I’ll compile all my content for Mr. Love: Queen’s Choice here! I’ll edit the rest and have them posted eventually - please keep in mind of the warnings! Happy browsing :))
TAG: Porn with Feelings, Angst and Porn, Mutual Pining, Mentions of Prostitution, Wriothesley is in his early twenties, Reader's background is left vague on purpose, Wriothesley is still an inmate, Loss of Virginity
The smell of metal was worse than usual, a preamble of misfortune. You had been staring at the wall — silent, unmoving. The longer you avoided to answer, the better it was going to be; after all, there was nothing you could say to Wriothesley to satisfy him. Not with how overworked he looked, despite the apparent calmness he tried to maintain.
His eyes were on you, a storm of emotions all directed at you. A single question hung in the air, simple in its own but with an answer that entitled layers of vulnerability getting torn to the ground. You did not want to answer — you did not want to make your own thoughts known. And yet, at the very same time, you craved it with an intensity that was staggering, the same way one wanted freedom.
Wasn't letting someone know you a form of freedom? Wasn't it also a prison, altogether?
You shrugged, still refusing to meet his eyes. You were anchored by your own emotions, your decisions nothing more than chains that added weight to the burden you already carried. The burden of existence.
"Tell me the reason," Wriothesley pressed, a man that was barely an adult and yet that moved like he was meant to do great things. Your opposite; your only friend in this damned prison.
"There isn't much to say," you commented, using that uncaring tone of yours that was supposed to be your shield against the world. And yet, your voice cracked at the end, betraying you and your emotions.
Laughable, really.
Wriothesley tensed up, his jaw clenched and eyes sharp — sharper than you've ever seen them directed at you.
"I'm being serious," he continued, barely holding back, "why your body? If you need credit coupons just ask me. I have plenty, enough for us both to have a decent life here."
"Oh I'm sure of that, I've been there for all of your victories in the ring," you laughed to yourself, mocking the possibility of someone ever caring for you. It felt too real, whatever the relationship between you and Wriothesley was. He didn't need to do more than he already did.
Oh he was frustrated, you could easily tell. He paced back and forth, stopping only to look at you in that longing way that had your heart do a back flip.
Dangerous thing, whatever it was.
"I don't want you to sell your body," Wriothesley pressed again, this time sitting next to you on the bed. You sent him a lazy glance, bottling up the desire to cry in his arms. The more disinterested you looked, the less emotionally involved you were going to be.
"Already did," you pointed at the end of the bed, where you hid all your coupons; Wriothesley was the only one you had told that secret. He winced, like he had been slapped, "why didn't you ask me first? I would have told you n–"
"Wrio, I can't depend on you!" you interrupted him, sitting up straight on the bed. "Don't you understand? You have a chance to rise to the top of the chain. But me? I am some meat to be thrown at the wolves!"
You didn't mean to snap, not when you have been trying hard to reign your real reactions. Something in his tone though irked you — perhaps the reminder that you used to be a normal citizen that would have never dreamt of selling her body to criminals. Or, maybe, the idea that someone still did care for you, blinded by lies to care for you; after all, no one in their right mind would ever meddle with you, a girl with too many years to her sentence — a past of blood and pain following you like a shadow.
"I'm not in need of help. I'm not... to be looked at with pity..." you looked away, bottom lip caught between your teeth. "My body is a currency. Nothing more, nothing less."
And with the way Wriothesley was looking at you after your little outburst was enough to shatter you.
There was no reprimand in his eyes; in fact, everything about him screamed «I see you». Even his silence said that he understood you, the blood that had dripped on his hands as unwashable as your own sins.
The difference though was that Wriothesley had risen from the past, growing into a striking adult. You? You remained the same, if not gloomier, more defeated.
"I'm sure Alvard might have some jobs he can offer you, if you want to earn more credit coupons," Wriothesley said, his warm hand engulfing your trembling one. You hadn't noticed how unsteady you were.
"He would do that only as a favour for you," you sighed, a sad smile gracing your tired face, "and you know it too. I wouldn't be happy about it."
Wriothesley looked at you for a long time, trying to find ways to help you out — something that you would be attempting to accept. You didn't know how to feel about it, refusing to acknowledge how you seemed to crave his affection. Terrible thing to realize, really, thus you suppressed it.
It was spontaneous to push him away, another sigh slipping past your lips, "Why do you care so much about it? It's my body."
A legitimate question asked more out of exasperation than genuine curiosity, so you had to admit to yourself that you felt surprised by how Wriothesley tensed up, his expression the very same one of someone that had been caught doing something wrong.
If only you had analyzed him better you would have noticed how there was a «I want you to be mind» stuck between his lips, right on the tip of his tongue. However, you ended up being persuaded by what he said next — you took the easier road, once again.
"Because you might end up getting sick. Not everyone here is... honest about their personal hygiene, or health status."
As logical as ever, Wriothesley brought up a great point. Just an excuse, really, no matter how genial.
You scoffed, half amused by his concerns.
"I'm gonna be careful. There are protections I can use," you said, like it really was no big deal. "Plus, I'm still fine, aren't I? It means I'm being conscious about my health."
And again, Wriothesley winced, as if the idea of you getting that intimate with someone else was truly the most painful thing ever.
"So you had sex already?" he couldn't help but ask, forced to confront the one thing he had tried to ignore for the entire conversation: talking about the future and solutions, to avoid coming to terms with the fact that you already threw yourself into your new job.
At that point you had to school your expression, forcing it to be as blank as possible. You didn't understand what you were feeling but, whatever it was, it felt suffocating.
"No one paid full price yet, so no."
Wriothesley furrowed, lips pressed in a thin line. It was with much struggle that he spoke: "And how much is that?"
"500 credit coupons, for my first time," you answered, the same way a salesman speaks about his goods. It was a high price, the last barrier that prevented you from giving away your full body. Wriothesley looked taken back but he said nothing. Instead, he reached for his pockets, pulling out a large sum of credit coupons.
As they fell to the ground, you stared at him with genuine shock, years of suppressed emotions threatening to pour out.
"What are you doing?" you asked, so meekly that you barely recognised yourself. Wriothesley started by unbuttoning his shirt, ruined by the many fights he had taken part of.
"I'm paying for your services. You won't drop it and I refuse to let you be with undeserving men." He sounded desperate, his movements messy as his shirt fell to the ground. His naked chest greeted your eyes, all hard muscles and deep scars.
You gulped, even if your throat felt drier than a desert. You didn't know where to look, if his face or his chest, too stunned to fully elaborate what was happening. There was the immediate urge to yell at Wriothesley, to call him insane and refuse his payment. Then there was a traitorous part of you that didn't want to push him away, comforted by the idea of losing yourself under his hands. Just lay down and stop thinking...
"I don't want your pity," you forced yourself to say, your fingers grasping the bedsheets to avoid losing yourself to silly daydreams. However, Wriothesley reached out to cradle your face, knuckles brushing against your cheek. You didn't need to meet his eyes to know that he was looking at you like you were something precious — something worth it.
"It's not to pity you," he whispered, "if you must sell your body then I want to be your only client."
That made you laugh. Ridiculous and corny; the kind of things one reads in fancy books only nobles had time to read.
"Are you that desperate for a good laid?" you whispered, finally allowing yourself to caress his chest. Your touch was clumsy, inexperienced in a way that revealed how little you knew about the world you were throwing yourself in. It was obvious that Wriothesley didn't enjoy your poor attempt at humour, if the way he scoffed was anything to go by.
"You know that's not the case," he argued and, unfortunately, you found yourself believing him. And yet, mentioning the real reason behind his actions would be too much for you to handle, with all the feelings and unresolved situations that would surface. Accepting the payment made you feel less guilty about your affection for the man.
"Well then, I'm all yours," you whispered and laid down on your bed, arms falling on the pillow, beside your head. Wriothesley observed you in silence, a faint hint of redness rising along his neck and onto his cheeks. He reached down, tentatively raising your shirt over your head. When you didn't stop him, he continued undressing you, until you were completely naked for him.
And he was erect for you.
"Forgive me for being selfish," Wriothesley said, his words sounding slightly choked. And yet, you smiled at him, spreading your thighs for him. At that point the man nearly stopped functioning.
You had only let men play with your breasts or used your hands on them, things that had you silently spiraling under the blankets and scrubbing your body in the showers. Of course you didn't want to sell your body but the need for emancipation had won over every sense of self.
Wriothesley dropped low, kissing your skin with such a reverence that it had you gasping. With him it didn't feel disgusting and that was because this was different.
Everything with him was different. And that was precisely why it was dangerous to depend on him — to let yourself go and dive into a relationship with him. In a sense, you hoped to dirty this memory with the filth of currency, to make it less real. Because feelings were not going to get you anywhere.
"Did anyone ever touch you here?" Wriothesley whispered once he reached between your thighs, breath ghosting over your folds. You shook your head, unable to control the way your legs spread further to accommodate him.
"Too costly," you whispered, already breathless. And, oh, the way Wriothesley smiled could only be described as drunk.
Drunk and stupidly in love.
"Better raise your prices then," he whispered before diving in, giving a long lick to your folds, spreading them apart with his tongue. It had you bucking your hips up, a moan leaving your lips. Wriothesley sighed against your pussy, his fingers already drawing circles around your virgin hole.
"Tastes too good. We will revisit the prices together... I'm gonna be the only one able to afford this," he continued, sounding silly enough to deserve to be mocked. However, the way his tongue went back to work was enough to shut you up, letting your folds be lapped at and spread with breathy moans, instead of complaints.
When his lips closed around your clit, you felt like you lost all reason. He alternated between sucking and licking, his fingers sinking into the skin of your thighs to keep you still, pressed against his face. And whenever you felt like moving away, too overstimulated, Wriothesley pulled you right back in.
"I... I should be the one p-pleasing you," you stuttered, barely remembering that you were the worker and he was the client. Not that it felt anything like that, with the coupons still scattered on the floor with how little they mattered and your pussy drooling all over his chin.
"Mmmm," Wriothesley hummed against your clit, until you were bucking up against his face. His eyes focused on your face, waiting to meet your gaze before hungrily lapping at your hole, circling it with his tongue. When you looked incoherent enough, he pulled away — briefly.
"You are pleasing me."
He said it as a matter of fact, with a tone that was meant to end all discussions; after all, he wasn't there to play a tug of war but to win you over. And when one of his fingers first slipped inside, you did feel like you had been on a losing streak.
There was no technique in the way Wriothesley touched you, all hunger and unfiltered desire. You didn't dare reach for his hair, too scared of turning the act into something much more intimate. Again, too real.
However, Wriothesley ended up being the one to grab your hand, which had been grasping at the bedsheets, and press it on his head. Soon enough your other joined, holding onto him for dear life. Then he sunk a second finger in and you whined, unused to the stretch but not exactly disliking it.
Wriothesley was being careful, sucking your clit with working his fingers inside, until he could be knuckles deep without hurting you. Only then he gently curved his digits, studying each one of your expressions.
Too focused, too attentive.
It felt closer to a lover's touch.
Wriothesley was in no rush, keeping on curling and brushing his fingers against your walls, seeking for all the spots that made you moan or shiver. And when he found them, while his tongue rolled your clit, he worked you up towards an orgasm, urging you towards it with the same gentleness you had learnt to associate with him. You came with a soft cry of his name, thighs pressing against his face and walls fluttering around his fingers.
Wriothesley sucked your clit until you were shaking and pushing away, all whiny and overstimulated.
And when he did pull away, he rested his head against your thigh, admiring your flushed face the same way others admire paintings. Wriothesley was focused on you, so intensely that it felt like he was trying to memorize you. Once again you were presented with the fact that he was not doing this for the sex, nor for an ulterior motive: he was desperate to keep you away from dangers, even if it meant setting himself up for failure.
You wanted to push those thoughts away, to deny them like you've done for years, but Wriothesley pushed himself up on his knees, skin flushed and chin drenched in your essence. And yet, to the very end, it was you who mattered most to him;
"We can stop," Wriothesley whispered, giving you an easy way out born from the concern he always seemed to hold for you. He would never force you to do anything, despite the fact that his cock was forming an obscene tent in his pants.
"Didn't you want to be selfish?" you asked, a honeyed encouragement that had Wriothesley hesitating, his hands ghosting over his pants with uncertainty.
"You are too important..." he whispered, "I want to support you... it's all I wish for."
How bittersweet; since day one, you two had been there for each other. Wriothesley was a taciturn and closed off teen, one that seemed to have lived too much in a too short life. You were too mischievous for your own good, always bothering him to get him to give you at least one smile. It was difficult to explain why you had felt that strong need to stand by his side but you had never left him behind; in a sense, you had wanted Wriothesley to live a much better life, one that would have inevitably made him leave you behind.
So what wasn't he following the script you had thought of? When did you become the one that needed support?
However, looking at Wriothesley, you realized that his face still carried reminiscences of that child, matured into the man you were always going to carry in your heart. A burden that was going to ruin you — that was going to ruin him.
You reached out and pulled Wriothesley down, pressing your lips together. He was stunned, as still as a rock. However, right as you thought he was going to push you away, Wriothesley kissed you back, lips moving together like he was starving for it.
Without much of a fight you let yourself fall back on the bed, while running your fingers through his hair. It was with much reluctance that you pulled away, only to be overwhelmed by the intensity of Wriothesley's gaze.
"Take what you've paid for," you whispered against his lips, a low grunt the answer you received. Wriothesley immediately pulled his pants down, low enough to let his erection spring free. He found your thighs already parted for him, wet pussy kissing the tip of his weeping cock.
He slid his length between your folds, coating himself in your arousal. Each time it rubbed against your clit you saw heaven, leaving you unable to stop yourself from rocking your hips in time. It was with a huff that Wriothesley, too impatient and eager to wait any longer, pressed his cock against your entrance, tip slipping like it was meant to be there.
The stretch was uncomfortable, too much on your senses.
Any other man would have slammed himself in, uncaring for your well-being; the few experiences you already had taught you that. However, Wriothesley was being careful, pressing further inside only when he felt you relax. And whenever you winced, he immediately stopped, focusing instead on pressing kisses to your neck.
The first roll his hips had you tearing up, overwhelmed by the sensations hitting you all at once: you felt full, blissfully surrendered to Wriothesley's thrusts, and finally able to turn off your mind.
When he saw your tears, he didn't question you — how could he when he felt tearful as well?
Instead of filling your mind with empty words, Wriothesley kissed your tears away, intertwined your fingers with his, and snapped his hips like his main goal was your pleasure, first and foremost.
With his free hand, Wriothesley made sure to rub your clit in time with his thrusts, drinking in the way you moaned. His touches were inexperienced, albeit purposeful. Your slick coated his shaft, dripping all the way down to his thighs, while your moans were turning breathy. Your hips weakly rolled against his as you felt yourself inch closer to your orgasm, thighs pressing against Wriothesley's sides to try and keep him close.
He was groaning, his body pressing yours against the bed. It looked like he too didn't want to let you go, keeping you cradled in his arms in the same way one would treat a treasure.
It felt good; it felt overwhelming.
You came with a sob, your fingers scratching his back, leaving marks on his skin that stated an ownership you normally would never claim. Wriothesley pressed his face against the crook of your neck, breathing in your natural scent as he slammed a few more times — once, twice, until he forced himself to pull out and spill on your folds. He was shivering, mumbling your name like a mantra.
A few moments of silence passed, in which only the sound of your thundering heart drummed in your ears. Wriothesley settled next to you, holding you close to his chest. He was warm, a reminder of all the things worth living for. It was terrible how much you desired to never let him go, a betrayal to your own principles.
As if reading your thoughts, Wriothesley kissed your forehead, with such gentleness that it had your heart stuttering.
What a dangerous, dangerous man he was.
"Remember the day we met?" he suddenly whispered, caressing your skin as he felt you tense up, "you gave me half of your stack of credit coupons. And from that day on, you kept adding more to my own savings whenever I wasn't around to see."
Wriothesley longingly gazed down at your face, with that desperate look you had seen on his face the moment he learnt of your new side job.
You didn't dare speak, unable to trust your own thoughts.
"But I did notice, I always did. That's why everything I own, everything I am, is yours. My wealth is yours, my possessions are yours. I am yours," he said all at once, each word spoken with so much emotion that you couldn't find within yourself to doubt him. He didn't need to ask again for you to understand: don't sell your body, don't do it again.
You could read it in his eyes, exactly how he could see your own thoughts reflected on yours.
"Silly man... you are going to get yourself hurt," you whispered and reached out to caress his cheek, a pleased sigh leaving his lips. Then he tilted his head and kissed your palm.
"Let me be the only one giving you coupons, as selfish as that is." Wriothesley hugged you tight, as if the mere thought of letting you go was going to be devastating. Unfortunately, you too shared a similar feeling.
Naming what you felt for Wriothesley was still too much for you, your tongue wrapping itself up in brambles whenever the emotion crossed your mind. Despite that, you let yourself relax in his embrace, a too soft whisper escaping you before your thoughts caught up: "Be selfish, if it means you aren't leaving my side."
Wriothesley smiled and pressed a kiss to your lips, soft enough to leave them tickling.
"I'm never leaving. I'm yours, now and forever," he whispered and, for once, you found yourself trusting his promises.
TAGS: Dry Humping, Making Out, Love Confessions, Fluff, Mild Sexual Content, Hickeys
The truth was that you have never been a huge fan of tea. The taste was alright most times, if you really forced yourself to enjoy it for a moment. You wouldn't call it overrated though; after all, you could easily see why some people might enjoy it so much.
First of all, the warm liquid heated the porcelain of the cup in a way that felt enjoyable against the skin, especially when the cold was so intense it seemed to slip into your bones — blame it on the humidity that came with living in a nation surrounded by bodies of water.
Secondly, it was a nice activity to indulge in when craving an easygoing outing with friends. A warm cup of tea and chatters; it sounded delectable.
And yet, other than superficially admitting those pros to yourself, you still struggled to enjoy tea. No matter the fragrance, or the cakes that usually were bought to accompany it, tea still tasted bland to you. You kept drinking it in hopes of changing ideas, as if a new day might come with a new feeling to your taste buds.
Some might call it being a contrarian but, to you, the reasons behind your insistence were more of sentimental nature: one day you had simply realized that a beautiful pair of pale blue eyes made tea taste somehow better. Quite sappy perhaps, especially with the way you stared at said eyes like your entire being started existing solely when reflected upon them.
Overly saccharine thought that matched the excessively sweet tea you were currently attempting to drink.
"... so?"
Wriothesley called, with a bit of a frown and an amused expression. Only then you had noticed he had been talking to you, while you were too busy staring at the amber tea in your cup like it had personally offended you. You blinked once, twice...
What was the topic again? Your mind was a fog, the aftertaste of the tea hovering on your tongue. Honeybush, you noted.
The last thing you remember hearing was Wriothesley's comment about the weather, something about how the seasons felt like they were slipping by. Since becoming the Duke's drinking buddy — strictly sticking to tea and no other beverage, you had learnt that he loved hearing you speak about the Overworld, always intrigued in whatever was happening up there while he spent his days between documents, calculations, and patrols around the Fortress.
You finally looked at him, drinking in the way he looked so relaxed with a cup of tea in his hand. It definitely made you crave a taste, hopeful as ever that one more sip was going to change your tastes.
"... It's a nice day outside," you stated with the calmest tone possible, an attempt to hide how little focused you were at the moment.
"Oh I'm sure that is the case, lovely weather and all, but that's not what I had asked," Wriothesley chuckled, shaking his head in pure amusement.
Ah got it wrong, you distractedly thought, forcing yourself to smile along — awkward with how exposed you felt under the scrutiny of his gaze.
"I must admit that I got distracted by the tea, your Grace," you said, a half-truth you hoped would save you from the awkward situation. You raised your cup to your lips, the scent filling your nostrils once again.
"Honeybush, correct?"
He hummed, admiring you, and then spoke.
"That is right. You are becoming more of an expert than me."
A small laugh left your lips, eyes twinkling in a way alone Wriothesley managed to do. "You certainly jest, your Grace."
You took another sip of tea.
An expert... a laughable idea. Saying that you don't like tea would probably make Wriothesley invite you over a little less. You had considered being upfront with it a few times but, in the end, you found that you liked Wriothesley a lot more than you disliked tea. It had started slowly, a build up of meetings that resulted in more direct invitations. You, a functionary that worked for Palais Mermonia, bonding with the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide; it was an occasion you couldn't waste.
Wriothesley observed you in silence, with that smile of his that was anything but direct — enigmatic in its beauty. The lack of words was fairly appreciated, since it gave you a chance to glance at him, memorising the moment. His presence alone was enough to communicate all that was needed to be said, two hearts bonding over nothing and everything all at once. Out of habit, you poured yourself another cup, the action so fluid that it testified the amount of afternoon spent just so.
That was the moment Wriothesley picked to finally speak, breaking the magic.
"You are in love with me."
There was no build up, no preparation. Just the truth getting delivered through his words, like an emissary to truth. Despite that, in the land of Justice one has the chance to defend oneself, sustaining a trial to try and come out as the victim. And yet, Wriothesley didn't give you the benefit of the doubt: his words were sure, certain, as if he was not looking for excuses but simply stating the obvious.
As surprised as you were, you ended up dropping the cup onto your lap, porcelain pathetically rolling down your legs. Its content was all over your dress, a work outfit you exclusively used at the Palais Mermonia and at the Fortress.
A breathless curse left your lips, hands hastily grabbing the tissues from the coffee table. You barely noticed how Wriothesley had dropped to his knees in front of you, warm palms stopping your frantic movements.
"It's my fault, so let me help," he sighed, carefully wiping the hot liquid off from your lap. He was being gentle, like any rushed touch might end up hurting you further.
"Your Grace–" you started, just to be interrupted by his lazy grin and clear eyes.
"Startled you badly, uh. Next time I will give you a heads-up," he said with a light chuckle, dabbing the wet spot on your dress. You were squirming on your seat, cheeks burning in embarrassment, but even so you forced yourself to answer, "I would like it better if a next time doesn't happen."
That made Wriothesley laugh more. Still, he waited until your eyes met his to halt his movements, lips curled like the cat that got the cream.
"I like you too, if it helps. I was going to ask you out on a date," Wriothesley whispered, back to tending to your poor ruined dress. You scoffed and stared at him with pouty lips, feeling a mix of annoyance and embarrassment swirling through your mind.
"Couldn't you mention that first, your Grace? Your previous comment was... uncalled for."
"Well, when my dear girl is all distracted, I might have to use dramatic measures to catch her attention." He reached out, cradling your cheek against his hand, thumb stroking the soft skin — warm under his touch.
"So you do know that it was dramatic," you sighed, leaning into his palm. Your heart was beating faster, mind reeling with how he called you his dear girl. Wriothesley laughed again, pushing himself a little higher up, until his breath ghosted your lips.
You automatically parted them.
The temptation to kiss him was irresistible and you had to force yourself to focus on anything else but his lips — despite the fact that your eyes were glued to them.
"Are you teasing me?" you managed to ask, struggling to maintain focus. Many were the times Wriothesley had invited you for a cup of tea and never once his feelings had hinted to something romantic. You were hesitant, scared of ending up with a broken heart.
A cup of your least liked tea would have been preferable.
Wriothesley tilted your chin up, eyes flickering between yours and your lips. Only then it had occurred to you that you had never seen him look more tense than he did at the moment.
"You think I invite you here because I like to listen to the forecast or to the latest scoop?" Wriothesley chuckled and shook his head, stopping solely to press a kiss against your cheek — tremendously close to your mouth.
"Well, you are the one bringing up those topics..." you tried to justify yourself, like your doubts had turned silly all of a sudden. You felt Wriothesley huff against your neck, before he pressed a kiss on the exposed skin.
You gasped, the sensation sending goosebumps all over your body; that was certainly something you were not expecting to happen.
"Fair enough but I'd like to point out one thing." Moving away from your neck, Wriothesley glanced at you in that mischievous way of his that made you feel thrilled.
"You dislike tea but you keep accepting my invites. Isn't it, ultimately, the exact same thing I do? Finding excuses to be together?"
Forgotten were your ruined clothes.
With your eyes wide in shock, you stared at Wriothesley like an animal caught by the hunter. You opened your mouth to speak, only for it to snap shut right after. Thankfully Wriothesley was a patient man, already leaning in again with the same gentleness and care of before.
"So... do you accept my feelings?” he asked, voice so soft that it felt like a whisper. He silently sought permission to close the gap between you two, other than just a direct answer to his question. You nodded to accept his feelings and leant forward to accept his lips.
And then time stopped.
Your first kiss tasted sweet, floral and honeyed in a way that surpassed by far the tea you drank. Perhaps it was from his mouth you were meant to enjoy the beverage, for your senses immediately rejoiced in its taste. His taste.
His hands moved to your thighs, gently stroking your skin through the clothes, while his tongue brushed against his bottom lip. Your fingers sunk into his hair, pulling him closer to your body to better enjoy his warmth. The kiss was slow, gentle in a way that felt sensual, his tongue brushing against yours like it held a sweet promise.
When Wriothesley pulled away, there was a string of saliva connecting your lips, one last connection that made the kiss feel realer. Your eyes were half-lidded, fluttering shut only when he leant close to brush your noses together — all affectionate and caring.
"I will give you my coat, alright? I don't want you to walk all the way back home with a stain," Wriothesley murmured, lips brushing against your neck in butterfly kisses that turned into attempts to leave a mark on your skin. The sensation had you arching against him, like you couldn't get enough. He let out a sigh, "I might carry you home, actually."
As dizzy as you were, you nuzzled against his hair, breathing in his scent. And when you attempted to speak, your lips ended up brushing against his ear. It was accidental but, somehow, it was enough to make Wriothesley pull you into another kiss.
The only sounds that could be heard in the room were your quick breathing, the smacking of lips, and errant gasps. Wriothesley moved to sit on the couch, right next to you, still refusing to stop kissing you. The dam had been broken and he finally had you. It was natural the way you ended up on his lap, heavily encouraged by Wriothesley's own eager arms, which he wrapped around your hips to hold you still.
Then you felt it: bulge pressing against you, making its presence known. You wiggled your body without meaning to, feeling it twitch under you. Wriothesley ended up groaning, face hiding against the crook of his neck.
"Careful," he whispered, "I'm trying to hold back. And you..." he rolled his hips up, "you are not helping."
His words and movement sent shivers down your back. You tried to hold still, simply clinging to his shirt like your life depended on it. However, with the way he kept on kissing and suckling your skin, it was impossible to stop yourself from humping him.
Wriothesley let you be for the moment, giving you the chance to rock your hips against his lap in those timid but needy circles that had his sanity hanging by a thread. Despite that, he focused entirely on marking your skin.
His lips moved along your neck, pampering kisses and leaving scattered marks. You tilted your head back, a shaky moan slipping through your parted lips when Wriothesley lingered on a specific spot that had you trembling. When he pulled away, you felt him chuckle, eyes glued to the hickey he proudly left on your skin.
"I hope my actions speak clearly. I am not teasing you, or working you up to let you down," he reiterated, helping you rock against his bulge, "I like you. A lot."
He was trying to make his point clear, to dissipate every possible doubt from your mind. And when you were too dazed to answer, the grinding on each other making stars dance behind your eyelids, Wriothesley leant in to steal your lips in another kiss, pouring his feelings with each caress of his tongue against yours.
He snuck a hand behind your back, caressing your spine with a tenderness that had you melting against his body, despite the pulsing need between your legs.
You went still on his lap, lost in the way his lips moved over yours. Your fingers curled over his shirt, steadying yourself.
The kiss turned slow, as if Wriothesley felt the need to take his time to fully enjoy you — like he wanted to memorize every inch of you. The moment you two pulled away, you immediately noticed that Wriothesley was staring at you like you hung the stars in the sky. Likewise, your own gaze was full of adoration as you drank in the sight of his flushed cheeks. At that point, you briefly thought that looking at his eyes indeed enhanced every situation.
"Let's leave the rest for a proper date," Wriothesley said, brushing your hair away from your forehead, "no tea party this time, I promise." He was smiling at you with such an intense love that words eluded you. Even with his marks over your skin, and the willingness to feel more of your body under his fingertips, Wriothesley still wished to cherish every single moment together.
He helped you stand up and, as promised, he draped his coat over your form, engulfing you in his scent. With the marks scattered over your exposed neck, you felt surrounded by Wriothesley's presence.
It made you feel giddy.
"It looks gigantic on me," you pointed out, barely holding back your happiness.
"Well," Wriothesley began, stropping to fully take you in. "Then it means that it's gonna keep you extra protected."
He kissed your forehead, fingers interlacing with yours. His grip was firm in a protective way but gentle enough to make you feel cherished.
"Now let's get you home. I'm not leaving your side," he said, finally guiding you towards the stairs. With each step you took, you couldn't help but think that making yourself drink tea had been very much worth it.
˚ʚ Wriothesley x ballerina!reader II hurt/comfort ɞ˚
Your unfortunate, messy breakup with the Duke of Meropide was a mistake you promised yourself you'd never make again.
After four years together, the dry tinder of prolonged issues that were never resolved suddenly caught fire and sent your relationship up in flames—a slow but wild burn that scalded you both along with it. Like a home you built together succumbing to the blaze, you’d sit in the impending doom together much too long, until you’d both become charcoal.
So you left; for the good of you both.
It was just too difficult to have a lover so far away, so deep under the sea, and it was equally hard for him, having a lover that danced on the land high above him, awash with sunlight—out of his sight but always on his mind.
He endlessly ached for you, having to go weeks without seeing you due to your conflicting careers; him, a duke of an underwater fortress housing a vast community that needed governing, and you, a delicate vision that twirled across a stage and brought light to all those that beheld you—your feet carrying you so high above all, you were almost celestial.
You’d learned to dance before you’d learned to walk; the draw of the artform flowing through your body like it ran in your blood. All your life, dance remained the center of your world. Your talent caught the eyes of nobles, even the hydro archon herself, and sent you soaring right up to the position of prima ballerina of the Ballet Epiclese—a subsection of the famed opera house that existed solely for ballet.
Wriothesley had been watching you since he was a boy. His father loathed these dreary shows, only attending as a way to rub elbows with Fontaine's nobility and to assert his inflated financial stature. Sometimes, he’d send Wriothesley alone in his stead, warning his boy to make a good impression, and to not sully his family's reputation. Wriothesley was…adequate---though the boy would catch side eyes and whispers about his father’s irreverence throughout those lavish nights. Although these excursions were nothing but business to his father, nothing enchanted Wriothesley more than watching you dance.
The months that the ballet was performing in the opera house were months that young Wriothesley would spend every day nervously bouncing on the balls of his feet, waiting for his father to call him into his office and send him off to the opera house once more. His eyes would glitter as he leaned forward over the mezzanine's railing—yearning to be evermore close to you as you spun and leaped and bowed. You were too young to take the lead in your shows back then, but still he watched you in the background, ignoring the story altogether as his attention was on you and you alone. He’d plummet right off the balcony if it were not for the tutting of an usher as their arm pulled him back into his seat.
Wriothesley’s dreams came true the day he met you so many years later, long after he’d assumed the role of Duke—the warden of Meropide.
You’d visited the fortress along with a group of the ballet house’s best ballerinas to perform in a holiday show for the inmates; an offer made by the director as a favor to the Duke, which he had readily accepted. This director had got to see Wriothesley’s admiration for you grow throughout the years with every show she had instructed, so she thought she’d have a splash of fun and try her hand at playing matchmaker for her favorite performer.
It worked; yielding results that skyrocketed beyond expectations.
Within an hour of meeting each other, Wriothesley and you were bound together tight as a knot. A polite greeting turned into a riveting conversation, a riveting conversation turned into an unexpected, quick infatuation, and that quick infatuation turned into…well…a steamy makeout session in his office.
Never in her career had this director been more surprised than when you came running to her, frantically begging her for assistance in fixing your hair---which had fallen out of its neat bun into ringlets adorning your shoulders---as well as your makeup---lipstick streaked down your chin. She’d been perplexed as to how exactly you became such a mess within only the hour before your show, until the Duke joined her at her side on the VIP balcony of the theater and she caught a glimpse of his goofy smile, and the pink splotches he’d forgotten to clean off of his neck.
Wriothesley undoubtedly became the happiest man in Teyvat that night.
And so blossomed your love affair; frequent visits to his fortress and meetings in his office, shared tea and conversation that devolved into kisses, which turned into overnight stays and soon into adoring, deep proclamations of love.
“Sweetheart, there’s nothing I treasure more than the feeling of you in my arms, the shade your pretty cheeks flush when I kiss them, the way your eyes glitter like stars.”, he chuckles when you relax into him, reveling in his whispered musings. “Say you’ll be mine…please…say it…”; never had Wriothesley begged before then, but in your presence, he would shamelessly unravel from his desperation to be held in your beautiful heart.
He tasted salt on your cheek then, and pulled away to find tears streaking down your face; but you smiled that gorgeous smile, which never failed to bring an ache to his chest---the smile of the sweet ballerina who had made his childhood dreams come true.
…but an inferno of passion could only burn so long under the sea.
The two of you were a beautiful couple. Wriothesley doted on you hand and foot whenever you visited him in Meropide, and the way you looked at him with puppy eyes spilling over with love had all onlookers in the fortress giggling and nudging each other at your fixation on one another.
As the years ticked by and time went on, your love grew even deeper, even more romantic; you were so wound up in one another, it felt like you shared one existence, one soul. There was nothing you looked forward to more than returning to him after a long day of grueling rehearsals; you would sigh gratefully as you fell into his arms and let him carry the full labor of your weight. And there was nothing he looked forward to more than showering you with the ocean of affection he had been dying to give you in your time away. You both were so happy…
…but like a ship caught in a hurricane, your relationship hit the rocks once you’d finally achieved the title of Prima Ballerina of the Ballet Epiclese.
It wasn’t that Wriothesley wasn’t happy for you, quite the opposite; he was overjoyed that you had finally earned the position you deserved—you were the best dancer in Fontaine after all, and he believed with the utmost confidence that your talent was one of the greatest blessings upon the world. However, more stage-time meant more rehearsal, which meant more time away from him…which he could stand to sacrifice if it truly made you happy…but he could only handle so much. Multiple weeks without seeing you started getting to him like a vine of thorns slowly coiling around his skin, cutting him deeper and deeper the more time that went by in solitude.
Sometimes, it felt like you didn’t belong to him at all; a promise you’d made to him long ago that he now questioned the sincerity of.
He knew better than that. He felt foolish and ashamed for doubting your love…but he just couldn’t help that itching, jealous feeling that seemed to only sting worse when you’d finally return to him, exhausted after a month of intense rehearsal. You would be much too tired to go out with him, too spacey to really talk. It felt like the ballet house took the whole of you away from him; leaving him with merely a ghost of a lover who’d pepper soft, weary kisses to his cheeks and neck before falling asleep with its cold arms wrapped around him before disappearing yet again in the morning.
He felt angry, betrayed.
There was really nowhere to place the blame in this situation. He couldn’t blame the ballet house, it was an inanimate building. He couldn’t blame your success, the audience’s love for you, you’d earned it through hard work. He couldn’t blame ballet itself, you were deeply in love with it long before he came along…
…so, like an agitated wasp looking to take its rage out on the first thing that catches its attention, it settled on the only thing that lived and breathed.
You.
Where you were once met with thrilled, open arms upon your entrance into Meropide, arms that sought to relieve you of your stresses and fatigue, you now had to walk yourself to Wriothesley’s office---a silent punishment he doled out to you for leaving him pining for much too long. The trek would leave you groaning in annoyance. It put you in a bad mood, which only fed Wriothesley’s bitterness. Not only does he never get to see you, but now you don’t even greet him with a smile?
He grew cold and short—a symptom of his breaking heart, a subconscious bracing for you to leave him again, which made your visits evermore unfulfilling. You began fighting, something you two had never done before; loud shouting matches that lasted the entirety of your stay. You both would say things you didn’t mean, talking to each other like sour strangers, sleeping two feet away from each other in Wriothesley’s king-sized bed when all the both of you wanted to do was desperately hold onto the other if not for your pride.
So your relationship fractured—you both had simply stopped feeling loved. The longer you spent away, the worse you two would fight when you returned. The more frustrated he got, the longer you voluntarily stayed away, and the more your shared heartbreak grew, until you just couldn’t take it anymore. The fights, the hurt, the loss of the spark---your once flourishing connection withered.
The last, desperate attempt Wriothesley made to save your relationship was asking--no, begging you to just move in with him, into the Fortress of Meropide. Even if you needed a separate room from him, he was willing to do anything to keep the two of you together. He’d carve out his heart and give it to you if it not for death, which would forever put you out of his reach…
But you refused.
His plea had fallen on deaf ears, as his request only felt like he was asking you to abandon the ballet house for him, abandon your dreams for him—this hollow man who no longer felt like the one you’d fallen for so long ago. Really, all he vitally wanted was for you to be close. He would never want you to give up anything that made you happy for him, but reality just didn’t work like that. You couldn’t live in Meropide and also meet the demands of your career, so ultimately, you came to the decision to end your relationship. It was just too much.
The day you told him your relationship was over was the day he realized he couldn’t have anyone else. You were everything good in his life. He would’ve done anything, sacrificed any part of himself to get you to stay, but you shattered his heart when you refused. It was over, and a piece of himself would always be lost to you---something you’d unknowingly carry along with you at your core, no matter how far you went to abandon him, no matter if you moved on, no matter what you did or said. He would always be yours, whether you cast him aside or not.
What he didn’t know was you felt the same; though, your love for him was only overshadowed by your love for dance—the artform you’d spent your whole life loving, to the point that the ballet studio felt like your home, the choreography—your soul at work…or so you believed.
Only a month away from him had you missing him desperately. Aches wracked your chest, like a vicious animal that attempted to rip you apart, that cracked your ribs so it could tear out your heart and deliver it right back to Wriothesley. You knew you would never love again, because when you left your lover, you left your heart with him just as he left his with you.
The only way to escape the suffering was on the stage. You all but lived at the studio; dancing until your feet bled and then dancing some more. The pain in your toes was nothing compared to the agony of being left alone with your thoughts, the wailing in the space between your ears was deafening; it cried like an abandoned child for him.
Your constant work, your escape from your reality elevated your skill to extents that the stage you danced upon had never seen. The citizens battled for attendance to the ballet house’s shows, the demand raising ticket prices, and therefore, your paycheck. Visitors from every nation clamored into the box office to bid for a seat. However, your success couldn’t fill your heart like Wriothesley could; the stage was only a weak bandage over the empty space in the shape of what could only ever be him.
When you danced, you poured all your love for him into your work—drawing from an endless well that existed deep in your soul. There was no step you took that wasn’t dedicated to your lost love. In romantic shows, when you were cast as a character that was in love with another, every move in tandem with your male counterpart was done in reverence to the Duke. Every broken hearted woman you assumed the role of mirrored yourself—a reincarnation of your heartbreak and of the heartbreak you’d in turn caused him.
You danced knowing he’d never see it, wishing he could hear your apologies on the ripples of water carried from the tapping of your pointe shoes on the stage through the ocean and eventually the ceilings of Meropide—a symphony you would write just for him with every movement of your body.
Little did you know, he did see you, and your worship of what the two of you once shared.
Wriothesley dedicated himself to being an invisible attendee to every one your shows, purchasing a ticket to watch the same story—the same two or three hour production throughout the month or so it would play. Even when he couldn’t stay for the whole time, his duty to his fortress calling him away from you, he’d watch your performance for as long as he could, needing at least a glimpse of you every day to maintain his sanity. He couldn’t let the time that went by change you while he remained blind. He needed every alteration to your look, your figure, your countenance, logged in his brain, saved deep in his soul—an altar built there just for you. The thought that he might see you one day as a completely different person terrified him; so he needed to watch you loyally so the woman he knew would never become just a memory.
Sometimes he wouldn’t be able to make it to a showing, stuck in the fortress on days with something like a big intake of inmates or an issue with the kitchens that required immediate action in order to keep his people fed. When those times arose, he’d send a subordinate to the ballet, asking them to take a photograph of you and bring it back to him to save. He was dedicated to not spending a single day away from you, even if through just a glossy photograph.
Some days when he was in attendance, you looked so overwhelmingly enchanting gliding along the stage, he couldn’t help but snap a picture himself.
He’d been caught multiple times by ushers, asking him after the show to hand over the prohibited photo, but he’d plead to make a small exception for him, explaining the situation. As much as he hated to openly express these intimate feelings, he’d do or say anything to keep this precious memory of you. The story was so moving, they’d have no choice but to let him keep it. And since he’d become a regular attendant to the productions, each and every one of the staff knew him by name—even saving a ticket to every show for him, knowing he couldn’t miss it.
And the whole time, you remained, unfortunately, unaware.
He was too scared to tell you, too nervous that you’d ask him to stop, terrified of drawing a furious, or even worse, indifferent gaze from you.
But he’d send flowers to your dressing room every show under an anonymous name, wanting beyond anything for you to know someone loved you, that your dance moved someone so deeply it hurt.
“Your dance was most beautiful, so much so, it is impossible you haven’t come from the heavens above.”
"Thank you for your performance, miss. You are a blessing to behold."
"Each and every star in the night sky must be terribly envious, for you shine more radiant than the whole of them combined."
He hoped notes like these weren’t disturbing to you, but he figured if they were, the staff of the opera house that knew him so well would have told him.
The nosy staff were much too invested in your tragic love story than they should be; all dying to tell you who your secret admirer was when they saw the soft smile and twinkle to your eyes every rose, every peony, every lily of the valley he sent you brought to your beautiful face. When they watched you carefully paste yet another of his notes to your vanity, watched you read them as you straightened your hair or applied your blush, the confession burned on the tip of their tongues.
But as per his request, they begrudgingly refrained.
As the notes from these boquets became more ardent, the more you narrowed down who it could be.
From the beginning of this flow of gifts and appreciation, you’d caught an inkling of who it was---a wholehearted hope of yours that it might be him. Even if the admirer was not him, the fantasy that it was kept you satiated. It made your heart skip, it helped you sleep soundly at night—the whispers of his favor in the familiar rumble of his voice you could never forget echoing in your dreams.
It wasn’t until the night you spotted him in the audience that your wishes came true.
It was the sixth month of shows he attended, marking a year of your separation, a year of the theater staff watching his eyes follow your form like a puppy who's been left out in the cold, a year of them watching you sift through the mounds of flowers from the audience you received each night, searching for the one with a note in that unmistakable handwriting. They had grown tired of watching this tragedy stagnate, so they decided for the both of you that your pining was over.
When Wriothesley received his ticket that night, the last day of the last show of the year, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He always asked for the nosebleed seats, the mezzanine, maybe the back of the orchestra if he was especially missing you that day…but this ticket was for the front row.
“A benefactor of the theater with this reserved seat canceled at the last minute. All of the other seats tonight are filled, so you’ll just have to take this one.”, the box office staff delivered the news to the Duke, hatching the first phase of the crew's plan. They assured him the darkness of the house would obscure him from your view, so he hesitantly, but gratefully accepted the seat. Though he was worried about getting caught, his heart couldn’t help but thunder with excitement at the knowledge he would only be a few feet away from you tonight—the closest he would be to you this entire year.
What he wasn’t prepared for was, mid-performance, when the staff switched the house lights on.
Wriothesley's eyes grew wide with horror, and his body went cold the moment your eyes landed on him in the front row, mid-pirouette.
You did not stumble—a seasoned performer like yourself would never, but your eyes followed him as you spun across the stage, his face being the point of fixation during your twirls that kept you from becoming dizzy.
Even when the house lights were quickly shut back off just as soon as they came up, there was no escaping your stare now.
He was frozen, sweating bullets and funneling his stress into his fist clenched around the show program, wrinkling it when he’d otherwise keep it neat and save it, wondering what he would hear from you when the show was over, if he would hear from you at all.
He sat through the entire production burning from the feeling of your eyes on him—it sizzled on his skin and dazed him. You never left the stage, so your gaze never left him, and his eyes never broke from your own.
The tension between you two felt like a string pulled so thin it could snap; the two of you had always been bound, the draw to each other a dull ache lasting the entirety of the time you were apart…but now that you were in the same room, attention locked on one another, the invisible pull was so strong it was nearly tangible. It was overwhelming.
But, despite your instincts shouting to be near him, you kept dancing through the minutes until the show’s conclusion.
Though it set him on fire, he savored this final hour of your dance, believing it would be the last he would see of you before you inevitably told him to stay out of your life forever…
He breathed a deep sigh when the house lights came up once again for final bows, standing to leave before he could get the disdainful earful from you he was sure you were saving for after the show.
But before he could take a single step away from his seat, you leapt off the stage.
The crowd gasped as you flew, voluntarily throwing yourself from the platform instead of taking your bow—the audience horrified that they may very well lose their prima ballerina to this bad fall.
But you knew who’d catch you.
You fell into the same pair of large, burly arms that had held you so tight in the evenings before you fractured, in the same warm embrace you’d dreamt of every night since.
His nose nuzzled desperately into the crook of your neck, your scent sending a year’s worth of tightly held longing rushing out of him—stripping him of his decorum.
He couldn’t stop himself from capturing your lips with his right then and there; sending all of his teachings about noble propriety out the window.
And to his amazement, his relief, you kissed him back just as feverishly.
Your diversion from the show and unseemly kiss got you put on temporary leave from the ballet house, which functioned as less of a punishment and more of a vacation since it gave you and Wriothesley time to be alone and repair your relationship.
After some careful planning, the two of you made some adjustments to your commitments in order to make room to nurture your love.
You asked your director if it was possible to have your solo rehearsals at the fortress instead of the opera house, to which she agreed, "if it'll keep you from jumping off the stage again". This way, you weren't so unnecessarily far from Wriothesley, and minimized the time you spent separated.
He made some changes too, promising you he'd work on separating your dedication to your craft from your dedication to him, understanding the two are mutually exclusive and neither outweighed the other.
"I know you love me.", he grinned, "I saw that vanity after the show, when we were getting an earful from your director.", drawing a giggle from you that he found so adorable. "I won't doubt you again."
"Good.", you kissed the tip of his nose, and he hummed, the sound rumbling from his chest like soft thunder. After a beat of silence, and a quiet sigh, "...I'm sorry I left.".
"Don't be.", he assured you, his eyes full of sincerity and determination, "I won't ever let it happen again.".
Hi ! Is it possible to have « how it’s like to be Wriothesley’s lover » like you did for Neuvillette and Zhongli ? That was so soooo sweet… Thank you and have a nice day !
A/N: I'm so sorry for not posting in so long! I got very sick and had some issues with my apartment and work, it's been really hectic. I'm catching up on requests now.
Being Wriothesley's Lover
💍 In Public
He’s courteous, composed, and every inch the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide — a man both respected and feared. Yet the moment his gaze lands on you, there’s a softness that betrays him.
He doesn’t flaunt affection; a gloved hand resting briefly on your lower back, a murmured question to ensure you’re comfortable — that’s how he says “I love you” where others can’t hear.
People whisper that you must be extraordinary to have tamed Fontaine’s Iron Duke — the man who can silence a room with a glance but bends at a single look from you.
💍 In Private
When the heavy doors close behind you, the frost melts. He sheds his coat, his gloves, his restraint — and pulls you close like he’s been holding his breath all day.
He’s surprisingly tactile, craving touch after long hours of discipline. He’ll rest his head in your lap, eyes closed, letting you comb your fingers through his hair until his muscles finally unwind.
He’s not one for flowery words, but his devotion speaks in quiet ways: the meals he cooks for you himself, the way he always ensures your hands are warm in his.
💍 Jealousy
Wriothesley doesn’t lose his temper easily — but his jealousy is quiet, dangerous, like ice forming beneath calm water.
He won’t confront anyone in public; one measured glance from him is warning enough. But when it’s just the two of you, his composure cracks — his voice low, rough: “Do they know who you belong to?”
The grip of his hands on your hips tells you the rest.
💍 NSFW
He’s control incarnate until you touch him — then all that restraint unravels.
He loves to take his time, savoring every sound you make, every arch of your body, until you’re trembling and pleading for him.
Sometimes he’s rough — pushing you against his desk, hands gripping hard enough to bruise, lips tracing down your throat like a man starved.
Afterward, the tenderness returns; he’ll press a kiss to your forehead, whispering, “Tell me I wasn’t too much.”
💍 Domestic
He wakes before you, always. By the time you stir, the scent of coffee and freshly baked bread fills the air — his quiet morning ritual.
He insists you take breaks, even dragging you away from work if he has to. “You can’t take care of others if you don’t take care of yourself,” he chides, fingers brushing your cheek.
And when night falls, he reads beside you — one arm around your shoulders, book forgotten as soon as you start to drift off against him.
♡ still thinking about genshin visions accidentally activating around the person you like ~
𝐃𝐈𝐋𝐔𝐂
accidentally singing the edges of a love letter you sent, and he has to quickly set it down and pat away the tiny embers because he doesn’t want to lose your letter
after kissing him for awhile, a bit of steam might exhale from his nose or mouth from the wetness of your kisses combined with his pyro
when he gets flustered if you look closely, you might see steam also coming off the top of his head along with his very warm cheeks, he has to turn away and collect himself !
𝐀𝐋𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐌
a little flower blooming at the end of his ahoge when he sees you and he quickly plucks it (and then gives it to you like he picked it elsewhere)
while hugging him you might suddenly feel a few little vines gingerly wrapping around your bodies and holding you against him. he apologizes for this with pink cheeks :3c
one of his “mirrors” appearing while you’re doing a task, and if you glance in the reflection you meet his gaze and he has to quickly wave it away so you don’t think he’s creepy
𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘
standing with him and talking, but suddenly you start sliding away a bit, looking down to see he accidentally formed a bit of ice beneath your feet because you smiled at him
kissing him and feeling a few snowflakes on your lashes and hair and he brushes them away with a soft chuckled apology
his tea cup freezing to his hand when you walk into his office, and he tries to set it down to greet you but it’s stuck, so when you blow warm air onto his fingers he’s so red hehe
𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐒
when he takes your hand to escort you, but a little accidental zap to your palm makes you squeak and he apologizes with a bit of a playful smile ehehe
hugging him and when he pulls away, some of your hair is standing on end and he insists on smoothing it back down for you
when he sees you approaching he’s holding something conducive, he accidentally electrocutes it and you don’t see the way his eyes grow wide for a moment before he sets it down and flexes his hand
Ok so Flins’s lantern glows red when approaching enemies in-game, which is an honestly cool detail! I love that they did that.
But also think when you get anywhere near him, the lantern also glows a bit more brightly, the flames flicker and it might be your eyes playing tricks but you swear the usual deep purple fades into a lighter, softer shade, almost pink.
But you blink and it’s gone, and wow you must be more tired than usual after staying up the last couple of nights to finish your workload.
“Anything the matter?” Flins asked when you’d spent a good moment staring at the lantern, brows furrowed.
“Your lantern-” you start, but then shake your head. You laugh it off and rub your eye. “Never mind. I’ve just dropped off some reports, and I’m beat. I’ll see you later tonight?”
Flins nodded, and the corners of his mouth lifted slightly at the reminder of your plans.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
You smiled tiredly and turned to go, intending to fit in a nap after all the work you’ve done. And a nap was warranted, you thought, if you were so sleep-deprived that you were starting to see things and make up colors that weren’t there.
Really, how funny to imagine the usually stoic Ratnik swapped out his lantern to start carrying one with a soft pink flame. More believable than the colors changing right in front of your eyes.
It was a pretty color, though. It suited him. You sighed wistfully, deciding to dispel any thoughts of the feelings that arose when talking to Flins. With his few acquaintances and even fewer that he let’s close enough to call friends, it’s unlikely he would have any of the feelings usually associated with such a shade, and certainly not for you.
Unbeknownst to you, if you’d looked back you’d have seen the man at the center of your thoughts gazing longingly at your figure as it walked away. He kept watch for as long as he was able until you turned the corner, eyes soft. He stood for there for a few moments after you disappeared from view, hand to his heart and a familiar subtle pink in his cheeks.
Edit: omg I made a mistake. in-game the flame of the lantern is actually blue but the glass? Rest of the inside? is purple. Still, I think I’ll keep the fic as is unless it really ends up bothering me later 😅
you missed ! (๑>•̀๑) - dodging their kisses (hsr men)
ᯓᡣ𐭩 cw: fem reader, slightly ooc for the sake of plot, established relationship, toothrotting fluff, a little suggestive if u squint
────୨ৎ────
‹𝟹 he was offended. or at least, he tried to be when he leaned in to peck your cheek, but ended up kissing the pillow you held up as a shield instead - and knowing you, his wife that was up to no good, would rub it in his face and triumphantly claimed that he missed. he was the one used to teasing you, not the other way around and frankly seeing him pout was worth it
jing yuan, dan heng, caelus, sampo
‹𝟹 you really thought you could dodge his kisses? nuh uh. it's either gonna end in two ways: he either pins you to the couch you're currently hiding behind or chooses to tickle you when you arent looking. he was just too smart for his own good, and oh god how you wanted to wipe the stupid ":3" off his face. but he had to give it to you to being a menace, it was entertainment to him and honestly he could play your little game all day if you so wished
boothill, jiaoqiu, anaxa, aventurine, luocha
‹𝟹 poor baby just wanted to kiss you before he left for the day :(( but nope! you had other plans to mess with him beforehand and now you were beginning to question your choices because he was giving you one of his sad puppy looks (apologize to him >:c ) and genuinely thought he upset you in some way, so ofc you being his loving his wife had him stumbling like a lovestruck fool out the door covered in lipstick kisses as compensation /silly
gepard, argenti, sunday, phainon
‹𝟹 he pinned you against the kitchen counter before you even had the chance to pull anything. after all, your hubby's known you long enough to know what kind of little tricks you have up your sleeve and had his leg conveniently slotted between your thighs to prevent any sort of escape - oh, oh and the close proximity between the two of you? he noticed how red your face has gone and he was enjoying it far more than he cared to admit
dr ratio, mydei, gallagher, blade, moze
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'do i scare you? you think i'm frightening?' his voice strained & raspy—tacitly begging you to reassure him. wriothesley is close to tears, mumbling against your skin. he's not the first one to usually initiate cuddling but tonight after overhearing the conversation of some inmates, he can't help but want comfort. it's not everyday that wriothesley is this vulnerable with anyone.
[ Typing… ] I will be so honest rn... if you don't like sappy lovesick shit you are going to cringe but if you DO like sappy lovesick shit 👀 say no more. He might be ooc but i do not care because i love him and I want him to love me 2 <3
“Hey Wrio?”
“Yes, my love?”
You’re not even sure if he’s fully awake. You don’t blame him if he isnt— it’s probably two-something in the morning and the both of you are neck-deep in the sheets of your bed. If anything, it’s a wonder why you’re still up.
“Nothing important, sorry,” you mumble, face buried in his chest. “Just… wondering about some things.”
“Like?”
Wriothesley’s hand rests on the expanse of your back, drawing slow, soothing shapes into your skin. When you glance up, his soft and sleepy expression greets you.
“Like… Like if you also get butterflies in your stomach and all that when you see me like... the way it is when I see you,” you admit quietly, snuggling closer, hoping to hide the expression on your face from his keen eyes.
There's a pause, and for a moment you wonder if you offended him somehow. An apology is hastily on the tip of your tongue, thinking that you'd crossed some unspoken line and had jeopardized everything.
But Wriothesley pulls you up and up before you can speak— far up enough on the pillow that you're now seeing him eye-to-eye instead of hiding in his chest. There's no anger or apprehension in his face, only a gentle fondness and the sweetest smile.
One of his hands cups your cheek and the other wraps around you, keeping you flush against him. His hands are so warm against you— so at odds with the alignment of his vision. Even his cool blue eyes are warm and soft when they connect with yours, enraptured by the sight before him.
Wriothesley's voice is a low murmur when he speaks, softened by affection. "My love, every time I see you, even in passing, it feels like my heart will beat right out of my chest. It's like the whole room just lights up and I can't see anything else but you, you know? You're in every one of my thoughts, every crevice of my heart, you wonderful thing. I take one look at you and I can never get enough."
He presses a kiss to each eyelid. His words are sweet like honey as he holds your face so gently in his palm. "I'm so devoted to you, darling. I could stare into these eyes for the rest of my life, and I would know the meaning of peace."
With one hand, he twines his fingers with yours, lifting your joined hands to his lips with reverence, and placing a kiss on the back of your hand. "Whenever I feel you under my palms, no matter how fleeting, I feel every single part of me come alive— as if you've sent sparks to me through your very finger tips."
Wriothesley's hand untangles from yours then, just so that he can guide it to rest on his chest, right above his heart. Even through the cotton of his sleep shirt, you can feel it racing under your palm. You glance up, and nearly buckle at the expression on his face. He is so, so in love with you— in every definition of the world, in every way that one person can fall in love. He smiles.
"My whole heart is yours. It beats and it sings and it aches all for you. Whenever you're nearby, I feel like I can't breathe and I can't think. All I want is to make you happy and to make sure that you are loved, and to offer you the world, should you ask me of it."
"So to answer your question—" With a grin, he ends with a peck on your lips, and his forehead pressed against yours. Under your palm, you can feel his heart skip a beat.
"Yes, honey. I do, in fact, get 'butterflies and all that' whenever I see you."
premise. A misplaced book in the Akademiya library draws you into Alhaitham’s private annotations, in which you find dry critiques, philosophical musings…and mentions of you. Instead of returning it in silence, you write in the empty spaces. The conversation that unfolds changes more than just the margins.
word count. 2.3k
Footnotes in the Margins ¹𝄒 ²𝄒 ³
The library was unusually quiet today. Not that it was ever particularly rowdy, but even the usual rustling of pages and soft footsteps seemed to have melted into stillness. You appreciated it. The silence gave you space to breathe, to think…and to procrastinate on your own research by aimlessly browsing the back shelves.
That was when you found it. Tucked between two thick volumes on pre-Celestial syntax theory, halfway down a shelf no one touched unless they were actively trying to disprove ancient grammar, there it sat. It looked unremarkable at first glance: well-bound, neatly shelved, and oppressively academic, like any other book from the House of Daena. You might’ve passed it by if you had still been a starry-eyed newcomer who still believed research came from passion, not from studying. But you, who had combed through thousands of library books during your time at the Akademiya, noticed two things immediately. There was no classification number on the spine, and it bore the telltale kind of wear that came from being read and reread, not skimmed for citations but thoroughly studied.
You pulled it out. The title was something dry: Epistemic Constructs in Rational Thought. It hadn’t even been shelved correctly, you noted before you opened the cover and caught the unmistakable offense. Annotations, dozens of them cleanly written in the margins and between lines, sometimes replacing whole arguments with alternative ones. Entire paragraphs scrawled in the margins in meticulous, slanted handwriting. You frowned. No scholar would dare mark up a library book like this. Then again, this didn’t appear to be a library book.
The realization arrived quickly. The handwriting was familiar—not by sheer coincidence, but because you’d seen it before. Briefly, on shared reports, with sharp, efficient strokes. On the occasional joint paper. In the corner of a board scrawled with citations and deadlines. It was unmistakable.
Alhaitham.
The Acting Grand Sage had a distinct way of annotating, bordering on clinical precision. His notes weren’t chaotic; they were surgical, detached, but oddly revealing. They questioned premises and tore apart analogies.
False equivalence.
Lazy metaphor.
Surprisingly insightful. See page 116.
You’d seen him with personal copies of texts like this before—making quiet observations in the corners, dissecting arguments, crossing out entire sections with a single dismissive line—but the commentary within this book was different. It wasn’t just theory or academic musings or counterarguments. No, you realized as you kept reading, it was personal.
Irrational attachment as a flaw. Even the most rigorous minds are susceptible.
The experiment fails: removing emotional variables does not simplify the human condition. It reduces it to fiction.
You paused, fingers hovering over a line heavily underlined in graphite.
She lingers. Not as an anomaly, but as a constant. A variable I did not account for.
You blinked. Your heart skipped as you turned the page.
Why does her laughter replay in idle moments? A useless loop. It interrupts my reading.
Distraction. Intrusion. Yet I do not mind.
It wasn’t a confession, not explicitly; he hadn’t written your name. But everything pointed to you: your habits, your voice, that one argument you’d had with him last week in the lecture hall—the one he claimed was ‘logically inconsistent’ and you insisted was ‘emotionally necessary.’ In frustration, you’d invoked an analogy about symbolic walks beneath moonlit trees, a reference you were still mortified to have made. Yet here it was, inked in his hand. He had written about it.
She argued from feeling. I wanted to dismiss it, but part of me listened. Why?
You should’ve closed the book, placed it back, and pretended you never saw it. But your fingers kept turning the pages, kept uncovering pieces of him he would never show so easily: quiet sarcasm tucked between philosophical theories, flashes of wit that softened the sharpness of his logic.
Affection as a liability. Possible sign of weakness?
The book felt heavy in your hands. You’d always assumed Alhaitham thought of you as a minor annoyance, an occasionally tolerable colleague, perhaps. But this…this was something else. A mind unraveling in silence. A heart he wasn’t even sure he had, quietly finding its shape in your shadow. You turned one last page, and tucked near the end, almost as an afterthought:
If she ever finds this, then perhaps she was meant to.
The pen stroke faltered at the end of the sentence, as if he hadn’t been sure whether to finish it. You glanced up instinctively, half-expecting to see him watching nearby, but the library was quiet. Earlier, you had seen him, just briefly, as you passed the main aisle. He’d been skimming titles near the central atrium, his expression unreadable as always. You hadn’t said anything, and neither had he. It hadn’t seemed strange at the time.
But now you wondered if he’d been looking for something.
You closed the book slowly, fingertips lingering on the margin where his thoughts had trailed off. The next move, you realized, might no longer be his to make.
____________
¹ Margins of Response
You didn’t return the book; you took it home instead. It wasn’t out of carelessness, nor was it simple curiosity. It was something quieter—a kind of reverence. You handled it the way one would a fragile secret: gently, almost afraid it might change if you looked at it for too long. His notes replayed in your mind without resolution.
You should’ve said something right away, should’ve brought the book back to him and asked, Why did you write about me like that? But you couldn’t; not yet. Not when the words were still sinking in, threading themselves into your understanding of him like ink into parchment. Instead, you reached for a pen.
Your handwriting was different than his: softer, rounder, and less sure. But you found a space at the bottom of one of his entries—a sliver of margin he’d left untouched—and you wrote.
You call it irrational. I call it human.
Another page:
You listened. That mattered more than you know.
You left your thoughts like that, scattered in quiet response to his own. It was a conversation held in ink rather than air, a thread running parallel to his own, neither correcting nor contradicting but merely coexisting.
Finally, on the back page, just beneath his last uncertain line, you responded,
Then perhaps I was.
The next day, you returned the book to its shelf, placing it exactly where you had found it: same position, same angle. You waited.
It didn’t take long; he came looking for it that same afternoon. You weren’t surprised. You watched from the upper floor of the library, heart in your throat, as Alhaitham pulled the book from its place and turned it over in his hands. His expression didn’t change much—he was always hard to read—but there was a slight pause, a subtle stillness in his fingers as he opened to one of the pages you’d touched. He read your words slowly. He lingered. Then, deliberately, he closed the book and looked up past the balcony right at you.
The silence stretched between you. Neither of you moved. The distance between the floors, the books, and the postulates you’d both tried so hard to keep private all narrowed in that one moment. And then he did something you’d never seen him do before: he smiled. Barely, but it was real.
____________
² In Quiet Spaces
You didn’t expect him to follow you, but when the day wound down and the House of Daena began to empty, you caught a glimpse of muted green and silver trailing your footsteps. You stepped into the records alcove. The walls were lined with silent tomes, and the low golden lamps cast shadows too soft for confrontation. Still, you knew he was there and waited without turning around. He didn’t speak for a while, but when he did, it was quieter than usual, almost careful.
“I was aware my copy of Epistemic Constructs in Rational Thought was missing,” he said. “I wasn’t aware it had been read.”
You turned, arms folded; it wasn’t a defensive gesture, just a way to anchor yourself. “You left it in the Akademiya library. That doesn’t exactly scream classified information.”
“That would be a fair argument,” he nodded once, eyes flicking down, “but there’s a discrepancy in the situation. I never brought it to the House of Daena. An assistant must have mistaken it for my reference texts and returned it with the others. It wasn’t meant for anyone else’s eyes. Not intentionally.”
You tilted your head. “Not even mine?”
His gaze held yours. “Especially not yours.”
Silence again.
“I wasn’t sure what to say,” you murmured finally. “So I wrote back.”
He exhaled faintly, as if suppressing a laugh. “Yes. I read your notes. You were more gracious than I deserved.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Gracious? I called you out.”
“You did,” he agreed. “But you did it with…understanding. That’s rarer than you think.”
There was something new in his tone. Vulnerability wasn’t quite the word for it, but perhaps sincerity was, and his was unfiltered, for once, not sifted through theory or logic.
“I thought I could out-reason the feeling,” he admitted, “dissect it until it disappeared. But it didn’t. It just evolved.”
You stepped a little closer. “Do you really think it makes you weaker?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Then, with a strange, almost wry curve of his lips, he admitted, “I think it makes me uncomfortable. But perhaps that’s not the same thing.”
You smiled. “It isn’t.”
The moment stretched between you, still delicate and undefined, but something had shifted. A line had been crossed. It wasn’t a confession, not quite, but it was an acknowledgment. Alhaitham looked at you then, more fully than before. Not as if you were a variable to analyze—just as you.
“I don’t want this to stay in the margins,” he said, voice steady.
You blinked.
He looked faintly amused by your expression, if only barely. “If you’re willing,” he added, “I’d prefer we discuss it elsewhere. More directly.”
You managed a half-smile. “Someplace quiet, not performative.”
His eyes softened. “Agreed. No symbolic walks beneath moonlit trees.”
“No symbolic walks beneath moonlit trees,” you echoed solemnly.
A pause. Then—to your surprise—he laughed. It was just a breath of it, low and short, but undeniably real. It caught you off guard and warmed something in your chest.
“Tea,” he suggested after a moment. “In my study. Less metaphor, more clarity.”
____________
³ Between the Lines
His study was exactly how you imagined it: tidy, quiet, with lamplight filtering through half-shut windows. Books lined the walls, orderly, color-coded, each spine carefully bent and memorized. A single chair faced his desk. Another, which had been previously tucked to the side, had been pulled forward for you.
He gestured for you to sit, then poured tea—one of those delicate, floral kinds from Port Ormos that no one expected him to keep stocked. You didn’t ask why because the scent alone softened the expectant silence. Finally, he sat opposite you, elbows resting lightly on the desk. For once, there were no books between you. No inked margins to hide behind.
“I reread what I wrote,” he said after a moment. “With your annotations in mind.”
You watched steam curl from your cup. “And?”
“It was a flawed method of processing,” he said simply. “Too detached. I tried to contain something that didn’t want to be dissected.”
You glanced at him. “Affection?”
He met your eyes. “You.”
The air hung still between you.
“I told myself it was temporary,” he continued, his voice low and even, “that proximity would pass. I believed you’d fade into the background like most things do eventually, but the opposite happened. The more I noticed you, the more I wanted to.”
“And now?” you asked, your voice quiet.
He hesitated. “I don’t have a hypothesis for this,” he said finally. “But I don’t think I want one.”
You smiled, just a little. “That’s surprisingly unscientific of you.”
“Terrifying, really,” he deadpanned. His voice softened. “But not unwelcome.”
He looked at you then and it wasn’t an answer so much as an invitation. You reached for your cup, fingers brushing the porcelain. The tea had cooled slightly, but the warmth lingered.
“I liked reading your thoughts,” you said softly. “Even the over-analyzed ones.”
He tilted his head. “Even the one where I compared you to a disruptive variable?”
You chuckle. “Especially that one.”
Another silence followed, but this time, it felt earned. When you finally stood to leave, he walked you to the door. You paused there—half in shadow, half in lamp-glow—not looking back.
“I’m not expecting anything,” you said. “Just…don’t pretend it didn’t happen.”
Behind you, Alhaitham stood still for a moment. Then, calmly, he replied, “I wouldn’t have invited you here if I planned to ignore it.”
You turned to face him. He wasn’t smiling—he rarely did—but something in his posture had softened. He wasn’t guarding the space between you anymore. He wasn’t calculating how much of himself he could afford to show.
“I don’t know what this becomes,” he admitted. “But I don’t think it needs a name yet.”
You nodded. “No. Just…don’t overthink it.”
“That may be difficult.”
You huffed a laugh. “I know.”
You reached for the door and pushed it open, then hesitated.
“I’m not just a margin note,” you added softly.
“I know.” His voice was steady. Quiet. Certain.
You smiled and stepped into the hallway. Next time, there wouldn’t be footnotes. The book, the annotations, the unsaid thoughts—they were behind you both now. Ahead lay something unmarked, unwritten, and entirely yours.
MLQC she wrote @night-chant - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
