Could I please request anaxa x reader fic, where reader has had one too many upsets and is approaching burnout, so anaxa helps with it.
I would love if there were a lot of kisses and fluffy stuff and cuddles. And comfort too.
Cause and Effect (Anaxa x Reader)
Synopsis: After one too many setbacks, everything starts to feel heavier than it should. Anaxa notices…and chooses a quieter way to help.
A/N: Hi anon! :) Thank you for this lovely request. :) I’ve written a burnout-themed fic for Anaxa before, but that one leaned more into his logical side: grounding the reader through reasoning and perspective.
Your request felt like a really nice different angle, focusing more on physical comfort, closeness, and the quieter ways he helps when words aren’t enough. I still firmly believe Anaxa is very good at comforting…in his own way. Enjoy! :) 💙
It’s never one thing. It’s accumulation. Small disappointments stacking on top of each other until the weight of them becomes structural, until they press down on your chest in a way that makes breathing feel like something you have to consciously manage. Like your body has forgotten the automatic parts.
A missed deadline.
A correction returned with more red than black.
A conversation that leaves you feeling smaller than before it started.
None of it is catastrophic. That’s the problem. Because it means you can’t justify how heavy it feels. Can’t point to one clear thing and say there, that’s why.
By the time you’re sitting at your desk, you’re not quite working anymore. Just staring. Your hands have gone still without you noticing, and somewhere in the last hour the careful composure you’ve been maintaining has started to develop cracks.
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes.
Fine, you think. I’m fine.
You’re not, quite.
Anaxa notices anyway.
He always does.
He doesn’t interrupt at first. Just watches the way your shoulders stay slightly hunched even when you’re not leaning over anything, the way your hands rest idle in your lap like you’ve forgotten what to do with them, the absence of your usual quiet commentary about whatever you’re working on.
“You have been silent for twelve minutes,” he says eventually.
You blink, pulled back from wherever your thoughts had been circling.
“…Have I?”
“Yes.” He pauses. “That is statistically unusual.”
You huff something that wants to be a laugh. It doesn’t quite get there.
“I’m just tired.”
“That,” Anaxa says, moving closer, “is insufficient as an explanation.”
You try to wave him off. You really do.
“It’s nothing. Just a few things that didn’t work out. I’ll fix it.”
“You are not a broken mechanism,” he replies, immediately and without inflection, like it’s simply a fact being corrected.
You falter.
He steps into your space with quiet certainty, close enough that his presence becomes something you can feel.
“List them,” Anaxa says.
“What?”
“The ‘few things.’”
“…Anaxagoras—”
“List them.”
So you do.
One thing. Then another. And another.
Each one sounds smaller when spoken out loud. Petty, even.
Your voice gets quieter as you go, like you’re embarrassed by the accumulation of them, and by the end you’re already bracing for him to point out how manageable they are. How solvable. How disproportionate your response is to the actual scale of the problems.
He doesn’t. His expression shifts instead. “Cumulative strain,” Anaxa says quietly. “Multiple negative inputs over a condensed period without sufficient recovery time between them.”
You stare at him. “…That sounds worse when you say it like that.”
“It is worse,” he replies. “You have been minimizing it.” Then, softer, he adds: “And managing it alone.”
Something in your chest pulls tight. You look away. “I can handle it.”
“I know you can.”
That makes you pause. You glance back at him. His gaze hasn’t moved.
“But you should not have to,” he finishes.
You don’t expect the touch.
His hand lifts slowly. His fingers brush your cheek with a lightness that is entirely characteristic of him when he’s being careful. “You are tense,” he observes.
“I’m fine.”
“No.”
His thumb begins to move. Small, slow strokes against your cheekbone. Back and forth.
You didn’t realize how much you needed that until your eyes start to burn with it.
“Anaxagoras—”
He steps closer, closes the remaining distance. And then he cups your face properly, both hands now, tilting you gently toward him and kisses you.
When he pulls back, your thoughts have gone quiet in a way they haven’t been all day.
You exhale softly.
“That,” Anaxa says quietly, “was to interrupt the spiral.”
“…It worked.”
“I am aware.”
The ghost of a smile moves across his expression.
His hands don’t leave your face. If anything they settle more firmly, warm palms against your jaw, thumbs tracing slow paths across your cheekbones with the same repetitive patience he brings to everything that matters to him.
“You are allowed to be affected,” he says, voice low. “Repeated setbacks produce diminishing emotional tolerance. This is not a personal failing. It is cause and effect.”
You let out a breath that shakes slightly on the way out. “I just feel like I should be handling it better.”
“You are handling it,” he says immediately. Then he leans in again.
This kiss is slower. Longer.
He takes his time with it in a way that makes it difficult to remember what you were worried about. Because right now there is only this, his mouth gentle against yours, his hands steady at your face, the quiet deliberateness of someone who chose to be here and means it.
When Anaxa pulls back, your forehead drops against his naturally, like something finding its level.
His hands slide. One to the curve of your jaw, one to the back of your neck, fingers settling into the warmth there with light, grounding pressure.
“You do not need to perform resilience,” he murmurs. “Not for me.”
That is what breaks it.
Your hands find his coat. You grip it lightly, holding on to something solid.
“I’m just tired,” you admit, and your voice comes out smaller than you intended. “I’m just really tired.”
“I know,” he says.
He guides you without asking, one hand at your back. You follow without thinking about it. You always do, when it’s him, when he moves with that particular quiet certainty that makes following feel like the obvious thing.
The bed dips. He sits first, then draws you down beside him, then closer, until your head finds his shoulder and his arm comes around you with the ease of something entirely natural. Like it was always going to end up here.
“You will rest,” Anaxa says.
You don’t argue.
His fingers find your hair. Slow, gentle strokes from your temple to the ends, repetitive and soothing and warm. You feel a kiss pressed to your temple. Then your forehead. Then your cheek.
“You are not defined by isolated outcomes,” he murmurs, lips brushing your hair as he speaks.
Another kiss. Your temple again.
“You are not diminished by days like this one.”
Your eyes close. His voice drops further, pitched low enough that it’s just for you, just for this room.
“And you are not carrying this alone.”
Your breathing has slowed without you noticing. Your grip on his coat has loosened. Your body has settled more fully against his, finding the warmth of him, and the weight that’s been sitting on your chest all day has gone.
His hand moves through your hair again. Once. Twice.
A soft kiss to your hair.
Then he stills, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm beneath your cheek, his arm firm and warm around you.
“I am here,” Anaxa says quietly.
You hum, half asleep already, your hand curled loosely against his chest.
“And I will remain.”
The quiet doesn’t feel heavy anymore.
It feels like the safest place in the world.
⋆ ✦ ⋆
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)
synopsis ; he who stands with glory. he who works day and night, with his golden blood, to come back home to you from war and enjoy a moment of domesticity.
author’s note ! ; mydeimos is actually the most beautiful person i’ve ever seen. imagine being gorgo looking at your son in the exotale and thinking "damn, my son can pull bitches"
// wc 0.8k , fluffy , i love men who worry like an idiot im sorry. but also mydei is hot. he’s kinda ooc too but who knows
⟢ masterlist
"DON’T GO ANYWHERE." he softly pleaded, his head on your lap. it had been a few minutes since he came back home. battle ridden, filthy, and reeked of blood, but you didn’t mind. it had been a few months since he left you, and you both missed each other terribly.
you carded through his hair. you noticed it was a bit matted from the lack of hygiene, but you couldn’t tell him to get up because he was filthy. you could tell that he missed you with the way he kept fidgeting with the fabric at the small of your back, pressing his cheek on your thigh.
"so, how many this time?" you asked. of course you were aware of his inhumane immortality, but sometimes the fear of losing him bugs you at times when he was away. "six." he answered briefly, and pressed his cheek even more against you. you couldn’t help but sigh.
before, you asked him to promise that he’d try his best to not be reckless, but the more your relationship went on, the more you understood and realised that it was impossible for him to be unscathed.
"darling…" you rubbed your thumb on his cheek. "it’s quite impossible to stay alive when i need to fight for everyone." he explained, his hand longed stopped fidgeting and snaked up to your arm. "i know, i’m sorry. i just can’t help but worry for you at times." you looked away, ashamed. you shouldn’t worry about him when he’s come back to life so many times. it’s a constant.
"i am undying, not untouchable. it’s impossible to be unscathed in a battlefield." he continued to reason. he feels bad, he hates making you feel this way.
he understood your fear. hell, you both even fought about this.
yet all his deaths, all those treacherous times he spent walking the river of souls, he’d gotten used to it. he knows why you care, but doesn’t at the same time. it’s strange being loved, being important and cared, and seeing someone care about the many times he’s died and come back to life.
everyone bats an eye, but not you.
never you.
this was a losing battle. "…sure."
you were still unhappy. you couldn’t really pinpoint why. maybe it was the nagging fear of someday, he would never come back home to you. you squeezed him slightly. you weren’t crying, though, just deeply terrified. his eyes soften upon hearing your tone.
"my love, will you look at me?" mydeimos reached out to your hand, intertwining it with his. you could hear his voice, a slight hint of desperation. with enough courage, you looked at his eyes, embedded with golden hues. they were usually intense, but now, it was soft. uncannily soft.
"i know that it scares you. sometimes, i’m scared too," he started. you were carding his hair again. you were listening. "scared that someone will find my weak spot and maybe i’d never get back up again or… ever see you again." he gulped. he loved you so much, but he now realized just how profound and intense it was.
"i stand for glory, and i will always fight for my people, and for you." his voice quiets at the last part. even now, he still got shy whenever he tried to say that everything he did was for you.
your heart swelled.
his words somewhat eased your worries. even if no one had knowledge of his weak spot. he was a warrior, and he’d always will be. it was something that you couldn’t change, and if you did, he wouldn’t be mydeimos anymore.
you were still scared, but you trusted him more.
you smiled, before kissing the top of his head. "thank you for everything you do for us, mydeimos." you whispered.
for once he felt seen for his efforts personally. people praised him, gave him titles, but no one called him by his name so affectionately. he hid his face in your thighs, hiding his reddening cheeks from you.
"thank you for… saying that." his voice was slightly muffled with his lips on the fabric, but you laughed anyway. "you don’t have to hide from me, you know? you don’t have to be so shy." you smiled.
"there isn’t the word 'shy' in the kremnoan language." he reasoned, it was rather pathetic though. "i don’t even think that the kremnoan language even exists." you joked. he huffed, but he never looked back up to face you. if anything, he hides himself even more.
"…you are my glory." he suddenly whispered. a part of him hoped that you didn’t catch him, but apparently you had your ears everywhere. you hummed, deciding to not comment on it. you smiled even more at his words.
eventually, mydeimos slept on your lap. his soft snores were the only thing protruding the silence.
you came to realise that as long as he was alive and came back to you, even if him dying multiple times made you somewhat unhappy, it was more than enough.
you were happy he came back home. just as he always promised.
The concept of Phainon who just... lets you do whatever you want with him has me in a death grip.
Jumping on him from unspecified heights randomly? He somehow has the strange seventh sense to catch you in time. Doesn't even make a sound of displeasure.
Biting his cheeks instead of whatever food he was holding to your mouth? "You're so cute," is what he says with a chuckle.
When you nibble, bite, knead, squeeze and squish him for no reason? He can't stop smiling. Maybe you bit too hard and his skin is bleeding a little? He finds it hot.
When you start poking him out of boredom, he'll poke you right back. Within a few seconds, it'll escalate into a tickle fight.
Clinging to his arm or hanging to him like a monkey to a branch? He carries you around like you weigh nothing.
When instead of sitting down beside him or getting into bed normally, you jump on him? All he does is giggle.
And when you start aggressively ruffling his hair while asking him out-of-context questions like, "When you de-shell a snail, is it naked or is it homeless?" he genuinely engages in the conversation.
But brace yourself though, for when you finally tire yourself out, it'll be his turn to do whatever he wants with you.
If requests are open, can you please write Phainon or Mydei in formula 1 AU
Pole Position (F1!Phainon. F1!Mydei. x Reader. Separate)
A/N: Hi anon! :) Thank you for your fun request and sorry for the wait. I planned to post these in January, but then I got stuck and, well. Life happened. This was actually a refreshing change of pace (I didn't know I needed this!).
At the same time your request arrived, I got another one for the same AU! :D I will post those later today. :) (Also: sun tattoo Phainon in a race suit is now living in my head rent-free. Send help.)
Phainon should be listening to the national anthem. He really should.
But all Phainon can focus on is you—standing just beyond the barriers, pressed between fans and journalists, looking up at him with that light in your eyes that’s somehow brighter than the floodlights bathing the podium.
He’s still half breathless from the race, hair damp from sweat and flattened where the helmet had been. The zipper of his race suit hangs open to his sternum, exposing the sharp lines of muscle and the sun-shaped tattoo.
And you’re staring.
He knows it. He feels it.
He lets his gaze sweep the crowd like he’s just taking in the atmosphere, and then it lands on you.
You freeze.
His mouth curves. Barely. Just enough to say: Got you.
When the anthem ends and the champagne sprays, he’s the only driver who doesn’t make a mess. He lifts his bottle lazily, tilts it just enough to satisfy the cameras, then sets it aside with a practiced ease that looks effortless.
(It isn’t. His hands are still shaking slightly from adrenaline. You notice. He notices you noticing. That makes it worse.)
He hops off the podium with grace that shouldn’t be possible on tired legs and walks straight toward you. Ignoring three journalists calling his name, sidestepping a camera crew, focused with the same intensity he’d had chasing the apex.
When he stops in front of you, he’s close enough that you can smell champagne and engine heat on his skin.
“You watched,” he says, amusement in his voice.
“You know I did.”
“Mm. And you looked like you were enjoying yourself.” His eyes glint with mischief. “The view must’ve been spectacular.”
Your breath catches. “The race was good.”
“Oh, the race.” He draws the word out, amused, tilting his head slightly. “Of course. My mistake. If that’s what you were watching.”
“What else would I be—”
“Me,” he says simply, and the directness of it steals your breath. “You were watching me. I could feel it every time I went into turn three.”
You swat his arm, and he laughs. Soft, warm, genuinely delighted.
“Caught,” he says, catching your wrist gently before you can pull away. His thumb brushes your pulse point. “Your heart’s racing. From the excitement of the podium finish, I’m sure.”
“Phainon—”
He leans in, lips brushing your ear like it’s an accident.
(You know it isn’t.)
“Next time,” he murmurs, “stand somewhere I can see you sooner. Knowing you’re watching makes me drive faster. Which is—” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, still smiling. “—probably a little dangerous. But I find I don’t particularly care.”
You forget how to breathe.
He releases your wrist, fingers trailing away slowly, and offers his hand palm-up instead.
“Come on,” he says, voice dropping to something softer. “I owe you a ride home.”
With a smile, he adds: “And you owe me an explanation for why you look at me like you’re the one who just won.”
━━━━━━━━━━━
MYDEI
The garage is chaos when you slip inside. Engine hiss, shouted orders, the metallic tang of fuel thick in the air.
And then Mydei steps out of his car.
Helmet still on. Shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. Every line of him coiled tight, residual tension from the race still thrumming through his frame.
When he spots you, something in him breaks focus. Just for half a second, but you see it. The way his stance shifts. The way his head tilts slightly, like he can’t quite process that you’re actually here.
A mechanic starts speaking to him, gesturing at telemetry. Mydei’s gaze doesn’t move from you.
The mechanic tries again. “Mydei, the data—”
“Later.”
He walks toward you. Slowly. Purposefully. Like he’s moving through the aftermath of battle, still half in that focused state where only targets and objectives exist.
Right now, you’re the only objective that matters.
When he reaches you, he doesn’t speak immediately.
He lifts both hands and unlatches his helmet.
The sound of the release clicks through your bones.
He pulls the helmet off, and his hair falls messily across his forehead, damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes sharp and burning like embers that haven’t cooled yet.
“You came,” he says, voice low and rough from shouting over the engine.
“I said I would.”
He looks away for half a breath, jaw tight, like he’s trying to get control of something. When he meets your eyes again, there’s nothing detached about his expression.
“You stood too close to the track,” he says quietly. “I saw you.”
“You were focused on the race—”
“I’m always aware of where you are.” The words come out rougher than intended. He stops, breathes, tries again. “You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t see every time you lean forward when someone overtakes? Every time you flinch at a close call?”
You step closer instinctively. “Did it distract you?”
His breath catches. “Everything about you distracts me.” A fact, stated with the same blunt honesty he uses for everything. “I drove the entire race knowing you were watching. Knowing if I made a mistake, you’d see it.”
The world narrows to the space between you. Close enough now that you can feel the heat still radiating off him, can see the way his chest rises and falls slightly faster than it should.
“Mydei,” you whisper, not realizing how breathless you sound.
He leans in. Forehead nearly brushing yours. Voice dropping even lower, meant only for you:
“I drove better because you were here.” A pause, heavy with something he’s trying not to name. “That’s… not something I can afford. But I can’t seem to help it.”
When your hand reaches up to push his messy hair from his eyes, he closes them. Just for a moment.
Like the touch lands somewhere deep and unguarded inside him. Like for just this second, he can stop holding everything together with iron will and just feel.
When he opens his eyes again, they’re softer. Tired in a way he’d never show anyone else.
“Come on,” Mydei says quietly, hand finding the small of your back.
He's looking at you like you’re the only thing tethering him back to earth after two hours of controlled chaos. It feels like coming home.
⋆ ✦ ⋆
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. :)
Judy: We have to solve this case and uncover the biggest conspiracy in the history of Zootopia about why we have demonized reptiles so that the greedy rich people who want us dead don’t continue to gentrify their historic neighborhoods and erase the true origin of the city.
Nick: Babe this is how people get assassinated, my vote is elopement.
cw: arranged marriage, fluff, neglect at the beginning, ratio falling hard, pining, ratio being jealous of aventurine, unedited bc i wrote this with my heart not my brain
my brain has been thinking about an arranged marriage fic with dr. ratio...
he isn't kind to you at first, less than happy to share a life with a mere acquaintance. he's heard about you before in passing, noting your achievements with a grain of salt because nothing about you particularly mattered to him, irrelevant against the mass of scrolls and books he needs to read.
you don't really disturb his normal routine too much. you move in to his estate with a fair share of your belongings, but none of them crowd his house too much. you have your own room, pristine guest room unearthed by your artistic touch.
aside from dinners, you don't get to see each other too much. he starts his mornings early, getting up at the crack of dawn to exercise and start his day with a hearty meal. you wake up later, partaking in a slow morning, and if you glanced out the window, you might be able to see your husband running laps around the expanse of his gardens.
you admire his dedication and routine, it's fascinating to live beside a genius. everyday, the chest table that sits in the living room changes, the black and white pieces never remaining where you last recalled. the size of his blackboard is impressive, and yet too small to fit all of the formulas his brain remembers, hands effortlessly dancing along the surface to scratch number after number.
a frequent order of his estate is chalk. a new pile is delivered every three days, and he goes through them without fail every time.
during dinner, he tries to spare some conversation with you. you don't tell him too much about your day, not wanting to bore him with your menial chores. he's only half-listening either way, so you'll feign understanding about his work when he explains what he's up to.
ratio is not an attentive husband, but he doesn't mistreat you, either. he allows you to spend his assets without too much care, doesn't police your everyday tasks, and also doesn't bat an eye at other men or women. his pursuit of intelligence is important, and your wellbeing would not come in between that.
your monotonous, distant routine changes one autumn dusk. you're perched in the front yard with an easel set up before you, the sky in front of you now a blend of pink-purple hues. he returns home earlier than you expected, carriage stopping at the front of his estate, and he witnesses you in your tranquil state.
the paint strokes on the canvas before you are skilled, and show years of dedication to the craft. you're so invested in the piece before you, that you don't even hear him approaching until he calls your name.
"the night turns colder with each minute. shouldn't you come inside before you fall ill?" the scholar greets, and you're snapped out of your creative reverie, looking over at him.
"oh, i had not realised. let me clean up here, first." you take your canvas off the easel, but to your surprise, your spouse kneels down to organise your oil paints back into their box.
"make haste, then," he urges.
during dinner, he can't help but be curious over your hobby, the stubborn splotches of paint clinging to your hands visible to him. that night, you engage in uninterrupted conversation, and discover that he's an artist himself- a sculptor. it calms him, and all the statues reside in a removed room, adjacent to his study.
despite your years of matrimony, you had never once dared enter his study, but the design is so fittingly him. it is organised (well, as organised a genius can be), with shelves and shelves filled with books, discarded scrolls lay around the room, but even then, his taste for greco-roman aesthetics are seen. roman dorics act like stands for little plants, and his many certificates are displayed, along with other achievements.
(his study is overwhelmingly filled with them. though you knew of the merit of the man you were arranged to be married to, you had never known just how expansive the list is. perhaps, that only made him more intimidating to you, standing beside a genius does not feel so light to say anymore.)
he shows you his sculptures, and though many of them are... self portraits... the likeness is disgustingly accurate. it was as if he had casted himself in plaster and displayed it proudly. you wonder how long he must have stared in the mirror to perfect their appearance.
but, there are also various other formidable statues. some of people you recognise. you compliment his skill and don't get to see the blush that spreads along his cheeks.
it seems that you've chipped a way into his heart, because between brushstrokes and chiselled marble, he falls in love with you.
ratio knows he didn't start off being the best husband, but he tries to now, and begins by being present. asks you to dine together where possible, listens when you're talking about your day, and the two of you can be seen venturing downtown together; an unbelievable sight for those who believed that ratio was romantically inept.
perhaps, an even more unbelievable sight, was the soft smile on his face that glanced at you very adoringly, and how you remained unaware of his affections.
and, maybe a jealous veritas ratio is just as unbelievable.
he is practically glaring daggers at the side of a certain blond's head. ratio has never been fond of the scheming businessman, aventurine, and is even less so of the fact that you seem so close to him, more than you are with your own husband. you're speaking with him like how one would with old friends, a peaceful visit to the markets turned sour by his presence.
when you finally, finally, finally, bid farewell to aventurine, who gave ratio a look that signified he was up to no good, your husband held your hand in his gloved one with an unforgiving grip. his mood is dampened for the remainder of the day, and is only made better when you enquire about his sudden glumness, visiting his office to see if he was alright.
you leave him with a kiss on the crown of his head, and a whisper of 'goodnight', before retreating to your chambers, and the only thought that circulates in his head for the rest of the night is you, and how he's going to sweep you off your feet.
What better place to take a nap if not on your lover's chest?
wc: 1012
⋆.𐙚 ̊ sfw/fluff || Wriothesley/Reader (you work at the Fortress)
The administrative work at the Fortress of Meropide was always overwhelming; there were many documents to oversee, many papers to leave your signature on. Your task was to help Marette to keep track of those who entered and left the prison, updating files when necessary and stocking in the archives what wasn't needed anymore. It wasn't a job that exposed you as much as a guard, nor was it burdening like Wriothesley's role. And yet, in its repeatability it was exhausting, the seemingly endless pile of documents filling the corner of your eye in mockery.
Sitting on the couch in Wriothesley's office, you were so focused on what you had to do that you barely noticed the arrival of your lover, not until a cup of tea was placed in front of you — its rich smell overflowing your senses.
"How is it going?" Wriothesley asked and sat down on the couch, his frame seemingly engulfing yours just by being next to you. You let out a sigh, fingers trailing over the porcelain of the cup and feeling the first droplets of condensation.
"I'm missing a few more files, there has been an influx of new arrivals" you said and glanced at the infamous pile with a bitter smile and little to no confidence. For some unknown reason, after each glance, the tower of papers seemed to grow in size, as if they multiplied whenever you weren't looking at them. Another sigh slipped past your lips.
Wriothesley silently observed you, while taking sips out of his own cup of tea. You knew he could see the tired lines on your face, the redness of missed rest of your eyes making you feel exposed under the scrutiny of his gaze. Squirming felt instinctive, eyes flickering on the amber liquid in search of a distraction.
"What about you? You were with Sigewinne, correct?" you opted to change topic. At that point you too brought the cup of tea to your lips, its warmth tickling your skin.
Wriothesley hummed, "Some prisoners caused quite the commotion near the infirmary. I had some scolding to do."
You laughed between yourself; after all, you had a hunch that whatever happened was not a simple «scolding». Not at all.
"Between you and Sigewinne I don't know who is scarier," you whispered, already feeling the stress melt away. Instinctively you rested your head against Wriothesley's shoulder, followed by the feeling of an arm slipping around your hips.
"Neither of us, I dare say," Wriothesley huffed in fake offense. You could perceive his smile without needing to look.
You closed your eyes and nuzzled closer to his side, until your nose was full of his scent and you didn't know the difference between your body's warmth and his."Would have liked to witness how you scolded the prisoners," you murmured, "I haven't left this room all day."
Your tone was weary, carrying the weight of exhaustion and lack of proper rest. You felt Wriothesley's fingers imperceptibly squeeze your side, trembling with the necessity to make you feel better — to take every problem off of your shoulders. Wriothesley has never been someone that could stand by and let things happen, not until he had the power to bring a change.
So he ended up taking the cup from your hands to place it on the table, next to his. And right before you could question him and his sudden actions, you felt your entire shift.
"Wrio–" you began with a gasp, only to find yourself huffing against his neck. You were laying on top of his chest, his arms secured tightly around your body to keep you safe.
"You should rest," he said, feeling the rumble of his deep voice from his chest. Your heart skipped a beat.
"Can't," you sighed, face hidden against his shoulder. "Too much to do."
You were not by any means a workaholic but you did feel the need to push yourself, to demonstrate to everyone around the Fortress that you were capable of doing your job, that you didn't take advantage of your interpersonal relationship with Wriothesley to slack off.
You received a gentle pat on your head.
"Rest, it's a direct order from your boss," he stated and you couldn't help but roll your eyes. "I can't do that, I already told you," you argued and pushed yourself up on your elbows. You glanced at Wriothesley with quite the stubborn expression, all fire and little compliance. Wriothesley barely managed to stifle a laugh, not bothering to hide how amused he felt. It had the direct effect of firing you up even more. However, Wriothesley decided that it was not worthy to play fair, so he pressed a kiss to your lips before you could think of arguing.
He had an aftertaste of black tea, familiar and, as such, reassuring.
"Rest, even if only for a moment. I'm gonna wake you up in a while," he promised, thumbs caressing the soft skin under your eyes. His touch brought you relief, your eyes traitorously falling shut.
"You won't," you murmured, forcing yourself to glance at him. As expected, Wriothesley was smiling, mischief shining in his eyes — contagious given the way you felt your features melt in a smile of your own. You lowered your head once again, just to feel Wriothesley's fingers play with your hair. You instinctively snuggled closer, distractedly listening to his heartbeat like a lullaby of sorts.
Each thump-thump an affirmation. A confession.
Your eyes fluttered shut, while your body relaxed against Wriothesley's, finally letting sleep take over. He continued caressing your head, his fingers gently playing with your locks. Only when your breathing pattern slowed down Wriothesley did move his hand away, letting it fall on your back. You were safe in his arms, shielded away from any source of disturbance.
Amidst it all, with all thoughts scattering until a pleasant state of nothingness remained, the very last thing you overheard was a whispered «I love you». Your lips tilted upwards, your expression serene as you loosened your grip on consciousness.
Cheesy Goodness @miracchidesu - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
izzy806
origamiaround
gummygunk
prguitarman
annaxmalina
dailybridgerton
titsay
kaledo-art
