A love story told through voicelines (Wriothesley ver.) IV
C/W: wriothesley x gn!reader, sun x moon, protective!wrio, himbo/bimbo!reader, fluff, slow-burn, violence, blood depiction, not proofread
A/N: This was kinda rushed guys mb, also made with extreme writer’s block so pardon me if this one’s drier than the others (this one’s the last part, hope y’all enjoy ittt)
Part 3
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(You) Character Story: So what?
It started as a normal day.
Normal meaning they were minding their own business, building a perfectly stable, structurally sound tower out of ketchup packets in the cafeteria.
This one was going to be their best yet. It had layers. It had symmetry. It had vision.
“Careful,” someone muttered as they passed. “That thing’s gonna fall.”
“Not if you believe in it,” they said, carefully placing another packet on top. “And more importantly, not if I believe in it.”
That person didn’t look convinced.
Coward.
Anyway—everything was going great. Tower? Thriving. Them? Thriving. Emotional stability? Questionable, but there’s no need to get into that.
And then—
“Man, the Duke’s been real quiet lately.”
Their ears perk up at the sound of his name. It’s not eavesdropping if they had excellent hearing, right?
“Swear he’s gone soft,” another voice said. “Lets people get away with too much now.”
“Yeah, plays favorites too.”
They missed the next placement. A packet tilted. They caught it—barely—but their grip tightened just a little.
“Thought this place was supposed to be strict,” someone scoffed. “Not whatever this is.”
The tower wobbled, like it could feel the shift in the air. They stared at it, then at them, then back at the tower.
Okay, no.
We’re not doing this today.
They stood up, brushing my hands off like they weren’t about to make a series of deeply questionable life choices.
“Wow,” they said, stepping over. “That’s crazy.”
The group looked up. One of them—bowl cut, unfortunate—snorted. “What?”
“That you guys can talk and be wrong at the same time. Multitasking is impressive.”
“Mind your business,” one of them muttered.
“I was,” they nodded. “I was minding my business, building something beautiful, in fact,” they gestured vaguely toward the ketchup tower, “and then you decided to get dumber than you already are.”
A couple people nearby choked on their drinks.
The group didn’t laugh.
“Real bold,” one said, pushing back their chair, “for someone in the same place as us.”
They tilted their head. “Yeah,” they said lightly, “but I’m not the one spending lunch whining about the guy actually keeping this place running properly.”
“Properly?” another scoffed. “You mean picking favorites?”
“Oh, I love this part,” they said, stepping closer, a smile creeping across their face in a manner that wasn’t as warm as before. “Go on. Explain it to me.”
“He lets people slide,” said bowl cut boy. “Doesn’t enforce things the same anymore.”
Then, quieter—meaner:
“…Ever since you came along.”
That somehow triggered something in them—and from there, they chose violence. They looked him up and down. “Pick a struggle,” they said. “Bad attitude or bad haircut. You can’t commit to both, it’s confusing the rest of us.”
That one got a louder reaction from a circle they weren’t aware when or how it formed.
“Say that again,” he snapped.
“Oh, I will,” they said cheerfully. “I’ve got time.” Their heart was beating a little faster now. Not out of fear, just… something else.
“You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” another cut in. “What, you his guard dog now?”
They grinned after a second of consideration. “No, guard dogs are trained.” Their feet crept closer as they rounded their shoulders. “I don’t hold back… at least, that’s what your mom said.”
Now that one really got reaction from the crowd. Bowl cut jumped up from his seat, “HOW DARE YOU BRING MY MOTHER INTO THIS?!”
Another inmate—big, muscle-bound, clearly looking for trouble, let’s call him Biggie—stood, cracking his knuckles. “Ooh, you’re gonna regret talking like that to us.”
“I’d like to see you try,” they glared through their teeth.
Bowl cut lunged first.
Predictable.
They stepped aside just enough for him to miss cleanly, his momentum carrying him forward—right into a table. Trays rattled, a cup tipped, water sloshing over the edge.
“Careful,” they muttered, grabbing the edge of the table and shoving it back into place. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
The bigger one didn’t wait.
A hand shot out, catching their shoulder and slamming them sideways. Their hip hit the bench hard enough to sting, metal screeching against the floor.
They twisted out of his grip, snatching a tray on instinct and swinging it up just in time—
CLANG.
The impact rang through their arms, but it blocked the fist that was about to hit their face. Water splashed across the tray, across their sleeve, dripping to the floor.
Bowl cut recovered faster than expected, grabbing at their shirt. They jerked back, but not fast enough—the fabric pulled tight as he tried to yank them forward.
They landed a punch square to the face, strong enough to make bowl cut tear up as he aided his nose. Meanwhile Biggie over there prepared a meal to serve them—another tray, yet this time it had freshly made soup, still hot enough for steam to come out. He came charging at them with a yell.
But failing to notice the water underneath him, he fell to his back, the soup scorching his torso. They couldn’t tell if he was groaning from the fall or the soup. Either way, they seethed through their teeth out of second-hand embarrassment, “Ouch…”
This time, Bowl Cut didn’t charge.
He wiped at his eyes with one hand, the other still hovering near his nose, breathing hard—angry, humiliated, and just smart enough not to rush in blind again.
Good. They preferred it when people thought before making bad decisions.
Didn’t stop him, though.
He swung. Not wide this time—quick, sloppy, but aimed. His knuckles bruised their cheek as he sent them flying backward. Their breath left them in a sharp oof as their back hit the ground, metal cold against their spine.
For a second, the ceiling spun.
They wheezed, blinking up at the lights that seemed to loom closer then farther. Aches spawned from their head and made their way to their lungs— or was that a separate ache?
The crowd’s cheers and boos blurred into a dull roar, muffled beneath the pounding of their own heartbeat. The ceiling lights flickered in and out of focus, too bright one second, too far the next. Pain spread—sharp at first, then dull—through their head and down into their chest, making each breath feel heavier than the last.
A shadow fell over them. Not Biggie. Not Bowl Cut.
Someone else—the one who told them to mind their business.
Right.
They pressed a fist against the floor, forcing air back into their lungs as they pushed themselves up. Their vision swam, edges blurring—but they steadied.
It wasn’t over.
Not yet.
(Wriothesley) Character Story: So what?!
The cafeteria was louder than usual.
Not unusual for the Fortress—but loud in a way that grated. Voices overlapping, chairs scraping, the low hum of something brewing beneath it all.
“Hey— HEY—!” A guard barked at the commotion, cutting through the crowd. The guard’s shout barely registered over the din.
Wriothesley appeared at the edge of the cafeteria, eyes narrowing. He always noticed these things—everything, really—but today, the sound of his name carried differently. Sharper. Louder. Harder to ignore.
He scanned the scene.
Them.
Sleeves rolled up, tray in hand like a shield, hair disheveled, breathing uneven—and still standing their ground.
They pivoted, stance wide, chest heaving, eyes blazing, clothes noticably wrinkled and dirtied, nose dribbling with red, knuckles noticeably blackened. “What gives you the right to talk about the Duke like that?!” Chairs squeaked, trays rattled, and someone knocked over a cup, spilling its lukewarm contents across the floor.
His jaw tightened, just slightly.
This is ridiculous.
He stepped forward, boots clicking against the floor, cutting through the chaos with an authority that made everyone—even the biggest troublemakers—pause.
“Enough.”
The single word sliced through the cafeteria like a blade. Chairs scraped back, voices dropped an octave, and even Biggie froze mid-lunge, soup tray raised. Reader blinked, mouth half-open in disbelief.
“What is the meaning of this?” He didn’t have to raise his voice for it to send chills down the room’s spine.
They were the first to speak, “I— we were—“
Wriothesley didn’t look at them. Instead, he turned to the group they’d been fighting.
“If you have a problem with me, then say it to my face.”
Silence.
A glance passed between them. Hesitation. Pride. Fear.
“Again,” he said evenly. “If you have a problem with me, say it.”
No one moved. The cafeteria held its breath. Even the tray-laden servers paused mid-step.
Wriothesley exhaled slowly.
“Good,” he said. “Then I’ll assume there isn’t one.”
His gaze flicked—brief, sharp—back to them. Still disheveled. Still standing between him and the others. Still… trying.
Something in his chest shifted.
Wriothesley didn’t linger on the others.
“Clean this up,” he said, already turning away. “And if I hear about this happening again, we’ll be having a very different conversation.”
A chorus of quick, mumbled yes, Your Grace followed.
Chairs slid back into place. Trays were picked up. Conversations resumed in hushed, cautious murmurs, like the room itself wasn’t sure it was allowed to breathe yet.
But he wasn’t listening anymore.
(You) Character Story: So…
“—You.”
There it was; that tone. Not loud. Not sharp. Worse. Focused.
Their head snapped up. “…Me?” they said, pointing at themselves like there was anyone else it could possibly be.
Wriothesley held their gaze for a second—just long enough to make it very clear. “Yes, you. Walk with me,” he added, already turning, clearly not a request.
They hesitated for half a second—just enough to consider making a run for it (hypothetically)—before falling into step beside him.
The cafeteria noise faded behind them as they stepped into the corridor. They kept a careful distance at first. Then realized that made it look suspicious. Then overcorrected and walked too close.
Great. Fantastic. Nailed it.
The silence stretched. They could hear their own heartbeat, feel the dull throb in their cheek, the sting in their shoulder, the very vivid awareness of his presence beside them.
Say something. Anything.
“So,” they started, voice just a little too bright, “that was—uh—fun. Team bonding, you could say—”
“Stop.”
They stopped.
Wriothesley didn’t slow down, but his voice dropped—quieter now. Not for the room, but for them.
“You’re injured.” It wasn’t a question.
They blinked. “What? No, I’m—”
“You’re limping.”
…Oh.
They glanced down like maybe it would magically fix itself if they didn’t acknowledge it. “It’s barely a limp.”
“And your cheek.”
They resisted the very strong urge to cover it. “I’ve had worse.”
“I’m aware.”
That made them pause.
Because… yeah. He would be. The silence returned, but it wasn’t the same anymore. It pressed in closer. Heavier.
They exhaled, rubbing the back of their neck. “Look, it’s not a big deal, okay? I’ve handled worse than a couple of idiots with bad opinions and worse aim.”
Wriothesley slowed—just slightly.
“…That’s not the point.”
They frowned, glancing at him. “Then what is?”
He stopped walking.
They took one more step before realizing—and had to awkwardly shuffle back a half-step to face him properly.
His gaze settled on them—not sharp, not cold, but steady in a way that made it hard to look away. “For someone who claims to think things through,” he said, “you’re remarkably careless when it comes to yourself.”
They blinked.
“Careless—?” they echoed, a little defensive now. “I wasn’t being careless, I was—”
“Outnumbered.”
“…Winning.”
“You were getting hit.”
“…Okay, that was one time.”
“Twice.”
“—That doesn’t count, I recovered!”
Wriothesley exhaled—not quite a sigh, but close. His hand came up briefly to his temple, like he was trying to keep something in place. “You shouldn’t have stepped in.”
Their expression shifted. “So I should’ve just stood there and listened to them talk like that?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Then what are you saying?” they shot back, frustration slipping through now. “Because it sounded like you wanted me to just ignore it.”
“I’m saying,” he replied, voice still calm—but tighter now, “that you don’t need to prove anything by getting yourself hurt.”
“I wasn’t trying to prove anything!”
“Then why?”
The question landed cleanly between them. They hesitated, because the answer was right there—too close, too obvious.
“…They were wrong,” they said finally, quieter now. “About you.”
Something flickered in his expression that vanished just as quickly.
“That’s not your responsibility.”
“Maybe not,” they muttered, looking away, “but someone should say something.”
Silence fell over them as the Duke took another step, them following behind.
“…You care a great deal,” Wriothesley said. Not in a teasing way, not as a joke—he said it as a statement, something that could be observed from a mile away.
They froze.
HOW DID HE KNOW?!
“I mean—not like that,” they said quickly, waving a hand. “I just—care in a general sense. Like—morally. As a person. A totally normal amount of caring—”
“—About me.”
They stopped. He said it so simply, as if he already knew. Their brain, very helpfully, stopped working.
“…I,” they started, and immediately regretted it. Because now they had to finish that sentence. Their heart was doing that thing again. Loud. Fast. Unhelpful.
Say something normal.
Say something not incriminating.
“I just think you deserve better than that,” they blurted.
Close enough. Probably.
Wriothesley went quiet. He was looking at them like he was putting something together. Like pieces he hadn’t allowed himself to arrange before were suddenly… clicking.
Now for the first time since this started—he didn’t look entirely in control of it.
“…You shouldn’t do that again,” he said after a moment.
Their stomach dropped. “What—defend you?”
“Get hurt for me.”
They let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Well, when you put it like that, it sounds a lot worse than it actually—”
“I mean it.”
The humor died instantly. His voice hadn’t risen, yet something in it had. Something real, unfiltered.
Suddenly, this didn’t feel like a lecture anymore.
It felt like something else. Something neither of them had quite said yet.
The silence stretched.
They could hear it now—their heartbeat, loud and uneven, filling the space between them. The faint hum of the Fortress beyond the corridor. The way the air felt… different.
What is this?
(Wriothesley) Character Story: So…
Wriothesley didn’t look away.
That was the first sign.
Usually, he would’ve by now. Redirected. Reframed. Filed this under unnecessary complications and moved on.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he studied them—really looked this time; at the way they stood there, trying to hold their ground despite the slight shift in their weight, the faint redness blooming across their cheek, the stubborn set of their shoulders, even now.
They’d stepped in. Not because they had to, nor because it benefited them. But because they cared.
His brow furrowed, just slightly.
He’d seen loyalty before, respect, obligation, duty. This was impulsive, reckless, unnecessary… and entirely theirs.
Something in his chest tightened.
Why does that bother me this much?
He’d broken up fights before. Dozens of them. Worse than this. People got hurt, that was part of life in the Fortress. He handled it and moved on.
So why—
Why had this one followed him out of the room? Why was he still standing here? Why was he still looking at them like this?
His gaze flicked briefly to their cheek again, to the way they were trying very hard not to react to it. Then it clicked like something that had been there the entire time, finally allowed to exist.
The way the Fortress felt quieter when they weren’t around. The way his shoulders eased—just slightly—whenever they walked into a room. The way he’d started expecting them. The way—
His jaw tightened.
…The way he couldn’t ignore this.
A slow breath left him.
“…I’ve handled worse situations than that,” he said, voice low, steady—but no longer distant.
They blinked, caught off guard. “What?”
“Fights. Injuries. People making poor decisions.” He paused, “and I’ve never had an issue keeping my composure.”
Something in his tone made them still.
He stepped closer. “So explain something to me.”
Their breath hitched.
“…Why,” he continued, quieter now, “is this the one that bothered me?”
They didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because suddenly, they weren’t sure if this was still a conversation they could joke their way out of.
His gaze didn’t waver.
“I’ve been asking myself that,” he went on, “since the moment I walked in and saw you standing there.”
Another step grew closer—enough that the distance felt… intentional. “Thought it was irritation, at first,” he said, letting out a faint, almost self-aware huff of breath. “It wasn’t.” He continued, “Then I thought it was responsibility; you’re part of this place, that makes it my concern. But that wasn’t it either.”
They swallowed. “…Then what is it?” they asked, barely above a whisper.
Wriothesley held their gaze. “…It’s you.”
(You) Character Story: WOAH
Their breath caught.
“I don’t react like that for everyone,” he said. “You know that.”
They did know that.
His voice lowered slightly. “I don’t lose focus. I don’t get… distracted. But lately?”He faintly shook his head. “That’s all you seem to do.”
They stared at him. Processing. Failing. Trying again.
“…Wrio—”
“I notice when you’re not around. I notice when you skip meals. When you’re quieter than usual. When you’re trying too hard to act like something doesn’t bother you.”Each word landed heavier than the last. “And today,” he added, voice tightening just slightly, “I noticed you getting hurt.”
The silence that followed was thick and heavy, almost difficult to ignore. “…And I didn’t like it.”
“Why?” they asked, even though they weren’t sure they wanted the answer.
Wriothesley exhaled slowly, like this was the part he couldn’t walk back from.
“…I was planning on ignoring it,” he admitted. “Because it complicates things. Whatever this is.” He let out a small, humorless breath, his gaze softening just slightly. “But I don’t think I can.”
Their pulse spiked. “…Can’t what?”
He held their gaze. “Pretend you don’t matter more than you should.”
Their breath hitched, and this time, they couldn’t hide it.
“…That’s—” they started, voice failing halfway. “That’s not fair.”
His brow lifted slightly. “No?”
“You don’t just—say something like that and then expect me to—” they gestured helplessly, words falling apart under the weight of everything they were trying not to say.
“—to what?”
“Not—” they exhaled sharply. “Not feel anything about it!”
There it was. Out in the open.
Wriothesley went still. “…You feel something about it,” he repeated.
They froze. There it was—the point of no return.
“…I,” they started, then stopped, trying again. “…You already know,” they muttered, looking away.
A silence settled between them, softer now—but no less heavy.
“…I do,” he said.
Their head snapped back up. This time, there was no distance left in his expression—no detachment, no careful restraint. Just something steady. Certain.
“…That’s why I’m saying this now,” he continued, voice measured but no longer guarded. He took a breath. “I like you.”
The words didn’t land all at once. They settled—slow, heavy—somewhere deep in their chest, like their heart had forgotten how to keep up.
“And I don’t think that’s going to change.”
They stared at him, like if they blinked enough times, he might take it back.
“…That’s,” they started, voice catching immediately. They cleared their throat. “That’s—wow. Okay. You can’t just say that like it’s—like it’s a normal sentence people say.”
Their hands moved before their brain could catch up, gesturing vaguely between them. “That’s not a normal sentence, Wrio. That’s, like, a life-altering sentence.
“‘I like you.’ Yeah, sure. Casual. Totally fine. I’m handling this so well right now—“ They dragged a hand down their face, exhaling sharply, then peeked at him again like he might’ve changed in the last five seconds.
He hadn’t.
“…You’re serious,” they said, quieter now.
When he didn’t waver, something in them did.
Their shoulders dropped just slightly, the frantic energy bleeding out into something softer—something a little more honest.
“…That’s not fair,” they muttered, but there was no bite in it this time. “I had a whole plan, you know.”
His brow lifted. “A plan.”
“Yeah,” they said, nodding, because apparently they were committing to this. “It involved me never saying anything, ever, and just… dealing with it internally. Like a responsible person.
“…It was a bad plan,” they admitted.
Silence settled again—but this time, it didn’t feel like something to escape from.
They shifted their weight, suddenly hyper-aware of everything—him, the space between them, their own heartbeat refusing to calm down.
“…I like you too,” they said, quietly, sincerely, carefully. Then—because they physically could not leave it there—“I mean—obviously,” they added quickly, gesturing toward the general direction of the cafeteria. “I just got into a fight over you, which, in hindsight, feels like it should’ve been a private realization and not a public event, but here we are—”
They stopped, wincing. “…I’m not making this any better. But …I do. Like you. A lot, actually.”
(Wriothesley) Character Story: Woah-
“…I’m glad you didn’t stick to your plan.” That might’ve been the closest thing to a joke he was going to give them right now.
He shifted his weight, not stepping closer—but not putting any distance between them either. Deliberate. Careful in a way that mattered more now than it had before.
“I meant what I said,” he continued, tone steady again, but no longer guarded. “This doesn’t change easily for me. But it already has.” His gaze held theirs—not intense, not overwhelming, just certain, like he wasn’t going anywhere.
Then, quieter—almost like an afterthought, but not one he tried to take back:
“…And for the record, I didn’t mind the public display. …Though I’d prefer fewer injuries next time.”
His eyes dropped briefly to the bruise forming along their cheek, his expression tightening just slightly out of concern.
“…Come on,” he said, tilting his head toward the corridor. “Sigewinne’s going to have a field day if we show up late.”
your soulmate has spent his whole life in constant pain, and you’ve spent your whole life feeling it—fleeting for you, unending for him. after years of hoping, you finally find him…right as he dumps piping-hot tea onto his leg and burns you both at the same time
word count. ❤︎ 11.2k words — i promise its not too bad pls give it a chance
before you read. ❤︎ female reader + female gendered terms like “miss” and “pretty lady” ; canon compliant + soulmates au ; feeling your soulmate's pain trope ; heavy references to wrio's backstory, which alludes to child exploitation and trafficking ; mild implications of sexual trauma (wrio) ; reader sits on his lap + gets carried by him ; reader has an unspecified job at the palais/court ; protected vaginal sex ; slight handjobs ; very vanilla sex ; a series of events of you and wrio navigating how to fall in love and enjoying every second of it ; alternating povs
commentary. ❤︎ happy birthday to my bewtiful boy
Your soulmate is always in pain. It’s all you’ve ever known about him.
“His back is killing him again,” you sigh in concern, rubbing your lower back for a moment.
Clorinde looks at you, raising a brow. The fortress is…well, it’s not the cleanest or brightest of places, but there is at least enough light to still make out the look she gives you. “You mean, your back is killing you, yes? You can feel it, too.”
“For just a moment,” you huff, “it’s gone very quickly. It’s not as though it troubles me for long. He, on the other hand…well, I wonder what that fool could have gotten himself into this time.”
The first time you feel what he does, you’re ten. It feels like there’s a sharp kick to your ribs, and then your back feels like it’s slammed hard against a surface just a moment later. You remember it vividly—how you cried out and hunched over. How your mother had rushed over to you and whispered words you couldn’t even hear, wiping your tears. All you knew then was that he was in pain, too. Agony. For a blinding second, you felt it with him, before it dissipated like it was nothing.
At age ten, you learn what it means to worry for someone you’ve never met. To fear for another’s safety more fiercely than a child should be capable of. To wonder about his well-being. His survival. Whatever your soulmate is going through, it can’t be safe. Can’t be the life of a normal child with a normal upbringing or a normal home. You know it’s worse for him, even if you feel it too. Where your aches vanish in seconds, his must linger—throbbing, bruising, weighing down small limbs that have no business carrying so much hurt.
At ten, you learn that not all children are created equal. Some are born to live their lives as children. And others…well, others it seems, are only there to prove how blessed those children truly are.
That is the reality of Fontaine, the nation of justice.
By the time you’re thirteen, there’s a constant ache in your muscles and your bones that comes and goes. A phantom pain that haunts you in bursts, disappearing as quickly as it comes. You can feel it—the burdens he carries. The constant soreness in his back and the tightness of his shoulder blades. Like he has nowhere proper to rest. No surface that curves along his spine and nurtures his developing body the way it should.
It isn’t until you’re fourteen that it gets bad. You’ve known for a long time now that he has a habit of getting into fights—the soreness on your knuckles only implies that he can throw a punch or two back at least now and then. But this time, it’s…frightening. Something dark. Something heavy. It’s a long fight. You can tell that much. There’s a hard tug on your hair, then a bruising grip around your throat, then a swift kick to your stomach. Finally, you feel that familiar sting in your fists. And then it stops. For two days after that, you feel nothing. It’s almost as though he’s no longer conscious, as though someone has eased the pain and left no trace of it—and then, suddenly, it returns all at once. Like he’s been thrown back into reality after two days of being blissfully removed. This time, when the pain returns, a rawness to the skin around your wrist joins the list of things that hurt.
Since the age of ten, you know that he has always been hurting. Always.
There is always some part of his body that is bruised and battered and tender from cruelty. Even as he gets older, even as the sharp injuries stop along with the fights, the sore muscles never do. The throbbing in your arms and legs, and lower back, never goes away. Like he’s been fighting, even if no one has been there to fight him back. Like he’s been keeping his strength, so no one could knock him off his feet again.
“How far is this warden’s office, exactly?” you huff, “and how do you even find anything down here? All these halls and tunnels look the same! I’m starting to wonder if agreeing to work down here was a mistake.”
“All you have to do is come down here for official Palais matters twice a week,” Clorinde hums, “and you’ll learn the tunnels just fine.”
“Ah, Miss Clorinde! You say that like you didn’t get lost for three weeks straight,” an unfamiliar voice calls ahead as she twists the door handle to enter a room.
Clorinde exhales through her nose, unimpressed. “I wasn’t lost. I was exploring alternate routes.”
“You walked into the same dead-end storeroom six times,” a man—you assume to be Wriothesley—says as he comes into view, leaning against the doorway to his office.
You pause. He’s…handsome. That’s the first thing you can think of. Second, you realize he can’t be much older than you. A lot younger than what you were anticipating for a Duke who runs a prison—a prison that he reformed all on his own, no less, from what you’ve heard. You meet his icy, blue-grey eyes, and it puts a shiver down your spine. There’s something…well, you aren’t quite sure. But there’s something about him.
And you wonder if he senses it, too, because his brows furrow for a second as he takes you in.
“I had to be sure you weren’t storing corpses in there,” she replies dryly. You blink out of your trance and look between them—apparently, this is normal. “Anyway,” Clorinde says, gesturing you forward, “this is the warden’s office, and this is Wriothesley. He’s supposed to brief you without embarrassing himself, but I make no promises.”
Wriothesley scoffs. “I’ll have you know I am an excellent host. I even made tea.”
“For your own interest, I presume,” Clorinde shoots back smoothly.
“Okay, so I made some tea for myself,” he huffs, “but I’m more than happy to share.”
He gestures for you both to come in. Clorinde gently nudges you forward once more. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says—and then she throws him a pointed look. “Try not to scare her off, Wriothesley.”
“You’re the scary one,” he calls after her, but she’s already halfway down the hall.
He shakes his head after her before he clears his throat and lets you in, gesturing for you to sit across from him as he settles into his own chair. “Right,” he says. “Formal introductions are probably overdue. I’m Wriothesley—warden of the Fortress, glorified administrator, part-time peacekeeper, full-time babysitter, whatever you would like to call it.”
Your laugh slips out before you can swallow it, and he grins, pleased. “Rest assured, you won’t have to babysit me,” you hum as you introduce yourself.
“That’s quite the relief, miss—but not to worry, nothing you’ll do down here is too complicated. Monsieur Neuvillette has given me the rundown of your responsibilities, and I’ll walk you through protocols, safety procedures, all the boring stuff—really, it’s easier than it sounds. Would you like some tea?”
“No, thank you,” you say politely.
“Well, if you don’t want any,” he sighs dramatically, “guess I’ll drink some all alone.” He reaches for his mug mid-sentence, still flipping through a folder with his other hand.
Except his grip on the handle slips. Then the glass tilts. Then—
“Ah, fuck,” he hisses, the scalding liquid burning through his pants and leaving the skin of his thigh raw.
A moment later, you feel a ripple of pain burst through…your thigh? You gasp, letting out a low hiss of, “Shit!” as you grip your upper leg.
His head jerks up, glancing at you with narrowed eyes for a moment at your gasp, seeing you clutching your own leg. He leans over the desk, concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you mumble, “just felt like I got burned….”
It hits you then.
It hits you as you notice him watching your expression, still feeling the remnants of the same burn as you on his own thigh. His eyes widen as the realization hits him at the same time as you.
“You felt that?” he gapes.
You blink as your eyes hold his gaze. Could this mean…could he be…? No, you think, perhaps it’s just a freak coincidence and…
“Hang on a second,” Wriothesley murmurs, and then he pinches the skin of his forearm hard. He grimaces at the sting, and not even a moment later, you hiss and clutch your arm as a wave of pain radiates along the perimeter of your own skin.
“What the fuck?” You glare.
He blinks again. Then he whispers, almost shaky, “Well, what do you know…you do exist.”
“Was that really necessary?” you huff.
“Sorry,” he says, rubbing his neck awkwardly. “Just…just testing a theory there.”
“You could have tested your theory without pinching so hard,” you pout, rubbing over your arm as if the pain hadn’t already faded away. The phantom linger of pain is always the worst part—the part where you can’t forget how it felt to be hurt, even if it didn’t last long. The ghost of the injustice of it all. The unfairness that torments you without so much as a bruise as proof. The reality that somewhere, the person you are meant to find is hurt, and there is proof taunting you without making itself known properly.
But now…now he isn’t just somewhere. No—he’s right here.
It dawns on you just what theory he’s tested and proven. Your head snaps up, getting a good, long look at his face before you stand and walk over, gripping the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer like you’re inspecting him more properly now.
He stares at you in bewilderment. “Um…wha—”
“Oh my god,” you gasp at the mark under his eye, “this scar—I remember this! That one felt awful—oh my god! Wait! I remember this, too,” you point to the one peeking through his collar at his neck. Without thinking, you quickly unbutton his vest and the shirt underneath, making him squawk in protest. But you pay him no mind—your hand delicately, gently, slowly tracing over the years and years and years of evidence of pain.
Pain you felt. Pain you shared. Pain you carried with him, even if only for a moment.
Your hand trembles as you take in the awful, cruel marks scattered across his skin—the raised, discolored grafts melding into the healthier patches. You ignore the way his eyes bore into your face, watching you carefully as every emotion twists across your expression.
“How could anyone…I don’t…I don’t understand,” you whisper, tracing a particularly thick scar across his left pec. You wonder if it narrowly missed his heart. Your eyes well up with tears against your will, much to your disdain.
His own eyes widen with alarm. “It’s not a big deal,” he says quickly. “They’re nothing, really! I’m strong, see?” Wriothesley flexes his arm, showing the bulging muscle of his bicep before he tries—poorly—to lighten the mood with, “Nothing’s beatin’ me down, miss.”
“Are you joking? These hurt,” you hiss. “Don’t pretend they didn’t! I felt them all too, in case you’ve forgotten!”
His face drops at that—guilt sprawling across every feature. (It’s a beautiful, handsome face. He’s gorgeous, and you wonder if he’s ever been made to feel that way. Even if only for a moment.)
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, “I never…if it were up to me, you would’ve never felt—”
“Never mind me,” you sniffle. “What in the Archons’ names have you been dealing with all your life?”
Your hands gently pull off his vest and the shirt underneath fully, giving you a proper look at the full map of suffering carved into him. It should be a bit unprofessional, really, to undress your new colleague the moment you meet—but, well, the circumstances are a bit unique here. And he just sort of lets you without protesting, this time.
Your breath hitches as soon as you see his bare upper body. His torso is a constellation of old wounds—some thin and faded with age, others thicker, more jagged, warped in ways that make your stomach twist. Every scar is proof that this nation does not serve justice the way its divine nature intends. No one, especially not a child of his age when these injuries had marked him, should have endured such cruelty under the Hydro Archon’s watch.
You lift trembling fingers to his arm, tracing a long, uneven scar that snakes along the front. “This one,” you whisper, voice cracking, “I remember waking up in the middle of the night because of this. I thought—Archons, I thought someone had sliced me open.”
Wriothesley winces—not from your touch, but from the look on your face. His hands hover like he wants to steady you, but he doesn’t have the courage to fully reach.
“Ah, that,” he mumbles. “It…it wasn’t that deep. Just…caught a knife the wrong way, that’s all.”
You give him a watery, withering look. “Don’t you dare lie to me.”
“That was years ago,” he insists. “It’s over now! I’m…we’re okay.”
“I was always okay,” you bury your face in your hands. “All this time, I was okay, and you weren’t. If we’d…found each other sooner…or if—if maybe we’d tried to communicate somehow…perhaps if we’d even tried to—”
His hands gently wrap around your wrists, tugging them away from your face before pulling your hunched figure forward so you’re no longer bending awkwardly over him. Instead…you’re on his lap.
His lap.
Sure, he’s your soulmate, and of course, you’ve always felt a great deal of care for this stranger you’ve been bound to for years, but never really known, but you only met him not too long ago. And now you’re sitting on his lap.
You gasp, flustered as you stammer, “W-what are y-you—”
“Hey,” he hums softly, tilting your face to look at him. His hand cradles your jaw—gentle, delicate, impossibly careful from someone who’s known nothing but hardship at the hands of others. Your eyes lock with his as he murmurs, “I’m okay, sweetheart. See? I’m sitting here in the flesh right in front of you…if that’s proof.”
“Guess…guess it is,” you swallow thickly.
“Y’know? It’s strange,” he admits, voice low.
“What is?”
“Finally having you here. And not just some weird temporary feeling every now and then.”
You hum, studying his face. He really is young for a Duke. Handsome, sure, but too young to carry the burdens that he does. Then again, you think that might have been true all his life. “Strange as in good?”
He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yes. Very good.”
Your fingers have begun tracing along a scar on his shoulder slowly, without even realizing it. He glances down at your hand, then back to you, lips curling into a loose, amused grin. You quickly stop the movement, clearing your throat as you mumble, “This is not professional work behavior, you know.”
“You took my shirt off,” he points out.
“And you pulled me onto your lap!”
He tactfully ignores that part and hums, “You know…I think you should come by outside of official business. That way we’re not interrupted by duties and all.”
Your heart thumps hard enough that you’re sure he feels it. “Is this your way of asking me on a date? Because then it’s a little lackluster.”
He shrugs, giving you a boyishly charming smile. “Are you gonna turn me down? After I waited this long to find you?”
“Guess not,” you sigh dramatically, “perhaps I can spare some time here and there. In these…dark, dingy halls.”
“Your kindness moves me, miss soulmate,” he beams.
You stare for a moment. (You should be embarrassed that you do, but he stares right back, and he doesn’t seem to be complaining about the circumstances. You can’t help but get lost in him—it’s almost a force that’s beyond your control. Perhaps beyond his, too.)
Finally, you blink and force yourself out of whatever trance he has you in. “I should get up…” you say, mildly embarrassed. You try to move—but he has one arm around your waist, keeping you in place as he gives you an unhappy frown.
“What’s the rush? Not like either of us has to be anywhere.”
“This is unprofessional! And entirely not the sort of position anyone should see the warden of this place in if they walk—”
“Well, that’s the fun part,” he gives you a confident, wolfish little grin, “no one walks into a warden’s office without knocking.”
“I’m gonna write that in my report,” you warn, “that you use unlawful tactics for intimidation and control.”
“The fortress is an autonomous region,” he shoots back.
“It’s still a partnership!”
“Yes,” he grins, eyeing you softly, “I suppose it is.”
────────────────────────
Wriothesley knows he’s not very lucky in most departments. The soulmate one, however? He likes to think he got pretty damn lucky.
You’re pretty and funny, and you have a good head on your shoulders. That much is evident, and most people would be thrilled just by that. But you have other endearing things about you—things he tallies up over the weeks as he gets to know you and keeps locked away in his memories.
You can’t drink liquids if they’re piping hot, but somehow, food is not a problem. You like flowers even if you’re allergic to half of them. You’re passionate about how much you dislike Fontaine’s silly, unnecessary laws. You work at the Palais because it makes you feel useful. You insist you can’t decide what your favorite color is, but you unknowingly always seem to favor a certain one. You always insist you don’t want anything when he offers to pay, but you’re very bad at hiding your excitement when he buys you a pastry anyway.
He could keep a list. He doesn’t need to write them down because his mind could not forget these little things even if he wanted, but he could keep a list. A list of everything he learns day by day, week by week, month by month.
“I thought you hated bananas,” he raises an amused brow. You sit across from him in the bakery, happily slicing through the banana bread he bought on his mora.
“I do,” you argue, “but banana bread doesn’t count. It makes the banana work—and there are chocolate chips, see?”
He doesn’t say anything—just stares and takes in the sight of you. All of you. You.
“Want another slice?”
“Oh no, thank you,” you shake your head, “I’m good, really.”
(In the end, he gets you another. You pretend like he’s gone out of his way for nothing, but you eat it with no complaints, a happy gleam in your eye. He wonders if he’ll be blessed by the Gods enough to buy you sweets until all of his hair turns grey.)
────────────────────────
It takes a few months before Wriothesley talks about his past. You work at the Palais and sift through legal documents often enough that coming across his trial’s records is not difficult business. But you wait for him to tell you on his own terms.
The first time he brings it up is also the first time you fuck him. It’s been a long time coming—you want him so badly, it almost hurts. You think about him all the time, and you’ve seen him in enough instances without a shirt that your imagination has begun to run a little wild. You want Wriothesley, and if you can just find out if he wants you too, you can have him, you’re sure.
So you set out to find out.
“You wanna make out?” you ask from the couch in his office as he does paperwork.
He pauses, doing a double-take. “Sorry?”
“You and me,” you gesture between the two of you with a finger, “do you wanna make out? Like kiss and stuff with our tongues and—”
“I know what making out is, thank you!” he interjects, neck flushing a little, faint trace of red, “We’ve done it before, I’m not clueless. I’m just astounded by your forthcomingness, is all.”
You pout. “Well, I’m bored. And you look very handsome right now. So? Making out—yes or no?”
He drops his pen as he stares at you. It rolls off the desk. He makes no move to retrieve it. “Sweetheart,” he says slowly, like he’s talking to a toddler, “you can’t just look at a guy while he’s trying to finish disciplinary reports and ask if he wants to swap spit.”
“Why not? If you don’t want to, you can just say so.”
“I—” He blinks. Once. Twice. His ears are also red now. “I didn’t say I didn't want to.”
You grin excitedly, walking over to him with a little bounce in your step as you lean your hip against his desk, arms crossed in victory. “So you do want to.”
“I didn’t say that either.” He rubs a hand down his face. “We’re in my office.”
“So?” You shrug. “We’ve made out here before—you didn’t care then. Why start now?”
He glares, but it’s the useless kind—more fluster than defiance. “W-well, that was…after everyone was in their bunks for curfew!”
“Mhm.” You take a slow step closer. “So what about that time we made out behind some pipes in the middle of the day? Curfew only matters selectively, huh?” His breath stutters. Very slightly. But you notice. You push a finger under his chin, tilting his head up so he has to look at you. His pupils are blown—just a little, but it’s enough to knock a spark of heat straight into your spine. “You can tell me no,” you murmur. “Just say the word.”
“M’not ever going to say no to kissing you,” he mumbles, pulling you onto his lap, “you know that good and well, you little troublemaker.”
“Troublemaker?” you gasp, “I’ve no criminal history, your grace!”
“For now,” he snorts, “may have to take you into court myself for the damages you do down here.”
Before you can protest, he leans in and closes the gap, kissing you soft and sweet with a little edge of desperation. You gasp, and his lips move against yours again—harder this time, as if the first kiss has cracked open some dam to his self-control, and everything he’s been holding back is now spilling over at once. His hands slide to your waist, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath hitch. He pulls you flush against him, swallowing the small sound you make as he kisses you deeper, fuller, like he’s been starved for this—starved for you.
You fist the front of his shirt, dragging him closer, and he groans into your mouth, low and rough. The sound shoots straight through you and goes straight to your core. He tilts your head back, cradling it as his mouth slots against yours impatiently. When his tongue grazes yours, you answer him with a low moan, wrapping your arms around his neck and tugging at his hair.
He makes a sharp, pleased noise at that. You feel his smile against your lips—brief and crooked, making something between your legs ache. “Like that, huh?”
“Be quiet,” you huff. He only laughs before deepening the kiss again, his mouth claiming yours with an amused smile.
Suddenly, an arm wraps tightly around your waist and hoists you closer—you can’t focus on it too much with the way he’s nipping at your bottom lip. It’s not until your back hits the wall that you even realize that he’s been moving you, walking to the short distance to the wall behind his desk with his arm curled around you, holding your weight like it’s nothing. One of his hands fiddles with something behind you—a click later, and you realize it’s a doorknob.
The door opens, and he quickly strides in with you in his grip. You pull away, panting, glancing around as you take in this new room. A bedroom, you realize—his bedroom. His gauntlets are there, in a corner, tools sprawled around them from the last time he spent tinkering away at them. You take in the simplicity of it, how there isn’t anything in here apart from his essentials. The bare necessities.
“Is this your room?” you whisper.
“Didn’t think I slept in the bunks with the inmates, did you?” he murmurs, gently setting you down on his bed as he hovers over you. “What’s the point of being a duke if I don’t get at least a few perks?”
“You should decorate the place more,” you murmur, “I’ll help.”
“Yeah?” he pecks your lips, “awfully nice of you, sweetheart.”
You tug him down by the collar, chasing his mouth when he breaks away to speak. He huffs a laugh, breath warm against your lips, and then he’s kissing you again—messy, hungry, more unrestrained now, like he’s finally given himself permission to want this as badly as you do.
His teeth catch your lower lip.
Your answering gasp is all the invitation he needs to bring his hand to your thigh, rubbing up and down the side of it as he groans into your mouth roughly when you tug at his hair some more. “Was this your plan all along?” he rasps, “get me in your bed?”
“This is your bed,” you point out, “and you brought me here.”
“You have a smart little mouth,” he grunts, angling your jaw up as he fixes you with a playfully stern look, “that’s insubordination, miss.”
“I think I need to be disciplined, your grace,” you say, giving him a cheeky little wink.
He huffs out a disbelieving laugh, looking at you in awe and wonder before he shakes his head and brings your arms up, pinning them over your head as he presses kisses along your jaw. “You,” he murmurs between kisses, “are a handful.”
The moment he pulls back enough actually to look at you, though, something shifts. His breath hitches, barely perceptible, but there. His eyes glaze over with something as they take in the sight of you under him—you can’t quite make out what it is, but you know it makes you feel important. Special. Some sort of feeling that no one has quite made you feel before. Then his hands, firm a moment ago, loosen just slightly around your wrists, as if the reality of holding you like this suddenly hits him all at once.
You watch him swallow. His gaze flickers from your eyes to your mouth, then lower, before he willfully forces him to look up and direct his gaze to your forehead so he’s not looking into your eyes or downwards along your body.
“What?” you whisper, a small smile curling at your lips.
“Nothing.” He clears his throat, though it comes out rougher than he means it to. “Just… you’re—” he cuts himself off abruptly, the unfinished thought hanging between you. He releases your wrists, carefully, like you’re something fragile that he’s only just realized he’s strong enough to break. His palms settle instead at your waist, hesitant in a way they weren’t before.
You tilt your head, watching him with growing curiosity. “You okay?”
“Course I am,” he huffs. “Just noticed you’re…very pretty. That’s all.”
“Only now?” you pout—but your lips are already curled into a cocky little grin.
“Stop that,” he grumbles.
“Stop what?”
“You know what,” he huffs.
You giggle, tugging him down by his stupidly loose tie and bringing his forehead against yours. His eyes are always icy blue, but they’re the brightest pools of warmth you’ve ever swam in, all the same. “You’re getting shy on me, you know.”
“Am not,” he argues.
“Are too,” you grin.
“Nope,” he all but pouts. His breath hitches as you untie his tie and fling it somewhere, slowly working at the buttons of his vest while he lets out a shaky breath over you. “You’re…sure about this?”
“I’m always sure about you,” you smile softly. He closes his eyes, breath stuttering for a moment as you pull off his shirt and vest, admiring the hard planes of muscle and the broadness of his physique. “You’re pretty, too, by the way.”
“You’re killing me,” he rasps.
Undressing is an awkward ordeal. But endearing. Wriothesley struggles to kick off his boots, and unclasping your bra takes him a moment before he can tug it off—but finally, in between kisses and soft, amused giggles and breathy, embarrassed chuckles, you’re both bare and tangled in his sheets.
He’s hard—his cock is thick and curved, and the tip leaks with the evidence of his arousal in the form of pre cum. You bring a hand between your bodies, gently smearing it with your thumb like a lubricant while he shivers and lets out a soft groan.
“Fuck,” he hisses out, breathing harder as you wrap your hand around his girth. He stares down at where your touch meets him—and he’s more than a little dizzy by the way your hand can barely wrap around the full width of his thickness.
“It’s…so big,” you murmur, staring in awe and disbelief.
“You can’t just say that,” he groans.
“Sorry,” you giggle, biting your lip as you give him an innocent smile.
“You’re not sorry even a little,” he huffs. Then his eyes flutter closed and his lips part in a low, shaky moan as you slowly move your hand and drag your palm along his length, stroking languidly while he buries his head into your neck.
“I am,” you insist, kissing the side of his head sweetly, “here, I’ll even make it up to you.”
“Ngh—fuck,” he curses as your pace quickens, the friction of your hand gliding over the sensitive skin of his erection making his breaths come out unevenly. He’s pretty when he feels good—and Wriothesley is pretty and easy on the eye any time, of course, but when he’s bare and vulnerable and trusts you to witness him at his rawest, he is particularly beautiful.
Your eyes can’t help but keep themselves glued on him—and he can’t help but notice and get more flustered.
“Stop staring,” he grunts.
“What am I meant to look at then?” you huff, “the wall?”
“Close your eyes.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you shake your head with a snort.
There’s a building ache between your bare legs, a wetness leaking and spreading down your inner thighs as you watch pleasure sprawl over his features and hear the sweet, delicate sounds of approval he makes when you touch him particularly right.
Finally, his hand gently grasps onto your wrist as he stops you, panting and gritting his jaw as he murmurs, “O-okay—think…think we should get to…you know.”
“What?” you tease.
“The main part,” he glares weakly—and then, he spreads your legs and takes a closer look at your wet, needy cunt. “You want this just as badly—I can literally see it. Don’t be so smug, sweetheart.”
“Of course I want you,” you hum, “why wouldn’t I?” He shivers at that. Gives you a dazed look before he leans in and kisses you—almost like it’s more to distract himself than it is to distract you.
(Wriothesley is endearing when he’s flustered. This is the conclusion that sex with him draws you to. When he fumbles through his side drawer to pull out a condom, and when he struggles to open the package, you are hopelessly endeared. And when he gives you a half-hearted glare as you giggle, you realize how endearing he also is when he is grumpy.)
“Ready?” he whispers, eyeing you good and hard once he finally lines up with your entrance. You nod, and he mumbles, “I need words, please, sweetness.”
“Ready,” you sigh fondly, “I want you. M’not backing out.” He takes a moment to look at you properly. Like he has to be sure you’re here and want this. With him. Wriothesley has brought you pain before—against his will, he’s made you ache and throb with soreness and harsh stings. He makes you ache again—this time, though, it’s a little different. It’s not because you carry his pain with him. It’s because that look he gives you makes your chest tighten and your heart ache all on its own accord. “I want you, Wrio,” you breathe, cupping his cheeks, “swear I do.”
Only then does he close his eyes, smiling softly as he nods and murmurs, “Lucky me. Got you all to myself—the universe said so. You’re all mine.”
“All yours,” you breathe.
He presses the thick tip of his cock along your entrance, rubbing along your folds and collecting your wetness as you shiver. You gasp, and he chuckles softly at the fragile sound, pecking your lips as he murmurs, “Barely even done anything yet, sweetheart.”
“Then do something,” you click your teeth, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him closer, pressing his pelvis closer.
He swallows, whispering, “You’ll tell me if I hurt you, yeah?”
“You’ll feel it anyway,” you murmur, “quit your worry-warting and move.”
“So demanding, miss soulmate,” he chuckles.
And then—finally—he pushes past your folds, pressing into you slowly, carefully, delicately. Wriothesley has a reputation. It’s a bit out of his control—people tend to see a prison warden as rough and strict, and people often mistake him for a brute with just a glance. You know better. You know him to be soft and sensitive and so caring, it’s almost unfair that he spends his time under waves of the ocean instead of up in the real world, where he can share his warmth. You know him as the kind man who feeds squirrels in Fontaine and pets stray cats in the alleyways. You know him as the gentle guy who holds doors open for children and lets them cut in line at the ice cream shop. You know him as the delicate boy who never wants to hurt you with his strength when he already feels waves of guilt for having brought you so much hurt all these years without meaning to.
When he sinks into your tight, welcoming cunt, and stretches you open, you wonder how you went this long without him. How you survived without knowing him. How you lived this long without being tangled in his arms and being connected to him deep and close.
He feels so right—so good. He curves into you so perfectly, stretches you apart, opens you up with his thickness, and presses the blunt head of his against a delicate, sensitive spot in your walls that makes your head spin.
“W-wrio…” your breath hitches, “f-fuck—so deep,” you whine.
“And you’re…so tight,” he groans, “shit, sweetheart—never felt so good before.”
You never dwelled on the reality of soulmates. Your mother and father were lucky enough to meet each other—you know that soulmates are real before Wriothesley’s pain is ever yours because you watch them love. You watch them nurture you, the byproduct of that love, with so much care and diligence. You don’t need the proof of your own soulmate to know that they are real and they exist.
For the longest time, you know nothing about Wriothesley apart from the fact that he exists. You’ve only ever known that he was yours. That one day, if you were lucky, you’d find him. It never occurred to you that once you did find him, you’d realize how incomplete you’ve always been. How everything was there, but there was no one to share it with. Now that he’s here, pressed into you deep into you, you wonder how you’ll ever disconnect. How you’ll ever part from feeling so whole and complete.
His hips move—he pulls almost all the way out before slamming back into you, hard and rough but still careful enough that it doesn’t hurt you. It blinds you with a pleasure that burns through your spine and finds every nerve. It makes a soft, pleasant ache start to form at the pit of your stomach, building up stronger and stronger with every roll of his hips and every drag of his cock along your walls.
The friction makes you sob, curling your nails into his shoulders as you whimper, “S’good, Wrio—so…so good, please don’t stop.”
“Now why would I do that?” he grunts, moaning when your walls flutter around him and squeeze tight. “Why would I stop feeling my precious girl?”
Your head spins more at that—precious girl. Wriothesley is smooth about calling you things like that. He calls you something affectionate so casually that sometimes you almost mistake your own name for a sweet, loving pet name. Sweetheart. Sweetness. Precious girl. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly sentimental, he calls you honey. When he’s in a playful mood, he likes to say miss soulmate. (You ask him why he says it once, and he tells you, it’s because I like reminding you you’re my soulmate. And I like saying it out loud, too. Makes it more real.)
You like it when he calls you things that remind you that you’re his. You like being his. It’s your favorite thing to be—the thing that takes burdens off your shoulder and lets you simply exist without having something to prove. Something to offer. You like being so easy for someone to care about you, it feels like it happens for no other reason than just because it’s natural to do so.
“Faster,” you plead.
“Anything you want, precious,” he breathes. “You—hah—you are so beautiful. You know that?”
A hand moves up your thigh and travels to that delicate spot between your legs—and then you throw your head back and mewl as he finds your clit and rubs circles with that rough, calloused pad of his thumb. You’re sensitive—every brush against the bundle of nerves sends a jolt of pleasure that has you hurdling towards your end.
“Close,” you rasp, “Wrio…m’so c-close.”
“Yeah, sweetheart? Is that right?” he asks, his own voice shaky enough that you gather it must be the case for him, too. His pace has become sloppy enough that he must be near the edge himself, as well.
“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip and letting out a soft, drawn-out moan as he sinks deeper into you and presses right against your sweet spot.
“Me…me too—come with me, okay? Want…want you to finish with me,” he pleads. His thumb is merciless against your clit—it rubs smooth, unpausing circles and builds you up to your release with one, then two, and then a third thrust of his hips.
Your vision all but goes white as you fall apart. Your back arches, and he curls an arm around you and brings you flush against him, kissing you rough and hard and needy. You swallow each other’s sounds as your walls flutter around him and his cock twitches inside of you, letting warm rope after rope of thick seed spill into the plastic that separates you.
“Fuck,” you both hiss.
“Sweetheart,” he breathes, “you…you’re so perfect. Know that? Huh?” He kisses along your jaw. They’re wet, messy kisses, pressed into your skin with a drunken, hazy sense of control as you milk his cock for every last drop of his release.
“C’mere,” you beg, “closer.”
“M’right here,” he murmurs, “fuck, m’not going anywhere. Ever.”
And then he collapses beside you once he’s fucked you both through the last few waves of your orgasms. He pulls you against him, wrapping two strong, muscled arms around you and tangling your body with his.
“That was nice,” you whisper.
“That was your plan all along,” he accuses, “you never wanted to just make out.”
You giggle, beaming up at him. “Guilty. Will I serve a sentence, your grace?”
“Life in prison,” he gives you a faux stern look, “directly under my supervision.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad,” you hum, “serving down here with you. I think I’d live.”
For a while, it’s quiet. You bask in the afterglow of him and you and the skin that melts you both together. And then, his voice carries through the space that hardly exists between you both.
“I served down here,” he mumbles. “Bet you already knew that—you probably have better access to legal documents than me.”
“I’ve seen a paper or two,” you admit.
“You’re rather calm regarding my history,” he says carefully.
“I guess I just…always had a feeling things played out the way they did. I remember it,” you whisper, tracing the skin of his chest, feeling the scars from memory. “The night you killed your parents. I felt it, y’know?”
His breath stills. You’re sure he’s not surprised—it was nothing short of vicious, the fight he’d put up. You’re sure he remembers better than you how it felt in every nerve ending. You don’t think anyone could ever forget.
The truth is that you’d known about his court case long before you pieced together he was your soulmate. It’s a case most people in your line of work know about. A popular case that opened up a popular investigation into chains of corrupted institutions for children. Places led and controlled by people who have intentions to do anything but keep the less fortunate children of Fontaine safe. Most people in your field consider him a hero of sorts—a boy who sacrificed his freedom to make a change the justice system wouldn’t.
You think Wriothesley is troubled. He was as a child, and in some ways, he is now. You wish he could have been like other boys and girls, that he could be like other men and women. You wish life was kinder to him so that his circumstances never had to feel like the extremes were the only way out.
You wish Wriothesley could have had a good life. You wish Fontaine and those who uphold its justice hadn’t failed him every chance he had to get one.
He doesn’t look at you for a while. His gaze stays focused on the ceiling as he swallows. “The night I killed my foster parents maybe wasn’t my proudest moment.”
“Maybe not,” you agree, moving your hand to grab his, lacing your fingers together. “But I think you’ve had a proud moment or two since then.”
He stays silent. For a long time, Wriothesley is silent. You don’t think he’ll say anything else, so you close your eyes, slowly drifting off to sleep against his chest when his voice rumbles in your ear. Low. Hesitant.
“I don’t regret it,” is all he says.
You crack an eye open, tilting your head up. “Killing them?”
“Setting the kids free,” he corrects. “No one else would have done it. That was the only way I could think of. I felt like they deserved it.”
“How about now?”
“Well. Still think they deserve it,” he mumbles. “But…I would do it differently now.”
“That’s because you can,” you point out, “you have the connections and the resources to do things the ‘right’ way.”
“Think so?” he cracks a grin—small, but there.
“I do believe you hold some authority, you grace,” you chuckle. He doesn’t say anything else—just laughs softly and kisses your forehead. You fall asleep lulled by his fingers along your back and the smell of his faint cologne.
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Wriothesley has a habit of throwing himself into the ring when things get hard. It was the only outlet he had down here in the fortress for the most part when he served—the only way for him to break a sweat and get his energy poured into something. And maybe get in a few good hits to anyone who’d been giving him a hard time. But, well…some habits just stick. They’re hard to grow out of.
Nowadays, being in the ring is more or less a matter of keeping in shape. At least, that’s what he tells himself, anyway—he knows it’s no coincidence that when his mind is particularly heavy, he spends more time hitting a punching bag with taped fists. He’s always had a high pain tolerance. The sore muscles in his arms and the sting of his knuckles ground him half the time more than they do hurt him.
He wonders if he’s grown accustomed to pain because it’s been the only constant in his life, or if it’s because he simply deserves it.
“Wrio,” he hears a soft voice call, pausing him from throwing his next punch. He drops his form, straightening his back as he looks over his shoulder. It’s you, of course. It had to be even before he’d registered your voice—only one person is allowed at the pankration ring at this hour (him) and only one person gets away with breaking his rules (you).
“What’re you doin’ here, sweetheart?” he tilts his head a few times to crack his neck, “you’re supposed to be in bed.”
“So are you.”
“Got a little restless, is all,” he says vaguely.
“You’re tired,” you raise an unimpressed brow, “and that poor bag has had enough—it never did anything to you.”
“I’m not tired yet,” he denies. (He is. Even for his standards, his arms and shoulders are rather tense and sore. He’s pushed himself further than usual. He bets you would know because you can feel it.)
“You can’t lie to me when I can feel the same things as you,” you huff, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “You’re too young to have stiff shoulders, y’know.”
His eyes soften with guilt before he lets out a heavy sigh and lets his shoulders drop. You walk over, standing behind him as your arms wrap around his midsection and your nose buries into the bare skin of his back.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he lies.
“Wriothesley,” you say flatly.
“Just a busy week,” he says half-heartedly. “Seriously, I’m fine. So…just drop it.”
“Okay,” you sigh, too tired from your sleep being interrupted to put up a proper fight. You kiss his back, and he melts a little at the gesture, limbs loosening up even more. “You’ll talk to me if you need to?”
“Yeah,” he whispers, “I’ll come find you if I need it.”
Wriothesley is aware that you know he won’t. Not of his own free will. He doesn’t talk about his feelings or share his burdens because then he’s no longer in control of his image. The less strong of an image he has, the more innocent and frail he seems. The more innocent and frail he seems, the more likely it is that he’ll be taken advantage of.
It’s not that Wriothesley doesn’t trust you, or that he thinks you’ll take advantage of him. You won’t. He trusts that much. You’re the only good thing that’s his. But muscle memory is muscle memory.
Some habits just stick. And they’re hard to grow out of.
You gently shuffle to stand in front of him, wrapping your arms to rest around his neck now. His hands find your hips. “Let’s go to bed,” you whisper, pulling him down so his forehead rests against yours. “If you’re really that energetic, I’ll tire you out some other way.”
“Yeah?” he cracks a grin.
“Mmh,” you hum.
“Then lead the way, sweetness,” he chuckles.
(In the end, he’s out like a light as soon as his head finds that comfortable place against your chest. He’s sure you’ll tease him for it as soon as he feels himself start to drift off, but he thinks it’s worth it when he feels your fingers card through his hair.)
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Sometimes, you forget Wriothesley can feel your pain just as much as you feel his. Your whole life has been spent so focused on how often he endures suffering compared to you, that you forget to focus on your own.
He doesn’t forget to focus on you, though. He never does. He’s one deep scowl and a hand on his hips away from making that known.
“With a headache like that, I’m surprised you’re still conscious, let alone finishing paperwork,” he clicks his teeth.
You glance up and give him a tired look when you register his words.
“I just need to finish these up and get them out of the way so they don’t haunt me—”
“No, you need sleep. And maybe a proper meal,” he interrupts.
“But—”
“No buts. Let’s go.” Before you can protest any further, he has you lifted and settled in his arms as he drags you to your bed from your desk.
You learn quickly on that Wriothesley doesn’t like spending nights apart. He’s grown too used to your presence. On nights you can’t come down to the Fortress, his simple solution is just to come spend the night up at the surface. You can’t pretend like you aren’t relieved by his presence yourself—one night without him makes for a terrible night of sleep. And maybe a worse headache the next day.
He shuffles through your apartment with a sense of familiarity that makes your heart full, even if your head is pounding. You nuzzle into the crook of his neck as he walks with you carefully tucked against him.
“You give me headaches,” he mumbles, “literally.”
“S’only fair,” you yawn, “you’ve put me through worse.” Your words have no bite to them. Nothing more than a good-natured quip. You’d go through worse in a heartbeat for him.
He smiles fondly, sighing as he kisses the side of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers, “guess that’s true.”
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Sex is a complicated topic for Wriothesley.
It’s a topic he’s been thinking about more lately. The more that sex happens between the two of you, the more he’s starting to realize that it’s a complicated topic for him.
Although if he’s being honest, what he engages with you can hardly be considered just sex. It’s intimacy. Wriothesley has never partaken in intimacy before you. Sex, though? Plenty of times. Sometimes, it was more for survival than his own desires, and sometimes it was simply because he was a growing, curious boy with needs and wants. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him what he needed for survival much quicker when he was still a prisoner. Sometimes, a quick fuck got him through his pent-up emotions better than sitting and processing them.
Whatever the case may be, Wriothesley has always had just sex because it was just that. Sex that has a purpose—some purposes less sanitized than others, but a purpose all the same.
But being intimate is something different from having just sex. When Wriothesley is having just sex, he can put on an air of cockiness. He can play into what people want, slip into whatever role they carved out for him—innocently sweet and naive, or dangerously charming and experienced, sometimes even a little rough and a little wicked. He can wear confidence like a mask, sharpen his smile into something rakish, tilt his chin just right, and say the things he knows people want to hear.
He can disconnect. He can keep his heart out of it. He can survive it.
Intimacy, though? Intimacy is different. It demands that he stay honest, not perform. That he be soft. That he be seen.
With you, there’s no room for the cocky smirk or the confident swagger. And he tries—he really, really tries—but the moment your hands are on him with care instead of expectation, the moment you kiss him like he’s precious instead of convenient, the moment your eyes are fond instead of just lustful, his whole front crumbles.
The mask doesn’t fit. The persona slips. The smooth, practiced words get stuck in his throat.
He’s clumsy with intimacy in a way he never was with just sex. His touches hesitate. His breath stutters when your fingers thread through his hair. He keeps searching your face like he’s waiting for the moment you change your mind, like he’s terrified you’ll see too much of him and walk away. Vulnerability of this kind turns him quiet, nervous, almost boyish in a way he hates himself for, and yet can’t seem to stop.
With you, he’s not performing. With you, he can’t.
You’re not just hoping he touches you for your own pleasure—and you don’t want to touch him back just to indulge your own wicked fantasies. You care about how he feels, how it is for him more than it is for you. You care about his experience with affection and gentleness.
The more that you and Wriothesley are intimate, the more he opens himself up to gentleness. And Wriothesley has never known what to do with gentleness.
He doesn’t know how to accept it. Not ever since the day he realized it came with a heavy price that he could never afford. (And how could he afford you? You are so patient and happy to have him, so willing despite knowing his past and the horrors of his crimes, despite enduring the agony he put you through physically. Your affection, of all things, should come with the highest of prices.)
“Did it bother you growing up?” he whispers, tracing your hip bone with his thumb as you lie against his bare chest. You like cuddling after intimacy. He likes it, too. You curl against him in his dark bedroom, bare and sleepy and satisfied, and for a moment, he feels normal. Like you’re not with him under the literal ocean. Like he’s not an ex-convict who now sees over other convicts. Like he’s not the guy who made you feel sharp kicks and deep bruises all your life.
“What?” you hum.
“You know what,” he huffs. You give him an earnestly confused shake of your head, and he sighs. He decides that perhaps you are being honest and not purposely dense just to make him properly communicate his feelings. “The pain,” he mutters. “It didn’t bother you that I was always bringing you pain?”
“It did,” you say bluntly. He tenses under you. You gently press a kiss to his chest as if to soothe him, like you’ve already read his mind. “Not for the reasons you might think, though.”
“Oh?” he arches a brow, “then do enlighten me, miss soulmate. How exactly did it bother you that I’m not gathering here?”
You roll your eyes. It’s affectionate.
Wriothesley misses that. He misses affection in the simple forms he once knew—Mother’s fond eye-roll, the way she’d sigh and grab a handkerchief to clean the chocolate smeared at the corner of his mouth after Father brought home treats. The way she’d bend down and wipe the smudges away as she’d gently scold, You’ve got to be more careful, ▇▇! Heavens know what other people would think if they saw you so filthy. Whatever would you do without me? The way she’d sigh and pull him into a hug, kissing his cheeks when he’d pouted at being lectured.
Mother was always so soft—he still wonders, sometimes, how anyone could possibly fake so much gentleness. Some of it had to have been real, right? Just a fraction? A small morsel? It had to be, hadn’t it? Even if he wasn’t worth loving long enough to keep, he must have at least been worth loving for that temporary time she showed him that affection.
If only he were worth more than a pretty sum of mora. If only he could have made Mother fond enough of him that keeping him was worth more than selling him off like some animal on the market, a piece of meat to butcher and cut open and devour with filthy, disgusting hands.
Affection has always cost him something. Some price that is not worth paying. His innocence, his freedom, his life. You are the only person who affords him affection without any price. And how funny, he thinks—that the one person capable of it is the one person meant for him, decided by fate. He wonders then, that if there was no such thing as fate and divinity, if he’d be worthy of any affection at all. If you are the one person the world has granted him because it is their begrudging duty to assign him another half. If you alone are a miracle that he was lucky enough to be allowed by Celestia, as they smiled down on him out of a single, twisted instance of mercy.
He can’t dwell on it too long before you’re cupping his cheek and pulling him out of his thoughts, pressing a kiss to his lips. His breath hitches for a moment—he forgets sometimes that can do this whenever he wants. He can kiss you. Claim your affection. Feel the proof of it for himself. He presses into you harder, desperately trying to swallow down as much of it for free as he can in case one day, this too has a price that is out of his means.
“It never bothered me to carry your pain,” you whisper against his mouth, “though I won’t lie—it did hurt,” you chuckle. You peck his lips before he can say anything in response. “It bothered me that it was your reality. I couldn’t understand why it was like that—how different we were.”
“You shouldn’t have had to try to understand it,” he mumbles, “if you weren’t stuck to me, you’d have—”
“Mwah,” you cut him off, pressing a loud kiss to his mouth. “Don’t say that, silly. I’m not stuck with you.”
He blinks before he huffs out a soft snort, shaking his head in disbelief. “Silencing me with a kiss isn’t going to—”
“Mwah!” You kiss him again, theatrically louder this time as you giggle.
“If you keep kissing me when I say self-deprecating things, it’ll only condition me to say them more,” he warns.
“Then I’ll kiss you after you say anything,” you hum. “Then you’ll only bother saying the nice things since you might as well.”
“I don’t know if that’s how it works—”
“Mwah!” You kiss again.
He laughs, pulling you impossibly closer before he tilts your face up, cupping your cheek with a large hand that practically swallows your face entirely as he kisses you. Hard. You hum against his lips, eyes fluttering shut as you kiss him back. As if kissing him is enjoyable. As if someone like him was worthy of your time and affection and touch. As if someone of his status is worth tangling your life with, despite being who he is and where he is from.
“Wrio,” you murmur, trying to pull away from his needy lips.
“Mmh,” he mumbles, bridging the gap every time you try to create it. You giggle, gently stroking through his hair before delicately tugging at the strands to pry him away. He caves, sighing before he pulls away, grumpy as he stares at you, dazed. “What?” he frowns.
“I would have taken your pain for myself if I could,” you whisper, “if it meant you didn’t have to live like that. Feeling it was never the issue. You should know that.”
“You’re insane,” he breathes, “now c’mere.”
He moves to kiss you again—but instead, you cup both of his cheeks and force him to look you in the eyes. “You didn’t deserve to feel it all either.”
“I know that,” he mutters, frowning. (He is grouchy when he’s vulnerable. He’s known that from a young age. Feeling weak fills him with a sense of anger and disgust that makes him lash out. Maybe he’s angry with himself for being so weak. Or perhaps at the world for making him that way. He doesn’t know. All he knows is that it makes him want to become bigger. Stronger. More untouchable. Whether it’s through bloodied gauntlets in his childhood living room or some bulked-up muscle in the pankration ring, he is always trying to seem stronger.)
“And you deserve someone to carry everything with you,” you continue. “You know that too, right?”
“Course I do,” he grunts, not meeting your eyes, “what’s the point of saying all this?”
“The point,” you say firmly, “is that you start believing you can have nice things.”
“I have nice things,” he says petulantly. “Got a decently good income and…and my title is literally Duke, and I got you—I have a pretty lady that’s all for me, don’t I? You wound me, sweetheart. Are you trying to say I don’t have anything nice because I live under the sea or something—”
“Wrio,” you say softly. “Please.”
He deflates.
Wriothesley has always kept a respectful distance away from people. His colleagues and this prison are all his home. His family. But he keeps a respectful distance. It’s the smartest option. Because distance is what keeps him most safe. What keeps people close enough that he’s never truly alone, but not close enough that they are people he can lose and suffer the loss of. But distance is difficult to maintain in an intimate relationship, though—distance is impossible to keep for longer than a small period of time.
Wriothesley is realizing that, slowly but surely—that no distance means having all the hard conversations. The ones that make him feel so raw and vulnerable, it’s like he’s peeling his skin straight off and exposing his bones and tissue.
He takes a moment, focuses real hard on tracing the skin of your arm rather than meeting your eyes before he mumbles, “Yeah. Fine.”
“I don’t want you to feel guilty,” you say softly.
“S’not a feeling I can just turn off,” he shrugs.
“Yes,” you agree, “it’s not. But we can talk about it when your mind goes there.”
“I don’t like talking.”
“But you like me,” you smile, “and I like you, too. And if we want to like each other and make it work, we have to do that thing you don’t like where we talk about our feelings. Communicate. Do that couple-y sort of stuff. Yeah?”
You’re right about one thing—Wriothesley likes you. He likes everything about you. He likes hearing you talk and listening to your voice. He likes learning about you and the things you like. He likes looking at you and the way you smile or laugh. He likes everything. He even likes the way you add too much sugar to the tea he brews up for you (even if you don’t properly enjoy its flavor that way). He likes having you. Likes being able to say you’re his—not because he doesn’t want to share you with the world, but because he wants to have something he can keep. Something that isn’t here one second and gone the next. Something that was meant for him, so he can have it and never have to exchange it for something else because the universe only lets him have one good thing at a time.
But Wriothesley also knows that things are just a set way for a guy like him. Not all people are created equal. Some people are blessed and lucky and can have a good life. Others are simply there to serve as a reminder that those people should count their blessings unless they want to end up like the others.
He’s one of the others. And you’re one of the blessed. And sometimes…well, sometimes he wonders if it’s better that you stay in your blessed little bubble of a world instead of getting caught up in the whirlwind that is him. And his life. And his terrible, awful luck.
He’d love it if he could save you the trouble of mingling with someone like him and realizing you were made for something better. And maybe, a little selfishly, he’d love it if he could save himself some heartache in the process and lose you before it would wreck him completely. He feels like he deserves that much—feels like he’s helped enough people and atoned enough for some of his darker sins that he should be able to just hold onto the stability he’s built himself. Sure, he’s not exactly fulfilled or happy, but he’s not exactly miserable or suffering.
He’ll take that minimal win happily.
You…you are everything he’s dreamed of. Maybe more. Maybe even more than more. You could very easily leave him miserable and suffering—not because you’re bad and you want to hurt him, but because he’s one of the others. And you’re one of the blessed. And things just work out a certain way for people like him versus people like you.
You kiss his thoughts away again. Kiss his lips all soft and sweet and filled with a certain amount of adoration he doesn’t know he’s earned. (But he’ll take it. He’s not above something soft and sweet and just for him.)
“Your head is not a very nice place,” you murmur, tapping his forehead. “I can tell. It’s being mean to you.”
He laughs at that, raising an amused brow. “Yeah? Think so?”
“Yeah,” you hum. “In my head,” you move your finger to now trace his chest, running your fingers through the hair that litters his skin, “you’re just a good boy who did some bad things. And you’re trying to be good now, see? You reformed a whole prison! Very good. I think that we can work with that.”
“Good boy,” he repeats in disbelief, “you’re talking to me like I’m a dog?”
You pet his head teasingly. “Such a good boy.”
His face lights up as he suddenly gets an idea—you watch it in real time, the scheming look in his eyes. In an instant, he’s grabbing your wrist as he pulls it against his lips and murmurs, “Careful,” before gently nibbling at your inner wrist, “I might bite.”
“No!” you shriek, letting out a series of giggles, “no, don’t bite, please! I have treats! Spare me!”
He shakes his head, fighting back a lopsided grin. “Unbelievable,” he huffs, “you’re unbelievable.”
“I’m not,” you brush back his hair. “If you just believe me, you’ll feel a lot better.”
“Yeah? What should I believe then, miss soulmate?”
“That we’re good together,” you murmur, “and that we’ll be fine. And that we deserve each other—as in you deserve this, too. Just trust me on that.”
He lets out a soft, heavy breath. Not all people are created the same in Fontaine. In fact, they aren’t in any nation. But all soulmates love each other the same—and this time, the way you look at him is not the same picture-perfect, falsified look from Mother. Or the same deceivingly kind, careful words from Father.
These are real. He can work with that.
“Okay,” he pretends to cave, shoving his face into your neck. You let him hide away in there. Let him keep that fragile look in his eyes hidden from view. “M’trusting you on that. Deceiving the Duke is punishable by ten years in prison, miss.”
“Yes, sir,” you smile, stroking his hair. “I am no rule breaker, you see. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”
“Good. I’ll hold you to that.”
“Wanna talk about what’s on your mind?” you offer softly.
He hesitates. And then he decides that maybe he can afford nice things—the Fortress has granted him a pretty amount of mora these days, anyway. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “maybe not this second, though. But we’ll talk about it.”
He can practically see your smile even if he can’t look. “Okay,” you murmur, “fine by me. We have plenty of time, baby.”
Your arms wrap tighter around him. Perhaps this is Fontaine. Perhaps this is the nation of justice. Perhaps he has found his justice in your arms, feeling your warm skin against his as you erase every memory of pain from his body where you and he touch.
This is not a very linear format in terms of plot and story telling it. It jumps along many months and weeks and doesn’t have a specific timeline. It is just the journey of wrio falling in love despite his flaws. Hope you enjoyed that
A love story told through voicelines (Wriothesley ver.) III
C/W: wriothesley x gn!reader, sun x moon, protective!wrio, himbo/bimbo!reader, fluff, slow-burn, not proofread, more Sigewinne
Note: Honestly I had no idea what to do with for this part- sorry this took so long^^ (spoilers for the 5.6 event)
Part 2
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(You) About Wriothesley: Conflicted feelings
Okay, okay. So maybe I like him.
Maybe I like the way he listens. Or how he only half-smiles when he finds something funny but is trying to stay Serious And Professional.
Maybe I like the fact that when he says “You’re not alone here,” I believe him.
But what am I supposed to do with that?
He’s the Duke. I’m… me.
And feelings are way more complicated than cafeteria politics. (Although I’d rather take on ten angry lunch-line rioters than deal with this right now.)
(Wriothesley) About you: Overthinking
Sometimes I think about saying something. Just… laying it all out.
But then I remember where we are. What I am.
I’ve built a reputation on being untouchable. Unshakable. And yet… one look from them, and everything tilts just slightly out of place.
They bring color into this place—into me.
But would it be selfish to want more than just their presence? I can’t ask them to carry the weight of what I feel—not when they’re already trying to find their own balance.
(You) About Wriothesley: The “What-ifs”
What if I told him?
What if I just— threw all caution to the wind and said, “Hey Wrio, I think I like you in a way that’s possibly extremely inconvenient for both of us”? And what if he just looked at me, all serious and calm, and said, “I know”?
… Or worse—what if he didn’t?
What if he stepped back? What if it ruined what we have now?
Ugh. No. I’ll just avoid him! That way I won’t feel the tickle in my chest! Perfect plan. No way this backfires horribly!
(Wriothesley) About you: The “What-ifs”
Sometimes I catch them staring. Not in a mocking way—just… soft. Curious.
Like they’re trying to figure something out. Or maybe trying not to.
I could say something.
I’ve faced worse odds.
But I don’t want to corner them. Not here. Not when the lines between us already blur more than they should.
They’re free in ways I’m not. And I want them to stay that way—even if it means never finding out what “us” might look like.
…But if they took a step forward, just once, I don’t think I’d be able to step back.
(You) About the Fortress (and maybe him)
… Okay so— the plan failed. Yeah, yeah, big surprise; I can’t completely avoid him.
Geez… This place changes people; sometimes for the better, sometimes not. And I think it changed me.
Not just because of the rules or the time or the regrets… but because of him. He made the cold feel bearable. The silence feel full.
He made me feel like I wasn’t just passing time—I was living through it.
…Is that love?
(Wriothesley) About the Fortress (and definitely them)
The Fortress wasn’t built for softness. But somehow, they found it. Made it.
In smiles. In dumb jokes. In ridiculous pranks that somehow still make the staff work harder, not less. They remind me that people can change—even me. They remind me that I’m more than the walls I built.
And I wonder if, maybe, I was always waiting for someone to come along who could see past them.
…Someone like them.
—
(You) Character story: Another check-up
They were back at Sigewinne’s clinic; but instead of a ‘fever’ to check, they had a revelation—a feeling they were finally ready to admit. They entered the room with such a strong resolve, only to break down into frustrated tears on their knees the moment Sigewinne greeted them.
“Sigewinne,” they cried, “I don’t know what to do anymore!”
“I take it that ‘self-reflection’ worked,” Sigewinne crouched beside them, gentle and patient. “So, what do you think?”
“I think I like him! And— and it hurts a lot. What am I supposed to do if one thing could either make another thing better or worse? This is, like, gambling! A 50/50!”
Sigewinne chuckled at your little antics.
“I’m scared,” you added.
“That means it’s important,” Sigewinne said, softer this time. “You don’t have to be fearless. You just have to be honest.”
They exhaled. “That sounds harder than the lunch line on Lasagna day.”
She giggled. “You’re stronger than you think.”
“…Can I have another lollipop?”
“You can have three.”
And those three stood for I. Love. You.
(Wriothesley) Character story: Seeing it
Wriothesley was halfway through his afternoon rounds, boots echoing softly against the stone floor, with Cacucu ambling loyally beside him.
“Come on, try again,” he coaxed. “Good. Morning.”
Cacucu blinked his big yellow eyes. “Oh dear! Oh dear!”
Wriothesley sighed. “That’s not even close.”
That’s when he saw them.
They were standing just down the corridor, posture stiffer than usual—like they hadn’t meant to bump into him but now didn’t know how to walk away. Their gaze locked with his for a heartbeat too long, and then flicked hastily to Cacucu, like that had been the reason they stopped all along.
“Is that Cacucu?” they asked, walking over. “Wow, I didn’t know he did patrols.”
“He doesn’t,” Wriothesley replied, resting a hand lightly on the saurian’s back. “He’s just clingy. Thinks he’s helping.”
Cacucu puffed up like a balloon of pride.
“The heck are you on about?” he parroted with perfect timing.
They laughed—but it came out fast. Clipped. Like they were trying to smother something else underneath it.
Wriothesley noticed. The way their fingers twitched at their side. How they looked everywhere but him, just long enough for it to be noticeable.
“You alright?” he asked, tone casual—but his attention had sharpened, like it always did when something didn’t quite add up.
“Yeah! Yeah, I’m fine. Just… long day.”
They crouched slightly, fingers reaching out to scratch beneath Cacucu’s chin. The saurian made a happy chirring sound, tail wagging in the air.
“He likes you,” Wriothesley said, watching the way their smile lingered—not just at Cacucu, but… a little past him. “He’s picky, so that’s saying something. I’m just glad he’s taken a liking to me as well.”
“Guess we both have good taste.”
The words left their mouth too quickly. Like they hadn’t meant to say that. Their eyes widened, just a little, and then dropped again—this time to the floor.
Ah.
Wriothesley didn’t say anything. Just stood there, letting the silence stretch a moment longer than normal. Letting the realization sink in.
Cacucu, oblivious—or perhaps not at all—swayed his head between them like he was observing some kind of invisible dance. Then, as they turned to go, he chirped again.
“See you later!” he said brightly. Then, in perfect clarity: “They like you, bro!”
Wriothesley blinked.
They froze in their step.
“…Did he just—?” they started, but their voice cracked halfway through the question.
Wriothesley cleared his throat, mouth twitching at the corners. “Probably just something his owner taught him.”
“Right,” they mumbled, ears red. “Yeah. Of course.”
They left quickly after that.
And Wriothesley stood there a moment longer, Cacucu still chirping nonsense at his feet.
They like you, bro.
He couldn’t stop hearing it—not just in the saurian’s voice, but in theirs. In the too-quick laughter. In the way they looked at him, and then away. In everything he hadn’t let himself think too much about until now.
“…Huh.”
It had been there. Right in front of him.
And finally—finally—he saw it.
“Cacucu, try saying ‘I love you’.”
“For real, now? Do you even hear yourself, bro?”
(You) About Cacucu
THAT DANG SAURIAN!
—
A/N: YALL I NEED IDEAS FOR THE BIG CONFESSION SCENE IN THE NEXT PART THIS IS TAKING TOO LONG TO FINISH
✦ warnings: angst (major emotional pain, loneliness, and internal turmoil), emotional neglect, character distress
✦ word count: ~5.2k
✦ notes: in the quiet halls of the dawn winery, a love struggles against the crushing weight of duty. this one-shot explores a reader’s silent heartache and loneliness as diluc repeatedly prioritises his roles as master of the dawn winery and darknight hero, leaving a fragile relationship to flicker in the shadows. when words finally break the silence, it leads to a desperate search for understanding and re-evaluation of what truly matters.
masterlist
“A flicker of love, a heart left to cool, while duty’s cold shadow becomes his cruel rule. With every departure, a quiet despair grows, a lonely ember, where true warmth once flowed.”
The candlelight in Diluc's study flickered, casting long, dancing shadows across the heavy tomes and the familiar, comforting scent of old paper and wine. You leaned against the doorframe, a mug of his favorite un-sweetened tea cooling in your hands, watching him. He was hunched over a map of Mondstadt, a furrow in his brow deeper than usual. You’d been waiting for him for hours, dinner long cold, your planned evening of quiet conversation and shared warmth evaporating with each passing minute. This wasn't new, not entirely, but tonight felt different. There was a desperate urgency in the way his fingers traced the lines of the map, a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there when he'd kissed you goodbye that morning.
Finally, he looked up, his crimson eyes holding a familiar, pained resolve that made your stomach clench. "I have to go," he said, his voice low, devoid of inflection. "Something's come up. It can't wait." He didn't elaborate, never did. The 'something' was always the same. It was the call of his duty, the silent vow he'd made years ago that still eclipsed everything else. He was already reaching for his coat, his movements swift and practiced, leaving no room for argument, no space for the quiet plea you felt building in your throat. He glanced at you, a fleeting moment where something akin to regret crossed his features, before it was replaced by that impenetrable mask of the Darknight Hero.
You nodded slowly, the cooling mug of tea a familiar weight in your hands. There was no defiance in your posture, no desperate plea on your lips. You were used to it. The quiet click of his gloves fastening, the way his jaw would subtly clench before he turned from you. You’d known from the beginning, hadn’t you? That Mondstadt, its fragile peace, its hidden threats – those would always claim the largest part of him. That the Darknight Hero, a shadow born of grief and vengeance, held a space in his heart that even you, his lover, could never fully occupy.
Disappointment, yes, a dull ache that spread through your chest like spilled wine. But it was laced with a weary understanding. You saw the burden he carried, the sleepless nights, the quiet resolve that burned beneath his cool exterior. You knew he wouldn't make these choices lightly. And yet, knowing didn't make the sting any less sharp. Every time he walked away, leaving you alone with the scent of his cologne and the ghosts of planned evenings, it was a fresh cut. A reminder that no matter how deep your love, no matter how much you longed for a life unburdened, you would always be second, or even third, in his fiercely guarded world. You watched him pull on his signature coat, turning away, and the study felt suddenly colder, emptier than before.
You remained standing by the doorframe, the mug of cold tea growing heavier, but you made no move to leave. The study, usually a sanctuary of shared quietude, now felt hollow, echoing with the silence he’d left behind. Your gaze drifted across the room, lingering on the heavy desk where he spent countless hours, on the faint scent of embers and his distinct spice lingering in the air. This was his world, and by extension, yours. Or so you’d desperately tried to make it.
You pictured the life you’d once dared to imagine with him: evenings truly spent together, not just stolen moments before his inevitable departure; a future where his brow wasn't constantly furrowed with the weight of unseen battles. You’d even offered, hadn't you? More than once. Offered to stand by his side, to learn what he did, to carry some small part of the crushing burden he insisted on shouldering alone. You possessed a Vision too, a capability that wasn't insignificant, and a fierce loyalty that was unwavering. But each time, he'd given that same distant, unyielding look, dismissing your readiness with a quiet, firm refusal. "This is my fight," he'd always said, his voice laced with an authority that left no room for argument. And so, here you were, left in the wake of another solo crusade, aching not just from his absence, but from the pain of knowing he preferred to suffer alone, leaving you to simply watch him disappear into the night, again and again.
The cold tea in your hands became an insistent reminder of the chill seeping into your bones. His dismissive tone, the quiet authority in his refusal, left you feeling oddly… weak. Not just emotionally, but physically, as if your very capabilities were being stripped away by his unwavering conviction. It wasn't just his fight; it was his fight alone because he believed you weren't capable. Couldn't keep up. Couldn't truly stand by his side. The thought was a bitter taste in your mouth, colder than the tea, deeper than the loneliness that now began to creep through the silent study, eliciting a shiver that had nothing to do with the night air.
You finally moved, the heavy mug clattering softly as you set it down on a nearby table. Your feet carried you, almost instinctively, towards the grand fireplace in the corner of the room. It was unlit, of course, the embers long dead, mirroring the warmth that had just been extinguished from the evening. You sank onto the plush rug before the hearth, pulling your knees to your chest, pressing your face into the fabric of your trousers. You closed your eyes, willing away the image of his departing back, the phantom ache in your chest demanding attention. Perhaps you could warm your chilled skin, or maybe, just maybe, coax a faint spark back into the lonely heart that now ached so silently.
The unlit fireplace offered no warmth, only the echoing silence of the study. It wasn't empty, though; it was filled with the cacophony of your own thoughts, spiraling inward. This quiet, the kind he so often left you in, had always been your time to reflect, to try and mend the fissures his absences left behind. But tonight, it only gave space for a more insidious question to bloom in the cold, still air: Had you made the right choice?
You closed your eyes, pressing the heels of your hands against them, as if to ward off the memory. The memory of his eyes, so earnest, so rare in their vulnerability, when he'd first asked you to be his partner. The rush of warmth, the certainty that had flooded you then, was a stark contrast to the creeping loneliness that had become your constant companion. You loved him, fiercely, irrevocably. There was no doubt of that. But sometimes, in these dark, solitary hours, you wondered if, had you known then how often you'd feel like this—alone in a relationship, waiting, always waiting—if you would have answered differently. If you would have protected your heart from this specific, exquisite pain, knowing full well it would be a casualty of his 'greater good.' The flickering memory of your hopeful 'yes' was a bitter, ironic twist in your gut.
The insidious thought, once a fleeting shadow, began to take root, twisting deeper with each passing day. You tried to keep it to yourself, to bury the growing ache beneath layers of forced composure. Every time Diluc's eyes hardened with resolve, every time he murmured, "Something's come up," for either his clandestine patrols as the Darknight Hero or his relentless duties as Master of the Dawn Winery, your heart splintered a little more. You would nod, offer a small, understanding smile, and even manage a soft "Be safe," because the last thing you wanted was to add to the immense burden he already carried.
But the facade was a heavy one. It ate at you, gnawing at your spirit with a relentless hunger. You'd find yourself clinging to the smallest moments he spared you—a shared, quiet breakfast, a rare evening spent by the fireplace with a book, the fleeting brush of his hand against yours. You soaked up these slivers of his time like a parched desert, desperate for any drop of his presence, convincing yourself they were enough. Until he was gone again. Until the silence of the vast Ragnvindr estate enveloped you once more, and the pretense crumbled. Then, and only then, in the cold solitude of your shared bed, you would let the unshed tears finally fall, crying yourself to sleep, a silent, heartbroken testament to the love that left you so profoundly lonely.
—
The quiet despair, the constant swallowing of tears, eventually became too much. One evening, after Diluc returned from another undisclosed "duty," exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes, you decided you couldn't endure the silence any longer. You found him in his study, pouring himself a late-night glass of grape juice, the air thick with unspoken burdens. You started carefully, trying to voice the ache in your heart without adding to his obvious weariness, but the words tangled, fueled by months of suppressed pain.
"Sometimes," you began, your voice softer than you intended, "sometimes I feel like I'm just... an afterthought."
He paused, the glass halfway to his lips, his shoulders tensing. "You know that's not true," he rumbled, his tone flat, devoid of the warmth you so desperately craved. "My responsibilities are vast."
"And mine are... what, exactly?" The question burst out, sharper than you meant it to be, laced with the bitterness that had been steadily growing. "To wait? To pretend everything is fine while you carry the weight of the world, and I just stand by, useless?" The word 'useless' hung in the air, a raw, exposed nerve.
His head snapped up, crimson eyes flashing with a rare, open frustration. "You think I want this life? You think I enjoy having to choose between my duties and... and everything else?" His gaze swept across the room, avoiding yours, as if unable to directly meet the accusation in your eyes. "If you find it such a burden, perhaps you should re-evaluate your position here."
The words hung in the air, a cold, brutal blow that stole your breath. Your position here. Not your place in his heart, not your shared life, but a mere 'position,' as if you were another employee, another variable in his intricate calculations. You stared at him, the man you loved, whose exhaustion you sympathized with, and felt a chasm open between you. You wanted to scream, to lash out, but the pain was too deep for sound. Instead, a quiet, cutting retort, born of the same raw anguish, slipped past your lips. "Maybe I should," you whispered, the words laced with a despair that was almost audible. "Maybe I already have."
You stared at him, the harshness of his words echoing in the sudden, cavernous silence of the study. "Maybe I should," you'd whispered, and the quiet despair in your own voice was as shocking to your ears as his cutting retort. You watched, through a sudden, blinding well of tears, as something in Diluc's rigid posture faltered. His eyes, which had just flashed with frustration, widened, a raw flicker of regret blooming within their crimson depths. He looked genuinely shocked, as if the words he'd just uttered were foreign even to him, unthinkable, especially when directed at you.
His hand rose, slowly, tentatively, reaching towards you. A silent, desperate apology in the gesture, a plea for understanding. "I didn't mean—" he began, his voice rough. But you couldn't hear it, couldn't process anything but the overwhelming pain that coursed through you. This wasn't just about his duties anymore; it was about your feelings, your heart, which were just as valid, just as real, as the crushing burdens he carried. With a choked sob, you flinched back, hitting his outstretched hand away with a sharp, involuntary slap. The contact was brief, but the sting lingered on both your palms.
The study, once a sanctuary, now felt suffocating. Every shadow seemed to press in, every breath felt shallow and painful. You needed out. Away from his regret-filled gaze, away from the suffocating weight of this raw, exposed moment. You turned abruptly, stumbling slightly, and fled. Your feet carried you through the silent halls of the Winery, driven by a desperate need for air, for space, for anything that wasn't this aching, immediate pain. You slammed the heavy oak door to the outside behind you, not realizing until the cool night air hit your face that your Vision, usually secured at your hip, felt strangely light. It wasn't there. In your haste, your turmoil, you had left it behind, a glowing, forgotten testament to your power, still lying somewhere on the polished floor of Diluc's study.
Back inside, Diluc stood frozen, his hand still hovering in the air where yours had slapped it away. The sting on his skin was nothing compared to the sickening lurch in his gut. He'd done it again. Pushed you away, said something unforgivable, inflicted a wound he hadn't intended. His gaze fell to the floor where you'd been standing, and there, a soft, pulsating glow caught his eye. Your Vision. He stared at it, a cold dread seeping into him. You were out in the Mondstadt night, distraught, and now... unarmed. The thought sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated fear through him.
Diluc stood frozen for a beat, his hand still hovering, the sting on his palm a minor echo of the ache in his chest. His gaze was fixed on your Vision, a small, vibrant glow against the dark wood floor. Every instinct screamed at him to go after you, to pull you back, to apologize until his voice gave out. But his logical mind, honed by years of solitary burden, battled with the raw fear clenching his gut. You'd slapped his hand away. You needed space. And yet... out there, in the unlit streets of Mondstadt, distraught and unarmed...
He wrestled with himself, a silent, internal war raging between the desperate need to grant you the distance you demanded and the overwhelming, terrifying imperative to ensure your safety. The winery door still swayed slightly from your exit, a gaping maw into the vulnerable night.
Meanwhile, you walked, blindly, letting your feet carry you wherever they wished. The cold night air was a stark contrast to the suffocating heat of the argument, and you simply needed to move, to put as much distance as possible between yourself and that study, that situation, those soul-crushing words. The familiar cobblestones blurred beneath your unfocused gaze, the distant lights of the city offering no comfort. A chilling emptiness settled in your gut, worse than the cold. You knew you were out in the open, vulnerable, and a new, unsettling anxiety began to prickle at your skin. Your hand instinctively went to your hip, searching for the familiar weight of your Vision, only to find nothing but empty air. The realization hit you then, a cold splash of dread: you were truly, utterly defenseless.
The sight of your discarded Vision, a small, forgotten beacon on the cold stone, snapped Diluc out of his internal turmoil. The argument, his harsh words, your pained reaction—all of it faded into a secondary concern. Your safety, unarmed and distraught in the vulnerable night, became paramount. He snatched the Vision from the floor, its elemental energy humming faintly against his palm, and without another moment of hesitation, he was out the door, the heavy wood slamming shut behind him.
He moved with a grim urgency, his usual controlled strides lengthening into a ground-eating pace. He didn't know where you'd gone, but the thought of you out there, unprotected, sent a cold dread through him more potent than any Fatui plot. His eyes scanned the familiar Mondstadt streets, now draped in shadow and unnerving quiet. Every alley, every turn, held the possibility of danger, or worse, the sight of you in distress, vulnerable because of his own thoughtless words. His jaw was clenched, his breath coming in sharp, controlled bursts. Guilt, sharp and bitter, mingled with the rising tide of fear. He had to find you. He had to make sure you were safe, even if you still hated him for what he'd said, even if you never wanted to see him again.
Diluc burst out of the Winery, the heavy door slamming shut behind him with a resonant thud that echoed the frantic beat of his own heart. He clutched your Vision, its silent hum a constant, agonizing reminder of your vulnerability. The night was a canvas of deep shadows and deceptive quiet. He spun, eyes sweeping from the winding path leading to the city proper, to the darker, less-traveled routes that meandered into the surrounding wilderness. Which way would you have gone? Towards the familiar lights of Mondstadt, or away from everything, seeking the kind of desolate solitude only nature could provide?
He chose the city path first, his long strides covering ground quickly, his gaze sharp and methodical. He checked every darkened alley, every quiet corner where someone might seek refuge. The Angel's Share, now closed for the night, offered only the cold, uninviting gleam of its windows. He pressed on, the silence of the city’s late hour doing nothing to quell the rising tide of his anxiety. You weren't here. A cold dread seeped into him, confirming his worst fear: you had likely chosen the wilderness, the very place where being unarmed was most dangerous.
Diluc cursed under his breath, the cold dread solidifying into a leaden weight in his gut. The city was empty, a stark testament to your absence. His gaze swept towards the winding, unlit paths that led out of Mondstadt, towards the Whispering Woods, towards the vast, untamed wilderness. You were out there, unarmed, and distraught, because of him. He shifted directions, his strides now imbued with a frantic urgency that he rarely allowed himself to show. Every rustle of leaves, every distant chirp of a cricket, sharpened his senses, his crimson eyes cutting through the darkness, desperate for any sign of you.
Your legs had finally given out. The desperate need to escape, to put distance between yourself and the suffocating pain of his words, had pushed you beyond your limits. You found yourself huddled at the base of a gnarled tree near the outskirts of the Whispering Woods, the rough bark digging into your back. The cold night air seeped through your clothes, chilling you to the bone, but it was the emotional exhaustion that truly weighed you down. Tears, long held back, now streamed freely down your face, silent and endless. You didn't care where you were, or who might find you. All that mattered was the overwhelming weariness, the hollow ache in your chest, and the bitter taste of betrayal that lingered on your tongue. The absence of your Vision at your hip felt like a phantom limb, a stark reminder of your vulnerability, but even that fear was secondary to the crushing weight of your broken heart.
You were just sitting there, a small, desolate figure huddled against the gnarled trunk of the tree. Silent sobs wracked your body, shaking you from head to toe, your face buried in your knees. The world had shrunk to this unbearable ache, this cold, empty space where your heart used to be. You heard nothing, saw nothing, lost in the suffocating tide of your own despair.
Then, a shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom of the woods. Diluc. He found you. He paused, a few yards away, his breath catching in his throat. The sight of you, so utterly broken and vulnerable, twisted something raw and painful in his chest. His heart, usually so tightly guarded, ached with a regret so profound it stole his breath. This... this was his doing. His words, his choices.
—
He approached slowly, each step deliberate, as if fearing any sudden movement might shatter you completely. "(Y/N)," he murmured, his voice a low, worried rumble, uncharacteristically soft. He stopped just before you, the dim moonlight catching the glint of your Vision clutched tightly in his hand, a stark reminder of your defenselessness and his devastating error.
At the sound of your name, called so softly it barely registered above the rush in your ears, your figure flinched, a spasm of pain rather than surprise. You didn't lift your head. The idea of facing him, of seeing the regret in his eyes when you knew you were the one truly hurting, felt impossible.
Diluc knelt before you, his shadow falling over your huddled form. He didn't push. Instead, his voice, a low plea, reached you. "Please. Look at me." The request was gentle, barely a whisper, yet it held an undeniable urgency, a vulnerability you rarely heard from him. Slowly, agonizingly, you lifted your head, your eyes, raw and bloodshot, meeting his. The moonlight illuminated the stark lines of his face, the worry etched deep around his crimson gaze. And then, his calloused thumb, surprisingly tender, brushed against your cheekbone, carefully wiping away a fresh tear that had just escaped.
The unexpected tenderness, the gentle warmth of his thumb on your skin, was a shock that momentarily eclipsed the pain. Without conscious thought, driven by an instinct older than your heartbreak, you leaned into his touch, a silent, desperate plea for comfort. It was a small movement, barely perceptible, but it spoke volumes of your exhaustion, your aching need for the very solace he often seemed unable to give.
Diluc's breath hitched, a faint, almost inaudible sound. His gaze, fixed on your tear-streaked face, softened further. He didn't speak, perhaps sensing that words, especially apologies, would only wound deeper in this moment. Instead, his other hand, the one still holding your Vision, slowly lowered. He didn't offer it back yet, as if afraid to break the fragile connection that had just formed. His thumb continued its gentle ministrations, tracing the curve of your cheekbone, carefully wiping away the dampness, a quiet promise of care in the desolate night.
You looked into his eyes, and in their depths, you saw not just his regret, but the reflection of your own raw exhaustion, the lingering ghost of the loneliness that had been your constant companion. For a moment, you hesitated, a tiny tremor running through you. Then, slowly, as if piecing yourself back together, you shifted. Gently, almost imperceptibly, you leaned forward, trying to melt into his space, into the solid comfort of his presence. You sought the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the reassurance of his love – the very things that had felt so impossibly distant just moments before. Everything was quiet, utterly still, save for the silent sobs that had begun to subside, replaced by the soft current of shared pain. Just two broken hearts, in the desolate quiet of the night, trying to comfort each other.
He responded without hesitation, pulling you in gently, his arms wrapping tightly around you. It was a familiar embrace, yet it felt impossibly new in its desperation, his grip firm, as if he feared you might disappear again. You clung to him, burying your face against his chest, drawing in the faint, comforting scent of grape must and his unique, subtle spice. For a few precious moments, you simply existed in that space, the silence profound, broken only by the ragged rhythm of his breathing and the faint thrum of your own aching heart against his.
Then, he began to speak, his voice a low, rough rumble against your ear. "I'm sorry," he murmured, the words laced with a raw regret that surprised you. "I'm so incredibly sorry. I didn't mean... I never meant to hurt you like that. You are never an afterthought. And your feelings... they matter. More than anything."
He continued, his voice a low, raw rumble against your ear, the tremor in it more telling than any grand declaration. "I was blinded," Diluc confessed, his arms tightening around you. "Blinded by the mission, by the need to protect. To protect you was always one of my priorities, even when it looked like... like I was doing the opposite. I thought keeping you separate, keeping you innocent of the darkness, was the only way." He paused, a ragged breath escaping him. "And then I saw your Vision. On the floor. After you left. Every single possibility, every nightmare scenario, ran through my mind. The thought of you out there, alone, vulnerable because of my words, because I pushed you away... I realized then. I would never forgive myself if I lost you. That in that moment, I knew I couldn't live without you."
You shifted slightly in his embrace, the gentle movement an unspoken response to the raw honesty of his confession. The pain was still a vast, aching chasm within you, but the desperation in his voice, the admission of his own fear and the stark, terrifying realization of losing you, began to chip away at the edges of your hardened heart. Slowly, carefully, you tilted your head, your lips finding the soft skin near his mouth. It was a gentle, almost hesitant kiss, a fragile bridge built between your shared vulnerability and the heavy weight of his apologies.
Diluc, though, knew. He felt the light brush of your lips, understood the quiet, tentative nature of your comfort. This wasn't a sudden fix, a magical erasure of the months of quiet suffering you had endured. But it was a start. A fragile, hopeful beginning to mending something that had fractured so deeply. He tightened his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you closer than he ever had before, as if to make up for every lonely night you had cried yourself to sleep.
You stayed there, nestled in his arms, the only warmth in the cold, desolate night. It was a fragile peace, but for a few precious moments, it was enough. The tension slowly bled out of your muscles, replaced by a profound weariness. Diluc held you, his presence a solid anchor against the swirling currents of your emotions.
After a while, the practical concern of his nature resurfaced. He shifted slightly, his voice a low, worried murmur against your hair. "It's getting colder," he noted, the chill of the night air becoming more noticeable. "We should probably head back. You'll get sick."
But you didn't move. You just burrowed deeper into his embrace, a soft sigh escaping you as the exhaustion, both physical and emotional, pulled at your eyelids. His warmth was too comforting, his arms too secure. You felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the steady beat of his heart, and the sheer relief of being held, truly held, after so long, was a powerful lullaby. Sleep tugged at you, soft and insistent.
Diluc felt the subtle change in your weight, the way your breathing deepened, the slackness of your limbs. He knew that look. Without another word, he carefully shifted, scooping you up into his arms. You were lighter than he expected, a testament to the toll the last few months had taken on you, but you felt utterly precious, a fragile treasure he almost hadn't been able to reclaim. He held you close, your head resting against his shoulder, and began the quiet journey back towards the Dawn Winery, leaving the cold wilderness behind.
You stayed asleep in his arms, a soft, fragile weight against his chest. As he walked, your head shifted, nuzzling further into the crook of his neck, a silent gesture of trust that pierced through his carefully constructed defenses. Each gentle breath you took was a stark reminder of the pain he’d inflicted, the precious person he’d almost lost.
He moved through the quiet Mondstadt night, the weight of you in his arms a physical manifestation of the crushing burden on his soul. His mind raced, replaying every cold word he'd spoken, every time he'd chosen duty over connection. How had it come to this? How had he been so blind, so utterly consumed by his own mission that he couldn't see the slow, agonizing erosion of your spirit? He, who prided himself on vigilance, had missed the most important battle of all – the one raging silently within your heart. He thought he was protecting you, but all he'd done was wound you, pushing you to a breaking point that left you vulnerable and unarmed in the night. The thought was a bitter bile in his throat. He, Diluc Ragnvindr, who vowed to protect Mondstadt, had failed the one person who mattered most. The one person who loved him despite his flaws, despite his impossible choices.
He finally reached the familiar, imposing doors of the Dawn Winery. The staff, always discreet, seemed to have anticipated their arrival, for the main hall was softly lit, and no one was in sight. He carried you directly to your shared room, the place that, despite its emptiness for so many nights, was still home to your intertwined lives.
He carefully nudged the door open with his foot and walked over to the large, comfortable bed. With an almost agonizing gentleness, he lowered you onto the mattress, his arms lingering for a moment before he pulled away. He knelt, taking your shoes off with slow, deliberate movements, placing them neatly beside the bed. Then, he drew the soft, familiar blanket up to your chin, tucking it around you as if you were the most precious, fragile thing in the world. He didn't attempt to undress you; that was a boundary he inherently respected, especially now. Your trust, even in your unconscious state, was paramount, and his actions were driven by care, not desire.
He watched your peaceful, sleeping face for a long moment, the guilt still a heavy knot in his stomach, but now softened by a profound gratitude that you were safe, here, in his sight. After a final, lingering look, he quietly moved to his side of the room, shed his Darknight Hero attire, and prepared for bed, the silence of the room filled only by the soft, even cadence of your breathing.
He moved quietly, slipping into his side of the bed. The mattress dipped, and almost immediately, as if by pure reflex, you curled into his warmth, your back pressing against his front. A soft sigh escaped you, barely audible. Diluc's arm came around you, pulling you gently closer, and he pressed a tender, lingering kiss to your temple.
In the deep stillness of the night, with the quiet rhythm of your breathing filling the silence, he made a silent vow. He would do better. He had to. The agonizing fear of losing you, of seeing you shattered by his neglect, had ripped through his carefully constructed walls tonight. He saw now, with terrifying clarity, that a future without you, without your warmth, your understanding, your presence, was no future at all. He didn't see himself in it. He couldn't.
And as the first faint hint of dawn touched the sky, casting a soft, hopeful light through the window, he held you tighter, a silent promise echoing in the quiet chambers of his heart.
✨ author’s note
thank you for reading this little one-shot. this story delves into the painful side of a relationship with diluc, focusing on the reader’s emotional journey. it was a challenging but rewarding piece to write, exploring themes of duty, sacrifice, and the quiet ache of loneliness. i hope it resonated with you.
A love story told through voicelines (Wriothesley ver.) II
C/W: wriothesley x gn!reader, sun x moon, protective!wrio, himbo/bimbo!reader, fluff, slow-burn, not proofread, Sigewinne :D
Note: sorry for the slow uploads, school’s keeping me busy TT
Part 1
—
(You) About returning
Well, well, well… look who’s back! Bet no one expected to have me again so soon. For four months, too! What can I say? The Fortress just has a certain charm. …Or maybe I just missed my inmates. Yeah. That’s it.
(Wriothesley) About your return
I should be annoyed. I should be questioning their life choices. I should be standing here, arms crossed, demanding to know why they thought this was a good idea.
But instead, all I can think is—
They came back.
(You) About settling in again
You’d think being thrown in jail twice would be a humbling experience, but honestly? It just feels like coming home at this point. I even got my old spot in the cafeteria back! …Wait, is that a good thing or a bad thing?
(Wriothesley) About you: Habits
They slip back into routine so easily, it’s like they never left. Same seat in the cafeteria, same ridiculous antics, same way they somehow manage to make everyone like them. …And the same way they always find a reason to be near me.
Not that I mind.
Hah— listen to me. I really have gone soft, huh?
(You) About Wriothesley II
He thinks I don’t know, but I can see how that tea boy squares up his posture when in Duke-mode. Always so serious, like he holds the whole Fortress on his shoulders. …I guess that’s pretty much the thing about being the Duke, huh? Still, I think the only time I’ve seen him relax was when I came back. Just for a second, though. “Welcome back, sunshine,” he said…
Hehe…
*clears throat* Wow, did it, uh— Did it get warmer in here all of the sudden? My face feels weird. Probably the cafeteria food. Must be that.
(Wriothesley) About you II
Since they came back, the whole Fortress just feels… right again. Fewer troublemakers, fewer slacking reports, even fewer check-ups from Sigewinne. I guess that’s just what happens when you have someone like them around—always lifting people up without even trying.
Funny… I never noticed how bright they were before. Even when they’re not around, it’s like their energy lingers. I could probably find my way back to them just by following that light.
*chuckles* Or I could just follow the crowd and catch them building another ketchup tower.
… I have a meeting in a few minutes. I should get going.
(You) About Wriothesley: First-name basis
Oh, pfft— I’ve got plenty of names for him! Wrio, Wriothesley, The Dukester, and my personal favorite: Tea boy! Oh, what does he call me? Usually by my first name… except for that one time he called me sunshine.
… Ahem— Why do I call him by his first name? I mean—why not? Whether you’re a Duke or just another inmate, you’re still human at the end of the day, right?
(Wriothesley) About you: First-name basis
I’ve spent years hearing nothing but “Your Grace,” “The Duke,” “Duke Wriothesley.” Formal, respectful—distant.
So when they called me “Wrio” the first time… I didn’t know how to respond.
It was casual. Natural. Like they didn’t see a title—they just saw me.
I think I’ve gotten used to it. Maybe even a little too used to it.
(You) About Wriothesley: Realizations
You ever look at someone and suddenly just get it? Like, oh—that’s why people are drawn to them. That’s why they feel safe. That’s why… you start looking for them in a room without realizing.
Yeah.
That happened to me today…
Anyway! I’m gonna go ask for an extra pillow and see if he still remembers last time.
(Wriothesley) About you: Realizations
It’s one thing to tolerate someone’s presence. It’s another to start looking for it. And lately, I… find myself noticing when they’re not around. When the cafeteria’s a little too quiet, when my tea doesn’t come with some teasing remark—when I don’t hear their voice at least once in the day.
…When did that start happening?
(You) About Wriothesley: Feeling “off”
Okay, weird question—can you, like, get Fortress sickness? You know, like seasickness, but for being in prison too long? Because ever since I got back, I’ve been feeling kinda… off. Like my heart does this weird thing when I run into Wrio— uh, His Grace. And sometimes I forget what I was saying when he looks at me too long. Oh, and the other day, I thought about him when I was eating and nearly choked. That’s not normal, right? I should probably ask Sigewinne about it…
(Wriothesley) About you: Feeling “off”
Chest pains, increase in body temperature, and dizziness.
But I only feel them around a certain someone.
Sigewinne would probably say it’s stress, or lack of sleep, or too much caffeine. Maybe she’d tell me to stop skipping meals—again. But I’ve trained through worse. Fought through worse. Been through worse.
This… is different.
It’s like my body knows they’re nearby before I do. Like the air shifts, or time slows for a second. Like I start expecting them in every hallway, every laugh echoing off the walls.
I used to think the Fortress felt heavy. Cold, even.
But now?
It’s warm.
I should consult Sigewinne later… just to make sure.
(Sigewinne) Character Story: New ailments..?
“You think you’re sick?” Sigewinne repeated, tilting her head. She’d already scanned their body when they came in, and there were no signs of any illness.
The patient across from her nodded, looking genuinely troubled. “Yeah, it’s weird. My heart keeps doing this thump-thump thing, but only sometimes. And I feel warm a lot, even when it’s cold. Oh, and I got super dizzy yesterday watching Wrio— I mean, someone spar. Like, my brain just—whoosh.” They made a vague hand gesture. “See? Something’s wrong with me.”
She ran another quick scan, just to humor them, then looked up and blinked. “Well, your body’s perfectly healthy!” Sigewinne said with a reassuring smile. “But sometimes, feelings can make our bodies do strange things. Did anything… emotional happen with that someone lately?”
Before they could answer, Wriothesley’s voice floated in the room as he stepped in, arms crossed but eyes curious. “Someone what?”
The patient stiffened, suddenly fascinated by the wall.
“They said they weren’t feeling well,” Sigewinne said innocently. “Feverish, heart racing, dizzy.”
“That doesn’t sound like you,” Wriothesley said, turning to them. “Did you eat something weird? You almost face-planted in the ring yesterday.”
“I was just tired!”
“You were staring at me for ten straight minutes.”
“Again—tired!”They were flushed now, avoiding eye contact.
Wriothesley’s tone stayed level, but there was something softer underneath. “If someone’s bothering you—”
“No one’s bothering me!”
Sigewinne watched them go back and forth, quietly taking notes. The way Wriothesley leaned in, just slightly. The way they kept stealing glances when he wasn’t looking. The shared energy—awkward, electric.
And suddenly, it clicked.
“Ohhh,” she said, eyes lighting up. “I get it now.”
They both stopped mid-argument (flirting?) to glance her way.
“Get what?” they asked, voices in sync—one wary, the other suspicious.
“Nothing, nothing!” she chirped, spinning once on her stool. Sigewinne twirled her pen, clearly writing nothing on her clipboard. “Well, no treatment necessary; your symptoms stem from emotional… distress, after all. You’re free to go.”
“Emotional distress?” His Grace repeated.
“Maybe try some self-reflection and, you know,” Sigewinne handed them a little slip of paper. “Come back in a few days. Lollipop?”
“Ooh, fun!” They thanked her after taking the piece of candy, then walked toward the exit.
The Duke said, almost muttering so only they could hear, “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, I’m great! Got a lollipop out of it, didn’t I?”
“Very well,” Wriothesley chuckled as he stepped aside to let them pass, amusement dancing behind his eyes. “…Try not to trip over your own feet again.”
“I didn’t trip!” they snapped over their shoulder, voice cracking.
“Sure you didn’t, sunshine.” He smirked, watching as they sprung out the clinic in a flustered waltz.
Diagnosis: Helplessly smitten
(Wriothesley) Character story: Lovesick
Life in the Fortress of Meropide demands composure. A steady mind. A firm hand. For as long as Wriothesley has held the title of Duke, he’s lived by these principles—dispassionate, collected, and always one step ahead of disorder. It’s what the people need of him. What he expects of himself.
But lately, that composure has started to slip.
It started subtly—shared glances in the corridor, the way his shoulders eased without him noticing when they entered a room. The echo of laughter that lingered longer than it should have. He had brushed it off at first. A trick of the mind. A temporary disturbance. But when the rhythm of the Fortress began to change with their return—when even Sigewinne noted the shift—he could no longer deny it.
“You have a look,” she said to him. “Like someone trying very hard not to look worried.”
Of course he denied it. That was his way.
And yet, her words followed him like a shadow. Because she wasn’t wrong.
He had always prided himself on his composure. Yet now, it frayed in the quietest ways. Eyes drawn without permission. A smile that curled unbidden. An unfamiliar warmth that lingered after every interaction. It unsettled him—not because it was unwelcome, but because it was new.
Because it was them.
They disrupted his order. Not in loud, reckless ways—but in the way a candle disrupts the dark. Slowly. Quietly. Undeniably.
Sigewinne, ever perceptive, had called it what it was. Fear—not of danger, but of vulnerability. Of letting something in that couldn’t be filed, fixed, or ignored. He had faced countless threats in his life, but nothing had felt quite as disarming as their smile. As the quiet thought that maybe, for once, he didn’t have to be the fortress himself.
And in the stillness of that thought, he began to wonder: If this was love… then perhaps it wasn’t a weakness to be feared, but a truth to be embraced.
He wasn’t ready to say it aloud—not yet. But he no longer denied it, either.
And that, for Wriothesley, was a beginning.
(You) Character story: OH NO
There are moments in life that leave you shaken. War. Heartbreak. Cataclysmic world events. And then there are the truly terrifying things—like accidentally realizing you might be in love with the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide.
It hit them somewhere between grabbing a lollipop from Sigewinne and walking face-first into a wall on the way to their room.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
BAM.
Forehead-to-steel. The wall won.
They blamed the Fortress air at first. Or maybe low blood sugar. Or the deeply suspicious cafeteria fish sticks.
But then Wriothesley’s voice echoed down the hall—calm, amused, annoyingly perfect—and suddenly their brain just went static.
“Oh no,” they whispered aloud.
A guard passing by gave them a confused glance.
They whispered it again, but more dramatically. “Oh no.”
Because here’s the thing: this wasn’t a crush. A crush is what someone gets on a cute person at the market who sells good tea. A crush is fleeting. Safe.
This was something else.
This was: “I nearly passed out watching him spar.”
This was: “I get dizzy when he smiles and also want to throw him into the ocean and then jump in after him.”
This was: dangerous.
They were not equipped for this kind of emotional responsibility.
They had no plan. No backup. No strategy.
Just… weird chest feelings and an extremely judgmental stuffed toy from the Commissary watching them spiral on their cot.
“Maybe I’m dying,” they whispered to the toy.
The toy, unfortunately, offered no medical opinion.
They tried to focus on other things after that. Work. Routine. Towering monuments made of cafeteria condiment packets. But everything—everything—led back to him.
Wriothesley asking if they were okay (oh no).
Wriothesley calling them sunshine (OH no).
Wriothesley’s sleeves rolled up just enough to see his forearms (OH NO).
They were doomed. Absolutely, irreversibly doomed.
(Sigewinne) About you and Wriothesley
I’ve read about this little thing called love in a novel Lady Furina sent me. And crazily enough, I think I might be seeing it happen right in front of me!
hii!! can I request your ‘love story told through voicelines’ series with Childe? well maybe reader is judge like hanya (from hsr) in fatui?? if you don’t write that its okay dw <3
A love story told through voicelines (Tartaglia ver.) [a short heads-up]
Okay so,
I haven’t written anything for Mr. Worldwide, this would be my first.
The plot I have in mind starts out a little differently than the usual slow-burn.
Childe and the reader already love each other—deeply, fiercely, and maybe a little recklessly. But when duty calls and Ajax leaves on a long, grueling expedition, distance begins to stretch between them—not just in miles, but in silence, uncertainty, and change.
This is a story about waiting, about wondering, and about whether love can survive when the person you knew might not be the one who comes home.
Not every battle leaves scars on the skin. Some leave them in the heart.
—
Why am I writing a plot with an established relationship?
So the slow-burn tropes won’t feel repetitive (I’ve used it like three times at this point).
What do I look forward to in writing this fic?
The angst.
Is this inspired by Epic: The Musical?
Perchance.
When will I start writing?
Maybe a week from now.
—
Should I go with this plot?
YESSS PLS I LOVE IT
Nahhh I’m not really feeling it (leave a suggestion in the comments)
Voting ended onApr 22, 2025
Let me know if you guys are in for this type of story!
And if you have any questions, feel free to ask them in the comments!
A love story told through voicelines (Alhaitham ver.) IV
C/W: alhaitham x gn!reader, not that slow of a burn, characters find the other annoying, reader is a teacher at the akademiya, they have history (iykyk), angst no comfort, not proofread
Note: final part!
Part 3
—
(You) About Alhaitham: Other ways
Avoiding him is easier said than done.
I tell myself I’m just too busy—too caught up in work, too preoccupied to engage. But I know better. This isn’t about work. It’s about him. It’s about the way he looks at me, the way he always seems to be two steps ahead, the way I feel like I’m losing control of something I never meant to start in the first place.
So I take a different approach. I keep my responses short, my tone indifferent. I take the long way around Akademiya halls, conveniently slip out of rooms the moment he enters.
But knowing Alhaitham… I doubt he’ll let me go that easily.
(Alhaitham) About you: Other ways
Avoidance is a predictable tactic—one that requires effort. Which begs the question: why go through all that trouble for something they claim is insignificant? If they think distance will put an end to this, they clearly haven’t thought it through.
(You) About Alhaitham: Persistence
You would think he’d give up by now, but he hasn’t. I’m giving him a clear answer, aren’t I? He mentioned that if I found him insignificant or something, I would’ve gotten rid of him by now; so here I am—getting rid of him. Yet he still mingles around me like a fruit fly!
Do I really want him gone? Oh, of course I do! I could finally go back to minding my own business, and he can do the same. It’s for the best.
(Alhaitham) About you: Persistence
I do it for the sake of the experiment—which now includes a new variable: me. As unbecoming as it may seem, I find myself affected by their behavior. I still haven’t found a solid reason for that—why they’re avoiding me; but I have found a senseless supposition why my emotions are influenced by it.
According to Kaveh, my attention has been titled in their direction lately, and he teased that I had feelings for them. How ridiculous.
This is an experiment—analyzing their reactions, testing their limits. And yet… their absence is noticeable. Their avoidance, intentional.
If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be thinking about it. If they truly wanted distance, they would’ve said so instead of running around all day trying hard to keep me at arm’s length.
Hmph. I’ll adjust my approach. See how long they can keep running.
(You) About Alhaitham: Honest opinions
We have a history that I partly regret. If I could do it all over again… I don’t know if I would. It was a good experience, but if that’s the reason why he keeps pursuing me, I would have to decline. I have so much to lose now—my job, my peers’ respect, my dignity. I’m not the same person I was back then. I’ve grown, changed, become more cautious. And yet, every time I think I have it all under control, he does something that rattles me. A look, a comment, a gesture that makes it impossible to forget the past—and somehow pulls me back into something I thought I’d left behind.
I’m not sure if I can trust him. He’s too calculating, too deliberate in his actions. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely interested or just trying to prove a point. Either way, I know better than to fall for whatever game he’s playing.
(Alhaitham) About you: Honest opinions
They occupy more of my thoughts than I care to admit. Not in any sentimental way, of course. It’s simply that their behavior is… intriguing. Inconsistent. At odds with the image they project. They claim disinterest, yet every reaction—every calculated silence or clipped remark—suggests otherwise.
And perhaps what unsettles me most is how easily they affect me. I’ve never cared to seek out another’s company. Yet I’ve found myself adjusting my schedule, taking detours through certain halls, lingering in conversations just a little longer. All for what? To observe? To test a theory?
Kaveh seems to think this is “obvious”—that I’m interested. Emotionally. Romantically. Irrational. I dismissed him, of course… but the thought stayed with me longer than it should have.
If this were truly about research, I wouldn’t feel this frustration when they avoid me. I wouldn’t notice the absence in the room before I even look.
…No, this isn’t research anymore.
But I haven’t decided what it is either.
(You) Character story: What can’t become
After classes, the Akademiya courtyard shimmered under the late afternoon sun, golden light bleeding over the marble and spilling between the arches. Laughter echoed in faint bursts, students scattering in clumps—papers in hand, minds half-elsewhere. You slipped past the gates with quick, practiced steps, hoping to disappear before—
“Hey… hey!”
You flinched.
His voice was unmistakable—calm yet commanding, always too close even when it came from behind.
“You know,” Alhaitham called out, “avoiding me won’t make this situation any easier. It won’t resolve anything either.”
You stopped halfway down the steps and turned, arms folding instinctively across your chest. “Really?” The word left your mouth sharper than you intended—more telling. “And what is this ‘situation’ exactly?”
Alhaitham closed the distance between you with his usual measured ease, his gaze steady, unreadable. “Don’t pretend you don’t know,” he said. “I’ve seen the way you react—even the slightest brush of our shoulders. The way your eyes brighten with every snarky remark we exchange—”
You rolled your eyes, the gesture sharp enough to cut the tension for half a breath. You turned again, walking off, heart pounding faster than your feet would allow.
He followed, undeterred. Of course he did.
“You’re only delaying what we both know is bound to happen.”
You spun around before he could take another step, breath pushing past your lips in a rush of frustration. “‘Both,’ ‘our,’ ‘us’—Archons above, Alhaitham! What even are we?! You talk about us like we’re some academic constant—as if you already solved the equation, and I’m just catching up. But I don’t even know what this is! What you want.”
You paused, the next words freezing on your tongue. You would not—could not—bring up that night. Not now. Not when the memory of his breath ghosting against your skin still lingered like a sunburn you couldn’t soothe.
His voice came softer this time. “I’ve never claimed to be simple,” he said. “But I’ve never lied either. You felt it too, didn’t you?”
Your stomach twisted.
You hated how easy it was for his words to find the sore parts of you. You hated even more how much truth you found in them.
“That’s exactly the problem,” you said, voice quieter now, raw at the edges. “You know what you’re doing—how easily you get under my skin. You corner me in crowded halls, you leave me thinking about words you didn’t even say… and then you walk off like none of it matters.”
He stayed silent. That silence—never awkward with him—was somehow worse than any rebuttal.
You took a breath, letting your shoulders fall slightly. “And the Akademiya?” you continued. “They see it—the glances, the whispers. Even the other professors have started asking questions.”
Alhaitham frowned, a faint crease between his brows. “That’s absurd—”
“Maybe for you,” you cut in, “but for me, perception is everything. I don’t have your title or your immunity. One wrong assumption, and I’m no longer the professor who earned their place—I’m just a rumor with a name.”
The weight of it all settled between you—words spoken not in anger, but necessity. The breeze passed again, brushing between you like a boundary neither of you could step over.
Alhaitham looked at you then—not with irritation, not even disappointment, but something quieter. Contained. Perhaps even regret.
“…Then what do you want me to do?” he asked, voice barely above the breeze. “Pretend none of it was real? That I didn’t feel something when I looked at you?”
You closed your eyes for a moment, forcing the ache back down. His words lodged themselves deeper than you wanted them to.
“I want you to understand,” you said, carefully. “This isn’t about what I feel. It’s about what I have to protect.”
A pause. You looked up and met his eyes—clear, unwavering, resolved.
“I can’t risk everything for something that might not survive the scrutiny. My reputation, my work… I’ve fought too hard to be seen for my mind, not whispered about for who I might be seen with. Even if that someone is you.”
For the first time, Alhaitham looked away. His jaw tightened slightly. The silence between you wasn’t cruel—it simply was. Like gravity or time. Unforgiving, but fair.
He nodded once. No protest. No plea. Just a flicker of something behind his eyes—acknowledgement, perhaps. Or acceptance.
“I won’t stand in your way,” he said. “Not now. Not ever.”
You let out a breath that trembled at the edges, the ache blooming somewhere deep beneath your ribs.
“…Thank you,” you said, voice steady at last. “For not making it harder than it already is.”
You turned before he could say anything else. The sun dipped beneath the buildings as you walked away, shadows spilling across the marble in your wake. Behind you, Alhaitham stayed where he was—still, composed, watching.
He didn’t call after you.
Not this time.
(Alhaitham) Character story: What won’t become
Alhaitham had never been fond of hypotheticals.
They were inefficient—rooted in speculation, mired in abstraction. What-ifs served little use in the real world, where causality and consequence reigned. A scholar deals in truth, not fantasy.
And yet, lately, he found himself entertaining one particular what-if more than he’d like to admit.
What if they hadn’t walked away?
He can still recall the look in their eyes—clear, unflinching, and devastatingly resolute. They had chosen themselves. And Alhaitham, for all his conviction, could do nothing but step aside.
Perhaps that’s why he respected them so deeply.
They were precise in their logic, unwavering in their principles. Not unlike him. But where he wielded detachment as armor, they wielded choice. They understood sacrifice—and made it anyway.
He remembers their words as clearly as any scholarly quote.
“This isn’t about what I feel. It’s about what I have to protect.”
There had been no malice in their voice, only truth. It was never a question of affection—of course they had felt it. That tension, the friction of minds colliding like flint, the conversations that lingered long after the echo faded. No one else challenged him quite like they did. No one else made silence feel that loud.
Still, affection alone was never going to be enough. Not when the Akademiya, with all its scrutiny and hierarchy, watched them more closely than it ever watched him.
They were right.
He was the Scribe. Acting Grand Sage, even. He could afford to be indifferent to perception. But they? A young professor, barely past their appointment, climbing uphill in a world built to doubt them.
Their choice made sense.
And so, he said nothing. Didn’t argue. Didn’t ask them to stay. What good would persuasion do, when they had already done the calculus themselves?
Alhaitham never believed in fate. But he believed in outcomes—inevitable, weighted, measurable. And this? This was an outcome both of them saw coming from the moment things began to blur.
He still sees them sometimes. In lectures. Passing through the colonnades. Sitting alone in the House of Daena, pen tapping lightly against a page. The world spins as it always does.
They do not look away.
Neither does he.
And that is the truth of what won’t become: not a tragedy, not a regret.
Just a possibility… acknowledged and left behind.
(You) About Alhaitham II
He never asked me to stay, and I suppose I should thank him for that. It made walking away cleaner—easier, even. But sometimes I wonder… if he had just said one thing differently. If I had turned back just once…
Still, I made my choice. And I’ll live with it, even if part of me still hears his voice when the halls go quiet.
(Alhaitham) About you II
They made the right choice. Personal feelings should never outweigh one’s principles—especially in a place like the Akademiya. I respect that… deeply. Though, if I find myself walking a little slower near their classes… it’s purely coincidental. Obviously.
PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE TELL ME YOU'RE GONNA DO A WRRIOTHESLEY ONE AFTER THE ALHAITHAM VOICELINES FIC IS COMPLETED!!!! I NEED IT PLEASE!!
A love story told trough voicelines (Wriothesley ver.) I
C/W: wriothesley x gn!reader, sun x moon, protective!wrio, himbo/bimbo!reader, fluff, slow-burn, not proofread
Note: okay, the Alhaitham fic isn’t really done yet, but I seriously couldn’t think of any good stuff to add there soooo here’s a Wrio version while waiting^^ (comments are very much appreciated!)
Part 2
—
(You) About Laws
I’m not even a Fontaine citizen! How was I supposed to know it was illegal to eat a pack of ketchup?! Are laws here even applicable for tourists? …Wait that was a dumb question. Anyway—I have to serve two months in the Fortress, now. Honestly, that long for ketchup?
Really?
(Wriothesley) About you
They’re a funny one, I’ll admit. When I saw their file, I thought someone was pulling a prank on me. Two months for… eating ketchup? But rules are rules. I have a feeling they’re going to make things a little more interesting around here.
(You) About jail food
Sooo… any chance I could get some ketchup with this? No? Right, okay. Thought I’d ask.
(Wriothesley) About your stay
They’re surprisingly good at making friends. The guards like them, the prisoners like them, even Sigewinne seems to have taken a liking to them. I should be concerned, but honestly? It’s kind of impressive.
(You) About Wriothesley
Did you know the Duke of Meropide has a soft spot for tea? I mean, I guess it’s obvious, but I caught him sneaking an extra cup the other day. “Oh, it helps me think,” he says. Yeah, yeah, whatever, tea boy.
(Wriothesley) About you: Nicknames
‘Tea boy’? They’re the one who came in here because of ketchup. If anything, I should be the one coming up with a nickname. Like… tomato. Ugh, I don’t have time for this—I have work to do.
(You) About Wriothesley: A few weeks in
Okay, so maybe the Duke isn’t as scary as I thought. Sure, he’s got the whole “I could probably knock someone out with one punch” thing going on, but he’s actually pretty nice. In a “grumbles but still helps” kind of way. Like, I asked for an extra pillow as a joke, and he actually got me one? Hello??
(Wriothesley) About You: A few weeks in
They’ve settled in way too well. Most prisoners would usually be miserable as they count their days left, but they? They’re treating this place like a weird vacation. They joke around, chat with everyone, even try to make me laugh— *chuckles* not that it works. …Okay, maybe once or twice.
(You) About Wriothesley: Casual encounters
I keep running into His Grace at the most random times. Like, I’ll be minding my business, trying to stack crackers into the tallest tower possible, and boom, there he is, watching me like I’m some kind of strange wildlife documentary. And then he just walks away without a word! Geez, Tea boy, at least say, “Wow, impressive architecture,” or something!
(Wriothesley) About You: Casual encounters
I caught them trying to balance a spoon on their nose in the cafeteria. I don’t know why I expected anything different. When they saw me watching, they just grinned and said, “Impressive, right?” I should’ve walked away, but instead, I sat down and watched. I think I’m losing it.
(You) About Wriothesley: Serious moments
You ever meet someone who acts all tough, but then you realize they care more than they let on? That’s him. He won’t say it outright, but it’s in the little things. Like how he notices when I’m quieter than usual. Or how he subtly checks if I’ve eaten. He’d probably deny it if I brought it up, though. Typical.
(Wriothesley) About You: Serious moments
They’re more than just jokes and sunshine, you know. The other night, they found me in my office, still working late. I expected them to tease me, but instead, they just sat down and said, “You should rest too, you know.” No jokes. No dramatic antics. Just… genuine concern. I didn’t know what to say.
(You) About making friends (or not)
Most people here are pretty cool! I mean, sure, some of them look like they could snap me in half, but they’re nice once you talk to them. …Okay, maybe not everyone. There’s a group that gives me the stink eye whenever I talk to the Duke. I think they think I’m his little sidekick or something. Imagine me being intimidating. Hah!
(Wriothesley) About prison politics
Not everyone is happy with how things work down here, and that includes how I run things. So when someone comes in and gets along with me too well, it’s bound to rub some people the wrong way. I’m not worried about them, but… I am keeping an eye on things.
(You) Character story: A not-so-friendly encounter
The underground fortress had its own rules—ones that weren’t always written in Fontaine’s legal codes. It was an unspoken truth that power moved differently down here. The way people looked at others, the way they spoke, even the way they stood in the cafeteria—it all meant something.
And apparently, the way they joked around with the Duke meant something too.
“You think you’re special, huh?”
The voice wasn’t friendly. Not the usual kind of gruff they’d hear from someone just messing around. No, this was different. It came with the sharp press of a shoulder against theirs, backing them into the stone wall of a dim corridor. They hadn’t meant to take this route alone—it just happened. Bad timing, bad luck.
They held up your hands in mock surrender. “Whoa, hey, if this is about the crackers I stole from the cafeteria, I promise it was for scientific—”
A hand slammed the wall beside their head, cutting them off. “Quit playing around,” the guy sneered. “You think being His Grace’s favorite means you can do whatever you want?”
Favorite? They blinked. What kind of wild rumors were people spreading?
“I don’t—”
Another guy stepped closer, arms crossed. “You talk too much.”
Okay. Yeah. This wasn’t looking great.
They considered their options. Fighting wasn’t exactly their strong suit—sure, they could throw a decent punch, but against multiple guys built like reinforced walls? Not ideal. Running wasn’t an option either; they had them boxed in. Which left them with… talking their way out.
“Look,” they started, voice light, “I get it. You guys are the big, scary veterans of the Fortress, and I’m just some random ketchup criminal. But I promise, I’m not plotting some evil scheme with the Duke. I’m here for the vibes, man.”
One of them scoffed. “Real funny.”
They grinned. “Thanks. I try.”
A fist clenched. For a second, they thought the guy was actually going to hit them. They braced themselves—
And then he spoke.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
The air in the corridor changed. The weight of the room shifted, a presence settling over the space like a cold snap.
The group turned, and there he was.
Wriothesley stood at the mouth of the corridor, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. But his eyes—his eyes—were sharp, colder than they’d ever seen.
The guy closest to them took half a step back. Just half. “We were just having a conversation,” he said, trying to sound casual.
The Duke’s gaze flicked to them. He didn’t say anything, but the question was clear. Are you hurt?
They shook their head. “Nope. All good. Just a friendly little chat about… social dynamics.”
A beat of silence. Then, Wriothesley let out a breath—something almost like a laugh, but not quite.
“You’ve made your point,” he said coolly, stepping closer. “So now I’ll make mine.”
The air got heavier. The authority in his voice left no room for argument.
“I don’t care what rumors you’ve heard,” he continued. “But if you think causing problems in my fortress is a good idea, then by all means—go ahead. Give me an excuse to personally escort you to solitary confinement.”
No one moved. No one spoke.
Then, just like that, the tension cracked. The group muttered something under their breaths and backed off, melting into the corridors like shadows.
They let out a breath they didn’t realize they held. “Wow. That was dramatic.”
Wriothesley gave them a look. “You should’ve told me.”
They shrugged. “I had it under control.”
His brow arched. He glanced at the wall they’d been backed against, then back at them.
“…Mostly under control.”
A pause. Then, with a shake of his head, he sighed. “You’re impossible.”
They grinned. “So I’ve been told.”
Wriothesley didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, just before turning to leave, he muttered—so quietly they almost missed it—
“Stay close next time.”
(Wriothesley) About you: Keeping an eye out
They say they’re fine, that it’s “not a big deal,” but I know how things work down here. Resentment brews fast. I told them to let me know if anyone gives them trouble. They laughed and said, “What, are you gonna throw them in jail? Oh, wait—” *sigh* They’re ridiculous. Honestly, I’m curious about what they’re gonna do once they’re out in the overworld.
(You) About time
You’d think I’d be marking off the days on my wall like some dramatic prisoner in a movie, right? At first, I kinda did—two months felt like forever. But now? I looked at the calendar this morning and realized I only have a few days left.
…And instead of being excited, I just stood there, staring at it like it personally offended me. Hm.
(Wriothesley) About time
Most inmates count down the days until they’re free. Some scratch it into their cell walls, some mark it on a calendar—always waiting, always watching the clock. I thought they were the same. But lately, they’ve been looking at the days left like they don’t know what to do with them.
…And if I’m being honest, I don’t know what to do with them either.
(You) About goodbyes
So, uh… last night in the Fortress. Crazy, huh? Feels like just yesterday I was getting sentenced for my heinous ketchup crimes. Time flies when you’re… illegally detained, I guess.
…Hey, weird question. You ever get so used to something that it’s just… there, and then when it’s gone, you don’t know what to do with yourself? Like, I dunno, a leaky faucet or a creaky floorboard—annoying at first, but then it’s kinda comforting? Familiar?
…Never mind. Forget I said anything.
(Wriothesley) About goodbyes
I knew this was coming, but… it’s different now that it’s actually here.
They were just supposed to be another name on a file. Someone who’d serve their time and leave, like all the rest. But now? The idea of this place without them feels… odd.
Last night, they said something about getting used to things—to noises, habits, people. I didn’t say anything then, but I knew exactly what they meant.
Because now, when I sit down for tea, I’ll catch myself waiting for some ridiculous comment that won’t come. And when I walk through the halls, I’ll expect them to be there, up to some new nonsense.
…Hah. They really are impossible.
—
(You) About freedom
I thought I’d be excited to leave. Two months ago, I was counting down the days. But now that I’m out, everything just feels… off. Food tastes bland. The city is too quiet. My chest feels weird—like I forgot something important, but I don’t know what. Maybe I’m just not used to soft beds again? Or maybe I caught a weird underground sickness. …Yeah, that’s probably it.
(Wriothesley) About your absence
It’s quieter without them. Not peaceful, just… quiet. No one is pestering me about my tea habits, no one is trying to balance silverware on their face at lunch, and no one is calling me ridiculous nicknames. It should be a relief, right? That’s what I keep telling myself.
(You) About adjusting
I keep waking up expecting to hear guards talking outside. Instead, it’s just… silence. I must’ve gotten too used to the noise. Or maybe my sleep schedule is messed up. Or maybe—oh no. Is this withdrawal? Am I actually addicted to prison?!
(Wriothesley) About moving on
They’re out. They should be living their life, enjoying their freedom. And I should be focusing on my work. But every now and then, I’ll look at the cafeteria and half-expect them to be there, making some ridiculous comment about prison food. It’s a strange thing, getting used to someone’s presence—only to realize, too late, how much you actually miss it.
(You) About dumb ideas
Okay, so, hypothetically, if someone accidentally committed the same crime twice—purely by coincidence, obviously—would that be, like, really bad? Like, a longer sentence, perchance? …No reason. Just curious.
—
(Wriothesley) Character story: Sun
It was a slow day at the fortress, colder than usual, dimmer than what the Duke was used to. Since their release, he spent his time signing away some papers—names and files that came in a blur, none of them particularly interesting. The days felt longer, the usual routine dragging on without the usual interruptions.
Sigewinne checked in from time to time, making sure he was eating well and getting enough rest. And as much as he appreciated it, it just felt… different when it came from them. They had a way of making even the dullest moments feel lighter, like slipping bits of warmth into a place that wasn’t supposed to have any. He never realized how much he’d gotten used to it until it was gone.
He exhaled, shaking his head. Get a grip.
The door creaked as a guard stepped in, handing him the next batch of intake files. He took them without much thought, flipping through page after page of familiar offenses—smuggling, theft, fraud. Nothing unusual. Nothing worth a second glance.
And then he saw their name.
His movements stilled. At first, he thought he mixed up their old papers with the recent ones, but no—this was a fresh intake. The details stared back at him, just as ridiculous as the first time. He read the reason for their second sentence, and—
“Again?”
A laugh rumbled from his chest, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as a grin tugged at his lips.
“Are you obsessed with ketchup or what?”
Before he could think too much about it, a knock echoed through his office.
“Come in,” he called.
The door cracked open just enough for him to catch a glimpse of familiar, mischievous eyes peeking through.
He sighed, shaking his head, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curling into a smirk.
A love story told through voicelines (Alhaitham ver.) III
C/W: alhaitham x gn!reader, reader is a teacher at the akademiya, includes: 4ggravate, faruzan, layla, collei, wanderer, nahida, not proofread
Note: Pretty much a filler episode, legit having trouble writing the development chapters TT sorry this is taking a while guys!
Part 2
Part 4
—
(Kaveh) About Alhaitham: You
Oh, great, now there are two!
Seriously, what’s with all the verbal sparring? If they’re not tearing each other apart, they’re staring each other down like they’re about to—
… Ugh, forget it. I don’t even want to think about it.
(Tighnari) About you and Alhaitham
They should be careful, spending too much time around Alhaitham might actually lower their patience threshold. I’ve seen it happen before—one moment, you’re a perfectly rational person, and the next, you’re locked in some ridiculous debate about the semantics of a single word.
Though, I have noticed something interesting. Most people argue with Alhaitham out of frustration. They, however, seem to enjoy it.
(Cyno) About you and Alhaitham
They should watch themselves when they’re around him. Al(I’ll) haith(hate) for anything to happen to tham(them).
… Why are you walking away?
(Faruzan) About you and Alhaitham
Hah! Those two? Trust me, dear, this is nothing new. Intellectuals like him always think they’re above such trivial matters—until someone comes along who challenges them in ways they can’t rationalize. I hear them all the time in the Faculty room, and—whoo! It does get heated. Let me know once they finally stop dancing around it.
(Layla) About you and the Scribe
Huh? Oh—yawn—sorry, I was just having a dream about those two. Well, more like a nightmare, actually. Their squabbling makes my head hurt…
(Collei) About you and Alhaitham
At first, I thought they really didn’t like each other, but then I noticed… they always seem to seek each other out. Even when they argue, it’s like they’re—um—engaged in it? Oh, but not in a bad way! More like… ugh, I don’t know how to explain it.
It’s just… if they really hated each other, wouldn’t they just ignore one another? But instead, it’s like they’re always circling around each other, waiting to see who makes the next move.
…Oh no, I sound like Master. He did say I should start paying attention to details, but I think I’ve been reading into this too much!
(Wanderer) About you and the Scribe
Why should I care?
(Nahida) About you and Alhaitham
It’s fascinating how two people can be so alike, yet so determined to resist it.
They both value knowledge, but in different ways. Alhaitham pursues logic, stripping away emotions to find the truth. They, on the other hand, understand that emotions are part of the truth.
Maybe that’s why he keeps seeking them out. Whether he realizes it or not, he’s learning from them—just as much as they learn from him.
(Students) About you and the Scribe
“Did you see the way they were arguing earlier? It’s starting to feel less of a duel, and more of a… teasing session? No wait that sounds wrong—well, if we’re being honest, I’m likely right.”
“They say Scribe Alhaitham doesn’t waste time on people he finds uninteresting… is that why he’s always provoking the professor?”
“Ugh, the tension is palpable. Either they’re going to kill each other or f—”
“Shh! Keep your voice down! They’re right there, y’know!”
(You) About the public eye
Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way my students chuckle whenever Alhaitham and I talk. The whispers, the not-so-subtle glances, the way they elbow each other like they’re in on some great secret.
It’s irritating.
Yes, we argue. Yes, he gets under my skin like no one else. And yes, I might indulge in it more than I should—but that doesn’t mean anything.
… Right?
Yes, of course it doesn’t! If it did, indulging in any more conversation with the Scibe could lead to something more. And that could make me lose my job…
Ugh. I don’t have time for this nonsense. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach. And if anyone starts giggling the moment he walks in, I’m assigning extra readings for the entire week.
(Alhaitham) About the public eye
It seems the student body has developed an interest in our discussions. It’s all rather tedious.
I fail to see what’s so amusing. Intellectual debate is a natural exchange of ideas, a means of refining one’s thoughts through challenge and discourse. If they find that entertaining, then perhaps their academic standards are lower than I expected.
… Though, I will admit—if anyone were to match me in wit, it would be them. That alone makes it somewhat worth the spectacle.
Now, if only they’d stop pretending they don’t enjoy it just as much as I do. If they truly wished to rid themselves of me, they would’ve found a way by now.
So how come they haven’t?
(You) About Alhaitham’s Words
Why do I keep engaging?
That’s a good question. One I should have a simple answer to—but I don’t.
Maybe it’s because walking away feels like letting him win. Maybe it’s because every time he smirks like he’s already predicted my next move, I feel the urge to prove him wrong. Or maybe… maybe it’s something else entirely.
Because for all my complaints, for all the ways he infuriates me—there’s something about him that keeps me on edge, keeps me thinking. He doesn’t just challenge my arguments; he challenges me. I’ll admit, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find some thrill in it.
… Ugh. Now I sound just as bad as my students. I need a distraction. Anything to get his voice out of my head.
Too bad I know he’ll be right back in it the moment I see him again.
(Alhaitham) About you: Tired
They seemed more dismissive today.
Normally, their retorts are sharp, immediate—crafted with care, as if each exchange between us is a battle they refuse to lose. But today, there was hesitation. A flicker of something else beneath the usual fire.
Tired, perhaps? Annoyed? Or is it something deeper?
It’s unlike them to leave an argument unfinished. So why did they?
… Hm. I suppose I’ll have to provoke a proper response next time. Not that I particularly care, of course. But if they’re going to act out of character, I might as well investigate the cause.
A love story told through voicelines (Bonus Character Story!)
C/W: MDNI!, Diluc x GN!Reader, long intro, soft dom!Diluc, slow pacing, aftercare, mild praise, oral (reader receiving), penetrative sex, hair pulling (Diluc), Diluc is a whimpering mess, deep emotional connection, established feelings, not proofread
Word count: ≈2.8k
Note: first time writing smut omg did I do a good job?
I recommend reading part 5 of this series first so you can have full context!
(You and Diluc) Character story: What about us?
You were back at the manor now, emotions still lingering from what you heard. Diluc was with you, preparing a drink in the kitchen. You stood in the doorway of the kitchen, watching as he worked with quiet precision. His crimson hair fell slightly into his eyes, the soft glow of the lantern light giving him an almost ethereal quality. It struck you how at home he looked here—how natural he was in the space that once felt so foreign to you after leaving.
“Your favorite,” he said without looking up. His voice was low and familiar, a sound that wrapped around you like a warm embrace. “I thought you might need something to settle your nerves. All that running must have tired you out,” he chuckled.
How was it that he could still read you so effortlessly? “Thank you,” you murmured, taking the cup he offered. His hand brushed against yours for the briefest moment, sending a spark up your arm.
The two of you stood there for a while, neither speaking, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable. You let the chill of the drink seep into your hands, grounding yourself for the conversation you knew had to happen.
Finally, you broke the silence. “Diluc…”
He glanced up at you, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that never failed to catch you off guard. “Yes?”
“What happens now?” The question hung in the air, fragile yet heavy with meaning. “With us, I mean. What are we to each other?”
His brows furrowed slightly, and he set his own drink down on the counter. “I’ve been thinking about that too,” he admitted. “I don’t want us to go back to how things were before,” he continued after a moment. “I don’t want to be the person who pushes you away because of my own fears. But I also don’t want to rush into something we’re not ready for. I want us to build something… real.”
You swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling in your chest. “But what does that mean for us now? Are we starting over? Or picking up where we left off?”
He stepped closer to you, his presence filling the space between you. “We can’t go back to where we were,” he said softly. “And I don’t want to pretend that the things that happened—the mistakes we made—never existed. I want to move forward with you, but I want to do it right this time.”
“Right,” you echoed, searching his eyes. “That sounds… safe.”
His lips curved into the faintest smile. “In a way, yes.”
You set your drink on the counter, your hands shaking slightly for no apparent reason. “I don’t want safe, Diluc,” you said, your voice trembling but resolute. “I want you. All of you. Even the parts that scare you to show me.”
His breath hitched at your words, and for a moment, the mask he so often wore slipped away entirely. “You have me,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’ve always had me. But I want to make sure you’re ready too. I don’t want to hold you back, or… suffocate you.”
You took a step closer, the distance between you shrinking until there was barely a breath of space left. The air between you crackled with tension, heavy with unspoken words and the ache of all that had been left unsaid. “You don’t suffocate me,” you said firmly. “You challenge me. You make me want to be better. And yes, sometimes you frustrate me to no end. But that’s what makes this worth it. You’re worth it.”
For a moment, he just looked at you, his crimson eyes searching yours as if trying to memorize every detail of your face. The vulnerability in his gaze was raw, unguarded—a side of him he rarely let anyone see.
Slowly, his hand lifted, fingers brushing against your cheek in a touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine. His thumb traced a soft line along your skin, as though grounding himself in the moment.
“Say it again,” he said, his voice trembling slightly.
“Say what?” you whispered, though you already knew the answer.
“That I’m worth it,” he breathed, his forehead coming to rest against yours. “Because I need to hear it.”
“You are worth it,” you said, the words spilling out like a vow, your voice trembling with emotion. “You’re worth everything.”
His breath hitched, and before you could say anything more, he closed the final distance between you. His lips captured yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle—it was desperate, unrestrained, and overflowing with everything he had been holding back. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was an apology, a confession, and a plea all at once.
You gasped against his mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders as if to anchor yourself in the intensity of it. He deepened the kiss, his hand sliding to the back of your neck while his other settled on your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you in that moment, bathed in the warm glow of the lantern light.
When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, your foreheads still pressed together as you tried to steady yourselves. His fingers lingered on your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.
It was then silent as you both took in the flavor of that kiss. “Ah—“ Diluc pulled back, face flushed from either embarrassment or the heat of the moment. You couldn’t tell. All you knew was that he looked enchanting. “I’m sorry, that was… very sudden.”
“No, no! It was…” you urged him closer to you. “Do it again, please.” Your voice was nothing less of a breath. It was strange how relieving it felt—how natural. Maybe you’ve been wanting to do it for a while, who knows?
Diluc’s eyes widened at your words, his expression wavering between surprise and something softer, deeper. His gaze searched yours for any trace of uncertainty, but all he found was quiet sincerity. Slowly, his lips parted as if to say something, but no words came. Instead, he let his actions speak.
With a gentleness that contrasted the fervor of the first kiss, he leaned in once more. His hand, still resting on your cheek, tilted your face slightly upward, and the touch of his lips was soft this time—tender and deliberate. It was no longer an overflow of emotion but rather a conversation without words, each press of his lips telling you how much he had been holding back, how deeply he felt, and how much he wanted this—wanted you.
Your hands slid from his shoulders to the nape of his neck, fingers gracing the ends of his hair as you melted into him. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, the rest of the world fading into nothingness. There was only the warmth of his embrace, the quiet rhythm of your shared breaths, and the unspoken promise that lingered between you.
Caught in the flow of the moment, your hands slip to the back of his head, your fingers tangling in his soft locks. On instinct, you gave a little tug—and his response was immediate. Diluc stifled a low, unguarded groan against your lips. The sound was quiet, yet it sent a shiver through you. It was unexpected, raw, and utterly intoxicating—for both of you.
You broke off the kiss, though keeping your lips almost touching. “Are you okay? Did you not like that?”
“I…” Diluc thought for a moment, then chuckled against your neck. “My, you’ve got me feeling so many things. I did like it… strangely.”
“Should I do it again?” The question was blatant, casual yet expecting. You lifted his face to meet yours. “Upstairs, maybe?”
Diluc’s crimson eyes widened for a moment before his expression softened, his lips twitching upward in the faintest of smiles. “Upstairs… you really are bold,” he murmured, the faint blush on his cheeks deepening.
You tilted your head, teasingly brushing your fingers over his jawline. “So, is that a yes, or do you need me to convince you a little more?”
He quivered slightly, and he cleared his throat, trying to maintain some composure. “I wouldn’t mind being… convinced.” His words were soft, and yet you could hear the unspoken excitement beneath them.
You grinned and leaned closer, your lips grazing his ear as you whispered, “Then let’s take this somewhere a little more private.”
He hesitated only a moment before nodding, his gloved hand finding yours as you led him toward the staircase. The tension in the air thickened with every soft footfall, anticipation buzzing between you both like an unspoken promise.
—
Your breath was hot above him, bouncing off of Diluc’s skin as he groaned near your ear. It started with his shirt, then yours, followed by his unbuckled pants and the rest of what clothed you, until the cold Mondstadt air enveloped your bodies with chills that shook your chest.
Diluc’s gaze traced every curve of your body, reverence flickering in his wine-red eyes. His breath hitched, his gloved hands twitching at his sides as if torn between the desire to touch and the overwhelming awe that rooted him in place. The flickering candlelight cast golden shadows across your skin, and for a moment, he simply drank you in—each delicate contour, each rise and fall of your chest.
His lips parted slightly, though no words came, only the quiet shudder of his breath as his fingers finally found your waist, gliding hesitantly over your skin as if committing every inch of you to memory. His usual composure had crumbled, replaced by something raw, something utterly devoted.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost breathless, as though the words themselves were too small to capture the admiration in his voice. His grip tightened, pulling you impossibly closer, his gaze locked onto yours as if you were the only thing that had ever truly mattered.
With a kiss, he carried you below him, touch so gentle you could tell he was afraid you’d break. He settled himself between your legs, lips hovering over yours for just a moment longer, as if savoring the way your breath mingled with his. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he trailed downward, his touch featherlight yet searing. Every kiss, every brush of his fingertips, sent a current of heat pooling deep within you—an unspoken promise in the way he worshipped your body with fervor.
“Diluc…” His name comes out as a little more than a breath, but he hears it loud and clear. His warm sigh ghosts over your skin, each exhale carrying a mix of restraint and veneration. It’s unsteady—hot, heavy, betraying the calm façade he always wears.
“May I?” He spoke, sultry, soft, lavish with no end. You nod through parted lips, chest rising and falling from desperation.
He starts at your thigh, the first letter of his name traced with the softest brush of his lips.
D.
His tongue follows next, slow and deliberate, gliding across your skin in a path downward. It’s warm, tasting, savoring—like he’s memorizing the very essence of you.
I.
A sigh slips from your lips, unbidden, sweet and breathless. The sound is quiet yet electric, the kind of thing that sends a shiver through him, the kind that makes him ache with the need to hear more.
L.
His hands tighten, fingertips pressing against your skin, as though grounding himself in the moment. His pace never quickens—no, he’s patient, methodical, teasing. Every touch, every lingering kiss builds, anticipation curling through you like a slow-burning ember.
U.
And then—
C.
Your palms tug as his roots as waves build up within you, and crashing down with every breath you release. He feels you pulsing around his fingers, his tongue discerning every pulse you lay upon him. A deep hum vibrates against your skin, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sigh. You arch, his name falling from your lips once more, and this time, he answers not with words, but with devotion.
He keeps his mouth against your center, only latching out once your breathing settles. You run your fingers through his hair as he lays his cheek against your thigh. Diluc grew starstruck, his eyes tracing over every inch of you with something akin to reverence. His breath, still uneven, fanned across your skin as he remained there, lingering as if he never wanted to part from you.
He let his fingers ghost over your hip, mapping the warmth of your skin, memorizing the way you trembled under his touch. His usual composure was gone, stripped away by the intimacy of the moment, leaving behind only raw admiration—devotion painted across his face as if you were something sacred.
“You’re breathtaking,” he murmured at last, voice low and laced with something deeper than desire. It was worship, pure and unfiltered. His thumb traced absent patterns against your stomach, his lips parting as if he had more to say but found himself lost in the sight of you.
“C’mere,” you reach your arms out to embrace him. He didn’t hesitate, shifting up to meet you as you pulled him into your embrace. The heat of your bodies melded together as you settled atop him, feeling the way his chest rose and fell beneath you, still unsteady from his devotion moments ago.
But the second your hand wandered lower, brushing against his arousal, a sharp gasp broke from his lips. His head tilted back, a deep moan spilling from his throat, raw and unrestrained. His back arched instinctively, his hands gripping your waist as if he didn’t know whether to still you or pull you closer.
“Y-you—” His voice faltered as you did it again, the friction stealing his breath.
You leaned in, lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “Relax, love.”
And yet, relaxation was the last thing he could manage when you finally took him in. His hands trembled where they held you, his breath ragged as you sank down onto him. A strangled moan tore from his throat, his fingers pressing deep into your skin as he struggled to hold himself together.
At first, your movements were slow, teasing, drawing out his pleasure with a softness that had him unraveling under you. But soon, that tenderness gave way to something more desperate. More demanding. Your pace quickened, rocking against him with an intensity that left him gasping, moaning, hands tightening on your hips as he tried to ground himself in the sensation of you.
His voice was a beautiful mess—breathless, deep, and utterly lost in pleasure. Every time you moved, he keened beneath you, his moans broken, needy, completely unlike the composed man the world knew him as.
“Please—” The word came out as a gasp, his head falling back, exposing the pale column of his throat to you.
“Feels good?” You teased, though your own voice trembled, your body tingling with heat.
He barely managed to nod before his grip tightened, his hips stuttering up into yours, desperate to meet your movements. The pace grew erratic, pleasure consuming you both until all that was left were gasps, moans, and the sound of skin meeting skin in the dimly lit room.
And when it was over—when you both lay spent, tangled together, breathless and trembling—Diluc pulled you close, pressing a kiss against your temple. His fingers traced gentle circles against your back, grounding you, soothing you.
“This is the part where you need me,” he murmured, voice still hoarse from everything you had pulled from him. His body was still warm, his breath fanning against your hair as he pressed lazy kisses to your forehead, your temple, anywhere he could reach without moving too much. “Are you alright?” he asked after a moment, voice still thick with exhaustion yet laced with unmistakable concern.
You hummed, pressing a soft kiss against his collarbone. “More than alright.”
A quiet chuckle escaped him, and you could feel the way his chest rumbled beneath you. “Good.” His hands continued their slow, soothing strokes along your back, fingers tracing gentle patterns as if he wanted to memorize every inch of you in this moment.
And as the night stretched on, you remained wrapped in each other’s warmth, the world outside fading away until all that was left was the quiet sound of your heartbeats, steady and in sync.
—end—
Note: would I write smut again? Idk tbh my digital footprint is already pretty wild
A love story told through voicelines (Alhaitham ver.) II
C/W: alhaitham x gn!reader, not that slow of a burn, characters find the other annoying, reader is a teacher at the akademiya, heavily implied past intimacy (nsfw), not proofread
Note: does this count as smut?-
Part 1
Part 3
—
(You) About Alhaitham: Heartdrops
Every time I hear his name, my heart drops.
It’s ridiculous, really. I should be over this—over him. But then he speaks, and I feel it again. That same pull, that same tension, like a string wound too tight. He steps too close, and my breath hitches before I can stop it. His touch lingers for just a second too long, and suddenly, I’m back there.
That night was supposed to mean nothing. A lapse in judgment, a mistake to forget. And yet, here we are—standing too close, pretending we don’t remember.
But I do. And so does he.
(Alhaitham) About you: Heartdrops
Emotions are irrational, transient things—disruptive, even. I’ve never had an issue keeping them at bay. But with them… it’s different.
There’s an odd satisfaction in watching them try—and fail—to conceal their reactions. The way their breath catches when I step too close, the way their gaze lingers despite their attempts to seem unaffected. It would be amusing, if it didn’t leave me with a peculiar sense of déjà vu.
After all, I remember that night just as well as they do.
(You) About Alhaitham: Contemplation
I should’ve known better than to think he’d stay gone forever. Alhaitham never does anything without reason, so why now? Why after all these years?
It’s not as if I haven’t enjoyed this—whatever this is—but I’m not naive. He’s deliberate with his words, his actions, the way he leans in just enough to make me wonder if it’s intentional. I should walk away before I get caught in whatever game he’s playing.
… And yet, every time he looks at me like that, I hesitate.
(Alhaitham) About you: Contemplation
Patterns exist in everything—human behavior is no exception. I’ve spent enough time studying them to recognize the subtleties: the way their fingers twitch when I brush too close, the way their eyes dart away a second too late. They try to act indifferent, yet their body betrays them.
So, for the sake of curiosity, I’ve decided to conduct an experiment. A hypothesis, if you will. If I push just a little further, lean just a little closer… how will they respond?
Purely for observation, of course. Nothing more.
(You) About Alhaitham: Excuses
He’s barely in his office. I was looking for him the other day, and his desk was practically dust! Honestly, it’s harder to catch him actually working than on a break.
Why was I looking for him? It’s nothing—I was just going to ask something. Let me know if you see him, okay?
(Alhaitham) About you: Excuses
So they’re looking for me? That’s unexpected. After all that talk of wanting me away from them. Though I wonder—was it truly work-related, or were they simply using that as an excuse?
Regardless, if they have something to ask, they know where to find me. And if not… well, I suppose I can make an exception and save them the trouble.
(You) Character story: An Instant
“I heard you wanted to see me,” said Alhaitham in his usual condescending tone. He rested against the doorway of your classroom, a smug grin contrasting his uninterested gaze.
“I wasn’t looking—and yet, here you are.” That may be a half-truth—you only looked in his office, and gave up right after—but he doesn’t have to know that. You just hope the traveler hasn’t tattled.
“Here I am.” he looked away, “The traveler told me you were looking, though.” Damn it. His feet took a few paces closer, now facing you as you leaned on your desk. “I find it pitiful having to tolerate your half-truths to save face.”
“You do? Stange. I thought you liked it, given how you come back to my lectures all the time, placing comeback after comeback. You do have the liberty to interlope someone else’s class, am I correct?”
“Truly.”
“So why choose my class to squander?” Your words were quick—almost interrogative—and his frigid demeanor nearly faltered at your attacks.
His silence was rare, but you caught it—the slight twitch of his brow, the way his lips parted as if considering his words more carefully than usual.
Then, he leaned in.
It was subtle at first, but suddenly, you were hyperaware of everything—the way the dim glow of the afternoon light cast shadows against his features, the way the air felt heavier between you, the way his gaze flickered to your lips for just a second too long.
It should have been nothing. A natural proximity in a confined space.
But then, images of that night drew clearly in your mind. How his lips pressed the crease of your own, every bit of skin rising from his touch. How his gaze burned something within you. How you fit so perfectly. Eyes locked with his, you let this feeling eat you alive, blurring what surrounded you and leaving the room with only you and him.
Your breath hitched.
Alhaitham’s sharp sight didn’t miss that. His smirk deepened, smug and knowing.
“Hm.” His voice was lower now, almost amused. “Interesting.”
You exhaled sharply, regaining your footing before your thoughts could spiral into something irredeemable. “Don’t act so pleased with yourself.”
“I’m not.” He tilted his head, studying you like a problem he had yet to solve. “But I am curious.”
You remind yourself of who was in front of you; a man who was always two steps ahead. The man whose arrogance boiled holes into your bloodstream. The man whose said arrogance brought you life.
It was infuriating how he always managed to do this—how he could toe the line between challenge and something much more dangerous. You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of your desk for stability. “If you’re done wasting my time, Alhaitham, you can leave.”
He didn’t move at first.
Then, as if entertained by your sudden shift, he exhaled a quiet chuckle and straightened.
“As you wish.”
And just like that, the moment passed, leaving only a lingering heat in its wake.
You were, very much, in trouble.
(Alhaitham) Character story: Unraveling Consequences
For once, the quick-witted scribe was at a loss for words.
He never expected his little experiment to feel so heated.
It was supposed to be a simple test—a controlled observation of their reactions, an analysis of what lay beneath their carefully guarded exterior. And yet, when their breath hitched, when their fingers curled just slightly against the desk, when the heat of that memory flickered so obviously in their gaze—
Something in him faltered.
That was not part of the hypothesis.
Alhaitham prided himself on his ability to maintain control, to remain unaffected by the distractions of sentimentality. Emotions were, at their core, disruptions—variables that compromised efficiency and clouded rational thought. But when he leaned in and saw them break—even if just for a second—
It felt like he had reached an answer he hadn’t meant to find.
He should leave it at that. He had his results, his confirmation. He had nothing more to gain from indulging this.
And yet…
His feet hesitated at the threshold.
His mind, ever calculating, considered a new problem:
If that was their reaction to mere proximity… what would happen if he pushed just a little further?
He exhaled, shaking his head.
Hah. Now they were becoming troublesome.
And for the first time in his life, he wasn’t entirely sure if he minded.
—
Note: PLEASE GOD LEAVE REQUESTS ON HOW I COULD CONTINUE THIS
A love story told through voicelines (Alhaitham ver.) I
C/W: alhaitham x gn!reader, not that slow of a burn, characters find the other annoying, reader is a teacher at the akademiya (Vahumana), they have history (iykyk), one nsfw innuendo, not proofread
Note: my humiliating attempt at writing Alhaitham’s smart ahh attitude >A< anw, lmk how you guys want this story to go! (comments and reblogs are encouraged and appreciated)
Part 2
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(You) About Alhaitham
Scribe Alhaitham? He’s… intelligent. That’s all I have to say.
(Alhaitham) About you
Hm.
(You) About Alhaitham: History I
He and I partnered up in a thesis which, thankfully, got approved by our professors. Working with him was challenging, to be honest. Every idea I had, he’d shut it down with some counter argument—“they’d never approve of that,” or “it has too many defects.” A conversation with him may as well be a debate! Frustrating and infuriating.
(Alhaitham) About you: History I
They are competent, I’ll admit that much. But their ideas? Flawed. Reckless. It’s as if they refuse to consider consequences before leaping into action. Every discussion turned into an exhausting debate—because, naturally, I had to be the one to explain why their half-formed theories wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny.
Really, for someone who specializes in history, you’d think they’d have learned from past mistakes. And yet, they persist.
(You) About Alhaitham: History II
Talking about this in my place of work is not really appropriate. … Fine! Yes, we were in… amorous congress. But it happened a long time ago—when we were still students. Just once. A drunken mistake, that’s all it was!
… Keep this between us, though. I love my job.
(Alhaitham) About you: History II
I’d rather this particular detail remain in the past where it belongs. It was years ago, an irrelevant event. I fail to see why anyone would find it worth discussing now.
Though, knowing them, they’d likely frame it as some dramatic mistake rather than what it was—an ill-advised but ultimately inconsequential decision. Either way, I don’t intend to entertain the conversation.
… You think I should drop by? Hm, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to evaluate their current methodology.
(You) About Alhaitham: Work
It’s inevitable that we cross paths—he’s the Akademiya’s Scribe, after all. I can handle brief interactions, but when he lingers, it’s… bothersome. Always with that unreadable expression, listening too intently to everything I say. I know he’s just waiting to poke holes in my arguments. Ugh. Some things never change.
(Alhaitham) About you: Work
They have an irritating tendency to be vague, as if I won’t immediately notice the gaps in their reasoning. Do they think that being imprecise will make me less inclined to argue? If anything, it has the opposite effect.
I don’t intend to debate them at every opportunity, but when they make it so easy, I see no reason to hold back.
(You) About Alhaitham: Annoyance
Do you know how aggravating it is to give a lecture, only to see him sitting there in the back, arms crossed, silently judging every word that comes out of my mouth? He doesn’t even work in my Darshan! What is he doing there?! “It was on my way,” he says. “I had time to spare,” he says. Liar.
Having the Scribe in my classroom is distracting—both for me and my students. I’d appreciate it if he found a different way to pass the time. Preferably far away from my lectures.
(Alhaitham) About you: Observation
I fail to understand how they manage to get results. Their lectures lack structure, their methods are inconsistent, and yet… their students actually retain information. It goes against all logic.
Still, I suppose there’s something to be said about efficacy, no matter how unorthodox. Not that I’ll be admitting that to them. They’re insufferable enough as it is.
(You) About Alhaitham: A Final Thought
I swear, he only comes to my lectures to irritate me. He just sits there, arms crossed, waiting for me to say something he can nitpick. It’s distracting. The other day, I caught myself scanning the room to see if he was there before I even started teaching. Ridiculous.
…No, that doesn’t mean anything! It’s just easier to prepare for battle when you know the enemy is near!
(Alhaitham) About you: A Final Thought
They’ve developed an odd habit of pausing mid-lecture, glancing toward the back of the room—toward me. If I were to be charitable, I’d say they’re checking whether I have any objections.
But that would imply they value my opinion. Which, of course, is absurd.
𖧡 — warnings — fem! reader, vampire au, reader is a little delulu, mentions of blood & blood drinking, rough and very passionate
vampire diluc who has never experienced a real, centered moment of happiness before meeting you— or at least not without turning into a cruel, evil monster, whose intention was to drain the blood of others.
but now he revels in your beauty, and he thinks you're intoxicating, tainting your mind with his small compliments.
when you see him, you cannot help yourself but feel frightened, yet also excited— and you wonder if something has been wrong with you all along, especially when you let him get closer to you, the cold breeze outside your window bristling over the dry leaves as you're solely focusing on the view in front of you, your breathing continuing to escalate as he sinks into your warmth.
vampire diluc who hides his face in your neck as his cock drags with a lack of purpose other than thrusting a maddening fusion of thrill and pleasure into you, your eye sight becoming blurred each moment you taste his roughness in your body with his erection twitching within your walls in searing need to release— for a solid minute, he ponders and caresses the sensitive flesh on your neck, his sharp canines like a feather crossing over the skin.
vampire diluc knows you would let him do it, meaning you'd approve of him tasting your blood on his tongue— and it somewhat terrifies him, actually, that you're willing to go through that for him. there was a small tug on your hips, then a squeeze, with the scarlet haired pushing you into him before he slows his movements for a bit, "tell me if it hurts," he mutters finally, "i cannot hold myself back.. any longer," his voice webbed in grit and stones that you're vibrating all over the second he mouths wet spots over your neck.
"i will," you whisper back, watching him nuzzle his face closer, "i want this.. want you," an instinctual feeling was urging you to hold yourself steadily against his body, your breath erratic yet your eyes, they told a different story because they, for one, were glimmering with an emotion everyone could easily discern— it's pure excitement, glittering beneath the humid air.
vampire diluc who proceeds slowly, parting his lips ever so slightly before pressing his sharp canines into your flesh, immersing his teeth deeper until he opens a little spot to hollow his cheeks on before making contact with a taste of metal, a taste vampire diluc was utterly familiar with— and ugh, he knew you'd taste better than any other before, he was aware that you're so special, from inside and out.
your breath hitches as a new warmth embraces you, his hands on every inch of your skin as he repeats his thrusts on you while never letting go of your flesh between his teeth— the tug on your skin was stinging a little and the feeling of getting blood pulled out of you was frankly, something you thought you never had to experience in life.
but.. it feels nice, exciting, and it urges your cheeks to burn hot, for some reason it makes you feel so full when he drinks from you together with crowding you to the hilt with his erection— long and thick and just so right.
regardless, it has you seeing stars and copious amounts of planets flickering throughout the universe— his entire weight on you, molding his front into you while pinning your breasts against his broad chest, whereas his hand— hot to the every last trace, lays flat over the plush side of your ass, the softness of your body forevermore melting into the soft ridges of his.
Imagine having been with Zhongli for a while now, and you're suspicious about his true identity. So you decide to stage a confrontation when the two of you are alone at Wuwang Hill one night.
"I know what you are."
Zhongli stiffens, a little perturbed by the seriousness in your tone. The blue wisps of light dancing around you two cast an eerie glow upon the scene, which happens to be unfolding in the dead of night. He clears his throat. "Please, enlighten me, my dear."
You continue, looking him square in the eye. "Your skin is pale, and...alright, admittedly not cold. You never seem to need sleep. You only wear dark colors, and you have a refined manner of speaking and thinking, almost like...you come from another time."
Outwardly, Zhongli maintains his composure, though in his head he's already going through numerous ways he can gently break the news to you without you passing out.
"You really like silk flowers, which are red...like blood," you say excitedly. "Your eyes are unnaturally amber. Blood also comes in shades of amber, sometimes."
Your lover's brows are furrowed now. He only becomes even more perplexed when you start taking off the scarf around your neck, unraveling it slowly. "Darling, it's cold tonight-"
"So, you're a vampire, aren't you?" you cut in pointedly, a triumphant grin plastered on your face. "I should have known! I suspected it all along."
Zhongli blinks. "Er...pardon?"
Your grin widens. "Now that I know, please don't think I'll be scared of you! I've always been into supernatural creatures. So...feel free to drink my blood whenever you please!" You bare your neck to him, practically giddy. "But be gentle, it's my first time!"
When the appalled Zhongli reveals his real identity as the Prime of Adepti, God of Contracts, and former Geo Archon, you merely sigh, upset at having gotten it wrong.
C/W: slow-burn, Diluc x gn!reader, reader works at the flower shop in Mondstadt, fluff, shorter than the rest but that’s because it’s the end
Note: The story comes to a close! Thank you all so much for your support, I couldn’t have done it without you guys🫶🏻 If you have some ideas for other fics, feel free to leave a request in my inbox! (Part 1) (Part 4)
(You) About Diluc: Reflections
I’ve been thinking a lot about our fight. I don’t know if it was the heat of the moment or my own pride, but I said things I shouldn’t have. I called him stubborn, like his concern for me was some kind of flaw. He didn’t deserve that!
But when he called me reckless… it stung. I wanted to defend myself, to tell him I could handle it, but deep down, I knew he was right. I was reckless. I got hurt because I wasn’t careful, and instead of thanking him for worrying about me, I threw it back in his face.
I know he was just trying to protect me. That’s who he is—he takes on the weight of the world, and I made it even heavier with my words. I was so caught up in proving I didn’t need him hovering over me that I forgot how much he cares.
If I could go back, I’d say something different. Or maybe… I’d just listen. He didn’t deserve my anger. He deserved better.
(Diluc) About you: Reflections
My thoughts are quite repetitive when it comes to them, and maybe that’s how I drove them away—by caring more about their safety instead of them. I didn’t mean to hurt them, but seeing the scar on their arm reminds me of how much I could lose with one careless act. It was unbearable. And I let that fear dictate my words.
I know I can be overbearing. They’ve told me before that I control too much, and that I was… incredibly stubborn. Maybe they’re right. I wanted to protect them, but I didn’t stop to think about how they felt, what they needed from me in that moment. I acted as if I knew best, and in doing so, I ignored the trust we’ve built.
If I could go back, I’d handle it differently. I’d find the right words, words that wouldn’t hurt them. But now… all I can do is hope I haven’t broken something I can’t repair.
(You) About work
I’ve been trying to get back into the rhythm of working at Flora’s shop, but… it feels strange. The flowers are the same, the customers are the same, but something feels off. Maybe it’s me. Or maybe it’s the weight of everything that happened at the manor. I keep catching myself glancing toward the road leading to Angel’s Share, wondering if he’s okay, or if… he even cares.
*sigh* I need to focus. These asters aren’t going to arrange themselves.
(Diluc) About you: From afar
I passed by Flora’s shop today, and I saw them working as usual, but… quieter. Seeing them brought it all back—those quiet moments at the winery, their laughter, the way they always managed to surprise me. It’s unbearable, how much I miss them.
I almost stepped in, but quickly retreated. What would I even say? “I’m sorry”? Would that even matter by now? I’m sure they’re mad at me—maybe furious. And I’m sure… if I could change anything, I would change even the night I resigned from my position as Cavalry Captain if it meant bringing them back.
(You) About Diluc: Finally aware
I saw him today, you know. Well, not saw as in meet with—he just passed by. He didn’t come in; though strangely, I took a step in his direction. Out of habit, I suppose. I don’t think he noticed me… and why would he? After everything… Ugh! Why am I still dwelling on it? It’s not like I’m waiting for him or anything.
He’s just so… stuck. In my mind. I keep hoping to see him, even just for a moment. I miss eating with him, and trying to make him laugh. I miss the flowers that we took care of in the winery. I miss Adelinde.
I miss him…
And it’s infuriating, because I was the one who left. I needed space. I chose to leave the winery because it felt like too much. So why? Why does he linger like this? Why does every passing memory of him feel so sharp, so close, like it was yesterday?
I don’t know what this is. I thought leaving would bring me peace, but it’s only made me realize how deeply he’s rooted in me. I don’t know if I can ever let him go, even if I should.
…Could it be? Could this feeling—this aching pull—be love?
No… not could. It is. I love him.
(Diluc) About you: Finally aware
I need your thoughts on something. It’s… rather personal. For some time now, I’ve found myself increasingly distracted by them—always thinking about their safety, their well-being, even their smallest habits. Every little thing they do seems to pull at my attention. At first, I dismissed it as concern, but it’s different—stronger.
When I spoke to Adelinde about it, she said it sounded like love. Love. I… I don’t know what to make of that. But the more I think about it, the more everything starts to make sense—why I can’t stand the thought of them being hurt, why their smile lingers in my mind long after they’re gone.
I’ve even gone as far as to read about it in novels from Inazuma, though I’ll admit most of them are overly dramatic. Still… I couldn’t help but see myself in the pages. And now I can’t ignore it anymore.
This is love, isn’t it? I can’t believe it took me so long to realize. But… it’s oddly comforting, too, to finally understand why I feel this way. It all feels clearer now.
… I can’t let it end like this. I’ll speak to them, no matter what it takes.
(You and Diluc) Character story: Confessions
The day was drawing to a close, and the horizon burned with hues of amber and crimson as the sun dipped below the mountains. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
They didn’t know why they were running—only that their feet carried them forward. Wind gracing their hair, tugging at their clothes, and each breath coming quick and sharp with the patter of their feet. Were they running to the winery? They haven’t really thought about it. They were just chasing the closest thing that felt like home.
Inside the manor, Diluc sat at his desk, quill hovering over an unfinished report. He’d been staring at the same sentence for far too long, his mind elsewhere. His eyes kept straying to the lamp grass resting in a small vase—“For when nights are long, and the weight feels heavy—may these remind you that you’re not alone.”
In a breath, the quill laid flat on his desk, ink leaving a stain that may or may not come off. He didn’t care, though—he had other business to attend to. One that could change his life, for better or for worse.
As he ran, he thought of what to say. He’d gone over the words a dozen times in his head, but nothing ever seemed quite right. Every thought felt too small, too simple to convey the storm of emotions swirling inside him.
The crimson sky had turned to blue, stars slowly forming like the constellations they once had. They both remembered that night—their head on his shoulder with only nature to accompany them, silent, and sanctified.
The moon hung low in the sky by the time they crossed paths on the dirt road. Neither had planned for this exact moment, yet it felt inevitable, as if fate itself had intervened.
They stopped a few paces apart, both breathless—Diluc from his hurried strides, and them from their sprint. For a moment, neither spoke. The quiet hum of the wind wrapped around them, heavy with all the words they hadn’t yet said.
“I…” they muttered, but their voice caught. After a breath or two, they spoke again: “I didn’t think I’d run into you.”
“I could say the same.” Diluc’s eyes softened as the faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “Though… perhaps I hoped for it.”
Their breath hitched at his words, and they looked away, unsure of what to say. They hadn’t expected this—hadn’t pictured him to be so calm, so open. The reality of seeing him here, in the flesh, was almost overwhelming.
“I don’t even know why I came,” they confessed, voice trembling. “I just… I missed—“ they hesitated admitting they missed him. It terrified them—how one word could strip away everything they’d worked so hard to hide, yet hold the power to give them everything they wanted.
They swallowed hard, the silence between them growing heavier, and tried again. “I missed… the winery. Adelinde. The flowers. The peace of it all.”
But the lie tasted bitter, and they knew he saw through it. Diluc waited, silent and patient, as though he knew the truth would come, in time.
“I missed you,” they finally whispered, their voice breaking. The confession escaped before they could stop it, leaving them vulnerable and exposed. Their heart raced, the fear of rejection and relief of honesty crashing into each other.
“I’m sorry…” they added, one reckless word after the other. “For being so careless, for not understanding that you were only trying to protect me—for everything.
“I thought I did the right thing, leaving the manor. I told myself I needed space. But since then, all I can think about was you. I couldn’t stop looking forward to our lunch dates, to the moments you’d pass by the flower shop, to even catching a glimpse of that slight smirk of yours.
“And it’s all so infuriating,” they continued, voice gaining strength, yet still trembling with frustration and longing. “Because I look at you with that unreadable expression of yours, and it’s like you don’t care. You’re always so calm, so distant, like nothing ever fazes you. It’s maddening!
“Even when we were together, it was the same. You always tried to shoulder everything alone, hiding behind that stoic exterior. I could never tell if you were trying to protect me or push me away. And now…” Their voice wavered, and they dropped their gaze, overwhelmed by the torrent of emotions spilling out. “Now, I don’t even know if you missed me at all. Or if I was just someone you had to look after.”
They hadn’t noticed how Diluc closed the gap between them until they felt a gloved hand caress their hair. “I cared.” They looked up at him with a somber expression. “More than I should. And I still do.” Diluc’s eyes had changed. The unreadable mask they had always found so frustrating had slipped, replaced by something raw and vulnerable.
“I tried to convince myself it was better this way,” he continued, his voice low but steady. “That keeping my distance would protect you—from the burdens I carry, and the dangers that follow me. And though I wasn’t completely wrong,” he put attention to your scarred arm. “Pushing you away felt worse. For both of us.”
He hesitated, his thumb brushing against their cheek as if grounding himself. “You were never just someone I had to look after. You are… everything I’ve been too afraid to lose. I thought keeping my feelings buried would keep you safe, but all it did was drive you away.”
His voice softened further, but the intensity of his words only grew. “I can’t bury it anymore. I won’t.”
Their breath hitched, tears pooling in their eyes as he stepped closer, his other hand reaching to gently hold theirs. His grip was firm, steady, and yet full of care—just like him.
“You have undone me completely,” he said, his voice shaking with the weight of his emotions, “and I have no desire to be put back together.”
The confession hung in the air, raw and profound, and the sincerity in his eyes left no room for doubt. In that moment, the barriers between them shattered, replaced by a warmth that enveloped them both.
Tears slipped down their cheeks, but they smiled through them, their heart full for the first time in what felt like forever. “I’ve been undone, too,” they whispered, fragile yet filled with hope. “And I don’t want to be whole without you.”
The stars above, as well as the wind, bore witness as they stood there, hands entwined, finally allowing their hearts to speak what had been unsaid for far too long.
