not helping!' She shouts back.

"No one will be mad you stood your ground… in fact, I am quite proud of you."

Her eyes study me, "Are you serious? I just slapped your friend in a soiree full of your peers."

"Anthony was more of an acquaintance," I add.

She rolls her eyes, "That is not the point!"

I sigh, "Yes, I am proud. You defended your honor and didn't need my help to do so. Though I am sure any of your brothers would be there in a heartbeat to defend it including me."

She smiles, "You're proud of me."

"I am not saying it again," I state.

she starts to repeat you're proud of me in a sing-songy voice.

"My pride in you is diminishing and my worry is growing. I think I will be around more often seems like Anthony isn't keeping a watchful enough eye on you if he let you go to a seedy event like this."

She tilts her head, "But you were at the event?"

"Exactly I only attend seedy events, though it appears now I must reform. Think of me has your second Anthony," maybe having responsibilities won't be so bad if I get to see Y/n chew out more men like Alexander.

She groans, "I don't want another Anthony how will I ever do anything fun."

"That's the point Y/n," I smile.

She groans, "I hope Lady Whistledown writes you into the story and makes you sound dreadful."

"As long as she writes how daring and smart my younger sister is we will be on good terms," I smile as she groans again at her failed attempt to get under my skin.

"Thank you, I guess," she responds.

I may be late in helping my siblings but at least they all still have some more growing to do and I plan to be there for all of it.

#bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x y/n #bridgerton fanfic #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton x you #bridgerton request #bridgerton siblings #bridgerton!sister x reader #bridgerton!sister x y/n

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brox-not-a-badger · 3 days ago

Text

Cut your teeth on me

A little NSFW reader x Perturabo for you, think of it as a holiday gift from your favorite, frankly stupid author

Tw; breeding kink, implied pregnancy, bruises, fingering, Perturabo being a petulant and horny whore of a man

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Perturabo is not the most skilled in the art of flirting or lovemaking. Not to mention the fact that he’s barely in touch with his emotions, so when a pretty little serf catches his eye, he figures it’s not his fault, and evidently blames you for his odd attractions.

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You served the primarch of the IVth legion, Perturabo. By far, the most petulant and irritable primarch, and he was looming over you, an unfortunate serf who ended up on the wrong end of a brief conflict. At your feet stood the shattered remains of a vase, evidence of your brief scare due to the run-in with the primarch. You were attending to your usual duties, cleaning his study and not bothering him as per usual. Normally, he’d sit in the corner, working on a model or some plans or another.

Normally, his business was not yours, but right now he was making his business yours. “Throne damnit, woman- pick this mess up. I’ll see to it you tend to something-… less fragile. You’re dismissed.” He snarled. You found your hands trembling as you bent down to pick up the remains of the now shattered vase, quickly shuffling off to discard of the broken parts. For a brief moment, you swear you could hear mumbling coming from the mountain of a man, however, you quickly dismiss it, seeing that Perturabo was already in a bad mood.

Perturabo was hardly furious about the vase. It was the way you looked at him so gently yet so frightfully. How you moved with so much grace, despite your evident clumsiness in dropping the vase. It was infuriating how tempting you were to the eyes, so much so he hated just seeing you.

You made him feel things he thought shouldn’t have been possible. And now that your presence was no longer in the room, it felt strangely empty. Perturabo hated the emptiness of the room more than he hated your presence. Perhaps it wasn’t even hate at all, either. That was a possibility. A foolish one, but a possibility nonetheless.

Before you could leave down the hall upon disposing what was left of that vase, you heard the door slowly creak open. Perturabo poked his head out, looking around before spotting you very abruptly. “Come back, please. I may have dismissed you too quickly, I’d like to speak with you for a moment.” That was quick considering how suddenly he’d already dismissed you.

For a split second, you could see a light pink coloring in his cheeks, across his stern features. Was that blush? You quickly reentered the room as Perturabo was returning to his seat. “Do you need something, my lord?” You asked. For a moment he just stared at you, almost completely distracted by you, before quickly snapping out of it. He scolded himself internally as his features quickly grew stern and uncaring once more. He nodded.

“Yes, yes I need you to finish… reordering the books, on that shelf. I prefer they stay in alphabetical order, unless it’s a triology, or a set of chronicles. Then I expect you to order them accordingly.” He said sharply, staring at you with a concerning glare. Perturabo was renowned for snapping on a whim, so you took no time to begin preforming the task he ordered of you. You stood up on the ladder, starting by taking each of the heavy books off, starting with A’s, B’s, and so on and so forth.

Perturabo found his gaze wandering from his models over to where you stood on the ladder. He only intended for a quick glance, but found himself staring for much longer. His eyes drifted over your robes, how they hugged your curves in all of the right places, how you delicately moved. It was all enticing, and tempting. Tempting enough that Perturabo found himself feeling heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. The moment he’d caught himself staring, he’d abruptly turned away, back to what he was doing, muttering something under his breath. “Damn temptress.” He snarled scornfully.

You paused for a moment, eyes wide as you caught what he’d said. Your mind was screaming at you to stick to what you were doing, but unfortunately, your heart was louder than your head that day. Pathos overcame ethos, as you slowly turned to look at him, surprised at what he’d called you. A temptress? What on Terra did that insinuate? “Sir. What-… what do you mean by ‘temptress’?” You looked so innocent in your confusion at his description of you.

The primarch quickly snapped his attention to you, briefly stumbling over his words. In a moment of sudden panic, he blurted the first words that came to mind. “I’m calling you a whore.” There was a feral growl to his voice that only a man like him could convey. He tried to play it off, even as you stood there, staring and looking stunned at the primarch.

“M- my lord I don’t mean to pry but where did that come from?!” You sounded somewhat distressed and confused, which caused the Lord of Iron to give a blank stare, as though it had just now occurred to him the magnitude of what he just called you, very quickly he switched to an accusatory tone. Though, of course, instead of apologizing, Perturabo took the stubborn route and doubled down on his harsh words.

“I called you a whore. A harlot. Or did you mishear me? Get over here.” He snarled, watching as you did as commanded of you. You scrambled off your ladder, wandering over to the towering astartes with a startled look in your eyes. Perturabo hated your timid mannerisms, but he could never hate you directly. It was strange to him.

“Did I do something wrong, sir?” Were the first words out of your mouth. Of course, you didn’t. He knew you didn’t, but to him those feelings were conflicting, leaving you confused and a little afraid due to his unpredictable behavior with his legion. Approaching him the way you had been was like approaching a wild animal, you never knew what he would say or do next, whether it was him making a passing comment, an annoyed gesture or something more direct, he always kept you guessing. However it never truly felt like you were walking on eggshells around him, he simply felt unpredictable. He was never outright violent, nor has he ever made any violent threats towards you.

The way he kept staring at you made you a little concerned. He just stared, before speaking slowly, in a tone that was a little hard to recognize. “You-… damned whore. What is it with you? You’re just a serf. Why is it so hard to talk to you specifically?” He growled, though it sounded more like a question than scornful words. You were at a loss for words, the fact that he was towering above you made the situation even worse than originally thought possible. There was a low growl in his voice, the way he stared at you like a piece of meat could almost be described as alluring if it wasn’t a little intimidating.

You could feel your face heat up in embarrassment, which was made all the worse by the fact that he could clearly tell what was going on, seeing how fast his expression changed from a hardened look of disdain to very sudden surprise. “S- sir, I mean no disrespect, however that seems like an issue that’s your fault?” You tried to pipe up, only being met with a stare.

Perturabo found he was realizing a lot of things about himself at once as his eyes traced over your form as you spoke. He huffed and licked his lips, trying to mask something you couldn’t quite figure out. “I don’t recall giving you permission to speak, serf.” He borderline snarled in a rather animalistic display. He reached out to you, grabbing you by the face, his rough fingers digging into your cheek. It was a easy to reach you, seeing you stood to the side of his desk, right beside him so you were within reach.

He examined you for a long while, eyes locked on your delicate frame. Perturabo looked, for the most part, largely unimpressed, were it not for the light pink blush that had subtly spread across his face. After what felt like an eternity, you were let go. “Come here. In front of the desk.” He commanded of you harshly. Of course, you obliged to his commands.

You stood before him, specifically in the space between him and the desk, looking intimidated by the fact that he was looming over you. “Up, on the desk. I feel as though there is a lesson to be taught here that words cannot convey properly.” He growled, watching you scoot up on the desk, sheepishly moving things around, you looked behind you momentarily to straighten yourself out, only to be met with the primarch baring down on you, his palms on the sides of the desk.

Emotions were running very hot, so much so you could physically feel the heat coming off of Perturabo’s massive body. By the holy throne on Terra, you drove him to the brink of insanity. He’d always assumed the flowery language that Fulgrim had used to describe his vices with women back on Chemos was just talk, but now that he had such a woman in his office, propped up on his desk like a decorative piece, he understood just what Fulgrim meant.

“My lord, are you-… asking something of me?” You questioned. It was a bold thing to ask him, especially seeing how stiff and hesitant, yet extremely desperate and starved he seemed. Without words he answered your question when he slid whatever project he was working on aside and grabbed you, not by the wrists but by the hand and pinned you down to the desk. His grip was strong on you, not enough to hurt or bruise but it was enough to keep you in place so you didn’t get away.

__________________NSFW BELOW HERE ________________________

A yelp escaped your lips, it was a noise that made heat begin to pool in Perturabo’s belly. By the holy throne, everything about you made him want to just devour you more. “Ask less questions. They annoy me.” He said simply, his eyes locked on you like a wolf to a hare. You swallowed your initial tough realization, allowing your thighs to slide open in the heat of the moment.

You could see what appeared to be the faint shape of his hardened cock beneath his robes, a sight that had made your face flush even worse than it had been before. He must have taken notice of this, seeing how he’d distracted you next.

Perturabo growled like an animal as he leaned over you. Taking two fingers and abruptly and unceremoniously shoving them into your mouth. It was slightly hard to take at first, seeing just how large his fingers were, but gradually you got used to the feeling, your tongue working around his hand and covering them in saliva. “You know just what I’m going to do with these, don’t you?” A sly grin played on his lips as he reached up to push your own clothing up.

He’d then take his fingers from your mouth, making you feel a bit out of breath. He momentarily looked down at his now saliva-soaked hand, fingers spreading apart before he looked back at you. This entire encounter was leaving you at a loss for words, even more so when he praised you for how well you were doing so far. “Good, that’s a good little serf. I bet you were just begging for that to be over with, hm?” He sounded like he was taunting you, which wasn’t a tone you were used to, especially not from him.

Perturabo then slid his still-slick hand under your robes, eliciting a soft whine from your lips that drove him mad. You whimpered as he gently drove his fingers into your hot cunt. The sounds you made as you wriggled on his fingers made him want you all the more, but he persisted in his patience. Perturabo spread you open with his slicked fingers, wet sounds coming from the space between your pretty thighs.

He slid deeper in to you, until he was at least up to his knuckles. He’d begun to make swirling motions, using the pads of his hand to massage the clit. His breathing got more ragged as he gently gripped your side, hoisting himself over you. “Look at you, how pathetic. I seem to have been right to call you a harlot.” Perturabo was rather hypocritical as he spoke, seeing it was him lusting after you so intensely, however, you didn’t seem to mind his harsh words.

Perturabo wasn’t as experienced as Fulgrim or Horus when it came to pleasing women, but he was still decent, and at least knew what he was doing. His motions were slow and delicate, knowing he could probably force you down and take you however he’d liked, but he chose not to. Despite his initial hunger and annoyance at being so easily tempted, he was still soft on you. Parts of him could have even said he was in love with you, but that was preposterous. This was just some simple ‘discipline’, at least, he assumed it was.

When Perturabo finally pulled his slick fingers out, you’d felt empty, and a little disappointed, finding yourself yearning for a little bit more of that sweet, sweet stimulation. What was even worse was that you were getting surprisingly close to climax off of just his work with his hands alone. Just as you assumed Perturabo was about to let you leave, he didn’t.

As you went to sit up on his desk to get up and leave, he set you right back down. He licked his middle and index fingers, lapping your juices off of his hand, then grabbed you by your hips and lining you up with his. “Mh~ you’re not going anywhere just yet. I’m not done with you.” Perturabo grunted. He was hard as a rock, and you could feel it between your thighs, through the silky fabric of his traditional robes.

Perturabo was absolutely throbbing. The way you laid there and stared at him with those eyes he hated seeing, the way you sprawled out, willingly giving yourself to him in every sense, he hated it. But he couldn’t bring himself to hate you. He hated everything about you because you were alluring and tempting, like a siren that leads sailors astray. He needed you.

And, evidently, he was going to have you. Perturabo pulled away slightly, brushing his robes out of the way as he had done yours. Perturabo reached up and gripped the fabric in his teeth to keep it out of his way, revealing his somewhat soft abs and just under his chest. It was quite a view to have, seeing just how strong he was under there.

Then there was his cock. Perturabo was huge in every aspect. Every, aspect. Parts of you were worried he wouldn’t fit, and you were almost correct. It explained why he had to be so thorough with his foreplay. He squeezed his cock into you just narrowly, feeling you just writhe made his sensitive body react. You could see the faint outline and bulge from his member in your lower belly. It was a feeling that sent you spiraling.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he began. At first, moving his hips deliberate and slow as to not injure you, which was a shockingly considerate move on his part, considering how much he was going to wreck you. Slowly, he sped up until he was at a steady rhythm. His hips pumped, leaving you a moaning, whining mess. The sounds coming from you were like a personal orchestra to Perturabo. He clenched the cloth of his robes in his teeth harder and started going down on you like there was no tomorrow.

Part of him wanted to keep going until he got you pregnant, but he tried to stifle that part of him deep down. Perturabo then bent over the desk, letting his own robes fall from his teeth as he wrapped his arms around you, grunting and growling like a wild animal as he kept thrusting in and out of you. You felt good, absolutely divine, even. The way your walls hugged his cock, how your moans sounded in his ear. Even the way your nails dug into his back made him want to fuck you like it was your wedding night.

Perturabo’s hips did all his talking for him, while your cries of pleasure certainly fueled him to keep going. He was so wrapped up in fucking you that he drowned out the sounds of the desk creaking beneath you. He placed his full weight down on the desk, but being careful not to apply too much pressure to your body. Perturabo reached one hand out to grab the edge of the desk, keeping it in place even as it creaked.

His iron grip had even caused the hardwood of the desk to crack. It wasn’t long before he was laying into you with considerable force. You, on the receiving end, were struggling. It was beginning to hurt your lower back, and your insides, seeing just how big and robust he was in every way possible. It was too much for you to handle, which very quickly brought you to climaxing before him.

Pure ecstasy riddled through your entire body as you stiffened with a loud moan. You were feeling very swiftly overstimulated due to his onslaught. Though, luckily for you, not long after you’d climaxed, so did he. Perturabo gripped your hips with bruising strength, staying inside you as he rode his pleasure filled climax to its peak.

You could feel the hot, sticky liquid pouring into you in large amount. His seed was hot, but not hot enough to burn. Perturabo remained with his body on top of yours, having to lift you off the desk and sit back in his chair. The two of you just sat there for a moment, breathing heavily and listening to one another’s heartbeats thundering. “Th- throne on Terra, I need to make you my wife as soon as possible.”

He leaned back. You were far too spent to comment, so you decided to simply nod and groan. You looked down at your lower stomach, wondering if there would be consequences to your master’s actions, however, the chances of that were unlikely. But not zero. “Sir-.. P- Perturabo, we should probably clean up, yes?” You asked, panting between breathes.

Perturabo had nodded in agreement. “Yes, cleaning up is a good idea… lets-… lets just stay here, for a little while.” He said to you, his tone much gentler compared to when you started off. Perhaps, he could even go for a round two in the shower. He’d decide that later though. For now, the pair of you needed to rest.

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Sorry I haven’t posted in a while!!! I got hit by a car, BUT I AM OKAY! There were some superficial wounds but I’ll live. A broken wrist + some snapped ribs never killed anyone (at least I don’t think). I hope I portrayed the silly little guy correctly, Perty is kind of hard to nail down in writing! I also may have gotten a little too wrapped up writing the smut portion

#warhammer 40k #wh40k #fic writing #warhammer 40000 #perturabo #primarch x reader #primarch #iron warriors #fanfic #fanfiction

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