your soulmate has spent his whole life in constant pain, and you’ve spent your whole life feeling it—fleeting for you, unending for him. after years of hoping, you finally find him…right as he dumps piping-hot tea onto his leg and burns you both at the same time
word count. ❤︎ 11.2k words — i promise its not too bad pls give it a chance
before you read. ❤︎ female reader + female gendered terms like “miss” and “pretty lady” ; canon compliant + soulmates au ; feeling your soulmate's pain trope ; heavy references to wrio's backstory, which alludes to child exploitation and trafficking ; mild implications of sexual trauma (wrio) ; reader sits on his lap + gets carried by him ; reader has an unspecified job at the palais/court ; protected vaginal sex ; slight handjobs ; very vanilla sex ; a series of events of you and wrio navigating how to fall in love and enjoying every second of it ; alternating povs
commentary. ❤︎ happy birthday to my bewtiful boy
Your soulmate is always in pain. It’s all you’ve ever known about him.
“His back is killing him again,” you sigh in concern, rubbing your lower back for a moment.
Clorinde looks at you, raising a brow. The fortress is…well, it’s not the cleanest or brightest of places, but there is at least enough light to still make out the look she gives you. “You mean, your back is killing you, yes? You can feel it, too.”
“For just a moment,” you huff, “it’s gone very quickly. It’s not as though it troubles me for long. He, on the other hand…well, I wonder what that fool could have gotten himself into this time.”
The first time you feel what he does, you’re ten. It feels like there’s a sharp kick to your ribs, and then your back feels like it’s slammed hard against a surface just a moment later. You remember it vividly—how you cried out and hunched over. How your mother had rushed over to you and whispered words you couldn’t even hear, wiping your tears. All you knew then was that he was in pain, too. Agony. For a blinding second, you felt it with him, before it dissipated like it was nothing.
At age ten, you learn what it means to worry for someone you’ve never met. To fear for another’s safety more fiercely than a child should be capable of. To wonder about his well-being. His survival. Whatever your soulmate is going through, it can’t be safe. Can’t be the life of a normal child with a normal upbringing or a normal home. You know it’s worse for him, even if you feel it too. Where your aches vanish in seconds, his must linger—throbbing, bruising, weighing down small limbs that have no business carrying so much hurt.
At ten, you learn that not all children are created equal. Some are born to live their lives as children. And others…well, others it seems, are only there to prove how blessed those children truly are.
That is the reality of Fontaine, the nation of justice.
By the time you’re thirteen, there’s a constant ache in your muscles and your bones that comes and goes. A phantom pain that haunts you in bursts, disappearing as quickly as it comes. You can feel it—the burdens he carries. The constant soreness in his back and the tightness of his shoulder blades. Like he has nowhere proper to rest. No surface that curves along his spine and nurtures his developing body the way it should.
It isn’t until you’re fourteen that it gets bad. You’ve known for a long time now that he has a habit of getting into fights—the soreness on your knuckles only implies that he can throw a punch or two back at least now and then. But this time, it’s…frightening. Something dark. Something heavy. It’s a long fight. You can tell that much. There’s a hard tug on your hair, then a bruising grip around your throat, then a swift kick to your stomach. Finally, you feel that familiar sting in your fists. And then it stops. For two days after that, you feel nothing. It’s almost as though he’s no longer conscious, as though someone has eased the pain and left no trace of it—and then, suddenly, it returns all at once. Like he’s been thrown back into reality after two days of being blissfully removed. This time, when the pain returns, a rawness to the skin around your wrist joins the list of things that hurt.
Since the age of ten, you know that he has always been hurting. Always.
There is always some part of his body that is bruised and battered and tender from cruelty. Even as he gets older, even as the sharp injuries stop along with the fights, the sore muscles never do. The throbbing in your arms and legs, and lower back, never goes away. Like he’s been fighting, even if no one has been there to fight him back. Like he’s been keeping his strength, so no one could knock him off his feet again.
“How far is this warden’s office, exactly?” you huff, “and how do you even find anything down here? All these halls and tunnels look the same! I’m starting to wonder if agreeing to work down here was a mistake.”
“All you have to do is come down here for official Palais matters twice a week,” Clorinde hums, “and you’ll learn the tunnels just fine.”
“Ah, Miss Clorinde! You say that like you didn’t get lost for three weeks straight,” an unfamiliar voice calls ahead as she twists the door handle to enter a room.
Clorinde exhales through her nose, unimpressed. “I wasn’t lost. I was exploring alternate routes.”
“You walked into the same dead-end storeroom six times,” a man—you assume to be Wriothesley—says as he comes into view, leaning against the doorway to his office.
You pause. He’s…handsome. That’s the first thing you can think of. Second, you realize he can’t be much older than you. A lot younger than what you were anticipating for a Duke who runs a prison—a prison that he reformed all on his own, no less, from what you’ve heard. You meet his icy, blue-grey eyes, and it puts a shiver down your spine. There’s something…well, you aren’t quite sure. But there’s something about him.
And you wonder if he senses it, too, because his brows furrow for a second as he takes you in.
“I had to be sure you weren’t storing corpses in there,” she replies dryly. You blink out of your trance and look between them—apparently, this is normal. “Anyway,” Clorinde says, gesturing you forward, “this is the warden’s office, and this is Wriothesley. He’s supposed to brief you without embarrassing himself, but I make no promises.”
Wriothesley scoffs. “I’ll have you know I am an excellent host. I even made tea.”
“For your own interest, I presume,” Clorinde shoots back smoothly.
“Okay, so I made some tea for myself,” he huffs, “but I’m more than happy to share.”
He gestures for you both to come in. Clorinde gently nudges you forward once more. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says—and then she throws him a pointed look. “Try not to scare her off, Wriothesley.”
“You’re the scary one,” he calls after her, but she’s already halfway down the hall.
He shakes his head after her before he clears his throat and lets you in, gesturing for you to sit across from him as he settles into his own chair. “Right,” he says. “Formal introductions are probably overdue. I’m Wriothesley—warden of the Fortress, glorified administrator, part-time peacekeeper, full-time babysitter, whatever you would like to call it.”
Your laugh slips out before you can swallow it, and he grins, pleased. “Rest assured, you won’t have to babysit me,” you hum as you introduce yourself.
“That’s quite the relief, miss—but not to worry, nothing you’ll do down here is too complicated. Monsieur Neuvillette has given me the rundown of your responsibilities, and I’ll walk you through protocols, safety procedures, all the boring stuff—really, it’s easier than it sounds. Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you,” you say politely.
“Well, if you don’t want any,” he sighs dramatically, “guess I’ll drink some all alone.” He reaches for his mug mid-sentence, still flipping through a folder with his other hand.
Except his grip on the handle slips. Then the glass tilts. Then—
“Ah, fuck,” he hisses, the scalding liquid burning through his pants and leaving the skin of his thigh raw.
A moment later, you feel a ripple of pain burst through…your thigh? You gasp, letting out a low hiss of, “Shit!” as you grip your upper leg.
His head jerks up, glancing at you with narrowed eyes for a moment at your gasp, seeing you clutching your own leg. He leans over the desk, concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you mumble, “just felt like I got burned….”
It hits you then.
It hits you as you notice him watching your expression, still feeling the remnants of the same burn as you on his own thigh. His eyes widen as the realization hits him at the same time as you.
“You felt that?” he gapes.
You blink as your eyes hold his gaze. Could this mean…could he be…? No, you think, perhaps it’s just a freak coincidence and…
“Hang on a second,” Wriothesley murmurs, and then he pinches the skin of his forearm hard. He grimaces at the sting, and not even a moment later, you hiss and clutch your arm as a wave of pain radiates along the perimeter of your own skin.
“What the fuck?” You glare.
He blinks again. Then he whispers, almost shaky, “Well, what do you know…you do exist.”
“Was that really necessary?” you huff.
“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “Just…just testing a theory there.”
“You could have tested your theory without pinching so hard,” you pout, rubbing over your arm as if the pain hadn’t already faded away. The phantom linger of pain is always the worst part—the part where you can’t forget how it felt to be hurt, even if it didn’t last long. The ghost of the injustice of it all. The unfairness that torments you without so much as a bruise as proof. The reality that somewhere, the person you are meant to find is hurt, and there is proof taunting you without making itself known properly.
But now…now he isn’t just somewhere. No—he’s right here.
It dawns on you just what theory he’s tested and proven. Your head snaps up, getting a good, long look at his face before you stand and walk over, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer like you’re inspecting him more properly now.
He stares at you in bewilderment. “Um…wha—”
“Oh my god,” you gasp at the mark under his eye, “this scar—I remember this! That one felt awful—oh my god! Wait! I remember this, too,” you point to the one peeking through his collar at his neck. Without thinking, you quickly unbutton his vest and the shirt underneath, making him squawk in protest. But you pay him no mind—your hand delicately, gently, slowly tracing over the years and years and years of evidence of pain.
Pain you felt. Pain you shared. Pain you carried with him, even if only for a moment.
Your hand trembles as you take in the awful, cruel marks scattered across his skin—the raised, discolored grafts melding into the healthier patches. You ignore the way his eyes bore into your face, watching you carefully as every emotion twists across your expression.
“How could anyone…I don’t…I don’t understand,” you whisper, tracing a particularly thick scar across his left pec. You wonder if it narrowly missed his heart. Your eyes well up with tears against your will, much to your disdain.
His own eyes widen with alarm. “It’s not a big deal,” he says quickly. “They’re nothing, really! I’m strong, see?” Wriothesley flexes his arm, showing the bulging muscle of his bicep before he tries—poorly—to lighten the mood with, “Nothing’s beatin’ me down, miss.”
“Are you joking? These hurt,” you hiss. “Don’t pretend they didn’t! I felt them all too, in case you’ve forgotten!”
His face drops at that—guilt sprawling across every feature. (It’s a beautiful, handsome face. He’s gorgeous, and you wonder if he’s ever been made to feel that way. Even if only for a moment.)
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I never…if it were up to me, you would’ve never felt—”
“Never mind me,” you sniffle. “What in the Archons’ names have you been dealing with all your life?”
Your hands gently pull off his vest and the shirt underneath fully, giving you a proper look at the full map of suffering carved into him. It should be a bit unprofessional, really, to undress your new colleague the moment you meet—but, well, the circumstances are a bit unique here. And he just sort of lets you without protesting, this time.
Your breath hitches as soon as you see his bare upper body. His torso is a constellation of old wounds—some thin and faded with age, others thicker, more jagged, warped in ways that make your stomach twist. Every scar is proof that this nation does not serve justice the way its divine nature intends. No one, especially not a child of his age when these injuries had marked him, should have endured such cruelty under the Hydro Archon’s watch.
You lift trembling fingers to his arm, tracing a long, uneven scar that snakes along the front. “This one,” you whisper, voice cracking, “I remember waking up in the middle of the night because of this. I thought—Archons, I thought someone had sliced me open.”
Wriothesley winces—not from your touch, but from the look on your face. His hands hover like he wants to steady you, but he doesn’t have the courage to fully reach.
“Ah, that,” he mumbles. “It…it wasn’t that deep. Just…caught a knife the wrong way, that’s all.”
You give him a watery, withering look. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”
“That was years ago,” he insists. “It’s over now! I’m…we’re okay.”
“I was always okay,” you bury your face in your hands. “All this time, I was okay, and you weren’t. If we’d…found each other sooner…or if—if maybe we’d tried to communicate somehow…perhaps if we’d even tried to—”
His hands gently wrap around your wrists, tugging them away from your face before pulling your hunched figure forward so you’re no longer bending awkwardly over him. Instead…you’re on his lap.
His lap.
Sure, he’s your soulmate, and of course, you’ve always felt a great deal of care for this stranger you’ve been bound to for years, but never really known, but you only met him not too long ago. And now you’re sitting on his lap.
You gasp, flustered as you stammer, “W-what are y-you—”
“Hey,” he hums softly, tilting your face to look at him. His hand cradles your jaw—gentle, delicate, impossibly careful from someone who’s known nothing but hardship at the hands of others. Your eyes lock with his as he murmurs, “I’m okay, sweetheart. See? I’m sitting here in the flesh right in front of you…if that’s proof.”
“Guess…guess it is,” you swallow thickly.
“Y’know? It’s strange,” he admits, voice low.
“What is?”
“Finally having you here. And not just some weird temporary feeling every now and then.”
You hum, studying his face. He really is young for a Duke. Handsome, sure, but too young to carry the burdens that he does. Then again, you think that might have been true all his life. “Strange as in good?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes. Very good.”
Your fingers have begun tracing along a scar on his shoulder slowly, without even realizing it. He glances down at your hand, then back to you, lips curling into a loose, amused grin. You quickly stop the movement, clearing your throat as you mumble, “This is not professional work behavior, you know.”
“You took my shirt off,” he points out.
“And you pulled me onto your lap!”
He tactfully ignores that part and hums, “You know…I think you should come by outside of official business. That way we’re not interrupted by duties and all.”
Your heart thumps hard enough that you’re sure he feels it. “Is this your way of asking me on a date? Because then it’s a little lackluster.”
He shrugs, giving you a boyishly charming smile. “Are you gonna turn me down? After I waited this long to find you?”
“Guess not,” you sigh dramatically, “perhaps I can spare some time here and there. In these…dark, dingy halls.”
“Your kindness moves me, miss soulmate,” he beams.
You stare for a moment. (You should be embarrassed that you do, but he stares right back, and he doesn’t seem to be complaining about the circumstances. You can’t help but get lost in him—it’s almost a force that’s beyond your control. Perhaps beyond his, too.)
Finally, you blink and force yourself out of whatever trance he has you in. “I should get up…” you say, mildly embarrassed. You try to move—but he has one arm around your waist, keeping you in place as he gives you an unhappy frown.
“What’s the rush? Not like either of us has to be anywhere.”
“This is unprofessional! And entirely not the sort of position anyone should see the warden of this place in if they walk—”
“Well, that’s the fun part,” he gives you a confident, wolfish little grin, “no one walks into a warden’s office without knocking.”
“I’m gonna write that in my report,” you warn, “that you use unlawful tactics for intimidation and control.”
“The fortress is an autonomous region,” he shoots back.
“It’s still a partnership!”
“Yes,” he grins, eyeing you softly, “I suppose it is.”
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Wriothesley knows he’s not very lucky in most departments. The soulmate one, however? He likes to think he got pretty damn lucky.
You’re pretty and funny, and you have a good head on your shoulders. That much is evident, and most people would be thrilled just by that. But you have other endearing things about you—things he tallies up over the weeks as he gets to know you and keeps locked away in his memories.
You can’t drink liquids if they’re piping hot, but somehow, food is not a problem. You like flowers even if you’re allergic to half of them. You’re passionate about how much you dislike Fontaine’s silly, unnecessary laws. You work at the Palais because it makes you feel useful. You insist you can’t decide what your favorite color is, but you unknowingly always seem to favor a certain one. You always insist you don’t want anything when he offers to pay, but you’re very bad at hiding your excitement when he buys you a pastry anyway.
He could keep a list. He doesn’t need to write them down because his mind could not forget these little things even if he wanted, but he could keep a list. A list of everything he learns day by day, week by week, month by month.
“I thought you hated bananas,” he raises an amused brow. You sit across from him in the bakery, happily slicing through the banana bread he bought on his mora.
“I do,” you argue, “but banana bread doesn’t count. It makes the banana work—and there are chocolate chips, see?”
He doesn’t say anything—just stares and takes in the sight of you. All of you. You.
“Want another slice?”
“Oh no, thank you,” you shake your head, “I’m good, really.”
(In the end, he gets you another. You pretend like he’s gone out of his way for nothing, but you eat it with no complaints, a happy gleam in your eye. He wonders if he’ll be blessed by the Gods enough to buy you sweets until all of his hair turns grey.)
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It takes a few months before Wriothesley talks about his past. You work at the Palais and sift through legal documents often enough that coming across his trial’s records is not difficult business. But you wait for him to tell you on his own terms.
The first time he brings it up is also the first time you fuck him. It’s been a long time coming—you want him so badly, it almost hurts. You think about him all the time, and you’ve seen him in enough instances without a shirt that your imagination has begun to run a little wild. You want Wriothesley, and if you can just find out if he wants you too, you can have him, you’re sure.
So you set out to find out.
“You wanna make out?” you ask from the couch in his office as he does paperwork.
He pauses, doing a double-take. “Sorry?”
“You and me,” you gesture between the two of you with a finger, “do you wanna make out? Like kiss and stuff with our tongues and—”
“I know what making out is, thank you!” he interjects, neck flushing a little, faint trace of red, “We’ve done it before, I’m not clueless. I’m just astounded by your forthcomingness, is all.”
You pout. “Well, I’m bored. And you look very handsome right now. So? Making out—yes or no?”
He drops his pen as he stares at you. It rolls off the desk. He makes no move to retrieve it. “Sweetheart,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a toddler, “you can’t just look at a guy while he’s trying to finish disciplinary reports and ask if he wants to swap spit.”
“Why not? If you don’t want to, you can just say so.”
“I—” He blinks. Once. Twice. His ears are also red now. “I didn’t say I didn't want to.”
You grin excitedly, walking over to him with a little bounce in your step as you lean your hip against his desk, arms crossed in victory. “So you do want to.”
“I didn’t say that either.” He rubs a hand down his face. “We’re in my office.”
“So?” You shrug. “We’ve made out here before—you didn’t care then. Why start now?”
He glares, but it’s the useless kind—more fluster than defiance. “W-well, that was…after everyone was in their bunks for curfew!”
“Mhm.” You take a slow step closer. “So what about that time we made out behind some pipes in the middle of the day? Curfew only matters selectively, huh?” His breath stutters. Very slightly. But you notice. You push a finger under his chin, tilting his head up so he has to look at you. His pupils are blown—just a little, but it’s enough to knock a spark of heat straight into your spine. “You can tell me no,” you murmur. “Just say the word.”
“M’not ever going to say no to kissing you,” he mumbles, pulling you onto his lap, “you know that good and well, you little troublemaker.”
“Troublemaker?” you gasp, “I’ve no criminal history, your grace!”
“For now,” he snorts, “may have to take you into court myself for the damages you do down here.”
Before you can protest, he leans in and closes the gap, kissing you soft and sweet with a little edge of desperation. You gasp, and his lips move against yours again—harder this time, as if the first kiss has cracked open some dam to his self-control, and everything he’s been holding back is now spilling over at once. His hands slide to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. He pulls you flush against him, swallowing the small sound you make as he kisses you deeper, fuller, like he’s been starved for this—starved for you.
You fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, and he groans into your mouth, low and rough. The sound shoots straight through you and goes straight to your core. He tilts your head back, cradling it as his mouth slots against yours impatiently. When his tongue grazes yours, you answer him with a low moan, wrapping your arms around his neck and tugging at his hair.
He makes a sharp, pleased noise at that. You feel his smile against your lips—brief and crooked, making something between your legs ache. “Like that, huh?”
“Be quiet,” you huff. He only laughs before deepening the kiss again, his mouth claiming yours with an amused smile.
Suddenly, an arm wraps tightly around your waist and hoists you closer—you can’t focus on it too much with the way he’s nipping at your bottom lip. It’s not until your back hits the wall that you even realize that he’s been moving you, walking to the short distance to the wall behind his desk with his arm curled around you, holding your weight like it’s nothing. One of his hands fiddles with something behind you—a click later, and you realize it’s a doorknob.
The door opens, and he quickly strides in with you in his grip. You pull away, panting, glancing around as you take in this new room. A bedroom, you realize—his bedroom. His gauntlets are there, in a corner, tools sprawled around them from the last time he spent tinkering away at them. You take in the simplicity of it, how there isn’t anything in here apart from his essentials. The bare necessities.
“Is this your room?” you whisper.
“Didn’t think I slept in the bunks with the inmates, did you?” he murmurs, gently setting you down on his bed as he hovers over you. “What’s the point of being a duke if I don’t get at least a few perks?”
“You should decorate the place more,” you murmur, “I’ll help.”
“Yeah?” he pecks your lips, “awfully nice of you, sweetheart.”
You tug him down by the collar, chasing his mouth when he breaks away to speak. He huffs a laugh, breath warm against your lips, and then he’s kissing you again—messy, hungry, more unrestrained now, like he’s finally given himself permission to want this as badly as you do.
His teeth catch your lower lip.
Your answering gasp is all the invitation he needs to bring his hand to your thigh, rubbing up and down the side of it as he groans into your mouth roughly when you tug at his hair some more. “Was this your plan all along?” he rasps, “get me in your bed?”
“This is your bed,” you point out, “and you brought me here.”
“You have a smart little mouth,” he grunts, angling your jaw up as he fixes you with a playfully stern look, “that’s insubordination, miss.”
“I think I need to be disciplined, your grace,” you say, giving him a cheeky little wink.
He huffs out a disbelieving laugh, looking at you in awe and wonder before he shakes his head and brings your arms up, pinning them over your head as he presses kisses along your jaw. “You,” he murmurs between kisses, “are a handful.”
The moment he pulls back enough actually to look at you, though, something shifts. His breath hitches, barely perceptible, but there. His eyes glaze over with something as they take in the sight of you under him—you can’t quite make out what it is, but you know it makes you feel important. Special. Some sort of feeling that no one has quite made you feel before. Then his hands, firm a moment ago, loosen just slightly around your wrists, as if the reality of holding you like this suddenly hits him all at once.
You watch him swallow. His gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, before he willfully forces him to look up and direct his gaze to your forehead so he’s not looking into your eyes or downwards along your body.
“What?” you whisper, a small smile curling at your lips.
“Nothing.” He clears his throat, though it comes out rougher than he means it to. “Just… you’re—” he cuts himself off abruptly, the unfinished thought hanging between you. He releases your wrists, carefully, like you’re something fragile that he’s only just realized he’s strong enough to break. His palms settle instead at your waist, hesitant in a way they weren’t before.
You tilt your head, watching him with growing curiosity. “You okay?”
“Course I am,” he huffs. “Just noticed you’re…very pretty. That’s all.”
“Only now?” you pout—but your lips are already curled into a cocky little grin.
“Stop that,” he grumbles.
“Stop what?”
“You know what,” he huffs.
You giggle, tugging him down by his stupidly loose tie and bringing his forehead against yours. His eyes are always icy blue, but they’re the brightest pools of warmth you’ve ever swam in, all the same. “You’re getting shy on me, you know.”
“Am not,” he argues.
“Are too,” you grin.
“Nope,” he all but pouts. His breath hitches as you untie his tie and fling it somewhere, slowly working at the buttons of his vest while he lets out a shaky breath over you. “You’re…sure about this?”
“I’m always sure about you,” you smile softly. He closes his eyes, breath stuttering for a moment as you pull off his shirt and vest, admiring the hard planes of muscle and the broadness of his physique. “You’re pretty, too, by the way.”
“You’re killing me,” he rasps.
Undressing is an awkward ordeal. But endearing. Wriothesley struggles to kick off his boots, and unclasping your bra takes him a moment before he can tug it off—but finally, in between kisses and soft, amused giggles and breathy, embarrassed chuckles, you’re both bare and tangled in his sheets.
He’s hard—his cock is thick and curved, and the tip leaks with the evidence of his arousal in the form of pre cum. You bring a hand between your bodies, gently smearing it with your thumb like a lubricant while he shivers and lets out a soft groan.
“Fuck,” he hisses out, breathing harder as you wrap your hand around his girth. He stares down at where your touch meets him—and he’s more than a little dizzy by the way your hand can barely wrap around the full width of his thickness.
“It’s…so big,” you murmur, staring in awe and disbelief.
“You can’t just say that,” he groans.
“Sorry,” you giggle, biting your lip as you give him an innocent smile.
“You’re not sorry even a little,” he huffs. Then his eyes flutter closed and his lips part in a low, shaky moan as you slowly move your hand and drag your palm along his length, stroking languidly while he buries his head into your neck.
“I am,” you insist, kissing the side of his head sweetly, “here, I’ll even make it up to you.”
“Ngh—fuck,” he curses as your pace quickens, the friction of your hand gliding over the sensitive skin of his erection making his breaths come out unevenly. He’s pretty when he feels good—and Wriothesley is pretty and easy on the eye any time, of course, but when he’s bare and vulnerable and trusts you to witness him at his rawest, he is particularly beautiful.
Your eyes can’t help but keep themselves glued on him—and he can’t help but notice and get more flustered.
“Stop staring,” he grunts.
“What am I meant to look at then?” you huff, “the wall?”
“Close your eyes.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you shake your head with a snort.
There’s a building ache between your bare legs, a wetness leaking and spreading down your inner thighs as you watch pleasure sprawl over his features and hear the sweet, delicate sounds of approval he makes when you touch him particularly right.
Finally, his hand gently grasps onto your wrist as he stops you, panting and gritting his jaw as he murmurs, “O-okay—think…think we should get to…you know.”
“What?” you tease.
“The main part,” he glares weakly—and then, he spreads your legs and takes a closer look at your wet, needy cunt. “You want this just as badly—I can literally see it. Don’t be so smug, sweetheart.”
“Of course I want you,” you hum, “why wouldn’t I?” He shivers at that. Gives you a dazed look before he leans in and kisses you—almost like it’s more to distract himself than it is to distract you.
(Wriothesley is endearing when he’s flustered. This is the conclusion that sex with him draws you to. When he fumbles through his side drawer to pull out a condom, and when he struggles to open the package, you are hopelessly endeared. And when he gives you a half-hearted glare as you giggle, you realize how endearing he also is when he is grumpy.)
“Ready?” he whispers, eyeing you good and hard once he finally lines up with your entrance. You nod, and he mumbles, “I need words, please, sweetness.”
“Ready,” you sigh fondly, “I want you. M’not backing out.” He takes a moment to look at you properly. Like he has to be sure you’re here and want this. With him. Wriothesley has brought you pain before—against his will, he’s made you ache and throb with soreness and harsh stings. He makes you ache again—this time, though, it’s a little different. It’s not because you carry his pain with him. It’s because that look he gives you makes your chest tighten and your heart ache all on its own accord. “I want you, Wrio,” you breathe, cupping his cheeks, “swear I do.”
Only then does he close his eyes, smiling softly as he nods and murmurs, “Lucky me. Got you all to myself—the universe said so. You’re all mine.”
“All yours,” you breathe.
He presses the thick tip of his cock along your entrance, rubbing along your folds and collecting your wetness as you shiver. You gasp, and he chuckles softly at the fragile sound, pecking your lips as he murmurs, “Barely even done anything yet, sweetheart.”
“Then do something,” you click your teeth, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him closer, pressing his pelvis closer.
He swallows, whispering, “You’ll tell me if I hurt you, yeah?”
“You’ll feel it anyway,” you murmur, “quit your worry-warting and move.”
“So demanding, miss soulmate,” he chuckles.
And then—finally—he pushes past your folds, pressing into you slowly, carefully, delicately. Wriothesley has a reputation. It’s a bit out of his control—people tend to see a prison warden as rough and strict, and people often mistake him for a brute with just a glance. You know better. You know him to be soft and sensitive and so caring, it’s almost unfair that he spends his time under waves of the ocean instead of up in the real world, where he can share his warmth. You know him as the kind man who feeds squirrels in Fontaine and pets stray cats in the alleyways. You know him as the gentle guy who holds doors open for children and lets them cut in line at the ice cream shop. You know him as the delicate boy who never wants to hurt you with his strength when he already feels waves of guilt for having brought you so much hurt all these years without meaning to.
When he sinks into your tight, welcoming cunt, and stretches you open, you wonder how you went this long without him. How you survived without knowing him. How you lived this long without being tangled in his arms and being connected to him deep and close.
He feels so right—so good. He curves into you so perfectly, stretches you apart, opens you up with his thickness, and presses the blunt head of his against a delicate, sensitive spot in your walls that makes your head spin.
“W-wrio…” your breath hitches, “f-fuck—so deep,” you whine.
“And you’re…so tight,” he groans, “shit, sweetheart—never felt so good before.”
You never dwelled on the reality of soulmates. Your mother and father were lucky enough to meet each other—you know that soulmates are real before Wriothesley’s pain is ever yours because you watch them love. You watch them nurture you, the byproduct of that love, with so much care and diligence. You don’t need the proof of your own soulmate to know that they are real and they exist.
For the longest time, you know nothing about Wriothesley apart from the fact that he exists. You’ve only ever known that he was yours. That one day, if you were lucky, you’d find him. It never occurred to you that once you did find him, you’d realize how incomplete you’ve always been. How everything was there, but there was no one to share it with. Now that he’s here, pressed into you deep into you, you wonder how you’ll ever disconnect. How you’ll ever part from feeling so whole and complete.
His hips move—he pulls almost all the way out before slamming back into you, hard and rough but still careful enough that it doesn’t hurt you. It blinds you with a pleasure that burns through your spine and finds every nerve. It makes a soft, pleasant ache start to form at the pit of your stomach, building up stronger and stronger with every roll of his hips and every drag of his cock along your walls.
The friction makes you sob, curling your nails into his shoulders as you whimper, “S’good, Wrio—so…so good, please don’t stop.”
“Now why would I do that?” he grunts, moaning when your walls flutter around him and squeeze tight. “Why would I stop feeling my precious girl?”
Your head spins more at that—precious girl. Wriothesley is smooth about calling you things like that. He calls you something affectionate so casually that sometimes you almost mistake your own name for a sweet, loving pet name. Sweetheart. Sweetness. Precious girl. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly sentimental, he calls you honey. When he’s in a playful mood, he likes to say miss soulmate. (You ask him why he says it once, and he tells you, it’s because I like reminding you you’re my soulmate. And I like saying it out loud, too. Makes it more real.)
You like it when he calls you things that remind you that you’re his. You like being his. It’s your favorite thing to be—the thing that takes burdens off your shoulder and lets you simply exist without having something to prove. Something to offer. You like being so easy for someone to care about you, it feels like it happens for no other reason than just because it’s natural to do so.
“Faster,” you plead.
“Anything you want, precious,” he breathes. “You—hah—you are so beautiful. You know that?”
A hand moves up your thigh and travels to that delicate spot between your legs—and then you throw your head back and mewl as he finds your clit and rubs circles with that rough, calloused pad of his thumb. You’re sensitive—every brush against the bundle of nerves sends a jolt of pleasure that has you hurdling towards your end.
“Close,” you rasp, “Wrio…m’so c-close.”
“Yeah, sweetheart? Is that right?” he asks, his own voice shaky enough that you gather it must be the case for him, too. His pace has become sloppy enough that he must be near the edge himself, as well.
“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip and letting out a soft, drawn-out moan as he sinks deeper into you and presses right against your sweet spot.
“Me…me too—come with me, okay? Want…want you to finish with me,” he pleads. His thumb is merciless against your clit—it rubs smooth, unpausing circles and builds you up to your release with one, then two, and then a third thrust of his hips.
Your vision all but goes white as you fall apart. Your back arches, and he curls an arm around you and brings you flush against him, kissing you rough and hard and needy. You swallow each other’s sounds as your walls flutter around him and his cock twitches inside of you, letting warm rope after rope of thick seed spill into the plastic that separates you.
“Fuck,” you both hiss.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, “you…you’re so perfect. Know that? Huh?” He kisses along your jaw. They’re wet, messy kisses, pressed into your skin with a drunken, hazy sense of control as you milk his cock for every last drop of his release.
“C’mere,” you beg, “closer.”
“M’right here,” he murmurs, “fuck, m’not going anywhere. Ever.”
And then he collapses beside you once he’s fucked you both through the last few waves of your orgasms. He pulls you against him, wrapping two strong, muscled arms around you and tangling your body with his.
“That was nice,” you whisper.
“That was your plan all along,” he accuses, “you never wanted to just make out.”
You giggle, beaming up at him. “Guilty. Will I serve a sentence, your grace?”
“Life in prison,” he gives you a faux stern look, “directly under my supervision.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad,” you hum, “serving down here with you. I think I’d live.”
For a while, it’s quiet. You bask in the afterglow of him and you and the skin that melts you both together. And then, his voice carries through the space that hardly exists between you both.
“I served down here,” he mumbles. “Bet you already knew that—you probably have better access to legal documents than me.”
“I’ve seen a paper or two,” you admit.
“You’re rather calm regarding my history,” he says carefully.
“I guess I just…always had a feeling things played out the way they did. I remember it,” you whisper, tracing the skin of his chest, feeling the scars from memory. “The night you killed your parents. I felt it, y’know?”
His breath stills. You’re sure he’s not surprised—it was nothing short of vicious, the fight he’d put up. You’re sure he remembers better than you how it felt in every nerve ending. You don’t think anyone could ever forget.
The truth is that you’d known about his court case long before you pieced together he was your soulmate. It’s a case most people in your line of work know about. A popular case that opened up a popular investigation into chains of corrupted institutions for children. Places led and controlled by people who have intentions to do anything but keep the less fortunate children of Fontaine safe. Most people in your field consider him a hero of sorts—a boy who sacrificed his freedom to make a change the justice system wouldn’t.
You think Wriothesley is troubled. He was as a child, and in some ways, he is now. You wish he could have been like other boys and girls, that he could be like other men and women. You wish life was kinder to him so that his circumstances never had to feel like the extremes were the only way out.
You wish Wriothesley could have had a good life. You wish Fontaine and those who uphold its justice hadn’t failed him every chance he had to get one.
He doesn’t look at you for a while. His gaze stays focused on the ceiling as he swallows. “The night I killed my foster parents maybe wasn’t my proudest moment.”
“Maybe not,” you agree, moving your hand to grab his, lacing your fingers together. “But I think you’ve had a proud moment or two since then.”
He stays silent. For a long time, Wriothesley is silent. You don’t think he’ll say anything else, so you close your eyes, slowly drifting off to sleep against his chest when his voice rumbles in your ear. Low. Hesitant.
“I don’t regret it,” is all he says.
You crack an eye open, tilting your head up. “Killing them?”
“Setting the kids free,” he corrects. “No one else would have done it. That was the only way I could think of. I felt like they deserved it.”
“How about now?”
“Well. Still think they deserve it,” he mumbles. “But…I would do it differently now.”
“That’s because you can,” you point out, “you have the connections and the resources to do things the ‘right’ way.”
“Think so?” he cracks a grin—small, but there.
“I do believe you hold some authority, you grace,” you chuckle. He doesn’t say anything else—just laughs softly and kisses your forehead. You fall asleep lulled by his fingers along your back and the smell of his faint cologne.
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Wriothesley has a habit of throwing himself into the ring when things get hard. It was the only outlet he had down here in the fortress for the most part when he served—the only way for him to break a sweat and get his energy poured into something. And maybe get in a few good hits to anyone who’d been giving him a hard time. But, well…some habits just stick. They’re hard to grow out of.
Nowadays, being in the ring is more or less a matter of keeping in shape. At least, that’s what he tells himself, anyway—he knows it’s no coincidence that when his mind is particularly heavy, he spends more time hitting a punching bag with taped fists. He’s always had a high pain tolerance. The sore muscles in his arms and the sting of his knuckles ground him half the time more than they do hurt him.
He wonders if he’s grown accustomed to pain because it’s been the only constant in his life, or if it’s because he simply deserves it.
“Wrio,” he hears a soft voice call, pausing him from throwing his next punch. He drops his form, straightening his back as he looks over his shoulder. It’s you, of course. It had to be even before he’d registered your voice—only one person is allowed at the pankration ring at this hour (him) and only one person gets away with breaking his rules (you).
“What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart?” he tilts his head a few times to crack his neck, “you’re supposed to be in bed.”
“So are you.”
“Got a little restless, is all,” he says vaguely.
“You’re tired,” you raise an unimpressed brow, “and that poor bag has had enough—it never did anything to you.”
“I’m not tired yet,” he denies. (He is. Even for his standards, his arms and shoulders are rather tense and sore. He’s pushed himself further than usual. He bets you would know because you can feel it.)
“You can’t lie to me when I can feel the same things as you,” you huff, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “You’re too young to have stiff shoulders, y’know.”
His eyes soften with guilt before he lets out a heavy sigh and lets his shoulders drop. You walk over, standing behind him as your arms wrap around his midsection and your nose buries into the bare skin of his back.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he lies.
“Wriothesley,” you say flatly.
“Just a busy week,” he says half-heartedly. “Seriously, I’m fine. So…just drop it.”
“Okay,” you sigh, too tired from your sleep being interrupted to put up a proper fight. You kiss his back, and he melts a little at the gesture, limbs loosening up even more. “You’ll talk to me if you need to?”
“Yeah,” he whispers, “I’ll come find you if I need it.”
Wriothesley is aware that you know he won’t. Not of his own free will. He doesn’t talk about his feelings or share his burdens because then he’s no longer in control of his image. The less strong of an image he has, the more innocent and frail he seems. The more innocent and frail he seems, the more likely it is that he’ll be taken advantage of.
It’s not that Wriothesley doesn’t trust you, or that he thinks you’ll take advantage of him. You won’t. He trusts that much. You’re the only good thing that’s his. But muscle memory is muscle memory.
Some habits just stick. And they’re hard to grow out of.
You gently shuffle to stand in front of him, wrapping your arms to rest around his neck now. His hands find your hips. “Let’s go to bed,” you whisper, pulling him down so his forehead rests against yours. “If you’re really that energetic, I’ll tire you out some other way.”
“Yeah?” he cracks a grin.
“Mmh,” you hum.
“Then lead the way, sweetness,” he chuckles.
(In the end, he’s out like a light as soon as his head finds that comfortable place against your chest. He’s sure you’ll tease him for it as soon as he feels himself start to drift off, but he thinks it’s worth it when he feels your fingers card through his hair.)
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Sometimes, you forget Wriothesley can feel your pain just as much as you feel his. Your whole life has been spent so focused on how often he endures suffering compared to you, that you forget to focus on your own.
He doesn’t forget to focus on you, though. He never does. He’s one deep scowl and a hand on his hips away from making that known.
“With a headache like that, I’m surprised you’re still conscious, let alone finishing paperwork,” he clicks his teeth.
You glance up and give him a tired look when you register his words.
“I just need to finish these up and get them out of the way so they don’t haunt me—”
“No, you need sleep. And maybe a proper meal,” he interrupts.
“But—”
“No buts. Let’s go.” Before you can protest any further, he has you lifted and settled in his arms as he drags you to your bed from your desk.
You learn quickly on that Wriothesley doesn’t like spending nights apart. He’s grown too used to your presence. On nights you can’t come down to the Fortress, his simple solution is just to come spend the night up at the surface. You can’t pretend like you aren’t relieved by his presence yourself—one night without him makes for a terrible night of sleep. And maybe a worse headache the next day.
He shuffles through your apartment with a sense of familiarity that makes your heart full, even if your head is pounding. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck as he walks with you carefully tucked against him.
“You give me headaches,” he mumbles, “literally.”
“S’only fair,” you yawn, “you’ve put me through worse.” Your words have no bite to them. Nothing more than a good-natured quip. You’d go through worse in a heartbeat for him.
He smiles fondly, sighing as he kisses the side of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers, “guess that’s true.”
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Sex is a complicated topic for Wriothesley.
It’s a topic he’s been thinking about more lately. The more that sex happens between the two of you, the more he’s starting to realize that it’s a complicated topic for him.
Although if he’s being honest, what he engages with you can hardly be considered just sex. It’s intimacy. Wriothesley has never partaken in intimacy before you. Sex, though? Plenty of times. Sometimes, it was more for survival than his own desires, and sometimes it was simply because he was a growing, curious boy with needs and wants. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him what he needed for survival much quicker when he was still a prisoner. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him through his pent-up emotions better than sitting and processing them.
Whatever the case may be, Wriothesley has always had just sex because it was just that. Sex that has a purpose—some purposes less sanitized than others, but a purpose all the same.
But being intimate is something different from having just sex. When Wriothesley is having just sex, he can put on an air of cockiness. He can play into what people want, slip into whatever role they carved out for him—innocently sweet and naive, or dangerously charming and experienced, sometimes even a little rough and a little wicked. He can wear confidence like a mask, sharpen his smile into something rakish, tilt his chin just right, and say the things he knows people want to hear.
He can disconnect. He can keep his heart out of it. He can survive it.
Intimacy, though? Intimacy is different. It demands that he stay honest, not perform. That he be soft. That he be seen.
With you, there’s no room for the cocky smirk or the confident swagger. And he tries—he really, really tries—but the moment your hands are on him with care instead of expectation, the moment you kiss him like he’s precious instead of convenient, the moment your eyes are fond instead of just lustful, his whole front crumbles.
The mask doesn’t fit. The persona slips. The smooth, practiced words get stuck in his throat.
He’s clumsy with intimacy in a way he never was with just sex. His touches hesitate. His breath stutters when your fingers thread through his hair. He keeps searching your face like he’s waiting for the moment you change your mind, like he’s terrified you’ll see too much of him and walk away. Vulnerability of this kind turns him quiet, nervous, almost boyish in a way he hates himself for, and yet can’t seem to stop.
With you, he’s not performing. With you, he can’t.
You’re not just hoping he touches you for your own pleasure—and you don’t want to touch him back just to indulge your own wicked fantasies. You care about how he feels, how it is for him more than it is for you. You care about his experience with affection and gentleness.
The more that you and Wriothesley are intimate, the more he opens himself up to gentleness. And Wriothesley has never known what to do with gentleness.
He doesn’t know how to accept it. Not ever since the day he realized it came with a heavy price that he could never afford. (And how could he afford you? You are so patient and happy to have him, so willing despite knowing his past and the horrors of his crimes, despite enduring the agony he put you through physically. Your affection, of all things, should come with the highest of prices.)
“Did it bother you growing up?” he whispers, tracing your hip bone with his thumb as you lie against his bare chest. You like cuddling after intimacy. He likes it, too. You curl against him in his dark bedroom, bare and sleepy and satisfied, and for a moment, he feels normal. Like you’re not with him under the literal ocean. Like he’s not an ex-convict who now sees over other convicts. Like he’s not the guy who made you feel sharp kicks and deep bruises all your life.
“What?” you hum.
“You know what,” he huffs. You give him an earnestly confused shake of your head, and he sighs. He decides that perhaps you are being honest and not purposely dense just to make him properly communicate his feelings. “The pain,” he mutters. “It didn’t bother you that I was always bringing you pain?”
“It did,” you say bluntly. He tenses under you. You gently press a kiss to his chest as if to soothe him, like you’ve already read his mind. “Not for the reasons you might think, though.”
“Oh?” he arches a brow, “then do enlighten me, miss soulmate. How exactly did it bother you that I’m not gathering here?”
You roll your eyes. It’s affectionate.
Wriothesley misses that. He misses affection in the simple forms he once knew—Mother’s fond eye-roll, the way she’d sigh and grab a handkerchief to clean the chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth after Father brought home treats. The way she’d bend down and wipe the smudges away as she’d gently scold, You’ve got to be more careful, ▇▇! Heavens know what other people would think if they saw you so filthy. Whatever would you do without me? The way she’d sigh and pull him into a hug, kissing his cheeks when he’d pouted at being lectured.
Mother was always so soft—he still wonders, sometimes, how anyone could possibly fake so much gentleness. Some of it had to have been real, right? Just a fraction? A small morsel? It had to be, hadn’t it? Even if he wasn’t worth loving long enough to keep, he must have at least been worth loving for that temporary time she showed him that affection.
If only he were worth more than a pretty sum of mora. If only he could have made Mother fond enough of him that keeping him was worth more than selling him off like some animal on the market, a piece of meat to butcher and cut open and devour with filthy, disgusting hands.
Affection has always cost him something. Some price that is not worth paying. His innocence, his freedom, his life. You are the only person who affords him affection without any price. And how funny, he thinks—that the one person capable of it is the one person meant for him, decided by fate. He wonders then, that if there was no such thing as fate and divinity, if he’d be worthy of any affection at all. If you are the one person the world has granted him because it is their begrudging duty to assign him another half. If you alone are a miracle that he was lucky enough to be allowed by Celestia, as they smiled down on him out of a single, twisted instance of mercy.
He can’t dwell on it too long before you’re cupping his cheek and pulling him out of his thoughts, pressing a kiss to his lips. His breath hitches for a moment—he forgets sometimes that can do this whenever he wants. He can kiss you. Claim your affection. Feel the proof of it for himself. He presses into you harder, desperately trying to swallow down as much of it for free as he can in case one day, this too has a price that is out of his means.
“It never bothered me to carry your pain,” you whisper against his mouth, “though I won’t lie—it did hurt,” you chuckle. You peck his lips before he can say anything in response. “It bothered me that it was your reality. I couldn’t understand why it was like that—how different we were.”
“You shouldn’t have had to try to understand it,” he mumbles, “if you weren’t stuck to me, you’d have—”
“Mwah,” you cut him off, pressing a loud kiss to his mouth. “Don’t say that, silly. I’m not stuck with you.”
He blinks before he huffs out a soft snort, shaking his head in disbelief. “Silencing me with a kiss isn’t going to—”
“Mwah!” You kiss him again, theatrically louder this time as you giggle.
“If you keep kissing me when I say self-deprecating things, it’ll only condition me to say them more,” he warns.
“Then I’ll kiss you after you say anything,” you hum. “Then you’ll only bother saying the nice things since you might as well.”
“I don’t know if that’s how it works—”
“Mwah!” You kiss again.
He laughs, pulling you impossibly closer before he tilts your face up, cupping your cheek with a large hand that practically swallows your face entirely as he kisses you. Hard. You hum against his lips, eyes fluttering shut as you kiss him back. As if kissing him is enjoyable. As if someone like him was worthy of your time and affection and touch. As if someone of his status is worth tangling your life with, despite being who he is and where he is from.
“Wrio,” you murmur, trying to pull away from his needy lips.
“Mmh,” he mumbles, bridging the gap every time you try to create it. You giggle, gently stroking through his hair before delicately tugging at the strands to pry him away. He caves, sighing before he pulls away, grumpy as he stares at you, dazed. “What?” he frowns.
“I would have taken your pain for myself if I could,” you whisper, “if it meant you didn’t have to live like that. Feeling it was never the issue. You should know that.”
“You’re insane,” he breathes, “now c’mere.”
He moves to kiss you again—but instead, you cup both of his cheeks and force him to look you in the eyes. “You didn’t deserve to feel it all either.”
“I know that,” he mutters, frowning. (He is grouchy when he’s vulnerable. He’s known that from a young age. Feeling weak fills him with a sense of anger and disgust that makes him lash out. Maybe he’s angry with himself for being so weak. Or perhaps at the world for making him that way. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that it makes him want to become bigger. Stronger. More untouchable. Whether it’s through bloodied gauntlets in his childhood living room or some bulked-up muscle in the pankration ring, he is always trying to seem stronger.)
“And you deserve someone to carry everything with you,” you continue. “You know that too, right?”
“Course I do,” he grunts, not meeting your eyes, “what’s the point of saying all this?”
“The point,” you say firmly, “is that you start believing you can have nice things.”
“I have nice things,” he says petulantly. “Got a decently good income and…and my title is literally Duke, and I got you—I have a pretty lady that’s all for me, don’t I? You wound me, sweetheart. Are you trying to say I don’t have anything nice because I live under the sea or something—”
“Wrio,” you say softly. “Please.”
He deflates.
Wriothesley has always kept a respectful distance away from people. His colleagues and this prison are all his home. His family. But he keeps a respectful distance. It’s the smartest option. Because distance is what keeps him most safe. What keeps people close enough that he’s never truly alone, but not close enough that they are people he can lose and suffer the loss of. But distance is difficult to maintain in an intimate relationship, though—distance is impossible to keep for longer than a small period of time.
Wriothesley is realizing that, slowly but surely—that no distance means having all the hard conversations. The ones that make him feel so raw and vulnerable, it’s like he’s peeling his skin straight off and exposing his bones and tissue.
He takes a moment, focuses real hard on tracing the skin of your arm rather than meeting your eyes before he mumbles, “Yeah. Fine.”
“I don’t want you to feel guilty,” you say softly.
“S’not a feeling I can just turn off,” he shrugs.
“Yes,” you agree, “it’s not. But we can talk about it when your mind goes there.”
“I don’t like talking.”
“But you like me,” you smile, “and I like you, too. And if we want to like each other and make it work, we have to do that thing you don’t like where we talk about our feelings. Communicate. Do that couple-y sort of stuff. Yeah?”
You’re right about one thing—Wriothesley likes you. He likes everything about you. He likes hearing you talk and listening to your voice. He likes learning about you and the things you like. He likes looking at you and the way you smile or laugh. He likes everything. He even likes the way you add too much sugar to the tea he brews up for you (even if you don’t properly enjoy its flavor that way). He likes having you. Likes being able to say you’re his—not because he doesn’t want to share you with the world, but because he wants to have something he can keep. Something that isn’t here one second and gone the next. Something that was meant for him, so he can have it and never have to exchange it for something else because the universe only lets him have one good thing at a time.
But Wriothesley also knows that things are just a set way for a guy like him. Not all people are created equal. Some people are blessed and lucky and can have a good life. Others are simply there to serve as a reminder that those people should count their blessings unless they want to end up like the others.
He’s one of the others. And you’re one of the blessed. And sometimes…well, sometimes he wonders if it’s better that you stay in your blessed little bubble of a world instead of getting caught up in the whirlwind that is him. And his life. And his terrible, awful luck.
He’d love it if he could save you the trouble of mingling with someone like him and realizing you were made for something better. And maybe, a little selfishly, he’d love it if he could save himself some heartache in the process and lose you before it would wreck him completely. He feels like he deserves that much—feels like he’s helped enough people and atoned enough for some of his darker sins that he should be able to just hold onto the stability he’s built himself. Sure, he’s not exactly fulfilled or happy, but he’s not exactly miserable or suffering.
He’ll take that minimal win happily.
You…you are everything he’s dreamed of. Maybe more. Maybe even more than more. You could very easily leave him miserable and suffering—not because you’re bad and you want to hurt him, but because he’s one of the others. And you’re one of the blessed. And things just work out a certain way for people like him versus people like you.
You kiss his thoughts away again. Kiss his lips all soft and sweet and filled with a certain amount of adoration he doesn’t know he’s earned. (But he’ll take it. He’s not above something soft and sweet and just for him.)
“Your head is not a very nice place,” you murmur, tapping his forehead. “I can tell. It’s being mean to you.”
He laughs at that, raising an amused brow. “Yeah? Think so?”
“Yeah,” you hum. “In my head,” you move your finger to now trace his chest, running your fingers through the hair that litters his skin, “you’re just a good boy who did some bad things. And you’re trying to be good now, see? You reformed a whole prison! Very good. I think that we can work with that.”
“Good boy,” he repeats in disbelief, “you’re talking to me like I’m a dog?”
You pet his head teasingly. “Such a good boy.”
His face lights up as he suddenly gets an idea—you watch it in real time, the scheming look in his eyes. In an instant, he’s grabbing your wrist as he pulls it against his lips and murmurs, “Careful,” before gently nibbling at your inner wrist, “I might bite.”
“No!” you shriek, letting out a series of giggles, “no, don’t bite, please! I have treats! Spare me!”
He shakes his head, fighting back a lopsided grin. “Unbelievable,” he huffs, “you’re unbelievable.”
“I’m not,” you brush back his hair. “If you just believe me, you’ll feel a lot better.”
“Yeah? What should I believe then, miss soulmate?”
“That we’re good together,” you murmur, “and that we’ll be fine. And that we deserve each other—as in you deserve this, too. Just trust me on that.”
He lets out a soft, heavy breath. Not all people are created the same in Fontaine. In fact, they aren’t in any nation. But all soulmates love each other the same—and this time, the way you look at him is not the same picture-perfect, falsified look from Mother. Or the same deceivingly kind, careful words from Father.
These are real. He can work with that.
“Okay,” he pretends to cave, shoving his face into your neck. You let him hide away in there. Let him keep that fragile look in his eyes hidden from view. “M’trusting you on that. Deceiving the Duke is punishable by ten years in prison, miss.”
“Yes, sir,” you smile, stroking his hair. “I am no rule breaker, you see. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to that.”
“Wanna talk about what’s on your mind?” you offer softly.
He hesitates. And then he decides that maybe he can afford nice things—the Fortress has granted him a pretty amount of mora these days, anyway. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “maybe not this second, though. But we’ll talk about it.”
He can practically see your smile even if he can’t look. “Okay,” you murmur, “fine by me. We have plenty of time, baby.”
Your arms wrap tighter around him. Perhaps this is Fontaine. Perhaps this is the nation of justice. Perhaps he has found his justice in your arms, feeling your warm skin against his as you erase every memory of pain from his body where you and he touch.
This is not a very linear format in terms of plot and story telling it. It jumps along many months and weeks and doesn’t have a specific timeline. It is just the journey of wrio falling in love despite his flaws. Hope you enjoyed that
Luna this isn’t a request per say just me filled with unbridled lust for Diluc…….but think about him losing his virginity to you where you sit on the bar at the Angels Share after closing jdhdhxhdh
he is such a sweetheart and gentleman but, he just couldn’t wait any longer to sink his big cock into his beloved right there aahh ♥️ ꒰ ′̥̥̥ ⌑ ‵̥̥̥ ꒱
oh my lordddd gray😭🩷 this.. im totally normal about it - i'm going to go cry over him now🤭❤️
diluc ragnvindr x afab!reader | 3.5k+ words
warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI, virigin!diluc, sappy love making i couldn't help myself, no pronouns used for reader though reader is wearing a dress
“are you sure there’s nothing i can help with?” you ask diluc with a bit of a pout as he helps you up onto the counter behind the bar on the spot he had wiped down for you. the spot you were becoming more and more familiar with each day you visited angels share to come see him and stayed till past closing time.
you know how stubborn your boyfriend is when it comes to doing things himself but helping close up the tavern didn’t have to be one of them. you really didn’t mind helping and yet, like each time you’ve offered before, a smile with his soft expression and a shake of his head before he leans in to kiss your cheek and decline your offer.
“i won’t be long,” he promises, the warmth of his lips on your skin when he presses them on your cheek at the same time his hands help tug down the hem of your dress and keep you covered.
his touch lingers as though he hadn’t wanted to pull away and truthfully, he hadn’t. his heart had been beating out of sync ever since you walked through the doors of the tavern and even when he thought it was finally getting back to normal, you would laugh or call his name and he would feel the uncontrollable fluter in his chest. and archons when his eyes betrayed him and he caught more than a few glances of your bare thighs under the hem of your dress and the soft skin of your chest where it dips in a perfect display of your chest, heat spread through his entire body like wildfire.
it lingers still at the swipe of his thumbs on your thighs, leather covered fingers barely sliding under the fabric of your dress, before he forces himself to pull away and hurry upstairs to clean up.
you swing your legs back and forth and listen to the familiar boot steps of diluc from upstairs, feeling your skin still tingle from where he had touched you and the way you ache for more. it wasn’t a new feeling when it came to diluc but you swore it was growing more every day.
it’s not long before he returns to behind the bar with glasses in his hands, placing them in the sink not far from you and you stare at him for far longer than you should, drinking in every bit of him; the way his hair cascades down his broad shoulders and back like a crimson waterfall, collected in a dark ribbon. the curve of his nose and lips that you want to kiss every inch of. the stretch of the fabric of his outfit around his muscular build as he moves and flexes. the band around his thigh that peeks out from behind his coat when he walks.
diluc can feel your eyes on him but it’s not as though he could say he didn’t understand, though it didn’t stop his cheeks from warming. you had always caught his attention. before and after you promised yourself to him, he could not take his eyes off of you and if anything, it had only grown since he became yours. even from the second floor only minutes ago, he stole many glances at you patiently waiting for him and picked up his pace to help ease the want for you that he feels in every fiber of his being.
and perhaps he should have known the danger of indulging in it before he was finished closing. just a bit, he told himself with the step he took that brought him between your legs, but there was nothing within him that could settle for ‘just a bit’ when everything he felt for you burned more intensely than the flames of his vision and the pyro archon herself.
your skin glows under the warm light of the tavern and he catches the sparkle in your eye, the smile on your face, before you’ve captured him in a sweet kiss and his lashes flutter closed at the feeling of his lips on yours. it’s perfect. you’re perfect and he can’t believe you’ve chosen him out of everyone in teyvat but you have long been burned into his very soul and he never ever wants to let you go.
it’s an overwhelming feeling that makes it near impossible to pull away from you at this moment, not that he wants to. no, he needs more of you. always more until he worries his love might devour you both but you have never been afraid, not of his flames or the darkness that follows him and certainly not of the ways he shows you how he feels about you.
strong hands come to rest on your sides, gently squeezing you with the break and reconnection of your lips but they move to your back when diluc deepens the kiss, passionate and heart stopping, your bum moving along the fabric of your dress as he pulls you flush against him and in turn you wrap your arms around his neck.
he groans low, like he was trying to swallow it, when your thighs flex around his torso at the touch of your tongues and his grip on you tightens, somehow trying to pull you away and closer to him at the same time. it’s too much and not enough and even if it felt like it might kill him to part from you right now, if he doesn’t stop himself -
“‘luc-” your voice is breathless, barely audible through your kisses and joined by an involuntary rock of your hips against his that makes him suck in a quick breath, one large hand coming to grip your hip and still your movements.
resting his forehead on yours, trying to take in a breath to calm himself, he replies in a whisper of your name, his voice thick and heavy with not want but need. nothing is helping bring him from this place of burning desire and love. every breath he takes is full of your sweet scent and what lingers of the non alcoholic drink he made you tonight. underneath his palms is only you, your softness and warmth that's like pure sunlight rather than any flames he’s known. the taste of you is on his tongue and his kiss swollen lips and you fit perfectly against him with your hips still flush, the pressure of his cock straining against his pants and trying to avoid the most intimate part of you even though it’s hard, so fucking hard, only for you.
his cheeks burn, his heart thumping so loudly he can hear it under your panting breaths. he needs you so badly. he loves you more than he thought he ever could and beyond what he deserves but you’re clinging to him like you need him just as much, like you love him with the same intensity he feels for you. it’s all he can feel, all he can think about, all he can focus on, when he asks, “can i.. can i touch you?”
you’re eager to nod your head, feeling his bangs tickle your skin. “please,” you all but whimper, your arms around his neck pulling with little force to bring him to your lips once more.
with ease he helps you settle more comfortably on your butt and your legs spread for him. he breaks your kiss, pulling away from you, much to your hearts dismay, but you can still feel how close he is and when your eyes slowly open, your vision clears to watch diluc pull off his last glove, revealing the pale scarred hands you longed to feel all over you.
they’re beautiful, just like the rest of him and the feel of them on your bare thighs, right underneath your dress, so calloused and warm, makes your body burst like a skyline full of fireworks and its as if the stars in the sky are exploding alongside them with every nerve he lights on fire when his lips meet your neck.
almost achingly slow and with a detectable tremble, his hands move up your thighs as he kisses the delicate skin of your neck. your legs spread wider, your hands sinking into his hair, and at the slightest graze of his fingers on the wet spot pooling on your panties your legs begin to shake.
“is this okay?” he asks, heated lips lingering on your neck, his fingers just barely out of reach from where you needed them the most right now while he awaits your reply, still shaking with anticipation and desire.
one of your hands moves from his neck, cupping his chin and bringing him to look at you. “yes, more than okay,” you assure him, your eyes locking for a moment and then you’re kissing him, sweet and slow.
his movements are intentional, achingly tender like he worries you might break under too much pressure as he moves your panties to the side and lets his fingers delve into the soft silkiness of your pussy, sticky and warm and so receptive to his touch.
chest rising and falling with deep breaths that only fuel the fire within him, dark scarlet eyes take in and memorize your every reaction to the pads of his fingers stroking up and down your wet folds. he takes note of every place your hips buck up and your lips part, everytime your knees tremble at the pressure on your little bundle of nerves and you tug at his hair that sent pleasure straight to his cock.
fuck he thinks he could cum just from touching you, from watching you unravel from pleasure. all because of him, only for him. and he feels his boxers getting sticky with precum when his fingers slide down to your entrance and he sinks a thick digit into you.
you’re so wet your essence starts to soak his palm the deeper he pushes into you and when he adds a second finger, feeling how tight you are around them, the lewd sounds of your pussy join the noises he pulls from you with every pump of his fingers. they’re inexperienced but quick to learn; so wonderful in their thickness, their attentiveness to you, and it doesn’t take diluc long to figure out where to touch to have you crying out his name.
and you think you might cry period. this.. diluc.. everything feels so wonderful, like you are made for each other; two halves that have finally reunited but are on the precipice of fusing together in a way they never have before and you want him in every way he’ll let you have him, want to give him every single part of you, now and forever.
diluc wants to give you the same. please take all of him, accept all of him; every broken piece that you always seem to handle with such love. he wants to continue taking in your every reaction to but his lips ache to be with yours once more and with his free hand, he pulls you into a kiss, curling his fingers inside of you, finding that perfect spot at the same moment his tongue delves into your mouth and you moan into it, pull him closer, deeper and he feels the last of his control to not take you on the bar, lose his virginity in the tavern, slipping. he’s desperate to show you in this way how much you mean to him, what you do to him.
though there's never been any doubt in his mind this is what he wanted with you, he’s never been with anyone in this way and he’d never thought your first time would be on the bar top but there is no denying how right this feels, that he can’t wait unless you need him to.
breaking your kiss, he says your name, his tone serious and the movements of his fingers stop slowly after. messy and sticky they leave you terribly empty and your eyes open in protest. you’re met with an expression that is overwhelming, breath stealing, full of so so many emotions you don’t know where to begin to describe them but behind it all is pure, burning, love that you can never be without again.
“i won’t be able to hold back any longer if we continue,” he says and his deep tone makes the heat between your legs intensify, your cheeks flush and your hands hold onto him like he might slip from your grasp. “tell me to sto-”
you don’t let him finish before you’re closing the distance between your lips. that was the very last thing you wanted, your heart couldn't handle even hearing the words from him unless it’s what he wanted. “don’t stop. please diluc don’t stop.”
without breaking your kisses or the devouring of your tongues, in his seemingly endless strength, he lifts you from the counter and pulls your panties to your knees in one swift motion, swallowing your little yelp of surprise. a string of saliva still connects you when he has to pull away with panting breaths and it breaks against his lips like a glossy sheen as he takes a small step back to guide your underwear the rest of the way down your legs.
he sheds his coat too, putting both on the counter next to you, never taking his attention away from you; the glistening of your wet pussy in the tavern light, your heaving chest close to spilling out of your dress and the most beautiful expression on your face.
you shift, your dress falling over the top of your legs as you reach for him. with his fingers laced with yours, together you unbuckle his belt and undo the lacing of his pants. you let him pull down his boxers, freeing his cock that makes your mouth water and your cunt clench around nothing. it’s unbelievable, so big and thick, and flushed pink, his mushroom tip sticky with pre and feels heavy in your hand in a way that makes your head dizzy.
“you have no idea what you do to me,” he tries to get the words out as you pump him slow and the space between you becomes non-existent but they come out in nearly a growl through his clenched teeth at the way your hand feels around him. it's like nothing else, not even close to how his own hand has felt when he lost himself to thoughts of you, and he can hardly fathom what it will feel like to be inside of you.
every breath you share, every heart beat in tandem with the others, there is only you two in the world right now and even if it is not what he had thought for your first time making love, no candle light or rose petals or silken sheets, there only ever needed to be you. the holder of his heart and your own that you had given a man as unworthy as him in return, that he would protect and love until the light in his vision goes out.
his hands are desperate for you, holding you at the edge of the counter while he moves your dress to pool around your hips and you guide his cock to your entrance. his hand wraps around your wrist, pulling your hand away from his throbbing length and bringing it back around his neck.
“i love you.” it’s not the first time he’s confessed the words to you, nor would it be the last, but as if to emphasize how true they actually are, he seals the words with a kiss, his hold on you trembling with held back strength as he lowers you onto his cock.
a breathless moan of your name escapes his throat and he worries his hold on you may bruise but his sanity and control are slipping the deeper he is inside of your tight walls but he’s completely captivated, utterly drunk, off of your every reaction that tells him not to stop.
you have no other words to describe it other than you’re clinging to him in every way possible. your hands buried in thick crimson locks, your legs around his slim waist, your lips locked, your pussy so fucking full of him. it’s a delicious stretch that has you whimpering and never ever wanting this to end.
when he’s fully sheathed inside you, his head drops to your chest, taking in a shuddering breath, the softness of his messy curls on your breasts and neck only adding to every sensation you are feeling.
“i love you - i love you so much,” you’re finally able to reply, moving your hips and hearing the deep gasp he can’t hold back before kissing your chest and thrusting his hips, pulling out to nearly the tip with a groan against your skin and pushing back into you slow as he litters your chest with his love, heated, messy and that make your skin tingle.
your words only spur him on, make his heart surge in its need to give you everything, and he can’t be apart from your lips for a moment longer. he keeps his slow pace, pulling away from your chest and looking at you through heavy lashes and dark scarlet eyes that kindle with fire for just long enough to capture and drink in your beauty before his lips are devouring yours.
the slapping of his heavy balls against your bum that’s barely on the counter anymore fills the empty tavern, joins the murmurs of love and pleasure that escape you both. dilucs pace becomes faster, hitting the deepest part of you until he finds a rhythm that has you squeezing around him, your teeth nipping at his bottom lip and when he brings you down on his length in time with his thrust in turn, you sweetly cry out his name.
he’s so lost in the way you feel, how desperately you hold him and he’s ready to burst at any moment but there is no doubt to him that your pleasure is his own and he’d use every once of his will power to ensure you found yours before he even considered his. diluc wanted nothing more than to make you feel good, to give you pleasure in a way no one else can, to love you.
“‘m so.. so close,” you say as though you had known what was within him, what the deepest part of his heart craves but there’s no denying your words of rapture also go straight to his cock.
he buries his face in your neck, trying to hold back the sounds that bubble up his throat, clenching his teeth as he rocks in and out you. he holds onto you as tightly as he is the last bit of his sanity but his head is dizzy, overwhelmed with the feel of your soft skin under the grasp of his fingers and the way you squeeze around his cock like he’s never experienced before and the way his heart is beating its way through his chest to get to you, as close as it possibly can.
“ahh! diluc - !”
the pressure between your legs gives way, your velvety walls sucking him in, clenching around his cock so tight he can’t even breathe and there is no question that where he holds you in his hands will bruise later. he captures your lips, his kiss as intense and searing as the orgasm that washes over him within seconds. the wanton whimper you let out from being stuffed so full of him and his plentiful cum is as lovely as it is sinful, one he will never forget, one he wants to hear again and again.
a salty droplet catches on the corner of his lips that are pressed against yours and so quickly, too quickly than you could handle, he pulls away from you. he can’t let you go but his heart is hammering in his chest at the sight of the crystalline tears clinging to your lashes.
“did i hurt you?” his voice is as shaky as his trust in himself with you is if he had lost himself too much.
“no!” you’re quick to reply, not wanting him to get any farther away from you than he already is or let his worries consume him when you were okay - archons you were so much more than just okay. you cup both of his cheeks in the home of your palms, your thumbs soothing over his pink hued cheeks. “not at all. i’m just..” you didn’t know if there was really a word to describe it. nothing you know feels like enough. “i’m so in love with you diluc.”
the relief, the happiness it brings him to hear you say that, is evident on his face, the way he leans into your touch, the cool wetness on your burning fingers from his own overflowing emotions.
cw. fem reader. eighteen+ minors do not interact. makeouts and dry humping. nothing too explicit. just DH being a good friend. hint at reader being inexperienced.
word count. 1.8k words. ₊ 𓂃 return to masterlist.
“Are you really sure about this?”
“I don’t know, but it’s best to just get it out of the way anyway.” Dan Heng can pick up on your uncertainty when you break your gaze away from his to answer. The atmosphere in the room is already thick and suffocating as you rest side by side on the bed, and his fingers almost seem frozen from where they rest just short of yours on the mattress between you both.
“I would frankly prefer if you told me plainly.” He swallows thickly, as if he is faring any better than you are.
“Yes, okay! I’m sure, are you sure you want to do this?” Maybe it was stupid of you to ask Dan Heng to teach you how to kiss — though your request had originally been meant as nothing more than a joke, it seems to have grown into something completely different now. You had never expected him to actually accept, but even just looking at him now makes your face burn and the nerves are enough to make you feel restless.
But maybe that could be the anticipation.
“Maybe I could ask Sunday instead.” You think aloud, gaze falling to your lap as a means to avoid Dan Heng’s sharper one— yet he doesn’t give you much time to ponder upon the thought.
“Don’t.” His response comes so quickly it almost cuts you off, so he clears his throat before continuing. “No need, I doubt he will be much help. Pom-pom keeps him quite busy around the Express.”
“Oh… okay.”
Your words whisper, your mind far too focused on the way Dan Heng’s fingertips have finally closed the distance between yours following the explanation. Now resting over them on the mattress and it brings your gaze to his for a single breathtaking blink. The eye contact is enough for him to have to turn away, yet that only reveals the way the tips of his ears have flushed pink.
It feels even more awkward now, so you break the silence yourself.
“Should we start then?”
“If you say so.” Dan Heng’s posture appears to perk up a little straighter at that and it urges him to come to face you again. He twists his body towards you this time, enough for his knees to press against your own and even just that slight touch is enough to make your lips pull into a nervous line.
He picks up on that too.
“I suggest you try relaxing, don’t overthink it.” His right hand comes up softly to press beneath your chin, the other still resting over your fingertips as your eyes squeeze shut.
“It’s hard not to.” You keep your eyes closed but you feel Dan Heng get closer when the mattress dips.
“I’ll guide you. Just follow my lead.” His hand beneath your chin tilts you slightly, and the first press of his lips against yours is soft at first.
It’s a simple peck — nothing crazy or breathtaking, it’s fleeting and tender, yet enough to make you flush even warmer as the hammering in your chest seems to up its pace. A gentle start that doesn’t last too long before Dan Heng’s pressing another against you again and this time, he stays there for a bit longer.
The fingertips tilting up your chin move to clasp along your jaw next, holding you in place as he twists himself into you and you do as he tells you — following his lead when his mouth begins to move against yours. Your technique is clumsy at best but he doesn’t chastise you for it, he’s patient and forthcoming and you can’t help but find yourself leaning in a bit more.
You appreciate how soft Dan Heng’s lips are as he presses them into you, nosing at your cheek as he deepens the kiss a bit more and you feel short on air when his mouth opens up more for yours. “Open wider.” He asks against you, and you comply.
You both share another breath, as his fingertips around your jawline squeeze — stroking along the skin there until the next push of his lips against yours is accompanied by the wet press of his tongue between them. And the surprising shock of arousal it makes twist in your abdomen is enough to make you gasp.
He pulls away at that, “Was it too much?” He asks gently as he continues to stroke his thumb back and forth across your jaw.
You shake your head in his hold, “No! It was fine, I liked it.” and allow yourself to admire him now. He’s more flushed than he was before you began and his eyes take their time flickering between your gaze and your lips as he watches you. His breathing is soft and both of his hands are still on you, you don’t think you’ve ever seen him look quite so— kissable.
“What? Is there something on my face?” Dan Heng’s question snaps you out of your thoughts and now you’re the one blurting out an answer.
“No.” You squeak slightly, feeling his hand drop from your jawline to rest on your thighs instead. “It just feels different than what I expected.”
You take a sharp breath before continuing, realising how it sounds, “In a way that makes me want more.” You feel hyper aware of the weight of his palm on your thigh, and you can’t help but fidget beneath it when he opts to stroke at your skin. You assume he means it as a way to soothe any of your anxieties, he was always considerate in that way — but right now it’s only making your arousal even worse.
“I see.” Dan Heng looks like he’s considering something, yet his eyes haven’t once left you. “It is certainly tempting.”
“Can we keep going?” You wonder if your sudden enthusiasm comes as a surprise to him, but he doesn’t seem to comment much on it even if it does. He just squeezes at your thighs, like a wordless sign of his approval before he responds anyway.
“Now it’s your turn then.”
You nod at that before shuffling yourself a bit closer, and for the first time you decide to reach out to touch him too — you overthink where to place your hands for a moment but ultimately opt to settle them on his shoulders. A position that Dan Heng seems to appreciate as he gives you another gentle blink.
Then he’s kissing you again, straight back into where you both left off but there’s no easing into it now, you even feel more confident this time round. You allow him to lead again, twisting your mouth into his and this time when his tongue presses between your lips, you don’t jump — you press in deeper, meeting it with your own and it’s all so wet and breathtaking that you can’t help but whine.
It’s an accidental sound, part of you almost pulls away out of embarrassment but there’s a change in Dan Heng that wills you to stay.
His hand on your thigh squeezes, inching up a bit higher until his thumb is pressing between the two of them and the back and forth stroke against somewhere so close to being intimate almost makes you quake. His tongue grazes along yours again and you feel his breath along the roof of your mouth, panting heavily as you press yourself in a bit closer.
Until your restless form decides to do something a little brave.
You’ve done your fair share of research into this— seen and read about the different positions that people favour for make out sessions and kisses. So you don’t think twice before the heat of the moment suddenly brings you up to crawl into Dan Heng’s lap.
You half expect him to stop you, to pull you away from him and tell you that this may be getting a bit too advanced for your beginner self but he doesn’t. Instead, he helps you with his hands on your hips and he does it so seamlessly you don’t even have to break from the kiss to get comfy.
It feels even better now — your hands are in his hair, stroking through the dark roots and Dan Heng shows his appreciation for it with a particular deep press of his mouth into yours.
Your mind feels hazy and full of cotton as you lose yourself in him, pressing your chest closer until it’s almost flush with his and you don’t even mean to grind yourself down on him. It’s like your body does that on its own and it’s enough to make your friend beneath you groan into the next wet press of his lips before his fingers dig into your skin.
You like it, you really like it — you feel so warm and terribly flustered but it’s only fuelling your movements. It makes you feel even braver again.
So you experiment, sucking Dan Heng’s lower lip between yours this time — you’ve seen it in clips and movies online, and it seems to be well received. Maybe too much so, when it makes his hands press up beneath the hem of your shirt, sinking into your waist as if he’s trying to stop you from getting carried away. But when the next hump of your hips allows you to feel the clothed, hard press of his cock beneath you.
You think him trying to stop you may be more for his own sake.
“You’re moving too much.” He finally gasps, muffled against your mouth but you hear him fine, whining.
“You don’t like it?”
“That is not what I meant.” Dan Heng’s hands on the bare skin of your waist feel like they burn you, and they only seem to make you continue to hump and twist your hips into his. As if you’re moving in time with the movement of his lips and he doesn’t seem to want you to stop enough to actually stop you.
Especially not when his cock seems to be straining so deliciously against the fabric of his slacks, and the friction seems to be doing wonders for the both of you as you grind your clothed cunt down on it.
“It’s best not to provoke me.” Dan Heng’s voice seems much more gruff when he presses it into your mouth this time and part of you wants to twist your hips even harder just to hear it again. But you relent, not wanting to get too ahead of yourself — you’re already burning too hot.
But he doesn’t stop there, not at all — instead, his hands seem to tuck themselves beneath the waistband of your pants. The touch enough to make yourself press even closer into him and it’s only when his fingers sink into the top of your ass that he seeks to take back control. He’s supposed to be the one teaching you after all, so he’s sure to remind you of that when he pulls away for a moment to take his next staggered breath.
“Since you seem to know what you’re doing now, I’ll have to work harder to keep the upper hand.”
thinking about fighting with a man but like actually trying to hurt him and take him down because he wants you to train in case he’s not there to protect you and he just continually knocks you down or pins you, and finally you get really pissed so you hit him hard in the jaw and knock him on his back, and he has never looked more into you
wherein you pull out all the stops in an effort to persuade alhaitham on why he should date you, only… he woos you instead?!
CONTAINS : gn!reader, 7.8k wc, fluff, (attempts at) humour, angst if you squint, reader gets ill from overwork in one part, slight spoilers for 3.2 archon quest (brief mentions/recap of end events)
A/N : reader is struggling but they’re trying their best, alhaitham is a (smitten) menace and bad at feelings (kinda); the embodiment of u fall first, he falls harder (i just think we need more energetic/cute readers with haitham TヘT)
It wasn’t anything special. Really. Just you, your first day jitters, and the calm boy beside you in his Haravatat beret; the same one as yours.
Perhaps he’d noticed your flitting eyes, your shifting feet, or your wrung hands that swung gently in front of your robe-clad body because, when your eyes met (and, oh, what pretty eyes he had), he gave you a small nod. Of what? Comfort? Acknowledgement? Salutations?
You couldn’t tell, and you couldn’t ask. By the time you regained your senses he’d already walked off, the blank space beside you feeling strangely empty.
It wasn’t anything special.
But to you, that one, singular moment was all you needed; the comfort it gave was immeasurable, your first day jitters nonexistent.
fem reader x sunday, dan heng, dr ratio, aventurine & jing yuan ( separate ) ; exhibitionism. petnames used; my dear, my angel. fingering. teasing. dry humping. f! oral receiving. sneaking around & trying to keep quiet. thigh riding.
word count. 885 to 1.1k max. ₊ 𓂃 return to masterlist.
౿ SUNDAY
You can still faintly hear the music from the banquet as you rest in the corridor just short from the hall. It’s quite a risky display really— your back is pressing tight against the wall and your elegant dress is hiked up around your hips, held there by hands that seem to tremble with your movements.
Sunday had been quite convincing when he’d lured you away from the festivities, a routine that you found to be quite comforting. You’re sure it was hard for him to entertain guests all night, you yourself always found the room to become quite stuffy quite quickly. So you were never one to deny him when it came to his want to have a little alone time with you instead — serving as an opportunity to recharge his batteries.
Well, that’s what you’d expected anyway.
But one could probably imagine your surprise when Sunday had pressed you up against the wall you reside on now, breathed into your mouth as he kissed you and trembled when you’d wrapped yourself around him in response.
It was unlike him to take initiative like this, especially not in such scenarios — but how were you supposed to deny him when he’d given you such a lidded, yearning look. Like he’d been holding himself back all night and couldn’t wait to finally have you in such a position, finally all alone.
He’d dropped to his knees a moment later to shove himself beneath your dress, and now you’re arching into his mouth like you’re not only mere moments away from a banquet full of esteemed quests. The thought of that in itself makes you tremble into the press of his tongue before you moan.
And you feel Sunday’s hands squeeze into your hips at the sound before he hums, “Keep your voice down, my angel. Lest I assume you want us to be found in such a… disorderly state.” The tone of it seems to tremble through you as his lips close around your clit, and were it not for his touch on your body — you think you would’ve collapsed to the ground right now.
It would be quite bothersome were someone to find you like this — you were both a sight, the Oak Family head especially as he rests on his knees now. His usual perfect appearance is mused, shirt untucked and gloves discarded on the floor at your feet. His hair is a mess, he’s sweating hard and the lower half of his face is wet — soaked.
But it feels far too good, and you’re so terribly hot, aching when you feel him roll his tongue along the press of your slick folds. And you reach for his hair to tangle it between your fingers to squeeze, “But Sunday… it feels so good! I’m gonna cum—“
You feel Sunday’s wings tremble along the press of your inner thighs as you reply, voice breaking beneath the next roll of his tongue and he closes his lips around your clit again, to suckle for a moment longer. Until you’re jolting and writhing above him, and he pulls away with a pop before he’s looking up at you. “Well, do you believe that excuses such a sinful display, my angel?”
His breath cools the spit along your pussy and you can barely answer when you shudder, “M-maybe, I don’t know.” Feeling something akin to tears collect prettily along your lashes as you look down at him with a wet blink.
But that reaction only makes Sunday chuckle quietly, almost soothingly before he’s letting one of his hands graze between your thighs— pressing through your folds to spread you lewdly with two fingers. “There’s no need to get in such a state of disarray, my dear. I assure you, we won’t go interrupted should you stay vigilant.”
He leans in again, pressing a soft kiss against your clit until it elicits a whine from you and it seems to be quite hard for him to keep his voice steady. “Even under different circumstances, I would truly detest the idea that anyone else may have the opportunity see you in such a captivating position.”
But because you know the reassurance that Sunday needs to continue, you don’t hesitate to part your lips to offer it. “Nobody else would. It’s only you.” And in turn, he doesn’t hesitate to lean in to bury himself in the slick surface of your pussy with his next breath.
It makes your back arch against the wall behind you, fingertips tightening in his hair to pull and you feel the way it makes his breathing stutter against your folds as he all but whines against you. He bathes you in kitten licks of his tongue, pressing the muscle between your folds to circle your clit — until your hips are humping up against his face and he mouths at you relentlessly, sucking and slurping as your thighs begin to shake on each side of his face.
“Hm, very well.” Sunday hums against you, barely audible with how deep he’s buried himself in your cunt. But you still feel every syllable. “Then you may do as you wish.”
౿ DAN HENG
You hadn’t expected it to end up like this after March 7th had dragged you both into a game of hide and seek on the Express. And you’d preached your case of safety in numbers when you’d found yourself hot on Dan Heng’s heels — very convincingly so at that when you’d reassured him you had a great hiding spot.
And you really did, for one person that is. You’d never really tested out the space with two and now that the opportunity has arose well… it’s a bit of a tight squeeze.
The storage closet that you and Dan Heng have both ended up in is barely able to fit you both, but you seem to have managed to make it work with your positions now. Though quite precarious, and a little too close for comfort as he almost stands flush against you— his chest to your back as you try hard not to make too much of a racket.
Your grumble to yourself as you struggle to get comfortable, “Why did you let me do this?” Shuddering, when you feel your friend behind you exhale out a sigh himself.
“Pardon my frankness, but this was all your doing was it not?”
You guess Dan Heng does have a point there, but then you’re fidgeting on your feet again and pushing up a little closer. You don’t notice the hitch in his breathing before you’re responding back, “Yeah, but you didn’t object to hide and seek or my idea.”
“Well I didn’t consider such a situation when we’d agreed to the game.”
“And i didn’t consider that you’d take up so much space.” You’re bickering like an old married couple. If they were to end up stuffed inside of a storage closet that is. But your argument seems to hit a stand still when you hear March 7th’s footsteps make their way down the hallway just outside of the closet.
You can both tell it’s her by the way she’s humming to herself — and suddenly the tension between you both feels a little thicker as you try to remain still.
“Don’t move.” Dan Heng whispers lowly to you when you fidget on your feet again. You almost sway in the already suffocating space, and he takes it upon himself to wrap an arm around your waist to keep you steady — closing the already non-existent distance between you both as you hold your breath.
The footsteps pass quickly, leaving you both to listen and wait. Wondering if March is still around or if she’s just trying to catch you both with your guard down.
“Is she gone?” You opt to finally speak as you move again, but Dan Heng’s arm around your waist only seems to squeeze tighter before he responds.
“I suggest you keep your voice down before you alert her to our location.” His words urge you to fidget almost impatiently, suddenly feeling a little claustrophobic. But you don’t realise just how tight your friend has you held up against him until you’re pushing your ass back into the press of his hips.
It makes you both gasp when you realise your mistake, and suddenly you’re feeling something hard press against your back as Dan Heng’s arm around you almost shakes. Though, unfortunately, the sound seems to bring those same footsteps back to the hallway of the closet, and you can only press your hands over your mouth as a way to smother your own voice.
You feel his next exhale cool over your suddenly warm features as he whispers down at you, “Just try not to move around so much. It only serves to make our current predicament more precarious.” But you’re burning up, not only because of the small space but with every no matter how subtle twitch, you can feel your friend behind you grow harder, hotter.
It makes your eyes want to roll back, “W-what? What do you mean? Should we just give up?” It was becoming quite awkward between you both, so you offer Dan Heng an out— as anyone would. But when his response to you is accompanied by him pulling you even closer, you assume you’re both feeling about the same.
“No need. She appears to be leaving.”
And when you listen closely, that does seem to be the case as you hear March’s footsteps begin their way down the hall again. Followed by a long sigh before the parlor door closes behind her and it’s just both of your bated breathes.
“Dan Heng, I’m sorry.” You say suddenly, and before Dan Heng can even ask what for, you find yourself fidgeting again. Though it’s more deliberate this time as you press yourself back into him, keening at the way his arm around your waist seems to hug you tight.
It makes him stiffen when your ass seems to wrap its way around his bulge and he mutters out the beginnings of a “What’re you—“ before it’s gone again with the next roll of your hips.
You don’t know what this means for both of you. But you know you don’t want stop as you feel his cock grind softly into you from behind, rocking you into the already tight space as you brace yourself on the wall opposite you with both hands.
Dan Heng readjusts himself for a moment before he finds a pace, and the new angle allows him to press his clothed cock between your thighs almost deliciously as he almost curls himself over you. The length of him pushes up against your sensitive folds through your clothes, and you have to cover your mouth with your hand again to moan.
“Do you want to find another hiding spot? S-somewhere with more space?” You ask, words muffled against your palm and stuttering in time with every grind of his hips. But he doesn’t answer you instantly, the head of his cock presses hard into the bump of your clit and it makes your thighs twitch.
Dan Heng offers you a soft kiss along your shoulder first, then a soft press of his fingers along your stomach before they’re travelling lower. The softness makes your head drop back, resting on his shoulder as he touches you and your legs almost buckle from beneath you completely when they rest between your thighs.
His eventual response accompanies the slow circle of his fingers along your clothed clit, and your bodies continue to hump against one like you have no intention of stopping anyway.
The already small space seems to only be getting warmer.
“It would probably be strange were we to emerge too soon. We s-should… hold back for now.”
౿ DR RATIO
You’re surprised that Ratio has allowed you to get this far. Infact, your surprise had began when he’d allowed you to accompany him around the Space Station at all — visiting a few researchers and tying up some loose ends before he began working on some newer projects.
He didn’t usually let you get involved in his work — not because he didn’t find you to capable, but because he thought you most likely had better things to do yourself. But when you’d given him that terribly cute look—fluttered eyelashes and an adorable blink—he’d only shrugged before letting you tag along.
But, you seem to have taken that opportunity for granted now as you both press up against a forgotten hallway in one of the many passages of the Station. The look Ratio is giving you is terribly pointed as he holds your features against his palm, eyes flickering down to where your thighs are closing tight around one of his own and even his gaze makes you flush.
“Veritas.” Your words purr, but he only meets them with a scoff. That sweet tone is exactly how you ended up in this position afterall.
“Oh, don’t call for me now, I am not the one to blame for you ending up in such an obvious state of desperation.” This was completely your fault, but all you’d wanted was a kiss— an innocent little one since you had been so patient and great company for him.
But as soon as you’d felt that first press of Ratio’s lips against yours ( after much convincing ), you’d forgotten just how good it felt when he twisted himself so perfectly into your mouth. He’d pushed his tongue between your lips to graze against your own and it only took a moment to have you whining, pressing your chest into his and quickly finding yourself crowded up into a corner between the wall and his huge body.
It had happened from there, he’d warned you to behave — to stop while you’re ahead because he knew how this was going to end up. But you’d only pulled him closer, arms curling around his shoulders until he was pressing into you — and his thigh seemed to slot between your own so perfectly.
But now you’re whining, almost begging for more as you grind yourself down on the muscle beneath you, and Ratio’s offering you a mere click of his tongue as your hands grab at his chest.“Though lest I remind you, I am the one with more at stake between the two. So I advise that you lower your voice.”
“Unless you are truly so desperate to give away our whereabouts.” His arms steady you regardless of how sharp his words may seem. Another sinful twist of your hips and you swear you feel the muscle beneath you tense, making you shake when it brushes quite perfectly against your clothed clit.
“I’m sorry, I couldn’t wait I just.. can’t you help me?” Your voice wavers — far too unsteady with not only your want, but your need. Ratio knows exactly how to finish this quickly, should he see fit — but the fact that he’s making sure not to means that he can’t be as bothered about it as he’s letting on.
The noticeable bulge in his pants says enough by itself.
Your hands twist into the fabric at his chest and your thighs tremble with your next desperate hump, pulling him closer until he’s curling over you completely. And you feel Ratio’s breathe against your ear as his thigh presses in tighter, “You got yourself into this mess, you should’ve considered your outcomes before coming to this conclusion of all.”
“Though I can hardly see how you thought this to be the most appealing.” You give him another whine, the closer proximity doing wonders for your pussy as your clit grinds against the fabric and muscle of his thigh perfectly — making you shake as your pace wavers.
Ratio gives you a look that’s quite hard to read in your hormone-stricken state when you look up to meet him, close enough to feel his breathing fan across your cheeks. But the expression you’re wearing makes him scoff, almost… waver.
“A pity, truly.” His voice is tighter now, as are his hands when they squeeze around your waist — keeping you upright to make sure you don’t crumble completely. “Had you exercised more patience, well.. maybe I could’ve been convinced into assisting your efforts.” It’s a brisk little tease but it’s one that urges you to give him an incredibly sad, pleading look.
And it’s followed by another slow roll of your hips, the pleasure from your efforts making your thighs shake and jolt and despite the way you’re trying your best — you can barely keep up your pace with how good even this feels. But Ratio seems to have picked up on that already when he flexes his thigh again, deliberate and precise as he leans in to press his lips against your cheek,
“But it seems you’re barely able to withstand even this.” His voice seems lower now — crowding you into the corridor that’s deserted for now, but who knows when the next researcher will pass by to find you both in such a state.
Ratio seems to be more aware of that than anyone when he subtly presses his thigh up from beneath you, to bare against the soaked fabric of your damp panties and push even harder into your clit, until you can barely hold back your next moan. Even when your movements almost stop, his hands seem to rest quite heavily onto your hips as he urges you to continue.
Afterall, he thinks it’s best you see this through when he notices the quickly dampening spot on his clothes. It makes his hands squeeze into your skin as he tries to ignore the growing throb his cock, should you press yourself a little closer — your thigh may just brush against that aswell.
He clears his throat before his want suddenly shows, “Nonetheless, time is precious, wouldn’t you agree? So we shall soon see how far that enthusiasm of yours takes you.”
౿ AVENTURINE
It wasn’t unlike you to attend the Casino with Aventurine, afterall you were sure to turn heads and far too pretty for him to keep locked up in his hotel room. So what’s so wrong with a business deal turned date night? Especially when he went out of his way to dress you in the most luxury of garments, you blend right in when you’re wrapped around his arm and pressing up against him at the betting table.
Though with these little date nights came little games of your own — to make sure you stayed sharp, is what he would tell you. And even at that, there is no way anyone in the hall would have the nerve to interrupt you both anyway.
Which is why you’ve found yourself particularly close to Aventurine’s side tonight as he plays. You’re trying hard to focus on the game in front of you, but it’s proving to be quite hard when the gambler to your side is letting his free hand rest between your thighs.
The table you’re sitting at offers little to conceal the way your thighs are spread — were someone to walk past and take a look, your display would be quite obvious. But you’re covered for the men at the other side, which is why he’s trusting you not to give away your little game with any expressions.
You wouldn’t want to ruin his winning streak, right?
You half hear one of the men at the other side mention something to Aventurine, spitting something beneath his breath — a long winded way to accuse him of cheating most likely, given his own chips are close to being drained. But the man to your side only chuckles, continuing to let the pads of his fingers circle your clit through your already embarrassingly wet panties.
He drawls, “Oh really now?” Seeming unaffected, but you feel the way the confrontation urges him to press down on your clit harder. Not because he’s annoyed at the accusation, but because he’s annoyed this same man has been eyeing you for a little too long now.
Another mutter from the other side of the table, it lacks confidence — it’s more emotional, something about another game, all or nothing — you can’t focus enough to care. But Aventurine chuckles before you feel the cold press of his rings reach to pull your panties to the side, and your hands reach to grab and the end of the table to squeeze.
“Well, since you were so kind to invite me here tonight. What’s one more, hm?” The gambler to your side responds smoothly before he turns his attention to you. “How about it?” He makes sure to accompany his question to you with a soft swipe of his fingertips through your already soaked folds, so precisely that all you can offer him is a gasp and a rushed nod.
“Another game i-is fine.” You eventually manage and through your albeit cloudy gaze you can still see the way it makes Aventurine smirk.
Until his attention is back on the man opposite you both, “Looks like you’re in luck.” And he makes sure to reward you by slipping his index finger into your cunt with his next breath, hissing when he’s not met with much resistance and it makes you suck your lower lip between your teeth.
Aventurine’s pretty eyes seem to sharpen when his opponent gives you another glance, even if only for a moment. “Though I should probably warn you I’m feeling pretty lucky today, Friend.” And thankfully, the sudden low tone of the end of his sentence draws the attention back to him.
But because this is a game, whats the fun in not having it be a little challenging?
So as he watches the man opposite him fidget with his remaining few chips, Aventurine pushes another finger into join the first — angling them up against your sweet spot until he can feel your thighs twitch from where they’re pressed up against his. But then he speaks,
“Hm, won’t you do the honours?” Deliberately, before he’s pushing the deck of cards across the table to sit infront of you. And even though your eyes are unfocused you can still hear the deliberately honeyed tone to your lovers question. Though barely, when he emphasises his words by pushing his fingers deeper.
Your hands almost shake as you reach out to take the stack of cards, and Aventurine finds a pace as he languidly pumps his fingers in and out of your pussy, thumb rubbing hard circles into your clit as you try your best to focus. You shuffle the cards quickly, almost fumbling them when he gives you a few particularly sharp thrusts and you find yourself having to pause to breathe.
Your fingers twitch into the deck in your hands, and then suddenly you feel the gambler to your right’s lips press an open mouthed kiss along your cheek. It serves as something to keep you grounded despite the way his ministrations on your pussy only seem to be growing faster, until you can feel the pleasurable heat building dangerously in your stomach.
He doesn’t care what the other man across the table is doing, it’s just an innocent kiss for luck as far as he’s concerned. But if the music was a little quieter in the Casino he’d maybe be able to hear the squelch from beneath the table.
“Not gonna back out on me now, are you? I’d say your chances seem pretty good from where I’m sitting.”
౿ JING YUAN
It’s around 6pm by the time you visit Jing Yuan at the seat of divine foresight, one of the rare opportunities that you’re able to actually find him there given his preference to disappear in the afternoons for a nap.
The General always claimed it to be his more relaxing time of day, given how he’s already excused his advisor, Qingzu, for the time being. Meaning, all of his attention can now rest on you despite the endless amount of paperwork that still rests on his desk.
There are still a few stray Cloud Knights busying themselves by the entrance but despite that, it’s only you and Jing Yuan as you rest at his side now. Allowing him to entertain you with exaggerated stories as both of your thighs rest over one of his.
You’re giving him a gentle sort of look, and it’s one that makes him smile quite softly to himself as you listen intently.
“And what about you, my dear?” He asks a moment later, leaning in a little closer as he lets his arm stretch across the back of the seat behind you. “Is there anything you would like to speak of? We can talk about anything you want.”
Jing Yuan always looked at you in a way that made you feel flustered, finding yourself suddenly warm beneath the flicker of his amber-toned attention. Even when he’s at work he had no qualms about being affectionate with you, which is why he’s made sure to rest close enough for him to sneak in a kiss if he so wanted it.
But for now, he only teases you with that possibility— until you’re turning away to check on the Cloud Knights at the entrance. Making sure they don’t see your little show of PDA.
“Shouldn’t you be getting back to work, General? I was only dropping by to let you know I was making dinner.” Your lashes flutter as you respond to Jing Yuan’s earlier question, but you make no move to push yourself away from him. Instead, you continue to rest quite nicely, almost cuddled up against his side.
It makes him chuckle as he lets his free hand move to intertwine with yours, “Nonsense, you’ve come all this way. How could I give you the cold shoulder?” Bringing them up to place a kiss against your knuckles before his eyes narrow.
“I consider this a much deserved tea break from my work. Afterall, this time of day can be far too sleepy for me.” Jing Yuan’s words purr as he lets his lips linger along your fingers, his gaze locked onto yours with something akin to heat nestling its way into the swirls of gold. The look makes you swallow loudly before you adjust himself, squeezing your thighs over one of his own as you try to ignore it the ache between them.
“Yet you seem to be full of energy.” Your words are almost whispered, breathless despite how hard you tried to say them clearly.
But Jing Yuan seems to like that when he’s pulling your fingers away from his lips and guiding them down his chest next, allowing you to feel the soft press of the muscle beneath his uniform — only to let it fall on the hard press of something else in his slacks as it reaches its destination.
His voice turns lower, slower. “Hm, is that so? Well, it’s only right I put this to good use, wouldn’t you agree?” He guides your fingertips to wrap around him, palm pressing tight against his bulge before he urges you to squeeze and it makes him almost groan. “And, I think it’s safe to assume you came here with an intention in mind.”
“Jing Yuan, there are people here!” You respond nervously as you give the Cloud Knights at the entrance another look, but your fingers still squeeze around the heavy weight of Jing Yuan regardless. You allow him to move your palm to stroke at cock through his uniform and he knocks his thighs to spread even wider.
His eyes are still on you, “Oh? There’s no need to worry about that, my dear. I’ve seen to it that we won’t be disturbed.” And with his words you feel the arm that was previously across the back of the seat fall to curl around your hips, hoisting you closer as you stroke and squeeze your fingers around the length of him.
It’s risky, more so for Jing Yuan than you — you’re resting on the seat of Divine Foresight afterall. Were something to find you here….
But then the next particularly hard press of your palm against his cock makes his breathing stutter, and his hips tremble as he presses them up into your hand. Your train of thought is quickly given away with the squeeze of your own thighs at his reaction, almost licking your lips when the General lets his hand curl around your wrist to keep you there.
He knows your answer before he even asks.
“So won’t you humour me? It seems I have quite the excess of energy to burn through.”
i know who my first call will be to — sae misses home more than he thought he would
Itoshi Sae’s heart stays behind in Spain whenever he leaves for overseas matches.
An absurd notion, most certainly. Ridiculous, in every sense that exists to the word. So unbelievable, in fact, that he still has a hard time believing it himself.
Nevertheless, it remains the only explanation behind the ache in his chest whenever he goes to sleep in an empty hotel bed. It’s why his meal times are dull and monotonous; why he finds himself pushing past his bedtime to remain glued to his phone, listening to you recounting your day.
Sae isn’t sure if you know it — how he desperately yearns to remain by your side. And if you do, you’re good at hiding it (he likes to think it’s for his sake).
His grip on his phone tightens just enough, a soft hum rumbling in his throat as he absentmindedly agrees with something you said.
When you lean closer to the screen, Sae nuzzles into his pillow, holding it tight as he pretends it’s you instead. You cup your chin with your hand, looking away as you trail off mid-sentence.
“I miss you,” he says, quiet and soft and so, so unlike himself, filling the faintest gap of silence.
Your eyes flit back, meeting his own through the screen. Sae has to strain to catch the soft exhale that leaves your lips. Then, you smile — gentle and (somehow) pitying at the same time.
“You’ll be home soon enough,” you say, your tone full of warmth.
“I want to be home now,” he replies, almost petulant as the pillowcase slightly muffles his words. His gaze softens when you do. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too,” you whisper, lightly poking the camera in a manner that has him instinctively scrunching up his nose. You tilt your head to the side, studying half of his face as best you can through a phone.
“My flight back is on Saturday,” Sae says, studying your face in return.
“I know. Want me to pick you up?”
“I land around midnight,” he mumbles. “I don’t want to keep you up—”
“Sae.”
The tips of his ears burn, embarrassment painting his cheeks red when your eyes meet. After a beat, he huffs in complaint, his brows furrowing. Still, your gaze softens; and he melts almost instantly.
He sniffles, lightly shifting onto his side. “I want you to pick me up from the airport,” he clarifies, trying to will a little firmness into his voice.
“Hm,” there’s a fuzzy feeling in his chest, fluttering and clinging to every corner at your soft hum. It further roots itself into him when you grin. “I’ll think about it.”
“What’ll it take for you to say yes?” he asks, trying to bite back a smile. He nuzzles into his pillow when you lean back, pretending to be deep in thought.
God, he misses you so bad. He misses being near you with every bone in his body.
“A kiss, maybe. If you want.”
Sae rolls his eyes, fondness buzzing in his chest. “I thought you were going to be more ambitious than that.”
You shrug, nonchalant, “I’ll max out your card when you get home.”
“Mm.” Sae rolls onto his other side, switching his phone to his free hand. “That sounds more like you,” he mumbles, soft.
The corners of his eyes crinkle when you guffaw, quickly defending yourself against his claim. His expression softens impossibly so — he’s sure the press would have a field day if they saw him like this. (Part of him thinks he wouldn’t care if they did; you’re the reason behind it, anyway).
“I wanna go home.”
“You’re staying in France for, like, two more days. You’ll be fine, Sae.”
He rolls his eyes, picking at the edges of his phone case. “Have you washed the bedsheets yet?”
“Yesterday,” you reply, absentminded. “Why?”
“Just wondering,” Sae murmurs, hushed. “Did you use the detergent I like?”
“Yeah?”
He makes a soft noise, “I hope you know I’m collapsing on our bed when I get home.”
“I don’t—”
“And I’m bringing you down with me.”
A soft, amused huff leaves his lips at your expression. His eyes narrow just a little, the action fond and affectionate in nature. When you sputter, Sae scrunches up his nose. He wishes he could kiss the frown off your lips.
“Whatever,” you grumble, softly clicking your tongue. “You’re lucky I miss you.”
“I miss you more,” Sae whispers, soft and gentle and so, so unlike himself. He supposes his demeanor is your fault — his heart turned to mush the moment he gave it to you. The thought is stupid and utterly asinine, truly.
Still, Sae doesn’t mind. He believes it more and more, letting it take root in his soul every time you brighten up at his tender, ‘I love you’s.
your husband is a king who knows little else outside of being a warrior. that is the truth you cling to until slowly, month by month, he makes his way into the cavity of your chest and refuses to leave
❤︎ word count: 18.2k words — i know, i know. but plssss give it a chance plsss
❤︎ before you read: female princess/queen reader ; crown prince/king mydei ; arranged marriage ; NOT canon universe + NOT canon compliant - royal/historical au ; mentions of war and politics ; slow burn + falling in love ; lots of bickering LOL ; reader has a (king) father and is implied to no longer have a mother ; sexual harassment but mydei saves reader ; reader drinks alcohol + gets drunk in once scene ; jealous mydei ; fingering ; nipple play ; unprotected vaginal sex ; creampie ; hand jobs ; cockblocking LOL sorry ; blood and injuries (mydei gets stabbed) ; love confessions and cheesy bantering
❤︎ commentary: IT IS FINALLY HERE MY GOD. my god. BIG THANK YOU TO @osarina for not only beta reading this fic and fixing WAY too many grammar errors (LOL) but for literally listening and helping me work through every struggle i had with this fic and being 70% of the reason i even finished it. you are my biggest inspo forever ily dearly
You do not remember most of your wedding to Lord Mydeimos.
On the day of your wedding, the beginning of your ceremony goes by like a blur, and you pay little attention. It’s not until Kremnos’s royal advisor steps forward does your reality sink in. You watch wearily as he faces the crowd of people—enough of the Kremnoan commoners have gathered to witness the ceremony, and you feel more like a spectacle than a bride.
“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The Advisor chants.
“The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!” The people of the nation bellow in tow. Men and women—even young children who cannot understand fully what is happening—scream in sync for your union with Lord Mydeimos.
You realize quickly, by just a glance, that your nation of Janusopolis is everything his nation of Castrum Kremnos is not.
Janusopolis is a wealthy land built on the industry of gold. Beneath your fertile soil is the precious metal, and the mines stretch from one side of the border to the other. Trade is easy when you hold such a luxury beneath your soil, and the people of your land have never known what it means to be hungry. But for all its riches, your nation is fragile—small, with a military force that pales in comparison to the other armies of Amphoreus.
Castrum Kremnos is filled with warriors—people who are bred for battle as though they were handpicked by the Gods themselves to fight. There is not one nation in all of Amphoreus that stands a chance against their strength, and yet, the people die of starvation every day. The streets are filled with mothers and fathers who feel the despair of poverty, feeding every small morsel to the hungry mouths of their children before themselves.
It is little surprise to anyone that you form an alliance. Now more than ever, when there are rumors that a war is coming—a war that you cannot fight and Kremnos cannot afford. They linger in the air, thick and heavy, carried through the wind by whispers that slip from court to court. The rumors are not just rumors—you know it by the deepening creases in your father’s brows, in the way his advisors speak in hushed, urgent tones.
Should war come, Janusopolis will not endure on its own for long. And should war come, Castrum Kremnos will not survive on just its strength.
So, when your father offers your hand to Lord Mydeimos for a union, you are not shocked when the crown prince agrees. You have heard rumors of him often, the hushed whispers of a man who is a warrior first and an heir second. A man whose bones are built for battle before his blood runs from a lineage of royalty. He sits beside you now, silent and brooding—in fact, he’s spoken not one sentence to you.
Good, you think to yourself as you glance at him from the corners of your eyes, he does not seem like a man who knows how to speak to a lady.
You’re broken out of your thoughts quickly as a shadow covers your face—the Advisor has returned from facing the crowd, standing over you as you listen to the shouting behind his figure. The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood! It’s all you hear. Shouted over and over like a prayer to a God of a land you are unfamiliar with.
Lord Mydeimos’s advisor hands you a blade. The marriage rituals of Kremnos, you find, are as brutal as war itself. You hesitate for a moment before glancing at your father. He stares at you—his precious daughter, whom he loves more than his own life—with eyes filled with sorrow that he does not dare voice. You can practically hear his plea:
If not for Janusopolis, then for me.
Numbly, you take the handle, your fingers tightening around the cold metal. You steal one last glance at your father. The man who has always treated you like a delicate flower, as if you are to be carefully shielded from the harsh storms of winter until spring could smile upon you once more. The man who spoiled you as a princess should be, yet shaped you with the discipline of a future ruler. The man who, until now, has never let the weight of his crown come before his love for you.
But today, he has no choice. Today, he is a king first and a father second.
You carve his face into your memory. You’ll miss it—the days when he was your king, the time when heir to the throne was your title. You are just the Lady of Kremnos now, bound to share the burdens of a new nation alongside a new king. An heir that is not you. You wonder how you will cope with that fact, how you will learn to accept that your birth rights mean little in a new set of borders.
But you give your father a nod, as firm and convincing as you can muster, before gripping the blade tightly and dragging it across your palm.
It stings. You don’t flinch.
Blood wells instantly, deep red against your skin—the same palm that has never known violence, never held a weapon, never bled for anything, now spills heavily on your first night in the strongest nation in Amphoreus.
How ironic, you almost want to say.
Instantly, Lord Mydeimos takes your wrist—he wastes little time. (You’re not sure why you expect it, but a small part of you is disappointed he shows little care for the wound on your palm.) His hands are rough and calloused like you imagined they might be. They feel like the hands of a warrior. You wonder if this blood spilled across your palm is laughable to him. Surely, with a man as strong and fierce and accustomed to battle as he is, he must have felt the warm spill of life across his skin countless times. Whether his own blood or that of others, surely he must know the feeling familiarly enough that this is nothing to him.
He dips his thumb into the dark crimson of your hand and smears a stripe along his forehead. His advisor, slowly, with eyes that do not leave yours, lowers the crown onto your husband’s head. No longer a crowned prince but a king.
The nation cheers. “The son of Gorgo shall be crowned in blood!”
Such a brutal man, you think as you stare at your husband, to have his fate sealed through nothing but bloodshed.
—————
Lord Mydeimos is quiet during your trek to your now-to-be-shared chambers. His first words to you are far from romantic.
“You are not happy with this arrangement,” he says, and for a moment, you think perhaps he is offended by the fact. You realize only a second later that he has little care. He is merely making an observation.
“Unhappy is not exactly the correct term for it,” you mumble, “However, it is no lie that all envision their marriage to be one of love, not political convenience.”
“Then you should have married for love,” Lord Mydeimos responds blandly.
You raise a brow, staring at him as if he has grown two heads. (Surely, the man you just witnessed willingly take your hand in marriage while he becomes king for the sake of his nation could not possibly think you could marry out of love. Surely, he is not so naive when he bears the responsibility of his people entirely on his shoulders.)
“That would not be possible,” you furrow your brows, “I have always prepared myself for a marriage of alliance.”
“Then you should not have such fickle dreams.”
Oh.
Some part of you is more shocked than it is outraged. But then the better part of your emotions takes over completely—how dare he have the gall to tell you what your desires should and should not consist of? You wonder if all warriors are cold-blooded in Kremnos—if they only know their ways around the heart when it is to pierce a blade through the delicate tissue and nothing else. Perhaps to expect Lord Mydeimos to understand the ways around emotions and desires is to lead a blind man into the dark, bare room.
There is nothing for him to grasp his footing and find his way around.
“Forgive me,” you spit bitterly, soured by his dismissiveness, “I did not realize accepting my circumstances meant I could not wish for things to be different.”
“You can,” he says, still infuriatingly detached, “But it would be a waste of energy.”
You have a sharp retort ready on your tongue. Perhaps it’s unwise to speak to a newly crowned king in such a manner, husband or not, but you are too used to the way your father tolerated your every thought. Welcomed them, even. You were never raised to hold your tongue, and the habit will be a hard one to break.
But before you can hiss out your reply, you are interrupted by a maid.
“Your chambers are ready, My Lord,” she tells Lord Mydeimos, bowing slightly before taking her leave. She avoids your eyes entirely, blush dusted across her cheeks as though she has stated a scandalous fact. You realize rather quickly why.
Lord Mydeimos, apart from the stiff nod, seems mostly unbothered—but the tenseness in his neck and shoulders is enough to tell you that even he is not unaffected by everything. You almost want to tease him, but your words die on your tongue as the large doors to what is now your shared chambers are opened by two guards. You follow him inside, and the doors are quick to shut behind you before hurried footsteps echo down the corridor.
There is no one nearby, you realize. You expect as much, of course, but it doesn’t make your skin feel any less hot.
“Well…” you start awkwardly. (You are certain there is a ghost of an amused tug at his lips at that, but before you can properly look, it is gone.)
“Well…?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.
“I suppose it is customary that we…” You don’t want to say it. What would you say? It is customary that we fuck on the first night of knowing each other so our marriage is properly completed, My Lord? You have little interest in consummating a marriage with him.
But you are not above your duties, and you’re positive that neither is he. Of course, he isn’t, in fact. With an attitude as uncaring and bothersome as his, he sees no issues with doing what is expected of him. He would probably finish with that stupidly straight face of his, too, you think somewhat bitterly.
“Do you not wish to say it?” He finally cracks a small grin as though watching you squirm under his gaze is entertaining to him. You scowl. He has enough tact to go back to looking serious as he continues: “We do not need to do anything.”
“But—”
“Unless what is your wish, of course,” he adds.
You sputter. “I do not care regardless,” you huff, pretending to be as unbothered as he seems to be. (You know, as well as he does, that neither of you are unbothered at all.) “If you wish to complete our marriage, then I will do as you wish.”
“Even if that is not what you wish?” He cocks his head to the side.
“It matters little what I wish,” you say darkly, narrowing your eyes as you pointedly add: “And, I suppose it is a waste of my energy to hope for what I wish, is it not?”
He eyes you for a moment. Something about his gaze makes you feel more bare while being fully clothed than if you were to strip yourself in front of him. He turns abruptly, leaving you to blink in shock before you watch as he begins to pull off his armor, one piece at a time.
Oh. You swallow thickly, realizing what is happening.
“The least you could do,” you start as you walk over to the bed, “is to pretend to be interested in bedding your wife if you are to do so.”
He looks at you, carefully laying his armor on the wooden stand by your bed, before humming, “I will not bed anyone if that is not what they wish. It is distasteful.”
You gasp, offended. “I should have you know many noblemen would not find me distasteful by the slightest—”
“You are not distasteful,” he interrupts. “But taking you against your will would be. We can be husband and wife without such outdated customs.” He pulls back the covers and prepares to settle onto the mattress. “Now, I am off to bed—I have training at sunrise. Which side do you prefer?”
You blink, still processing. He stares expectantly.
“The left,” you murmur.
“Good.” He nods, lying on the right. “I prefer the right. How agreeable.”
With that, he turns and settles under the sheets, leaving you with the privacy of getting ready for the night yourself. You stand there for a moment, utterly shocked, before you collect yourself and despite still being in your wedding robes, slip under the sheets and stay as close to the edge of your side as you can. (There is little need for that, of course—the mattress is large enough that you could fit two more bodies between yours and his, but you spitefully cannot help but leave as much room between you as you can.)
“Goodnight,” he mumbles.
“Goodnight,” you huff in return.
“Do let me know if I hog the blankets—I have never shared the sheets with someone before.”
“No need to fret,” you say matter-of-factly, “If you do, I will simply pull them back.”
He chuckles. You almost wish you could see a proper smile on his face, but you don’t dare turn. “I have no doubts about that.”
────────────────────────
One month into your marriage, you learn that the palace is a lonely place in Kremnos.
At least, it is for you.
You are still learning who your husband is, so he offers little companionship to your lonesome heart. And more often than not, attempting to understand him leaves you with a headache. You still hardly know Lord Mydeimos—in fact, only yesterday, you learned that despite his robes and attire strictly following a red scheme, his preferred color is actually yellow. An absurdly preposterous revelation, you think—you have no understanding of why he would dress the way that he does if he prefers a color so…opposite, but only Lord Mydeimos knows for certain what goes on in his head.
The first person you can consider as proper company is an attendant called Agnes. She is your personal attendant, and her days are reserved strictly to cater to your every need should you require it. Lord Mydeimos has made it very clear that she is to be nearby in case you are in need, and she follows his orders strictly.
Agnes is wonderfully kind. She is skilled in many arts—stitching and embroidery, cooking and baking, and even music. In a few weeks, you have learned the basics of the harp, her best instrument, and she teaches you fondly as she tells you about your husband.
“He is just so stubborn,” you huff, stretching out your sore fingers. “And he has an attitude I cannot even begin to describe—I am certain children must cry at just the sight of him?”
“Actually, they do quite the opposite. Lord Mydeimos enjoys playing tag,” Agnes says as she applies balm along your tender fingers after a lengthy harp lesson, “He does not seem like it, but he does. He is fond of the children who play by the ponds outside of the palace gates.”
“And are they fond of him?” You raise an unconvinced brow, wincing as the blisters on your fingers sting. “He does not seem like someone who knows how to converse well with children.”
“That is partly true,” Agnes chuckles thoughtfully. “He is a tad bit stiff with his words. But the children are indeed fond of him nonetheless, yes. He brings them treats from the palace bakery.”
“Well, at least I can trust that he will not lock me in the dungeons for one wrong move,” you break into a teasing grin. “They say children are a good judge of character. I suppose he has passed that test.”
“What test?” You and Agnes straighten at the sound of Lord Mydeimos’s voice as he enters your chambers, exchanging looks before she clears her throat.
“Nothing, My Lord,” she says evenly, standing up as you follow. “I was simply telling My Lady about what a seasoned warrior you are.”
Your husband does not look particularly convinced, but he nods politely as Agnes excuses herself, leaving you and Lord Mydeimos alone. He walks up to you, glancing quickly at your fingertips as you rub them and wince.
“What has happened to your fingers?” he asks with a frown.
You look at them sheepishly, murmuring quietly, “I have been learning to play the harp from Agnes. My fingers have blistered against the strings.”
“Ah,” he nods, holding up his own gauntlet-clad hands and mumbling, “Perhaps you should consider armory. They are most useful for shielding simple pains. In any case, I have come to speak to you about our trip.”
You blink. Once, then twice, and then finally, you ask hesitantly, “…Our…trip?”
“Yes. We will be departing in two days' time for Styxias to negotiate on military affairs. Should this go successfully, that is one more ally we can tally in case war breaks out. You are to accompany me, of course,” He raises an eyebrow, surprised by your confusion. “Have they not told you?”
“No, they have not…but regardless, you are king,” you point out.
This time, he blinks, unsure exactly what point you are trying to make at all. “Yes…” he says carefully. “And you are queen, which is precisely why you shall accompany me. It is only four nights.”
“I have never had to accompany my father in official matters when I was princess.” You furrow your brows, creases forming in your forehead that he almost instinctively reaches out to smooth. Almost.
“That is because you were a princess,” he muses. “If your father had a queen, it would be customary for her to travel alongside him to the kingdoms of his dealings. It is seen as the polite thing to do, to have both rulers make an appearance.”
“But you will speak on military negotiations. I am of no help in those matters, you know.”
“I am aware,” he says patiently. “That is why you will not accompany me to the negotiations. You will only attend the social gatherings—as I mentioned, it is simply for appearances. However, it would be greatly appreciated if you could glean a piece of intel or two about other nations from the mingling.”
That puts you in a sour mood. Not only will you join him on a four-day trip for no other reason than existing as a sight to bear witness to by the other nobles, but you will be in a nation yet again where you are a stranger to everyone. Lord Mydeimos, the only person you even somewhat know, will be busy with official matters, and that will leave you with nothing to do.
And Agnes has promised to teach you how to sew in the coming days.
Unhappy, you bargain, “Alright, then perhaps Agnes can join us to keep me company while you are busy.”
“That is not necessary.” He waves a hand and denies your request. “Agnes is an attendant, so there is no need for her to join. She shall remain in the palace where she belongs.”
“I’m sure it will be of little difference if the palace is missing just one attendant,” you reason, “And besides, Agnes is my personal attendant, so I’m sure the other nobles will think nothing of it. My father would often be accompanied by his own attendants to make matters simpler for him in regards to—”
“Well, that is the way of Janusopolis,” he interrupts, patience wearing thin. Strictly, Lord Mydeimos adds, “You are in Kremnos now. And in Kremnos, we do not allow our maids and attendants to neglect their duties to join pointless expeditions that they have no concerns with.”
His tone is clipped. Firm. A touch reprimanding like that of a parent scolding a child, and some part of you, underneath the hurt, simmers in rage. One attendant, among hundreds, will make not the slightest dent in the palace’s operation. More frustrating still, Lord Mydeimos leaves you with little say in anything regarding this trip—not whether or not you will go, not what you will do, and now, not even who you will be accompanied by.
Stubbornly, you refuse to accept his terms.
“If you will not allow me the company of Agnes, then I will be most troublesome. Mark my words, Lord Mydeimos,” you warn, “If you do not wish for me to make a fool of this kingdom, then Agnes and I will both join your senseless journey.”
His lips take a dangerous shape, morphing into a hard line that you fear could cut you with how sharp it is. “Is that a threat?” he questions.
“It is but a mere promise of an outcome,” you reply smartly, as though he is dense in the head. (You think he might be, just a tad. To ask a lady that question is to only ask for trouble.)
“Agnes is an attendant,” he says exasperatedly.
“I do not care,” you bite back. “She is also the only one I have befriended in this kingdom, and her position as attendant should mean little compared to the wishes of your wife.”
“She is meant to stay behind palace doors and do her duty. Just as you are to do yours and accompany me as my wife and as Queen. You cannot bend such rules just because you simply wish to do so.”
“And who is the one who set such standards in the first place?” You challenge, “Do not tell me that as king, you do not have the authority to undo the regulations that only a king can put in place? How laughable.”
Lord Mydeimos is becoming impatient. You can tell by the twist of his features and the blazing fire behind his eyes, the light shade of his amber deepening into a dark honey. He is not happy—not with you, not with your attitude, and not with your tendencies to question everything.
And you like it that way. If you do not get your way, you sure as hell will make sure that his way is difficult to enjoy.
“You are your father’s only daughter,” he says through a grumpy snarl, “It is as apparent as the tide’s ebb and flow. Only would a woman who has never known the word no be so maddening.”
“I am simply highly revered where I come from,” you shrug, giving him a purposely haughty smile just to get on his nerves.
It seems to work as he grits, “You are spoiled beyond reason. It is ill-suited for one who carries the burdens of duty.”
And with that, your satisfaction is short-lived—you sputter at his insult, doing a double take while his eyes lighten with amusement at your reaction. He is enjoying this, you realize—enjoying denying you of a simple pleasure all for the sake of his petty, twisted desire for authority. And to question your devotion to your duty, too, is an outrage. You, who married a stranger who knows little outside of bloodshed and brutality, all for the sake of your people, being accused of putting your own pleasure before your duties.
You will have nothing of the sort.
You glare at him, ferocity in your gaze as you huff, “Do not speak to me of duty and obligation when I have left all that I know for the sake of my nation and for the sake of yours. I carry the burden of sacrifice for two lands, not just one. It is not out of line, I believe, to wish my husband would indulge me in a harmless request. But if you must deny me, then so be it. I will pack for our departure—”
He catches your wrist just as you turn to leave. It’s gentle. He’s gentle. You cannot wrap your head around how quickly Lord Mydeimos is able to switch between a stubborn mule and a gentle doe, but carefully, he pulls and spins you to face him, taking a step closer as he studies you thoughtfully for a moment in mild fascination. You do not like it—you feel like an animal under his gaze, cornered in a cage and waiting to see what fate his cruel hands may hold for you.
Except, never do you face a cruel fate. Instead, after a painfully silent moment of being scrutinized under his gaze, he lets out a defeated chuckle—almost a snort, you could even say. Equal parts tired and equal parts amused.
“No need,” he hums. “The attendants will see to it that your belongings for the trip are packed. As for your request…I suppose I could make an exception for my wife. Do not make a habit of thinking you shall always get your way, though.”
You relax in his grip for a moment, staring into his eyes carefully to decipher if he is lying. He is not, you conclude after a moment—and just like that, your anger washes away as fast as it came. You perk up, excitement gracing your features and brightening them.
“Agnes will join me?” You ask to double-check.
“Agnes will join us,” he corrects, exasperated.
“Oh, wonderful,” You bring your free hand up and clap, your other still in his grip. He stares down and watches the motions of your hands, and by extension, his, as it moves with the flow. “I am most grateful, Lord Mydeimos.”
And just to be devious, you lean up, planting a small, mischievous peck to the edge of his jaw before promptly pulling away and brushing past him, excitedly on your way to find Agnes and tell her the good news. Lord Mydeimos stands, paused and tense from shock. After a moment, he shakes his head and rubs his face tiredly, ignoring the heat blooming across the swells of his cheeks and spreading as far as the tips of his ears.
“That woman is a most wicked thing,” he grumbles to himself. “A most wicked thing, indeed.”
—————
Just as Lord Mydeimos had promised, Agnes joins your carriage as you take your leave to Styxias. She is thrilled to leave Kremnos for the first time—it’s abundantly clear by her expression alone, even if she maintains a humble mellowness in both of your presence.
Lord Mydeimos looks tired after all of ten minutes of being stuck listening to the two of you as you converse and giggle endlessly.
“I hear the waters are beautiful in Styxias,” Agnes murmurs. “I am most excited to see if that is true.”
“Oh, they are,” you nod eagerly. “Father had taken me for a ball many years ago. I still remember the water lilies like it was just yesterday that I had witnessed them bloom. They are the most breathtaking sight I have yet to see.”
Lord Mydeimos scoffs. You throw him a withering glare. Agnes sighs as she predicts the argument to come.
“I’d consider them to be mediocre among flowers,” your husband says roughly. “Clearly, you have yet to see the blooming of the flowers that stem from Kremnophilas.”
“Perhaps I have yet to see them because clearly nothing that could make an impression on me has bloomed on the dry soils of Kremnos. There is nothing but cliff and rock here,” you retort.
Lord Mydeimos’s lips press into a firm frown, clearly displeased with your assessment of his homeland. (You are correct, of course. Kremnos is not known for its botanical splendor, and part of the reason for its financial struggles is its dependence on imported crops rather than growing them on its own soil. Something tells you, though, that voicing that particular fact would sour his mood even further.)
“Kremnophila flowers bloom once a year,” he grunts. “They are beautiful. And they were my mother's favorite. There is no sight quite like it.”
“They are rather beautiful,” Agnes nods earnestly. “Lady Gorgo would wear the blooms in her hair during the spring. She was known for being quite a beauty across all the kingdoms.”
You have heard about Lady Gorgo. Lord Mydeimos’s mother was a cherished Queen—your father had spoken highly of her in passing. You know little of the woman who raised your now husband, but the tragedy of her death spread across nations like wildfire.
She was murdered in her own chambers, poisoned by an attendant who had been bribed by a rival kingdom seeking to invade Kremnos. They found her lifeless body on the floor the next morning, and the attendant had vanished without a trace.
(“Truly a shame,” your father had muttered once the news had spread. “Betrayed by her own trusted maid for the sake of another nation. Such an awful way to go. Her son is utterly alone now. May the Gods bless him to be a formidable king some day.”
You don’t even remember the name of the nation that harbored the assassin—it no longer exists. The palace was burned to the ground by Lord Mydeimos’s army, and rumors claim he had been the one to behead the king himself. He was only fifteen at the time. In an act of mercy, he spared the commoners, allowing them to flee to Kremnos. But not a single noble was left alive. Some whisper that he keeps the severed head of the fallen king somewhere in his palace, both as a trophy and a warning: no one is a match for the Kremnoan army.
After his mother’s death, Lord Mydeimos was to take on the nation’s affairs officially. Most believed Kremnos would crumble under a young, inexperienced ruler—that the kingdom would soon fall, an easy target for invasion.
“Perhaps we could acquire Kremnos, Father,” you had said once. “With an unfit future king, surely the kingdom will fall. We would benefit from such a strong army, no?”
“Do not be so quick to gamble on such matters. He is brilliant,” your father had murmured, “Even our best knights were no match in a duel with that boy—he may be young, but he is a godslayer of a warrior. He will make a fine king, I am certain.”)
In the end, your father was right. If not for the raging battle against poverty, Kremnos could easily be the fiercest nation of all.
Godslayer. You still recall the title he’d given your now husband, and you wonder if your father would still call Lord Mydeimos such a title now, or if he regrets handing over his daughter to such a fierce man.
Perhaps not even the Gods know. Not when faced with a man who could slay them in a heartbeat.
“I’ll believe in their beauty when I see them for myself,” you hum. Lord Mydeimos scoffs yet again. Agnes rubs her temples, exasperated by the bickering that seems to follow you both wherever you go.
It is several more hours before you finally arrive in Styxias. You fall asleep midway through the journey, and you’re startled awake by a cool, pointed piece of metal to your ribs. You shriek, flinching away as your eyes fly open.
“We are here,” Lord Mydeimos states in amusement. You realize quickly that the object that assaulted your ribcage was one of his gauntlet-covered fingers—he has enough wit to at least try to hide the smile on his face at your moment of panic.
“You saw no better way to wake me than with such a sharp piece of armor?” you hiss, rubbing your side
He grins, holding out a hand for you as he says through a cocky voice, “No. You are a deep sleeper. Agnes could not wake you after countless attempts—therefore, I took it upon myself.”
“Do not lie to me,” you scold accusingly. “I’m positive you did not even give Agnes the opportunity. Surely, you saw your chance to get under my skin, and you took it.”
“I do not lie,” he hums. “Nor do I need to. The evidence of your deep slumber is written clearly in the drool on your chin.”
You quickly wipe at your chin. There is nothing.
Before you can scowl and scold him further, he chuckles, yanking you by the wrist and tugging you to exit the carriage. You gasp, hardly managing to make sure your clothes are neat and orderly before you are dragged to come face to face with Styxian nobles.
The introductions are boring. Lord Mydeimos holds you delicately by the hand and leads you down an endless line of nobles, their names blurring together as he introduces each one. You smile, bow your head politely, and offer the right words at the right moments—years of royal training make your social skills effortlessly polished. At least this part is not complicated.
It’s not long before your husband escorts you to your shared temporary chambers and murmurs, “I will be back before sunfall to collect you for dinner. The maids have packed your finest robes, and Agnes will know which one to prepare tonight for you to wear. Do not be shy to call for the maids of this palace should you need something—they are accustomed to aiding us when we visit.”
“How long will this dinner last?” you pout.
He fights the urge to roll his eyes, sighing before he murmurs, “Long enough that you should have no trouble making acquaintances with such a dazzling personality. Now, I shall be on my way, wife.”
With that, Lord Mydeimos leaves.
You are bored within the first hour. After sifting through the books and trinkets in your guest chambers, you have little to do—and Agnes, who came with the purpose of keeping you company, is too busy steaming and preparing your robes to pay you proper mind for the moment.
So you do the only thing you can think to do: wander the halls in search of something, anything to keep you entertained.
That was your first mistake. Your second was to wander to the gardens where no one would hear you at this hour if you were to scream.
“Why hello, my lady,” comes a voice. You flinch in surprise, turning quickly to meet the gaze of a young man, clearly a noble of sorts—he’s too old to be a teenager but too young to be a proper man. You can’t help but feel put off by the glint in his eyes.
“Hello,” you blink, “W-who are you? I believe all the nobles are to discuss important matters at the current moment, yes?”
“Ah,” he hums. “That would be correct. But I am not here for such matters—the king of Styxia is my cousin, you see, and it seems I timed an impromptu visit rather poorly. My cousin has banned me from entering the chambers where they hold such important negotiations; thus, I am left bored with nothing to do.”
“I see,” you nod slowly, offering him a small smile. “I suppose we are in the same predicament. Lord Mydeimos has also abandoned me for the moment as he discusses away.”
“You came here with the king of Kremnos?” the young man asks, lips curling into a wider grin—you cannot help but feel unsettled by the way it curls happily at the news. A shiver runs down your spine as he walks closer. And closer. “You must be exceedingly special to have caught his eye.”
“N-no, it is not like that,” you try to explain—
He cuts you off, humming as he murmurs, “I have yet to see a lady who has earned the attention of the great Mydeimos for courting. Tell me, what is it he is fascinated by?”
“We are not courting,” you try to correct. “He is my—”
“Ah, no need to be so shy.” This stranger, who begins to make the hairs stand at the back of your neck, seems hellbent on cutting you off at every sentence. By now, you have stepped backward from him enough times that a cold stone hits your back, and you are left nowhere to go, pinned in place by his body as it hovers over you.
Your hands sweat. Something is not right about him.
“I must go,” you smile shakily. “The attendant who is meant to look after me must be worried, so—”
He cuts you off again.
“What is the rush? Surely, they are aware the palace walls are safe. We’ve only just begun to know each other.” A hand reaches over to trace your jaw, making you stiffen as he hums at the touch of your soft skin. “Well, you’re certainly a sight. I suppose that is what might have caught the attention of The Great Mydeimos,” he muses mockingly. “But I wonder…perhaps there is something…dare I say, more tantalizing about you, My Lady?”
His hand trails from your jaw to your collarbone, wandering lower, lower, lower—
“Enough,” you hiss, shoving his hand away, but he is fast. He catches your wrist and pins it above your head. The glint in his eyes is no longer playful—it is hungry, dangerous. Panic grips you. No one can hear you from here, not when they are all busy preparing the grand feast. Not even Agnes. “Unhand me this instant, or Lord Mydeimos will hear of this, you know!”
“Ah, I wouldn’t bother,” he hums. “You wouldn’t want to tell him you wandered to the gardens alone, would you? He might get the wrong impression of your intentions.”
The meaning is crystal clear—no one will believe you. Not even Lord Mydeimos.
And perhaps he is right. Why would Lord Mydeimos believe you? You, who have done nothing but push against your husband’s will since the moment you arrived? Who forced him to bend the customs of his own kingdom? Who argues with him at every opportunity, simply to watch his lips curl into a frown? Surely, of all people, Lord Mydeimos would be the first to assume you had done this to humiliate him—flirting with the first man you could find, just to make a fool of him before royalty and nobility alike.
A sob breaks through your throat, and you wrestle to free your wrist from his grasp.
“Unhand me,” you spit. “I won’t say it again!”
“You heard her.” The voice is low. Dangerous. “She will not say it again. Unhand my wife.”
You stiffen. So does the wretched man pinning you. His face drains of color as realization dawns on him.
“Wife,” he echoes weakly. Then again, as if he cannot believe it: “His…wife?”
“That would be correct, Albus,” Lord Mydeimos says, his voice eerily calm. “Have you not heard the news? Surely, you could not have been dwelling beneath a boulder for this long—I have wedded the princess of Janusopolis to form an alliance. You do recognize her, don’t you?”
“P-princess…” the man—Albus, repeats, hands trembling as he pulls away from you quickly, recoiling from touching you as if your skin burns him.
“Well, a princess no more,” Lord Mydeimos corrects. “Queen is the title you should use now. Queen of Castrum Kremnos. And I trust you, of all people, understand the proper way to address a queen.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Albus chuckles nervously, turning to face Lord Mydeimos with tense shoulders.
You watch as your husband closes the distance in a single step, gripping Albus by the collar and yanking him close. Lord Mydeimos whispers something—something too low for you to hear. But you do hear the strangled whimper that escapes Albus before he stumbles back, tripping over his own feet in his haste to flee. He does not look at you again.
With that, your knees give out. You are certain you would fall if not for the steady arms that catch you, pulling you against a firm chest.
“Are you alright?” Lord Mydeimos asks quietly. You say nothing, only letting out a soft sniffle. A bare fingertip—one not covered by armor, you note—gently captures a tear from your lash line before it can fall down your cheek. “Agnes nor the other attendants could find you, so they alerted me. I thought perhaps the gardens would capture your attention, so I came to look. Lucky I did, I suppose.”
“Lucky me, indeed.” You give a forced, watery chuckle. “Good thing My Lord knows just where I might be causing trouble.”
He frowns, tightening his grip around your waist. “Do not say such absurd things—the only trouble is that shallow vermin of a man. I shall see to it that he is properly dealt with.”
“No need,” you sniffle, not meeting your husband’s gaze. “He was right about one thing: people might get the wrong impression by my wandering—”
“If my wife were to desire wandering the streets under the moon’s light, then she should be able to do so. I will tolerate none who take advantage of her moments of indulgence. Believe me,” he says fiercely.
You swallow, and something—an odd, warm, and fluttery thing, forms in the pit of your belly at his words. A small smile forms at the edges of your lips as you nod slowly. “I shall hold you to such a vow, My Lord,” you murmur.
“Good,” he nods, satisfied. “Come. I will escort you to Agnes. Do not leave her side until I return, understood? It would seem your stubbornness to bring her paid off in the end.”
By the end of your trip, Lord Mydeimos is able to negotiate an alliance generously in favor of Kremnos—a little too generously in favor, in fact, that you wonder if part of it is so that Styxia can escape the wrath of your husband’s rage. You even run into Albus briefly before your departure, not a long run-in by any means—he hurries off as soon as your eyes meet—but you are happy to find out that he is nursing a broken nose.
Oddly enough, the skin looks torn as though sharp metal dug into it upon impact. You eye Lord Mydeimos’s gauntlets as he carefully holds your hand and helps you into the carriage.
“Ready to return home?” He asks.
You hum, smiling knowingly to yourself. “Yes, Lord Mydeimos,” you say softly.
Agnes, to her surprise, is able to return home the entire journey alongside the both of you without the headache of witnessing a petty back and forth.
────────────────────────
After four months of marriage, you believe it is safe to consider yourself and Lord Mydeimos as companions. You suppose, under the indifferent brutality of a warrior, that he can be quite good-natured. And when you are not feeling especially argumentative, he is easy to get along with. You fall into a comfortable routine of addressing your husband and sharing your life as good friends.
That is how you like to view it. He is a man who you share your life and duties (and perhaps bed—in a literal sense) with, and he is a companion whom you have put your trust in. It’s an easy routine:
Good morning, wife. I am off to official matters—I shall see you in the evening.
You have returned, Lord Mydeimos. The evening is still young—shall I have the maids draw you a bath to ease your aches from training?
I have finished my bath, and the attendants will see to cleaning the bathhouse, wife. Have you eaten? Join me for dinner.
Lord Mydeimos, you must rise before the sun tomorrow. Shall I prepare our chambers for you to rest?
Wife. Lord Mydeimos. It’s what you know each other as. You prefer it this way—you are just that: his wife, and he is just that: Lord Mydeimos of this nation of Castrum Kremnos. You are bound through marriage on parchment by duty and nothing else. For four months, that is the truth you cling to, and you find it comforting this way.
It takes all of four months before he decides otherwise.
“From now on, you are to call me Mydei,” he commands one day in your chambers. He sits in his chair, polishing his armor, while you sit nearby on the bed, practicing the stitching Agnes has recently taught you.
You pause, furrowing your brow in confusion. (And honestly, you are a little bit unhappy with his tone—he should not get used to making his desires be known through such demanding manners. You will not stand for it.) “And why is that?”
“Because I have asked it of you,” he replies plainly. And, as if sensing your irritation (which he has gotten very good at through practice), he adds an earnestly mumbled, “Please.”
It surprises you sometimes—Lord Mydeimos seems brutish by his exterior, but he is unpredictably perceptive at times. And, more importantly, he is shockingly gentle by nature. He is not above a please or a thank you. It is just that he happens to never need to use those phrases, you suppose—but he tries. (For you—your heart suggests. Only because he is cunning when he wants something—your brain counters.)
“But your name is Mydeimos,” you say stubbornly. (In truth, calling him by a nickname feels a touch too intimate than you are willing to admit. You are not yet prepared to accept that you are approaching intimacy in this…well, whatever your circumstance with Lord Mydeimos is considered.)
“Are you now attempting to teach me my own name?” His brow arches, a look of mild amusement flickering across his face.
At this, you crack, unable to resist a playful quip. “If I must educate you on something as fundamental as that, perhaps you are not as suited for the role of king as everyone seems to think, Lord Mydeimos.”
“Mydei,” he corrects gruffly. “Do not be so stubborn all the time.”
“But I quite like Lord Mydeimos,” you insist. “Your title is important, is it not? And besides, it would be strange for me to address you with such familiarity while you continue to call me simply… wife.”
His expression shifts, darkening slightly, his lips pressing into something dangerously close to a sulk. He is pouting, you realize, amused by the notion. Or, at least, as much as someone with such sharp features can pout. He looks more childlike than usual like this, and there is something undeniably endearing about the way it softens his rough features. Oddly enough, you find him almost...charming.
The thought unsettles you deeply, but you bury it quickly.
“Mydei,” he pushes once more. (There is an undeniable, almost spoiled edge to his tone, as though he is unaccustomed to hearing the word no. You find that somewhat ironic, considering he had teased you himself for being spoiled not too long ago.) “I shall call you dear wife.”
“You do call me wife,” you point out blandly.
“Yes, but now I shall call you dear wife,” he corrects. “There is a difference between simply being a wife and being a dear one.”
“And what would that be?”
“You are dear to me,” he says simply. As though it is obvious. (Perhaps it is.)
And you cave.
Not because the curve of his lips as he all but pouts is undeniably charming, not because being called dear causes a strange flutter in your heart, and certainly not because the sight of his frustration is in any way captivating. No, you only concede because you have no desire to deal with a grumpy husband who might make your life far more complicated than it needs to be, all over something trivial. That is the only reason.
“Fine. I suppose Mydei is easier on the tongue,” you huff.
You ignore the way you feel oddly lightheaded when he smiles the tiniest, yet softest, of smiles at your agreement. He is undeniably handsome, you think—and that thought, too, scares you.
—————
It is only a few weeks later when you start to question if you and Mydei are two people who have married and become friends or if there is more beyond your carefully strategic union.
You and Mydei share a bathhouse. It is reserved strictly for the two of you, though Agnes has informed you that before your arrival, it had been Mydei’s alone. (He is quite fond of baths, you come to realize, and is rather particular about them. Only a select few attendants are permitted to prepare the bathhouse before he bathes, solely because they are the few who meet his standards. Some part of you, if you are honest, feels just a bit flattered that he allows you to share a space he holds with such high importance.)
Sharing the quarters has always come with an unspoken routine: you bathe at separate times, preserving the polite distance you have managed to keep yourself from him.
“Lord Mydeimos is finished with his bath,” one of the maids tells you, handing you a large, fresh towel as you smile. “I delivered him freshly laundered robes just a bit ago.”
“Thank you,” you smile.
With that, you undress, wrapping yourself in nothing but the warm towel the maid has handed you before you make your way to the bathhouse. You knock once and wait, just to be sure he has left before you enter.
Silence. Perfect.
Humming to yourself, you step inside, the thick steam curling around you instantly, enveloping you like a warm blanket against your skin. The scent of the lavender and cedar Mydei uses lingers in the air, the water still gently rippling from recent movement. Mydei’s fondness for this space is easy to understand—it is grand, carved from marble and stone, with towering pillars and vines that decorate the delicate interior. It is extravagant, built lavishly for comfort.
But before you can fully take it in, you notice a figure.
You barely manage to stifle a squeal as you snap your eyes shut and immediately turn away, your face burning. Mydei stands near the water’s edge, a towel slung low around his waist that he is still in the process of tying in place, droplets clinging to his skin. His hair is damp, pushed back from his face, and when you dare to glance his way again, he is watching you with a knowing look.
“The attendants had told me you were done,” you squeak, quickly turning away again as he finishes wrapping the towel around his waist.
He looks amused when you finally have the courage to turn and look at him properly, lips curled into the faintest yet most obvious smirk as he runs a hand through his wet hair and brushes it further away from his face.
“I am done,” he agrees. “Just that I did not leave.”
“I knocked! And no one had answered so…so I assumed…”
“I did not hear,” he replies, entirely unbothered by the predicament.
“W-well, my apologies, My Lord—”
“Mydei,” he corrects.
“Mydei,” you huff in exasperation. “I did not mean to intrude on your private moment. I apologize.”
“It is our shared bathhouse,” he points out. “You are allowed to be here as you please.”
“But you are using it,” you all but whine.
“There is plenty of room,” he shrugs, looking at the large, very large bathhouse.
That much is true, but that is not why you are horrified. And he knows it. Mydei, you have learned, has a penchant for casually being a nuisance. He purposely evades the true meaning of your words often, and it is for no other reason than to tease you. You are aware, of course, but still—you cannot help but feel frustrated that he is missing the point.
He is nude, just as you are under the towel. And neither of you have so much as let your lips touch, let alone seen each other so bare and vulnerable. Sure, you pecked his jaw that one time to be teasing. And, of course, for appearances, he spares you a small kiss on your cheek or your knuckles, but neither of you shares affection for the sake of being affectionate.
Seeing him bare just feels like a sin when there is the absence of even the simplest forms of intimacy.
“You are teasing me,” you frown, hugging your arms tighter around your chest as if the towel is slipping.
“I am not,” he says simply. He walks, and your gaze follows him as he makes his way to the neatly folded pile of clothing, freshly washed and dried for him to wear. Without warning, he turns his back to you—then lets his towel drop.
You shriek, whipping around so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, one hand flying to cover your face. But not before you catch the briefest glimpse of his entire backside—of bare, toned skin and the unmistakable curve of his ass. (It is a nice ass, you would think later when you are less horrified by the situation. Round and firm, sculpted in a way that is almost unfair. But for now, you are simply horrified.)
“Mydei!” you hiss, refusing to turn around. He chuckles. You can hear it. And by the name of the Gods, do you want to kill him. “Honestly! Have you no sense of shame? Letting yourself be so immodest in front of—”
“In front of who? My wife?” he snorts, completing your sentence. “Ah, yes, how improper of me.” The bastard, you think—he knows exactly why this is not ideal, wife or not. “But you were the one looking.”
“Wh-what ever do you mean?” You sputter at his nonsensical accusation. You would not look on purpose. “I did not think that you would….that you would….”
“That I would remove the towel and begin to dress myself before I exit the bathhouse? It would be immodest to leave that way, wouldn’t you say?”
“Do not jest at my expense,” you huff, feeling the tips of your ears get hotter by the second. “You could have warned me.”
“You were the one looking,” he reminds you once more. And suddenly, he’s in front of you, leaning so close, you can feel his breath fanning across your lips as he bends eye level to you and stares directly into your face. It’s maddening. You feel sick. You can feel him so close, and it takes all of your efforts not to turn your head and look at him. “But I do not mind if my wife looks.”
“Enough,” you bite weakly, “Are you decent?” You don’t dare to look for fear of….of an entirely different view than just his ass.
And you swear you can hear the smirk in his voice when he speaks and says, “Yes, you may turn now. I am decent.”
You hesitate, suspicious. “Are you certain?”
“I would not lie to you, dear wife.”
You take a breath and look—and just as he had said, he is decent. With a huff, you shove his chest and scold, “Then out! Out! Off you go,” you usher. “You have matters to see to, and I have a bath to finish myself before the water cools. Out!”
He laughs—not his usual soft, low chuckle, but a boyish laugh straight from his belly. It is as charming as a small, young lion cub as it prances about. “As you wish, my dear wife.”
He leaves. Not before he grabs one of your hands clutched to your chest, which makes you gasp and clutch the other tighter to keep the towel from slipping. He does not break his gaze as he brushes his lips against your knuckles before standing to his full height and walking past you.
You exhale shakily as soon as you hear the door close.
“I have married an absolute shameless buffoon,” you shake your head, “Completely mad in the head, that man. Unreasonable beyond comprehension.”
────────────────────────
In the seventh month of your marriage, you meet Mydei’s childhood friend for the first time. It is by accident, of course—he comes to surprise Mydei in the gardens in a short visit while he passes the area, and you just so happen to enter the gardens to read under the sun for a bit at the same time. It is most unfortunate, you think, because had you known that you would meet him, you would dress a bit less comfortably and a bit more exquisitely and have the maids prepare tea and pastries.
But Lord Phainon is charmingly easy to get along with—he insists there is no need for such formalities, and you find yourself happily conversing with him as you wait for Mydei to arrive.
“Ah, such a beautiful garden, isn’t it, My Lady?” Lord Phainon asks, lying on the grass with his arms behind his head. “Very few places in Kremnos are not just rock and soil. It comforts me that you can enjoy the feeling of grass between your toes, at least somewhere.”
“Yes,” you snort. “There is very little to see in Kremnos. Do not let Mydei hear you say that, however—he is still in denial. I’m afraid it puts him in a very sour mood when—” you cut yourself off with a gasp.
“What’s wrong?” Lord Phainon asks in concern, “Do tell me, My Lady—if Mydei were to know you are troubled in my presence, he would surely see to my death himself.”
He moves to sit up, but you quickly hiss, “No! Do not move—there is a bee.”
“Where?” he asks in panic, eyes flashing in alarm. “Where? I do not see it! Where is it?”
“Lord Phainon, you mustn’t move,” you warn in panic, “Otherwise, you will startle the bee, and it will sting.”
“Sting?!” he gasps, quickly sitting up to move away from the small threat as it buzzes nearby. “How can you expect me to be still near such a beast?”
It happens all too quickly—just as you reach a hand forward and take a step toward him, he jerks away, and the startled bee, caught in the sudden movement, changes course. You barely register the sharp, sudden sting before you yelp, instinctively flinching as pain blooms across your palm.
Lord Phainon gasps. “My Lady! You’ve been struck by the bee!”
And, as if perfectly timed, you hear a deep voice call: “Ah, I see the two of you have already been introduced—” Mydei’s voice is behind you in the distance, and before you know it, you turn to find him.
You stumble towards your husband, tripping on your feet, and before you can react, you find yourself falling directly into his arms. Mydei is quick to catch you, of course. He looks at you in confusion, entirely calm and unbothered by the proximity. You are so near hysteria that you hardly register the position you’ve found yourself in: pressed flush against his chest, his strong, armored arm securing your waist with careful authority to keep you balanced.
“What happened?” he asks gruffly. Once upon a time, you’d mistake his tone for coldness. Now, you can hear the underlying concern.
Sniffling and utterly distraught, you lift your palm toward him with wide, teary eyes and a trembling lip. “I have been stung! By a bee,” you say, offering your hand closer in a pitiful attempt to prove your claim. “See?”
He gently takes hold of your wrist, inspecting the large welt on your skin. After a moment of silence, he hums disapprovingly. “Unacceptable,” he mutters, his voice softer now, attempting to soothe you, “I cannot stand idly by while the bees of my own gardens turn their venom upon my dear wife.”
“And it hurts!” you wail miserably as a single delicate rivulet of misfortune—a tear—slips down your cheek. He frowns at the sight. “My dominant hand is stricken! I am useless now!”
“You are not,” he fights back a smile at your borderline theatrical sorrow. You’re past the point of holding onto your composure enough to even notice his amusement, so you say nothing. “I shall have the court’s healers prepare a salve for this at once.”
“It should have been Lord Phainon,” you continue to sniffle, ignoring the offended gasp in the distance, still not keen on moving past such a tragic turn of events, “Not me! Why must the Gods turn their back on me in such a cruel manner?”
This time, he chuckles softly. You pout at the gesture but say nothing else, too exhausted from the whole ordeal to put up a proper fight. He makes up for it, though, and raises the wrist in his hold, bringing your hand up before gently pressing a kiss to your swollen palm.
You blink in surprise.
“Were it possible, I would have every bee in the kingdom executed for such a treacherous offense,” he mumbles quietly.
“But then we’d have no flowers,” you frown. “I favor the flowers, you know.”
“Do you?” he grins. And before you can register what is happening, Mydei has leaned down and pressed his lips under your eye, kissing away the offensive stain of your pain. Your tears on his lips feel like a terrible burden to bear—he does not like the taste of your unhappiness. But you are his wife, and he is your husband. Kissing away your tears is but one of his many duties.
“I do,” you nod, looking away bashfully at his rare act of affection. “The bees are the reason the flowers bloom. But the bees have been unjustly harsh to me today.”
“They have,” he nods, agreeing.
Suddenly, the world is moving, and it’s moving fast. The ground is lower than you remember, and the gentle breeze of moving through the air kisses your face against your will. You let out a small squeal, unsure of why the world seems to be moving in such a sudden motion, and the only thing you can think to do is hold onto Mydei’s shoulders—which are a lot closer than they usually tend to be, given your height difference now that you think about it.
It hits you when you’ve finally stilled that it is because he has you hoisted in his arms, holding you easily as though you weigh nothing. You suppose for a man who trains as tirelessly as he does, very little is difficult for him physically.
“Mydeimos,” you gasp his full name so that he is well aware that you are scolding him. You look around frantically for potential witnesses of such a scene—it seems your husband lacks the sense of tact you tend to hold onto so dearly. “What in the Gods’ names are you doing?”
“I am bringing my dear wife to seek medical attention for her current ailment,” he says simply, “It would be careless of me to allow you to walk under such circumstances.”
“It is a bee sting, not a stab wound!” you scowl. He fights back a smirk at your remark.
“Ah,” he nods slowly, “Forgive me, my lady. Your tears persuaded me to believe it was more grievous than it perhaps truly is.”
“You are amused by my misfortune,” you accuse, pouting once more. You give up on caring who sees you in his arms like this, deflating in his arms as he tightens them around you. You curl into his chest—if he is carrying you regardless, who is to say getting comfortable in the process is a crime?
“I am not,” he insists, “I am offering you care, am I not?”
“Do not think a kiss or two to my injury will distract me from your mischief,” you warn, though your tone holds little conviction. You settle into his arms more willingly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other rests carefully against your chest to protect your wounded palm from further harm.
“Then, in that case, I shall offer you a kiss or five,” he declares with a devious grin. And with that, he leans and presses a peck to the tip of your nose before straightening and looking ahead once more. Only the slightest tilt to the edges of his lips hints that he heard your breath hitch in your throat. He turns over his shoulder and adds causally, “And I will deal with you later, Phainon.”
Lord Phainon sputters, calling out in a wail, “It was not my fault, you know!”
—————
Despite your horribly tragic injury, you are fond of Lord Phainon. (Just call me Phainon, he tells you sheepishly, gesturing to your hand before he adds, I have caused you as much trouble as I do for Mydei. I am sure we can be familiar enough with each other.)
You enjoy his company at dinner, giggling through wine glass after wine glass as he tells you tales from Mydei’s childhood.
“Did you know Mydei’s robes are only red because his father did not allow them to be pink when we were children?” Phainon chuckles, sipping more of his wine. “He favors pink far more than yellow—he simply won’t admit it. And he cried terribly after he was denied pink clothing, too.”
“What?” You turn to Mydei, raising a brow as you ask through a small giggle, “Is that true?”
“No,” he grumbles. But his ears are turning pinker by the second, letting you know that it is, indeed, the truth.
“Oh, how adorable,” you whine, reaching to pinch Mydei’s cheek. He frowns deeply at the way both you and Phainon chuckle drunkenly at the gesture. “Who knew you could be so fragile, Mydei.”
“I am not fragile,” he clicks his teeth, unhappily nursing a glass of pomegranate juice. (He does not drink wine, which you suppose you understand. Even after placing such strict precautions after his mother’s death on all food and drinks that reach nobility in Kremnos, Mydei is still unable to bring himself to stomach a glass of wine.)
“He is very fragile,” Phainon chuckles, rising as he downs the last bit of his beverage, “Be careful with his little heart. He is a delicate one, you know.” That earns him a glare from your husband, and Phainon skillfully dodges a cup thrown at his head before he laughs and stumbles his way toward the door of the dining hall. “Goodnight, My Lady, and goodnight, Mydei! I’m afraid I am feeling the effects of such a long journey. It is well past the time for me to rest.”
“Goodnight, Phainon!” You wave cheerily, hiccuping through your laughs as you murmur, “Do tell me more stories of Mydei at breakfast, won’t you?”
“No more stories,” Mydei groans. “Now come along. You should start preparing for bed as well.”
“Noooo,” you whine, slumping against his chest as he wraps an arm around you instinctively, keeping you in place as you lean your weight on him. “No bed.”
“It is getting late—”
“Mydei, you are very handsome when you’re shy, did you know?” You hum, leaning up to get a good look at his face. This, of course, makes him just a bit shy as blush dusts over his cheeks. You beam, poking his cheek with a finger as you murmur, “Such precious cheeks that redden at small praise. I could eat you, you know.”
He clears his throat, clearly unused to your behavior being so…well, forward. “You are intoxicated,” he mumbles.
“And you are intoxicating,” you retort, giggling, “And so, so, so, so handsome! Have I ever told you that?”
“I…well, yes—you just have,” he stumbles over his words. (You are easier to deal with when you are stubborn and argumentative. This side of you is far too much of an uncharted territory for him to properly know how to handle.)
“Mmh,” you hum, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, trailing your lips along his skin until you find his lips—and you kiss him. His breath hitches in his throat at the move. Never, in your seven months of marriage, have you shared a kiss like this with Mydei. Sure, you have afforded him a peck here and there, just as he has with you—but you have never kissed him plain and simple. Lip to lip, mouth on mouth.
He melts for a second, on instinct alone.
And then, as soon as realizing, he stiffens and quickly pulls away. “You are inebriated,” he reminds you, gently pushing you away. “We mustn't—”
“No,” you whine, wrapping your arms around his neck as you whisper huskily. “Come back. Kiss me, Lord Mydeimos—I cannot believe I have wed the most handsome man in all of Amphoreus. What a waste it would be if I did not properly appreciate my husband!”
“You are mad,” he croaks, tiredly eyeing you in alarm. “What has gotten into you?”
You press a litter of kisses everywhere you can reach—his jaw, his neck, even down to his collarbone. Something stirs in him, something that Mydei is ashamed to admit and even more ashamed to even dare to act on.
“Won’t you kiss me, Mydei? In fact, let us do more than kiss! Bring me to our chambers and take me, won’t you? I want you to fuc—”
“Enough,” he says through a cracked voice, pressing a hand to your lips before you can finish being so…vulgar as he closes his eyes and breathes. (Mydei is unsure what is worse: the fact that your words actually have such a…physical effect on him or the fact that he has no choice but to ignore his desires because yours are only built on intoxication.) “You need sleep.”
“But—”
He kisses your pouty lips with a brief peck, silencing you before you can finish. “If you awaken in the morning, and you remember what you wished for, then I will give it to you. Whichever way you want it. Fair?”
“Fine,” you huff, slumping against him unhappily. “Being a warrior has disciplined you too much, Mydei. It is such an unfortunate thing.”
He chuckles, easily lifting you into his arms, murmuring, “I am unsure if you would agree with yourself while sober, my dear wife.”
—————
In the end, you awaken with nothing more than a pounding headache, latched onto Mydei’s figure with your cheek resting on his chest. (You insisted on sleeping this way, and no amount of compromising could sway you on the matter. He gives up soon enough and allows you to have your way when he notices the developing tears in your eyes at your emotionally heightened state.)
You meet his amused gaze, heat blooming on your face as you whisper, “I–I must have rolled over in my sleep. My apologies.”
“No need to apologize,” he hums, pulling you in closer as soon as you try to put a gap between the two of you. “If not your husband, who else will hold you while you sleep?”
“Such a cheeky bastard, aren’t you?” you huff, but you relax into his chest once more. “Are you sure holding me is all you did last night?”
“It is,” he says quietly, rubbing the small of your back. He gives you a knowing look of sorts—you don’t quite understand it.
“Well, good,” you huff, “At least you can be trusted to be quite the honest man.”
(You do not remember your wishes from the previous night, and he does not remind you, keeping the events a close-kept secret in his heart. A small part of him is disappointed, but the larger part of him is more endeared than ever with you.)
────────────────────────
It is ten months into your marriage when the first time you are intimate with Mydei comes, and you realize that he has fallen in love with you.
He does not tell you, but you know. And you are grateful for the fact that he does not utter the words because, in your heart, you wonder if you could truthfully whisper them back.
You care for Mydei. That much is as true as the sun’s promise to rise from the east and set in the west. When he rises from bed beside you with a low groan and moves tiredly to put on his armor, you know you care because tiredness in his face pulls a frown onto yours. And when he looks at you with a fond, exasperated look as he ushers you to fall back to sleep, you know you care simply because the stretch of a smile on his face is enough to soothe you back to slumber.
It has been ten long months since your marriage. You have not seen your father since the day he handed you over to your husband, but you would tell him now not to worry.
He is a good man, father—you think you would say—he drives me mad and is as stubborn as a stone unmoved by the river’s current, but he has never let me want for anything since the day the duty of caring for me became his. You need not worry.
Mydei is a soft man who was molded into the role of a warrior early on. Like the finest of silk, he is delicate to the touch but most durable for the wear and tear of everyday use. He is used to training every day, to putting his needs last and his duties first. He is good at wearing a face of indifference and masquerading through his day as though he cares little for the fact that he is still in his youth, shouldering the burdens of the previous generations and their mistakes. And, as a husband, he is the same. Soft and gentle as he holds you, but firm and unmoving in his principles. He indulges your whims and silly requests with patience and little bickering (apart from the kind that is simply meant to poke fun at you, of course), but he does not let you forget that you are the queen of this land and that your duties come first.
He is the perfect example of discipline and patience—you did not expect it, but he is. He is not the cold warrior you had believed for so long—and sometimes, you are reminded that he is very, very human. It is a rare reminder indeed, but every once in a while, the young boy in him breaks free and makes his emotions troublesomely apparent.
At least, they are troublesome for him. Not for you, however.
“Mydei, do not sulk because I was friendly with other nobles,” you chuckle.
He sulks harder at that, curling a deeper frown on his lips before he stubbornly mutters, “I do not sulk.”
“But you are sulking right now,” you poke at his cheek, earning a huff from him. “Jealousy is unbecoming of a king as mighty as you.”
“Nothing is bothering me,” he says. A lie. “I am perfectly fine.” Another lie. “I do not get upset by these petty matters you accuse me of.” By now, you would say he has mastered the art of fibbing better than wielding his lance.
“It would be impolite of me not to treat our guests with friendliness, you know.”
“Friendliness does not need to consist of laughing at such horrible jokes,” he bites, crossing his arms. “Those were terrible jokes.”
“They were,” you nod along, stifling a giggle as he remains with crossed arms as you boldly seat yourself on his lap. “My poor husband. He is pouting.”
“I am not—”
You kiss his (pouty) lips gently, cupping his cheeks. He stills, pausing before letting out a shuddered breath and letting his arms uncross to hold your hips.
“You live just to drive me mad, don’t you?” He breathes, rubbing up and down your hips as you move up, sitting closer to him as he grunts.
“You do not seem to hate it,” you whisper, glancing down at the bulge in his pants. He does not even try to hide it—has no shame and does not even try to hide the arousal between his legs that stands fully erect, hidden from your view by nothing else but cloth. (Why would I feel shame in finding my wife alluring? you can practically hear him ask. You are almost certain that is what he would say if you teased any further.)
Mydei’s jaw tightens, his hand gripping your waist tighter as he tries to maintain control. “No,” he finally grunts after a few deep, labored breaths. “I do not. I could never hate you.”
“Really?” You hum, pressing a hot, open-mouthed trail of kisses to his neck as he shivers. “Perhaps you should prove it.”
For a moment, his hands grip your hips tighter—almost enough that you believe he’ll give you what you want. But he’s quick to let go of them just as fast, sighing as he whispers, “No. Intimacy simply to ease my bad temper is not what you deserve.”
“And if I want it?” You raise a brow in a challenge, making him study you closely. Mydei, as you have heard, has the eyes of his mother. They are the color of truth dipped in gold honey—his eyes cannot tell lies. They hide nothing, bearing everything to you with sun-soaked flecks that bore into your own gaze.
You tell him your own truth with your own gaze: I want this. I want you.
And he accepts. With a shaky breath, his body presses against yours as he traps you against the wall, filling any and all space that offensively keeps you away from his touch. The heat that radiates off of his skin is palpable even through the cold metal, and when he leans down, lips brushing just barely over yours, the warmth of his breath sets you ablaze—starting from your lips, making its way down to your fingertips.
“Are you sure this is what you want?” he rasps, voice just barely above a whisper.
“Yes. It occurred to me the other day that we have never completed our marriage, you know,” you breathe. “Shall we be husband and wife tonight, Mydei?
Mydei’s hands shake as they rub your hips slowly, his body trembling slightly at your words. In excitement, maybe. Or perhaps impatience. His control crumbles little by little, and when your lips brush against his with a teasing, phantom touch, he lets go of his resolve entirely and lets out a guttural sound—something crossed between a grunt and a moan. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Tonight you will be mine.”
“I have always been yours. So take me,” you goad, “Take your wife and mark me as yours.”
His control snaps at that. Cradling your cheeks in large, cold gauntlets, he angles your head up and kisses you deeply, hungrily, desperately. It’s warm like his touch but burning like his desire. It does not take long before it turns into a needy, impatient kiss, the two of you pressing into the other harder as if trying to melt into each other’s skin.
“Take off that wretched armor,” you huff, “Touch me.”
He groans, quickly slipping off the gauntlets and tossing them to the floor. “As you wish,” he murmurs, and before you can stop him, he tears your robes open from your chest, pulling the fabric away as if unwrapping a present impatiently and catching a glimpse of your bare chest.
“Mydei!” you shriek. “I liked those robes!”
“You act as though I cannot have the seamstresses replicate it as many times as you want,” he snorts. He doesn’t slow down—not in his persistent trail of kisses along your collarbone and not in his wandering hands that feel every inch of you and your curves. “They were in the way. The only thing that suits your skin is my touch.”
You whimper as he quickly moves, tossing you onto the mattress and hovering over you, shedding himself off his own clothing as quickly as he can—nothing left but his underwear, the thin cloth doing little to hide his thick, bulging erection. You eye it, half-lidded gaze falling hungrily over the trail of blonde hair at his navel and the thickness of his hidden cock.
“They will question what happened when you present the torn ones to replicate,” you huff. “Have you no sense of shame?”
“Why does a king need to find shame in desiring his wife?” Delicately, his finger traces along a breast, mapping along your skin until it circles your nipple, making you gasp as you arch into his touch. “Why would I find shame in wanting to rid my wife of what separates her from me? Anyone who tries to shame me for it will come to find a rather undesirable fate.”
“You are impossible,” you breathe, gasping when he leans down, latching his lips onto one breast and rolling his tongue around the pebbled nipple, the other traced by his thumb and pointer finger as he rolls and tugs at the skin. You mewl, grasping at his shoulders as you mewl, “M-Mydei—”
“Yes,” he hums, interrupting you. “That is my name. Say it a few more times, just like that.”
His lips move off of your breast. The string of saliva that connects him still to you is a scene that is utterly vulgar enough to make you shiver as he moves to the other breast, giving it just the same amount of attention. Except his fingers…well, they wander further down your body, trailing over your belly and moving until they find the hem of your panties. You gasp as he tugs them down, exposing your wet, needy cunt to him before he teasingly moves to feel at your entrance, collecting your slick between his pointer and middle fingers.
He pulls away, bringing his hand up to stare at his fingers, separating them so a web of your wet arousal connects the two appendages.
“Mydei,” you whine. “You scoundrel!”
“What?” he chuckles. “Can’t a man appreciate the wonders of his dear wife’s beautiful body?”
“You are filthy and obscene,” you hiss. “Hardly a respectable trait for a king.”
“Then I will be an improper king,” he decides. “If that is what I am considered for appreciating my dear wife.”
His fingers are back in an instant, plunging into your entrance and prodding at your walls as if to find something— “Fuck,” you wail, body spasming as he hits a particularly sensitive spot in your walls.
“Ah,” he grins, “I found it. The place that makes you sing.”
“Horrible,” you sob, whining softly as he thrusts his fingers back and forth, back and forth inside of you over and over and over—until your nails leave crescent-shaped indents into his shoulder where you grasp onto him. “You are horrible!”
“But you do not feel horrible, do you?” he hums, and his thumb moves to roll over your clit, his eyes admiring the sight of the sensitive bundle of nerves as you quiver at the sensations.
You don’t—that much is obvious when, in a sudden crash of waves, your orgasm washes over you, and you gush around his fingers, wet, messy slick coating them as your walls suck him in and spasm around him tightly. Tight—you’re so tight around his fingers, he can’t help but groan from that alone, envisioning the way you’ll squeeze around his cock.
“Gods,” you whimper, clinging to his shoulders as he helps you ride through the waves of pleasure. “Feels…feels—”
“Good, doesn’t it?” he finishes for you, grinning to himself at the way pleasure breaks over your face like light. “It will feel better—I had to prepare you. Cannot risk hurting my precious, delicate little flower, can I?”
You watch it in a trance as it happens: his fingers leave the warmth of your pussy and leave you unbearably empty, but you watch with wide, entranced eyes as he rids himself of the last remaining piece of cloth, bearing his painfully hard erection to you fully. You gasp at the sheer size of him, and he chuckles at your expression.
“We will make it fit,” he hums, leaning to press a kiss to your lips. “Not to worry, my precious lady. You’ll take me, slowly, and soon, we’ll carve this pretty cunt to fit around me like it was made to take me, hm?”
“Yes,” you whisper, nodding like the idea is the only thing you care for. (And in the moment, it is.) “Yes, yes, yes,” you say greedily, pulling him closer and closer until your chests brush and his forehead is against yours. “Fuck me, Mydei. Take me and make me yours—now, please.”
He groans at the words, eyes fluttering shut before he loses all little traces left of his self-control. Instantly, his mouth is on yours, teeth clashing against teeth as he kisses you harshly, hungry nips at your lips and starved tongue on yours, tasting you as much as he can savor. The tip of his cock presses against your entrance, slowly intruding past your folds and sinking into you inch by agonizingly slow inch.
He’s patient. Even when he is on the brink of insanity, Mydei is patient about taking you.
“You are mine,” he says possessively, and a part of you knows he is still speaking from jealousy. “You feel it, don’t you? The way you take me in? The way you squeeze around me? How your body responds and yearns for me—just as I yearn for you. You’ll never yearn for another, will you?”
“No,” you sob, shaking your head, tears of pleasure coating your lashes as you blink up at him. “No—give me more, Mydei. More. Harder.”
And he listens. Because you are spoiled. You came to him spoiled, and against every bone in his body initially, he could not help but indulge your sweet, needy whims. Every argument, every back and forth, every moment of bickering, you never let him win—not truly. And he spoiled you. He continues to spoil you. When you ask for more, he gives you everything.
“Okay,” he grunts, panting as he rolls his hips and slams into you as you suck him in further into your tight little pussy. “But just be warned that you asked for this, dear wife.”
With that, one leg is hoisted over his shoulder, giving him better access to drill his thick girth into you, pistoning his hips as the tip of his cock kisses perfectly against the sweet, spongy spot in the back of your walls. He angles so perfectly inside of you, it’s like he carves himself into your hole and molds the shape of himself into your folds. So that only he fits. So that only he can take you. So that only he can be the one you take.
“Yes,” you whine. “Like that M-Mydei—please. Please.”
“You drive me insane,” he mutters, gritting his jaw as he groans lowly when your walls hug around him tightly, squeezing him as his arms quiver and barely hold him upright over you, “Since the day you came to my world and became half of my soul, you have driven me mad. You must take responsibility for that.”
“You should take responsibility for driving me horribly mad first,” you say stubbornly, still so fierce even as you are split open on his cock. He chuckles, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.
“You’re right. Let me make up for all the trouble I caused you, hm?”
His thumb latches onto your clit, rolling harsh, quick circles as your body arches up into his touch, responding to every sensation he pulls so easily out of you. One thrust, and then a second and third, and by the fourth, you come undone once more, walls erratically squeezing around him.
“Fuck, Mydei—you…you feel so good.”
“And so do you,” he murmurs, moaning softly as he turns his head and presses a kiss into the skin of your leg where it’s hooked over his shoulder, “So, so good—you were made for me. Made to take me. Made to drive me wild enough so that only you can tame me. You wicked, beautiful thing.”
When you sob his name once more, he comes undone himself, spilling hot, thick ropes of his seed into your abused cunt and painting your sensitive walls white. They welcome him, sucking him in deeper, letting him succumb to his pleasure and fuck his load deep into you.
And when he collapses over you, you’re too numb from pleasure to protest at his weight, wrapping your arms around his sweaty body and holding him tightly. “It only took ten months,” you whisper, “But we are officially husband and wife, according to the customs.”
He chuckles, nipping at your shoulder as he buries his face. “I care little for the customs. You are my wife if I say you are—and you have been mine since the day you agreed to take my hand. It is as simple as that.”
“Go to sleep, you fool,” you groan, rolling your eyes as you fight back a smile.
Sleep comes easier than it ever has—you fall asleep against him, fitted where you most belong.
────────────────────────
The night of your anniversary, Mydei is having a bad day.
You are unable to do much but watch from the sidelines as he enters one chamber after the other, meeting with advisors and council members left and right until even you grow weary of how burdensome his schedule is.
After a year of marriage, you are used to his daily matters not allowing him time until later into his day, and you have never been a stranger to the busy demands of political affairs. Your father is a king himself, after all. You were once a princess, and now you are a queen. Therefore, you know, without doubt, that your husband—who is no less consumed by responsibility than your father—will return to you in a foul mood. And it will be yours to contend with.
“You have returned,” you say quietly as soon as he enters your shared chambers. He drops his armor to the ground, one piece at a time, uncaring where they fall. Any other day, you might scold him for such untidiness (though, really, he is not untidy at all. You would not have to scold him on any other day). Today you choose to bite your tongue and focus on his face instead of the misplacement of his garments.
“I have,” he says plainly. Mydei stands. For a long, agonizing moment filled with deafening silence, he stands, and he does not say one word. It makes your skin pinprick with an uncomfortable feeling, making you want to crawl into yourself and hide. His gaze feels scrutinizing. Always. Something about the piercing, golden amber of his eyes staring into you makes you uncomfortably exposed.
Then, he walks.
As if a moment of clarity has struck him, he sets his shoulders back like he’s made up his mind, and he walks. To you. Before you can react, he collapses himself on top of you, draping his weight like a blanket over your unsuspecting body and pressing you down onto the silken sheets.
“M-mydei,” you gasp, glancing at him in confusion as you shift under him. “What are you—”
“No more words,” he huffs, voice heavy with exhaustion. His arms curl around your waist to keep you still. “I have exchanged enough of them for one day. I request but one simple thing—silence.”
“A most impossible request,” you scoff indignantly. “You know well that you provoke argument from me unlike any other.”
“Mmh,” he hums, whether in agreement or mere acknowledgment, you are unsure. Regardless, you frown petulantly at it and expect more—he is meant to persuade you otherwise. (No, my dear wife. You are as gentle as the breeze through the valley, ever soothing, ever constant. That is what he ought to say to you.) “You say this as if I am to find displeasure in it.”
That only seems to irk you more.
“You take pleasure in getting a rise out of me?” You narrow your eyes, glaring down at him as you watch the way he presses his lips to fight back the oncoming smile.
“You put words in my mouth, dear wife,” he murmurs. “I merely meant your spirit is endearing. The…complications that come about it are tolerable at best.”
“So you find me only tolerable?!” you ask in disbelief.
Fondness, as clear as the warm light of the Kremnos sun, settles onto his face and softens the sharpness of his eyes a hue lighter, the amber now glazed in a honeyed glow. He lets out a low chuckle in amusement, and it is softer than anything you have ever heard. Not just from him—no, you have never heard a gentler sound through the entirety of your life. It is as though the Gods have decreed that the first time you listen to something so tender will come from the man they have handpicked to be bound to you.
“Do you willingly choose to hear only the unsavory parts of what I say? If so, then it is a talent I am most impressed by,” he murmurs. “You do not challenge my tolerance. I am unable to find faults when it comes to you, even when you drive me mad.”
“Such a romantic. Have you been spending time with poets recently? You speak as charmingly as one,” you chuckle teasingly as you shift under him, and your leg brushes accidentally against the innermost part between his legs. It brings him to shiver and let out a low grunt, but you do not realize. Not for a while as you try to get comfortable under his weight.
Not until he stops you with a nearly painfully tight grip on your hips as he grits, “Be still.”
“What?” You tilt your head. “Why? If I am to lay under you like your personal mattress, then at the very least allow me to—”
“You torture me,” he says, voice strained.
You blink in confusion. And then—
Ah. You realize soon enough that there is a hardness poking at you. You only now feel it, but it’s been there for some time. Throbbing against your thigh is his erection, separated from you by the fabric of your robes and pressed as tightly against you as possible, and you have been rubbing against it this whole time. The thought should horrify you, but all you can focus on is the way his cheeks take on a flushed hue.
Pretty, you think. Mydeimos is pretty. Just like his name, just like his throne, just like his nation, everything about Mydeimos is pretty. (Mydei—you can hear his grumpy voice correct you in your own mind—you are to call me Mydei.)
“What is that?” you ask through a cheeky, whispered breath.
He exhales shakily, looking at you unamused. “If I have to answer that, I am unsure if you are old enough to be wedded to me.”
You giggle, rubbing a hand along his back as you murmur, “Indulge me.”
“If I must,” he grumbles tiredly. “It is proof that you are what I desire. Does that satisfy you?”
“Exceedingly,” you nod. “Shall I now offer you the satisfaction of fulfilling your desires in return?”
“You do not need to,” he mumbles quietly. Mydei is an honorable man—he is kind to women and children, and he does not see himself above other men simply because he is king. He is a man of principles, if nothing else. Stripping him of his principles is not a simple task.
“And what if I want to?” you pout. “Will you indulge your dear wife?”
“Devious,” he hisses, stiffening when you flex your leg to press more pressure against his hardened cock. “You are a devious, dangerous thing.”
Your hand slips between your bodies at the same time as his lifts up, held over you by two muscled arms that cage either side of your head. You stare up at him, watching the flickers of his expression as your hand carefully untucks his hot, lengthy erection from the confinements of his pants and gives a small squeeze to the shaft.
“Today is a rather special day,” you murmur, “Wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course,” he chuckles breathlessly, groaning as your thumb strokes along his slit, gathering pre cum and carefully smearing it along his tip. “I have survived the wicked schemes of my wife for an entire year.”
“And I have survived the brutal warrior that is my husband,” you grin. “My father will be relieved to hear I am still alive.”
“You mention him while you have me like this?” He grins wolfishly, shivering as you slowly stroke his cock. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, his arms waver as they hold him upright above you. “Fuck,” he whispers, “Do not tease.”
“Tease?” you gasp, stopping at the base of his cock and giving him a small squeeze. He grunts, cracking an eye open, displeased. “I would never.”
“Then don’t,” he says roughly, his voice a gravelly sound that shoots an ache straight to your cunt.
“Only because it is our anniversary,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him gently between his furrowed brows.
Your hand drags along his thick girth, stroking it quickly as he lets out low groans, burying his face into your neck. You can feel him—pulsing in your hand, hot against your neck, heavy over your weight. His breath fans against your skin as he makes pleasured sounds into your ear, making wetness stain between your own legs. And he knows it, too—you’re certain because otherwise, the bite to your earlobe wouldn’t be so tantalizingly slow.
“Happy Anniversary, my dear wife,” he murmurs. “It has been a year of enduring your madness. Won’t you drive me just a little more insane?”
“Happy Anniversary, my darling husband,” you breathe, stroking him faster as he moans into your ear and shivers. “If you are not already insane, I have yet to properly fulfill my duties.”
He makes a sound at that—a cross between a chuckle and a low groan, and with just a few more careful strokes of his aching cock, he spills into your hand, painting your delicate fingers and the intricate stitching of your robes white with his seed. You feel every twitch of him, every rope he spills of thick, warm cum that spills from his reddened tip, and in a daze, you imagine it to fill you to the brim.
And you’re certain he will, too, by the hungry look in his eyes as soon as his blissed-out expression dies out. He opens them, eyeing you like you are the first meal presented to a starved man—and perhaps he is. He is always starved of you, no matter how often you let him get his fill.
“One year since I have had such a beauty to call my dear wife,” he whispers. “How unfortunate it is that you will never get to see the sight of yourself. But I am too selfish to allow anyone but myself to witness it.”
“You talk most when you are feverish,” you tease, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling well, Mydei?”
“Not until I have you,” he responds cheekily, grinning in amusement as he leans in to kiss you hungrily. You gasp against his mouth, hands instantly traveling to his hair. “Won’t you look after your sickened husband?”
“If I must,” you sigh playfully. (The slick wetness between your legs almost screams at you to quit your agonizing schemes and simply give yourself as quickly as he wants to take you.)
His fingers tease along your collarbone, trailing just between your cleavage as you shiver. Just as his hands reach for your robes, ready to expose your breasts, a knock disturbs you as you both stiffen—
“Lord Mydeimos,” calls a guard, “There has been an ambush on our patrolling troops outside of the border. It is urgent.”
Mydei stills. You glance at him worriedly.
“Of all times,” he grunts, cursing under his breath.
“There will be plenty of time later,” you soothe, tracing the angry creases in his forehead, “Duty calls.”
He glances at you miserably before sighing, rising from atop your body. But not before planting a soft, lingering kiss on your lips that he reluctantly pulls away from. “Wait for me. I will take care of it quickly and return to you to finish where I have left off.”
You giggle, poking his cheek as you murmur, “I have no doubts.”
———————
Mydei does, in fact, return to you.
Except, it is not in the condition that he left.
He comes back carried by four men at once, ushered quickly into the healer’s wing, and stripped of his armor quickly. You follow along, stumbling over your feet and heart beating in your throat.
“What hap—” You are carefully tugged to the side before you can even utter the words, moved away from the grotesque scene before you can properly get a look at the stab wound in his chest. The blade has missed his heart by just a hair, you hear one healer mumble. It is a miracle that he has lived long enough to be brought back, another whispers.
You hear him groan unconsciously as they clean at the torn flesh, and your knees buckle at the sound.
“My lady,” murmurs an attendant. “Perhaps it is best if you do not witness such a scene—”
“That scene is my husband,” you cry hysterically. “Who else is to witness it? My husband needs—”
“He needs the healers, and they cannot do their duty with your hovering.” You’re cut off firmly. You blink, and even without the tears in your eyes, you’re certain you would look pitiful as you sniffle.
“He promised he would return to spend the night with me,” you croak. “If he does not live to see through to his promise, I will kill him myself.”
“I am certain he fears such a fate more than anything else,” whispers the attendant, gently tugging you along and supporting half your weight. “Come, I am positive My Lord will appreciate a properly tidied chamber to recover in, wouldn’t you say?”
You let yourself be dragged away, turning to glance at Mydei one more time—just in time, in fact, to catch a glimpse of a bloodied rag tossed to the floor by a healer. More blood than you have ever witnessed spilled from Mydei before—if at all.
———————
It takes hours before there is a knock on your chamber’s door, and before you can even rise from your bed, a handful of guards enter one by one, carefully carrying your husband on a stretcher as he unhappily lays with his arms crossed.
“I could have walked myself,” he grumbles bitterly.
“The healers would have my head if I allowed your stitches to be torn, My Lord.”
“The healers could not do anything if I had ordered—”
“Mydei,” you sob, throwing yourself into his arms as soon as they lay him on your shared bed. Your arms wrap around his neck as he cuts himself off and lets out a low grunt of surprise.
And then, he beams. So smugly that even the guards eye each other warily. “Did you miss me, dear wife?”
One by one, they quickly file out of your chambers as your head shoots up, and you glare at him.
“You leave me on our anniversary night to fight an ambush, promise to return to me only to come back bloodied and half alive, and your first words to me are to ask such an arrogantly tasteless question?”
He chuckles, cupping your cheek as he murmurs, “I am fine. It’s just a small cut—”
“They missed your heart by a hair! I heard the healers myself!”
“You know how they are,” he all but huffs petulantly, rolling his eyes as he complains. “I would have been fine to walk myself back, but they insisted that the guards escort me by stretcher—”
“And a good thing they did,” you spit. “If your injury did not kill you, then your ego surely would have finished the job.”
You have never considered the possibility of losing Mydei. Not once in your marriage. Not when you felt no tug for him in your heart, and not even when your heart began to yearn for him more than anything else. A naive little thing you were, you think to yourself—to think your husband is invincible just because he is as strong as he is. Your father’s words had made you think of your husband as nothing more than a warrior at times—a godslayer, a man not even divinity could stand against.
But he’s painfully human. Painfully just a boy who grew into the body of a man and nothing more. Strength means little in the face of chance—and it occurs to you now, as you eye the bandages wrapped tightly around his chest, that by chance alone did a blade pierce through his skin, and by chance alone did he survive and come back to you.
And you will never risk a chance to lose him again without telling him what your heart knows after a year of marriage.
“Do you not have any faith in m—”
“I love you,” you sniffle, the words wobbly and wet like your tear-stained lips. They cascade down your cheeks and collect pitifully at your chin, but you care little for your appearance as you let out an ugly sob and cradle his cheeks. “I love you, and it is the worst fate you have cursed me with. I despise you.”
“That is a rather contradictory statement,” he says quietly as he processes your words. But the tips of his ears are red as his lips fight to stay still at the corners. “Could you repeat that first part without that latter one?”
“You are insufferable,” you glare, still blinking through tears. He chuckles, pulling you closer as he carefully thumbs away the wetness of your cheeks.
“And I love you, as well,” he says gently, “Even though you have possessed me and changed everything as I know it, I love you.”
“Do not scare me like this again,” you command.
“I won’t,” he agrees. With enough conviction that you believe him. For now. For now, you believe him, and little else matters. You let him pull you against his side, curling an arm around you as you reach over and brush hair from his face.
“Did you know that my father called you a godslayer once?” you hum, tracing his cheek softly and wiping away the sweat that lingers on his skin. “I wonder what he would think now if he were to see you.”
“Did he, now?” he asks in amusement. “Far too high of praise, isn’t it? I’m afraid he’ll only be disappointed—I do not know if I could slay a God.”
“What if my life depended on it?” you pout. “Wouldn’t you at least try?”
He chuckles, grabbing your hand from his face and pulling it to his lips, kissing your fingertips slowly, one by one, before he says thoughtfully, “I suppose your father was not wrong then. For my dear wife, I would slay even the divine.”
“In that case, he will be most pleased to know Kremnos and its king are taking such great care of his daughter,” you finally, finally smile, giggling softly, much to Mydei’s pleasure as you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek. He hums, happily accepting your affection as he relaxes further into the bed.
“After a year spent on this land, what is your favorite part of Kremnos?” he asks. And you know—better than anything, you know what he wants you to say.
“The sun,” you murmur.
He frowns. You bite back a smile. “The sun,” he repeats, dry and in disbelief. “The unchanging sun that is the same no matter what nation you travel to? Why not your husband?”
Chuckling, you cup his cheeks once more, leaning to kiss over his eyelids one by one. He closes his eyes and lets you as he relaxes under your touch. When he opens them, you are reminded that the Kremnos sun is the warmest you have ever felt.
“The sun does not shine the same in other nations, Mydei,” you whisper. “In Kremnos, you can find its warmth in not just the sky.”
“And wherever else, pray tell, would you find the sun’s warmth in Kremnos?” he asks, his voice husky as he leans closer.
You smile, and for a moment, you consider giving in and telling him what he wishes to hear. But you decide to tease him for a bit longer, in retaliation for what he put you through, as you pat his cheek before pulling away. You walk to leave your chambers, but not before you say over your shoulder, “I believe I should fetch more supplies from the healers. Your bandages will need to be replaced soon.”
He gapes, watching your retreating figure in shock before he slumps back and chuckles, sighing before shaking his head as he mutters under his breath, “Utterly wicked. Such a wicked, beautiful thing I have married.”
WOW THIS FIC IS FINALLY DONEEEEE.
It was a 23 day wip to a lot of you guys bc a lot of you guys follow me and saw me posting about this fic during the writing process. So you probably know that royal au’s are very hard for me. I find the dialogue to be difficult to get right and I can’t crack the same jokes I normally would through the character’s lines and I also have no idea how royalty would go about filthy talk LOL. So that’s rough. But also world building and handling the political atmosphere in these sort of settings is just. Complicated to me. But royal au’s are also some of my favorite to envision and think about, so these scenes in this fic have been a COLLECTION of scenes that I’ve had from many, MANY attempts at writing a royal au. I’m talking years worth of attempts and compiled scenes that I abandoned and brought back to get added into this fic.
It may have been a 23 day wip to everyone who followed along with my writing updates on this blog, but this is technically a longgggg 5+ year journey that FINALLY saw the light of day, and went through soooo many characters.
First it was for Miya Atsumu from haikyuu.
Then it became a Bakugou Katsuki fic from bnha.
Then it became a Gojo, then Sukuna, then back to Gojo fic from jjk.
Then I was like no no trust me it’ll make for the PERFECT Alhaitham fic from genshin.
Now, FINALLY, it has seen the light of day after maybe 5 ish years as a Mydei fic from hsr.
Would you believe me if I told you I’m hardly an hsr player and I’ve met him for approximately 2 mins total in game? 💀 LOL. I am not really sure why he managed to make me finally really take all these half written scenes from over the years, polish them up, and finally finish this fic, but I did and I am proud of myself.
For my first proper attempt at a royal au fic, I don’t think it’s the worst thing I’ve written. Are there some parts that I wish were executed better? Yes for sure lol I’m just a failgirl writer who is honestly her own biggest hater. But that being said, I really think that I did not fail at my attempt and I think that’s a really big step for me in my silly hobby that I take a little too seriously sometimes.
Anyway, if you read this note, and you read this fic, thank youuuuu for reading all my words lol I know sometimes I have a lot of them. And thank you to miss Carina—if you don’t know her, that’s tumblr user @osarina and she’s really talented and she probably is 70% of the reason why this fic exists. Thank you for hearing me whine about this, and for literally forcing me to finish it. And also for beta reading it and for helping me polish up my sophisticated royal dialogue. AND for helping me figure out scenes when I was stuck. Aka thanks for being my inspo and museeeee hehehe ily
kaveh x reader | you storm off after a fight only to be gravely injured
warnings: angst with a happy ending, no pronouns used for reader
he swore nothing else had sounded in his ears since you slammed the front door shut as you stormed out with tears streaming down your face and your hands bunched into fists, trying to keep hold of the last bit of strength that kept you from crumbling under the oppressive atmosphere sewn between you and your beloved.
kaveh had not been in any better shape. fighting with you.. it tore him apart even when he couldn’t stop those stupid words he didn’t mean, that didn’t portray the true painting of emotions within him, from slipping past his lips. and when you had left he felt the world dull. not even the happy setting of the tavern brought back a single drop of colorful light and the wine he downs tastes so very bitter on his tongue.
the laughter of those around him, the music playing in the background, the glasses he drank, didn’t help to make him feel the least bit better. no, it only amplified the painful knocking in his chest as your fight played over and over again in his mind. the endings he kept drawing up, ones where you did not forgive him and left him alone in this world once more, made him sick to his stomach, the alcohol sitting at the bottom of it churning until he swore he really would throw up.
attempting to avoid that at all costs, he rests his head on his crossed arms, messy blonde locks spilling over his shoulders and arms. his chest aches with longing to hold you and kiss your tears away even as his world spins, your sad eyes and shaking body flashing over and over behind his closed eyes while your crying hiccups echo in his ears.
“i’m sorry y/n..” he says, the wood of the corner counter he rested on taking his words and letting them be forgotten, heard by no one and soon after, the noises of the restless sleep he enters join them.
the sounds of patrons and the tavern lights, so bright against tender ruby orbs, tells him he had only slept for a little while, enough to sober him up quite a bit but sleep, or continuing to drink, wasn’t going to help the true unease in his body. only you could do that and after coming more to his senses, waking up wanting - needing you more than he needed air, he realizes he should have done so long ago. maybe it would have only made things worse at the time but he never should have let you leave the house like that..
a glass of water is already waiting for him near where he was sitting, condensation dripping from the side of the glass and pooling around it. it’s a habit of lambads from a time before you had been in kavehs life, when he had spent more time here that he was both embarrassed and grateful for. he’s thankful for it again today too, downing it quickly as he stands to his feet and gets ready to head home, where you had hopefully returned.
even with his quick steps, weaving in and out of people still a little tipsy, kaveh can’t help but overhear the talk of those he passes; more than a few of them commenting on witnessing someone, bloodied and beaten, being carried right through treasure street by one of the matra, headed to the bimarstan. the pain he has felt for many others that he didn’t know began to spread through him at the news, making his steps slow. but it was nothing compared to the heart wrenching throb that jolted his entire body upon hearing more.
one of the women sitting at the table he was near asked her friend who the injured person was. her friend didn’t know but the description he gave had kaveh running full speed through the doors, nearly tripping over other customers feet in his hurry, worry and terror in his eyes. he doesn’t stop his speed for a second, not even as he crashes through the doors of your home, the denial echoing in his mind finally being brought forth in words as his pleas get louder with each door he throws open only to find your shared home completely empty.
“no..” his voice is full of agony and yet still so breathless. “please, no.. no..!!”
kaveh isn’t even sure he is breathing on his way to the bimarstan, his feet feeling as heavy as lead but he still ran as fast as he could while his mind ran even faster; screaming at him how this was all his fault, just like back then.. and the last thing he had said to you was garbage he had hardly meant, not words of beauty and love like they usually were, like they should have been, and the last thing he had made you feel..
he has to stop his racing thoughts before they brought him to his knees, before he could even confirm it was you who had been hurt and if it was.. he had to make his way to your side, do everything he could to ensure you were okay even if right now he felt like he had nothing but his beating and breaking heart to give.
the moments it took for the staff to give him information once he stormed through the doors, all of them wide eyed and sorrowful to the man in the front of them on the verge of tears, went by painfully slow and the world itself stopped at the confirmation that yes, you had indeed been brought here and right now were in a very bad way.
they took him back to your room but every word she spoke on the way there was static to his ears and when he saw you lying in the hospital bed, bandaged, near lifeless with a healer's powers surrounding you in a glowing aura, he felt the entire world turning upside down. unsteady legs brought him to the other side of the bed from where the healer was working, their brows knitted in concentration and not paying his pitiful self any mind.
he falls to his knees at your bedside, through teary vision taking in your state, cleaned of most of the blood but red still seeped from the white cloth, your hair messy, your lips pale. he curses himself for letting this happen; he should have never let you walk out the door.. if he had only stopped you, apologized for this stupid fight and kissed you sweetly.. you could have been curled up in his arms in your bed while he showed you how much he loved you rather than here, nearly breaking completely and begging celestia to not take you from him.
swallowing the sob that bobbed in his throat, he brought a shaking hand to your still one. your fingers were cold, unresponsive to his but he continued to hold them, trying to pour his warmth into you and give you his life if he could. he stayed like that, sobbing silently into the sheets beside you, pleading for you to come back to him between shallow breaths, to be okay, telling you how sorry he was over and over.
he couldn’t lose you, doesn’t know how the world will continue to go on without you. he already felt it cracking and breaking like it never had before, a similar guilt seeping from his pores and blanketing the world in sorrow of his own doing.
there's no telling how much time had passed until the healer was finished and with an exhausted sigh and a compassionate tone, told him you were going to be okay.
“thank you,” he chokes out in barely more than a whisper, unable to take his eyes off of you.
if they left the room or if anyone had come or gone, he didn’t know. time passed but he didn’t count the minutes, hours, that he held your hand and spoke confessions of his love to your sleeping form. his voice was hoarse, his body physically aching to feel you against him and even if he was scared to touch you more than this, he was going to be sick, unable to recover, if he didn’t feel you more. if he couldn’t hear your heart beating or feel your warmth.
his movements are incredibly tender, never once disturbing or hurting you as he sits next to you, one arm propped up, keeping him hovering above you so he can rest his head gently on chest without putting any of his weight on you. thump.. thump.. your heart beats slow in his ears and like a lullaby it pulls him into just a little more, his head falling heavier on your chest, sporadic tears falling from his long lashes and wetting your exposed skin.
“i’m so sorry my love..” he’s said it countless times by now but meant it just as wholly as the first time he said it, when the only thing to hear was the bar top. “please..” a sob escapes him, his strength slipping causing him to put more weight on you then he intended. he can’t bring himself to ask you to forgive him, he didn’t deserve-
the familiar touch of your fingers in his long hair stops all of his thoughts, a quiet call of his name fills his ears, paints the world in pastels and warm colors, even when his chest contracts tightly it was a beautiful thing, and when your hand encourages him to lay on you more, he easily follows.
your cries are quiet, a bit painful to your bruised body but it was nothing compared to the pain you felt when you thought you might not be making it back to kaveh. you whimper at the thought, cling to him tighter, needing the pressure even if it makes your body ache. he feels your body tremble under his, attempts to lift himself off you, not hurt you more than he already had, but your hand in his hair and the other on his back, though weak, keep him in place.
“don’t go. please..”
“i’m not going anywhere.”
after some time in the tearful, relieved, quiet between you, it’s you who finally speaks, your breaths more calm than before but still so fragile. “i’m so sorry too kaveh. i should have never left.. i was..” you can feel the tears welling up once more, “s-scared.. what if.. i- i would have - i tried-” you stumble over your every thought, losing your words to the sob creeping up your throat.
for the first time since you’d awoken, he lifts his head from your chest to look at you, your hand in his hair coming to rest on his chest. the color had returned to your lips, your cheeks wet and eyes puffy, brimming with even more tears. “shh baby,” he coos, the hand that had held onto yours for so long coming to wipe the few that escaped past your lashes as he continues to soothe you, shedding a few tears of his own.
when you’ve calmed down once more, your eyes meeting his rose colored ones that were filled with such love and he smiles, so beautiful and radiant even with his disheveled state. "everything is going to be okay as long as we're together."
˖˚˳⊹ how they fuck feat. diluc : kazuha : cyno : childe : tighnari : ayato : zhongli : itto x fem! reader
˖˚˳⊹ warnings: nsfw
˖˚˳⊹ 𝗦𝗟𝗢𝗪 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗗𝗘𝗘𝗣
diluc's lips were brushing right under your ear, his breath tickling you once you felt him place tender open mouthed kisses on your shivering skin. The simple gesture inflicted yet so much reassurance on your body, heart pounding feverishly against your chest as you wrapped your loving arms around his neck to have his warmth closer on you. He's so big too as he leisurely grinded himself deeper into your sobbing cunt that couldn't bare the teasing nature of him anymore. Diluc wasn't even aware that he has been edging you on with his way of fucking into your needy core. Yet he's far from done with you, holding your legs to pull them against your chest, reaching new places you'd never thought he'd be able to reach as you were reduced to nothing more than moaning out his name in between harsh pants.
kazuha who's fumbling with your shirt in an almost clumsy and messy way, he'd always ball his fists together in your garments to pull you closer into his embrace, almost as if he was scared of losing you in any way. The admiration of every single natural curve of your body was turning you into a whining mess underneath his skilled touches. He's hooking his fingers into the elastic of your underwear now, pulling them down in one swift motion and lazily throwing them on the floor without much thought. A small gasp escaped your lips once kazuha was spreading your legs open to comfortably nestle himself in between them, cock head in between your glistering folds before he collected your slick as a natural lubricant to finally plunge deep into you, ensuring himself that he wasn't hurting you, continuing to slowly move his hips to grind himself lazily in your cunt, making sure to feel every single pulsating spot of yours.
cyno's thrusts into your warm cunt were light and tender, his slow movements were driving you to roll your eyes back, not to mention that he'd always make sure to circle his hips whenever he'd be fully sheathed in you. He knows what he's doing, his gentle nature will of course appear during the act of intimacy as well yet he was fully aware that he's in fact, ruining you with those movements. "kiss me." you're whining out, eyes scrunched shut as your spine arched lightly into him. Cyno groaned once hearing your shaking voice, it was downright adorable in his eyes as he dropped his weight on top of you, sweat connecting your bodies together while you folded your arms around his neck to feel his soft lips, both moaning into the kiss as he haltered his movements for a moment, cock buried deep in your cunt and pulsating violently yet cyno didn't dare to move anymore, this particular feeling might be his favorite after all.
˖˚˳⊹ 𝗙𝗔𝗦𝗧 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗡𝗘𝗘𝗗𝗬
childe couldn't wait to ruin your cunt with thick spurts of cum, simply the thought of filling you up was making him pulsate inside of you, the fat vein that enveloped his girth was grazing over your delicate walls with each fast snap forward of his hips. You couldn't remember the last time when he was that needy for you, speed generally increasing every time you moaned out his name. Fuck, how he loved whenever you'd call him ajax, it's so simple yet intimate, passion filled, not to mention the way your voice was overflowing with lewdness and whimpers of his hard cock buried in your cunt was making him almost lose his mind. Childe's body was covered in sweat and perspiration, gleaming and accentuating his aching muscles, he was so close and needed to show you. Taking your hands in his larger one to pin them over your head before kissing you feverishly, both moaning into the kiss as your climax approached you.
tighnari first, pushes his cock gently into your cunt to make you adjust to his size, the painful wave soon fading into utmost pleasure as he hid his face in the crook of your neck to take in your addicting scent. Tighnari's hands found the back of your ass to hold onto you for more support as he applied more pressure each time his hips drove into your sobbing cunt. He was so fast, you could barely keep up with his harsh way of fucking you before you whined his name out screaming only for him to hear. His ears would twitch whenever he'd hear you say it, something about you saying his name and rolling it off your tongue so fucking sinfully made him grab onto you harder, leaving you breathless underneath his figure. His cock was sliding in and out of your pussy so unbelievably fast you weren't able to say anything anymore, only moaning out incoherent babbles that left him no other choice than to fuck into you harder. He's so close now, so fucking eager to cum too, finishing off with the probably most beautiful moan he ever expressed towards you.
ayato can barely take some time off for himself, that's why it's seldom for him to properly take his time with you. Quickies are a daily thing for the both of you, mostly in between breaks of his duties as the yashiro commissioner. For ayato, it's the control that gets him off while fucking you, the obedience you portray when you're spread out for him on the soft bedsheets while your legs are lazily thrown over his shoulders, most of your clothes still loosely hanging over your body because he just couldn't wait any longer. His fast thrusts are strong and centered, the bed frame rocking against the wall as your body jolted forward each time you feel his heavy cock enter you. His head is always held high, immense confidence radiating through the room as he continues to fuck you fast through your orgasm, practically tasting his own on his tongue as you squeezed particularly hard around his shaft.
˖˚˳⊹ 𝗥𝗢𝗨𝗚𝗛 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗗
zhongli's favorite kind to fuck you is rough and deep, in his opinion it's exceedingly passionate to have you whine out his name in between harsh breathing while he's pining your arms on each side of your body so he's able to view you in all your fucked out bliss. Your lips were swollen and puffy, eyes scrunched shut as he grinded himself forward with concentrated rough snaps forward. Your warm cunt spasming around his girth as your juices were gushing out of your hole to leave a faint white ring that stained his cock in thick spurts. He's been fucking you for hours now without ever showing you any sort of tiredness, zhongli could feel the knot in his stomach tighten with each squeeze, the sound of the mattress squeaking only added to the immense amount of pleasure he has been feeling right now. You've been such a good baby for him all night, trying your best to spread your legs open further as he finally climaxed deep inside of you, his hands flying to your hips to pull you closer, soft visible crescent formed buds decorating your sweat covered skin in the process.
itto who's marking your body up with not only love bites, but spurts of thick cum that would messily stain your figure. He can't deny that he was very much in love with the way his cum would stick on your fucked out body, your tits naturally bouncing up and down with each strong thrust he'd grace you with. For him, it's hard to decide where to put his hands, most of the time he'll bring his thumb down on your sensitive clit to apply pressure while snapping forward into your tight hole like a mad man. Itto wouldn't be scared of becoming very vocal in bed either, he's tremendously sensitive and shivers every time your cunt would sloppily suck him in. He's towering over you now, examining your body and fuck, he wanted to see you cum so badly, wanted to lock gazes with your beauty and witness how you're unraveling in a raging mess of utter perfection, warm tears rolling down your cheeks as you whimpered his name in soft chants in midst your newish found orgasm.
summary, even with half-bitten pomegranates between tongue, teeth and heart, the prince of Kremnos tries to make amends with you.
mydei x gn!reader. mildly lovers to enemies. tension and arguments. hurt with comfort. mentions of arranged marriage and eloping (love this trope with him) soft and gentle mydei, might be ooc. lore-inclined city-state ceremonies. [2.0k wc]
It’s merely an alliance ceremony.
And yet here you were, being dressed in foreign silks and heavy accessories. Compared to your usual attires the fabrics are lightweight, enough for a cold rush to scrape your skin despite the torch lit by the corner of your room.
Your face must’ve betrayed you, for the maidens that attended to you murmured about it being part of Kremnoan traditions and that you had to endure it, only with such a solid statement do you deflate, settling stiffly and defeatedly on the chair, allowing them to continue their decorations on you, to peel you bare of your sea-state city garments and pool Castrum Kremnos‘ silk clothes, sandals and cape over you.
At this very moment, you looked like a raw and beguiling warrior, a far cry of what you truly were, an ignorant coward.
“You look beautiful.” A more elderly woman speaks from behind, you stare at her through the vanity.
“…I look like a fighter.”
“Are you not?”
You hesitate to answer her, biting your lip to prevent yourself from speaking something you might regret.
Are you still labeled a fighter after losing your city to Castrum Kremnos?
You were anything but triumph, you lost your kingdom, your pride, your people—and only this alliance union can salvage whatever scraps of glory you have left, it's the only thing you could do for your folks since you disappointed them as their leader.
The elder woman’s hand lands softly on your shoulder, despite such a gentle manner you cannot help the flinch from echoing through your bones. Your nails bury into your palms.
“I assure you, young one, that shame is the last thing Castrum Kremnos would dare to offer you and your city-state.”
She pauses.
“Our prince would not dare such a thing from you.”
You wanted to laugh, to cry and scream and ruminate frustrations. But you swallow instead, “I see.”
You did not utter another word after that. The maidens have left long ago and you pondered with your own thoughts, recounting the gradual yesterdays you spent mourning over fallen friends and a broken city. You recounted tidbit memories of the remaining council that pushed you for this alliance—forcing you to succumb and kneel towards the very people that took your everything.
After all, as the last remaining royal blood, that’s the least you can do.
The Kremnos’ heavy bells finally billow, and you inhale sharply.
“It’s time for you to step into the ceremony hall, lord.”
And you stand, your heart heavy with pressure. When you followed a counselor towards your destination, the older man gave you a quick rundown of certain rules and traditions you needed to adhere to, you half-listened to the convoluted rules until the very last statement that catches your attention,
“At the end of the blessings, you are to share a cup of pomegranate juice with the one you are to join alliance with.” he starts,
“In this case, you are to drink from the same cup with the representative of our city, Kremnos’ prince Mydeimos.”
His name is an echo through the shell of your ears, leaving a bitter aftertaste between your teeth. You stopped listening after that, until you both faltered at the end of the corridor.
Your heart is pounding in your chest when the large, looming doors split open, by now, the hall is packed and standing at the very front was the ceremony priest and Mydeimos himself, awaiting your arrival. When you step beside him on the podium, your gaze dare not shift towards the prince.
You let the withered voice of the priest wander you through the prayer, he lifts an iron chalice brimming with liquid as red as blood—you watch quietly as he lifts a smaller glass of honey, letting the golden liquid pool into the red cup before blessing the drink.
The priest turns to you, with a nod he beckons you to mirror the oath spoken. With parted lips, you follow along, pledging allegiance and alliance to Castrum Kremnos, “And with the glory of Strife and blood intertwined in allegiance with Castrum Kremnos, I, the succeeding lord of my city shall share the same devotion of valorous death before glorious return.”
You tilt your chin, lips pressed against the iron. The tangy yet thickly sweet taste of pomegranate rinses through your tastebuds. When the red liquid hits the middle line, you retract, turning towards the direction of the prince.
You look at him, only to find his heavy resin eyes already on you.
Mydeimos’ blank stare traces every bare action you do, and for a split moment you try to hold his weighty stare, trying to dissect his expression—trying to see what he thinks of the whole thing, and yet you find none.
You’ve dropped your gaze then, before extending the chalice in his direction. You slightly stir when you feel his fingertips brush your knuckles, you are quick to let go when he grabs ahold of the cup—too quickly.
How audacious, you cannot help but wonder when the priest speaks the same oath to him, Mydeimos recites it but his eyes never stray from you. Truly, he’s like a prowling lion assessing its prey.
There’s a prickling sensation of self-consciousness with such a look pinned on you.
“And with the glory of Strife and blood intertwined in allegiance with Castrum Kremnos, I, Mydeimos the succeeding prince of my city shall share the same devotion of valorous death before glorious return…” he rasps, then he downs the remainder within the chalice, his golden eyes still on you.
You cannot help yourself but settle your gaze on his exposed collarbones, laddering your way up the column of his neck where you watch the way his adam’s apple bobs at the swallow of the juice, a few clumsy droplets run down his jaw before he retreats and wipes it with the back of his hand.
The bells sound once, then twice at the successful union but your mind is a flurry of thoughts, though all of them stop at one concluding statement, you desperately need to get out of the banquet hall.
So when you’re finally released from your duties, instead of lingering and talking with the folks you spin around towards the exit. Nobody seemed to bat an eyelash at your hasty departure, nor was there anyone in the hallway outside which allowed you to break into a sprint—you don’t know where you’re going, quite frankly the layout of the city is still foreign to you, but you needed to get out of there.
At the fall of your impatient footsteps, you barely hear another set chasing after you.
Only until you feel larger hands gripping your waist do you stop.
“Where do you think you’re running off to?” You don’t need to turn to know who was speaking, the plates of his half-naked front are pressed hard against your back, it acted like a furnace almost.
“Unhand me.” You try to sound casual but it ends up in a bite. “This instant, Mydeimos—“
“And what?” He challenges back. “Let you run around like a headless goose until one of the counselors finds you? Do you wish for trouble that much?”
Instead of answering, you try to pry his hands around your waist. Your attempts are obviously futile however you are wracked with frustrations, fury and confusion. Your actions only fueled the prince’s impatience.
“Quit squirming—“
“Then let me go!” You try to glare at him. “I wish to be anywhere but in your arms right now—“
That must’ve struck a nerve.
Mydeimos’ grip on you only tightened, he pulls you towards an empty corner between the heavy flaps of curtains and presses you against the wall. His hand grips your jaw—but despite such a harsh action his hold on you remains feather-light, gentle.
His face draws close to your own, until you can feel his raspy voice on your cheek. At this distance, you can smell his scent of bonfire, tender smoke and something sweet, like pomegranates, he smelled awfully fruity.
“Says the one that wishes to marry me, isn’t that what you confessed to me months before?”
The jab brings heat to your cheeks, you lift your hand with the intent to slap him but Mydeimos captures your wrist before your palm could collide with his cheek. His thumb runs up from your wrist to your palm, intertwining your fingers together and laying it on the wall beside your head, his bangs brush your forehead, face so, so close that if you tilted your head your lips would be brushing his own,
“You wanted to elope with me.” Mydei tells you. “Have you forgotten? Or do you wish for me to tell you the exact words you told me that day.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, this was before my city was attacked by your warriors!”
The tension hangs gauche, the silence between the two of you almost unbearable. The man before you sighs heavily, “There are a handful of things that are at my disposal, even with the title of prince—the issues of prophecies is something I cannot control.” Mydei soothes a thumb over the pulse in your wrists.
“You of all people are aware of this fact.” he pauses. “Or maybe you weren’t, after all the sea-side states are nonbelievers, you and your people don’t revere the Titans, only the arithmetics and logarithms of the world.”
“You're right, I wasn’t.” You snap. “I did not know Castrum Kremnos was prophesied to destroy my home, Mydeimos. If I had known, I wouldn’t have uttered such preposterous words to you, I was made out to be an ignorant fool because of it.”
Mydeimos’ whole demeanor takes a polar shift, you’re unsure why those eyes had melted like butter, was it your shaky voice, the pitiful wallow in your tone? Or did he truly feel an ounce of empathy for your situation?
“You're not an ignorant fool.” He lets go of your wrist but his body remains pressed up against your own, despite the position his body heat grounded you, especially with his follow up of, “to me, you’re the wisest person I know. A leader with a heart of gold, I apologize for causing you so much agony and for being unable to aid you when you need it most.”
He takes your hand, smearing his lips against your knuckles. “I wish to make amends with you but if you hold such vengeance in your heart—” he tugs your wrist, digging your fingers to his chest just above his heart. “You can scratch my heart out and kill me, stab me in the back for as long as you want if it means your desires would be satiated, then so be it.“
“…Mydeimos.” To say you were shocked was an understatement.
He softly bumps his forehead with your own. “Do you hate me, kardia mou?”
This was the very reason why you fell for him, the prince from the city of warriors. Despite the harshness of his textures and tones, when it came to you, he was honest and open. Those universal stone-cold expressions fissure as soon as he sees a glimpse of you in the distance. He spoke in uncharacteristic gentleness and his fleeting skinships sent butterflies within your chest. You cannot be angry with him, much less hate when he acts like this.
You feel him interlace your fingers, weaving his own with yours. Then he leans down once again, pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth, the intent of apology willing to spill from the nonexistent gaps between the two of you. “I’m sorry.”
Your eyes turn glassy. Maybe it was due to Mydeimos’ comfort that every drowning pressure that you’ve bottled up comes cracking at the seams.
A sob spills between your lips.
“I don’t hate you, Mydei.” Your voice trembles when he tips your chin towards him, brushing his thumbs over the tear staining down your cheeks. “Truthfully, it is I that I loathe the most, not you—never you.”
“So please, never say that I find thrill in killing you.”
Mydei’s hand comes tangling through your tendrils, you weep on his collarbones, his woody scent engulfing you in comfort.
“I’m so sorry.” He repeats. “I’ll never speak of such a thing to you, so cease your cryings, my love.”
i think the first time you really realize alhaitham’s in love with you is when you see how he inconveniences himself just for your sake. it’s subtle, you don’t even notice it until one day it all hits you at once.
“you…got these on your way home?” you ask, taking the bag he holds out. you didn’t even think he was listening last night when you said you’d like to try that new bakery off handedly. evidently he was.
and he stares at you with that aggravatingly blank face of his. “yes.” it’s all he says, all he chooses to offer even when you leave all the unsaid questions in the air.
“but that’s not on the way home,” you say confused.
“it is, if you take a different route.”
“and you took a different route?”
“yes.”
“you took what would be a slightly longer route?” you raise a brow.
“yes.” and then he walks off to change, dropping the discussion all together.
you stare at the bag in your hands, at the small token of proof that he listens, that he cares. and then it hits you, all at once it hits you. those extra pillows he spends time rearranging when he makes the bed because you insist they’re nice and you need them. the papers he gives you at the akademiya already sifted through and sorted in order for you to sign. the late lunch he takes just to have yours with you. those fifteen minutes of sleep he sacrifices to shower first so you can stay in bed a bit longer. that table he hates and always bumps his hips into that you love in the living room.
and that longer route he takes on his way home to get you something you like.
it’s all so inconvenient. it’s a lot more trouble than he likes. it’s inefficient and over complicated and probably is an obstacle to his usually simple life.
“i didn’t know you were listening,” you mumble, “i thought you were asleep.”
“well, it’s difficult to sleep with all your tossing and turning,” he says simply, making your lips quirk into an easy grin as you roll your eyes.
he turns to walk to your bedroom, and you grab his hand and keep him in place. and then you smile that little smile of yours. lean in and press your lips to his. mumble a quiet thank you, haitham against them before kissing them again. and again. and again, for longer this time.
before you read: female reader ; mature content 18+ ; established relationship ; public sex (except it’s not really sex and you don’t get caught) ; dry humping ; wriothesley cums in his pants <3 ; not proof read
The fortress is a big place. Walking to Wriothesley’s office means you get your step count up—but it also means it takes a good few minutes to get there at all.
You’re patient enough to wait. He, on the other hand, sometimes is not.
“Wrio?” Your head tilts to the side. You’re more than a little surprised to see his serious face as he quickly approaches you while you walk towards his office. You grin, teasing glint in your eyes as you hum, “what? You couldn’t wait to see me—oh!”
He’s dragging you by the hand, pulling you along as he turns corners and walks in the very opposite direction of his office with you following in tow (against your will).
“Where are we going?” You ask, blinking. “Your office isn’t this way.”
“There’s an emergency,” he says quickly. Too quickly. You take a good look at him for a moment before you realize something’s off—his coat. It’s not draped over his back like it usually is, instead worn properly over his upper half and buttoned up completely.
Your eyes narrow in confusion. “You’re wearing your coat?”
“Got cold.”
“But the heating has been on for—”
“Heat’s not working in my office.”
“Why don’t you—”
He lets out a shuddering breath, shaky and almost impatient enough that you simply shut your mouth before stressing him out further. He seems to appreciate it, too, because he doesn’t make anymore extra comments—just makes one last turn, pressing you against a hidden corner behind a wall of pipes and caging you with your back against a cold, hard surface.
“Couldn’t wait,” he breathes. “You were taking too long so I met you halfway”
“What do you mean? Wait for wha—” The buttons of his coat come undone quickly enough that you cut yourself off in shock, watching as he flings off the thick, furry material and lets it drop to the floor. “Wriothesley! The floor is dirty and you drape that thing over me all the time, are you insane—oh.”
Oh.
Your eyes land on the clear reason why he’s been so tensely impatient: a heavy, thick bulge in his pants that’s been covered up until now by the mid-length coat that draped over his torso. He lets out a shaky breath, stepping closer as he presses his face deep into your neck and breathes in your scent.
It seems to only make things worse because he lets out a strangled groan and says hoarsely, “I’ll fucking wash it. Now’s not the time.”
“Wriothesley, we’re in the middle of the—”
It seems today is very keen on forcing all of your sentences to cut off halfway because once again, you can’t finish what you want to say. Not before he grunts and presses his heavy, throbbing erection against your clothed cunt and murmurs, “no, we’re in a hidden corner.”
“We’re right by pipes! Have you never heard the way they carry sound?”
“These don’t lead anywhere important.”
“This is absurd,” you say sternly. He rolls his hips stubbornly, grinding the thick girth of his cock against your heat, separated by fabric but brought together by friction.
“Need you, sweetheart,” he moans lowly, “need you so bad I’m tired of waiting. Please.”
You’re nothing if not a doting girlfriend. A very pliant one, at that—so soft and willing to give into Wriothesley and his whims even when they might land you in compromising positions. (How could you say no when he’s pressed up against you like that, though? How could your mind and body respond with anything except yes when he all but molds his body onto yours and drags himself desperately against your own core? Self control was never an easy task in the first place.)
“A little decorum once in a while would be nice, you know,” you huff—still, your arms go right around his neck like they always do, letting his chest firmly press against yours.
He chuckles, low vibrations that you can feel tickle your ribcage as his nose digs into the skin along the crook of your neck. “I told you,” he murmurs, lips tugging into a crooked, wolfish grin, “we’re hidden. And I’m the duke. I know what goes on in this here fortress—no one will find us.”
Smug is one way to describe him—needy is probably better. Far better. Because the way his hips roll to drag his thick, heavy cock along your cunt is far too impatient to be considered anything else but pure need.
You shudder, head leaning back against the wall as a soft, breathy moan spills from your lips at the way his bulge drags along your clit, the pressure from his cock and the friction of your clothes building a steady ache along your core. You can feel the heat of his confined length, the way it twitches in his pants, the way it leaks with pre cum and dampens his fabric enough to match the wet fabric that clothes your cunt.
“Wr-wrio…” you breathe, voice tapering off into a soft, high pitched whine as he roughly glides against your clit particularly harshly. Your hands search for the familiar fur draped on his shoulders to grip onto—only it’s not there.
It’s on the floor along with the rest of his jacket.
He chuckles roughly, voice low and gruff and a tiny bit labored from the air that doesn’t seem to be in his lungs. His hands reach for your wrists, grabbing them gently before guiding them up to his hair, letting them tangle into the strands as he mumbles lowly, “go ahead and pull, sweetheart. I can take it, yeah?”
Large, scarred hands find your waist, fingers digging into plush skin as he pulls your hips forward, rubbing you along his length while he lets out a raw, throaty groan.
“Fuck,” he hisses, “f-fuck, I just couldn’t wait. Couldn’t…couldn’t wait—you understand, right sweetheart? D-don’t be mad.”
He’s babbling. Voice wavering and sweat clinging to his forehead as he hides into the juncture between your neck and shoulder, where he can breathe in the scent of your perfume and feel his cock swell impossibly harder at the sweetness of your perfume. It’s driving him mad. Borderline throwing him into insanity’s clutches from just the sensation of grinding against you.
It’s nothing like being buried to the hilt inside of you. The wet, warm, tight walls that welcome him in every time, the gummy, soft feel of you wrapping around him and constructing with every thrust. He’d like to spill into you, fuck load after load after load until his mess leaks down your thighs and coats your skin with one more layer of proof that your his.
But he’s not particularly patient enough for that. Not willing to wait until he knows you’re stretched out and dripping enough with slick to take the thick girth of him splitting you open—so instead, he takes this. The feeling of you taking over his senses. The feeling of your heat seeping into his body. The smell of your perfume and sweat invading his nose. The rough, unforgiving sting of your fingers tugging at his hair.
He’s pathetically wrapped around your finger tightly enough that even when he craves for more, anything you give is still enough. Maybe he’s not feeling you, but the feeling of you near him is enough to still satisfy that raging, unforgiving ache that settles between his thighs and goes nowhere. Nowhere.
He’s tried—for long enough before your arrival, he’s tried to ignore the way he grows in his pants. Tightening and straining against crisp fabric that’s not meant to stretch and accommodate his cruel problem. It makes his hands tremble as he signs documents. Makes his mind and thoughts race to memories of you—memories on your face, your voice, your ecstasy.
And he can’t wait.
So he finds you half way along the path to his office, dragging you to a hidden corner where the pipes cover your bodies and the walls muffle your sounds.
Wriothesley is the duke. The fortress is his playground. Whatever he says goes—and if he restricts access to the back east wing before he leaves his office…well, he’s confident no one will come. Not because he doesn’t want anyone to catch him seeking relief in the arms of the only person he can call home, but because anyone seeing, hearing, witnessing the way you break from him alone is sinful.
This meant for him. For his eyes. For his ears. For his cock. You’re meant for him.
“I’m close, baby,” he rasps, “fuck, what’re you doing to me? I’m gonna cum right here in my fucking pants. Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” you gasp, tugging his hair to pull him away from your neck and press your foreheads together.
He chuckles, breathy pants fanning along your mouth as his lips hover yours while he murmurs, “yeah? That’s what you want?”
“Yes, Wriothesley,” you whimper, “want you to cum and make me cum, too.”
“I think I can do that, sweetheart. Think I can make that happen right now, if that’s what you need.”
And he doesn’t lie. Because his hips give one, two, three rough thrusts against you, rubbing the hard bulge in his pants along your dripping cunt and swollen clit before he stills for a moment and shudders.
Instinctively, your lips both find each other, swallowing shallow gasps and low moans as you both break at the same time. His cock jerks in between his legs, twitching with rope after rope of thick, sticky cum that soils his boxers and leaks through his trousers.
You don’t fare much better. It feels like you’re soaked—your walls gushing around nothing and dripping your slick essence until it leaves a wet patch on your own panties, dampening through them and leaving you to feel the wetness it leaves.
“More, Wrio,” you cry between kisses, rolling your hips in time with his as you ride out the last waves of your pleasure. A string of saliva connects your lips to his as you pull away to speak.
But he chases after you, closing the gap once more before moaning one last deep sound into your mouth as he slumps against you, pecking your lips once and mumbling, “can’t. We’re in the middle of the fortress, remember?”
It’s smug. So cocky for someone who just took you without even properly taking you right here in a dark, cold corner with pipes surrounding you.
You glare at him, watching as he throws you that easy, confident grin before grumbling, “then lead the way to your office, your grace.”
“With my utmost pleasure, my lady,” he laughs, slowly peeling himself off of you, “who knew you could be so impatient?”
You quirk an unamused eyebrow before glancing down at the wet, messy dark spot along his crotch. He follows your gaze, flushing while you point to the coat on the floor and huff, “put that on before someone sees the absolutely sorry state your pants are in, you smug bastard.”
You fix your clothes, smoothing out your appearance before walking out of the dark corner and heading for his office—and he follows soon after as he buttons his coat, trailing after you like an excited, energetically impatient puppy.
I don’t want to talk about what inspired this . Everyone don’t talk to me for one million years thanks 👍
cast: diluc, alhaitham, wriothesley, ajax x fem reader
warnings: fem reader, nudity, reader wears dilucs shirt in his part, reader also wears wriothesleys coat in his part + he throws you onto the bed, reader is shorter than ajax in his part, the tiniest bits of angst because they really like you, clingy men 🥺, nsfw but no actual smut
MINORS AND BLANK/AGELESS BLOGS DNI
Diluc wakes, and the sheets pool at his waist as he suddenly sits up in bed. The way he drags his hand over his face while he blinks away the remnants of sleep as he takes in his surroundings has his heart dropping to this stomach.
Where have you gone?
The night before was a whirlwind of kisses and heated touches that turned into naked skin on naked skin and heavy strokes that brought out the most beautiful sound of you crying Dilucs name for him, and eventually the fire that consumed you both multiple times, turned into a flicker of warm embers as you fell asleep in his arms.
Only now as the dawn breaks, Diluc finds himself alone in his bedroom. Was he a fool? His heart proves time and time again to be his greatest foe, and perhaps his deep and doting feelings for you were not truly returned by yourself and now resulted in you leaving before he woke up as a means to lessen the blow of your rejection. Diluc swallows down a pang of heartbreak - it’d been a rather long time since he last felt this way in such a fresh sense. His jaw sets as his mind starts to fly through his interactions with you. Mostly good. Your smiles. Your laughter. The flutter of your lashes whenever he was close. Had he offended you somehow amongst all of these months of falling for you? Had you only been putting on an act only to spare his feelings? He thought he was a perceptive man, and celestia knows he spent endless amounts of time just…wanting to know you. He finds his hand coming up to settle over his heart, clutching at his chest when he sighs in resignation to another day without you by his side.
Diluc remains lost in his thoughts when the heavy wooden door of his bedroom clicks open, he swiftly pulls his blankets up higher on his body, though he’s known Adelinde his entire life, he still hard pressed to remain modest around the woman. Perhaps after a cup of coffee Diluc will get his bearings a little better.
Only it’s not his head maid who walks into his bedroom with her hands clasped - it’s you, tip - toeing into the room with a cup of coffee in each hand and only clad in…Diluc’s shirt. The material sweeps across your bare thighs, the thighs he was eagerly between the night before, your bare feet light on the wooden floor as you attempt to sneak in further. You suddenly meet his gaze and you bark out a soft, sheepish laugh while your body language relaxes a bit. You then smile sweetly when you approach closer, sitting by Diluc on the mattress and handing him a cup of coffee, the steam still rising from the ceramic rim.
“I hope you don’t mind me going to the kitchens! I just woke up a bit early and thought it might be nice to surprise you with a cup.” you say a little sheepishly, as if you were forbidden from exploring anywhere beyond Dilucs room after a passionate night with him.
“You’re here.” Diluc breathes, you look quite disheveled, but as beautiful as ever, especially being in his shirt that slips off your shoulder as you adjust yourself on the side of the bed next to him.
You blank a little, huffing a soft laugh into your coffee as you sip before you reach over to place it on the nightstand.
“Of course I am…um, is that okay?” your face suddenly drops in the slightest and Diluc can’t have that, no. Not after he just spent what felt like hours of agonizing if he had lost you. He swiftly places his cup on the nightstand next to yours, and in the next motion he’s leaning into you with an arm around your waist and pulling you fully onto the bed beneath him. You have no chance to say anything before Diluc presses his lips to yours. You taste like coffee and when you sigh as your leg hikes itself over his hip to keep him close, Diluc can’t help but smile against your mouth.
You giggle sweetly when he nuzzles his nose against your cheek and presses a kiss to your jaw as his large palm cradles under your thigh to pull your leg higher on his waist, to hold you closer as he presses you into the mattress with a wildfire of kisses that sets your pulse ablaze under your skin. Your hands tangling in his hair feels familiar, it feels like the start of how many mornings together will begin.
“Actually, I’d like you to stay longer if you’ll have me.” he murmurs against the warm skin of your neck, watching your lashes flutter. When you nod, grinning before he kisses you again while your bodies roll around together in the bed, Diluc finds his heart leaping in his chest at the knowledge that you do want him back, you do feel the same way as him. And that is all he needs in this moment.
Alhaitham’s brow furrows in his sleep, suddenly feeling a certain chill in his bed that he’s certain wasn’t the case a few hours ago. His eyes crack open, and he frowns at the dim light of the morning shining in through the window. But even moreso, his hand reaches out to an empty space in his bed, and his chest tightens.
Did you leave before he woke up?
He recalls your body under his palms, the way you writhed for him and arched under his every touch and roll of his hips, your nails raking down his back as he studied your every reaction. The stars outside only partially brilliant in comparison to the way you made him feel during those restless hours of intimacy until you were asleep on his chest.
Perhaps his intelligence was indeed limited. He lays in his bed, staring at the ceiling above him and wonders what happened. He had never, at least not truly, ever put his heart on the line in such a manner. You had felt….different. Not in an agonizing sense of something that had come to turn his life upside down, but as something he could reach with his fingertips and hold onto. Someone he could be at ease with and share a comfortable life with. He grimaces to himself, maybe he is a fool, letting his heart lead him and allowing his mind to follow suit, to follow you to the depths of wherever you would go. He would do it, however far, for you. He wasn’t familiar with this type of heartbreak. Although, he figured it could be a learning experience…once his chest stops aching.
His aqua eyes flutter shut once again, hoping that after a few more hours of sleep he’ll wake up feeling a bit more level headed. Much to his chagrin, it’s swiftly interrupted when he feels the mattress dip beside him. His eyes fly open to see you scooting into the sheets, wiggling your way to his side. You giggle and press yourself against him, Alhaitham barely flinches at the chill of your bare feet tangling with his legs.
“Good morning.” you whisper, beaming up at him, your hand comes up to cradle his jaw.
“Good….morning. Where were you?” Alhaitham muses quietly, turning to his side to face you with an arm winding around your waist. He can feel your bare skin under his touch. You’re still completely nude. He’s really trying not to release a breath of relief at you still being here, yet his eyes simmer with something full of adoration when he looks at you.
“The bathroom? Why, did you miss me?” you laugh with a raise of your eyebrow, eyes soft when Alhaitham presses his cheek into your palm. You nearly melt when he looks to you half lidded and his face moves closer until he smears a butterfly wing of a kiss to your lips.
“Something like that.” he affirms with another kiss, and he rolls over on top of you so that your body fits against his further while your mouths move in tandem with soft sighs and low moans as Alhaithams kisses grow more desperate and deep. His hand slips between your bodies and you whimper, making his skin prickle with goosebumps. He decides then to let go of his own head for a bit, his heart pounding at the way your eyes shine while you look at him, and he smiles at you warmly while pressing himself impossibly closer to you. He really is happy that you’re still here. He hopes that you’ll stay awhile longer.
Wriothesley groans as he stretches, his muscles shifting and rolling as he moves around in his bed. He rolls over to his side and his ice blue eyes flicker open with expectancy, only for a sudden chill to settle in his chest. He notices the sheets on the other side of the bed have been pulled back, a telltale sign of a body that had once been occupying that space beside him, is now empty.
You….left?
It was a lot last night, a flurry of tangled limbs and desperate, wanting touches, your body bared to him and his soul bared to yours. The way you were spread out for him again and again, your lips on his ear and crying his name. His own need for you manifesting in the most passionate of ways that left you both a tired and blissed out pile on his black sheets.
Wriothesley sits up in bed, the heels of his palms coming to rub the sleep from his eyes and he sighs, a low disappointed chuckle coming from his throat as he shakes his head. He should’ve known. He…why did he think that falling in love was a good idea? He clearly wasn’t the type of man who would be able to hold down an actual relationship, to be able to relish on your laughter or the way you play with his hair, to be able to say that something, that someone was his. You. His head hangs down as he turns his body to get out of bed, a shower and a few hours of practice at the pankration ring calling to him to get his mind off of this. He could never be angry at you, never, he was angry that he thought for a moment he was going to be happy.
He’s in the midst of feeling annoyingly sorry for himself when he hears the soft sound of someone clearing their throat. He turns on his heel, sheets falling from being tangled around his waist and leaving him bare as he spots you standing there in nothing but your underwear and his coat thrown over your shoulders, effectively swallowing your form. You’re holding a small tray of what looks like is a tea pot, two tea cups, and a small array of croissants and cheese. You look at him a bit startled, like you were caught doing something you shouldn’t have and Wriothesley stares at you as you shyly pad up to him to set the tray on the nightstand.
“Hey.” you breathe with a small smile, blinking up at him.
“Hi.” he says softly, it comes out much more….hopeful than he intended, like his words could reach out and pull you to him.
“I made breakfast for us with a few things I found around your quarters, I remembered you like two cubes of sugar -“ but before you can finish, a pair of burly arms are pulling you into a sturdy chest as Wriothesleys lip crash into yours. You gasp into his mouth when his coat falls from your shoulders and onto the floor, giving him an in to push his hands down under your ass to lift you into his arms. You moan at another kiss so sharp it pulls at your bottom lip, and in the next moment you’re squealing as he effortlessly tosses you onto the bed. Your head snaps to the tray of food on the nightstand a couple feet away and then back to the man who crawls over your body to smear kisses to your lips while his naked form meshes itself to you. You giggle when he descends to your neck and nips there, then breathing out a sigh as he rests his head against your shoulder. You tilt your head and run your nails through his scalp as he shudders over you.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were a little…upset by me not being in bed with you when you woke up? Am I your new favorite pillow?” you giggle with a kiss to his temple.
“If I said yes, would you stay?” Wriothesley looks up at you, and his eyes flash with something tender, something full of yearning, he cracks a small smile and you nod.
“I can stay as long as you want.” you murmur, letting him kiss you deeply again. He’ll hold off a little longer on telling you he wants you to stay forever, perhaps after breakfast.
when Ajax begins to stir from his sleep, he immediately throws his arm out to the side, intent on finding someone beside him beneath the blankets to pull closer during a chilly morning. But he’s met with…nothing. The endless of ocean of his gaze is hazy when they open to see his bed is not occupied by the other person who just was there mere hours ago.
You were gone.
His mind wanders to the way you were on top of him, the way you moved your hips as your head tipped back in ecstasy, it was one of many positions you were in with him. His stamina and your sheer need for him continued to urge you both to remain wrapped up in each other all night, until it seemed like the morning sun was going to greet you from how many times you let him bury himself in you.
He laughs bitterly when he stands up to gather his pants off the floor, pulling them up with a few fleeting thoughts of you. He really should move on from this as quickly as possible. But, once he pauses his movements his heart drops to his stomach. He fell for you, with an honest and open heart and a gentle hand that for once wasnt stained, it was soft on your face when you smiled and laughed and rolled your eyes as you said his name. You felt like a puzzle piece he didn’t realize he had been missing. He figures it’s for the best what with his line of work, you deserve better. Still, he had hoped somewhere within him that this could be the start of a new adventure.
He starts to make his way to the bathroom to hopefully get cleaned up and to head to his next assignment, what’s the point of staying another moment longer anyway - when his ears perk up suddenly at the sound of the shower being turned off. And within the next agonizing minute, the door opens and Ajax looks down at you all wet haired and wrapped in a fuzzy white towel, while steam from the bathroom rolls out around your bodies. You smile shyly at him as greeting.
“You’re…”
“All squeaky clean.” you finish with a light laugh, a few water droplets roll down your clavicle as you shift from one foot to the other. Ajax swallows at the sight. At the sudden relief that washes over him like a flood.
“Sorry if I woke you, just felt a little, um, sticky.” you laugh again bashfully as you try to walk your way around the tall redhead in front of you but an arm shoots out to grasp the doorframe and effectively pins you in your place.
“You’re still here.” Ajax grins, moving closer to you until your back is pressed against the doorframe under his hand and he hovers over you. You barely have time to respond before he’s leaning in for a kiss, and then another, and another that leaves your hands scrabbling to his bare chest as he presses closer. You laugh into his mouth when his kisses turn playful, dotting themselves across your face and down your dewy neck that’s still warm from your shower.
“Of course I’m still here. I wouldn’t dream of leaving.” you huff when his hands pull the towel from your body and he looks at you like perhaps you’re his goddess now. Ajax kisses you again as his heart warms at your soft moans and your fervent touches…and he determines that with you, he can maybe become whole again.
vaporwave
stormborns
romaincrisis
turnnoffyourmind
