A Favour for a Friend ✿
Featuring - Wriothesley
✿ You never considered being a late bloomer something to be ashamed of. Waiting for the right person always seemed like the logical thing to do, but when you come across a problem you're convinced can only be solved by losing your virginity, there's only one man in your life you're comfortable asking for the favour.
✿ Warnings: nsfw, f!reader, piv, pwp, protected sex, virgin!reader, loss of virginity, awkward!reader (though who wouldn't be when you're asking one of your best friends to take your virginity), oral f!receiving, "casual" sex (cuz is it ever casual), fluff, biting/marking, dry humping, pet names used: 'good girl', 'sweetheart', praise kink, let me know if any are missing!
Word count: 11.1K
It had come up in passing.
You and Wriothesley had first met during an event organized by a mutual friend, and after hitting it off, you would often find yourself joining The Duke for tea in Meropide. It became a tradition, the two of you never going more than a week without seeing one another. You talked about a lot of things, your respective pasts, future plans, you discovered a newfound comfort in Wriothesley the same way he discovered a newfound trust in you. Slowly, the nameless yet undeniably faultless bond you two shared blossomed into one of the most special friendships you’ve ever known.
One afternoon, while Wriothesley was rambling on about a particularly disastrous date he’d been on a few years prior, it slipped past your lips that you’d never made it past second base.
He looked shocked by that declaration, hitting you with a “really? You?” before brushing it off entirely, starting to tell you about a case he’d been working non-stop for a couple weeks, but you could barely listen to him after that.
Really? You?
What could that have possibly meant?
It stayed heavy on your mind. It wasn’t as if you didn’t have the natural urges for intimacy, you were a grown woman after all, but the right opportunity never seemed to preset itself, and that wasn’t a fact you often dwelled on. You didn’t want to give yourself up to a one-night stand, risk a bad first experience, but you also rarely had time to go on dates and uncover a real connection.
So you avoided it all together.
However, it’d be a lie to say you haven’t been under extra stress lately. Not for any particular reason, you’ve just seemed more prone to feeling overwhelmed. You’ve tried mediation, yoga, breathing exercises, more midday walks. Nothing has seemed to work.
One of your friends recommended sex.
And surprisingly, you haven’t been able to stop considering it. The more people you talk to about it, the more people who vouch for the fact that it’s the perfect thing to help you relieve how tense you’ve been.
But you can’t just spontaneously go out and bring someone to bed, at least not yet. You need a way to break the ice, have a nice first experience full of trust and comfort to erase your hesitance. After that, you can be impetuous. Stop fearing something not working out, because it won’t be your first encounter, and it won’t be your last.
So, you need to find someone to lose your virginity to. Someone you trust, who you know respects you and wouldn’t take advantage of your vulnerability for their own gain.
There’s one person in your life who fits that description, and you’re on your way down to see him right now.
-
Wriothesley smiles at you when you reach his office at the top of the staircase, but it falls a fraction when you don’t return it. You’re nervous, is all. It isn’t everyday that you ask someone, whose relationship with you has been entirely platonic up to this point, if they’d be willing to have sex with you purely so you can gain the confidence to go out and do so with other people.
God. He might never want to talk to you again.
“Hi,” you greet, forcing the word out through the smallest opening in your windpipe. Your throat feels all clogged up, your anxiety visible everywhere from the spike in your heart rate to the way your fingers are nervously fidgeting with your shirt.
Wriothesley frowns when you take a seat across from him, a cup of tea already prepared in front of you. He’s clearly picked up on your state. “Are you feeling alright?”
You manage a nod, cupping your hands around the warm ceramic cup. “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just…” You knit your eyebrows together, your mouth hanging open as you reluctantly meet his eyes. His brows are resting low above his blue hues, a crease between them enunciating his concern. “I wanted to talk about something.”
Wriothesley grins at that. “You can talk about whatever you want. Is something troubling you?”
“I—Well, sort of.” You settle on. “Do you remember what I brought up a few weeks ago?”
Wriothesley chuckles, taking a sip from his own tea, the cup already half empty. You showed up a little bit later than usual, but only because you turned around about five times on the way here before ultimately deciding you had to at least try. “I’m going to need you to be a little more specific.”
Right. You’ve talked about a lot of things. Still, you were hoping he’d get the message just so you wouldn’t have to say it.
“We were talking about dating,” you confirm, and Wriothesley offers you a brief nod. “Um, I mentioned a… Lack of experience.”
Wriothesley looks you up and down, his face twisting like he’s surprised to see you bring this up again. You suppose he did dismiss the subject quite swiftly last time. “I see. Yes, I remember.”
“Okay. Perfect.” You drop your hands to your thighs, nervously flattening your palms over the fabric of your skirt. “It’s about that.”
He nods slowly, his confusion radiating off of him in a way that somehow makes you feel warmer. For a man that’s meant to personify ice, you consider him anything but cold. “Alright.”
You clear your throat, and suddenly your train of thought is lost to the currents on the other side of these metal walls. You bite down on your lip, looking anywhere but his eyes.
Will you have sex with me?
Too blunt. Way too blunt.
“Um,” you nearly choke. “When we spoke, and I told you that I, um, have never really gone further than kissing with anyone.”
Wriothesley nods along again, like the trajectory of this conversation even has him too freaked out to verbally guide you along your rambling. You’ve been vulnerable with him before, with embarrassing childhood stories or your deepest insecurities. You probably looked similar to how you do now, shying away from his gaze while also over analyzing every muscle in his face, the most microscopic movements, wanting to know what each word makes him think of you.
Then, he would help you along, shooting out encouraging sentences about how your secrets were safe with him and how he thought too highly of the woman you were now to be too judgmental of any mistakes made in the past. It was a grace you offered him, too, when he told you about how he wound up in the fortress in the first place.
However, you always thought what he did back then, despite how the court viewed it, was a perfect reflection of the man he grew into. Selfless. Assertive. Caring. A person willing to put their bodies and their images on the line in favour of another who might need their help, especially those more vulnerable than them.
You falling face-first into a mud puddle in front of all your peers at the ripe age of seven was surely not a reflection of who you are now. At least, you hope he didn’t think so.
“You said something to me,” you continue finally. “You said, ‘really? You?’”
Wriothesley cocks an eyebrow, one hand wrapped around his teacup and his opposite forearm resting against his desk. He leans forward, as invested in what you have to say as ever. “Um, I did say that, yes.”
“What did you mean by that?”
Wriothesley barks out a small laugh, his rested arm coming up to his jaw as his eyes flicker away for a second. Awkwardness from him is an odd sight. Even when he opened up to you about his life, each word was without stuttering or hesitance, and he held your eyes during even the most gruesome details. Now he can barely look at you.
“I just meant, well, look at you.” He gestures to you subtly, and your face shifts. “I was just caught off guard to find that opportunities haven’t arose for you already.”
“I…” You start, thrown off even more by how he started that sentence. Look at you. Look at what? What is anything he says ever supposed to mean? “Opportunities have come around, I had boyfriends when I was in school and stuff, it’s been more of a choice thing.”
He drops his arm to the desk again. “Hm. May I ask why?”
You shrug, pulling your chair a bit closer, some of your tenseness easing away now that you’ve managed to begin the discussion. However, you’ve yet to ask him to sleep with you in a friendly-favour way. “I didn’t want to give that part of myself to someone who would make me regret it, or look back at it with resentment. I want to have a good first experience, and I’ve never met anyone that made me confident it would be good with them.”
You meet his eyes, finally, looking you over in thought. “That’s respectable.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“It’s just admirable that you’ve maintained that respect for yourself, and didn’t lose it to teenage impulsiveness or the similar urges that come with adulthood. I respect that, is all. The restraint, I suppose.”
The compliment, if that’s what you would call it, drills it’s way into your bloodstream, a new, unfamiliar warmth flowing through your veins.
“And did you?” You ask quietly.
He chuckles, dropping his head. “Well, I’ve been a free man for quite some time. I’m not in the same boat as you, but there’s nothing significant enough in my list of experiences to dwell on.”
Comforting. You think. Maybe?
He looks up at you again, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to ease out the tension of such a delicate subject. “Is that all you wanted to discuss?”
“Uh, no.” You confirm quickly. You can quite literally see the way his body stiffens once more. “I’ve, uh, been thinking lately.”
“Okay. And?”
“I’ve been stressed out.” You say quickly. “You know how busy I’ve been, I mean, you’ve been busy, too, with paperwork and a rise in inmate incidents and—”
He utters your name to cut you off, your eyes snapping to his.
“May I ask, does this subject still pertain to your virginity?”
You nod weakly. You don’t believe you ever worded it so bluntly yourself, but alright.
Wriothesley looks confused, sipping his tea. “…Alright. Go on.”
You huff. “Again, I’ve been really stressed, and I haven’t been able to figure out how to feel better. I’ve gone on more walks, I got into yoga, I’ve been sleeping more, eating healthier, I even paid a visit to Sigewinne while visiting a few weeks ago, and she prescribed me medication that hasn’t done a thing.”
Wriothesley furrows his eyebrows, a deep frown enveloping his features. “I’m sorry. You never mentioned this to me. I have herbal teas that help me when—”
“Thank you, Wrio, but that’s not…” You grip the edge of the desk, sighing. “I’ve tried everything. The teas, the exercises, name it, I gave it a shot. To no avail. I started talking to a lot of my friends about it, and the only thing any of them have recommended me that I haven’t already tried is, well,” you pause for a moment. “Sex.”
He freezes, eyebrows firmly planted high on his forehead, the pale skin crinkled in surprise.
“Oh.”
You nod slowly. “Yeah. Which is a little bit of a roadblock for me, as I’ve explained.”
Wriothesley carefully places his teacup down, the ceramic hitting the plate with a soft clink that manages to rattle you. “I see.”
“I can’t just…” You breathe deeply, your voice shaking with the vulnerability of all this. “Go out and find someone to help me alleviate my stress. Like I said, I at least want my first time to matter, to be memorable and comfortable. Then, after that, I can be reckless without it tainting a milestone that’s important to me.”
You pray that your words make sense to him. That he doesn’t think you’re being silly or unreasonable.
He watches you closely, taking in your words. “Have you tried…” He makes a face, halfway between a cringe and an embarrassed scowl. “Doing it yourself?”
Your heart skips a beat. “Uh—Um, yeah, I tried. It’s not really the same.”
It’s true. If anything, trying to handle it yourself just stressed you out more, because it suffocated you with the feeling of it not being enough. You need more.
Him. To be specific. You need him.
You haven’t quite found a solid opening into confessing that yet.
Wriothesley wets his bottom lip. “Okay.” He enunciates the word. “I—What—What’s your plan, then?”
You’re my plan.
“I want that option,” you mumble. All your blood, equipped with the extra warmth he orchestrated, floods your face. “To be able to go out and let off some steam when I get like this. But like I said, I need to have a good first experience first.” You study his plain expression, whatever is going on inside his head barely displaying on his masculine features. “Does that make sense?”
You can feel yourself stalling, word-vomiting all over his wooden desk. You feel a different kind of exposed than you have with him in the past. Not less comfortable, but more expectant. More scary, maybe. Like it holds more weight.
Wriothesley huffs, sluggishly leaning back in his seat, his limbs stiff and constantly readjusting like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “Um, I mean, alright. Yeah, that makes sense. I know some men that I trust would be good to you, and I’m sure they’d be—”
No. God no.
“No—Wriothesley, I don’t want a stranger.”
“I know.” He nods. “It wouldn’t be a stranger. Do you remember Nick? He was at that event Furina invited us to last month, you guys seemed to get along—”
“I don’t know Nick, Wriothesley. I don’t trust him. Especially not with this.”
Wriothesley stares you down, the gears turning in his head. You can tell by the narrowness of his eyes and the slight redness in his cheeks that he has an idea of what you might be implying, but doesn’t want to say it out loud.
“So.” Wriothesley clears his throat, sitting up a little, clearly restless. “Do you have a plan?”
“Somewhat.” You murmur.
“And?” He cocks an eyebrow.
You take a deep breath. The worst he can say is no. At least you’ll know you tried. Maybe then you can just go out, find someone random and hope for the best. But you’ll be glad you tried with him.
“I just really want it to be with someone I trust. That’s my biggest condition.” You reiterate, pulling your chair in again, even closer to him when he leans forward in sync with your movement. “I don’t have a lot of men in my life I trust…”
You stare at the liquid in your tea cup.
“Except for you.”
Wriothesley’s breath hitches, the noise only loud enough that you just barely catch it. You keep your eyes down, unable to draw your gaze to his, but you picture his reaction vividly in your head. Eyes blown wide, lips parted, hands gripping the armrests of his chair. Whether he does those things out of shock, disgust, or something else entirely, is the fear that makes you refuse to face him.
He says your name, but still, you keep your head down.
“What are you saying?” His voice is controlled, but deeper than before.
“I just…” Just say it. Stop stalling. “Okay.” You sigh. “I understand if this isn’t something you’re comfortable with, if you say no I won’t take it to heart and we can just… Forget this ever happened.”
You finally meet his eyes. Whatever expression he wore before must’ve fizzled out, because his face has shifted to something more neutral, listening intently while watching you closely.
“I’m asking if you’ll do it. If you’ll sleep with me. Just once! It doesn’t have to mean anything—It won’t mean anything. I just don’t trust anyone else.”
Wriothesley doesn’t speak right away. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second before settling again, indicative of the fact he had already caught on and was simply waiting for his suspicions to be confirmed.
He opens and closes his mouth, then pushes his eyebrows together and looks away.
“I really do understand if you don’t want to.” You say to the side of his face, hands lifted in front of you in a surrender gesture. “You don’t have to sugarcoat a rejection. It’s okay, I can handle it. I just figured I’d ask.”
He draws his gaze to yours, eyebrows still pressed low, and he breathes deeply through his nose.
“If I said no, what would be your next move?” He asks, a bit strained.
“Uhm, I’d probably just resort to, I don’t know, A Nick type or something. Just hope for the best. But—” You shake your hands. “Don’t worry about that. Seriously. It’s not your responsibility, I’ll be fine. I only want you to say yes if you want to.”
He says your name, resting both forearms against the desk in front of him. “Are you… Sure about this?”
You manage a nod, dropping your hands back to your lap and intertwining your fingers. “Yes. I’ve had a lot of time to think it over. I trust you, and I mean, I’ve always wanted an excuse to break that ice for myself. I’ve just never met anyone to do it with.”
He nods slowly.
“It really doesn’t have to mean anything,” you repeat in a whisper. “Just think of it as a favour for a friend.”
He laughs at that lightheartedly, lifting one hand off the desk to run it over his hair. “You know, I’ve had many favours asked of me in my time, but never something like this.”
His calm demeanour soothes you, his normal self shining through the awkwardness. Even if he ultimately decides to turn you down, at least he doesn’t seem to find the proposition off putting.
“You don’t have to decide right now,” you tell him. “I can give you time to think.” You blink, a million thoughts rushing through your brain. “…I could write up a contract.
“A contra—What? No—No, you don’t need to—Archons. I don’t…” He sighs, looking at you. “If I can do something to help you, I always want to do it. No matter what it is. I just never expected anything… Like this.”
You smile softly. “I never thought I’d be asking it, either.”
He nods along, biting down on his lip.
“So, to confirm…” He straightens. “Just once. You lose your virginity to me, and then you…” He urges you to finish the sentence for him.
“Won’t have to be so anxious about sex in the future,” you verify. “I can be like my friends, go out and have one night stands without worrying too much about bad or inadequate experiences, because it’ll just become a small tick on my… Sexual timeline with no significance.”
You cringe at yourself.
“Sexual timeline, huh?”
“Shut up.” You grumble, squeezing your own hand in your lap.
He grins, crossing his arms over his wide chest, the backrest of his chair holding his weight as he loosens up a bit. “Okay.”
You raise your eyebrows. “Okay?”
“Okay. I’ll do it.” He nods. “I’d much rather it be me than a stranger or someone you don’t fully trust. If this whole good-first-experience-to-break-the-ice,” a mouthful, really, “is important to you, then it’s important to me, too.”
You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Alright.” You nod quickly. “Thank you. Uhm…”
“Maybe I should come to your place?” He offers gently. “Above the surface? Sometime this weekend?”
You nod again, your words jumbling together in your throat. This weekend. “My place, yeah, okay. Uh, Saturday night?”
He smiles. “Good for me. I’ll be there.”
Holy shit. Holy shit. He said yes. You didn’t really think he’d say yes.
“Okay. I’ll, uh…” You stand on legs that feel like jelly, leaving your tea behind. “Go now. I’ll see you then.”
Wriothesley doesn’t encourage you to stay longer like he usually would, but you don’t take it as something negative. He understands if you stay another second, you might melt to a puddle of humiliation on the floor.
He bids you farewell, repeating the circumstances of your plans one more time before sending you off, and part of you feels like he did so just to tease you. The second the elevator out of the fortress hits the surface, the Fontaine air hitting your skin everywhere it’s exposed, it really dawns on you.
You’re going to have sex with Wriothesley.
Holy. Shit.
-
What the fuck did people do before a hook up?
You did the routine stuff, things you were able to easily come to the conclusion needed to be done. You cleaned your apartment. You took a long shower, almost three hours in length with everything you felt should be covered in there. You nearly passed out four times, but managed.
And then you started freaking out. What will he think if you put in too much effort to be presentable? Will he believe you’re trying to court him? That your tangent about this being meaningless was nothing but a cover-up? That this is all a ploy to get in his pants?
And then, there’s the fear if you don’t put in a lot of effort. Might he believe that you don’t respect him, don’t find him worthy of the most put-together version of yourself? That you don’t care to make this enjoyable for him, too?
Ultimately, you decided you’d rather feel good about yourself, but the fears that he’ll believe this means more to you than it does lingers.
You put on your nicest dress, a length that goes to your mid-thighs and a colour awfully close to that of the tie Wriothesley often wears. You doused yourself in a perfume he complimented once. You decided against candles and rose petals, but you did brew a tea you have on hand that you know he enjoys.
You quickly opted out of alcohol. Being inebriated would take away from the whole point of this experience.
You spend enough time on your hair to look nice, but not so much so that you’ll be upset if it gets ruined. Jewellery that’s easy on the eye, but also comfortable and easily discardable if you decide to do such.
By far, the hardest thing to pick was what to put under the dress.
You were worried if you opted for your nicest lace set, that you bought on a whim and never let another person see, he’d, again, think you were genuinely trying to seduce him. But, he’s a man, and he has needs, too. It felt only fair to do whatever you could to help this be something he found enjoyment in.
But, what difference would it make if he’s not even attracted to you?
…
You chose the lace set. It’s red and black and leaves almost nothing to imagination. Just looking at yourself in the mirror made you feel a level of scandalous you never really have before.
Now, the time you two agreed on is rapidly approaching. You’re reapplying your lip gloss for the nth time, having wiped it off countless times already by nervously nibbling on your lip. You’re reconsidering every choice you made tonight. You’re thinking he might not even show up. You—
Three knocks at the front door nearly make you yelp, dropping your gloss onto your vanity with a muted bang.
You hastily collect it, dropping it in the drawer and slamming it shut.
You start to rush to the front door, but slow down a bit as you fear seeming too eager. When you reach the door, you take a deep breath before turning the lock and pulling it open.
Wriothesley stands there, and his eyes widen for a moment when he takes in your appearance. His outfit is nicer than usual, but nothing you haven’t seen him wear before. He holds flowers. Your favourite.
He brought you flowers?
“Hi,” you greet, your voice quiet and shaky.
Wriothesley offers you a kind smile. “Hello. You look nice.”
You take the flowers when he holds them out to you, mumbling a quick thank you before inviting him in and rushing to the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase filled with water from your sink. He follows close behind, taking in your organized apartment, his gaze continuously flickering back to you and your outfit.
“You didn’t have to doll yourself up so nicely for me,” he tells you, and you turn to face him. “Don’t get me wrong, you look amazing, but I didn’t agree to this on the condition that—”
“I know,” you interrupt, flattening your palms over the front of your dress, Wriothesley’s eyes trailing your movement, his throat bobbing with a thick swallow. “I just—I’m new at this, y’know? It felt right to… Look nice.”
“You always look nice,” he insists, which flusters you. “But, if your objective was to amplify that, you’ve been considerably successful.”
You smile nervously, his tender words making your head feel fuzzy. You appreciate the environment he’s trying to create more than you can put into words, especially not right now. You’re not sure you can manage more than two sentences. “Uh—Thank you, Wriothesley. You look lovely, too.”
“Aw, shucks,” he grins, walking over to the counter and leaning his hip against it, his body barely a foot from yours.
“I made tea,” you spit out. “Would you like some?”
He hesitates before nodding. “If you’d like to have tea first, of course we can.”
You nod back. The two of you take a seat across from each other with your respective teacups, blending into nonsensical conversation almost immediately that nearly makes you forget the circumstances of tonight. Your anxious tics fade out of frequency, and your tense muscles relax. You’re reminded how easy it is to be calm with him, and the more he studies each comfortable movement you make, the more you think that was exactly his goal.
Wriothesley drinks the rest of his tea, your eyes watching the way his throat moves as he swallows it down.
It’s impending now, and while realizing such does still make a hint of that nervousness return, it returns with something else. Something unfamiliar. Something eager.
Wriothesley meets your eyes, and you offer him a soft smile in which he returns. He leans his forearms forward against your kitchen table.
He says your name gently. “I want to give you a chance to back out of this. Of course, at any time, you change your mind, and we stop. But I just want to remind you that there’s no pressure on you.”
“I know,” you assure him, folding your hands together in your lap. “I haven’t changed my mind.” You pause, watching him closely. “Have you?”
He shakes his head before you even get both words out. “Of course not. I would just hate for you to think I’m expecting anything from you besides your trust.”
“You have my trust,” you tell him.
He nods. “Then we’re okay.”
“We’re okay,” you repeat, your eyes gliding from his empty cup to yours, also bone-dry. You flush.
“Uh…” You look at him, and he raises an eyebrow. “Should we go to my room, maybe?”
“If that’s what you would like,” he responds easily.
You offer him a brief nod before standing on uneasy feet. His passiveness, his willingness to let you have full control, is almost something you’re averse to. He’s the one with more experience, but you don’t exactly know how to ask him to take the reins. You don’t want this night to peak with the dull request of should you put that inside me, maybe?
As you walk down the hallway, overthinking every movement of one foot in front of the other, something else floods your mind. You imagine him in control, him bringing the assertiveness you’ve witnessed in the fortress to this experience. It makes something twist low in your stomach, and if he weren’t no more than a foot behind you, you’re sure you wouldn’t be able to fight off a more physical reaction to the thought.
The way he doesn’t even have to raise his voice to demand respect in the underworld, how just the cock of an eyebrow will have even the most unruly prisoners compliant at his feet. You can see yourself being just as obedient, becoming putty in his hands at a single murmured request.
That was the whole point of this. He’s the only one you can trust with that, trust to put him in full control and do with your body what he understands both of you will enjoy.
You start to feel that twist in your stomach blend into that physical reaction, a tingling sensation flushing your skin and making your clothes feel too tight, the apartment feel too hot.
Once you’re standing in the middle of your bedroom, you turn to him. He scans the room, illuminated by only a lamp on the right-hand side. Your bed is made nicely, curtains closed, floor vacuumed, smelling faintly of the fragrance you coated yourself in shortly before his arrival.
The two of you lock eyes. The lighting in this room reminds you of that in the fortress when it gets to be dark outside. The metal stronghold is close enough to the surface that the shifting of day and night lightens or darkens the surrounding ocean, dimming the interior through the glass windows.
Those times are when you’ve most often had the pleasure of seeing Wriothesley in his element, commanding abidance with ease.
Fuck. You can feel his eyes everywhere.
“How do you want to do this?” Wriothesley asks suddenly, the quiet question followed by your name, said in a way that makes you throb. You didn’t think you could get to this point so quickly with nothing but your imagination and a little bit of eye contact. “Would you prefer to maintain control?”
The fact a man of his calibre would even offer submission to you is exactly why you knew from the get-go you could trust him.
You shake your head. “No,” you confess hoarsely. “I wouldn’t even really know what to do.”
Wriothesley nods, the ease in the action making you think he expected that answer. “So, you’d like me to be the director here?”
You pinch the fabric of your dress on either side of your thighs, half-fidgeting, half trying to contain how trapped and warm he’s making you feel. “If that’s… Alright with you.”
He grins. “Of course. I can handle it. Being in charge is my job.”
He steps closer, and all you can bring yourself to do is stare, your feet bolted to the ground beneath you.
“Can I kiss you, then?”
Holy shit. You had barely even considered this. I mean, you got the whole platonic-sex thing out of the way, but you didn’t discuss kissing. You didn’t prepare yourself for kissing.
You nod without a thought in the world, a purely reflexive response, like your instincts and the need starting to course through your veins are taking control of your body like a puppeteer.
His calloused hand finds the side of your face, his fingers sliding over your hair. You sink into his touch, dropping your eyes to his lips as he leans closer, your own parting in preparation.
The second his mouth presses against yours, the warmth surges through you at a degree so intense your hands immediately find his shoulders for support. You feel the hard bone hiding beneath the fabric of his shirt, and when you squeeze, it feels like the shape was perfectly crafted to be in your palm. You melt into the kiss, into his figure, pressing yourself to him firmly.
He’s so articulate, and God, it’s paying off in your favour. His lips move against yours with a level of precision only such a disciplined man could possess, and when his hand that isn’t on your face glides to your lower back, even more of your nervousness, if any even existed anymore, fades into sheer excitement.
You hook one arm over the back of his neck, pushing up onto the tips of your toes, kissing him with more fervour. The action greatly contradicts your plead to give him full control, however, he doesn’t fight you on it. Instead, he matches the pace you’ve set to regain dominance, guiding the movement of your feet until the two of you separate just long enough for you to collapse back on your bed.
You try to prop yourself back up on your elbows, but Wriothesley slips his hands under your body to sweep them out from under you, pinning both your wrists above your head in one swift movement. Your next exhale comes out as a whine, and he drinks up the sound by pressing his mouth back on yours.
“This okay?” He mumbles against your lips, a roughness to his voice that greatly differs from the one that appears in his exhaustion or frustration. No, what he’s feeling right now is something you’ve never had the pleasure of knowing before this moment.
You prop your knees up, squeezing around his hips, slotting him perfectly against your body with no escape. Your dress rides up your legs, bunching up around your thighs. You nod once, tangling your fingers in his hair.
“I’d appreciate if you’d use your words,” he suggests, his lips grazing along your face until he’s planting kisses across your jaw.
“Yes,” you breathe, tugging the dark strands by the root. “It’s okay.”
He groans at the pull, but doesn’t deter you, dropping his face further as he starts kissing and sucking at your neck. You tilt your head back, granting him as much access to your skin as possible.
It’s hard to ignore how much more intimate this feels than what you expected. What you expected was sex, which of course, is an extremely intimate act, but you also prepared for sex. You didn’t prepare for the taste of him, faintly resembling a mix of mint and the flavour of the tea you brewed for him, the combination working through your bloodstream like an aphrodisiac. You didn’t prepare for the feeling of his mouth on your neck, taking the first opportunity to mark you, sucking and biting the skin in a way that would surely linger for days to come, a reminder of what the two of you had done. These weren’t the kinds of deeds you thought people performed for one night together.
Were you going to complain about it?
Like hell you were.
You mumble his name in response to his teeth sinking into the skin above your collarbone, and he grunts in response, his hips shifting between your thighs. Holy shit.
His mouth travels back up to yours, less careful this time, like he’s already come to realize how welcome he is against you. He pulls your lip between his teeth and bites until you gasp, using the opportunity to slide his tongue against yours.
You moan at the feeling, your hand that isn’t knotted up in his hair clutching the fabric on his side for support. You let him take the lead without any battle for dominance, entirely consumed by his kiss, in the way he conducts it.
You’re suddenly shifted further up the bed, your head elevated as he tucks a pillow beneath it. You pant, watching with stars in your eyes as he sits up between your thighs, kneeling with your legs tossed loosely around his hips. Your mouth waters.
He shrugs off the top layer of his shirt, revealing a plain white tee beneath it. In a silly way, the simplicity of it once again makes this feel more intimate, almost too much so. You aren’t used to seeing him look so casual, so comfortable. This should be reserved for something different. Something real.
Your train of thought derails when he throws the shirt away and reaches for his belt.
The sound of it being unbuckled is like the crack of a whip, sending jolts of electricity all throughout your body. The sightis something else entirely, the way his lips are parted, chest rising and falling, as the most calm and collected man you’ve ever known fumbles with the accessory like he’s lost all sense of coordination.
You reach forward without thinking, and Wriothesley drops his arms to his sides with a groan when you tug the belt out of his pant loops for him. He’s quick to collect it from your hands, tossing it carelessly onto the floor beside your bed.
His hands slide up the outside of your thighs, your red dress scrunched up around your waist, your lace underwear barely hiding behind the rolls of fabric. You watch Wriothesley’s face as he examines you, eyebrows furrowed in a deep concentration.
“Can I lift this?” He purrs, his voice a melody that entirely disarms you. You’re gone. You’re entirely gone. You’re beneath him, you’re warm, you’re bothered, and you are gone.
You get halfway through a nod before your lips part. “Yes.”
Wriothesley doesn’t miss your consideration of his prior command. “Good girl,” he praises, pushing your dress higher.
Archons. Add that to the list of things you didn’t expect from casual sex.
He curses at the sight of your underwear, and your skin warms. Red and black lace, the colour scheme happening to match that of his regular uniform. He can’t seem to peel his eyes away, a few beats of silence passing as neither of you make a move.
“Are you okay?” You ask quietly.
He blinks, snapping out of it. “I—Yes. Of course I am.” His hands start sliding up and down your thighs again, a soothing gesture that barely serves its purpose. “I just—Fuck.”
You swallow hard, pushing yourself up a bit. Wriothesley doesn’t coax you back down again, he just watches as you hook your hands under the bundled up dress, peeling it off the top of your head. The noise Wriothesley produces borders on a whine, like the action has fully defeated him.
He helps you strip it entirely, adding it to the pile started by his black blazer and belt. He takes in the sight of your matching articles, the lace bra and underwear, gently guiding you back onto your forearms so he can get a full view of you.
You can’t imagine how erotic the vision is. You’re before him, legs wrapped around his hips, thighs separated, entirely at his disposal wearing nothing but two small, revealing pieces of clothing that also happen to mimic colours he associates with himself. You worry it’s too personal, but he doesn’t wear the face of a man urging to complain.
“You are…” He shakes his head, breathless. “Sneaky.”
You furrow your eyebrows. “I’m what?”
“I’m just starting to think this whole proposition was a ruse to kill me,” he confirms, his gaze not leaving you once. “You should know it’s working.”
You manage a smile. “Didn’t take you as a man to surrender so easily, Your Grace.”
He chuckles lowly. “I usually wouldn’t.” His hand is on your stomach now, enveloping the space between your bra and underwear. “I’m a lot of things,” he utters your name, “but I’m not foolish enough to fail to pick my battles.”
You bring both your hands to his, one wrapping around his wrist while the other finds a few of his fingers, holding him flush to you. “And what battle are you picking?”
“The one where I die right here,” he says without missing a beat. “At your hands. I’d go a lucky man.”
Was that a casual thing to say?
Regardless of the way the words go over in your head, your body reacts to them by greedily popping up and forcing him to lean back over you. Your mouths slot back together, and the way you’re depriving him of oxygen makes it believable that you truly are trying to kill him.
You slide a palm up the front of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his scarred skin. He doesn’t shy away from you. He’s never hidden from you, in fact, you’ve already seen the permanent markings of his past that are forever engraved in his skin, and it’s because he chose to show you.
Something crosses your mind, the way this encounter isn’t just about your belief in him. He’s putting himself on the line here, too, offering you vulnerability, offering you his trust.
Wriothesley takes your wandering hand as in invitation to tug the fabric over his head, discarding of it. Both your hands are exploring now, planted just above the hem of his pants and gliding upwards until they’re clutching his bare shoulders.
You push, guiding him to lean off you just enough for you to take in the sight of him. The ragged lines cutting through his skin, a canvas of pain he endured before you even knew his name.
His next breath is uneven.
You meet his eyes, his gaze locked on yours, like he’s studying your reaction to the sight of him in this context.
“I think you’re beautiful,” you tell him, voice quiet, like you’re trying to enunciate how those words are only for him, despite how alone you already are. They aren’t even for the echos between the walls, the four words are for nothing but his own ears.
His jaw tightens, his eyes trailing down your body before flashing back to your awaiting stare. “I think you’re…” He swallows. “Perfect.”
Your breath hitches, reaching for his shoulders instinctively. His words, his touch, it all feels too real. Too honest, too against the words you two shared in his office mere days ago.
You should push him away, tell him how your heartfelt promise of this being meaningless is already starting to fade from reality. You don’t even know how to define the difference between meaningless and meaningful sex, you have no comparisons to make, but you wouldn’t pin a single thing he’s said or done to the former.
You should really tell him.
But you think he might already know.
He says your name, and you look to him with expectant eyes.
His hands travel downward, hooking under the lace that’s currently the only thing separating him from the flood of arousal he’s already created.
“Can this come off?”
You whine, your heart rate picking up before you nod.
“Words,” he reminds you, his thumb suddenly finding and pressing against your clit through the fabric. You moan, your neck arching, head pressing against the pillow he placed. You can’t spit out a word right away, clutching the sheets as he draws firm, slow circles, pleasurable but insufficient. “Come on, baby. You can do it.”
Gods. Who’s trying to kill who, again?
You buck against his hand, nodding again. “Yes—Yes.”
He doesn’t waste a moment following your verbal approval, situating himself off the bed, your legs untangling from around his waist. He gently tugs you back down to the edge of the mattress, and then he’s delicately pulling the fabric down and off.
You gasp at the feeling of the cold air hitting you. Wriothesley curses, seeing the way you’re dripping helplessly for him despite the fact he’s barely touched you. He forces your thighs open wide, and your eyes screw shut at the feeling of his gaze studying you, spread open for him like this.
“Fuck…” He says lowly. “Can I touch you?”
You shift, gripping the sheets tighter, your eyes opening. Your voice comes out strained and whiny. “Of course you can, Wriothesley.”
“Archons,” he chokes out, and then he’s lowering to his knees before you. Your legs rest on either side of his figure, held open by his shoulders between your thighs. One of his hands inch up the bed, finding yours.
His hand envelopes yours, encouraging you to release your death grip on the sheets. “It’s okay,” he assures you, first are foremost. “Relax for me, baby. I’ve got you.”
You nod, his tender words and action working in his favour. You manage to loosen up your tense muscles, taking long, deep breaths per his command. “I trust you,” you whisper, allowing him to intertwine his fingers with yours.
He grunts, his other arm wrapping around your thigh, forcing it up onto his shoulder. “Good.”
His palm flattens against your lower stomach, his thumb poking out and finding your clit again. You gasp out, back arching at the feeling of his skin against you. He applies the perfect amount of pressure, rubbing slow circles experimentally, like he’s doing his best to understand your body.
“Wriothesley,” you moan.
“Oh, fuck.” He drops his head to your inner thigh, nipping at the skin there. You gasp again. “You’re killing me, saying my name like that.”
You exhale shakily. “Noted,” you manage, forcing words out despite the way the pleasure shooting you makes your wind pipe feel small. “That’s my goal, according to you, right?”
He chuckles, moving his head to lick a stripe up your cunt, collecting your wetness until he’s moving his thumb away to lap at your clit. You cry out at the sensation, squeezing his hand and darting your free one to grip his hair.
He pulls back, and when you crane your neck to look at him, you see yourself coating his lips, and he looks fucking drunkon you, a competitive glimmer in his gaze. He meets your eyes and grins. “We’ll see if I don’t take you out first.”
Your comeback dies in your throat when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking firmly. You whimper his name, spurring him on as he hungrily works at you, and fuck if this feels like the amount of effort anyone would put in as a favour for a friend. It feels so real it would scare you if you had time to worry.
“Gods,” he murmurs. “You have no idea how good you taste.”
“Wriothesley,” you whine. “Don’t… Say that.”
He laughs lowly. “Why? Am I winning?”
Your chin tilts back, eyes fluttering shut. “For now.”
He hums, pressing the vibration right against you. “We’ll see about that.”
His thumb pokes back out, drawing those same firm circles on your clit as his tongue starts to tease your fluttering hole. Your grip on his hand tightens, and you buck against his face, making him chuckle.
“Eager,” he notes, though the way the word emerges from his throat makes it seem like he’s more amused than mocking.
All you can manage is a nod.
His tongue dips inside you, just barely, but it makes you moan out anyway. He repeats the action, dipping in and out of you over and over again, before his hand retreats from your clit and his mouth is back.
“Shit, Wriothesley,” you choke out.
“I know,” he mumbles reassuringly against you, before suddenly doubling his efforts. His tongue strokes your clit, deliberate and hungry. You squirm and moan, sputtering out incoherent pleads as he periodically responds with choked praises. He sucks hard, a flick of his tongue making you writhe. His hand, which he had resting on your stomach, moves until he’s probing your opening with his fingertip.
Your breath hitches, opening your eyes to catch the moment he peers up at you, silently asking for permission.
He lets you off the hook with a nod this time, sluggishly licking your clit as he presses his middle finger inside your cunt. You pull your lip between your teeth at the feeling, good but unfamiliar, foreign but undeniably him. This wasn’t ever the part that worried you, your lack of partners didn’t take away from your natural inclinations to explore your own body, it was always about who would take permanent residence in your list of lived experiences as being your first time.
With each passing second, you are infinitely happier with your choice.
His finger drags against your walls, his ministrations on your clit never faltering. He rolls his tongue over you again and again, suctioning in a way that has you nearly pulling his dark hair out at the root. He simply grunts, and you’re sure a bullet wound wouldn’t be able to hinder him at this point as he finds the perfect point to curve his finger, and suddenly a coil is winding tight deep in your stomach. You gasp his name.
He recognizes your warning, humming as he continues to devour you with reverence. His finger caresses that spot inside of you just right, and it isn’t long until you’re shaking, holding your breath as you barrel so close to the edge.
“Let go,” he murmurs against you, and it sounds the most like a demand out of anything he’s said all night. “Go on, baby.”
His words, the authority behind them, are the last push until you completely shatter for him. You cry out, your body thrashing as he pulls his hand from yours to hold you down at the hip. He works you through every wave, studying the way you moan and twitch for him, and only when you make a whine-like noise of defiance at the overstimulation does he pull back.
He’s panting, both his hands on the tops of your thighs now as he studies the way you slowly float back down to this plane of reality. You’re near limp against the bed, and only when you peer down at him does he ascend back up your body, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.
“Are you okay?” He asks gently, stroking the side of your face.
You lean into his touch. “Mhm…”
“Don’t believe that counts as a word,” he notes, a hint of humour in his tone. Your eyes flutter open, meeting the frost hues staring down at you. There’s a look in his eyes you can’t place, but it makes you feel like your heart is swelling to three times the size, and you imagine you’re mimicking the expression as you look up at him.
It feels almost natural, holding his gaze in this way. Somehow, it feels even more natural than your friendly lunches spent in each other’s company, or your casual conversations about the weather or your careers that precede deeper ones about things you’ve only ever shared with one another.
It’s a look you’ve only ever offered him, fuelled by a feeling only he’s ever drawn out of you.
What is this?
Your mouth twitches up in a small smile. “I’m okay.” Your hand threads through his hair. “Should I do something for you?”
His eyebrows knit together. “Hm?”
You swallow hard. “To help you…”
Realization flashes in his eyes, and he laughs lowly before reaching for your free hand, guiding it until he’s pressing your palm to the front of his pants. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
Your breath hitches, heart racing as you feel the bulge insistently pressing against the thin fabric. He keeps his hands over yours, and when you start to massage the tent in his pants, he pulls you away.
You whine his name.
He shushes you by pressing his mouth to yours, and the taste of yourself on his lips is so erotic it makes you buck your hips against his. He grunts, hooking one of your legs over his waist before he grinds himself against your bare pussy. He keeps kissing you, maddeningly slow, rocking his hips with precision.
“Oh Gods,” you whimper against him, slinging an arm over his neck, the other grasping his side.
He says your name, pulling back from you and meeting your eyes. “We can stop here,” he offers, pressing a peck to the corner of your mouth.
You shake your head. “No—I want to keep going.” You blink at him. “Do you want to stop?”
“No—Archons, not at all.” He sounds almost offended. “But more than anything, I want to give you whatever the hell you want.”
You press your hips up, clenching around nothing at the sensation of his hardness rubbing against you. “I want you.”
He curses, dropping his forehead to yours. “Gods—I want you, too.”
One of his hands travel upwards, cupping your breast through the lace. You tilt your head back, listening to his heavy breathing. He sounds like he’s barely keeping himself together, like every bone in his body is screaming with how desperately he wants to be inside of you, but he’s utilizing his restraint to focus on you and your needs above himself.
“Take it off,” you tell him.
He’s quick to take you up on that, helping you lean up so he can reach for your back and unclip the garment. He’s gentle as he pulls the straps down your shoulders, and his eyes study it one more time with appreciation before tossing it aside.
He swallows when he looks down at you, now fully naked and on total display for him. You expected to feel awkward or exposed, but you don’t. Not now. Not with him.
He leans down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth as he continues to fondle your other breast. You grip his shoulders, letting him do what he pleases. His mouth travels to the curve under your chest, sucking and biting enough to leave more marks in his wake.
He thumbs your nipple, taking the nub between his thumb and pointer finger before squeezing gently. You whimper, bucking your hips again.
“You’re doing so well,” he tells you, voice thick with arousal. “You’re such a good girl, you know that?”
“For you,” you murmur without thinking, mind fogged by your need for him.
“Yeah?” He pushes, dragging his lips over your chest, up until he can put his forehead against yours again. “For me?”
You nod rapidly, your hands reaching for his pants, gripping the hem.
“Just me?”
Fuck. Two words further prove to you that this has become nothing like what it was supposed to be. Nothing about this is serving the purpose it was meant to, because hell if you were going to use this incredible experience as motivation to go out and have other mediocre experiences with mediocre men. Your stomach twists just thinking about it, being anywhere but here, with anyone but him.
You start to push down his pants. “Yes,” you breathe. “Just you.”
He doesn’t stop you, mumbling something under his breath as he instead helps you discard of the clothing until he’s kicking it off his feet. He stands then, readjusting you on the mattress again, slipping that pillow back under your head, and he reaches for another to place beneath your lower back. You trust the way he situates you, laying there obediently, waiting for him.
He grabs his pants for a moment, reaching in the pocket for his wallet, and then in his wallet for a condom.
You watch with anticipation as he hooks his fingers in his boxers before he’s pulling them down, too, freeing his cock. Your thighs push together automatically at the sight of him. He’s big, and the head is flushed and dripping precum down his thick shaft. He doesn’t give you the pleasure of ogling for long, crawling back on the bed and pulling your legs open before kneeling between them. You whine at the sight of him ripping open the rectangular package before he’s rolling the condom onto his length.
Your heart pounds against your chest. He catches the bewildered look on your face, dropping down to plant kisses all over your skin, anywhere he can reach, until he feels you start to relax under his lips.
“You’re still sure?” He murmurs.
“Yes,” you say, your voice betraying you with the slightest shake.
“I’m going to take care of you,” he promises, getting so close that his mouth it right by your ear, and his chest is against yours. “I’ll be gentle, alright?”
You nod, both your arms wrapping around his shoulders. He takes this as an invitation to reach between your bodies, grabbing his cock at the base and sliding the tip from your entrance all the way up to your clit, collecting your arousal. You choke out a whine every time he drags back up, nudging the oversensitive bundle of nerves firmly, and eventually, he presses the head against your opening until he’s just barely pressed inside of you.
You gasp at the slight stretch, your head falling back against the pillow. “Wriothesley.”
“I know,” he says, voice rough. His lips find yours, and even as you struggle to reciprocate at the feeling of him pushing you open, it soothes you. “Such a good girl.”
Your arms tighten around him, holding him flush to you as he rocks his hips, filling you another couple inches. You blubber out his name in the midst of a string of moans and gasps, your walls aching around the intrusion. He pauses momentarily, letting you adjust.
“Look how good you’re doing,” he purrs, mouth hovering just above yours. “Taking me so well, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” You cry, moving one hand to his shoulder so you can dig crescents into his bare skin. He grunts.
“There you go,” he encourages. “Just hold onto me, sweetheart. I have you.”
Does he ever.
All the air in your lungs rushes out when he finally starts to press forward again, filling you slowly, and Wriothesley grunts at the way your walls clench around him as his cock bullies it’s way deeper into you. He studies you, every movement, every breath, only giving you more when he’s sure you can take it, and he makes these judgments without you needing to say a word.
You cry out when he fills you completely, his hips flush against yours. The overload of sensation makes you feel like you’re already falling apart for him, breathing in quick moans and squeezing around him like you’re trying to pull him impossibly deeper.
“Fuck,” he curses, bracing an elbow next to your head, making you feel beautifully caged in by his form, trapping you somewhere you’d happily stay forever. “Look at you. Taking all of me.” He kisses you once. “Good girl.”
The praise sends a pleasurable jolt through your bones, your hips shifting in a way that makes him feel deeper. You tremble, unable to form words, and he doesn’t push you. He just peers down at the way he has you filled to the brim, and then his gaze snaps back to your face, all needy and fucked-out, and he’s not even close to done with you yet.
His trails kisses all over your face, down your neck, between your breasts, and you feel like you’re being worshipped. Wriothesley was never one to be too outspoken about the presence of Gods in the world you two shared, but in this moment, you’re sure that would change if you yourself had such status. He praises every inch of you like an altar with no hesitance, no shame.
“You can move,” you manage to tell him, your words ending in a squeal when he shifts the slightest bit.
He adjusts himself above you, one arm resting beside your head again, while the other reaches for your hand, limp against the bed, and interlocks your fingers. You squeeze when he draws his hips back, until you’re only about halfway full of him, and then he thrusts forward once more.
The sounds he pulls from your throat only motivates him further, and he sets a steady, cautious pace, stuffing you to the brim over, and over again. He groans from above you, the feeling of you around him tearing him apart bit by bit. You can’t do anything but helplessly squirm and moan beneath the weight of him, soaking in the soothing kisses and bites he smothers you with as he fucks you.
“Harder,” you gasp out, back arching into his chest, his skin warm and coated in a layer of sweat. “I can take it.”
“Shit,” he murmurs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as he fulfills your request. He pulls his hips back further than before, and then he drives back into you all at once. He coughs out your name, your entire body jerking with the punishing thrust. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, his cock dragging along all the right parts of you as he sets a new pace.
He begins fucking you with abandon, his hips snapping against yours until your eyes are screwed shut so tight you’re seeing stars. Your nails rake down his back, layering old scars with new scratches, covering bad reminders with what can only be described as the best you’ve ever felt in your life. You angle your hips to let him in deeper, and he slams against a part of you that makes you scream.
“Wriothesley—Wriothesley, oh God.” You cry, clinging to him like he’s your only lifeline.
“There you go, baby,” he growls, his pace never faltering as he presses his mouth by your ear. “Keep screaming for me. Let all of Fontaine know who’s fucking you.”
Like your body physically rejects the idea of not obeying him, every snap of his hips makes you scream for him again. You blabber nonsensically, about how good he makes you feel, about how bad you need him, and the last thing on your mind is how far from casual this is.
His hand retreats from yours, landing on your hip to hold your writhing body still. He grinds all the way to the hilt, and you’re already longing for the feeling of being this close to him before it’s even over.
Just like all your friends said, you can feel all your stress, all the worries of the last week, last month, last year, whisk away under his touch. The pit that’s been living in your stomach explodes and paints the rest of your body with the warmth between you and Wriothesley, and the terrors that have been plaguing your restless mind reform to the shape of his perfect face. He’s all you can see, all you can feel, all you can afford to let haunt you.
When his thrusts pick back up, he’s moved his hand from your hip so he can rub your clit as he fills you. You shriek, a shudder washing over you.
He kisses you again, leaving you with nothing to do but hold onto him and let him drink up every sound you make. His hand leaves you hurling towards your peak, and he chases after it, deliberately fucking into all the right spots as his hands works tirelessly at your clit.
“Come for me,” he urges against your lips, the strain in his voice giving away just how close he is to tipping over the edge with you. “It’s okay, baby.”
He undoes you with his words, your orgasm crashing over you so powerfully you’re left in an absolute daze, all tense muscles and throaty cries, pulsating around his twitching cock. You can do nothing but greedily take the continuation of his bruising thrusts as he works you through the climax, and by the time you’ve come down enough to remember your own name, Wriothesley groans it as he presses all the way into you before spilling into the condom.
He huffs above you, keeping himself buried deep as you both use the sounds of each other’s breathing to ground yourselves. You’re still holding onto him, and he slowly starts to kiss your cheeks, and then your temple, your forehead, your eyelids, mumbling praise after praise like he’s never known something more magnificent.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly, and you hum. “Did so well. So proud of you.” He buries his face in the crook of your neck. “So fucking happy you asked me for this.”
“Me too,” you whisper back, chest rising and falling under the reassuring pressure of his body on yours.
He slowly pulls out of you, groaning as he leans off like it physically pains him to separate from your embrace. You lay there, feeling weightless with all of your limbs so tuckered out they’re near numb. Your eyes beg to flutter shut, but you can’t bring yourself to exit this moment yet, watching him as he slowly navigates around your room, discarding off the condom before pulling nothing but his boxers back on.
He offers you a reassuring smile, promising his return, before dipping into your bathroom. He returns with a damp cloth, and he doesn’t let you move an inch to assist him as he cleans you up.
When he’s finished, he finds a pair of underwear and a large tee shirt in your drawers and redresses you with a tenderness so potent it makes you ache. He lifts you into his arms, sitting against your headboard and placing you in his lap.
You clutch his shoulders as he kisses at your neck, soothing the raw marks he left behind. You relax against him, allowing him to tend to you.
He says your name, bringing your attention back to him. You lean back, half-lidded eyes meeting his.
He cups the side of your face, his gaze flickering all over you, studying you like he’s trying to commit you to memory.
He swallows hard. “You’re happy?” He asks gently.
You smile softly. “With your favour for a friend?”
He chuckles at your sarcastic tone, the skin on his face flushed a light pink. “Among other things.”
You cup each side of his neck, feeling so deprived of the closeness already. You don’t know if it’s because you’re still coming down from what just happened, but your want to be near him feels more real than anything.
“Plan went a little off the rails,” you admit warily.
He cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah? What part?”
“The not-meaning-anything part.”
He pulls you forward, your foreheads pressing together. His breath trembles, one of his hands sliding up and down your back through your shirt. “You’ve never meant anything but everything to me.” He nuzzles his face in your neck. “Fuck, I swear, if you were serious about seeing other guys after this…”
You giggle, hugging him. “I won’t,” you promise, your face pressed against his hair. “Like I said,” you whisper. “Just you, Wriothesley.”
✿ Author's note: second solo wrio fic wooo!!! my biggest roadblock in writing wrio is not wanting to give him too much sexual experience because it seems ooc but also wanting to make him an exceptional lover because that''s my truth. let's just say he reads a lot!!!! hope u guys enjoyed :)))
✿ divider by pixopix :)
