You had dozed off on one of the couches in the Astral Express. As you slowly stirred awake, you noticed a blanket draped over you. Confused, you sat up and looked around the lounge, wondering who had covered you. Your eyes eventually landed on Sunday, seated quietly in one of the armchairs. A book rested in his hand as he leisurely sipped from his teacup, as though nothing in the world could disturb him.
You had joined the Astral Express during their journey through the Xianzhou, not long after leaving Penacony behind.
The night of the banquet had been the last straw for you. With the drowsiness of having just woken up, memories began to come back to your mind.
That evening, you had done exactly as Sunday instructed and kept your distance from him, spending the banquet speaking with other guests while he entertained Penacony's most influential figures, greeting nobles with flawless courtesy and kissing the hands of wealthy ladies without a second thought.
When one of the guests you had been talking to kindly suggested the two of you step outside for some fresh air, Sunday appeared almost immediately. He smoothly inserted himself into the conversation, exchanged a few polite words with the gentleman, then turned to you and calmly instructed you to retrieve something for him. It wasn't the errand that hurt, it was how effortlessly he had interrupted the conversation, refusing to let you enjoy even a simple moment with someone else.
That was when you had enough. You had started clenching your fists. You were clenching them so tightly that your fingernails had cut into your hands.
Without saying anything, you simply left the banquet, returned to your room, and packed everything you owned. Loving Sunday had begun to feel like a punishment you endured every single day, and you couldn't do it anymore.
Before leaving, you placed a small note on his desk.
"I'm leaving. Please don't even try to contact me. Goodbye."
You could have written so much more, but what was the point? You were certain he wouldn't have read it anyway.
Now, somehow, the two of you were both aboard the Astral Express. Life was very strange.
When the crew arrived in Penacony, you refused to step foot outside. Just the thought of returning made old wounds ache all over again. And later, when the Express discussed whether Sunday should be allowed to stay, you quietly agreed with everyone else's decision. You never told them what had once existed between the two of you.
Perhaps because you didn't want the crew to think differently of him or perhaps because, despite everything, you still couldn't bring yourself to expose him.
But living under the same roof as him again was unbearable.
Seeing him every morning at breakfast. Passing him in the hallways. Watching him treat everyone with the kindness you had once desperately wished for. Watching him act as though nothing had ever happened between the two of you.
You were tired of pretending.
Clutching the blanket tightly in your hands, you walked straight toward him.
Sunday lifted his eyes from the page, meeting your gaze with a warmth that caught you completely off guard. The kind of look he had never once given you back in Penacony.
Without a word, you threw the blanket onto the chair beside him. "What's wrong with you?" you demanded, your voice trembling despite yourself. "What do you even want from me?"
For the first time, genuine surprise crossed Sunday's face. His gaze slowly dropped to the discarded blanket before returning to you.
"As if I didn't endure enough because of you in Penacony," you continued, unable to stop. "Now you're here too? What, to make my life even more miserable?"
He opened his mouth to respond, but you wouldn't let him.
"I kept everything to myself because I didn't want to cause problems for the others. They don't know what happened between us, and I wanted to keep it that way." Your voice cracked. "But I'm so tired of watching everyone praise how kind and gentle you are when I know exactly what you're really like."
Sunday slowly closed the book in his hands and rose from his seat, taking careful steps toward you.
"Just take all those Family problems of yours and leave this place," you said, struggling to keep your composure. "I don't want to see you anymore."
Every word hurt to say. Because the Sunday standing before you now was nothing like the man you had known.
He spoke softly. He treated others with patience. Sometimes he quietly left a cup of tea where you liked to sit. Sometimes he played melodies on the piano that he somehow remembered you loved. Sometimes, like today, he simply covered you with a blanket without expecting anything in return.
It only made you wonder what the two of you could have been if he had been this man all along.
You turned to leave, you didn't want to stay here and see him anymore. Before you could take another step though, gentle fingers wrapped around your wrist which made you stopped.
Slowly, you looked back at him.
Without a word, Sunday reached for your other hand as well, carefully holding both of them between his own, as though afraid you would disappear if he held on too tightly.
Only then did you realize tears had begun to gather in your eyes.
His expression softened even further.
"...I'm sorry," he said quietly.
"I truly am."
"I know those words cannot erase what I did. They cannot return the years you spent hurting because of me." His grip loosened slightly, giving you every chance to pull away. "Back then, I believed control was another form of protection. I convinced myself that if everything remained orderly, if every choice was the right one, then no one I cared for would suffer."
A faint, bitter smile crossed his lips.
"I never realized that the one causing you the most pain... was me. I was devasted when you left. And I was aware that I deserved that."
"I don't expect your forgiveness. I don't even believe I've earned the right to ask for it."
His gaze met yours, carrying nothing but quiet regret. "But if there is one thing I wish you to believe..."
"It is that I have regretted losing you every single day since you left."
Hearing his words, you found yourself lowering your gaze, unable to look him in the eyes any longer.
Noticing the change in your expression, Sunday hesitated for a brief moment before gently cupping the side of your face. With careful movements, he guided you closer until your forehead rested against his chest. One hand remained around you while the other slowly traced soothing circles along your back.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again.
"I'm so, so sorry."
He simply stood there, quietly holding you as he continued to apologize, his voice filled with a sincerity you had never heard from him before.
Once your breathing had finally steadied, you pulled back just enough to look at him. "I'm not going to forgive you that easily," you murmured. "It's not that simple."
A small chuckle escaped him. "Of course not. But I'll spend every day making it up to you."
He gently squeezed your hands.
"And I'll dedicate each one to making you smile... and making you happy."
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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
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